Fear (24 page)

‘Krieg fertig?’

‘Ja, ja!’

‘Du bist zufrieden?’

‘Ja, ja!’

‘You’re a bit of a shirker, eh, brother?’ says Beaucierge, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder that makes him stagger.

‘Ja, ja!’

‘Not exactly belligerent, this little Christian, is he?’ says my comrade.

‘Ja, ja!’

‘We’re not talking to you, cabbage head!’

Our arrival is a big event. Word has got round that 9 company has taken a prisoner. Soldiers pour out of their huts and line the main street in the little village buried in the pine forest. At battalion HQ the excitement is similar. We all squeeze into the office, with
poilus
crowding the doorway. The commander appears and sends for a trench artillery officer who can serve as interpreter. Our German, estimating that his affairs are taking a turn for the better, stops standing rigidly to attention, and launches into a stream of protestations of goodwill while favouring us all with fraternal smiles. He tells his story to the officer who has just arrived, with rapid gestures, rather like a conjuror’s patter.

He is a former auxiliary who was sent to the front last week. The day after he took up his post was the day of our surprise attack: one of our shells killed four of his comrades right next to him, at the entrance to a shelter, and he tells us how dreadful were the effects of our bombardment. He made up his mind then and there that the war did not suit him and took the decision to get out of it as quickly as he could. He prepared his flight while waiting for the right opportunity, as could be seen from his beloved package, which he undid to show us a pair of new boots, socks, a hairdresser’s kit (that was his job), a shirt and a tin of fruit compote. That night, being on guard duty, he left his post, crawled to our lines and jumped down through a gap in our trench, at the risk of getting himself killed by both sides. He says that the war is a bad thing and seeks our approval. Which he gets, once the officers have left. Men run off to the kitchens and bring back coffee, bread, meat, cheese. We watch with sympathy while the deserter eats.

‘He likes his grub, eh?’

‘Gut?’
I say.

‘Gut, gut!’
he replies with his mouth full.

‘In Deutschland nicht gut essen?’

‘In Deutschland . . . Krrr!’

He mimes tightening his belt.

‘He’s a laugh, this Boche!’

We have no other word than Boche for a German. To our mind this isn’t a scornful term, it’s just handy, short and amusing.

Beaucierge and I profit from our mission by getting ourselves something from the kitchens. The kitchens are the platoons’ public forum; the citizen soldiers discuss public affairs there and get to hear news that arrives with the provisions. While a dirty, jovial cook grills up a bit of meat for us, we listen to what people are saying. Naturally the deserter is much discussed. The dominant opinion seems to be:

‘He’s not as fucking stupid as we are!’

The men nod their heads. But desertion remains the great unknown . . .

Relief troops are always sent to the front at night.

Our battalion is returning to the line after a fortnight’s rest in the village of Laveline down in the valley. The climb up takes several hours of stiff marching, because it’s a steep slope and the men carry full kits. The dark night, made even darker by the pine trees, obscures our path and our progress is erratic. We’re sweating despite the cold.

A piercing whistle rends the night like taffeta, the rush of a shell makes us bend like blades of corn, the sudden peril overhead stops our hearts. There’s a flash somewhere, like lightning. And then a clap of thunder, which reverberates down through the gorges to break on the valley floor. Then another, and another, explosion after explosion. Showers of fire light up the bare trunks of the pines. Furious, unstoppable blocks of metal, flying express trains, fall from the sky, surround us, drive us into panic. A storm of sound deafens us. We run up the slope, our legs breaking from the effort, our chests too narrow for bursting lungs that suck in air through the tight valve of our throats. Our hearts keep stopping, and we’re dizzy and the blood rushes into our veins and then out, leaving them empty. Our eyelids are shut but the glare of flames imprints itself on our retinas . . . We’re running for our lives.

Suddenly it stops. Men from different units, muddled together, sink to the ground to catch their breath. The night returns to protect us, the silence is comforting.

Then somewhere near me a risibly indignant voice is raised in complaint:

‘They should be ashamed of themselves, endangering the life of a man of forty, and a father of a family!’

‘Hey. Listen to this old codger who reckons he’s unsuitable corpse material!’ jeers a Parisian with a rough accent.

‘Shut your mouth you little whippersnapper!’

‘You’ve fornicated enough already, grandpa! Let someone else have a go . . .’

‘Watch what you’re saying, lad! You’re talking about our wives . . .’

‘Leave your wife be! She’s already had enough of your old mug and now she’ll console herself with some young blokes. It’s the old ones who have to croak first, everyone knows it!’

‘They should protect the life of a family man. Not married, you little cub? You’re useless!’

‘And you want me to tell you what you are? You’re an old pervert! You just want to stay nice and safe at home putting your wife up the spout while the lads are all here getting their heads smashed in. You’re a bloody sadist!’

‘Sadist!’ repeated the other, stunned. ‘Listen to this young hooligan!’

‘That’s what I said, a sadist! Luckily there’s some justice in the world and you’re a cuckold!’

‘You little swine!’ stammered the old man.

We could hear him get to his feet. But people held him back. The Parisian made his escape. He called back:

‘Don’t complain, old dear. It’s supposed to bring you luck!’

This exchange banished the memory of the alarm. We set off again. We learn that there were victims at the rear of the column.

Back at camp, well-built shelters are in short supply and all occupied by battalion command and officers. The reserve company are accommodated in two
barraques Adrian
,[
27
] equipped with individual bunks. The men spend a good part of the day inside, for their stay here is seen as a rest period, and their only duties are cleaning or restocking munitions.

A short while ago we were together in our hut, the four runners and the cyclist. We were all lying on our mattresses, smoking, except for Beaucierge who was passing the time with jokes in bad taste and an attempt to provoke the cyclist into single combat. The latter got rid of him by threatening to cut off his personal food supply. Further off the
poilus
were drinking and playing cards, or sleeping.

A shot rang out a few metres away, followed by screams. A soldier was looking gormlessly at his smoking Browning. It’s a common occurrence with automatics. Those who have them keep them loaded and when they want to take them apart for cleaning, forget to remove the bullet in the chamber. A number of accidents have resulted.

We went over to the injured man, who was still howling and pointing to his leg. While people went to get help, we started removing his trousers. The clumsy owner of the Browning was roundly cursed.

The young doctor arrived, looked at the injured man’s thigh and laughed:

‘Will you stop screaming! Can’t you see that you’ve struck it lucky?’

The man immediately stopped making a noise and his face lit up. The doctor probed his leg:

‘That doesn’t hurt? Or that?’

‘No!’

‘People would give a fortune for a wound like that! And to get it when you were asleep! You’ve got yourself three months at the rear!’

The wounded man smiled. We all did. Once the wound had been dressed, we called over the owner of the automatic. His victim shook his hand, thanked him warmly, and left on a stretcher, congratulated by the whole camp.

Since then the chump has been glorying in his clumsiness. You can hear him say: ‘It was me that got Pigeonneau out!’ And even talking about: ‘The day when I saved Pigeonneau’s life . . .’

Winter has come and it looks like being a harsh one.

In the beginning, icy blasts swept down the sides of the mountains, followed by the first frosts. Then one morning we woke up in a strange, heavy silence, and the daylight coming into our huts had a special glitter. Snow had fallen in the night and covered everything. It hung on the pine branches in thick layers, like tracery on a cathedral window. From now on we live in a cold, Gothic forest, smoke rising from our little Eskimo huts.

I had been back at the front for more than six months when we received two important pieces of news, which would change my destiny. Our company was to be attached to another battalion, and our lieutenant was leaving us.

2. THIRTY BELOW

‘A soldier hates his own lieutenant more than the lieutenant in the enemy army.’

Maurice Barrès [
28
]

THE NEW ACTING COMPANY
commandant is Captain Bovin, a man already well known throughout the regiment.

This captain had for some time held the role of adjutant to the colonel and in this capacity he was feared, especially by other officers and staff. The men at the front, on the other hand, feared no one, on the basis that: ‘they can’t move us any further forward!’ Those I had spoken to depicted Captain Bovin as a kind of eminence grise, distributing favours and blame as he liked; here, blame can often get you killed . . . Crossing him meant jeopardising your career, if not your life, and it was easy to do, either with outbursts of temperament or youthful behaviour, or, fatally, by displaying your independence. He was also condemned by many for abusing his power by giving himself several laudatory mentions in dispatches, notably at Verdun, where he had stayed safely at the rear with the quartermaster. As an administrator whose paperwork kept him out of danger, he was accused of using this same paperwork against those who were risking their lives.

But his favoured position had just come to an end. The regiment had a new colonel at its head and this colonel considered that a captain with his eye on a commandant’s shoulder stripes needed to have served at the front.

Captain Bovin lives up to his reputation in his appearance and behaviour. He’s about fifty, very tall, with a jaundiced complexion. He has yellow teeth, the cruel smile of a Moor, the eyes of a Chinaman; he is bearded, greying, with a slow, solemn walk, and a hypocritical air of austerity. I find him mediocre, fussy, mean-spirited: he has the mind of an office manager combined with that of a barracks adjutant, with full power over a hundred and fifty men. The type of man you loathe at first sight, a man who likes to intimidate people, and who also likes – more seriously and always a bad sign – servility in his subordinates. In short, we all knew it was a bad day for the company when he turned up. We also got the strong impression that his batman was spying on us.

My own relations with such a man could only be difficult and were unlikely to end well. He ordered me to draw up a map of the entire sector, a task which cost me ten days’ torture. In a temperature of twenty below, I had to measure abandoned trenches, with the snow up to my knees, and stand still on the ground checking deviations and noting down figures. My shoes froze to my feet. Once I’d completed the map, the captain sent me straight back to the front line. I was back in the squad.

This sector lies at an altitude of about 1,000 metres. Our company is attached to the other battalion, on the top of the mountain, a part of whose slopes we hold. Our positions consist of a single line of trenches, well protected by barbed wire. Along the whole length of this line, every 150 metres, short trenches lead out to bunkers at a salient, which function as ‘holding points’. Each of these little forts has a steel-barred door, so that the garrison can close itself off in the case of any attack from the rear by enemy units who have infiltrated our main trenches. It’s a weak defence system, suitable for a quiet sector. We’re on the edge of the forest. The road comes almost to the trench and along this road, behind our posts, there are shelters for company command, for the quartermasters and so on, hidden by the trees. In fact the rear of the position, inadequately prepared, would become untenable under bombardment. But our only serious enemy is the cold.

We hold the last position on the left of the company. It’s a narrow shelter, dug out to the same depth as the trench and covered over with rows of logs. Furniture consists of a sleeping platform, a metal stove, and a little bench. Five of us live there: four privates and a corporal. Lookouts stand in front of the shelter on a kind of platform protected by shoulder-high gabions.[
29
] In the daytime the sentry stands in the trench. Keeping guard is our chief duty, and it’s a very tough one. From dusk to dawn we have to cover fourteen hours of sentry duty between us, two men at a time, making seven hours per team. Our sleep is thus interrupted every two hours.

The temperature has dropped even lower. At night it varies between minus 25 and minus 30 degrees. The sentries keep the fire burning in the shelter but the stove only works if it stays red hot. Thus we go straight from the inside temperature, about 25 degrees, to the temperature outside, where we stand still in the trench looking out for enemies who cannot possibly come and who, just like us, are only thinking about how to keep warm. And since on the front line we have to sleep fully clothed and kitted, we endure the jump of fifty degrees with no other protection than the blanket we keep tightly wrapped around us.

No one can endure this torture for two hours, and our cramped position does not even allow us the space to walk up and down to stop freezing again. So we have a private arrangement to take it in turns as lookout every half hour. One watches while the other warms up. If you need help you pull a wire which rings a bell in the shelter.