Complete Works of William Faulkner

by William Faulkner

‘Wait!’ the Iowan said. ‘No! I — —’

  ‘Dont forget your map,’ Buchwald said. ‘We wont be back here.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ the Iowan said. ‘What you think I been holding onto it this long for?’

  ‘Good,’ Buchwald said. ‘Then when they send you back home to prison for mutiny, you can mark Leavenworth on it too.’ They returned to the corridor and followed it. It was empty, lighted by spaced weak electric bulbs. They had seen no other sign of life and suddenly it was as though they apparently were not going to until they were out of it again. The narrow corridor had not descended, there were no more steps. It was as if the earth it tunnelled through had sunk as an elevator sinks, holding the corridor itself intact, immune, empty of any life or sound save that of their boots, the white-washed stone sweating in furious immobility beneath the whole concentrated weight of history, stratum upon stratum of dead tradition impounded by the Hôtel above them — monarchy revolution empire and republic, duke farmer-general and sans culotte, levee tribunal and guillotine, liberty fraternity equality and death and the people the People always to endure and prevail, the group, the clump, huddled now, going quite fast until the Iowan cried again:

  ‘No, I tell you! I aint — —’ until Buchwald stopped, stopping them all, and turned and said to the Iowan in a calm and furious murmur:

  ‘Beat it.’

  ‘What?’ the Iowan cried. ‘I cant! Where would I go?’

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ Buchwald said. ‘I aint the one that’s dissatisfied here.’

  ‘Come on,’ the sergeant-major said. They went on. They reached a door; it was locked. The sergeant-major unlocked and opened it.

  ‘Do we report?’ Buchwald said.

  ‘Not to me,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘You can even keep the pistol for a souvenir. The car’ll be waiting where you got out of it,’ and was about to close the door until Buchwald after one rapid glance into the room turned and put his foot against the door and said again in that harsh calm furious controlled voice:

  ‘Christ, cant the sons of bitches even get a priest for him?’

  ‘They’re still trying,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Somebody sent for the priest out at the compound two hours ago and he aint got back yet. They cant seem to find him.’

  ‘So we’re supposed to wait for him,’ Buchwald said in that tone of harsh calm unbearable outrage.

  ‘Supposed by who?’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Move your foot.’ Buchwald did, the door closed, the lock clashed behind them and the three of them were in a cell, a cubicle fierce with whitewash and containing the single unshaded electric light and a three-legged stool like a farmer’s milking stool, and the French general. That is, it was a French face and by its expression and cast it had been used to enough rank long enough to be a general’s, besides the insignia and the dense splash of ribbons and the Sam Browne belt and the leather putties, though the uniform which bore them were the plain G.I. tunic and trousers which a cavalry sergeant would have worn, standing now, erect and rigid now and rather as though enclosed by the fading aura of the convulsive movement which had brought him to his feet, who said sharply in French:

  ‘Attention there!’

  ‘What?’ Buchwald said to the Negro beside him. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘How in hell do I know?’ the Negro said. ‘Quick!’ he said in a panting voice. ‘That Ioway bastard. Do something about him quick.’

  ‘Right,’ Buchwald said, turning. ‘Grab him then,’ and turned on to meet the Iowan.

  ‘No, I tell you!’ the Iowan cried. ‘I aint going to—’ Buchwald struck him skilfully, the blow seeming not to travel at all before the Iowan catapulted backward into the wall then slid down it to the floor, Buchwald turning again in time to see the Negro grasp at the French general and the French general turn sharply face- to and against the wall, his head turned cheek against it, saying over his shoulder in French as Buchwald snapped the safety off the pistol:

  ‘Shoot now, you whorehouse scum. I will not turn.’

  ‘Jerk him around,’ Buchwald said.

  ‘Put that damn safety back on!’ the Negro panted, glaring back at him. ‘You want to shoot me too? Come on. It will take both of us.’ Buchwald closed the safety though he still held the pistol in his hand while they struggled, all three of them or two of them to drag the French general far enough from the wall to turn him. ‘Hit him a little,’ the Negro panted. ‘We got to knock him out.’

  ‘How in hell can you knock out a man that’s already dead?’ Buchwald panted.

  ‘Come on,’ the Negro panted. ‘Just a little. Hurry.’ Buchwald struck, trying to gauge the blow, and he was right: the body collapsed until the Negro was supporting it but not out, the eyes open, looking up at Buchwald then watching the pistol as Buchwald raised it and snapped the safety off again, the eyes not afraid, not even despaired: just incorrigibly alert and rational, so alert in fact as apparently to have seen the squeeze of Buchwald’s hand as it started, so that the sudden and furious movement turned not only the face but the whole body away with the explosion so that the round hole was actually behind the ear when the corpse reached the floor. Buchwald and the Negro stood over it, panting, the barrel of the pistol warm against Buchwald’s leg.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Buchwald said to the Negro. ‘Why didn’t you hold him?’

  ‘He slipped!’ the Negro panted.

  ‘Slipped my crap,’ Buchwald said. ‘You didn’t hold him.’

  ‘Son of a bitch yourself!’ the Negro panted. ‘Me stand there holding him for that bullet to come on through hunting me next?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Buchwald said. ‘Now we got to plug that one up and shoot him again.’

  ‘Plug it up?’ the Negro said.

  ‘Yes,’ Buchwald said. ‘What the hell sort of undertaker will you make if you dont know how to plug up a hole in a bastard that got shot in the wrong place? Wax will do it. Get a candle.’

  ‘Where’m I going to get a candle?’ the Negro said.

  ‘Go out in the hall and yell,’ Buchwald said, swapping hands with the pistol and taking the door key from his pocket and handing it to the Negro. ‘Keep on yelling until you find a Frog. They must have candles. They must have at least one thing in this .… ing country we never had to bring two thousand miles over here and give to them.’

  Friday: Saturday: Sunday

  IT BADE FAIR to be another bright and perennial lark-filled vernal morning; the gaudy uniforms and arms and jangling accoutrements and even the ebon faces too of the Senegalese regiment seemed to gleam in it as, to the cryptic tribal equatorial cries of its noncoms, it filed onto the parade ground and formed three sides of a hollow square facing the three freshly-planted posts set in a symmetric row on the edge of a long pit or ditch, almost filled and obliterated now by four years of war’s refuse — tin cans, bottles, old messkits, worn-out cooking utensils, boots, inextricable coils of rusting and useless wire — from which the dirt had been excavated to form the railroad embankment running across the end of the parade, which would serve as a backstop for what bullets neither flesh nor wood absorbed. They came into position then at rest and grounded arms and stood at ease and then easy, whereupon there rose a steady unemphatic gabble, not festive: just gregarious, like people waiting for the opening of a marketplace; the pallid perennial almost invisible lighters winked and flared from perennial cigarette to cigarette among the babble of voices, the ebon and gleaming faces not even watching the working party of white soldiers while they tamped the last earth about the posts and took up their tools and departed in a disorderly straggle like a company of reapers leaving a field of hay.

  Then a distant bugle cried once or twice, the Senegalese N.C.O.’s shouted, the gaudy ranks doused the cigarettes without haste and with a sort of negligent, almost inattentive deliberation came to alert and at ease as the sergeant-major of the city garrison, a holstered pistol strapped outside his long buttoned-back coat, came into the vacant side of the square before the three p
osts and stopped and stood as, to the harsh abrupt ejaculations of the new N.C.O.’s, the mutinied regiment filed into the empty rectangle and huddled, pariahs still, hatless and unarmed, still unshaven, alien, stained still with Aisne and Oise and Marne mud so that against the gaudy arras of the Senegalese they looked like harassed and harried and homeless refugees from another planet, moiling a little though quiet and even orderly or at least decorous until suddenly a handful of them, eleven it was, broke suddenly out and ran in a ragged clump toward the three posts and had knelt facing the posts in the same ragged clump by the time the sergeant-major had shouted something and an N.C.O.’s voice took it up and a file of Senegalese came rapidly out and around and across the empty parade and surrounded the kneeling men and pulled them, not at all roughly, back onto their feet and turned them and herded them back among their companions like drovers behind a small band of temporarily strayed sheep.

  Now a small party of horsemen rode rapidly up from the rear and stopped just outside the square, behind it; they were the town major, his adjutant, the provost marshal adjutant and three orderlies. The sergeant-major shouted, the parade (save for the pariah regiment) came to attention in one long metallic clash, the sergeant-major wheeled and saluted the town major across the rigid palisade of Senegalese heads, the town major accepted the parade and stood it at ease then back to attention again and returned it to the sergeant-major who in his turn stood it at ease again and turned to face the three posts as, abruptly and apparently from nowhere, a sergeant and file came up with the three hatless prisoners interspersed among them, whom they bound quickly to the three posts — the man who had called himself Lapin, then the corporal, then the simian-like creature whom Lapin had called Cassetête or Horse — leaving them facing in to the hollow of the square though they couldn’t see it now because at the moment there filed between them and it another squad of some twenty men with a sergeant, who halted and quarter-turned and stood them at ease with their backs to the three doomed ones, whom the sergeant-major now approached in turn, to examine rapidly the cord which bound Lapin to his post, then on to the corporal, already extending his (the sergeant-major’s) hand to the Médaille Militaire on the corporal’s coat, saying in a rapid murmur:

  ‘You dont want to keep this.’

  ‘No,’ the corporal said. ‘No use to spoil it.’ The sergeant-major wrenched it off the coat, not savagely: just rapidly, already moving on.

  ‘I know who to give it to,’ he said, moving on to the third man, who said, drooling a little, not alarmed, not even urgent: just diffident and promptive, as you address someone, a stranger, on whom your urgent need depends but who may have temporarily forgotten your need or forgotten you:

  ‘Paris.’

  ‘Right,’ the sergeant-major said. Then he was gone too; now the three bound men could have seen nothing save the backs of the twenty men in front of them though they could still have heard the sergeant-major’s voice as he brought the parade to attention again and drew from somewhere inside his coat a folded paper and a worn leather spectacle case and unfolded the paper and put the spectacles on and read aloud from the paper, holding it now in both hands against the light flutter of the morning breeze, his voice sounding clear and thin and curiously forlorn in the sunny lark-filled emptiness among the dead redundant forensic verbiage talking in pompous and airy delusion of an end of man. ‘By order of the president of the court,’ the sergeant-major chanted wanly and refolded the paper and removed the spectacles and folded them back into the case and stowed them both away; command, the twenty men about-turned to face the three posts; Lapin was now straining outward against his cord, trying to see past the corporal to the third man.

  ‘Look,’ Lapin said anxiously to the corporal.

  Load!

  ‘Paris,’ the third man said, hoarse and wet and urgent.

  ‘Say something to him,’ Lapin said. ‘Quick.’

  Aim!

  ‘Paris,’ the third man said again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the corporal said. ‘We’re going to wait. We wont go without you.’

  The corporal’s post may have been flawed or even rotten because, although the volley merely cut cleanly the cords binding Lapin and the third man to theirs, so that their bodies slumped at the foot of each post, the corporal’s body, post bonds and all, went over backward as one intact unit, onto the edge of the rubbish-filled trench behind it; when the sergeant-major, the pistol still smoking faintly in his hand, moved from Lapin to the corporal, he found that the plunge of the post had jammed it and its burden too into a tangled mass of old barbed wire, a strand of which had looped up and around the top of the post and the man’s head as though to assoil them both on in one unbroken continuation of the fall, into the anonymity of the earth. The wire was rusted and pitted and would not have deflected the bullet anyway, nevertheless the sergeant-major flicked it carefully away with his toe before setting the pistol’s muzzle against the ear.

  As soon as the parade ground was empty (before in fact; the end of the Senegalese column had not yet vanished into the company street) the fatigue party came up with a hand-drawn barrow containing their tools and a folded tarpaulin. The corporal in charge took a wire-cutter from the barrow and approached the sergeant-major, who had already cut the corporal’s body free from the broken post. ‘Here,’ he said, handing the sergeant-major the wire-cutter. ‘You’re not going to waste a ground-sheet on one of them, are you?’

  ‘Get those posts out,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Let me have two men and the ground sheet.’

  ‘Right,’ the corporal said. The corporal went away. The sergeant-major cut off a section about six feet long of the rusted wire. When he rose, the two men with the folded tarpaulin were standing behind him, watching him.

  ‘Spread it out,’ he said, pointing. They did so. ‘Put him in it,’ he said. They took up the dead corporal’s body, the one at the head a little finicking because of the blood, and laid it on the tarpaulin. ‘Go on,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Roll it up. Then put it in the barrow,’ and followed them, the fatigue-party corporal suddenly not watching him too, the other men suddenly immersed again in freeing the planted posts from the earth. Nor did the sergeant-major speak again. He simply gestured the two men to take up the handles and, himself at the rear, established the direction by holding one corner as a pivot and pushing against the other and then pushing ahead on both, the laden barrow now crossing the parade ground at a long slant toward the point where the wire fence died in a sharp right angle against the old factory wall. Nor did he (the sergeant-major) look back either, the two men carrying the handles almost trotting now to keep the barrow from running over them, on toward the corner where at some point they too must have seen beyond the fence the high two-wheeled farm cart with a heavy farm horse in the shafts and the two women and the three men beside it, the sergeant-major stopping the barrow just as he had started it: by stopping himself and pivoting the barrow by its two rear corners into the angle of the fence, then himself went and stood at the fence — a man of more than fifty and now looking all of it — until the taller of the two women — the one with the high dark strong and handsome face as a man’s face is handsome — approached the other side of the wire. The second woman had not moved, the shorter, dumpier, softer one. But she was watching the two at the fence and listening, her face quite empty for the moment but with something incipient and tranquilly promising about it like a clean though not-yet-lighted lamp on a kitchen bureau.

  ‘Where did you say your husband’s farm is?’ the sergeant-major said.

  ‘I told you,’ the woman said.

  ‘Tell me again,’ the sergeant-major said.

  ‘Beyond Chalons,’ the woman said.

  ‘How far beyond Chalons?’ the sergeant-major said. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘How far from Verdun?’

  ‘It’s near Vienne-la-pucelle,’ the woman said. ‘Beyond St Mihiel,’ she said.

  ‘St Mihiel,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘In the army zone. Worse.
In the battle zone. With Germans on one side of it and Americans on the other. Americans.’

  ‘Should American soldiers be more terrible than other soldiers?’ the woman said. ‘Because they are fresher at it? Is that it?’

  ‘No, Sister,’ the other woman said. ‘That’s wrong. It’s because the Americans have been here so young. It will be easy for them.’ The two at the fence paid no attention to her. They looked at one another through the wire. Then the woman said:

  ‘The war is over.’

  ‘Ah,’ the sergeant-major said.

  The woman made no movement, no gesture. ‘What else can this mean? What else explain it? justify it? No, not even justify it: plead compassion, plead pity, plead despair for it?’ She looked at the sergeant-major, cold, griefless, impersonal. ‘Plead exculpation for it?’

  ‘Bah,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Did I ask you? Did anyone?’ He gestured behind him with the wire-cutter. One of the men released the handle of the barrow and came and took it. ‘Cut the bottom strand,’ the sergeant-major said.

  ‘Cut?’ the man said.

  ‘It, species of a species!’ the sergeant-major said. The man started to stoop but the sergeant-major had already snatched the wire-cutter back from him and stooped himself; the taut bottom-most strand sprang with a thin almost musical sound, recoiling. ‘Get it out of the barrow,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Lively.’ They understood now. They lifted the long tarpaulin-wrapped object from the barrow and lowered it to the ground. The woman had moved aside and the three men now waited at the fence, to draw, drag the long object along the ground and through the wire’s vacancy, then up and into the cart. ‘Wait,’ the sergeant-major said. The woman paused. The sergeant-major fumbled inside his coat and produced a folded paper which he passed through the fence to her. She opened it and looked at it for a moment, with no expression whatever.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It must be over, since you receive a diploma now with your execution. What shall I do with it? frame it on the parlor wall?’ The sergeant-major reached through the wire and snatched the paper from between her hands, his other hand fumbling out the worn spectacle case again, then with both hands, still holding the opened paper, he got the spectacle on his nose and glanced at the paper a moment then with a violent gesture crumpled the paper into his side pocket and produced another folded one from inside his coat and extended it through the wire, shaking it violently open before the woman could touch it, saying in a repressed and seething voice: ‘Say you dont need this one then. Look at the signature on it.’ The woman did so. She had never seen it before, the thin delicate faint cryptic indecipherable scrawl which few other people had ever seen either but which anyone in that half of Europe on that day competent to challenge a signature would have recognised at once.