Paths of Glory (13 page)

“Hey, Blackface! How was the patrol?”

“Good. How was the dugout?”

“Dugout my———! I was carrying grenades all night.”

“Where's that Boche helmet you promised me?”

“You can get it yourself, tomorrow.”

“Yes. Where?”

“Over on the Pimple.”

“That official?”

“Absolutely. Latrine Gazette.”

“What'd you do with Lejeune?”

“Killed.”

“Well, his troubles are over.”

“How'd it happen?”

“Bomb.”

“And the lieutenant?”

“I don't know.”

“A fine patrol, all right!”

“Yes, it was.”

“I saw the lieutenant here at stand-to.”

“Did you? When'd he come in?” Didier began to show interest.

“How should I know? He just showed up, that's all, but he left before the bombardment started.”

“That's him all right,” said Didier.

“Say, what makes you think we're going to attack, Didier?”

“I read the signs.”

“Or the Latrine Gazette!”

“Well, you said you were carrying bombs up all night, didn't you?”

“Where did Lejeune get it anyway? How . . . ?”

“For God's sake, let me eat.”

“You're a chatty bastard!”

“Oh, go sell your fish in some other street.”

“Lejeune wasn't a bad sort. The trouble with him was his feet stank.”

“Say, Didier, are you sure he was killed? He owed me three francs, you know.”

“Well, you can collect it tomorrow, when you go where he's gone.”

“Thanks. And I hope you're there to see him pay me.”

“I probably will be.”

“Jesus, don't say that. That's a sure way to get it.”

“He'll get it all right. Look! His face is already in mourning! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Don't talk that way, it's bad luck!”

“Luck my———! If you stay here long enough you'll get it.”

“I won't. They haven't got my number over there.”

“I say don't talk that way. It's bad luck. It's tempting God . . .”

“Fat lot he has to do with it.”

“He's with the Boche anyway.”

“If we attack, the Boche'll never know what hit him.”

Didier looked up and found, as he expected, that the remark had been made by one of the new class.

“Don't talk through your hat,” he said.

“The boy's all right,” said one of the older men.

“I say he's all wrong,” said Didier.

“A lot you know about it.”

“More than you, anyway. I saw the Boche wire. Also what he did to the Tirailleurs.”

Didier got up and began collecting his things.

“Say, Didier. About those three francs. Show me where Lejeune's things are, will you . . .?”

“No,” said Didier, without trying either to conceal or to emphasize his contempt.

Didier went down into the dugout again and began changing himself back from a scout to a soldier of the line. The place was crowded now, crowded with men who were already sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Didier took pains not to disturb them. As soon as he was fixed up he left to report to his company headquarters.

 

Roget was alone, sitting at Charpentier's table, when Didier entered the company headquarters dugout. He was in the act of reading over his report of the patrol. This was giving him a good deal of pleasure for he found both his handwriting and prose smooth and admirable.

He felt the presence of a man in front of him but continued for a while to absorb himself in his report. Didier waited, tolerantly. He felt he could afford to be tolerant under the circumstances, circumstances the existence of which gave him the upper hand, and the explanation of which he was looking forward to with curiosity. Also he was amused by the lieutenant's obvious pleasure in his own composition.

“Well?” said Roget at last, without looking up.

“Well?” said Didier.

Roget gave a start at the sound of the voice, then looked up. The expression on his face was one of unpleasant, almost angry surprise.

“Well, I'll be . . . I thought you were killed. In fact I reported here in the . . .”

“But you didn't wait to make sure, did you, Roget?”

“Now look here . . . What d'you mean, anyway?”

“When you ran away. After killing Lejeune.”

“Have you gone out of your head? Killing Lejeune, what are you talking about?”

“You know. You threw the bomb.”

“Certainly I threw the bomb. What d'you want me to throw? Bouquets?”

“Well, that bomb killed Lejeune. And if you hadn't been drunk—”

“I've had enough of this!”

“I don't doubt it. You've gotten yourself into a bit of a mess, Roget.”

“Well, if that's your attitude, I don't mind telling you that you've gotten yourself into a worse mess.”

“How's that?”

“I'll tell you,” said Roget. “I've been thinking about it. First, general insubordination. Second, threatening to kill your superior officer. That's mutiny number one. Third, refusing to obey an order and inciting others to do the same. That's mutiny number two and three. Fourth, firing at your superior officer. That's attempted murder and mutiny number four. How d'you think those charges would look on paper?”

“Well, since you mention it,” Didier answered, “I say they wouldn't look half as good as these. Drunk on duty. Endangering the lives of your men through drunken recklessness. Refusal to take counsel. Wanton murder of one of your men. Gross incompetence in general and finally, Roget, cowardice in the face of the enemy. Don't forget you ran away. How did you explain that in your report?”

Both men were silent for a few moments, then Roget began to smile that unpleasant smile of his.

“I see. So that's it, is it? I didn't explain it in my report. But I'll explain something else to you, and I advise you to think it over carefully. It's simply this. I'm an officer and you're a private. It's my word against yours. Whose do you think is going to be believed? Or let me put it another way, if you like. Whose do you think is going to be accepted? Have you ever tried bringing charges against an officer? Just think it over for a while.”

The two men fell silent again. Roget went back to his report and pretended to read it. Didier looked at the top of the lieutenant's head.

“That'll make him think twice,” Roget told himself. “Lucky for me I did kill Lejeune, if I did. He would have made a devilishly inconvenient witness. As soon as I get him out of here I'll write up charges, just in case his tongue starts to wag. In fact, I'll tell him I'm going to do it. Yes, I'll certainly tell him. It may stop him from getting funny in other ways. The fool, bringing such accusations against an officer. He hasn't a chance. Hope he realizes it. Quits all round or I'll take the jump on him now and have him arrested. I hope to God he gets killed tomorrow. Dangerous fellow. Suppose he gets drunk and starts to talk. Arrest him now and nip things in the bud? But if he's killed? Yes, that would be the best. Oh, God, kill him, kill him, kill him. . . .”

“All right, Roget, I've thought it over. What do you propose?” Didier had, as a matter of fact, done no thinking whatever after the first instant of silence, the instant which it had taken his thoroughly practical mind to register the thought: “He's got me. I can't do anything.” He had been merely staring, killing time, instinctively putting off his capitulation in the hope that it would seem a less complete one.

“Just this. If you keep your mouth shut, I will too. And don't forget to keep it tight shut. Then we'll agree on a story about the patrol. And that will end the matter. What d'you say?” Roget was almost affable. He had the air of a business man who has just concluded a shady but profitable deal. He was also congratulating himself on a second thought he had about telling Didier that he was going to make a record of the charges. He decided he wouldn't tell him after all, shrewdly surmising that it might put the idea of doing the same thing in Didier's head.

“All right,” said Didier with a reluctance which did no justice at all to the inner pain of his surrender. “But you know what I think of you.”

It was Roget's turn to be tolerant now and he exercised the privilege by ignoring Didier's remark. “Very well,” he said, picking up the last page of his report and beginning to read from it. “This is what happened, then:

“I'll bet you're sorry I wasn't,” said Didier. “It makes a nice story, though. How are you going to fix all those lies up?”

“Oh, drop it, will you? As for the report, that's easy. I'll add a postscript, like this: ‘It seems Private Didier was not caught in the barrage but returned safely to our lines and reports as follows.' All right, now tell me what you did.”

“After you killed Lejeune . . . You did kill him, you know. I went over to see him and he was lying well inside the barrage line, and so near the mound he wasn't in range from the machine gun either. The bomb must have landed right beside his head. It was a pulp. . . .”

“Then how d'you know it was Lejeune?”

“I brought his identity tag back. That satisfy you?”

“You don't think I believe you did all this travelling around right under a machine gun, do you?”

“I don't care what you believe, but I did. If you knew as much about patrols as I do, you'd know that if you keep calm you're often safer right near a machine gun than you are running away from it. Especially where we were there, to the rear of the gun and in dead ground even if it swung in our direction. All the base of the mound there was dead ground. They might have dropped bombs on us, but their attention was all to their front, not to their flank. So I crawled over and had a look at Lejeune while the barrage was going. There was nothing I could do for him, so I moved back to the Boche wire and worked my way along it to the right. It was easy, as they were all fixed on the uproar around the mound. Well, I took my time, as I was alone. I didn't want to run into anything. I got to the old communication trench just about the time Number 8 sent up the first flare. The trench had fresh tracks in it so I gave it a fairly wide berth. Then I ran into some new wire and I moved farther away, but not before I heard some voices. I got into a shell-hole and threw a couple of stones into the wire. Just as I thought, a machine gun opened up. It was about thirty metres from the German line, in the same communication trench that our post Number 8 is. Don't forget to put that in your report and to say that it was heavily wired.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I'd located the post, so I came in,” said Didier, simply. It would not have been like him to notice that he had been manœu-vred into the position of giving gratuitous explanations, however slight.

“Then that's settled. I'll finish this report and send it to headquarters. And if you know what's good for you . . .”

But Didier was already climbing the dugout steps. He stood aside at the entrance to make way for Captain Charpentier who was on his way down.

“Good morning, Didier,” the captain said, pleasantly.

“Good morning, sir,” said Didier.

“How was the patrol?”

“Not bad, sir,” said Didier, unable to refrain from shooting the captain a look which stopped just short of being a wink. “The lieutenant is down there. He's written the report.”

“No doubt,” said Charpentier, drily, then went on down wishing his tone had been less dry, his words less caustic.

Didier smiled. “A good chap,” he said to himself. “And he knows a thing or two. You can't fool him.”

Charpentier found himself, down in the dugout, accepting the patrol report from Roget's eager hands, a little too eager, he thought them. He read the report through attentively, then asked for a map and an aeroplane photograph. He borrowed Roget's note-book and wrote as follows, using the regimental code name and referring to the map and photograph as he wrote:

He tore the report and its carbon copy out of the note-book and handed the original to Roget.

“Take that to headquarters,” he said, “and wait to see if the colonel wants to speak to you.” He folded Roget's report and the copy of his own up together and put them in his pocket. There was something in Charpentier's manner which prevented Roget from starting a conversation, a conversation which he had intended to lead around to his part in the patrol. He felt the need of crystallizing the version he had invented and his instinct told him that there was no better way of doing so than to put it into spoken words. Instead, however, he found himself leaving the dugout with more haste and less ease than he had expected.