Under Fire

by Barbusse, Henri; Wray, William Fitzwater;

  We went away to our bed under the wall-less roof, between the arms of the plough that was waiting for us. And then Paradis began to yawn; but by the light of the candle in our crib, a full minute later, I saw that the happy smile remained yet on his face.

  XVII

  IN THE SAP

  In the excitement of a distribution of letters from which the squad were returning—some with the delight of a letter, some with the semi-delight of a postcard, and others with a new load (speedily reassumed) of expectation and hope—a comrade comes with a brandished newspaper to tell us an amazing story—

  “Remember the weasel-faced ancient at Gauchin?”

  “The old boy who was treasure-seeking?”

  “Well, he’s found it!”

  “Gerraway!”

  “It’s just as I tell you, you great lump! What would you like me to say to you? Mass? Don’t know it. Anyway, the yard of his place has been bombed, and a chest full of money was turned up out of the ground near a wall. He got his treasure full on the back. And now the parson’s quietly cut in and talks about claiming credit for the miracle.”

  We listen open-mouthed. “A treasure—well! well! The old bald-head!”

  The sudden revelation plunges us in an abyss of reflection. “And to think how damned sick we were of the old cackler when he made such a song about his treasure and dinned it into our ears!”

  “We were right enough down there, you remember, when we were saying ‘One never knows.’ Didn’t guess how near we were to being right, either.”

  “All the same, there are some things you can be sure of,” says Farfadet, who as soon as Gauchin was mentioned had remained dreaming and distant, as though a lovely face was smiling on him. “But as for this,” he added, “I’d never have believed it either! Shan’t I find him stuck up, the old ’un, when I go back there after the war!”

  “They want a willing man to help the sappers with a job,” says the big adjutant.

  “Not likely!” growl the men, without moving.

  “It’ll be of use in relieving the boys,” the adjutant goes on.

  With that the grumbling ceases, and several heads are raised. “Here!” says Lamuse.

  “Get into your harness, big ’un, and come with me.” Lamuse buckles on his knapsack, rolls up his blanket, and fetters his vouches. Since his seizure of unlucky affection was allayed, he has become more melancholy than before, and although a sort of fatality makes him continually stouter, he has become engrossed and isolated, and rarely speaks.

  In the evening something comes along the trench, rising and falling according to the lumps and holes in the ground; a shape that seems in the shadows to be swimming, that outspreads its arms sometimes, as though appealing for help. It is Lamuse.

  He is among us again, covered with mould and mud. He trembles and streams with sweat, as one who is afraid. His lips stir, and he gasps, before they can shape a word.

  “Well, what is there?” we ask him vainly.

  He collapses in a corner among us and prostrates himself. We offer him wine, and he refuses it with a sign. Then he turns towards me and beckons me with a movement of his head.

  When I am by him he whispers to me, very low, as if in church, “I have seen Eudoxie again.” He gasps for breath, his chest wheezes, and with his eyeballs fast fixed upon a nightmare, he says, “She was putrid.”

  “It was the place we’d lost,” Lamuse went on, “and that the Colonials took again with the bayonet ten days ago.

  “First we made a hole for the sap, and I was in at it. Since I was scooping more than the others I found myself in front. The others were widening and making solid behind. But behold I find a jumble of beams. I’d lit on an old trench, caved in, ’vidently; half caved in—there was some space and room. In the middle of those stumps of wood all mixed together that I was lifting away one by one from in front of me, there was something like a big sandbag in height, upright, and something on the top of it hanging down.

  “And behold a plank gives way, and the queer sack falls on me, with its weight on top. I was pegged down, and the smell of a corpse filled my throat—on the top of the bundle there was a head, and it was the hair that I’d seen hanging down.

  “You understand, one couldn’t see very well; but I recognised the hair ’cause there isn’t any other like it in the world, and then the rest of the face, all stove in and mouldy, the neck pulped, and all the lot dead for a month perhaps. It was Eudoxie, I tell you.

  “Yes, it was the woman I could never go near before, you know—that I only saw a long way off and couldn’t ever touch, same as diamonds. She used to run about everywhere, you know. She used even to wander in the lines. One day she must have stopped a bullet, and stayed there, dead and lost, until the chance of this sap.

  “You clinch the position? I was forced to hold her up with one arm as well as I could, and work with the other. She was trying to fall on me with all her weight. Old man, she wanted to kiss me, and I didn’t want—it was terrible. She seemed to be saying to me, ‘You wanted to kiss me, well then, come, come now!’ She had on her—she had there, fastened on, the remains of a bunch of flowers, and that was rotten, too, and the posy stank in my nose like the corpse of some little beast.

  “I had to take her in my arms, in both of them, and turn gently round so that I could put her down on the other side. The place was so narrow and pinched that as we turned, for a moment, I hugged her to my breast and couldn’t help it, with all my strength, old chap, as I should have hugged her once on a time if she’d have let me.

  “I’ve been half an hour cleaning myself from the touch of her and the smell that she breathed on me in spite of me and in spite of herself. Ah, lucky for me that I’m as done up as a wretched cart-horse!”

  He turns over on his belly, clenches his fists, and slumbers, with his face buried in the ground and his dubious dream of passion and putrefaction.

  XVIII

  A BOX OF MATCHES

  It is five o’clock in the evening. Three men are seen moving in the bottom of the gloomy trench. Around their extinguished fire in the dirty excavation they are frightful to see, black and sinister. Rain and negligence have put their fire out, and the four cooks are looking at the corpses of brands that are shrouded in ashes and the stumps of wood whence the flame has flown.

  Volpatte staggers up to the group and throws down the black mass he had on his shoulder. “I’ve pulled it out of a dug-out where it won’t show much.”

  “We have wood,” says Blaire, “but we’ve got to light it. Otherwise, how are we going to cook this cab-horse?”

  “It’s a fine piece,” wails a dark-faced man, “thin flank. In my belief, that’s the best bit of the beast, the flank.”

  “Fire?” Volpatte objects; “there are no more matches, no more anything.”

  “We must have fire,” growls Poupardin, whose indistinct bulk has the proportions of a bear as he rolls and sways in the dark depths of our cage.

  “No two ways about it, we’ve got to have it,” Pépin agrees. He is coming out of a dug-out like a sweep out of a chimney. His grey mass emerges and appears, like night upon evening.

  “Don’t worry, I shall get some,” declares Blaire in a concentrated tone of angry decision. He has not been cook long, and is keen to show himself quite equal to adverse conditions in the exercise of his functions.

  He spoke as Martin César used to speak when he was alive. His aim is to resemble the great legendary figure of the cook who always found ways for a fire, just as others, among the non-coms., would fain imitate Napoleon.

  “I shall go if it’s necessary and fetch every bit of wood there is at Battalion H.Q. I shall go and requisition the colonel’s matches—I shall go——”

  “Let’s go and forage.” Poupardin leads the way. His face is like the bottom of a saucepan that the fire has gradually befouled. As it is cruelly cold, he is wrapped up all over. He wears a cape which is half goatskin and half sheepskin, half brown and half whitish, and this tw
ofold skin of tints geometrically cut makes him like some strange occult animal.

  Pépin has a cotton cap so soiled and so shiny with grease that it might be made of black silk. Volpatte, inside his Balaklava and his fleeces, resembles a walking tree-trunk. A square opening betrays a yellow face at the top of the thick and heavy bark of the mass he makes, which is bifurcated by a couple of legs.

  “Let’s look up the 10th. They’ve always got the needful. They’re on the Pylônes road, beyond the Boyau-Neuf.”

  The four alarming objects get under way, cloud-shape, in the trench that unwinds itself sinuously before them like a blind alley, unsafe, unlighted, and unpaved. It is uninhabited, too, in this part, being a gangway between the second lines and the first lines.

  In the dusty twilight two Moroccans meet the fire-questing cooks. One has the skin of a black boot and the other of a yellow shoe. Hope gleams in the depths of the cooks’ hearts.

  “Matches, boys?”

  “Napoo,” replies the black one, and his smile reveals his long crockery-like teeth in his cigar-coloured mouth of moroccan leather.

  In his turn the yellow one advances and asks, “Tobacco? A bit of tobacco?” And he holds out his greenish sleeve and his great hard paw, in which the cracks are full of brown dirt, and the nails purplish.

  Pépin growls, rummages in his clothes, and pulls out a pinch of tobacco, mixed with dust, which he hands to the sharpshooter.

  A little farther they meet a sentry who is half asleep—in the middle of the evening—on a heap of loose earth. The drowsy soldier says, “It’s to the right, and then again to the right, and then straight forward. Don’t go wrong about it.”

  They march—for a long time. “We must have come a long way,” says Volpatte, after half an hour of fruitless paces and encloistered loneliness.

  “I say, we’re going downhill a hell of a lot, don’t you think?” asks Blaire.

  “Don’t worry, old duffer,” scoffs Pépin, “but if you’ve got cold feet you can leave us to it.”

  Still they tramp on in the falling night. The ever-empty trench—a desert of terrible length—has taken a shabby and singular appearance. The parapets are in ruins; earthslides have made the ground undulate in hillocks.

  An indefinite uneasiness lays hold of the four huge fire-hunters, and increases as night overwhelms them in this monstrous road.

  Pépin, who is leading just now, stands fast and holds up his hand as a signal to halt. “Footsteps,” they say in a sobered tone.

  Then, and in the heart of them, they are afraid. It was a mistake for them all to leave their shelter for so long. They are to blame. And one never knows.

  “Get in there, quick, quick!” says Pépin, pointing to a right-angled cranny on the ground level.

  By the test of a hand, the rectangular shadow is proved to be the entry to a funk-hole. They crawl in singly; and the last one, impatient, pushes the others; they fall flat as a carpet, willy-nilly, in the dense darkness of the hole.

  A sound of steps and of voices becomes distinct and draws nearer. From the mass of the four men who tightly bung up the burrow, tentative hands are put out at a venture. All at once Pépin murmurs in a stifled voice, “What’s this?”

  “What?” ask the others, pressed and wedged against him.

  “Clips!” says Pépin under his breath, “Boche cartridge-clips on the shelf! We’re in the Boche trench!”

  “Let’s hop it.” Three men make a jump to get out.

  “Look out, by God! Don’t stir!—footsteps——”

  They hear some one walking, with the quick step of a solitary man. They keep still and hold their breath. With their eyes fixed on the ground level, they see the darkness moving on the right, and then a shadow with legs detaches itself, approaches, and passes. The shadow assumes an outline. It is topped by a helmet covered with a cloth and rising to a point. There is no other sound than that of his passing feet.

  Hardly has the German gone by when the four cooks, with no concerted plan and with a single movement, burst forth, jostling each other, run like madmen, and hurl themselves on him.

  “Kamerad, gentlemen!” he says.

  But the blade of a knife gleams and disappears. The man collapses as if he would plunge into the ground. Pépin seizes the helmet as the Boche is falling and keeps it in his hand.

  “Let’s leg it,” growls the voice of Poupardin.

  “Got to search him first!”

  They lift him and turn him over, and set the soft, damp and warm body up again. Suddenly he coughs.

  The four… hurl themselves upon him.

  “He isn’t dead!”—“Yes, he is dead; that’s the air.”

  They shake him by the pockets; with hasty breathing the four black men stoop over their task. “The helmet’s mine,” says Pépin. “It was me that knifed him, I want the helmet.”

  They tear from the body its pocket-book of still warm papers, its field-glass, purse, and leggings.

  “Matches!” shouts Blaire, shaking a box, “he’s got some!”

  “Ah, the fool that you are!” hisses Volpatte.

  “Now let’s be off like hell.” They pile the body in a corner and break into a run, prey to a sort of panic, and regardless of the row their disordered flight makes.

  “It’s this way!—This way!—Hurry, lads—for all you’re worth!”

  Without speaking they dash across the maze of the strangely empty trench that seems to have no end.

  “My wind’s gone,” says Blaire, “I’m——” He staggers and stops.

  “Come on, buck up, old chap,” gasps Pépin, hoarse and breathless. He takes him by the sleeve and drags him forward like a stubborn shaft-horse.

  “We’re right!” says Poupardin suddenly. “Yes, I remember that tree. It’s the Pylônes road!”

  “Ah!” wails Blaire, whose breathing is shaking him like an engine. He throws himself forward with a last impulse—and sits down on the ground.

  “Halt!” cries a sentry—“Good Lord!” he stammers as he sees the four poilus. “Where the—where are you coming from, that way?”

  They laugh, jump about like puppets, full-blooded and streaming with perspiration, blacker than ever in the night. The German officer’s helmet is gleaming in the hands of Pépin. “Oh, Christ!” murmurs the sentry, with gaping mouth, “but what’s been up?”

  An exuberant reaction excites and bewitches them. All talk at once. In haste and confusion they act again the drama which hardly yet they realise is over. They had gone wrong when they left the sleepy sentry and had taken the International Trench, of which a part is ours and another part German. Between the French and German sections there is no barricade or division. There is merely a sort of neutral zone, at the two ends of which sentries watch ceaselessly. No doubt the German watcher was not at his post, or likely he hid himself when he saw the four shadows, or perhaps he doubled back and had not time to bring up reinforcements. Or perhaps, too, the German officer had strayed too far ahead in the neutral zone. In short, one understands what happened without understanding it.

  “The funny part of it,” says Pépin, “is that we knew all about that, and never thought to be careful about it when we set off.”

  “We were looking for matches,” says Volpatte.

  “And we’ve got some!” cries Pépin. “You’ve not lost the flamers, old broomstick?”

  “No damned fear!” says Blaire; “Boche matches are better stuff than ours. Besides, they’re all we’ve got to light our fire! Lose my box? Let any one try to pinch it off me!”

  “We’re behind time—the soup-water’ll be freezing. Hurry up, so far. Afterwards there’ll be a good yarn to tell in the sewer where the boys are, about what we did to the Boches.”

  XIX

  BOMBARDMENT

  We are in the flat country, a vast mistiness, but above it is dark blue. The end of the night is marked by a little falling snow which powders our shoulders and the folds in our sleeves. We are marching in fours, hooded. We seem in
the turbid twilight to be the wandering survivors of one Northern district who are trekking to another.

  We have followed a road and have crossed the ruins of Ablain-Saint-Nazaire. We have had confused glimpses of its whitish heaps of houses and the dim spider-webs of its suspended roofs. The village is so long that although full night buried us in it we saw its last buildings beginning to pale in the frost of dawn. Through the grating of a cellar on the edge of this petrified ocean’s waves, we made out the fire kept going by the custodians of the dead town. We have paddled in swampy fields, lost ourselves in silent places where the mud seized us by the feet, we have dubiously regained our balance and our bearings again on another road, the one which leads from Carency to Souchez. The tall bordering poplars are shivered and their trunks mangled; in one place the road is an enormous colonnade of trees destroyed. Then, marching with us on both sides, we see through the shadows ghostly dwarfs of trees, wide-cloven like spreading palms; botched and jumbled into round blocks or long strips; doubled upon themselves, as if they knelt. From time to time our march is disordered and jostled by the yielding of a swamp. The road becomes a marsh which we cross on our heels, while our feet make the sound of sculling. Planks have been laid in it here and there. Where they have so far sunk in the mud as to proffer their edges to us we slip on them. Sometimes there is enough water to float them, and then under the weight of a man they splash and go under, and the man stumbles or falls, with frenzied imprecations.

  It must be five o’clock. The stark and affrighting scene unfolds itself to our eyes, but it is still encircled by a great fantastic ring of mist and of darkness. We go on and on without pause, and come to a place where we can make out a dark hillock, at the foot of which there seems to be some lively movement of human beings.

  “Advance by twos,” says the leader of the detachment. “Let each team of two take alternately a plank and a hurdle.” We load ourselves up. One of the two in each couple assumes the rifle of his partner as well as his own. The other with difficulty shifts and pulls out from the pile a long plank, muddy and slippery, which weighs full eighty pounds, or a hurdle of leafy branches as big as a door, which he can only just keep on his back as he bends forward with his hands aloft and grips its edges.