Paths of Glory (22 page)

Colonel Dax's order didn't surprise Jonnart in the least. Nothing surprised him in the army because it was all part of the routine, and routine was merely another name for the channels through which authority flowed. Sergeant-Major Jonnart, therefore, went to work methodically to obey the colonel's order. He got out the company roster, which he had already corrected for the morning's casualties, and saw that the ration strength of the company was one hundred and fifty-eight men. He crossed out the names of three sergeants, seven corporals, and thirty-six men who had been assigned to special duties for the attack or who had been left at the regimental train as a nucleus, but who, in either case, were not part of the attacking wave. Then he sent for his three sergeants, read the order to them, and explained his intentions.

“You will,” he added, “assemble the whole of Number 3 Company outside the sergeants' mess hut. That's large enough to hold them, isn't it?”

“Plenty.”

“Two of you will go into the hut and stand at either door. The other one will stay with me. I've a list of the names here and as I read it out the men will pass one by one into the hut. You will count and check them off as they come in. When they are all in I will follow and the ones whose names were not called can be dismissed.”

“Why not get them all in the hut first and then send the ones you don't want out?”

The sergeant-major looked at the speaker but made no comment.

“All right, get busy then! Not a word to anyone about this order. I'll be out in ten minutes.”

When the last man had entered the hut and the rest had been dismissed, Jonnart was vexed to find that he had forgotten something. “After all,” he excused himself, “this is the first time in my career that I've had to do a job like this.” He went back to the company office, got two pencils and a refill pad for a notebook, then walked over to the sergeants' mess hut.

“Attention!” shouted the sergeant at the door. The buzz of conversation stopped as if cut off by a knife. Jonnart was pleased with the company's snap, and he knew whom to credit it to. He walked the half length of the hut briskly without looking into the eyes of any of the men, climbed over a table and turned to face them from the other side.

“At ease! Rest!” he ordered. “But no talking. I have an order to read to you as follows:

“Regimental headquarters 181st regiment of the line one-three-nine-three-four-c-d-nineteen to captains etcetera and sergeant-major Jonnart acting in command number three company you are hereby instructed according to the orders of the general commanding the division to select and arrest one man from each of your companies and to have him at the regimental guard-room at the château not later than fourteen-thirty o'clock today ready to appear before a summary court martial on charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy by order signed herbillon captain adjutant.”

The sergeant-major came abruptly and a little breathlessly to a stop in his headlong reading of the order, and found himself in the midst of a stupefied silence. This silence was broken at last by an incredulous guffaw which came from the rear of the crowd.

“Shut your face!” ordered one of the sergeants. The laugh died.

“This is no laughing matter, men,” said Jonnart, and the slight tone of kindliness in his voice awoke uneasiness in more than one of his audience. “In fact it's very serious. You all know what a summary court martial means. It means one of you is going to leave this hut with only a short time left to live . . .”

“Which one?”

“They're mad!”

“I don't believe it.”

“I was no coward!”

“It's a joke.”

“And not a funny one, either.”

“Which one?”

“Silence! Silence everybody!” Jonnart shouted. “How can I tell you which one unless you stop this noise? Now listen to me. I've gone over the company roster carefully and all you men who are in this hut were in the attacking wave this morning. All those of our company not in the hut were on special duties or at the regimental train—”

“I wasn't in the attack . . .”

“Who's that? Come up here. Where were you then?”

“Don't you remember, chief, you yourself sent me down to the dump to get detonators for that case of bombs we found didn't have any?”

“That's right. You can go then.”

“I think I'll stick around and watch the fun.”

“Get out, you bastard, before I change my mind and keep you here for the draw . . .”

“Jesus! He's going to draw lots.”

“Draw lots . . .”

“I won't draw any lots . . .”

“Me neither.”

“They have no right . . .”

“Married men should be exempt.”

“Men with mothers . . .”

“Certainly with widowed mothers.”

“Or sisters . . .”

“I was the farthest one in front.”

“Only those who lagged behind . . .”

“My three brothers have already been killed.”

“I was no coward. I won't draw.”

“Ha, ha. Watch the shirkers step up . . .”

“There were no cowards.”

“The colonel doesn't agree with you.”

“Where are the corporals? Are they any . . .”

“I have four children . . .”

“I've been cited in Divisional and Army Orders. . . .”

“That's enough, men!” Jonnart cut in. “Silence, I say! Everyone has a good reason for not wanting to die. Orders are orders and one of you has got to be the victim. So you're going to draw lots. There are one hundred and eleven of you in this room. I'm going to make one hundred and eleven pieces of paper. One of them will be marked with a cross. The man who draws it will go before the court martial. I'm giving orders here, but since it's a serious matter, I'm willing to hear any objections anybody may have to this method.”

“Yes, I object. The paper's thin and we'll see through it if it's marked.”

“That's stupid. The slips are going to be folded up and put in my cap. Each man will be blindfolded before he comes up to draw.”

“A blindfold never prevented anyone from looking down his nose.”

“Besides which, the fellow who gets it might erase the mark, or substitute another piece of paper for it. We most of us carry some of it around. It's thin and comes in handy for . . .”

“All right then,” Jonnart conceded. “We'll do it this way, though it will take longer . . .”

“We aren't in any hurry, chief . . .”

“We'll write out two sets of numbers from one to one hundred and eleven. One set will go in my hat, the other in Sergeant Darde's. Each man will come up in alphabetical order, draw a number and open it at once. It will be entered against his name. When all are drawn, Sergeant Darde will draw one number from his hat. The man who has the corresponding number will be the one chosen. Yes, that's better. All the papers will have markings on them and the unlucky man cannot be known until after all the numbers are drawn.”

“Unlucky is right . . .”

“All right, Darde. Here's some paper and a pencil. Tear each sheet into four equal pieces and write the numbers on them, from one to a hundred and eleven. Print them carefully, but don't fold them up until I tell you.”

It took Sergeant Darde about twelve minutes to do the numbers, while Jonnart needed an extra five. The men watched them in silence, fascinated by the work.

“Finished, Darde?” Jonnart asked when he was himself through. “Now, as I count each number, you pick it up, call it, and fold it and put it in your cap. I'll do the same with mine. One.”

“One,” said Darde.

“Two.”

“Two . . .”

“Say, chief, can I have number thirteen?”

“No, you cannot,” said Jonnart, “unless you draw it. Sixty-two.”

“Sixty-two . . .”

“I'd like number one,” said a voice.

“Why one?”

“Because I never heard of number one being drawn in any lottery.”

“You're a wise one! I'll take one hundred, then . . .”

“You'll take what you get, all of you,” said Jonnart. “One hundred and three.”

“One hundred and three . . .”

“Say, chief, can I go out for a smoke?”

“One hundred and eleven.”

“One hundred and eleven.”

“. . . and finish,” said Jonnart. “No. No smoking, and no going out. Nobody leaves the hut until this business is over. Now let me see, where's the nominal roll? Ah, yes. First, Aboville. Step up, Aboville. Not so fast. Wait till I've finished mixing them up. Now, now draw a number out of my cap here. Be careful not to pick up two. What is it? Let me see it. Twenty-two.

“Aboville, twenty-two. Got it, Darde? Enter it there, right in front of his name. Next. Who's next? Ajalbert. Come on, step lively. Don't pick up more than one. Let me see it.

“Ajalbert, fifty-nine . . .

“Lalance, one hundred and three . . .

“Be careful, they stick to your fingers. Langlois, seventy-six . . .

“Ravary, forty-seven.

“Richet . . . Richet . . .” Jonnart hesitated over this number, realizing suddenly that he had overlooked something—something which might turn out to be troublesome.
“Merde!”
he said to himself. “If I'd only written them instead of printing them so carefully! But it may come out all right if I can keep my memory of the numbers already drawn working quickly and correctly.

“Richet, six . . .”

One by one the men came up to draw their numbers and to have them recorded against their names. One by one they joked, swaggered, whined, argued, affected unconcern, or acted as if they were picking hot coals. They were all doing just what they were told, but each one felt that this was one time when he could allow his mannerisms to be seen in his obedience to an order. There was not one of them who did not have an increased sense of self-dramatization, of individuality—above all, perhaps, of power, that curious feeling of power that a man has when he votes.

The drawing and recording of the numbers took, in all, about three-quarters of an hour. When it was ended, Sergeant-Major Jonnart checked the list and read it over out loud. So far his memory had served him well.

“Now, Darde,” he said, “mix the slips in your cap thoroughly and then turn your back and draw one.”

“If you don't mind, chief, I'd rather not be the one to . . .”

“Do as I tell you!”

“All right, but I don't relish the job.”

“Who d'you think does relish this job? Get busy.”

Darde mixed the pieces of paper in his cap. He mixed them with both hands, as if he were inspecting grain. He mixed and mixed and mixed....

“For God's sake, draw!” said a strangulated voice from the crowd.

Darde stopped mixing. He did so with reluctance.

“Turn your back to the men,” said Jonnart, “and put your hand behind you.”

There was absolute quiet in the hut, that intensified quiet which seems to prevail over a body of silent and motionless and expectant men. Darde turned and looked at the wall of the hut. He found a nail there and rested his gaze upon it. Jonnart took the sergeant's cap and pushed it up so that Darde's hand was plunged into the pieces of paper. Darde looked at the nail and felt the paper all around his hand. He moved his fingers, took hold of one piece of paper, let it go, took hold of another and let that go too....

“Draw, for the love of Christ, draw!”

It was the same strangulated voice.

The sergeant's fingers closed on some paper. He felt two pieces and he released one. He pulled the other out and held it over his head.

Jonnart took the slip from Darde's hand, unfolded it and flattened it out on the table with his palm.

“Sixty-eight,” he said.

He turned to the company roster, but even before the name was announced a man was pushing his way through to the table.

“Fasquelle.”

There was a sound of many breaths being released in the hut.

Fasquelle, in front of the table, looked at the slip of paper, then looked at Jonnart.

“What makes you think that number's sixty-eight, sergeant-major?” he asked quietly.

“Look at it. Can't you read?” said Jonnart with a harshness which was really nothing more than his vexation with himself.

“Luckily for me, I can,” said Fasquelle. “From where I stand the number's eighty-nine, not sixty-eight.”

“But you can see the sixty-eight is right on the line, can't you, whereas the other way the eighty-nine isn't?”

“Are you going to have me court-martialled because of a line, sergeant-major?” Fasquelle was still speaking quietly.

“Well, no. No, I'm not,” said Jonnart. “The thing to do then, obviously, is for you to draw against the man who's got eighty-nine. Who's got eighty-nine? Poujade. Come up here, Poujade. You've got to draw against Fasquelle.”

“Nothing doing,” said Poujade. “The number's clearly sixty-eight. And my number's a long way from it.”

“The number,” said Fasquelle, “is not clearly sixty-eight.”

“Anyway,” said Poujade, “I refuse to draw against you. I refuse to be forced into a one-out-of-two chance after having already taken a one-out-of-a-hundred-and-eleven chance.”

“Don't let me hear any more talk about refusing,” said Jonnart.

“Well, you're going to,” said Poujade, “if you try to put a one-out-of-two draw on me when I'm entitled to one out of over a hundred. Furthermore, the number's clearly sixty-eight, and the draw has been made. I drew the same as everybody else did and without any fuss about it. It's a question of my life, sergeant-major, and I'm going to have my rights.”