by Allan Massie
‘I thought you believed in the magazine and in your writers.’
‘You know I do, and perhaps I shouldn’t have said “more important” but rather “more urgent”. Anyway, it’s partly a question of time.’
‘Yes, I understand that. You should have appointed a deputy, however.’
‘Perhaps I might have, but it’s been a very personal thing, the magazine.’
‘Yes,’ Torrance said. He spooned sugar into his cup. ‘That’s what has been wrong with it. It has been too personal, too much the expression of your own tastes.’
‘I’m sorry you should think that, but I’m bound to point out that your own writings have been to my taste, which is why I have published them.’
He paused: there was nothing to be gained from reminding Torrance that he had had little success in finding an editor sympathetic to his work till Lucien accepted two or three stories. It would only irritate him further.
‘Yes, yes,’ Torrance said. ‘I won’t pursue the matter, though it’s not just my opinion, you must know. But the point is, you have an article of mine, which you were going to publish, and since the magazine is in abeyance I want it back, and the office, as I say, is locked.’
So it was simply for this that he had brought him here, for the return of a manuscript to which he himself hadn’t given a thought for months. Lucien remembered it. He had never intended to publish that article, but Torrance was, he knew, likely to be offended by an outright rejection. So he had temporised. The fact was that Torrance had real gifts as a writer of fiction, an individual point of view, an unexpected capacity to evoke the bitter poetry of petit bourgeois life, but he also fancied himself as a political commentator, and in that capacity seemed to Lucien absurd. His opinions were volatile, but always vigorously held and stridently expressed. This particular article had insisted that war would find Germany out. Hitlerism would appear hollow, Hitler’s preparations a sham. If he didn’t actually say that the German tanks were made out of cardboard, he didn’t stop far short of that assertion. He insisted that Germany was in no condition to make war; there were shortages of oil, steel, grain and other essential foodstuffs. His conclusion was exultant: ‘Herr Hitler’s verbal belligerence cannot any longer conceal the inescapable truth that Nazi Germany is insubstantial; it is a rhetorical performance. Consequently, France, strong, honest and determined, will etc., etc.’ It had been, though forcibly expressed, too feeble for words. Lucien had done Torrance a service by pushing it under a pile of manuscripts in a bottom drawer and forgetting all about it.
He said now: ‘Do you want to publish it elsewhere? I don’t think the mood is ripe.’
Torrance snapped at his cigarette-lighter, which refused to work.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided I don’t want to publish it at all. But I want the manuscript back.’
‘If you don’t want to publish it – and I think you are wise – then it’s safe where it is. There’s no urgency, is there?’
Torrance said: ‘It’s you who doesn’t understand. I want the manuscript back precisely because it is not safe where it is. When the Germans arrive they will raid your office, as they will raid the offices of all newspapers and magazines of any influence, and they will find the article, and where will I be then? Who has the keys to your office?’
‘Mathilde.’
‘There. I have always told you that girl was a liar. She denied any knowledge. Will you write a line instructing her to give me the key? Why do you hesitate? Don’t you realise the danger I’m in?’
‘So are we all,’ Lucien said, but he scribbled the note. He picked up his cup. The coffee was cold but he drank it all the same.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘NO,’ SAID THE farmer’s wife. ‘I’ve no milk, or anything. It’s all gone, you know. You’re not the first. Not by any means.’
She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Just like a peasant woman in a film,’ Lucien thought. ‘I must remember to tell Marcel.’
‘Do you mind if we rest anyway?’ he said.
‘And if I did mind, you’d still do it.’
She turned away from him and disappeared behind some farm buildings. He could hear her grumble like distant birdsong. He found it reassuring. She would sit things out: the eternal France? Perhaps. It was absurd how, when you were very tired, phrases kept forming in your head. There were birds too, for it was a beautiful evening of early summer, and the light was long. The last pink hawthorn blossom took on a darker sheen as the sun slipped behind a line of poplars. They sat with their backs against the wall, resting and trying to forget that they were hungry.
Had he even been in a battle? That was the question which perplexed Lucien. There had been battle all round them, but he hadn’t so much as seen a German tank. Nor a French one, come to that. Only the aeroplanes. Was it a battle when an aeroplane swooped low and strafed you? The question was meaningless. There were dead bodies, anyway, all along the sides of the roads down which they had retreated. His feet ached, and he had an itch between his toes.
Worst of all was the shame. They would never forget the shame. It would return in dreams. He knew that. To have run and not to have seen the enemy, not even to have seen a single grey uniform since they pulled back from the line without firing a shot. Useless to say that it wasn’t their fault, that the line had given way on either flank and so they had had no choice. There was still the shame, which no one would forgive them. And he had lost control of his men. He didn’t even know where most of them had gone. All he knew was they had gone faster. He wished the woman had been able to offer them some milk. It was precisely milk that he craved, though he knew it wouldn’t assuage his thirst.
He never drank milk normally. Always preferred his coffee black. But it was milk he wanted now.
There was a scent of honeysuckle. It came from a trellis at the side of the house, which meant that the breeze was in the east. He rubbed the itch with the heel of his left boot.
‘Can you get the wireless to work?’ he called.
His operator shook his head.
‘The battery’s completely dead. Finished.’
The old woman plodded back.
‘Aren’t you going to move?’ she asked.
‘Are you sure you have no milk? Nor anything to eat?’
‘Nothing at all. You’re not the first, I tell you. All running as if my man hadn’t died for France last time. He didn’t run. Anyway, if I had anything I’d keep it for the Germans.’
‘Dirty bitch,’ muttered one of the men, but the woman, who was probably a little deaf, didn’t seem to hear him.
‘Yes, I’d keep it for them,’ she said. ‘God knows what they’ll do to us if we can’t provide them with food.’ She crossed herself.
‘Don’t bother about them,’ the Corporal said. ‘They’ll have plenty of food. They’re not neglected like us.’
Three hours later they came to a village where they found a group of their comrades resting in the square. They had got some bread and were passing round little bottles of red wine. One of them spat when he saw Lucien.
‘Officers.’
Lucien paid no attention. He hunted about till he found a Sergeant, a man he recognised and respected, a regular, and a Southerner like himself.
‘Is there anything left to eat?’ he said. ‘These chaps with me are starving. They’re all in.’
‘I kept something,’ the Sergeant said, ‘in case we were joined by stragglers. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you.’
Lucien called his companions over, and the Sergeant handed out hard bread, biscuits and a bottle of wine.
‘I paid for these things,’ he said. ‘Can you give me a chit, sir?’
‘I don’t know that it will do much good,’ Lucien said, ‘but here you are anyway.’
‘You’re probably right, sir. It’s hard to believe that money means much just now, or will again. Still, you never know.’ He put the piece of paper in his breast pocket and buttoned it. ‘It’s surprising how thin
gs get back to normal.’
He fished out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Like one, sir?’
‘I shouldn’t be smoking your cigarettes.’
‘That’s all right. There’s lots of them. No shortage there. The local tobacconist’s run away, leaving his stock. I commandeered them. After all, he’s a government servant, in a manner of speaking. And it calms the boys.’
Lucien drew on the cigarette though he had given up smoking two years before. He would never do so again. He decided that straight away.
‘Are there any officers with you?’
‘Well, no, sir.’
‘Then I’m the only one. I’d hoped …’
‘I wouldn’t make too much of that, sir. Not if I was you. Officers are not exactly popular just now. Major Delibes was with us …’
‘What happened to him?’
‘We came on a staff-car as we entered the village. There were three in it, all dead. Shot from the air, you see. The car had slid off the road, but the fields round here are flat and it was easy to get it moving again. “I’ll go and find out what’s happening,” says the Major, and jumps in. He calls the two Lieutenants and they whisper together, and then all three drive off. We haven’t seen them again. That was six hours ago.’
‘I see. Something may have happened to them. Any sort of delay.’
The Sergeant tugged at his chin.
‘Plenty of delays on the road south, sir, I expect. Half of France is on it after all. As for the Major, I daresay he might have got a bullet in the back as he drove away if most of the boys hadn’t already ditched their rifles. I’d play down your rank, sir, we’re all in the same boat. Would you like a piece of cheese? I saved some in case you turned up. And a piece of chocolate. Here, let me top up your mug.’
Lucien took a swig of the harsh wine. Delibes’ conduct was deplorable, it shamed his rank, and the taint spread to himself. Which was itself absurd. Like everything else.
‘You said two Lieutenants. Was either Lieutenant Querouaille?’
The Sergeant shook his head.
‘Come, sir, what sort of question is that? Lieutenant Querouaille, you know yourself, sir, none better, I’m sure, he was a good boy.’
‘You say “was”.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. He caught it on the road back. From one of the aeroplanes it was too. He was trying to get everyone to take cover, some of the men being a bit slow, and it caught him …’
‘You’re quite sure he was killed …’
‘I’ve seen dead men, sir. I was at Verdun as a mere boy myself. Instant it was, like switching off an electric light.’
He dreamed that night, but not of Querouaille, though he had gone to sleep thinking of him, and after saying a prayer for the repose of his soul. It was not till weeks later that he made a note of this dream, so it may not be as he dreamed it. Still, this was his memory:
I was walking in a wood with Rupert and we were talking of Polly. I can’t remember what we said, but the mood was warm, affectionate and forgiving. (What did we have to forgive? I don’t know, but I am fully conscious of the glow I experienced at the knowledge that we had come together in an act of forgiveness.) The bells of a distant church began to toll the angelus. We looked out from the edge of the wood towards the church tower, and the fields were pale gold in the declining sun. As the last note of the bell struck, the sun dipped behind the tower and a chill breeze crept over the wood. We hesitated, as if unable to decide whether to cross the fields or return by the woodland path which would lead us home by a shorter route. I took Rupert’s arm and we turned back into the wood. All at once the light was murky. Rupert caught his arm on a thorn, tearing his shirt (which was one of mine from the Rue de la Paix). The blood gushed out, as if from a knife wound, and I tore the sleeve of the shirt to make a tourniquet. His bare flesh felt cold. Then he placed the forefinger of his right hand on the blood and touched me on the forehead. ‘Now we are joined,’ he said. We came into a clearing, formed by a ring of oak trees. An altar made by laying one slab of pinkish stone on top of two dark grey columns stood in the middle of the grove. It was attended by a priest, an old man in a saffron robe. His back was to us. We paused. The calm music of the angelus bell still echoed. The light faded as we stood there, and the silence was absolute. Then in the distance rang the challenge of a hunting-horn, followed by the tramp of feet and the breaking of branches. We were surrounded, jostled and seized by men in uniforms with much gleaming leather; they wore wolf-masks on their heads. Someone gave an order in a tongue I could not understand, and we were released; but in that moment I know that I surrendered Rupert to them, and I woke.
‘You were screaming, sir.’
The Sergeant’s hand was on Lucien’s shoulder. He held a bottle to his lips.
‘Take a swig of this, sir. It’s brandy. Bad dream, eh? I reckon there’s a lot of bad dreams in France tonight. And for nights to come. You might say, a bit fanciful like, life’s turned into a bad dream.’
‘Yes,’ Lucien said, ‘it was a nightmare.’
They rose before dawn and made ready to march again. Lucien made no attempt to give orders, and, as far as he could see, any organisation was spontaneous. Everything had broken down and the men were acting by instinct. There had been no planes. All but a couple of the houses overlooking the market-place had their shutters closed and bolted, but an old man wearing a nightshirt, leather slippers and a black beret appeared at one of the doorways. He held a mug in his hand and watched them a long time without speaking. Then he spat, twice, in the gutter, and turned back into his house. Lucien’s foot was itching again, and his bad knee was rebelling against yesterday’s long march.
The Sergeant brought him a mug of coffee, some hot water, soap and a razor.
‘You’ll want to shave, sir.’
He made it sound like an order.
‘Is there any news? Someone must have a wireless in the village. Can you go and ask that old man?’
‘Oh yes, there’s news enough, sir. We’re falling back all along the line. The Boches are south of the Meuse. On the other hand, it was announced yesterday that old Pétain’s back. I don’t know as what, but he’s in the government.’
‘At last.’
‘Well, that’s as may be, sir, he’s well over eighty, isn’t he?’
‘Nevertheless, I assure you, he’s the only man who can save France.’
The Marshal’s return made Lucien ashamed of his acquiescence of the night before. He drank his coffee and shaved, then called the Sergeant over.
‘We are still part of the French Army,’ he said. ‘It’s not right that we should allow the men to come and go as they please. We have to restore order and discipline. After all, our men haven’t themselves really been in battle, and as for the Army as a whole, yes, we have suffered a reverse, but we can recover. It was worse at the Marne.’
The Sergeant did not reply at once. He stood in front of Lucien, not quite at attention. His wide face gave Lucien no idea of what he was thinking.
‘Will you call the men on parade,’ Lucien said. ‘I want to inspect them and speak to them. Make it clear that there will be no recriminations concerning lost rifles and so on. All that is in the past. And get someone to fetch me a map.’
Still the Sergeant looked at him without moving. A trickle of sweat ran down from his temple.
‘If we don’t do this,’ Lucien said, ‘we’re finished. You’re a regular soldier. You know we have no choice. It’s a matter of pride. You’ve been decorated, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then show yourself worthy of your medals. Last night you did admirably, as a sort of nursemaid. I’m grateful. Now it’s time to be a soldier again. Otherwise, you and I, Sergeant, we’re no better than Major Delibes.’
The Sergeant’s hand shot up in a salute. Two or three men, sitting nearby, looked up in surprise, and got to their feet. The Sergeant about-turned, stamping his feet. Lucien himself turned away and lit a cigar
ette.
‘Here’s the map you wanted, sir,’ said a soldier.
Lucien had time to shave, drink his coffee and consult the map before the Sergeant got the men in order. There were about twenty of them. Perhaps a few had slipped away before it was light. Two of those with him the previous day were now missing. As he was about to speak, the Sergeant touched him on the elbow. ‘Don’t pitch it too high, will you, sir. They’ve had all that stuff they can take.’
Lucien nodded:
‘Soldiers,’ he said, speaking in a voice distant from the parade ground. ‘We’ve had a rough time, no question of that. And you haven’t been well served by your officers either. I’m ashamed of them and I apologise for them.’ He paused. What was he saying? Suppose they found Delibes waiting for them at battalion headquarters, wherever they were, supposing they reached them? What would be the consequences of his criticism then? Conduct prejudicial to good discipline? Though the sun was not yet hot, he brushed his sleeve over his brow.
‘That will be a matter to be gone into later,’ he said. ‘We have more important things to deal with. We have to rejoin the main body of the battalion. I fought in the last war. I’ve been in retreats then too. But we recovered. We’ll do so again. We’re Frenchmen after all, and it’s been our ill luck to have had to retreat without even engaging the enemy. But we’ll do so. We’ll get back at them. As for now, we have half an hour to clear up here. Then we’ll march. Where’s the wireless operator? I need you now. Sergeant, dismiss the rest, and have them stand up again at 08.30 hours.’
It had been a lame speech. The men would obey, but only because it was easier for a little longer to surrender their will, because they would be more fearful cut off from the pack. That was all. He had failed to convince them, he knew that; he was no leader, no sounder of the trumpet-call. And of course he couldn’t believe his own words. All around him, in the abandoned equipment, the rifles thrown away, the dull look of the eyes, the regression of smart private soldiers to suspicious and secretive peasants, he read evidence of a lost war.
