Paths of Glory (20 page)

“Well, shall I put in something about executions . . . ?”

“No. That's taking too much for granted. I really can't believe they're going through with this, though I know they are. And it would never do to admit that we expected something of the sort. It would be unfair to the men. There's always some hope, you know, until they're actually dead.”

“How about a phrase like this, sir: ‘Orders concerning firing squads will be issued later . . .'”

“That's practically the same thing. I tell you what though. Put ‘summary court martial' instead of just ‘court martial.' That should bring the gravity of the affair home to them. Also they will know that there is no appeal. And by the way, change the beginning. If Assolant is going to give such orders, I want them to appear in the record. Start it off this way: ‘You are hereby instructed, according to the orders of the general commanding the division, to select and arrest, et cetera.' That'll show them that I'm not trying to avoid responsibility by passing it on to them. It also ought to show them that the order is final and that there's no use trying to argue about it with me. I'm going to try to get a nap, but if anybody wants to see me about this business, you must wake me up of course.”

After Dax had left, Herbillon took back the draft order and rewrote it himself on the typewriter, making the changes Dax had wanted and using four pieces of carbon paper. He signed each copy, put it in an envelope and sealed it. Then he addressed the envelopes, marked them “Personal and Urgent” and called for a runner.

“Take these around and give them into the hands of the officers they're addressed to,” he said. “And get receipts.”

The runner saluted and went out. As soon as he was safely away from the door, he looked at the envelopes and tried, unsuccessfully, to pry each one open. His face fell, then brightened again at the sight of the one for Sergeant-Major Jonnart. That meant a trip up to Camp B, a nice little walk. Also a chance for some gossip with the boys. Being a runner had its advantages. But it had its disadvantages, too. Sitting outside the office, doing nothing, sometimes for a whole morning. Not allowed to smoke either. And jumping up and saluting every time an officer passed. No one to talk to, except the other runners, and you knew as much as they did, if not more. Of course, you usually got wind of what was going on around headquarters, and that made you a person of some importance. Even sergeants would listen to you, or try to pump you. But you missed being with your own kind and talking about familiar things, freely. You had to be careful what you said around the office. And, no matter how decent an officer might be, he was still an officer and you weren't. Officers talked a different language. They even ate different food . . .

The runner went off into the park to deliver the letters.

“Silly of Herbillon to say get receipts,” he reflected. “You always get receipts. Fussy old fool. But adjutants are always fussy. Think they have the weight of the world on their shoulders. Now for a cigarette on the way up to Camp B. Sergeant-Major Jonnart, eh? Not a bad sort, but thick. Sergeant-majors are always like that. Perhaps he can tell me what's up. Headquarters is certainly quiet about it. They talk in the office so you can't hear them outside. Maybe the Dragoons will know something. A whole regiment under arrest! Thank God for a chance to smoke. Seems as if it might be a nice day after all. The country looks fine. It'll be just right for when I go on leave next month. Maybe I can wangle a drink at the canteen on the way back . . .”

The runner took his time. He inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply, giving his lungs the nicotine they had been deprived of and for which they were grateful. He was delighted to be sent on an errand.

Captain Renouart tore the envelope open, took out the thin sheet of official paper, and looked at his wrist watch. He spread the paper out and wrote across the right-hand top corner:

“Received 12.48” and signed it with an R. While he was doing this his eye was already at work extracting the message from the typewritten lines. So practiced and selective was his glance that he knew what the order contained almost before he had signed his initial. His eye had acted telegraphically, giving him the message thus: “Renouart . . . arrest one man . . . guardroom . . . 14.30 . . . court martial . . . cowardice.”

At last! There it was. They were going to do it that way, then. He had been expecting something to happen, though not quite of this kind. There had been a good deal of loose talk around the mess at luncheon about executions. Renouart, disagreeing with the others, had been inclined to think that, if any disciplinary action was going to be taken, it would be against the officers, himself among them probably. As far as the men were concerned, he was sure they would be deprived of leave and would be given some extra tours of duty in nasty sectors instead. But this was different.

Renouart put an end to his now useless speculation about what might have been done and read the order through, word for word.

Select and arrest a man. He repeated the phrase out loud and started to repeat it again, but found himself lingering over, repeating the word “select” only.

His decision took shape at what seemed a very great distance from him, minute shape. In the same instant it had grown to a thing of gigantic but intangible size and had moved in upon him with terrific speed, overwhelming him with its absolute finality.

No. He couldn't and wouldn't select a man. A summary court martial, he knew what that meant. Nobody had the power to make him do that. They could shoot him first. But they wouldn't dare. Better go and see Dax, talk it over with him. No, better not. Dax would only have to order him to obey and he could only refuse. That would bring it all to a head and would probably make it worse for everybody all round. What about getting the priest in? No use in that either. He knew what he'd say. Thou shalt not kill. Poor piece of translation, that. Should be, Thou shalt not commit murder. Better still, Thou shalt not commit individual murder. The church ought to get that changed before the next war. Make it much easier for good Catholics to answer embarrassing questions. Why bother to go on thinking about it? His mind was quite clear on this particular problem and besides it was already made up. . . .

Renouart reached for a piece of paper and started to draft a reply.

Renouart drafted two more replies, each shorter than the preceding one. Then he wrote the final one:

“That's better,” Renouart said to himself. “It sounds like a routine reply to a routine order. Glad I thought of using the word instructions instead of orders. Makes the refusal sound less of a refusal. A good job all round. The others were argumentative, this one isn't.”

Pleased with the bland note he had managed to introduce into his answer, Renouart decided to extend it to his actions by putting himself out of reach until the court martial was over. Delay, he knew, even in a military trial, helped to thwart the aims of the prosecutors. It would also give the red tape a chance to tangle itself up, a chance it never failed to avail itself of. He sealed the note, marked it personal for Colonel Dax and put it in his pocket, then called his orderly.

“Have my horse here in half an hour,” he said. “I'm going for a ride.” He added the explanation of his intention on purpose, hoping thereby to convey, and to have it passed on, that his absence would be a temporary one only and that he was, therefore, not bothering to delegate his authority to anyone else.

Renouart walked slowly over to the château. The assistant adjutant was alone in the office.

“Where's everybody?”

“I don't know. Sleeping, I suppose,” said the assistant adjutant, who looked as if he would like to be doing the same thing himself.

“Here's a note for the chief . . .”

“Well, I know he's sleeping, and he's not to be disturbed unless . . .”

“Who's asking you to disturb him? Just give it to him when he comes in, will you? I'm going for a ride. Won't be back till about supper time.”

“Say, ask her if she's got a sister or a friend who wants . . .”

 

Lieutenant Roget, acting in command of Number 2 Company, read the order from regimental headquarters, found Didier's name present in his mind at the end of the reading, and promptly rejected it. He was rewarded for the rejection of a thought so unworthy by feeling a glow of self-admiration. This was no new experience for Roget, but the genuineness of the glow was. For a while his mind remained stationary, that is, the thoughts it contained all seemed to have taken seats, like people in an anteroom who realize the time has not yet come. It was then that he discovered that his rejection of Didier's name had not been followed by its ejection too. It was still there, and there to stay, he knew, although he was not yet quite ready to admit it in so many words.

There was no getting round it, however. He had to choose a man. That was an order, and it came straight from the general. Not that that made any difference. An order was just as much an order, no matter what rank it came from, as long as the authority was there. Roget got the bottle of cognac out of his things and set it on the floor near the bunk where he had been lying. It was a characteristic move and, had Roget had the curiosity to examine and define his psychological processes, he would have described them thus:

“Alcohol clarifies my mind and lubricates its functioning. It simplifies my perplexities, makes them more remote and less consequential. That is, the right amount of alcohol. The first two or three drinks are always the right amount, or, at least, proportions of it. Liquor takes the vaporous and roaming thoughts I already have and solidifies and fixes them. It also seems to make their quality better and cleans them of their nonessential growths and erosions. At the same time it creates another set of vaporous and roaming thoughts which are always a distinct improvement on the old ones because of their originality. Stupid, therefore, not to draw on this reservoir of originality when the key to it can be found in almost any bottle. In addition to this, alcohol has the property of conferring courage and impelling to action. What does it matter that this is an illusion, that it does not really increase courage but reduces fear through its anæsthetic quality? The result is the same. I am now about to choose a man—to be shot, undoubtedly. That will take courage. But it will take infinitely more courage to choose the man who is my enemy, who could be my destroyer, and to put him out of the way in the coldest of cold blood, namely, without the slightest danger to myself. On the contrary, it's my duty to select a man, and I'm going to have the guts to select a particular one. Such cynicism will take courage. . . .”

All this did not pass through Roget's mind as so much conscious thought. He just knew that a drink would help and he took it, a long one, then lighted a cigarette. He smoked without thinking for a few minutes, during which time the alcohol was making its way to his brain. Then his conscious thinking began, conscious enough to be reflected in the silent movement of his lips and in vague, half-completed little gestures, characteristic enough to be oblique at the very first.

“It would not be fair to the other man, whoever he might be, to be penalized because I'm bending over backwards about Didier. The fact that I want to get rid of him mustn't be permitted to give him the slightest advantage of immunity. On the contrary, my reasons for wanting to get rid of him are sound ones, absolutely legitimate, any one of them alone being enough to send him in front of a firing-squad. The fly in this ointment is that my personal wishes coincide too closely with my duty.”