Paths of Glory (6 page)

“That's it,” he formulated the thought, “peace, peacefulness. This that I am looking at is the very essence of it. I myself am the only evidence that the picture is an illusion.” Turning away, and forgetful of Duval's presence for the moment, he looked down at his own uniform as if to verify its inharmoniousness. He saw the butt of his rifle pushing itself forward on the sling, he saw the bluish cloth on his knee, then his black army boot. He watched his boot far enough along on its first step to see that, on its second, he could bring it down again on the track of a motor-cycle wheel.

“What the devil did that corporal . . .” his thought began once more. But, before it had been completed, the question was this time answered by a bugle call which came up to him from the valley below.

It was sounding the assembly.

 

Had the notes of the bugle been resonant enough to carry some ten kilometres to the southward, they would have reached a divisional headquarters installed in the
mairie
of a town there, and they would have told the elder of two men alone in a ground-floor room that his orders were being obeyed.

He was a man in that period of life when appearance can be the most distinguished because although mature, it is not, at the same time, in the least decrepit. That he was aware of this could be seen in the decorousness of his uniform and in his way of wearing it; also in the correctness of his face, clean-shaved except for his moustache—a dash of white on a background of healthy pink. His eyes were blue, steady, and kindly, yet there was no hint there of the sanguine spirit which lay behind them. His mouth and chin were not quite strong, yet by no means were they weak. There were two rows of ribbons on his left breast, and on his right four little loops to which the star of a Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour could be attached for formal or ceremonial occasions. He was the Commander of the Fifteenth Army.

The other man, General of Division Assolant, did not at the first moment look as though he deserved the nickname by which he was known among the staffs—General Insolent. His attitude was too respectful, and it surprised the Army Commander, who had expected something different in this formidable subordinate, well known to him by report, unseen till today. The Army Commander looked at Assolant with an interest which he took little pains to disguise.

What he saw was a stocky body set firmly on a pair of solid cavalry legs, legs whose heels could meet but whose knees couldn't. He saw a uniform that was as unconventional as it was serviceable. The boots and spiral puttees were those of the rank and file, and the breeches had obviously come from an artillery quartermaster's stores. The tunic was second-hand but of good vintage; it looked enviably loose and comfortable. No one glancing at the uniform would have thought the wearer an officer until his eyes had chanced to light on the three stars worn in a triangle just above the cuffs. But the face was the face of a man of action, of a man who would be satisfied only with a position of command. It was distinctly of the type that is called strong; that is, it was hard, aquiline, brutal even. A close-cropped black moustache suggested that the slit beneath it was a mouth. The slit bent downwards at the corners, the moustache following along, and gave the impression of forcing the flesh of the jaws down with it. This helped to square off a chin that was already square. The nose was arched and prominent, and hairs bristled in a pair of impertinent nostrils. The eyes were bent downwards at the ends and accentuated the scornfulness of the expression. Thick black hair, brushed to an erect pompadour, began at a level which seemed a trifle too near the line of the eyebrows. The Army Commander did not miss the point that the pompadour was there to add height to a forehead which could have been higher.

“No,” the Army Commander was thinking, “respectful attention does not suit him. It's temporary. He's all right, though. He'll do.” Aloud he said:

“I think you served under me in Algeria, didn't you, Assolant?”

“Yes, sir. When you were chief of staff of the Nineteenth Army Corps. I was a major then, stationed at Aïn-Sefra.”

“Ah yes, I remember now,” said the Army Commander, then moved quickly away from the subject before it became apparent that he didn't remember at all. “This is what I came to see you about. I couldn't go into it over the telephone. By the way, are all your troops on the move?”

“All the ones that are available, except the 181st, and they should be getting off by now. My messenger had a hard time finding them. If I may be permitted to say—”

“Yes, yes, I know. But just wait till I've outlined the situation to you, then I'll hear you. Did you read this morning's
communiqué
?”

“I don't read
communiqués,
sir, I make them,” said Assolant with a smile which he hoped would temper his impudence.

“Humph,” said the Army Commander, ignoring both the smile and the impudence. “Well, a regrettable error has occurred, which I shall explain to you. You know that the C.-in-C. has for some time been complaining because the Pimple wasn't captured. Lately he's been insisting on it for a reason which I'll tell you presently. Several attempts to take it have been made, the last one yesterday morning by the Tirailleurs. They've all failed.”

“No wonder, it's a miniature Gibraltar.”

“The reason I asked about the
communiqué
is that it seems that through some mistake the Pimple was reported as having been taken yesterday. I don't want you to misunderstand me. I mean that that has nothing to do with—”

“I understand only too well, sir. You are going to ask me to take with my bayonets what a G.H.Q. ink-slinger has already inadvertently captured at the point of his pen!”

“That's exactly the conclusion I didn't want you to—”

“So it's come to this, has it?” Assolant went right on, warming to his pet phobia of the
communiqué
. The Army Commander, who had heard of these tantrums wherever Assolant's name was mentioned, decided to sample one for himself.

“So it's come to this, has it? G.H.Q. is no longer satisfied with attacks for the purpose of window-dressing their
communiqués
. They must now go the limit and make their infernal literature an objective in itself! I must read the
communiqué,
must I, because that's where I shall find my operation orders? My reputation as a fighting commander is secure enough in this army to warrant my refusal—”

“That's enough, general,” the Army Commander's voice cut in drily. “No need for any dramatics here, and less than that if you will be so good as to listen to me.”

“I must apologize, sir. I was carried away . . .”

“That's all right,” the Army Commander said soothingly, and not entirely displeased with his subordinate's outburst. On the contrary, he admired the genuine fire of the man, a quality Assolant would need above all others for the job that was going to be assigned to him.

“Now this is strictly secret, this part of it I mean. It positively must not go further than your chief of staff, and not even to him unless you are sure of his discretion. A group of armies is forming on this front for an attack about three weeks from now which the C.-in-C. is determined to make a complete break-through. No attack can succeed, however, as long as the Boches hold the Pimple. As you know, it's a key position which can hold up and cripple our advance from the moment it starts. It must, therefore, be captured—and held. I saw Joffre a couple of days ago and he gave me formal orders to take the Pimple not later than the eighth, which is day after tomorrow—”

“But, Name of God, sir—”

“I've entrusted this job to two generals already and, as you know, they've both failed me. If there's one man in this army who can do it, you can, Assolant. I'd have called on you first, but you were up to your neck in it at Souchez.”

“Well, I must say, sir, that you couldn't have called on me at a worse moment than the present. My division is cut to pieces, and what's left of it is absolutely exhausted. No, it's absurd. I'm in no condition to hold the Pimple, much less to take it. It's out of the question. Can't you get the C.-in-C. to assign some troops from G.H.Q. reserve to do the job? They'd be fresh and—”

“Yes, but they wouldn't be assault troops, and the success of this engagement is going to depend on assault troops.”

“Well, mine aren't assault troops any more, and they won't be again until they've had a thorough rest and refitting.”

“I can give you all the artillery you want, within reason.”

“Artillery isn't going to be much use on the Pimple, sir. I know that place. It's a boil, not a pimple. It's honey-combed with subterranean machine-gun emplacements and it's connected with the rear by an underground passage having several exits. No. Shells just bounce off it; we've seen that before. It's a fortress.”

“How do you propose to take it then?”

“I don't. I propose that the C.-in-C. take it with some of the troops he's going to use for the main attack. Why doesn't he use the Moroccans? They're good with the bayonet, which is what the place will have to be taken with, hand-to-hand. And besides, they're black and our losses will be heavy.”

For a moment the Army Commander thought of protesting vigorously against a cynicism which could arouse such a repugnance in him. Then he realized that Assolant wouldn't know what he was talking about.

“He won't hear of it. I told you he expects a complete break-through. Do you know where the first day's objectives are? Twenty kilometres off. He won't use a man on these ‘minor operations'—as he calls them—whom he has reserved for the offensive. They must be absolutely fresh so they can exploit the break-through—indefinitely, if necessary. He really thinks this attack will be the last one of the war.”

“Well, the attack on the Pimple will be the last one of my division.”

“Come, come, Assolant, you've got a crack division. It may be a bit tired, yes, but it ought to be refreshed and revived by the new class that has just joined it.”

“Now, sir, you're not going to tell me that recruits are the proper material for a job of this kind . . .”

“Why not? They're young, strong, healthy—full of youthful ardour. All they dream about is making a bayonet charge. They won't even know the attack is a bit—hmm—a bit—unusual.” The satisfaction the Army Commander derived from finding that last word was enough to dispel the slight distaste he felt for his own cynicism until Assolant tactlessly brought it home to him.

“That's true enough. And they'll never have a chance to find out.”

“Which one of your units is in the best shape?” The Army Commander was again moving quickly away from a subject he didn't want to get entangled in.

“I suppose the 181st are. Owing to the messenger's stupidity, they should have gotten five or six hours' sleep,” said Assolant, unconscious of his irony.

“Ah, the 181st, yes. I've seen them cited in Army Orders more than once. Put them in the first wave, then, and let your other regiments support them and consolidate the position.”

“It might be done,” said Assolant, half to himself.

“Of course it can be done. Anyway, it's got to be done. A first-class regiment which is, precisely at this moment, at the top of its form, made up half of recruits and half of seasoned veterans. The recruits will have the
élan
, the veterans will temper it. There couldn't be a better combination. And, as I told you, you can have all you want in the way of guns.” The Army Commander knew he was being specious but he noted with satisfaction that his enthusiasm was beginning to infect Assolant, always susceptible to offensives, and to make him oblivious of the speciousness.

“I'd rather have rest than artillery just now, sir. Still, this is a new experience, to be offered unlimited ammunition. How many rounds of gas could I have? If the wind is right, I'd want to smother that Pimple in gas . . .”

“Call de Guerville in, and your chief of staff too—what's his name? Couderc. We'll go over it all thoroughly. Now no weakening in front of Couderc, no reservations. That sort of thing gets around.”

“Don't worry, sir, my mind is made up. I'll take the Pimple for you, if you'll give me a free hand and plenty of grenades besides the artillery.”

“I'll give you more than that, Assolant, after it's over, I'll give you a Corps. Do you think you could possibly snatch the Pimple off tomorrow?”

“Impossible, sir. But the day after, you'll have it for lunch. In fact you can put it in the
communiqué
now. Oh, no! I forgot. It's already in the
communiqué
. Well, I'll make it official. You may have heard, sir, that I've never said I'd take a position that I didn't take.”

“And you may have heard that I've never made a promise I didn't keep.”

“Yes, sir. And that leads me to wonder if . . .”

The Army Commander waited for the sentence to be completed, then realizing it wasn't going to be, he sought out Assolant's eyes. But he could not engage them, for they were staring with deliberate significance at the four little loops on his own jacket, the four little loops to which the start of a Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour could be attached for formal or ceremonial occasions.

“Perhaps . . .” said the Army Commander, concealing his contempt. “Now to work! Ask the staffs to come in, please.” Then he added to himself: “What vulgarity! What a bounder! But he'll take the Pimple.”

 

It was after dark, now. The sudden noise of their hobnailed boots striking on cobblestones, and its equally sudden ending, conveyed to each company of the 181st Regiment of the line, as it followed the preceding one, that it was crossing a main highway.