Paths of Glory (19 page)

Dax turned to Labouchère who was standing near him, then back to Assolant.

“I don't quite understand, sir,” he said. “Am I relieved of my command? Colonel Labouchère . . . ?”

“Not at all,” said Assolant. “Colonel Labouchère is to be president of the court martial, that's all.”

“Then I beg to protest formally,” said Dax, “and most emphatically against Colonel Labouchère serving on the court martial after having been present at this discussion.”

“Let me remind you, Dax, that I'm giving orders . . .”

“Yes, sir. But I respectfully submit that it is improper for you to do so to an officer who is going to serve in a judicial capacity . . .”

“Silence, Name of God! No more observations!”

“May I inquire, sir,” said Dax, speaking through clenched teeth and tight lips, “which four men you want executed?”

“That's immaterial to me. All I want is four, one from each company to give the others a lesson in obedience and duty.”

“I have no candidates for the honour, sir.”

“Then get somebody else to find them.”

“But how? They're all equally innocent . . .”

“Name of God, colonel! Are you trying to obstruct me? If you are you're putting yourself in a very bad position. Let the company commanders choose the—er—er—culprits. That's an order, and it's final. You may go gentlemen. General, I hope you can stay for lunch.”

“I shall be glad to,” said de Guerville.

A half hour later, during which time de Guerville had explained his reasons for reducing the number of executions to Assolant, the two men left the office. They were met in the hall by two captains who halted and saluted. One of them looked very young, very tired, and very dirty.

“What d'you want?” said Assolant in a tone which lacked any invitation to express a want.

“You ordered me to report to you here, sir,” began the one whose complexion was the most pallid, whose jaw muscles were still quite taut, and whose eyes were glassy. “Pelletier, battery commander of—”

Assolant didn't let him get any farther.

“Yes, yes. I wanted to speak to you about some of your shells falling short. The colonel of the 181st Regiment has made an oral report of it, and it may be a case for court of inquiry. I haven't time to go into it now. Report back to your command till further orders.”

Assolant's face was under perfect control and the expression on it did not encourage further conversation. Pelletier glanced at de Guerville, saw the Army staff band on his sleeve, and stood aside to let the generals pass.

When they were out of earshot, de Guerville began:

“That's serious, firing on his own infantry. You must punish that sort of thing with the utmost severity, Assolant.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Assolant. “And the worst punishment for him would be shelving. Say to Macedonia, or a colony. He's an ambitious man and troublesome. I'll put the order through at once. Will you see that it's confirmed as soon as possible?”

“Certainly, if you wish it. But what about the court of inquiry?”

“Well, in cases of firing on your own troops I always try to avoid an inquiry. It gets around among the men and makes a very bad impression. Shelving will be the best discipline for him. I'll send the order transferring him through today, and if you will be good enough to speed its confirmation . . .”

“Just as you say, Assolant. You probably know more . . .”

“Yes, sir, for the good of the service.”

De Guerville noticed the gratuitous explanation, also that the general seemed unusually well acquainted with a mere artillery captain, but he made no comment.

 

The men were talking. They were always talking. They even seemed to be talking when they were silent, as on a march, or on parade, or standing to in the trenches. That is, they seemed to be communicating. A look, the movement of a hand or of a foot, the expression on a face or the tilt of a head, the very angle at which the headgear was worn, often had an extraordinary implication of a conversation in progress. What did they talk about? Mostly themselves, of course, but also everything, everything in relation to themselves and vice versa. The talk was, inexplicably, always the same and always new. It seemed to be part of a larger conversation which had been begun way back in the past and was going to be continued monotonously into a future whose duration no one could guess. It had a strange quality of self-perpetuation which made one feel that, while men might die or go away, the talk never would, because other men would come to give it fuel, negligently and in passing.

It had stopped raining and the men were gathered near the cookhouse, eating their noonday meal, standing.

“. . . the Dragoons.”

“A sour bunch, all right. You'd think we were Boche prisoners.”

“Wish we were, then we'd be safe.”

“We're safe enough, except from the night bombers.”

“That's not what's worrying me. It's the officers. Are we safe from them?”

“We always have been. What are you driving at anyway?”

“There's a rumour around there's going to be some executions.”

“Oh, balls! This isn't a cinema.”

“All right, balls then! But you'll think different when you find out it's rifle balls.”

“He's right. There's something in the wind.”

“Maybe somebody knocked over a latrine.”

“Sure he's right. Or why are we under arrest? The whole regiment. It's unheard-of, a whole regiment.”

“I suppose you think they're going to shoot the whole regiment?”

“Why not? They can do anything they want.”

“Don't talk crazy.”

“What's crazy about that?”

“It's just crazy, that's all.”

“I suppose it wasn't crazy to send us into that attack then?”

“That's different—an attack.”

“Well, anyway, I don't like it. It's too quiet around here. There's something dirty going on. There always is when it's quiet.”

“Yes, and where are all the officers? No inspections, no parades, nothing.”

“They didn't come to sample the soup, either.”

“Just read the order and walked off.”

“They've got their own soup, that's why.”

“And we'll be in it, I'll bet.”

“One of the Dragoons said it was court martials.”

“Field court martials mean field executions.”

“Well, they haven't ordered the grave-digging details out yet. That's something.”

“What's the use of fooling yourself? I tell you . . .”

Meyer, who had contributed nothing to this conversation but his attention, finished his meal and walked off towards his hut. He put his mess kit away without cleaning it, then stood in thought for a few minutes. His eyes, like his thoughts, began to rove. Pretty soon his body was in motion too, unhurried, purposeful. He got out his pocket-book and verified the contents: five francs and three obscene pictures. He got his knife and a bar of chocolate out of his haversack and put them in his pocket. He hunted for a pair of socks, but finding none in his own things, he searched the packs near him until he found a dry pair. He changed his socks, taking his time about it. His eye lighted on a tunic hanging from a nail half-way down the hut and he went to it and started to go through the pockets. He found a letter, which he began to read, but no money. A man came into the hut behind him and Meyer turned. He saw at a glance that the man had his tunic on so he went right on with what he was doing. Meyer was like that, cool. It was one trick he had to thank the army for teaching him. His drill sergeant had been profanely emphatic about it: “If you are out of order, hold it, keep still. Don't draw attention to it by trying to retrieve yourself.” It was a good dodge and it worked. The man went out of the hut without giving Meyer a thought. Meyer finished the letter and went back to his own stuff. He wondered about taking his overcoat with him. It would come in handy for sleeping out in fields. Then he decided against it. So much more to carry, and it might make him conspicuous. Nobody was wearing coats now, except when it rained.

Meyer went out and wandered about the camp, mostly near the edge of it, where he could see the Dragoons. He spoke to one or two of them but did not get much of a response. “Surly swine,” he said to himself, mistaking their embarrassment for surliness, the embarrassment of simple men acting in the unaccustomed and uncongenial role of jailers.

Meyer got nearer and nearer to the upper end of the camp, the end which was deepest in the woods. He pulled a cigarette out, then put it back for future use. He unbuttoned his tunic, stuffed his cap into his hip pocket and felt that he was giving a good imitation of aimlessness. He couldn't see any Dragoons around so he moved off into the wood, walking slowly and spreading a vacant expression on his face . . .

“Halt!”

Meyer pretended he hadn't heard.

“Halt there, or I fire!”

Meyer turned and saw a dismounted Dragoon a few paces away. He was bracing his rifle against a tree and Meyer saw that he was the target at which the rifle was aimed.

“If that's the way you feel about it . . .”

“Yes, that's the way I feel about it. Orders are orders. Get back to your lines.”

“Look here, old sport, I'm just going over to the village for a bit of fun. I'll be back in an hour. Nobody'll know the difference.”

“You'll know it if you go one step further. Orders are to shoot . . .”

“What's all the shooting about, anyway?”

“You fellows are under arrest. There's going to be plenty shooting tomorrow . . .”

“What for, for Christ's sake? What have I done?”

“You should know. You're trying to run away from it.”

“I'm not running away. Just going for a stroll . . .”

“Nature lover, eh?”

“Yes.”

“You look it. Well, pick your daisies over here. It'll be better for you than pushing them up there.” The Dragoon jerked his head towards the camp. Meyer noted that he did so without jerking his rifle, which continued to be aimed at his chest.

Meyer weighed the chances of making a get-away. There was a tree near him but it was too thin to step behind. On his other side there was a good-sized tree from behind which he could safely put distance between himself and the Dragoon. But it would take four steps to get there, three to many. Meyer saw the Dragoon was wearing spurs and cursed himself for not having that cigarette in his hand. He could have thrown it at the Dragoon and made him lower his aim just long enough to jump in the tree and run for it. Spurs didn't help anybody to run, especially in a wood. But his hands were empty and spurs had no effect on bullets.

“All right, eater of horse dung,” he said, and started walking back to camp, looking over his shoulder.

The Dragoon pivoted around the tree against which he was bracing his rifle and he kept Meyer in the sights until he was gone.

“How's that, sir?” said Herbillon, handing the piece of paper to Colonel Dax.

“Hmm,” said Dax. “That seems to cover the situation. And yet it doesn't. What I mean is, I want these men to know what it is they are being called on to do. That in all probability they will be choosing a man to be shot, not just court-martialled.”

“Why not call them in and explain it to them, sir?”

“I can't, Herbillon. I couldn't face them. I won't have Assolant's role forced on me. I couldn't stand their reproaches . . .”

“They wouldn't dare, sir . . .”

“No, I'm talking about the unspoken ones. They would be the hardest of all to bear. I am literally unable to do any more arguing about the matter. An order is an order, by God! I've been fighting this thing ever since they sent us into the line. Protests, protests, protests, all beating up against a stone wall, the stone wall of Assolant's stubbornness and vanity. He's a bit mad all right, and I know it. But I'm afraid lots more men have got to be killed before they find it out higher up. Why, do you know what he did? He ordered the seventy-fives to fire on our jumping-off positions to make the men advance! Pelletier refused, unless the order was given in writing. Assolant wasn't cracked enough to do that, however. Pelletier's forward observation officer told me about it. So you see what I'm up against. I'm tired out. I've just spent about two hours with the general arguing about it. And I'll be shelved for my pains, that was obvious.”

“Oh, I hardly think that, sir . . .”

“Of course, I'd forgotten you were present at the meeting.”

“Please let me explain the situation to the company commanders for you, sir,” said Herbillon who really wanted to do something to ease the distress of his chief.

“No, it's no use. They'd just insist on seeing me and on shoving the responsibility on me too. They've got to take their own responsibility and act as best they can. Those were the general's orders anyway, and I'm going to take full advantage of them. Also, if there's any justice to be gotten out of this mess at all it will probably be obtained better by letting the company commanders act on their own initiative. They know their men, or at least they know them better than I do. The general wanted a section from each company shot. Think of it, a section! The man is insane. I beat him down to four men, with the help of the Army staff officer. I've done all I can. It was a degrading piece of bargaining, I assure you. No, let things take their course. I'll appear at the court martial to make a final plea, though it will probably be useless. You heard how Assolant practically gave Labouchère orders to condemn the men. If the worst comes to the worst, I'll appeal to the Army Commander, right over Assolant's head too. But I want these officers to know the seriousness of the choices they've got to make.”