Under Fire

by Barbusse, Henri; Wray, William Fitzwater;

  “I don’t know him,” says Joseph, who has come up very slowly and speaks with difficulty.

  “I recognise him,” replies Volpatte.

  “That bearded man?” says Joseph.

  “He has no beard. Look——” Stooping, Volpatte passes the end of his stick under the chin of the corpse and breaks off a sort of slab of mud in which the head was set, a slab that looked like a beard. Then he picks up the dead man’s helmet and puts it on his head, and for a moment holds before the eyes the round handles of his famous scissors so as to imitate spectacles.

  “Ah!” we all cried together, “it’s Cocon!”

  When you hear of or see the death of one of those who fought by your side and lived exactly the same life, you receive a direct blow in the flesh before even understanding. It is truly as if you heard of your own destruction. It is only later that you begin to mourn.

  We look at the hideous head that is murder’s jest, the murdered head already and cruelly effacing our memories of Cocon. Another comrade less. We remain there around him, afraid.

  “He was——”

  We should like to speak a little, but do not know what to say that would be sufficiently serious or telling or true.

  “Come,” says Joseph, with an effort, wholly engrossed by his own severe suffering, “I haven’t strength enough to be stopping all the time.”

  We leave poor Cocon, the ex-statistician, with a last look, a look too short and almost vacant.

  “One cannot imagine——” says Volpatte.

  No, one cannot imagine. All these disappearances at once surpass the imagination. There are not enough survivors now. But we have a vague idea of the grandeur of these dead. They have given all; by degrees they have given all their strength, and finally they have given themselves, en bloc. They have outpaced life, and their effort has something of superhuman perfection.

  “Look, he’s just been wounded, that one, and yet——” A fresh wound is moistening the neck of a body that is almost a skeleton.

  “It’s a rat,” says Volpatte. “The stiffs are old ones, but the rats talk to ’em. You see some rats laid out—poisoned, p’raps—near every body or under it. Look, this poor old chap shall show us his.” He lifts up the foot of the collapsed remains and reveals two dead rats.

  “I should like to find Farfadet again,” says Volpatte. “I told him to wait just when we started running and he clipped hold of me. Poor lad, let’s hope he waited!”

  So he goes to and fro, attracted towards the dead by a strange curiosity; and these, indifferent, bandy him about from one to another, and at each step he looks on the ground. Suddenly he utters a cry of distress. With his hand he beckons us as he kneels to a dead man.

  Bertrand!

  Acute emotion grips us. He has been killed; he, too, like the rest, he who most towered over us by his energy and intelligence. He has got himself killed, at last, through always doing his duty. He has at last found death where indeed it was.

  We look at him, and then turn away from the sight and look upon each other.

  The shock of his loss is aggravated by the spectacle that his remains present, for they are abominable to see. Death has bestowed a grotesque look and attitude on the man who was so comely and so tranquil. With his hair scattered over his eyes, his moustache trailing in his mouth, and his face swollen—he is laughing. One eye is widely open, the other shut, and the tongue lolls out. His arms are outstretched in the form of a cross; the hands open the fingers separated. The right leg is straight. The left, whence flowed the hemorrhage that made him die, has been broken by a shell; it is twisted into a circle, dislocated, slack, invertebrate. A mournful irony has invested the last writhe of his agony with the appearance of a clown’s antic.

  We arrange him, and lay him straight, and tranquillise the horrible mask. Volpatte has taken a pocket-book from him and places it reverently among his own papers, by the side of the portrait of his own wife and children. That done, he shakes his head: “He—he was truly a good sort, old man. When he said anything, that was the proof that it was true. Ah, we needed him badly!”

  “Yes,” I said, “we had need of him always.”

  “Ah, la, la!” murmurs Volpatte, and he trembles. Joseph repeats in a weak voice, “Ah, Christ! Ah, Christ!”

  The plateau is as covered with people as a public square; fatigue-parties in detachments, and isolated men. Here and there, the stretcher-bearers are beginning (patiently and in a small way) their huge and endless task.

  Volpatte leaves us, to return to the trench and announce our new losses, and above all the great gap left by Bertrand. He says to Joseph, “We shan’t lose sight of you, eh? Write us a line now and again—just, ‘All goes well; signed, Camembert,’ eh?” He disappears among the people who cross each other’s path in the expanse now completely possessed by a mournful and endless rain.

  Joseph leans on me and we go down into the ravine. The slope by which we descend is known as the Zouaves’ Cells. In the May attack, the Zouaves had all begun to dig themselves individual shelters, and round these they were exterminated. Some are still seen, prone on the brim of an incipient hole, with their trenching-tools in their fleshless hands or looking at them with the cavernous hollows where shrivel the entrails of eyes. The ground is so full of dead that the earth-falls uncover places bristling with feet, with half-clothed skeletons, and with ossuaries of skulls placed side by side on the steep slope like porcelain globe-jars.

  In the ground here there are several strata of dead, and in many places the delving of the shells has brought out the oldest and set them out in display on the top of the new ones. The bottom of the ravine is completely carpeted with debris of weapons, clothing, and implements. One tramples shell fragments, old iron, loaves and even biscuits that have fallen from knapsacks and are not yet dissolved by the rain. Mess-tins, pots of jam, and helmets are pierced and riddled by bullets—the scrapings and scum of a hell-broth; and the dislocated posts that survive are stippled with holes.

  The trenches that run in this valley have a look of earthquake crevasses, and as if whole tombs of uncouth things had been emptied on the ruins of the earth’s convulsion. And there, where no dead are, the very earth is cadaverous.

  We follow the International Trench, still fluttering with rainbow rags—a shapeless trench which the confusion of torn stuffs invests with an air of a trench assassinated—to a place where the irregular and winding ditch forms an elbow. All the way along, as far as an earthwork barricade that blocks the way, German corpses are entangled and knotted as in a torrent of the damned, some of them emerging from muddy caves in the middle of a bewildering conglomerate of beams, ropes, creepers of iron, gabions, hurdles, and bullet-screens. At the barrier itself, one corpse stands upright, fixed in the other dead, while another, planted in the same spot, stands obliquely in the dismal place, the whole arrangement looking like part of a big wheel embedded in the mud, or the shattered sail of a windmill. And over all this, this catastrophe of flesh and filthiness, religious images are broadcast, postcards, pious pamphlets, leaflets on which prayers are written in Gothic lettering—they have scattered themselves in waves from gutted clothing. The paper words seem to bedeck with blossoms these shores of pestilence, this Valley of Death, with their countless pallors of barren lies.

  I seek a solid footway to guide Joseph in—his wound is paralysing him by degrees, and he feels it extending throughout his body. While I support him, and he is looking at nothing, I look upon the ghastly upheaval through which we are escaping.

  A German sergeant-major is seated, here where we tread, supported by the riven timbers that once formed the shelter of a sentry. There is a little hole under his eye; the thrust of a bayonet has nailed him to the planks through his face. In front of him, also sitting, with his elbows on his knees and his fists on his chin, there is a man who has all the top of his skull taken off like a boiled egg. Beside them—an awful watchman!—the half of a man is standing, a man sliced in two from scalp to pelvis, upri
ght against the earthen wall. I do not know where the other half of this human post may be, whose eye hangs down above and whose bluish viscera curl spirally round his leg.

  Down below, one’s foot detaches itself from a matrix of blood, stiffened with French bayonets that have been bent, doubled, and twisted by the force of the blow.

  Through a gap in the mutilated wall one espies a recess where the bodies of soldiers of the Prussian Guard seem to kneel in the pose of suppliants, run through from behind, with bloodstained gaps, impaled. Out of this group they have pulled to its edge a huge Senegalese tirailleur, who, petrified in the contorted position where death seized him, leans upon empty air and holds fast by his feet, staring at his two severed wrists. No doubt a bomb had exploded in his hands; and since all his face is alive, he seems to be gnawing maggots.

  “It was here,” says a passing soldier of an Alpine regiment, “that they did the white flag trick; and as they’d got Africans to deal with, you bet they got it hot!—Look, there’s the white flag itself that these dunghills used.”

  He seizes and shakes a long handle that lies there. A square of white stuff is nailed to it, and unfolds itself innocently.

  A procession of shovel-bearers advances along the battered trench. They have an order to shovel the earth into the relics of the trenches, to stop everything up, so that the bodies may be buried on the spot. Thus these helmeted warriors will here perform the work of the redresser of wrongs as they restore their full shape to the fields and make level the cavities already half filled by cargoes of invaders.

  Some one calls me from the other side of the trench, a man sitting on the ground and leaning against a stake. It is Papa Ramure. Through his unbuttoned greatcoat and jacket I see bandages around his chest. “The ambulance men have been to tuck me up,” he says, in a weak and stertorous voice, “but they can’t take me away from here before evening. But I know all right that I’m petering out every minute.”

  He jerks his head. “Stay a bit,” he asks me. He is much moved, and the tears are flowing. He offers his hand and holds mine. He wants to say a lot of things to me and almost to make confession. “I was a straight man before the war,” he says, with trickling tears; “I worked from morning to night to feed my little lot. And then I came here to kill Boches. And now, I’ve got killed. Listen, listen, listen, don’t go away, listen to me——”

  “I must take Joseph back—he’s at the end of his strength. I’ll come back afterwards.”

  Ramure lifted his streaming eyes to the wounded man. “Not only living, but wounded! Escaped from death! Ah, some women and children are lucky! All right, take him, take him, and come back—I hope I shall be waiting for you——”

  Now we must climb the other slope of the ravine, and we enter the deformed and maltreated ditch of the old Trench 97.

  Suddenly a frantic whistling tears the air and there is a shower of shrapnel above us. Meteorites flash and scatter in fearful flight in the heart of the yellow clouds. Revolving missiles rush through the heavens to break and burn upon the hill, to ransack it and exhume the old bones of men; and the thundering flames multiply themselves along an even line.

  It is the barrage fire beginning again. Like children we cry, “Enough, enough!”

  In this fury of fatal engines, this mechanical cataclysm that pursues us through space, there is something that surpasses human strength and will, something supernatural. Joseph, standing with his hand in mine, looks over his shoulder at the storm of rending explosions. He bows his head like an animal trapped and bewildered: “What, again! Always, then!” he growls; “after all we’ve done and all we’ve seen—and now it begins again! No, no!”

  He falls on his knees, gasps for breath, and throws a futile look of full hatred before him and behind him. He repeats, “It’s never finished, never!”

  I take him by the arm and raise him. “Come; it’ll be finished for you.”

  We must dally there awhile before climbing, so I will go and bring back Ramure in extremis, who is waiting for me. But Joseph clings to me, and then I notice a movement of men about the spot where I left the dying man. I can guess what it means; it is no longer worth while to go there.

  The ground of the ravine where we two are closely clustered to abide the tempest is quivering, and at each shot we feel the deep simoom of the shells. But in the hole where we are there is scarcely any risk of being hit. At the first lull, some of the men who were also waiting detach themselves and begin to go up; stretcher-bearers redouble their huge efforts to carry a body and climb, making one think of stubborn ants pushed back by successive grains of sand; wounded men and liaison men move again.

  “Let’s go on,” says Joseph, with sagging shoulders, as he measures the hill with his eye—the last stage of his Gethsemane.

  There are trees here; a row of excoriated willow trunks, some of wide countenance, and others hollowed and yawning, like coffins on end. The scene through which we are struggling is rent and convulsed, with hills and chasms, and with such sombre swellings as if all the clouds of storm had rolled down here. Above the tortured earth, this stampeded file of trunks stands forth against a striped brown sky, milky in places and obscurely sparkling—a sky of agate.

  Across the entry to Trench 97 a felled oak twists his great body, and a corpse stops up the trench. Its head and legs are buried in the ground. The dirty water that trickles in the trench has covered it with a sandy glaze, and through the moist deposit the chest and belly bulge forth clad in a shirt. We stride over the frigid remains, slimy and pale, that suggest the belly of a stranded crocodile; and it is difficult to do so, by reason of the soft and slippery ground. We have to plunge our hands up to the wrists in the mud of the wall.

  At this moment an infernal whistle falls on us and we bend like bushes. The shell bursts in the air in front of us, deafening and blinding, and buries us under a horribly sibilant mountain of dark smoke. A climbing soldier has churned the air with his arms and disappeared, hurled into some hole. Shouts have gone up and fallen again like rubbish. While we are looking, through the great black veil that the wind tears from the ground and dismisses into the sky, at the bearers who are putting down a stretcher, running to the place of the explosion and picking up something inert—I recall the unforgettable scene when my brother-in-arms, Poterloo, whose heart was so full of hope, vanished with his arm ouststretched in the flame of a shell.

  We arrive at last on the summit, which is marked as with a signal by a wounded and frightful man. He is upright in the wind, shaken but upright, enrooted there. In his uplifted and wind-tossed cape we see a yelling and convulsive face. We pass by him, and he is a sort of screaming tree.

  We have arrived at our old first line, the one from which we set off for the attack. We sit down on a firing-step with our backs to the holes cut for our exodus at the last minute by the sappers. Euterpe, the cyclist, passes and gives us good-day. Then he turns in his tracks and draws from the cuff of his coat-sleeve an envelope, whose protruding edge had conferred a white stripe on him.

  “It’s you, isn’t it,” he says to me, “that takes Biquet’s letters that’s dead?”—“Yes.”—“Here’s a returned one; the address has hopped it.”

  The envelope was exposed, no doubt, to rain on the top of a packet, and the address is no longer legible among the violet mottlings on the dried and frayed paper. Alone there survives in a corner the address of the sender. I pull the letter out gently—“My dear mother”—Ah, I remember! Biquet, now lying in the open air in the very trench where we are halted, wrote that letter not long ago in our quarters at Gauchin-l’Abbé, one flaming and splendid afternoon, in reply to a letter from his mother, whose fears for him had proved groundless and made him laugh—“You think I’m in the cold and rain and danger. Not at all; on the contrary, all that’s finished. It’s hot, we’re sweating, and we’ve nothing to do only to stroll about in the sunshine. I laughed to read your letter——”

  I return to the frail and damaged envelope the letter which, if
chance had not averted this new irony, would have been read by the old peasant woman at the moment when the body of her son is a wet nothing in the cold and the storm, a nothing that trickles and flows like a dark spring on the wall of the trench.

  Joseph has leaned his head backwards. His eyes close for a moment, his mouth half opens, and his breathing is fitful.

  “Courage!” I say to him, and he opens his eyes again.

  “Ah!” he replies, “it isn’t to me you should say that. Look at those chaps, there, they’re going back yonder, and you too, you’re going back. It all has to go on for you others. Ah, one must be really strong to go on, to go on!”

  XXI

  THE REFUGE

  From this point onwards we are in sight of the enemy observation-posts, and must no longer leave the communication trenches. First we follow that of the Pylônes road. The trench is cut along the side of the road, and the road itself is wiped out; so are its trees. Half of it, all the way along, has been chewed and swallowed by the trench; and what is left of it has been invaded by the earth and the grass, and mingled with the fields by the long, long days. At some places in the trench—there, where a sandbag has burst and left only a muddy cell—you may see again on the level of your eyes the stony ballast of the ex-road, cut to the quick, or even the roots of the bordering trees that have been felled to embody in the trench wall. The latter is as slashed and uneven as if it were a wave of earth and rubbish and dark scum that the immense plain has spat out and pushed against the ledge of the trench.

  We arrive at a junction of trenches, and on the top of the maltreated hillock which is outlined on the cloudy greyness, a mournful signboard stands crookedly in the wind. The trench system becomes still more cramped and close, and the men who are flowing towards the clearing-station from all parts of the sector multiply and throng in the deep-dug ways.