Three Soldiers

by John Dos Passos

  “Fill yer pockets with ’em,” whispered Judkins.

  “They might ketch us.”

  “Ketch us, hell. We’ll be goin’ into the offensive in a day or two.”

  “Ah sure would like to git some aigs.”

  Chrisfield pushed open the door of one of the barns. A smell of creamy milk and cheeses filled his nostrils.

  “Come here,” he whispered. “Want some cheese?”

  A lot of cheeses ranged on a board shone silver in the moonlight that came in through the open door.

  “Hell, no, ain’t fit te eat,” said Judkins, pushing his heavy fist into one of the new soft cheeses.

  “Doan do that.”

  “Well, ain’t we saved ’em from the Huns?”

  “But, hell.”

  “War ain’t no picnic, that’s all,” said Judkins.

  In the next door they found chickens roosting in a small room with straw on the floor. The chickens ruffled their feathers and made a muffled squeaking as they slept.

  Suddenly there was a loud squawking and all the chickens were cackling with terror.

  “Beat it,” muttered Judkins, running for the gate of the farmyard.

  There were shrill cries of women in the house. A voice shrieking, “C’est les Boches, C’est les Boches,” rose above the cackling of chickens and the clamor of guinea-hens. As they ran, they heard the rasping cries of a woman in hysterics, rending the rustling autumn night.

  “God damn,” said Judkins breathless, “they ain’t got no right, those frogs ain’t, to carry on like that.”

  They ducked into the orchard again. Above the squawking of the chicken Judkins still held, swinging it by its legs, Chrisfield could hear the woman’s voice shrieking. Judkins dexterously wrung the chicken’s neck. Crushing the apples underfoot they strode fast through the orchard. The voice faded into the distance until it could not be heard above the sound of the guns.

  “Gee, Ah’m kind o’ cut up ’bout that lady,” said Chrisfield.

  “Well, ain’t we saved her from the Huns?”

  “Andy don’t think so.”

  “Well, if you want to know what I think about that guy Andy. … I don’t think much of him. I think he’s yaller, that’s all,” said Judkins.

  “No, he ain’t.”

  “I heard the lootenant say so. He’s a goddam yeller dawg.”

  Chrisfield swore sullenly.

  “Well, you juss wait ’n see. I tell you, buddy, war ain’t no picnic.”

  “What the hell are we goin’ to do with that chicken?” said Judkins.

  “You remember what happened to Eddie White?”

  “Hell, we’d better leave it here.”

  Judkins swung the chicken by its neck round his head and threw it as hard as he could into the bushes.

  They were walking along the road between chestnut trees that led to their village. It was dark except for irregular patches of bright moonlight in the centre that lay white as milk among the indentated shadows of the leaves. All about them rose a cool scent of woods, of ripe fruits and of decaying leaves, of the ferment of the autumn countryside.

  The lieutenant sat at a table in the sun, in the village street outside the company office. In front of him sparkled piles of money and daintily tinted banknotes. Beside him stood Sergeant Higgins with an air of solemnity and the second sergeant and the corporal. The men stood in line and as each came before the table he saluted with deference, received his money and walked away with a self-conscious air. A few villagers looked on from the small windows with grey frames of their rambling whitewashed houses. In the ruddy sunshine the line of men cast an irregular blue-violet shadow, like a gigantic centipede, on the yellow gravel road.

  From the table by the window of the café of “Nos Braves Poilus” where Small and Judkins and Chrisfield had established themselves with their pay crisp in their pockets, they could see the little front garden of the house across the road, where, behind a hedge of orange marigolds, Andrews sat on the doorstep talking to an old woman hunched on a low chair in the sun just inside the door, who leant her small white head over towards his yellow one.

  “There ye are,” said Judkins in a solemn tone. “He don’t even go after his pay. That guy thinks he’s the whole show, he does.”

  Chrisfield flushed, but said nothing.

  “He don’t do nothing all day long but talk to that ole lady,” said Small with a grin. “Guess she reminds him of his mother, or somethin’.”

  “He always does go round with the frogs all he can. Looks to me like he’d rather have a drink with a frog than with an American.”

  “Reckon he wants to learn their language,” said Small.

  “He won’t never come to much in this army, that’s what I’m telling yer,” said Judkins.

  The little houses across the way had flushed red with the sunset. Andrews got to his feet slowly and languidly and held out his hand to the old woman. She stood up, a small tottering figure in a black silk shawl. He leaned over towards her and she kissed both his cheeks vigorously several times. He walked down the road towards the billets, with his fatigue cap in his hand, looking at the ground.

  “He’s got a flower behind his ear, like a cigarette,” said Judkins, with a disgusted snort.

  “Well, I guess we’d better go,” said Small. “We got to be in quarters at six.”

  They were silent a moment. In the distance the guns kept up a continual tomtom sound.

  “Guess we’ll be in that soon,” said Small.

  Chrisfield felt a chill go down his spine. He moistened his lips with his tongue.

  “Guess it’s hell out there,” said Judkins. “War ain’t no picnic.”

  “Ah doan give a hoot in hell,” said Chrisfield.

  The men were lined up in the village street with their packs on, waiting for the order to move. Thin wreaths of white mist still lingered in the trees and over the little garden plots. The sun had not yet risen, but ranks of clouds in the pale blue sky overhead were brilliant with crimson and gold. The men stood in an irregular line, bent over a little by the weight of their equipment, moving back and forth, stamping their feet and beating their arms together, their noses and ears red from the chill of the morning. The haze of their breath rose above their heads.

  Down the misty road a drab-colored limousine appeared, running slowly. It stopped in front of the line of men. The lieutenant came hurriedly out of the house opposite, drawing on a pair of gloves. The men standing in line looked curiously at the limousine. They could see that two of the tires were flat and that the glass was broken. There were scratches on the drab paint and in the door three long jagged holes that obliterated the number. A little murmur went down the line of men. The door opened with difficulty, and a major in a light buff-colored coat stumbled out. One arm, wrapped in bloody bandages, was held in a sling made of a handkerchief. His face was white and drawn into a stiff mask with pain. The lieutenant saluted.

  “For God’s sake where’s a repair station?” he asked in a loud shaky voice.

  “There’s none in this village, Major.”

  “Where the hell is there one?”

  “I don’t know,” said the lieutenant in a humble tone.

  “Why the hell don’t you know? This organization’s rotten, no good. … Major Stanley’s just been killed. What the hell’s the name of this village?”

  “Thiocourt.”

  “Where the hell’s that?”

  The chauffeur had leaned out. He had no cap and his hair was full of dust.

  “You see, Lootenant, we wants to get to Châlons——”

  “Yes, that’s it. Châlons sur … Châlons-sur-Marne,” said the Major.

  “The billeting officer has a map,” said the lieutenant, “last house to the left.”

  “O let’s go there quick,” said the major. He fumbled with the fastening of the door.

  The lieutenant opened it for him.

  As he opened the door, the men nearest had a glimpse of the interio
r of the car. On the far side was a long object huddled in blankets, propped up on the seat.

  Before he got in the major leaned over and pulled a woollen rug out, holding it away from him with his one good arm. The car moved off slowly, and all down the village street the men, lined up waiting for orders, stared curiously at the three jagged holes in the door.

  The lieutenant looked at the rug that lay in the middle of the road. He touched it with his foot. It was soaked with blood that in places had dried into clots.

  The lieutenant and the men of his company looked at it in silence. The sun had risen and shone on the roofs of the little whitewashed houses behind them. Far down the road a regiment had begun to move.

  V

  At the brow of the hill they rested. Chrisfield sat on the red clay bank and looked about him, his rifle between his knees. In front of him on the side of the road was a French burying ground, where the little wooden crosses, tilting in every direction, stood up against the sky, and the bead wreaths glistened in the warm sunlight. All down the road as far as he could see was a long drab worm, broken in places by strings of motor trucks, a drab worm that wriggled down the slope, through the roofless shell of the village and up into the shattered woods on the crest of the next hills. Chrisfield strained his eyes to see the hills beyond. They lay blue and very peaceful in the moon mist. The river glittered about the piers of the wrecked stone bridge, and disappeared between rows of yellow poplars. Somewhere in the valley a big gun fired. The shell shrieked into the distance, towards the blue, peaceful hills.

  Chrisfield’s regiment was moving again. The men, their feet slipping in the clayey mud, went downhill with long strides, the straps of their packs tugging at their shoulders.

  “Isn’t this great country?” said Andrews, who marched beside him.

  “Ah’d liever be at an O.T.C. like that bastard Anderson.”

  “Oh, to hell with that,” said Andrews. He still had a big faded orange marigold in one of the buttonholes of his soiled tunic. He walked with his nose in the air and his nostrils dilated, enjoying the tang of the autumnal sunlight.

  Chrisfield took the cigarette, that had gone out half-smoked, from his mouth and spat savagely at the heels of the man in front of him.

  “This ain’t no life for a white man,” he said.

  “I’d rather be this than … than that,” said Andrews bitterly. He tossed his head in the direction of a staff car full of officers that was stalled at the side of the road. They were drinking something out of a thermos bottle that they passed round with the air of Sunday excursionists. They waved, with a conscious relaxation of discipline, at the men as they passed. One, a little lieutenant with a black mustache with pointed ends, kept crying: “They’re running like rabbits, fellers; they’re running like rabbits.” A wavering half-cheer would come from the column now and then where it was passing the staff car.

  The big gun fired again. Chrisfield was near it this time and felt the concussion like a blow in the head.

  “Some baby,” said the man behind him.

  Someone was singing:

  “Good morning, mister Zip Zip Zip,

  With your hair cut just as short as,

  With your hair cut just as short as,

  With your hair cut just as short as mi-ine.”

  Everybody took it up. Their steps rang in rhythm in the paved street that zigzagged among the smashed houses of the village. Ambulances passed them, big trucks full of huddled men with grey faces, from which came a smell of sweat and blood and carbolic.

  Somebody went on:

  “O ashes to ashes

  An’ dust to dust …”

  “Can that,” cried Judkins, “it ain’t lucky.”

  But everybody had taken up the song. Chrisfield noticed that Andrews’s eyes were sparkling. “If he ain’t the damnedest,” he thought to himself. But he shouted at the top of his lungs with the rest:

  “O ashes to ashes

  An’ dust to dust;

  If the gasbombs don’t get yer

  The eighty-eights must.”

  They were climbing the hill again. The road was worn into deep ruts and there were many shell holes, full of muddy water, into which their feet slipped. The woods began, a shattered skeleton of woods, full of old artillery emplacements and dugouts, where torn camouflage fluttered from splintered trees. The ground and the road were littered with tin cans and brass shell-cases. Along both sides of the road the trees were festooned, as with creepers, with strand upon strand of telephone wire.

  When next they stopped Chrisfield was on the crest of the hill beside a battery of French seventy-fives. He looked curiously at the Frenchmen, who sat about on logs in their pink and blue shirt-sleeves playing cards and smoking. Their gestures irritated him.

  “Say, tell ’em we’re advancin’,” he said to Andrews.

  “Are we?” said Andrews. “All right. … Dites-donc, les Boches cour-rent-ils comme des lapins?” he shouted.

  One of the men turned his head and laughed.

  “He says they’ve been running that way for four years,” said Andrews. He slipped his pack off, sat down on it, and fished for a cigarette. Chrisfield took off his helmet and rubbed a muddy hand through his hair. He took a bite of chewing tobacco and sat with his hands clasped over his knees.

  “How the hell long are we going to wait this time?” he muttered. The shadows of the tangled and splintered trees crept slowly across the road. The French artillerymen were eating their supper. A long train of motor trucks growled past, splashing mud over the men crowded along the sides of the road. The sun set, and a lot of batteries down in the valley began firing, making it impossible to talk. The air was full of a shrieking and droning of shells overhead. The Frenchmen stretched and yawned and went down into their dugout. Chrisfield watched them enviously. The stars were beginning to come out in the green sky behind the tall lacerated trees. Chrisfield’s legs ached with cold. He began to get crazily anxious for something to happen, for something to happen, but the column waited, without moving, through the gathering darkness. Chrisfield chewed steadily, trying to think of nothing but the taste of the tobacco in his mouth.

  The column was moving again; as they reached the brow of another hill Chrisfield felt a curious sweetish smell that made his nostrils smart. “Gas,” he thought, full of panic, and put his hand to the mask that hung round his neck. But he did not want to be the first to put it on. No order came. He marched on, cursing the sergeant and the lieutenant. But maybe they’d been killed by it. He had a vision of the whole regiment sinking down in the road suddenly, overcome by the gas.

  “Smell anythin’, Andy?” he whispered cautiously.

  “I can smell a combination of dead horses and tuberoses and banana oil and the ice cream we used to have at college and dead rats in the garret, but what the hell do we care now?” said Andrews, giggling. “This is the damnedest fool business ever. …”

  “He’s crazy,” muttered Chrisfield to himself. He looked at the stars in the black sky that seemed to be going along with the column on its march. Or was it that they and the stars were standing still while the trees moved away from them, waving their skinny shattered arms? He could hardly hear the tramp of feet on the road, so loud was the pandemonium of the guns ahead and behind. Every now and then a rocket would burst in front of them and its red and green lights would mingle for a moment with the stars. But it was only overhead he could see the stars. Everywhere else white and red glows rose and fell as if the horizon were on fire.

  As they started down the slope, the trees suddenly broke away and they saw the valley between them full of the glare of guns and the white light of star shells. It was like looking into a stove full of glowing embers. The hillside that sloped away from them was full of crashing detonations and yellow tongues of flame. In a battery near the road, that seemed to crush their skulls each time a gun fired, they could see the dark forms of the artillerymen silhouetted in fantastic attitudes against the intermittent red glare. St
unned and blinded, they kept on marching down the road. It seemed to Chrisfield that they were going to step any minute into the flaring muzzle of a gun.

  At the foot of the hill, beside a little grove of uninjured trees, they stopped again. A new train of trucks was crawling past them, huge blots in the darkness. There were no batteries near, so they could hear the grinding roar of the gears as the trucks went along the uneven road, plunging in and out of shellholes.

  Chrisfield lay down in the dry ditch, full of bracken, and dozed with his head on his pack. All about him were stretched other men. Someone was resting his head on Chrisfield’s thigh. The noise had subsided a little. Through his doze he could hear men’s voices talking in low crushed tones, as if they were afraid of speaking aloud. On the road the truck-drivers kept calling out to each other shrilly, raspingly. The motors stopped running one after another, making almost a silence, during which Chrisfield fell asleep.

  Something woke him. He was stiff with cold and terrified. For a moment he thought he had been left alone, that the company had gone on, for there was no one touching him.

  Overhead was a droning as of gigantic mosquitoes, growing fast to a loud throbbing. He heard the lieutenant’s voice calling shrilly:

  “Sergeant Higgins, Sergeant Higgins!”

  The lieutenant stood out suddenly black against a sheet of flame. Chrisfield could see his fatigue cap a little on one side and his trench coat, drawn in tight at the waist and sticking out stiffly at the knees. He was shaken by the explosion. Everything was black again. Chrisfield got to his feet, his ears ringing. The column was moving on. He heard moaning near him in the darkness. The tramp of feet and jingle of equipment drowned all other sound. He could feel his shoulders becoming raw under the tugging of the pack. Now and then the flare from aëro-plane bombs behind him showed up wrecked trucks on the side of the road. Somewhere a machine gun spluttered. But the column tramped on, weighed down by the packs, by the deadening exhaustion.