The Crew

by Joseph Kessel

  Nevertheless, Maury brought the captain up to speed on his service record. Jean went to mingle with the pilots, who kept their penetrating, malicious gazes fixed on the new officer and followed the conversation. Jean could easily decipher the savage animosity in their faces, which looked impervious to any attempts to disarm it.

  When Thélis led the officer cadet to the squadron’s office so he could deliver his report, a shadow fell on the field, but it was still thin enough for him to distinguish a tall silhouette lingering immobile, like an abandoned wreck.

  “What’s changed here?” Jean thought to himself as he entered the mess hall. Neuville was rapping his fingers against a windowpane, Marbot was nibbling on his usual pipe, while Deschamps, Doc, Reuillard and the observers Charensole and Baissier were debating the merits of two different models of planes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  Yet on noticing Maury alone in a corner, Jean understood that simply by virtue of having been excluded from the usual crowd, this new presence had disrupted the harmony.

  Jean took his place behind the bar and asked: “Who’s thirsty tonight?”

  Maury started to approach him, hesitated, then addressed the rest of the room:

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “would you like to baptize my new presence among you?”

  The phrase was too recherché, perhaps also too indirect?

  Herbillon perceived the hesitation among the others, and then Deschamps brusquely declared: “Thanks, I don’t drink.”

  The others reluctantly approached the bar, and all of a sudden Jean noticed Maury’s narrow lips furtively but definitively bend into such a disconsolate frown, that Jean knew the embarrassment Maury had caused was making him suffer inordinately.

  While preparing the drinks that had been ordered, Jean examined Maury. The small lines on his temples and his grey hair strongly marked the features of their new comrade, but he seemed especially weakened by an inner fatigue that appeared to make all his impulses powerless. When their gazes met, Maury’s didn’t shy away at all. Jean was the first to disengage, because Maury’s gentle eyes were too easily penetrating his inner being and all too effortlessly overcoming the defences one raises against outsiders.

  The alcohol that evening didn’t do much to enliven the atmosphere. The insipid conversations dragged on and everyone waited on Captain Thélis to dispel the awkwardness. When Thélis finally appeared with all his sparkling personality, armed with the good cheer that always elevated him in the company of his comrades, even Maury himself smiled with relief.

  He spontaneously asked: “So, how old are you, Captain?”

  His voice betrayed a mixture of admiration and a kind of painful homage. However, nothing could have displeased Thélis more than a stranger reminding him of what he thought was his Achilles heel: his youth. He curtly replied: “Few of us aviators ever make it to old age.”

  By the sudden way Maury hung his head and lowered his gaze, one would have thought he’d been dealt a terrible blow. Yet he then mechanically directed his gaze towards the other officers in the room. Thélis was telling the truth: the oldest there wasn’t even thirty years old. As though filled with shame, he touched his grey temples with his palm.

  Jean had already started reading the menu out loud, peppering it with jokes and unpretentious rhymes. The captain, whose mood fluctuated like a child’s, congratulated Jean on his efforts while laughing and affably motioned over to Maury to sit next to him, since he was the most senior officer there after him.

  Before the dinner began, the waiters placed eight sealed bottles on the table.

  “What’s all this madness?” Thélis asked.

  Seeing Jean’s embarrassment, he added: “Was this you?”

  “I took the liberty, Captain… to mark my first flight.”

  “Don’t apologize, old chap, that would take the biscuit.”

  “Quite right,” Marbot grumbled as he carefully uncorked the first bottle.

  He dipped his lips into the dark wine and sighed: “Pity it’s so expensive, I’d gladly drink it every day.”

  His sadness dissipated amidst the general laughter. Everyone cheerfully tucked into their meal. Maury felt a kind of primal brotherliness establish itself between him and his comrades, prompted by the warmth and the pleasures of the dinner table. The wine helped his greyish cheeks develop a little blush, and that faint glow helped dispel the distress in his eyes.

  Thélis praised the squadron for all the spirit and enthusiasm they’d shown that day, but Marbot exclaimed: “Oh leave us alone! You were the first to leave and the last to come back!”

  “He’s right, Captain,” Deschamps chimed in. “I don’t like you being out there when it gets foggy. I’d be shitting my pants in your place.”

  On that note, Maury curiously turned to look at Deschamps, giving the latter the occasion to reveal the fury he’d been concealing.

  “That’s right, I’m scared, you heard me,” he yelled. “Let’s wait and see until you’ve accomplished as much as I have before you start judging me.”

  There was a great discomfort among all the assembled officers.

  “Look,” Claude muttered, “I didn’t say anything at all.”

  Yet enraged by the reproach in everyone’s eyes and drunk on both the wine and his resentments, Deschamps completely disregarded the reserve the captain expected everyone to keep while at the table. “I just wanted to make sure I pointed it out. Truly brave men don’t think others are cowards.”

  Maury was frozen still. His lips trembled slightly at the corners. “I forbid you,” he commanded in a soft, but steady voice, “to address me in that manner.”

  “Oh, Mr Chief Pilot…” Deschamps said mockingly.

  A fist slammed down on the table loudly enough to make the windowpanes tremble and it completely silenced Deschamps. Captain Thélis stood up, having been lifted by such a wrath that everyone lowered their gaze in order to avoid his.

  “Enough!” he yelled. “I don’t want to hear any of these drunken quarrels. Deschamps, back to your room right now; you’re confined until the morning. And as for you, Maury, as for you…” He waited until the disfigured man was out of sight and then he added: “As for you, well, nothing. You were right.”

  Claude stood up. “Captain,” he said, “please allow me to withdraw. My trip here tired me out.”

  Thélis didn’t hold him back. He secretly wished Maury had asked him to punish his best pilot.

  Once the meal was over, Thélis, Neuville, Doc and Charensole went ahead with their daily game of bridge. Marbot began playing a game of solitaire. As for Baissier, he had a difficult monitoring mission ahead of him the next morning, and so he began to study some photographs.

  Herbillon would usually stand behind the captain so the latter could teach him the subtleties of the game, but Jean was distracted that evening, and his thoughts lay with Lieutenant Maury.

  Too few days had elapsed since his own arrival at the squadron for him to think unemotionally about the bare room where his new comrade was now holed up, nursing his sorrow, having been banished there by an inexplicable animosity towards him. Jean felt the need to go rescue him. Yet would such a move on his part wound a man who was older than him, as well as his superior officer? A sweet, cruel memory flashed across his mind and it ultimately forced his hand: that of Berthier coming into his room.

  He found Claude on his bed, his body and hands completely limp. He must have just collapsed there and was lying there motionless. He didn’t stir when the officer cadet walked in. It was only when Jean accidentally bumped into his trunk that the young officer raised his head.

  The naked light bulb was emitting a harsh, blinding light that rebounded off the tarred paper walls, making them look even blacker. It fully revealed Maury’s features, leaving not a single inch of flesh sheltered by the mercy of darkness. His face appeared drained by weariness.

  Maury was aware of this and, with great effort, managed to show nothing more than some polite interest.
Hesitantly, Herbillon started off the conversation: “Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I know just how disorientating it can be when you arrive here.”

  Jean didn’t know how much sympathy he’d imparted with those words, and was surprised by the reaction they prompted. Maury stood to his feet, and grasping the young man’s hands, he exclaimed: “How happy you’ve made me, my boy, how happy indeed!”

  The officer cadet was lost for words. This man seemed to nurse a secret wound, which any carelessly uttered word might tear open again.

  Claude began pacing around the room, making the kind of sudden gestures one might expect from a malfunctioning robot, thereby revealing all his body’s defects. He visibly tried to control himself and begin a calm conversation, without, however, managing to do so. Finally, standing with his back to Jean, and with a voice that barely concealed its jitteriness, he asked: “So, what did I do to them?”

  “Nothing, it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “No, no!” Maury exclaimed. “Deschamps hates me, and the others behave awkwardly around me, even the captain—”

  “Don’t speak ill of the captain,” Jean quickly interjected. “You’ll love him too, I’m sure of that, just wait until tomorrow.”

  Maury nodded his head and smiled: “But I love him already! He possesses a nobility of character that is indisputable; however, why—”

  “Was he so curt with you?” Jean interrupted him. “You were wrong to ask him about his age.”

  “And yet I couldn’t have paid him a bigger compliment,” Maury declared.

  He grasped the officer cadet’s hands once more.

  “There’s nothing I find more admirable than youth, let me assure you,” he added, his face overwhelmed by an absent gaze that revealed his obsessions, and as though a terrible doubt had just occurred to him, he added: “Nor is there anything more terrible.”

  His gaze came to rest on Jean’s well-proportioned shoulders and tender features with a mixture of joy and an irrational fear.

  “Did everyone here like you straight away?” he asked.

  He realized he’d just embarrassed the young man and ran his long fingers against his forehead. “I’m incredibly sensitive this evening,” he dully confessed. “Please don’t judge me on the basis of what I’ve said. There are some days when one really feels one has reached the end of one’s tether.”

  He began pacing around his room again, quickly exhausting its limited space with his long strides, once more searching for the right words to steer that strange conversation towards a more normal course. The officer cadet couldn’t take his eyes off him, fascinated by his mechanical movements.

  In the end, unable to put up with that seemingly unbreakable silence any longer, Herbillon made a suggestion: “Should we have a drink?”

  Maury abruptly stopped, at first unable to understand what Jean had said. “But of course!” he exclaimed suddenly. “I should have offered you one right away. Please forgive me. What would you like?”

  He started to fidget, trying to guess Jean’s inclinations before the latter revealed them, but without letting him reply, he exclaimed: “Hang on! Perhaps you’d like some whisky? I’ve got some… they say it’s quite excellent.”

  As the young man nodded his approval, Maury bent over one of his trunks and opened it energetically. Herbillon observed that the trunk was full of books.

  Claude noticed his interest and, for the first time since he’d met him, the officer cadet saw Maury’s lips form into a genuine, warm smile.

  “I’ve got quite a few of them,” he said, leaning on some covers.

  Then he excitedly added: “They’re at your disposal of course; please feel free to come in and take any of them whenever the fancy strikes you.”

  Herbillon nourished the kind of tenderness for books which, when shared, ensures a lifelong friendship. Maury divined his passion from the words the young man chose to thank him. Then, having both calmed down and begun to bond, they began examining the volumes.

  Many of them were new and the pages were still uncut, but there were some used ones which indicated Maury’s peculiar tastes. Claude explained his preferences, quoting some verses that Herbillon would then complete.

  A deep-seated tenderness brought them closer together, while the wind outside began to blow with human cries.

  Claude’s eyes filled with gratitude and friendship for Herbillon. Having reached the bottom of his trunk, Claude then pulled out a sealed bottle, uncorked it, and filled two glasses to the brim. The officer cadet eyed his movements with unease.

  “Do you want to send me on my way completely drunk?” he asked him.

  Claude replied with a mixture of confusion and naivety. “I want to confess something to you,” he said. “I’ve never drunk whisky in my life. I have no idea how much one should drink. But I want to become a true aviator, and drink and play with the best of them. You’ll teach me all about that.”

  A twitch distorted his features. Jean couldn’t tell whether he said the following either ironically or bitterly: “That’s how we’ll get women to like us, right?”

  CHAPTER IV

  THE MIST ENSURED Herbillon grew accustomed to lazy mornings. A vague sense of guilt struggled against a secret kind of pleasure, which Jean believed was closely related to cowardice. Yet what could he possibly do against a sky so pregnant with fog that it persisted in hovering above the ground almost level with the hangars themselves?

  Jean’s orderly went about his business inside the room. The water hummed while it boiled on the gas stove, and the young man listened to that noise, which had grown so familiar to him that he felt he’d been living his life according to its rhythm for years.

  Jean got up late that day and, once he’d dressed, he headed to the mess hall where the officer responsible for the delivery of the mail usually left all the newspapers and letters. There were only three envelopes left on the table, and they were all addressed to him. He was surprised by how quickly he pounced on them. They were, after all, the same letters he was used to receiving, the same typically faithful missives he received from his parents, younger brother and Denise, and he was well acquainted with their affectionate, childish or passionate tones.

  However, each line he read that morning insidiously prompted him to immediately—and despondently—reflect on what an insurmountable distance separated him from the people who had sent him those letters, despite their being only a few hours away, and whose tenderness he now beheld in his hands, if only for a moment.

  Indulging his melancholy, he could now truly see his existence for what it was, which greatly differed from the heroic, unpredictable life he’d once pictured. Nothing could have been more monotonous and empty than those hours he spent shuffling around in clogs, immersed in gossip or playing cards, or the little walks he took between the barracks and the field, and from the field back to the barracks. Even his flights went by as regularly as any kind of office work, and most of them passed without incident. He muttered to himself: “It’s like being sent into early retirement in the countryside.”

  He heard a comrade’s footsteps and, as he feared revealing his weakness, he slipped the letters that were still in his hands into his breast pocket. Then, straightening up, he feigned a smile.

  Maury wouldn’t allow himself to be deceived. “You got the blues?” he asked affectionately.

  His voice betrayed such concern that Jean didn’t hesitate and confessed: “I feel pretty lonely this morning.”

  “Just this morning? You’ve been lucky.”

  Before replying to him, Jean looked at the empty table.

  Jean then remembered the envelopes padding his peacoat and his fate instantly felt much sweeter. As Maury shyly asked him if he had seen any letters addressed to him, Jean couldn’t help saying: “The last ones were for me.”

  The suffering he read on his comrade’s features made him regret his words. To wipe it away, he added: “I’ll take you to see Florence in Jonchery; we could do with the dis
traction.”

  They set off, on foot, down the plateau where the airfield was located, along the Vesle river, when an automobile stopped. Major Mercier, the division commander, offered to drive them. This completely dispelled Herbillon’s unease. A courteous commander was driving them to an inn run by a beautiful girl. Wasn’t that enough to make one fall in love with life all over again?

  The driver came to a stop in front of a low, small door. Claude and the officer cadet stepped inside the bar. The room’s sole furnishings consisted of a bar counter and two long tables covered with a ragged wax-cloth with a few wobbly benches alongside them. As the room was dimly lit, they couldn’t make out the silhouettes of the two men sitting at the back. Yet one of them stood up and they recognized him: it was NCO pilot Brûlard. Deschamps was smoking next to him.

  Over the couple of weeks that had elapsed since their quarrel, Deschamps had come to appreciate Maury’s reserve, and his initial hostility had melted away. Jean wanted to take advantage of the situation and definitively ensure their reconciliation. He took Claude by the arm and led him towards their comrades.

  Deschamps affably said: “What are you drinking? Brûlard’s buying, he’s just been made sergeant.”

  Herbillon loved the bar’s sad, seedy charm, its tangible warmth, the restfulness of the slouched bodies, the vacant minds and the simple gestures of pouring and drinking. Maury looked at him with astonishment. He just couldn’t understand how that boy, whom he’d judged as sensitive and delicate, could possibly enjoy that smelly, shoddy-looking place, and the humdrum talk that filled it. Being there made Maury feel horribly embarrassed. Everything seemed hostile and repugnant to him, from the sticky lithographs hanging on the wall, to the red wine, which was wantonly consumed in big gulps.

  Deschamps’s cry worsened his unease: “Florence, at long last!”

  A tall girl with painted lips appeared on the tavern’s threshold, her pale-blonde locks having come undone after a run. Her full breasts, which huffed and puffed, jiggled inside her blue sweater and her incredibly short skirt revealed legs whose flesh could be seen through the holes in her badly mended silk stockings. She appeared to have been acquainted with Deschamps for quite some time and went to sit next to him.