Good Hope Road: A Novel (39 page)

‘God,’ Gaillard say slowly, ‘has nothing to do with this madness.’

He shake hisself, like a dog caught in the rain. ‘
Ça suffit
!’ Enough of all this, he exclaim. He crack his knuckles. ‘Do you,’ he ask me, ‘know how to play “Alouette”?’

I surely do.

‘Say James,’ I call, after I’m done. ‘You got any requests?’

He look startled. ‘No.’

’Course he was goin’ to say that. ‘Okay,’ I reply, ‘how ’bout this?’ and launch into Yankee Doodle.

It a right rousin’ tune I knock out, thumpin’ the keys, singin’ aloud, and in spite of hisself, the Yankee, he start to crack a smile.

I keep right on playin’, faster and faster, teasin’ and pullin’ at the chords till those keys, they damn near start to smoke. James, he start to smile wider.

‘Chorus!!’ I call, and he start to sing along.

Now everybody start to request songs. I play them all, and some more, mixin’ in some right hot jazz. More and more of our boys stop by the church, and before you know it,
laissez le bon temps rouler
, we havin’ a powerful swingin’ time. Let the good times roll, in the name of those lost at Rodern, for all those who are gone.
Laissez le bon temps rouler
, for we been to hell and back and surely headed there again soon, but tonight we together. Tonight we brothers, tonight there’s song. We sing the ‘Marseillaise’, we roar along to repeatings of ‘Alouette’, the prayer candles all lit up, holdin’ the darkness away.

When we finally get to our billets, I fall asleep nearabout at once. I dream of a lark, caught in bobwire.
Alouette, gentile alouette
, lark, gentle lark, just like in the song, but her body broken, wings all tore up. How she struggle to be free, singin’ all the while.

We still in Alsace through the end of August, right into September. On 13 September 1915, we line up with the other regiments to be reviewed by the President de la Republique hisself. ‘This a right big deal, I hear,’ I tell James out of the corner of my mouth as we stand to attention. ‘This battle flag they handin’ out to the Legion, it real prized.’

‘There’s too many of us in one spot,’ he mutter, eyes goin’ first to the hillsides, then the open ground, and back again, as if he tryin’ to map out every bit of cover. The left eye, it startin’ to fill with water again.

‘Yes, but we got good odds, don’t we? We well behind the Front, beyond the range of them Boche batteries . . .’

The talk of odds, it work. He hesitate, then nod slightly.

It sure a fine evenin’. Mont Blanc in the distance, and the trees just startin’ to colour. The blare of bugles pierce the air. Our commandant, he step forward to receive the battle flag. Somethin’ ’bout Gaillard’s expression catch my attention – such pride and seriousness in his eyes. I glance ’bout, and now I see the same look on Karan’s face, on James’ . . . on mine too, I realise. The bugles blare again, raisin’ the gooseflesh on my arms.

We watch in silence as our new flag run up the flagpole. The Croix de Guerre been added to our colours – the whole battalion being decorated today, on account of the way we fought in the Artois offensives. Our old motto, ‘
Valeur et Discipline
’ been replaced. ‘
Honneur et Fidélité
’, our flag now say as it wave proud above our heads.

‘It is written now on our flag itself – we are the Legion of the Honourable,’ Gaillard mutter. He got tears in his eyes.

I damn near start to choke up myself. We are the Legion. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m part of somethin’, somethin’ bigger than any of us alone. We are the Legion. We brothers, tighter than kin. Through thick and thin, brothers through blood spill.

The clap of our hands on our weapons like a thunderclap through the pines. Twenty thousand rifles fly up together as we present arms as one.

Soon after, we ordered back to the Front. The locals see us off, placin’ gifts – a couple of boiled eggs, a pouch of tobacco, a ripe orange – into our musettes. Madame Thibault, her face go bright red as she pat our cheeks and say goodbye, tryin’ her best not to cry. She and her girls, they gone and picked bunches of flowers that they place in the muzzles of our rifles. It hang over our column, a smell of roses, as we march slowly away.

We discuss the new flag as we go. Which be more important – valour or discipline? Which be more prized – honour or fidelity?

‘Valour,’ I say. ‘Take the Champ. He ain’t always that disciplined, what with his hard drinkin’, hard partyin’ ways, but he got real heart and that what been gettin’ him wins all these years.’

‘Fidelity,’ Gaillard insist. ‘Loyalty to the flag, fidelity to the Legion always,
Legio Patria Nostra
, the Legion is our Fatherland.’

‘Honour,’ James say. He adjust the strap of his rifle and the white rose in the muzzle fall on to the road. ‘Honour,’ he repeat as he bend to pick it up. Carefully dustin’ off the rose, he place it in between the pages of his notebook.

‘When a man lives by a code of honour, everything else follows as a matter of course. Fidelity, valour
and
discipline.’

We march on as the first stars come out. ‘There’s another story,’ Karan say slowly. ‘About honour. From that same war. Arjun the warrior prince? My namesake, Karan, was his bastard half-brother. Born to their mother when she was yet an unmarried princess, he was secreted away at once. A lowly charioteer and his wife found the baby, and raised him as their son. Karan grew up outside the golden walls of the palace, without any of the trappings of wealth or privilege that were his birthright. All the same, even with the odds stacked against him, Karan became a warrior of great prowess, some say the greatest of all the stalwarts arrayed on the battlefield that day.

‘Constantly ridiculed for his humble birth, Karan was never permitted to participate in the royal contests, where prince was pitted against prince in displays of strength and mastery. Arjun, it was always Arjun who won, while Karan watched from the sidelines.

‘The one prince to show him any kindness was Duryodhan, Arjun’s cousin. Duryodhan extended a hand of friendship to Karan, and in return he had the latter’s unstinting loyalty. The men grew close. When Duryodhan appointed Karan the ruler of a minor principality, Karan ruled with a firm but just hand. A charioteer’s son! It was as if, people remarked in astonishment, he had been born to the throne.

‘When the threat of war first arose, Duryodhan and his kin were allied on one side, Arjun and his brothers on the other. Lord Krishna, the blue god, went to see Karan and revealed to him at last the circumstances of his birth.

‘Were he, Karan, to align himself with Duryodhan, he would be fighting his own blood. Also, surely he could see that “Dharma”, his moral calling, lay on the side of good, of Arjun and his brothers?

‘“I know full well that just cause lies with the other side,” a shaken Karan told Krishna. He knew too, that it was they who would emerge victorious. How could they not, when God Himself was with them?

‘Karan smiled, and it was a smile filled with sadness. “All the same,” he said, “my Dharma, my loyalty, lies first and foremost with my friend.” He had given him his word and no matter how hopeless their cause, now that the chips had fallen, he would stand beside Duryodhan and fight to the very last.

‘“Come with me,” Krishna urged, “and meet with your brothers. They will be ecstatic to learn the truth. What’s more, as the oldest brother, it is
you
who will have first claim to the entire kingdom, once the war is won. The entire land, the richest kingdom on earth will be yours.”

‘Karan shook his head. What good riches or fame, or the largest kingdom on earth, he asked Krishna, if a man had no honour? What good were any of these if he turned his back on his friend? No. He would do the honourable thing. He would stand with Duryodhan.’

‘
Pour l’honneur
!’ Gaillard roar at the end of the story, punchin’ the air with his fist. ‘
Vive La Legion d’Honneur
!’

We take up the cry. ‘
La Legion
!
La Legion
!’, it echo through the hills.

Bois Sabot • September 1915

e step off the 40x8 into a cloud of soot. The sun still some time from risin’, but already in every direction, the chug and toot of trains. Freight 40x8s like ours, the carriages marked ‘
40 Hommes
, 8
Cheval
’, forty men or eight horses, into which naturally we been stuffed fifty or more to a carriage.

‘I suppose we ought to be thankful,’ James say, ‘that some jackass clerk back there didn’t think the “or” actually meant “plus” and have horses loaded into the carriages too.’

So many trains – the exhaust from their engines done turned the platform black. Little
Décauvilles
, requisitioned passenger trains, big ones and smaller locals, all carryin’ men, cannon and materials on them newly extended railway lines.

‘
Allez, allez
!
Grouillez-vous
!’ the guides shout, movin’ us along. ‘The trucks will be here at 6 a.m.!’

James look at me. We both thinkin’ the same thing: they sent the slaughtermobiles.

The Allies been gearin’ up for one of the biggest offensives yet. We know we headed for some real hot water alright, ’specially from the long line of Fiats, Whites, Saurers and big grey Renaults rollin’ into the yard as we wait. We been long enough at the Front to know that anytime they send
les autos
for transport, we bound for some special kind of hell. Not so much automobiles as slaughtermobiles is what James say they are.

There’s all sorts of mutterings ’bout
les maudit autos
as we get in the cars, company by company.

The Fiat speed over the newly tarred military road – forty feet wide, smooth and straight as an arrow – aimin’ to get to camp before daylight. More aeroplanes be flyin’ over the lines these days. Both friendly and enemy planes, goin’ this way and that all day long even with the anti-aircraft guns firin’ away and the dogfights that end with one or the other plane fallin’ smokin’ from the sky. Movement of men and materials be done before sunrise and after sundown now, with troops told to lay real low and outta sight durin’ the day.

From every station along the line, regiments be advancin’ eastward, headed for this part of the Front. Actives, reserves and territorials, line infantry, hussars, dragoons and Zouaves. Mounted light infantry, other cavalry divisions, Senegalese and Algerian troops, Alpine and foot
chasseurs
, heavy and light artillery – every single branch of the Allied army, followed by their supply wagons.

Each courtyard, every farm and town square that we pass in this grey light, packed with artillery
caissons
, ammunition carts and Red Cross trucks. Pack mules tied to railings and poles; they don’t so much as open an eye as the lights of the Fiat fall on them. The horses that gonna pull the huge batteries up the slopes of Champagne whicker nervous-like from the make-do stables, tossin’ their manes. Herds of cattle – fresh beef for us troops – moo from behind the temporary warehouses. It still awful early, but men already at work in there, lit by the naked bulbs rigged along the elephant iron roofs as they unload crate after crate of tinned provisions and loaves of hard, army bread.

The driver take a sharp turn, sendin’ our steel
casques
bangin’ against the sides of the Fiat. The helmets, they new issue, along with gas masks and a special salve for the face, hands and neck to treat burns from the Boche flame-throwers. I spin the helmet in my hands, testin’ the cold, hard weight of it.

‘Just what we need,’ I gripe, ‘to go into battle with these big soup kettles on our heads.’

‘
Merde
!’ Gaillard agree. ‘So pretty we will look too – with kettles on our heads, masks so we can’t see shit, and hands all slippery from this damned salve!’

James tap the dome of the
casque
, runnin’ a thumb around the deflector rim that meant to direct shrapnel away from our faces. ‘I suspect we’ll be glad soon enough to have these on us,’ he comment.

Talk turn to the Boche arsenal. Machine guns, flame-throwers, hand grenades, the devil-spawn dumdum bullets that bust through a man like he made of tissue paper – all these discussed, with special detail around every terrible wound they can leave.