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diff --git a/6362-h/6362-h.htm b/6362-h/6362-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ae3d19 --- /dev/null +++ b/6362-h/6362-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,22514 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Three Soldiers, by John Dos Passos + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Soldiers, by John Dos Passos + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Three Soldiers + +Author: John Dos Passos + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6362] +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE SOLDIERS *** + + + + +Produced by Eve Sobol and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THREE SOLDIERS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By John Dos Passos + </h2> + <h3> + <br /><br /> 1921 <br /> <br /> + </h3> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> PART ONE: MAKING THE MOULD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> PART TWO: THE METAL COOLS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> PART THREE: MACHINES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART4"> PART FOUR: RUST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART5"> PART FIVE: THE WORLD OUTSIDE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART6"> PART SIX: UNDER THE WHEELS </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Les contemporains qui souffrent de certaines choses ne peuvent + s'en souvenir qu'avec une horreur qui paralyse tout autre plaisir, + meme celui de lire un conte.” + + STENDHAL +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART ONE: MAKING THE MOULD + </h2> + <p> + I + </p> + <p> + The company stood at attention, each man looking straight before him at + the empty parade ground, where the cinder piles showed purple with + evening. On the wind that smelt of barracks and disinfectant there was a + faint greasiness of food cooking. At the other side of the wide field long + lines of men shuffled slowly into the narrow wooden shanty that was the + mess hall. Chins down, chests out, legs twitching and tired from the + afternoon's drilling, the company stood at attention. Each man stared + straight in front of him, some vacantly with resignation, some trying to + amuse themselves by noting minutely every object in their field of vision,—the + cinder piles, the long shadows of the barracks and mess halls where they + could see men standing about, spitting, smoking, leaning against clapboard + walls. Some of the men in line could hear their watches ticking in their + pockets. + </p> + <p> + Someone moved, his feet making a crunching noise in the cinders. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant's voice snarled out: “You men are at attention. Quit yer + wrigglin' there, you!” + </p> + <p> + The men nearest the offender looked at him out of the corners of their + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Two officers, far out on the parade ground, were coming towards them. By + their gestures and the way they walked, the men at attention could see + that they were chatting about something that amused them. One of the + officers laughed boyishly, turned away and walked slowly back across the + parade ground. The other, who was the lieutenant, came towards them + smiling. As he approached his company, the smile left his lips and he + advanced his chin, walking with heavy precise steps. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant, you may dismiss the company.” The lieutenant's voice was + pitched in a hard staccato. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant's hand snapped up to salute like a block signal. “Companee + dis...missed,” he rang out. + </p> + <p> + The row of men in khaki became a crowd of various individuals with dusty + boots and dusty faces. Ten minutes later they lined up and marched in a + column of fours to mess. A few red filaments of electric lights gave a + dusty glow in the brownish obscurity where the long tables and benches and + the board floors had a faint smell of garbage mingled with the smell of + the disinfectant the tables had been washed off with after the last meal. + The men, holding their oval mess kits in front of them, filed by the great + tin buckets at the door, out of which meat and potatoes were splashed into + each plate by a sweating K.P. in blue denims. + </p> + <p> + “Don't look so bad tonight,” said Fuselli to the man opposite him as he + hitched his sleeves up at the wrists and leaned over his steaming food. He + was sturdy, with curly hair and full vigorous lips that he smacked + hungrily as he ate. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't,” said the pink flaxen-haired youth opposite him, who wore his + broad-brimmed hat on the side of his head with a certain jauntiness: + </p> + <p> + “I got a pass tonight,” said Fuselli, tilting his head vainly. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to tear things up?” + </p> + <p> + “Man...I got a girl at home back in Frisco. She's a good kid.” + </p> + <p> + “Yer right not to go with any of the girls in this goddam town.... They + ain't clean, none of 'em.... That is if ye want to go overseas.” + </p> + <p> + The flaxen-haired youth leaned across the table earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm goin' to git some more chow: Wait for me, will yer?” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “What yer going to do down town?” asked the flaxen-haired youth when + Fuselli came back. + </p> + <p> + “Dunno,—run round a bit an' go to the movies,” he answered, filling + his mouth with potato. + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, it's time fer retreat.” They overheard a voice behind them. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli stuffed his mouth as full as he could and emptied the rest of his + meal reluctantly into the garbage pail. + </p> + <p> + A few moments later he stood stiffly at attention in a khaki row that was + one of hundreds of other khaki rows, identical, that filled all sides of + the parade ground, while the bugle blew somewhere at the other end where + the flag-pole was. Somehow it made him think of the man behind the desk in + the office of the draft board who had said, handing him the papers sending + him to camp, “I wish I was going with you,” and had held out a white bony + hand that Fuselli, after a moment's hesitation, had taken in his own + stubby brown hand. The man had added fervently, “It must be grand, just + grand, to feel the danger, the chance of being potted any minute. Good + luck, young feller.... Good luck.” Fuselli remembered unpleasantly his + paper-white face and the greenish look of his bald head; but the words had + made him stride out of the office sticking out his chest, brushing + truculently past a group of men in the door. Even now the memory of it, + mixing with the strains of the national anthem made him feel important, + truculent. + </p> + <p> + “Squads right!” came an order. Crunch, crunch, crunch in the gravel. The + companies were going back to their barracks. He wanted to smile but he + didn't dare. He wanted to smile because he had a pass till midnight, + because in ten minutes he'd be outside the gates, outside the green fence + and the sentries and the strands of barbed wire. Crunch, crunch, crunch; + oh, they were so slow in getting back to the barracks and he was losing + time, precious free minutes. “Hep, hep, hep,” cried the sergeant, glaring + down the ranks, with his aggressive bulldog expression, to where someone + had fallen out of step. + </p> + <p> + The company stood at attention in the dusk. Fuselli was biting the inside + of his lips with impatience. Minutes at last, as if reluctantly, the + sergeant sang out: + </p> + <p> + “Dis...missed.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli hurried towards the gate, brandishing his pass with an important + swagger. + </p> + <p> + Once out on the asphalt of the street, he looked down the long row of + lawns and porches where violet arc lamps already contested the faint + afterglow, drooping from their iron stalks far above the recently planted + saplings of the avenue. He stood at the corner slouched against a + telegraph pole, with the camp fence, surmounted by three strands of barbed + wire, behind him, wondering which way he would go. This was a hell of a + town anyway. And he used to think he wanted to travel round and see + places.—“Home'll be good enough for me after this,” he muttered. + Walking down the long street towards the centre of town, where was the + moving-picture show, he thought of his home, of the dark apartment on the + ground floor of a seven-storey house where his aunt lived. “Gee, she used + to cook swell,” he murmured regretfully. + </p> + <p> + On a warm evening like this he would have stood round at the corner where + the drugstore was, talking to fellows he knew, giggling when the girls who + lived in the street, walking arm and arm, twined in couples or trios, + passed by affecting ignorance of the glances that followed them. Or + perhaps he would have gone walking with Al, who worked in the same + optical-goods store, down through the glaring streets of the theatre and + restaurant quarter, or along the wharves and ferry slips, where they would + have sat smoking and looking out over the dark purple harbor, with its + winking lights and its moving ferries spilling swaying reflections in the + water out of their square reddish-glowing windows. If they had been lucky, + they would have seen a liner come in through the Golden Gate, growing from + a blur of light to a huge moving brilliance, like the front of a + high-class theatre, that towered above the ferry boats. You could often + hear the thump of the screw and the swish of the bow cutting the calm + baywater, and the sound of a band playing, that came alternately faint and + loud. “When I git rich,” Fuselli had liked to say to Al, “I'm going to + take a trip on one of them liners.” + </p> + <p> + “Yer dad come over from the old country in one, didn't he?” Al would ask. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he came steerage. I'd stay at home if I had to do that. Man, first + class for me, a cabin de lux, when I git rich.” + </p> + <p> + But here he was in this town in the East, where he didn't know anybody and + where there was no place to go but the movies. + </p> + <p> + “'Lo, buddy,” came a voice beside him. The tall youth who had sat opposite + at mess was just catching up to him. “Goin' to the movies?” + </p> + <p> + “Yare, nauthin' else to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Here's a rookie. Just got to camp this mornin',” said the tall youth, + jerking his head in the direction of the man beside him. + </p> + <p> + “You'll like it. Ain't so bad as it seems at first,” said Fuselli + encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “I was just telling him,” said the other, “to be careful as hell not to + get in wrong. If ye once get in wrong in this damn army... it's hell.” + </p> + <p> + “You bet yer life... so they sent ye over to our company, did they, + rookie? Ain't so bad. The sergeant's sort o' decent if yo're in right with + him, but the lieutenant's a stinker.... Where you from?” + </p> + <p> + “New York,” said the rookie, a little man of thirty with an ash-colored + face and a shiny Jewish nose. “I'm in the clothing business there. I + oughtn't to be drafted at all. It's an outrage. I'm consumptive.” He + spluttered in a feeble squeaky voice. + </p> + <p> + “They'll fix ye up, don't you fear,” said the tall youth. “They'll make + you so goddam well ye won't know yerself. Yer mother won't know ye, when + you get home, rookie.... But you're in luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Bein' from New York. The corporal, Tim Sidis, is from New York, an' all + the New York fellers in the company got a graft with him.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of cigarettes d'ye smoke?” asked the tall youth. + </p> + <p> + “I don't smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye'd better learn. The corporal likes fancy ciggies and so does the + sergeant; you jus' slip 'em each a butt now and then. May help ye to get + in right with 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't do no good,” said Fuselli.... “It's juss luck. But keep neat-like + and smilin' and you'll get on all right. And if they start to ride ye, + show fight. Ye've got to be hard boiled to git on in this army.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye're goddam right,” said the tall youth. “Don't let 'em ride yer.... + What's yer name, rookie?” + </p> + <p> + “Eisenstein.” + </p> + <p> + “This feller's name's Powers.... Bill Powers. Mine's Fuselli.... Goin' to + the movies, Mr. Eisenstein?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm trying to find a skirt.” The little man leered wanly. “Glad to + have got ackwainted.” + </p> + <p> + “Goddam kike!” said Powers as Eisenstein walked off up a side street, + planted, like the avenue, with saplings on which the sickly leaves rustled + in the faint breeze that smelt of factories and coal dust. + </p> + <p> + “Kikes ain't so bad,” said Fuselli, “I got a good friend who's a kike.” + </p> + <p> + They were coming out of the movies in a stream of people in which the + blackish clothes of factory-hands predominated. + </p> + <p> + “I came near bawlin' at the picture of the feller leavin' his girl to go + off to the war,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Did yer?” + </p> + <p> + “It was just like it was with me. Ever been in Frisco, Powers?” + </p> + <p> + The tall youth shook his head. Then he took off his broad-brimmed hat and + ran his fingers over his stubby tow-head. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, it was some hot in there,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's like this,” said Fuselli. “You have to cross the ferry to + Oakland. My aunt... ye know I ain't got any mother, so I always live at my + aunt's.... My aunt an' her sister-in-law an' Mabe... Mabe's my girl... + they all came over on the ferry-boat, 'spite of my tellin' 'em I didn't + want 'em. An' Mabe said she was mad at me, 'cause she'd seen the letter I + wrote Georgine Slater. She was a toughie, lived in our street, I used to + write mash notes to. An' I kep' tellin' Mabe I'd done it juss for the hell + of it, an' that I didn't mean nawthin' by it. An' Mabe said she wouldn't + never forgive me, an' then I said maybe I'd be killed an' she'd never see + me again, an' then we all began to bawl. Gawd! it was a mess.... ” + </p> + <p> + “It's hell sayin' good-by to girls,” said Powers, understandingly. “Cuts a + feller all up. I guess it's better to go with coosies. Ye don't have to + say good-by to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Ever gone with a coosie?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly,” admitted the tall youth, blushing all over his pink face, + so that it was noticeable even under the ashen glare of the arc lights on + the avenue that led towards camp. + </p> + <p> + “I have,” said Fuselli, with a certain pride. “I used to go with a + Portugee girl. My but she was a toughie. I've given all that up now I'm + engaged, though.... But I was tellin' ye.... Well, we finally made up an' + I kissed her an' Mabe said she'd never marry any one but me. So when we + was walkin” up the street I spied a silk service flag in a winder, that + was all fancy with a star all trimmed up to beat the band, an' I said to + myself, I'm goin' to give that to Mabe, an' I ran in an' bought it. I + didn't give a hoot in hell what it cost. So when we was all kissin' and + bawlin' when I was goin' to leave them to report to the overseas + detachment, I shoved it into her hand, an' said, 'Keep that, girl, an' + don't you forgit me.' An' what did she do but pull out a five-pound box o' + candy from behind her back an' say, 'Don't make yerself sick, Dan.' An' + she'd had it all the time without my knowin' it. Ain't girls clever?” + </p> + <p> + “Yare,” said the tall youth vaguely. + </p> + <p> + Along the rows of cots, when Fuselli got back to the barracks, men were + talking excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “There's hell to pay, somebody's broke out of the jug.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant Timmons said he made a rope of his blankets.” + </p> + <p> + “No, the feller on guard helped him to get away.” + </p> + <p> + “Like hell he did. It was like this. I was walking by the guardhouse when + they found out about it.” + </p> + <p> + “What company did he belong ter?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno.” + </p> + <p> + “What's his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Some guy on trial for insubordination. Punched an officer in the jaw.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd a liked to have seen that.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow he's fixed himself this time.” + </p> + <p> + “You're goddam right.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you fellers quit talkin'? It's after taps,” thundered the sergeant, + who sat reading the paper at a little board desk at the door of the + barracks under the feeble light of one small bulb, carefully screened. + “You'll have the O. D. down on us.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli wrapped the blanket round his head and prepared to sleep. Snuggled + down into the blankets on the narrow cot, he felt sheltered from the + sergeant's thundering voice and from the cold glare of officers' eyes. He + felt cosy and happy like he had felt in bed at home, when he had been a + little kid. For a moment he pictured to himself the other man, the man who + had punched an officer's jaw, dressed like he was, maybe only nineteen, + the same age like he was, with a girl like Mabe waiting for him somewhere. + How cold and frightful it must feel to be out of the camp with the guard + looking for you! He pictured himself running breathless down a long street + pursued by a company with guns, by officers whose eyes glinted cruelly + like the pointed tips of bullets. He pulled the blanket closer round his + head, enjoying the warmth and softness of the wool against his cheek. He + must remember to smile at the sergeant when he passed him off duty. + Somebody had said there'd be promotions soon. Oh, he wanted so hard to be + promoted. It'd be so swell if he could write back to Mabe and tell her to + address her letters Corporal Dan Fuselli. He must be more careful not to + do anything that would get him in wrong with anybody. He must never miss + an opportunity to show them what a clever kid he was. “Oh, when we're + ordered overseas, I'll show them,” he thought ardently, and picturing to + himself long movie reels of heroism he went off to sleep. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A sharp voice beside his cot woke him with a jerk. +</pre> + <p> + “Get up, you.” + </p> + <p> + The white beam of a pocket searchlight was glaring in the face of the man + next to him. + </p> + <p> + “The O. D.” said Fuselli to himself. + </p> + <p> + “Get up, you,” came the sharp voice again. + </p> + <p> + The man in the next cot stirred and opened his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Get up.” + </p> + <p> + “Here, sir,” muttered the man in the next cot, his eyes blinking sleepily + in the glare of the flashlight. He got out of bed and stood unsteadily at + attention. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know better than to sleep in your O. D. shirt? Take it off.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” + </p> + <p> + The man looked up, blinking, too dazed to speak. “Don't know your own + name, eh?” said the officer, glaring at the man savagely, using his curt + voice like a whip.—“Quick, take off yer shirt and pants and get back + to bed.” + </p> + <p> + The Officer of the Day moved on, flashing his light to one side and the + other in his midnight inspection of the barracks. Intense blackness again, + and the sound of men breathing deeply in sleep, of men snoring. As he went + to sleep Fuselli could hear the man beside him swearing, monotonously, in + an even whisper, pausing now and then to think of new filth, of new + combinations of words, swearing away his helpless anger, soothing himself + to sleep by the monotonous reiteration of his swearing. + </p> + <p> + A little later Fuselli woke with a choked nightmare cry. He had dreamed + that he had smashed the O. D. in the jaw and had broken out of the jug and + was running, breathless, stumbling, falling, while the company on guard + chased him down an avenue lined with little dried-up saplings, gaining on + him, while with voices metallic as the clicking of rifle triggers officers + shouted orders, so that he was certain to be caught, certain to be shot. + He shook himself all over, shaking off the nightmare as a dog shakes off + water, and went back to sleep again, snuggling into his blankets. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> + <p> + John Andrews stood naked in the center of a large bare room, of which the + walls and ceiling and floor were made of raw pine boards. The air was + heavy from the steam heat. At a desk in one corner a typewriter clicked + spasmodically. + </p> + <p> + “Say, young feller, d'you know how to spell imbecility?” + </p> + <p> + John Andrews walked over to the desk, told him, and added, “Are you going + to examine me?” + </p> + <p> + The man went on typewriting without answering. John Andrews stood in the + center of the floor with his arms folded, half amused, half angry, + shifting his weight from one foot to the other, listening to the sound of + the typewriter and of the man's voice as he read out each word of the + report he was copying. + </p> + <p> + “Recommendation for discharge”... click, click..."Damn this typewriter.... + Private Coe Elbert”... click, click. “Damn these rotten army + typewriters.... Reason... mental deficiency. History of Case....” At that + moment the recruiting sergeant came back. “Look here, if you don't have + that recommendation ready in ten minutes Captain Arthurs'll be mad as hell + about it, Hill. For God's sake get it done. He said already that if you + couldn't do the work, to get somebody who could. You don't want to lose + your job do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Hullo,” the sergeant's eyes lit on John Andrews, “I'd forgotten you. Run + around the room a little.... No, not that way. Just a little so I can test + yer heart.... God, these rookies are thick.” + </p> + <p> + While he stood tamely being prodded and measured, feeling like a prize + horse at a fair, John Andrews listened to the man at the typewriter, whose + voice went on monotonously. “No... record of sexual dep.... O hell, this + eraser's no good!... pravity or alcoholism; spent... normal... youth on + farm. App-ear-ance normal though im... say, how many 'm's' in immature?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, put yer clothes on,” said the recruiting sergeant. “Quick, I + can't spend all day. Why the hell did they send you down here alone?” + </p> + <p> + “The papers were balled up,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Scores ten years... in test B,” went on the voice of the man at the + typewriter. “Sen... exal ment... m-e-n-t-a-l-i-t-y that of child of eight. + Seems unable... to either.... Goddam this man's writin'. How kin I copy it + when he don't write out his words?” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I guess you'll do. Now there are some forms to fill out. Come + over here.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews followed the recruiting sergeant to a desk in the far corner of + the room, from which he could hear more faintly the click, click of the + typewriter and the man's voice mumbling angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Forgets to obey orders.... Responds to no form of per... suasion. + M-e-m-o-r-y, nil.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Take this to barracks B.... Fourth building, to the right; + shake a leg,” said the recruiting sergeant. + </p> + <p> + Andrews drew a deep breath of the sparkling air outside. He stood + irresolutely a moment on the wooden steps of the building looking down the + row of hastily constructed barracks. Some were painted green, some were of + plain boards, and some were still mere skeletons. Above his head great + piled, rose-tinted clouds were moving slowly across the immeasurable free + sky. His glance slid down the sky to some tall trees that flamed bright + yellow with autumn outside the camp limits, and then to the end of the + long street of barracks, where was a picket fence and a sentry walking to + and fro, to and fro. His brows contracted for a moment. Then he walked + with a sort of swagger towards the fourth building to the right. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews was washing windows. He stood in dirty blue denims at the top + of a ladder, smearing with a soapy cloth the small panes of the barrack + windows. His nostrils were full of a smell of dust and of the sandy + quality of the soap. A little man with one lined greyish-red cheek puffed + out by tobacco followed him up also on a ladder, polishing the panes with + a dry cloth till they shone and reflected the mottled cloudy sky. + Andrews's legs were tired from climbing up and down the ladder, his hands + were sore from the grittiness of the soap; as he worked he looked down, + without thinking, on rows of cots where the blankets were all folded the + same way, on some of which men were sprawled in attitudes of utter + relaxation. He kept remarking to himself how strange it was that he was + not thinking of anything. In the last few days his mind seemed to have + become a hard meaningless core. + </p> + <p> + “How long do we have to do this?” he asked the man who was working with + him. The man went on chewing, so that Andrews thought he was not going to + answer at all. He was just beginning to speak again when the man, + balancing thoughtfully on top of his ladder, drawled out: + </p> + <p> + “Four o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + “We won't finish today then?” + </p> + <p> + The man shook his head and wrinkled his face into a strange spasm as he + spat. + </p> + <p> + “Been here long?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so long.” + </p> + <p> + “How long?” + </p> + <p> + “Three months.... Ain't so long.” The man spat again, and climbing down + from his ladder waited, leaning against the wall, until Andrews should + finish soaping his window. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go crazy if I stay here three months.... I've been here a week,” + muttered Andrews between his teeth as he climbed down and moved his ladder + to the next window. + </p> + <p> + They both climbed their ladders again in silence. + </p> + <p> + “How's it you're in Casuals?” asked Andrews again. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't got no lungs.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't they discharge you?” + </p> + <p> + “Reckon they're going to, soon.” + </p> + <p> + They worked on in silence for a long time. Andrews stared at the upper + right-hand corner and smeared with soap each pane of the window in turn. + Then he climbed down, moved his ladder, and started on the next window. At + times he would start in the middle of the window for variety. As he worked + a rhythm began pushing its way through the hard core of his mind, + leavening it, making it fluid. It expressed the vast dusty dullness, the + men waiting in rows on drill fields, standing at attention, the monotony + of feet tramping in unison, of the dust rising from the battalions going + back and forth over the dusty drill fields. He felt the rhythm filling his + whole body, from his sore hands to his legs, tired from marching back and + forth from making themselves the same length as millions of other legs. + His mind began unconsciously, from habit, working on it, orchestrating it. + He could imagine a vast orchestra swaying with it. His heart was beating + faster. He must make it into music; he must fix it in himself, so that he + could make it into music and write it down, so that orchestras could play + it and make the ears of multitudes feel it, make their flesh tingle with + it. + </p> + <p> + He went on working through the endless afternoon, climbing up and down his + ladder, smearing the barrack windows with a soapy rag. A silly phrase took + the place of the welling of music in his mind: “Arbeit und Rhythmus.” He + kept saying it over and over to himself: “Arbeit und Rhythmus.” He tried + to drive the phrase out of his mind, to bury his mind in the music of the + rhythm that had come to him, that expressed the dusty boredom, the harsh + constriction of warm bodies full of gestures and attitudes and aspirations + into moulds, like the moulds toy soldiers are cast in. The phrase became + someone shouting raucously in his ears: “Arbeit und Rhythmus,”—drowning + everything else, beating his mind hard again, parching it. + </p> + <p> + But suddenly he laughed aloud. Why, it was in German. He was being got + ready to kill men who said that. If anyone said that, he was going to kill + him. They were going to kill everybody who spoke that language, he and all + the men whose feet he could hear tramping on the drill field, whose legs + were all being made the same length on the drill field. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> + <p> + It was Saturday morning. Directed by the corporal, a bandy-legged Italian + who even on the army diet managed to keep a faint odour of garlic about + him, three soldiers in blue denims were sweeping up the leaves in the + street between the rows of barracks. + </p> + <p> + “You fellers are slow as molasses.... Inspection in twenty-five minutes,” + he kept saying. + </p> + <p> + The soldiers raked on doggedly, paying no attention. “You don't give a + damn. If we don't pass inspection, I get hell—not you. Please + queeck. Here, you, pick up all those goddam cigarette butts.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews made a grimace and began collecting the little grey sordid ends of + burnt-out cigarettes. As he leant over he found himself looking into the + dark-brown eyes of the soldier who was working beside him. The eyes were + contracted with anger and there was a flush under the tan of the boyish + face. + </p> + <p> + “Ah didn't git in this here army to be ordered around by a goddam wop,” he + muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Doesn't matter much who you're ordered around by, you're ordered around + just the same,” said Andrews. “Where d'ye come from, buddy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I come from New York. My folks are from Virginia,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Indiana's ma state. The tornado country.... Git to work; here's that + bastard wop comin' around the buildin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't pick 'em up that-a-way; sweep 'em up,” shouted the corporal. + </p> + <p> + Andrews and the Indiana boy went round with a broom and a shovel + collecting chewed-out quids of tobacco and cigar butts and stained bits of + paper. + </p> + <p> + “What's your name? Mahn's Chrisfield. Folks all call me Chris.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine's Andrews, John Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “Ma dad uster have a hired man named Andy. Took sick an' died last summer. + How long d'ye reckon it'll be before us-guys git overseas?” + </p> + <p> + “God, I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah want to see that country over there.” + </p> + <p> + “You do?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet I do.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, what you fellers stand here for? Go and dump them garbage + cans. Lively!” shouted the corporal waddling about importantly on his + bandy legs. He kept looking down the row of barracks, muttering to + himself, “Goddam.... Time fur inspectin' now, goddam. Won't never pass + this time.” + </p> + <p> + His face froze suddenly into obsequious immobility. He brought his hand up + to the brim of his hat. A group of officers strode past him into the + nearest building. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews, coming back from emptying the garbage pails, went in the + back door of his barracks. + </p> + <p> + “Attention!” came the cry from the other end. He made his neck and arms as + rigid as possible. + </p> + <p> + Through the silent barracks came the hard clank of the heels of the + officers inspecting. + </p> + <p> + A sallow face with hollow eyes and heavy square jaw came close to + Andrews's eyes. He stared straight before him noting the few reddish hairs + on the officer's Adam's apple and the new insignia on either side of his + collar. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant, who is this man?” came a voice from the sallow face. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know, sir; a new recruit, sir. Corporal Valori, who is this man?” + </p> + <p> + “The name's Andrews, sergeant,” said the Italian corporal with an + obsequious whine in his voice. + </p> + <p> + The officer addressed Andrews directly, speaking fast and loud. “How long + have you been in the army?” + </p> + <p> + “One week, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know you have to be clean and shaved and ready for inspection + every Saturday morning at nine?” + </p> + <p> + “I was cleaning the barracks, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “To teach you not to answer back when an officer addresses you....” The + officer spaced his words carefully, lingering on them. As he spoke he + glanced out of the corner of his eye at his superior and noticed the major + was frowning. His tone changed ever so slightly. “If this ever occurs + again you may be sure that disciplinary action will be taken.... Attention + there!” At the other end of the barracks a man had moved. Again, amid + absolute silence, could be heard the clanking of the officers' heels as + the inspection continued. + </p> + <p> + “Now, fellows, all together,” cried the “Y” man who stood with his arms + stretched wide in front of the movie screen. The piano started jingling + and the roomful of crowded soldiers roared out: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hail, Hail, the gang's all here; + We're going to get the Kaiser, + We're going to get the Kaiser, + We're going to get the Kaiser, + Now!” + </pre> + <p> + The rafters rang with their deep voices. + </p> + <p> + The “Y” man twisted his lean face into a facetious expression. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody tried to put one over on the 'Y' man and sing 'What the hell do + we care?' But you do care, don't you, Buddy?” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + There was a little rattle of laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Now, once more,” said the “Y” man again, “and lots of guts in the get and + lots of kill in the Kaiser. Now all together.... ” + </p> + <p> + The moving pictures had begun. John Andrews looked furtively about him, at + the face of the Indiana boy beside him intent on the screen, at the tanned + faces and the close-cropped heads that rose above the mass of + khaki-covered bodies about him. Here and there a pair of eyes glinted in + the white flickering light from the screen. Waves of laughter or of little + exclamations passed over them. They were all so alike, they seemed at + moments to be but one organism. This was what he had sought when he had + enlisted, he said to himself. It was in this that he would take refuge + from the horror of the world that had fallen upon him. He was sick of + revolt, of thought, of carrying his individuality like a banner above the + turmoil. This was much better, to let everything go, to stamp out his + maddening desire for music, to humble himself into the mud of common + slavery. He was still tingling with sudden anger from the officer's voice + that morning: “Sergeant, who is this man?” The officer had stared in his + face, as a man might stare at a piece of furniture. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't this some film?” Chrisfield turned to him with a smile that drove + his anger away in a pleasant feeling of comradeship. + </p> + <p> + “The part that's comin's fine. I seen it before out in Frisco,” said the + man on the other side of Andrews. “Gee, it makes ye hate the Huns.” + </p> + <p> + The man at the piano jingled elaborately in the intermission between the + two parts of the movie. + </p> + <p> + The Indiana boy leaned in front of John Andrews, putting an arm round his + shoulders, and talked to the other man. + </p> + <p> + “You from Frisco?” + </p> + <p> + “Yare.” + </p> + <p> + “That's goddam funny. You're from the Coast, this feller's from New York, + an' Ah'm from ole Indiana, right in the middle.” + </p> + <p> + “What company you in?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah ain't yet. This feller an me's in Casuals.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a hell of a place.... Say, my name's Fuselli.” + </p> + <p> + “Mahn's Chrisfield.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine's Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “How soon's it take a feller to git out o' this camp?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno. Some guys says three weeks and some says six months.... Say, mebbe + you'll get into our company. They transferred a lot of men out the other + day, an' the corporal says they're going to give us rookies instead.” + </p> + <p> + “Goddam it, though, but Ah want to git overseas.” + </p> + <p> + “It's swell over there,” said Fuselli, “everything's awful pretty-like. + Picturesque, they call it. And the people wears peasant costumes.... I had + an uncle who used to tell me about it. He came from near Torino.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's that?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno. He's an Eyetalian.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, how long does it take to git overseas?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a week or two,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “As long as that?” But the movie had begun again, unfolding scenes of + soldiers in spiked helmets marching into Belgian cities full of little + milk carts drawn by dogs and old women in peasant costume. There were + hisses and catcalls when a German flag was seen, and as the troops were + pictured advancing, bayonetting the civilians in wide Dutch pants, the old + women with starched caps, the soldiers packed into the stuffy Y. M. C. A. + hut shouted oaths at them. Andrews felt blind hatred stirring like + something that had a life of its own in the young men about him. He was + lost in it, carried away in it, as in a stampede of wild cattle. The + terror of it was like ferocious hands clutching his throat. He glanced at + the faces round him. They were all intent and flushed, glinting with sweat + in the heat of the room. + </p> + <p> + As he was leaving the hut, pressed in a tight stream of soldiers moving + towards the door, Andrews heard a man say: + </p> + <p> + “I never raped a woman in my life, but by God, I'm going to. I'd give a + lot to rape some of those goddam German women.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate 'em too,” came another voice, “men, women, children and unborn + children. They're either jackasses or full of the lust for power like + their rulers are, to let themselves be governed by a bunch of warlords + like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'd lahk te cepture a German officer an' make him shine ma boots an' + then shoot him dead,” said Chris to Andrews as they walked down the long + row towards their barracks. + </p> + <p> + “You would?” + </p> + <p> + “But Ah'd a damn side rather shoot somebody else Ah know,” went on Chris + intensely. “Don't stay far from here either. An' Ah'll do it too, if he + don't let off pickin' on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” + </p> + <p> + “That big squirt Anderson they made a file closer at drill yesterday. He + seems to think that just because Ah'm littler than him he can do anything + he likes with me.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews turned sharply and looked in his companion's face; something in + the gruffness of the boy's tone startled him. He was not accustomed to + this. He had thought of himself as a passionate person, but never in his + life had he wanted to kill a man. + </p> + <p> + “D'you really want to kill him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not now, but he gits the hell started in me, the way he teases me. Ah + pulled ma knife on him yisterday. You wasn't there. Didn't ye notice Ah + looked sort o' upsot at drill?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes... but how old are you, Chris!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'm twenty. You're older than me, ain't yer?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm twenty-two.” + </p> + <p> + They were leaning against the wall of their barracks, looking up at the + brilliant starry night. + </p> + <p> + “Say, is the stars the same over there, overseas, as they is here?” + </p> + <p> + “I guess so,” said Andrews, laughing. “Though I've never been to see.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah never had much schoolin',” went on Chris. “I lef school when I was + twelve, 'cause it warn't much good, an' dad drank so the folks needed me + to work on the farm.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you grow in your part of the country?” + </p> + <p> + “Mostly coan. A little wheat an' tobacca. Then we raised a lot o' + stock.... But Ah was juss going to tell ye Ah nearly did kill a guy once.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah was drunk at the time. Us boys round Tallyville was a pretty tough + bunch then. We used ter work juss long enough to git some money to tear + things up with. An' then we used to play craps an' drink whiskey. This + happened just at coan-shuckin' time. Hell, Ah don't even know what it was + about, but Ah got to quarrellin' with a feller Ah'd been right smart + friends with. Then he laid off an' hit me in the jaw. Ah don't know what + Ah done next, but before Ah knowed it Ah had a hold of a shuck-in' knife + and was slashin' at him with it. A knife like that's a turruble thing to + stab a man with. It took four of 'em to hold me down an' git it away from + me. They didn't keep me from givin' him a good cut across the chest, + though. Ah was juss crazy drunk at the time. An' man, if Ah wasn't a mess + to go home, with half ma clothes pulled off and ma shirt torn. Ah juss + fell in the ditch an' slep' there till daylight an' got mud all through ma + hair.... Ah don't scarcely tech a drop now, though.” + </p> + <p> + “So you're in a hurry to get overseas, Chris, like me,” said Andrews after + a long pause. + </p> + <p> + “Ah'll push that guy Anderson into the sea, if we both go over on the same + boat,” said Chrisfield laughing; but he added after a pause: “It would + have been hell if Ah'd killed that feller, though. Honest Ah wouldn't + a-wanted to do that.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the job that pays, a violinist,” said somebody. + </p> + <p> + “No, it don't,” came a melancholy drawling voice from a lanky man who sat + doubled up with his long face in his hands and his elbows resting on his + knees. “Just brings a living wage... a living wage.” + </p> + <p> + Several men were grouped at the end of the barracks. From them the long + row of cots, with here and there a man asleep or a man hastily undressing, + stretched, lighted by occasional feeble electric-light bulbs, to the + sergeant's little table beside the door. + </p> + <p> + “You're gettin' a dis-charge, aren't you?” asked a man with a brogue, and + the red face of a jovial gorilla, that signified the bartender. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Flannagan, I am,” said the lanky man dolefully. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't he got hard luck?” came a voice from the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have got hard luck, Buddy,” said the lanky man, looking at the + faces about him out of sunken eyes. “I ought to be getting forty dollars a + week and here I am getting seven and in the army besides.” + </p> + <p> + “I meant that you were gettin' out of this goddam army.” + </p> + <p> + “The army, the army, the democratic army,” chanted someone under his + breath. + </p> + <p> + “But, begorry, I want to go overseas and 'ave a look at the 'uns,” said + Flannagan, who managed with strange skill to combine a cockney whine with + his Irish brogue. + </p> + <p> + “Overseas?” took up the lanky man. “If I could have gone an' studied + overseas, I'd be making as much as Kubelik. I had the makings of a good + player in me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you go?” asked Andrews, who stood on the outskirts with Fuselli + and Chris. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me... t. b.,” said the lanky man. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they can't get me over there soon enough,” said Flannagan. + </p> + <p> + “Must be funny not bein' able to understand what folks say. They say 'we' + over there when they mean 'yes,' a guy told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye can make signs to them, can't ye?” said Flannagan “an' they can + understand an Irishman anywhere. But ye won't 'ave to talk to the 'uns. + Begorry I'll set up in business when I get there, what d'ye think of + that?” + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. + </p> + <p> + “How'd that do? I'll start an Irish House in Berlin, I will, and there'll + be O'Casey and O'Ryan and O'Reilly and O'Flarrety, and begod the King of + England himself'll come an' set the goddam Kaiser up to a drink.” + </p> + <p> + “The Kaiser'll be strung up on a telephone pole by that time; ye needn't + worry, Flannagan.” + </p> + <p> + “They ought to torture him to death, like they do niggers when they lynch + 'em down south.” + </p> + <p> + A bugle sounded far away outside on the parade ground. Everyone slunk away + silently to his cot. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews arranged himself carefully in his blankets, promising himself + a quiet time of thought before going to sleep. He needed to be awake and + think at night this way, so that he might not lose entirely the thread of + his own life, of the life he would take up again some day if he lived + through it. He brushed away the thought of death. It was uninteresting. He + didn't care anyway. But some day he would want to play the piano again, to + write music. He must not let himself sink too deeply into the helpless + mentality of the soldier. He must keep his will power. + </p> + <p> + No, but that was not what he had wanted to think about. He was so bored + with himself. At any cost he must forget himself. Ever since his first + year at college he seemed to have done nothing but think about himself, + talk about himself. At least at the bottom, in the utterest degradation of + slavery, he could find forgetfulness and start rebuilding the fabric of + his life, out of real things this time, out of work and comradeship and + scorn. Scorn—that was the quality he needed. It was such a raw, + fantastic world he had suddenly fallen into. His life before this week + seemed a dream read in a novel, a picture he had seen in a shop window—it + was so different. Could it have been in the same world at all? He must + have died without knowing it and been born again into a new, futile hell. + </p> + <p> + When he had been a child he had lived in a dilapidated mansion that stood + among old oaks and chestnuts, beside a road where buggies and oxcarts + passed rarely to disturb the sandy ruts that lay in the mottled shade. He + had had so many dreams; lying under the crepe-myrtle bush at the end of + the overgrown garden he had passed the long Virginia afternoons, thinking, + while the dryflies whizzed sleepily in the sunlight, of the world he would + live in when he grew up. He had planned so many lives for himself: a + general, like Caesar, he was to conquer the world and die murdered in a + great marble hall; a wandering minstrel, he would go through all countries + singing and have intricate endless adventures; a great musician, he would + sit at the piano playing, like Chopin in the engraving, while beautiful + women wept and men with long, curly hair hid their faces in their hands. + It was only slavery that he had not foreseen. His race had dominated for + too many centuries for that. And yet the world was made of various + slaveries. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews lay on his back on his cot while everyone about him slept and + snored in the dark barracks. A certain terror held him. In a week the + great structure of his romantic world, so full of many colors and + harmonies, that had survived school and college and the buffeting of + making a living in New York, had fallen in dust about him. He was utterly + in the void. “How silly,” he thought; “this is the world as it has + appeared to the majority of men, this is just the lower half of the + pyramid.” + </p> + <p> + He thought of his friends, of Fuselli and Chrisfield and that funny little + man Eisenstein. They seemed at home in this army life. They did not seem + appalled by the loss of their liberty. But they had never lived in the + glittering other world. Yet he could not feel the scorn of them he wanted + to feel. He thought of them singing under the direction of the “Y” man: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hail, Hail, the gang's all here; + We're going to get the Kaiser, + We're going to get the Kaiser, + We're going to get the Kaiser, + Now!” + </pre> + <p> + He thought of himself and Chrisfield picking up cigarette butts and the + tramp, tramp, tramp of feet on the drill field. Where was the connection? + Was this all futile madness? They'd come from such various worlds, all + these men sleeping about him, to be united in this. And what did they + think of it, all these sleepers? Had they too not had dreams when they + were boys? Or had the generations prepared them only for this? + </p> + <p> + He thought of himself lying under the crepe-myrtle bush through the hot, + droning afternoon, watching the pale magenta flowers flutter down into the + dry grass, and felt, again, wrapped in his warm blankets among all these + sleepers, the straining of limbs burning with desire to rush untrammelled + through some new keen air. Suddenly darkness overspread his mind. + </p> + <p> + He woke with a start. The bugle was blowing outside. + </p> + <p> + “All right, look lively!” the sergeant was shouting. Another day. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> + <p> + The stars were very bright when Fuselli, eyes stinging with sleep, + stumbled out of the barracks. They trembled like bits of brilliant jelly + in the black velvet of the sky, just as something inside him trembled with + excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Anybody know where the electricity turns on?” asked the sergeant in a + good-humored voice. “Here it is.” The light over the door of the barracks + snapped on, revealing a rotund cheerful man with a little yellow mustache + and an unlit cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. Grouped + about him, in overcoats and caps, the men of the company rested their + packs against their knees. + </p> + <p> + “All right; line up, men.” + </p> + <p> + Eyes looked curiously at Fuselli as he lined up with the rest. He had been + transferred into the company the night before. + </p> + <p> + “Attenshun,” shouted the sergeant. Then he wrinkled up his eyes and + grinned hard at the slip of paper he had in his hand, while the men of his + company watched him affectionately. + </p> + <p> + “Answer 'Here' when your name is called. Allan, B.C.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo!” came a shrill voice from the end of the line. + </p> + <p> + “Anspach.” + </p> + <p> + “Here.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile outside the other barracks other companies could be heard + calling the roll. Somewhere from the end of the street came a cheer. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess I can tell you now, fellers,” said the sergeant with his + air of quiet omniscience, when he had called the last name. “We're going + overseas.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody cheered. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, you don't want the Huns to hear us, do you?” + </p> + <p> + The company laughed, and there was a broad grin on the sergeant's round + face. + </p> + <p> + “Seem to have a pretty decent top-kicker,” whispered Fuselli to the man + next to him. + </p> + <p> + “You bet yer, kid, he's a peach,” said the other man in a voice full of + devotion. “This is some company, I can tell you that.” + </p> + <p> + “You bet it is,” said the next man along. “The corporal's in the Red Sox + outfield.” + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant appeared suddenly in the area of light in front of the + barracks. He was a pink-faced boy. His trench coat, a little too large, + was very new and stuck out stiffly from his legs. + </p> + <p> + “Everything all right, sergeant? Everything all right?” he asked several + times, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. + </p> + <p> + “All ready for entrainment, sir,” said the sergeant heartily. + </p> + <p> + “Very good, I'll let you know the order of march in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli's ears pounded with strange excitement. These phrases, + “entrainment,” “order of march,” had a businesslike sound. He suddenly + started to wonder how it would feel to be under fire. Memories of movies + flickered in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, ain't I glad to git out o' this hell-hole,” he said to the man next + him. + </p> + <p> + “The next one may be more of a hell-hole yet, buddy,” said the sergeant + striding up and down with his important confident walk. + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. + </p> + <p> + “He's some sergeant, our sergeant is,” said the man next to Fuselli. “He's + got brains in his head, that boy has.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, break ranks,” said the sergeant, “but if anybody moves away + from this barracks, I'll put him in K. P. Till—till he'll be able to + peel spuds in his sleep.” + </p> + <p> + The company laughed again. Fuselli noticed with displeasure that the tall + man with the shrill voice whose name had been called first on the roll did + not laugh but spat disgustedly out of the corner of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there are bad eggs in every good bunch,” thought Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + It gradually grew grey with dawn. Fuselli's legs were tired from standing + so long. Outside all the barracks, as far as he could see up the street, + men stood in ragged lines waiting. + </p> + <p> + The sun rose hot on a cloudless day. A few sparrows twittered about the + tin roof of the barracks. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, we're not goin' this day.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked somebody savagely. + </p> + <p> + “Troops always leaves at night.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell they do!” + </p> + <p> + “Here comes Sarge.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody craned their necks in the direction pointed out. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant strolled up with a mysterious smile on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Put away your overcoats and get out your mess kits.” + </p> + <p> + Mess kits clattered and gleamed in the slanting rays of the sun. They + marched to the mess hall and back again, lined up again with packs and + waited some more. + </p> + <p> + Everybody began to get tired and peevish. Fuselli wondered where his old + friends of the other company were. They were good kids too, Chris and that + educated fellow, Andrews. Tough luck they couldn't have come along. + </p> + <p> + The sun rose higher. Men sneaked into the barracks one by one and lay down + on the bare cots. + </p> + <p> + “What you want to bet we won't leave this camp for a week yet?” asked + someone. + </p> + <p> + At noon they lined up for mess again, ate dismally and hurriedly. As + Fuselli was leaving the mess hall tapping a tattoo on his kit with two + dirty finger nails, the corporal spoke to him in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Be sure to wash yer kit, buddy. We may have pack inspection.” + </p> + <p> + The corporal was a slim yellow-faced man with a wrinkled skin, though he + was still young, and an arrow-shaped mouth that opened and shut like the + paper mouths children make. + </p> + <p> + “All right, corporal,” Fuselli answered cheerfully. He wanted to make a + good impression. “Fellers'll be sayin' 'All right, corporal,' to me soon,” + he thought. An idea that he repelled came into his mind. The corporal + didn't look strong. He wouldn't last long overseas. And he pictured Mabe + writing Corporal Dan Fuselli, O.A.R.D.5. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the afternoon, the lieutenant appeared suddenly, his face + flushed, his trench coat stiffer than ever. + </p> + <p> + “All right, sergeant; line up your men,” he said in a breathless voice. + </p> + <p> + All down the camp street companies were forming. One by one they marched + out in columns of fours and halted with their packs on. The day was + getting amber with sunset. Retreat sounded. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli's mind had suddenly become very active. The notes of the bugle and + of the band playing “The Star Spangled Banner” sifted into his + consciousness through a dream of what it would be like over there. He was + in a place like the Exposition ground, full of old men and women in + peasant costume, like in the song, “When It's Apple Blossom Time in + Normandy.” Men in spiked helmets who looked like firemen kept charging + through, like the Ku-Klux Klan in the movies, jumping from their horses + and setting fire to buildings with strange outlandish gestures, spitting + babies on their long swords. Those were the Huns. Then there were flags + blowing very hard in the wind, and the sound of a band. The Yanks were + coming. Everything was lost in a scene from a movie in which khaki-clad + regiments marched fast, fast across the scene. The memory of the shouting + that always accompanied it drowned out the picture. “The guns must make a + racket, though,” he added as an after-thought. + </p> + <p> + “Atten-shun! + </p> + <p> + “Forwa—ard, march!” + </p> + <p> + The long street of the camp was full of the tramping of feet. They were + off. As they passed through the gate Fuselli caught a glimpse of Chris + standing with his arm about Andrews's shoulders. They both waved. Fuselli + grinned and expanded his chest. They were just rookies still. He was going + overseas. + </p> + <p> + The weight of the pack tugged at his shoulders and made his feet heavy as + if they were charged with lead. The sweat ran down his close-clipped head + under the overseas cap and streamed into his eyes and down the sides of + his nose. Through the tramp of feet he heard confusedly cheering from the + sidewalk. In front of him the backs of heads and the swaying packs got + smaller, rank by rank up the street. Above them flags dangled from + windows, flags leisurely swaying in the twilight. But the weight of the + pack, as the column marched under arc lights glaring through the + afterglow, inevitably forced his head to droop forward. The soles of boots + and legs wrapped in puttees and the bottom strap of the pack of the man + ahead of him were all he could see. The pack seemed heavy enough to push + him through the asphalt pavement. And all about him was the faint jingle + of equipment and the tramp of feet. Every part of him was full of sweat. + He could feel vaguely the steam of sweat that rose from the ranks of + struggling bodies about him. But gradually he forgot everything but the + pack tugging at his shoulders, weighing down his thighs and ankles and + feet, and the monotonous rhythm of his feet striking the pavement and of + the other feet, in front of him, behind him, beside him, crunching, + crunching. + </p> + <p> + The train smelt of new uniforms on which the sweat had dried, and of the + smoke of cheap cigarettes. Fuselli awoke with a start. He had been asleep + with his head on Bill Grey's shoulder. It was already broad daylight. The + train was jolting slowly over cross-tracks in some dismal suburb, full of + long soot-smeared warehouses and endless rows of freight cars, beyond + which lay brown marshland and slate-grey stretches of water. + </p> + <p> + “God! that must be the Atlantic Ocean,” cried Fuselli in excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't yer never seen it before? That's the Perth River,” said Bill Grey + scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “No, I come from the Coast.” + </p> + <p> + They stuck their heads out of the window side by side so that their cheeks + touched. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, there's some skirts,” said Bill Grey. The train jolted to a stop. + Two untidy red-haired girls were standing beside the track waving their + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Give us a kiss,” cried Bill Grey. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said a girl,—“anythin' fer one of our boys.” + </p> + <p> + She stood on tiptoe and Grey leaned far out of the window, just managing + to reach the girl's forehead. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli felt a flush of desire all over him. + </p> + <p> + “Hol' onter my belt,” he said. “I'll kiss her right.” + </p> + <p> + He leaned far out, and, throwing his arms around the girl's pink gingham + shoulders, lifted her off the ground and kissed her furiously on the lips. + </p> + <p> + “Lemme go, lemme go,” cried the girl. Men leaning out of the other windows + of the car cheered and shouted. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli kissed her again and then dropped her. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're too rough, damn ye,” said the girl angrily. + </p> + <p> + A man from one of the windows yelled, “I'll go an' tell mommer”; and + everybody laughed. The train moved on. Fuselli looked about him proudly. + The image of Mabe giving him the five-pound box of candy rose a moment in + his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't no harm in havin' a little fun. Don't mean nothin',” he said aloud. + </p> + <p> + “You just wait till we hit France. We'll hit it up some with the + Madimerzels, won't we, kid?” said Bill Grey, slapping Fuselli on the knee. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Beautiful Katy, + Ki-Ki-Katy, + You're the only gugugu-girl that I adore; + And when the mo-moon shines + Over the cowshed, + I'll be waiting at the ki-ki-ki-kitchen door.” + </pre> + <p> + Everybody sang as the thumping of wheels over rails grew faster. Fuselli + looked about contentedly at the company sprawling over their packs and + equipment in the smoky car. + </p> + <p> + “It's great to be a soldier,” he said to Bill Grey. “Ye kin do anything ye + goddam please.” + </p> + <p> + “This,” said the corporal, as the company filed into barracks identical to + those they had left two days before, “is an embarkation camp, but I'd like + to know where the hell we embark at.” He twisted his face into a smile, + and then shouted with lugubrious intonation: “Fall in for mess.” + </p> + <p> + It was pitch dark in that part of the camp. The electric lights had a + sparse reddish glow. Fuselli kept straining his eyes, expecting to see a + wharf and the masts of a ship at the end of every alley. The line filed + into a dim mess hall, where a thin stew was splashed into the mess kits. + Behind the counter of the kitchen the non-coms, the jovial first sergeant, + and the businesslike sergeant who looked like a preacher, and the + wrinkled-faced corporal who had been on the Red Sox outfield, could be + seen eating steak. A faint odor of steak frying went through the mess hall + and made the thin chilly stew utterly tasteless in comparison. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli looked enviously towards the kitchen and thought of the day when + he would be a non-com too. “I got to get busy,” he said to himself + earnestly. Overseas, under fire, he'd have a chance to show what he was + worth; and he pictured himself heroically carrying a wounded captain back + to a dressing tent, pursued by fierce-whiskered men with spiked helmets + like firemen's helmets. + </p> + <p> + The strumming of a guitar came strangely down the dark street of the camp. + </p> + <p> + “Some guy sure can play,” said Bill Grey who, with his hands in his + pockets, slouched along beside Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + They looked in the door of one of the barracks. A lot of soldiers were + sitting in a ring round two tall negroes whose black faces and chests + glistened like jet in the faint light. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Charley, give us another,” said someone. + </p> + <p> + “Do Ah git it now, or mus' Ah hesit-ate?” + </p> + <p> + One negro began chanting while the other strummed carelessly on the + guitar. + </p> + <p> + “No, give us the 'Titanic.'” + </p> + <p> + The guitar strummed in a crooning rag-time for a moment. The negro's voice + broke into it suddenly, pitched high. + </p> + <p> + “Dis is de song ob de Titanic, Sailin' on de sea.” + </p> + <p> + The guitar strummed on. There had been a tension in the negro's voice that + had made everyone stop talking. The soldiers looked at him curiously. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How de Titanic ran in dat cole iceberg, + How de Titanic ran in dat cole iceberg + Sailin' on de sea.” + </pre> + <p> + His voice was confidential and soft, and the guitar strummed to the same + sobbing rag-time. Verse after verse the voice grew louder and the + strumming faster. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “De Titanic's sinkin' in de deep blue, + Sinkin' in de deep blue, deep blue, + Sinkin' in de sea. + O de women an' de chilen a-floatin' in de sea, + O de women an' de chilen a-floatin' in de sea, + Roun' dat cole iceberg, + Sung 'Nearer, my gawd, to Thee,' + Sung 'Nearer, my gawd, to Thee, + Nearer to Thee.'” + </pre> + <p> + The guitar was strumming the hymn-tune. The negro was singing with every + cord in his throat taut, almost sobbing. + </p> + <p> + A man next to Fuselli took careful aim and spat into the box of sawdust in + the middle of the ring of motionless soldiers. + </p> + <p> + The guitar played the rag-time again, fast, almost mockingly. The negro + sang in low confidential tones. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O de women an' de chilen dey sank in de sea. + O de women an' de chilen dey sank in de sea, + Roun' dat cole iceberg.” + </pre> + <p> + Before he had finished a bugle blew in the distance. Everybody scattered. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli and Bill Grey went silently back to their barracks. + </p> + <p> + “It must be an awful thing to drown in the sea,” said Grey as he rolled + himself in his blankets. “If one of those bastard U-boats...” + </p> + <p> + “I don't give a damn,” said Fuselli boisterously; but as he lay staring + into the darkness, cold terror stiffened him suddenly. He thought for a + moment of deserting, pretending he was sick, anything to keep from going + on the transport. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O de women an' de chilen dey sank in de sea, + Roun” dat cole iceberg.” + </pre> + <p> + He could feel himself going down through icy water. “It's a hell of a + thing to send a guy over there to drown,” he said to himself, and he + thought of the hilly streets of San Francisco, and the glow of the sunset + over the harbor and ships coming in through the Golden Gate. His mind went + gradually blank and he went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + The column was like some curious khaki-colored carpet, hiding the road as + far as you could see. In Fuselli's company the men were shifting their + weight from one foot to the other, muttering, “What the hell a' they + waiting for now?” Bill Grey, next to Fuselli in the ranks, stood bent + double so as to take the weight of his pack off his shoulders. They were + at a cross-roads on fairly high ground so that they could see the long + sheds and barracks of the camp stretching away in every direction, in rows + and rows, broken now and then by a grey drill field. In front of them the + column stretched to the last bend in the road, where it disappeared on a + hill among mustard-yellow suburban houses. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was excited. He kept thinking of the night before, when he had + helped the sergeant distribute emergency rations, and had carried about + piles of boxes of hard bread, counting them carefully without a mistake. + He felt full of desire to do things, to show what he was good for. “Gee,” + he said to himself, “this war's a lucky thing for me. I might have been in + the R.C. Vicker Company's store for five years an' never got a raise, an' + here in the army I got a chance to do almost anything.” + </p> + <p> + Far ahead down the road the column was beginning to move. Voices shouting + orders beat crisply on the morning air. Fuselli's heart was thumping. He + felt proud of himself and of the company—the damn best company in + the whole outfit. The company ahead was moving, it was their turn now. + </p> + <p> + “Forwa—ard, march!” + </p> + <p> + They were lost in the monotonous tramp of feet. Dust rose from the road, + along which like a drab brown worm crawled the column. + </p> + <p> + A sickening unfamiliar smell choked their nostrils. + </p> + <p> + “What are they taking us down here for?” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know.” + </p> + <p> + They were filing down ladders into the terrifying pit which the hold of + the ship seemed to them. Every man had a blue card in his hand with a + number on it. In a dim place like an empty warehouse they stopped. The + sergeant shouted out: + </p> + <p> + “I guess this is our diggings. We'll have to make the best of it.” Then he + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli looked about him. He was sitting in one of the lowest of three + tiers of bunks roughly built of new pine boards. Electric lights placed + here and there gave a faint reddish tone to the gloom, except at the + ladders, where high-power lamps made a white glare. The place was full of + tramping of feet and the sound of packs being thrown on bunks as endless + files of soldiers poured in down every ladder. Somewhere down the alley an + officer with a shrill voice was shouting to his men: “Speed it up there; + speed it up there.” Fuselli sat on his bunk looking at the terrifying + confusion all about, feeling bewildered and humiliated. For how many days + would they be in that dark pit? He suddenly felt angry. They had no right + to treat a feller like that. He was a man, not a bale of hay to be bundled + about as anybody liked. + </p> + <p> + “An' if we're torpedoed a fat chance we'll have down here,” he said aloud. + </p> + <p> + “They got sentries posted to keep us from goin up on deck,” said someone. + </p> + <p> + “God damn them. They treat you like you was a steer being taken over for + meat.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're not a damn sight more. Meat for the guns.” + </p> + <p> + A little man lying in one of the upper bunks had spoken suddenly, + contracting his sallow face into a curious spasm, as if the words had + burst from him in spite of an effort to keep them in. + </p> + <p> + Everybody looked up at him angrily. + </p> + <p> + “That goddam kike Eisenstein,” muttered someone. + </p> + <p> + “Say, tie that bull outside,” shouted Bill Grey good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + “Fools,” muttered Eisenstein, turning over and burying his face in his + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, I wonder what it is makes it smell so funny down here,” said + Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli lay flat on deck resting his head on his crossed arms. When he + looked straight up he could see a lead-colored mast sweep back and forth + across the sky full of clouds of light grey and silver and dark + purplish-grey showing yellowish at the edges. When he tilted his head a + little to one side he could see Bill Grey's heavy colorless face and the + dark bristles of his unshaven chin and his mouth a little twisted to the + left, from which a cigarette dangled unlighted. Beyond were heads and + bodies huddled together in a mass of khaki overcoats and life preservers. + And when the roll tipped the deck he had a view of moving green waves and + of a steamer striped grey and white, and the horizon, a dark taut line, + broken here and there by the tops of waves. + </p> + <p> + “O God, I feel sick,” said Bill Grey, taking the cigarette out of his + mouth and looking at it revengefully. + </p> + <p> + “I'd be all right if everything didn't stink so. An' that mess hall. + Nearly makes a guy puke to think of it.” Fuselli spoke in a whining voice, + watching the top of the mast move like a pencil scrawling on paper, back + and forth across the mottled clouds. + </p> + <p> + “You belly-achin' again?” A brown moon-shaped face with thick black + eyebrows and hair curling crisply about a forehead with many horizontal + wrinkles rose from the deck on the other side of Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Get the hell out of here.” + </p> + <p> + “Feel sick, sonny?” came the deep voice again, and the dark eyebrows + contracted in an expression of sympathy. “Funny, I'd have my sixshooter + out if I was home and you told me to get the hell out, sonny.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, who wouldn't be sore when they have to go on K.P.?” said Fuselli + peevishly. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't been down to mess in three days. A feller who lives on the plains + like I do ought to take to the sea like a duck, but it don't seem to suit + me.” + </p> + <p> + “God, they're a sick lookin' bunch I have to sling the hash to,” said + Fuselli more cheerfully. “I don't know how they get that way. The fellers + in our company ain't that way. They look like they was askeered somebody + was going to hit 'em. Ever noticed that, Meadville?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what d'ye expect of you guys who live in the city all your lives + and don't know the butt from the barrel of a gun an' never straddled + anything more like a horse than a broomstick. Ye're juss made to be sheep. + No wonder they have to herd you round like calves.” Meadville got to his + feet and went unsteadily to the rail, keeping, as he threaded his way + through the groups that covered the transport's after deck, a little of + his cowboy's bow-legged stride. + </p> + <p> + “I know what it is that makes men's eyes blink when they go down to that + putrid mess,” came a nasal voice. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli turned round. + </p> + <p> + Eisenstein was sitting in the place Meadville had just left. + </p> + <p> + “You do, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “It's part of the system. You've got to turn men into beasts before ye can + get 'em to act that way. Ever read Tolstoi?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Say, you want to be careful how you go talkin' around the way you + do.” Fuselli lowered his voice confidentially. “I heard of a feller bein' + shot at Camp Merritt for talkin' around.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't care.... I'm a desperate man,” said Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + “Don't ye feel sick? Gawd, I do.... Did you get rid o' any of it, + Meadville?” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't they fight their ole war somewhere a man can get to on a + horse?... Say that's my seat.” + </p> + <p> + “The place was empty.... I sat down in it,” said Eisenstein, lowering his + head sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “You kin have three winks to get out o' my place,” said Meadville, + squaring his broad shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “You are stronger than me,” said Eisenstein, moving off. + </p> + <p> + “God, it's hell not to have a gun,” muttered Meadville as he settled + himself on the deck again. “D'ye know, sonny, I nearly cried when I found + I was going to be in this damn medical corps? I enlisted for the tanks. + This is the first time in my life I haven't had a gun. I even think I had + one in my cradle.” + </p> + <p> + “That's funny,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant appeared suddenly in the middle of the group, his face red. + </p> + <p> + “Say, fellers,” he said in a low voice, “go down an' straighten out the + bunks as fast as you goddam can. They're having an inspection. It's a hell + of a note.” + </p> + <p> + They all filed down the gang planks into the foul-smelling hold, where + there was no light but the invariable reddish glow of electric bulbs. They + had hardly reached their bunks when someone called, “Attention!” + </p> + <p> + Three officers stalked by, their firm important tread a little disturbed + by the rolling. Their heads were stuck forward and they peered from side + to side among the bunks with the cruel, searching glance of hens looking + for worms. + </p> + <p> + “Fuselli,” said the first sergeant, “bring up the record book to my + stateroom; 213 on the lower deck.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Sarge,” said Fuselli with alacrity. He admired the first + sergeant and wished he could imitate his jovial, domineering manner. + </p> + <p> + It was the first time he had been in the upper part of the ship. It seemed + a different world. The long corridors with red carpets, the white paint + and the gilt mouldings on the partitions, the officers strolling about at + their ease—it all made him think of the big liners he used to watch + come in through the Golden Gate, the liners he was going to Europe on some + day, when he got rich. Oh, if he could only get to be a sergeant + first-class, all this comfort and magnificence would be his. He found the + number and knocked on the door. Laughter and loud talking came from inside + the stateroom. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a sec!” came an unfamiliar voice. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant Olster here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's one o' my gang,” came the sergeant's voice. “Let him in. He + won't peach on us.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened and he saw Sergeant Olster and two other young men sitting + with their feet dangling over the red varnished boards that enclosed the + bunks. They were talking gaily, and had glasses in their hands. + </p> + <p> + “Paris is some town, I can tell you,” one was saying. “They say the girls + come up an' put their arms round you right in the main street.” + </p> + <p> + “Here's the records, sergeant,” said Fuselli stiffly in his best military + manner. + </p> + <p> + “Oh thanks.... There's nothing else I want,” said the sergeant, his voice + more jovial than ever. “Don't fall overboard like the guy in Company C.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli laughed as he closed the door, growing serious suddenly on + noticing that one of the young men wore in his shirt the gold bar of a + second lieutenant. + </p> + <p> + “Gee,” he said to himself. “I ought to have saluted.” + </p> + <p> + He waited a moment outside the closed door of the stateroom, listening to + the talk and the laughter, wishing he were one of that merry group talking + about women in Paris. He began thinking. Sure he'd get private first-class + as soon as they got overseas. Then in a couple of months he might be + corporal. If they saw much service, he'd move along all right, once he got + to be a non-com. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I mustn't get in wrong. Oh, I mustn't get in wrong,” he kept saying + to himself as he went down the ladder into the hold. But he forgot + everything in the seasickness that came on again as he breathed in the + fetid air. + </p> + <p> + The deck now slanted down in front of him, now rose so that he was walking + up an incline. Dirty water slushed about from one side of the passage to + the other with every lurch of the ship. When he reached the door the + whistling howl of the wind through the hinges and cracks made Fuselli + hesitate a long time with his hand on the knob. The moment he turned the + knob the door flew open and he was in the full sweep of the wind. The deck + was deserted. The wet ropes strung along it shivered dismally in the wind. + Every other moment came the rattle of spray, that rose up in white fringy + trees to windward and smashed against him like hail. Without closing the + door he crept forward along the deck, clinging as hard as he could to the + icy rope. Beyond the spray he could see huge marbled green waves rise in + constant succession out of the mist. The roar of the wind in his ears + confused him and terrified him. It seemed ages before he reached the door + of the forward house that opened on a passage that smelt of drugs; and + breathed out air, where men waited in a packed line, thrown one against + the other by the lurching of the boat, to get into the dispensary. The + roar of the wind came to them faintly, and only now and then the hollow + thump of a wave against the bow. + </p> + <p> + “You sick?” a man asked Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Naw, I'm not sick; but Sarge sent me to get some stuff for some guys + that's too sick to move.” + </p> + <p> + “An awful lot o' sickness on this boat.” + </p> + <p> + “Two fellers died this mornin' in that there room,” said another man + solemnly, pointing over his shoulder with a jerk of the thumb. “Ain't + buried 'em yet. It's too rough.” + </p> + <p> + “What'd they die of?” asked Fuselli eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Spinal somethin'....” + </p> + <p> + “Menegitis,” broke in a man at the end of the line. + </p> + <p> + “Say, that's awful catchin' ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “It sure is.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does it hit yer?” asked Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Yer neck swells up, an' then you juss go stiff all over,” came the man's + voice from the end of the line. + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. From the direction of the infirmary a man with a + packet of medicines in his hand began making his way towards the door. + </p> + <p> + “Many guys in there?” asked Fuselli in a low voice as the man brushed past + him. + </p> + <p> + When the door closed again the man beside Fuselli, who was tall and broad + shouldered with heavy black eyebrows, burst out, as if he were saying + something he'd been trying to keep from saying for a long while: + </p> + <p> + “It won't be right if that sickness gets me; indeed it won't.... I've got + a girl waitin' for me at home. It's two years since I ain't touched a + woman all on account of her. It ain't natural for a fellow to go so long + as that. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you marry her before you left?” somebody asked mockingly. + </p> + <p> + “Said she didn't want to be no war bride, that she could wait for me + better if I didn't.” + </p> + <p> + Several men laughed. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't be right if I took sick an' died of this sickness, after + keepin' myself clean on account of that girl.... It wouldn't be right,” + the man muttered again to Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was picturing himself lying in his bunk with a swollen neck, while + his arms and legs stiffened, stiffened. + </p> + <p> + A red-faced man half way up the passage started speaking: + </p> + <p> + “When I thinks to myself how much the folks need me home, it makes me feel + sort o' confident-like, I dunno why. I juss can't cash in my checks, + that's all.” He laughed jovially. + </p> + <p> + No one joined in the laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Is it awfully catchin'?” asked Fuselli of the man next him. + </p> + <p> + “Most catchin' thing there is,” he answered solemnly. “The worst of it + is,” another man was muttering in a shrill hysterical voice, “bein' thrown + over to the sharks. Gee, they ain't got a right to do that, even if it is + war time, they ain't got a right to treat a Christian like he was a dead + dawg.” + </p> + <p> + “They got a right to do anythin' they goddam please, buddy. Who's goin' to + stop 'em I'd like to know,” cried the red-faced man. + </p> + <p> + “If he was an awficer, they wouldn't throw him over like that,” came the + shrill hysterical voice again. + </p> + <p> + “Cut that,” said someone else, “no use gettin' in wrong juss for the sake + of talkin'.” + </p> + <p> + “But ain't it dangerous, waitin' round up here so near where those fellers + are with that sickness,” whispered Fuselli to the man next him. + </p> + <p> + “Reckon it is, buddy,” came the other man's voice dully. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli started making his way toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Lemme out, fellers, I've got to puke,” he said. “Shoot,” he was thinking, + “I'll tell 'em the place was closed; they'll never come to look.” + </p> + <p> + As he opened the door he thought of himself crawling back to his bunk and + feeling his neck swell and his hands burn with fever and his arms and legs + stiffen until everything would be effaced in the blackness of death. But + the roar of the wind and the lash of the spray as he staggered back along + the deck drowned all other thought. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli and another man carried the dripping garbage-can up the ladder + that led up from the mess hall. It smelt of rancid grease and coffee + grounds and greasy juice trickled over their fingers as they struggled + with it. At last they burst out on to the deck where a free wind blew out + of the black night. They staggered unsteadily to the rail and emptied the + pail into the darkness. The splash was lost in the sound of the waves and + of churned water fleeing along the sides. Fuselli leaned over the rail and + looked down at the faint phosphorescence that was the only light in the + whole black gulf. He had never seen such darkness before. He clutched hold + of the rail with both hands, feeling lost and terrified in the blackness, + in the roaring of the wind in his ears and the sound of churned water + fleeing astern. The alternative was the stench of below decks. + </p> + <p> + “I'll bring down the rosie, don't you bother,” he said to the other man, + kicking the can that gave out a ringing sound as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + He strained his eyes to make out something. The darkness seemed to press + in upon his eyeballs, blinding him. Suddenly he noticed voices near him. + Two men were talking. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never seen the sea before this, I didn't know it was like this.” + </p> + <p> + “We're in the zone, now.” + </p> + <p> + “That means we may go down any minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Yare.” + </p> + <p> + “Christ, how black it is.... It'ld be awful to drown in the dark like + this.” + </p> + <p> + “It'ld be over soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Fred, have you ever been so skeered that...?” + </p> + <p> + “D'you feel a-skeert?” + </p> + <p> + “Feel my hand, Fred.... No.... There it is. God, it's so hellish black you + can't see yer own hand.” + </p> + <p> + “It's cold. Why are you shiverin' so? God, I wish I had a drink.” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never seen the sea before...I didn't know...” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli heard distinctly the man's teeth chattering in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “God, pull yerself together, kid. You can't be skeered like this.” + </p> + <p> + “O God.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause. Fuselli heard nothing but the churned water + speeding along the ship's side and the wind roaring in his ears. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never seen the sea before this time, Fred, an' it sort o' gits my + goat, all this sickness an' all.... They dropped three of 'em overboard + yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, kid, don't think of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Fred, if I... if I... if you're saved, Fred, an' not me, you'll + write to my folks, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will. But I reckon you an' me'll both go down together.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say that. An' you won't forget to write that girl I gave you the + address of?” + </p> + <p> + “You'll do the same for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, Fred, I'll never see land.... Oh, it's no use. An' I feel so well + an' husky.... I don't want to die. I can't die like this.” + </p> + <p> + “If it only wasn't so goddam black.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART TWO: THE METAL COOLS I + </h2> + <p> + It was purplish dusk outside the window. The rain fell steadily making + long flashing stripes on the cracked panes, beating a hard monotonous + tattoo on the tin roof overhead. Fuselli had taken off his wet slicker and + stood in front of the window looking out dismally at the rain. Behind him + was the smoking stove into which a man was poking wood, and beyond that a + few broken folding chairs on which soldiers sprawled in attitudes of utter + boredom, and the counter where the “Y” man stood with a set smile doling + out chocolate to a line of men that filed past. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, you have to line up for everything here, don't you?” Fuselli + muttered. + </p> + <p> + “That's about all you do do in this hell-hole, buddy,” said a man beside + him. + </p> + <p> + The man pointed with his thumb at the window and said again: + </p> + <p> + “See that rain? Well, I been in this camp three weeks and it ain't stopped + rainin' once. What d'yer think of that fer a country?” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly ain't like home,” said Fuselli. “I'm going to have some + chauclate.” + </p> + <p> + “It's damn rotten.” + </p> + <p> + “I might as well try it once.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli slouched over to the end of the line and stood waiting his turn. + He was thinking of the steep streets of San Francisco and the glimpses he + used to get of the harbor full of yellow lights, the color of amber in a + cigarette holder, as he went home from work through the blue dusk. He had + begun to think of Mabe handing him the five-pound box of candy when his + attention was distracted by the talk of the men behind him. The man next + to him was speaking with hurried nervous intonation. Fuselli could feel + his breath on the back of his neck. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be goddamned,” the man said, “was you there too? Where d'you get + yours?” + </p> + <p> + “In the leg; it's about all right, though.” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't. I won't never be all right. The doctor says I'm all right now, + but I know I'm not, the lyin' fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Some time, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll be damned to hell if I do it again. I can't sleep at night thinkin' + of the shape of the Fritzies' helmets. Have you ever thought that there + was somethin' about the shape of them goddam helmets...?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't they just or'nary shapes?” asked Fuselli, half turning round. “I + seen 'em in the movies.” He laughed apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to the rookie, Tub, he's seen 'em in the movies!” said the man + with the nervous twitch in his voice, laughing a croaking little laugh. + “How long you been in this country, buddy?” + </p> + <p> + “Two days.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we only been here two months, ain't we, Tub?” + </p> + <p> + “Four months; you're forgettin', kid.” + </p> + <p> + The “Y” man turned his set smile on Fuselli while he filled his tin cup up + with chocolate. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” + </p> + <p> + “A franc; one of those looks like a quarter,” said the “Y” man, his + well-fed voice full of amiable condescension. + </p> + <p> + “That's a hell of a lot for a cup of chauclate,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “You're at the war, young man, remember that,” said the “Y” man severely. + “You're lucky to get it at all.” + </p> + <p> + A cold chill gripped Fuselli's spine as he went back to the stove to drink + the chocolate. Of course he mustn't crab. He was in the war now. If the + sergeant had heard him crabbing, it might have spoiled his chances for a + corporalship. He must be careful. If he just watched out and kept on his + toes, he'd be sure to get it. + </p> + <p> + “And why ain't there no more chocolate, I want to know?” the nervous voice + of the man who had stood in line behind Fuselli rose to a sudden shriek. + Everybody looked round. The “Y” man was moving his head from side to side + in a flustered way, saying in a shrill little voice: + </p> + <p> + “I've told you there's no more. Go away!” + </p> + <p> + “You ain't got no right to tell me to go away. You got to get me some + chocolate. You ain't never been at the front, you goddam slacker.” The man + was yelling at the top of his lungs. He had hold of the counter with two + hands and swayed from side to side. His friend was trying to pull him + away. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, none of that, I'll report you,” said the “Y” man. “Is there a + non-commissioned officer in the hut?” + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, you can't do nothin'. I can't never have nothing done worse + than what's been done to me already.” The man's voice had reached a + sing-song fury. + </p> + <p> + “Is there a non-commissioned officer in the room?” The “Y” man kept + looking from side to side. His little eyes were hard and spiteful and his + lips were drawn up in a thin straight line. + </p> + <p> + “Keep quiet, I'll get him away,” said the other man in a low voice. “Can't + you see he's not...?” + </p> + <p> + A strange terror took hold of Fuselli. He hadn't expected things to be + like that. When he had sat in the grandstand in the training camp and + watched the jolly soldiers in khaki marching into towns, pursuing + terrified Huns across potato fields, saving Belgian milk-maids against + picturesque backgrounds. + </p> + <p> + “Does many of 'em come back that way?” he asked a man beside him. + </p> + <p> + “Some do. It's this convalescent camp.” The man and his friend stood side + by side near the stove talking in low voices. + </p> + <p> + “Pull yourself together, kid,” the friend was saying. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Tub; I'm all right now, Tub. That slacker got my goat, that + was all.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was looking at him curiously. He had a yellow parchment face and a + high, gaunt forehead going up to sparse, curly brown hair. His eyes had a + glassy look about them when they met Fuselli's. He smiled amiably. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there's the kid who's seen Fritzies' helmets in the movies.... Come + on, buddy, come and have a beer at the English canteen.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you get beer?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, over in the English camp.” They went out into the slanting rain. It + was nearly dark, but the sky had a purplish-red color that was reflected a + little on the slanting sides of tents and on the roofs of the rows of + sheds that disappeared into the rainy mist in every direction. A few + lights gleamed, a very bright polished yellow. They followed a board-walk + that splashed mud up from the puddles under the tramp of their heavy + boots. + </p> + <p> + At one place they flattened themselves against the wet flap of a tent and + saluted as an officer passed waving a little cane jauntily. + </p> + <p> + “How long does a fellow usually stay in these rest camps?” asked Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Depends on what's goin' on out there,” said Tub, pointing carelessly to + the sky beyond the peaks of the tents. + </p> + <p> + “You'll leave here soon enough. Don't you worry, buddy,” said the man with + the nervous voice. “What you in?” + </p> + <p> + “Medical Replacement Unit.” + </p> + <p> + “A medic are you? Those boys didn't last long at the Chateau, did they, + Tub?” + </p> + <p> + “No, they didn't.” + </p> + <p> + Something inside Fuselli was protesting; “I'll last out though. I'll last + out though.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the fellers went out to get poor ole Corporal Jones, Tub? + I'll be goddamned if anybody ever found a button of their pants.” He + laughed his creaky little laugh. “They got in the way of a torpedo.” + </p> + <p> + The “wet” canteen was full of smoke and a cosy steam of beer. It was + crowded with red-faced men, with shiny brass buttons on their khaki + uniforms, among whom was a good sprinkling of lanky Americans. + </p> + <p> + “Tommies,” said Fuselli to himself. + </p> + <p> + After standing in line a while, Fuselli's cup was handed back to him + across the counter, foaming with beer. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Fuselli,” Meadville clapped him on the shoulder. “You found the + liquor pretty damn quick, looks like to me.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli laughed. + </p> + <p> + “May I sit with you fellers?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, come along,” said Fuselli proudly, “these guys have been to the + front.” + </p> + <p> + “You have?” asked Meadville. “The Huns are pretty good scrappers, they + say. Tell me, do you use your rifle much, or is it mostly big gun work?” + </p> + <p> + “Naw; after all the months I spent learnin' how to drill with my goddam + rifle, I'll be a sucker if I've used it once. I'm in the grenade squad.” + </p> + <p> + Someone at the end of the room had started singing: + </p> + <p> + “O Mademerselle from Armenteers, Parley voo!” + </p> + <p> + The man with the nervous voice went on talking, while the song roared + about them. + </p> + <p> + “I don't spend a night without thinkin' o' them funny helmets the Fritzies + wear. Have you ever thought that there was something goddam funny about + the shape o' them helmets?” + </p> + <p> + “Can the helmets, kid,” said his friend. “You told us all about them + onct.” + </p> + <p> + “I ain't told you why I can't forgit 'em, have I?” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A German officer crossed the Rhine; + Parley voo? + A German officer crossed the Rhine; + He loved the women and liked the wine; + Hanky Panky, parley voo.... ” + </pre> + <p> + “Listen to this, fellers,” said the man in his twitching nervous voice, + staring straight into Fuselli's eyes. “We made a little attack to + straighten out our trenches a bit just before I got winged. Our barrage + cut off a bit of Fritzie's trench an' we ran right ahead juss about dawn + an' occupied it. I'll be goddamned if it wasn't as quiet as a Sunday + morning at home.” + </p> + <p> + “It was!” said his friend. + </p> + <p> + “An' I had a bunch of grenades an' a feller came runnin' up to me, + whisperin', 'There's a bunch of Fritzies playin' cards in a dugout. They + don't seem to know they're captured. We'd better take 'em pris'ners!” + </p> + <p> + “'Pris'ners, hell,' says I, 'We'll go and clear the buggars out.' So we + crept along to the steps and looked down.... ” + </p> + <p> + The song had started again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Mademerselle from Armenteers, + Parley voo? +</pre> + <p> + “Their helmets looked so damn like toadstools I came near laughin'. An' + they sat round the lamp layin' down the cards serious-like, the way I've + seen Germans do in the Rathskeller at home.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He loved the women and liked the wine, + Parley voo? +</pre> + <p> + “I lay there lookin' at 'em for a hell of a time, an' then I clicked a + grenade an' tossed it gently down the steps. An' all those funny helmets + like toadstools popped up in the air an' somebody gave a yell an' the + light went out an' the damn grenade went off. Then I let 'em have the rest + of 'em an' went away 'cause one o' 'em was still moanin'-like. It was + about that time they let their barrage down on us and I got mine.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Yanks are havin' a hell of a time, + Parley voo? +</pre> + <p> + “An' the first thing I thought of when I woke up was how those goddam + helmets looked. It upsets a feller to think of a thing like that.” His + voice ended in a whine like the broken voice of a child that has been + beaten. + </p> + <p> + “You need to pull yourself together, kid,” said his friend. + </p> + <p> + “I know what I need, Tub. I need a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “You know where you get one?” asked Meadville. “I'd like to get me a nice + little French girl a rainy night like this.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be a hell of a ways to the town.... They say it's full of M. P.'s + too,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “I know a way,” said the man with the nervous voice, “Come on; Tub.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I've had enough of these goddam frog women.” + </p> + <p> + They all left the canteen. + </p> + <p> + As the two men went off down the side of the building, Fuselli heard the + nervous twitching voice through the metallic patter of the rain: + </p> + <p> + “I can't find no way of forgettin' how funny the helmets looked all round + the lamp... I can't find no way.... ” + </p> + <p> + Bill Grey and Fuselli pooled their blankets and slept together. They lay + on the hard floor of the tent very close to each other, listening to the + rain pattering endlessly on the drenched canvas that slanted above their + heads. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, Bill, I'm gettin' pneumonia,” said Fuselli, clearing his nose. + </p> + <p> + “That's the only thing that scares me in the whole goddam business. I'd + hate to die o' sickness... an' they say another kid's kicked off with that—what + d'they call it?—menegitis.” + </p> + <p> + “Was that what was the matter with Stein?” + </p> + <p> + “The corporal won't say.” + </p> + <p> + “Ole Corp. looks sort o' sick himself,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “It's this rotten climate” whispered Bill Grey, in the middle of a fit of + coughing. + </p> + <p> + “For cat's sake quit that coughin'. Let a feller sleep,” came a voice from + the other side of the tent. + </p> + <p> + “Go an' get a room in a hotel if you don't like it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's it, Bill, tell him where to get off.” + </p> + <p> + “If you fellers don't quit yellin', I'll put the whole blame lot of you on + K. P.,” came the sergeant's good-natured voice. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know that taps has blown?” + </p> + <p> + The tent was silent except for the fast patter of the rain and Bill Grey's + coughing. + </p> + <p> + “That sergeant gives me a pain in the neck,” muttered Bill Grey peevishly, + when his coughing had stopped, wriggling about under the blankets. + </p> + <p> + After a while Fuselli said in a very low voice, so that no one but his + friend should hear: + </p> + <p> + “Say, Bill, ain't it different from what we thought it was going to be?” + </p> + <p> + “Yare.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean fellers don't seem to think about beatin' the Huns at all, they're + so busy crabbin' on everything.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the guys higher up that does the thinkin',” said Grey + grandiloquently. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, but I thought it'd be excitin' like in the movies.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess that was a lot o' talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli went to sleep on the hard floor, feeling the comfortable warmth of + Grey's body along the side of him, hearing the endless, monotonous patter + of the rain on the drenched canvas above his head. He tried to stay awake + a minute to remember what Mabe looked like, but sleep closed down on him + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + The bugle wrenched them out of their blankets before it was light. It was + not raining. The air was raw and full of white mist that was cold as snow + against their faces still warm from sleep. The corporal called the roll, + lighting matches to read the list. When he dismissed the formation the + sergeant's voice was heard from the tent, where he still lay rolled in his + blankets. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Corp, go an' tell Fuselli to straighten out Lieutenant Stanford's + room at eight sharp in Officers' Barracks, Number Four.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear, Fuselli?” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Fuselli. His blood boiled up suddenly. This was the + first time he'd had to do servants' work. He hadn't joined the army to be + a slavey to any damned first loot. It was against army regulations anyway. + He'd go and kick. He wasn't going to be a slavey.... He walked towards the + door of the tent, thinking what he'd say to the sergeant. But he noticed + the corporal coughing into his handkerchief with an expression of pain on + his face. He turned and strolled away. It would get him in wrong if he + started kicking like that. Much better shut his mouth and put up with it. + The poor old corp couldn't last long at this rate. No, it wouldn't do to + get in wrong. + </p> + <p> + At eight, Fuselli, with a broom in his hand, feeling dull fury pounding + and fluttering within him, knocked on the unpainted board door. + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” + </p> + <p> + “To clean the room, sir,” said Fuselli. “Come back in about twenty + minutes,” came the voice of the lieutenant. + </p> + <p> + “All right, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli leaned against the back of the barracks and smoked a cigarette. + The air stung his hands as if they had been scraped by a nutmeg-grater. + Twenty minutes passed slowly. Despair seized hold of him. He was so far + from anyone who cared about him, so lost in the vast machine. He was + telling himself that he'd never get on, would never get up where he could + show what he was good for. He felt as if he were in a treadmill. Day after + day it would be like this,—the same routine, the same helplessness. + He looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed. He picked up his + broom and moved round to the lieutenant's room. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said the lieutenant carelessly. He was in his shirtsleeves, + shaving. A pleasant smell of shaving soap filled the dark clapboard room, + which had no furniture but three cots and some officers' trunks. He was a + red-faced young man with flabby cheeks and dark straight eyebrows. He had + taken command of the company only a day or two before. + </p> + <p> + “Looks like a decent feller,” thought Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” asked the lieutenant, speaking into the small nickel + mirror, while he ran the safety razor obliquely across his throat. He + stuttered a little. To Fuselli he seemed to speak like an Englishman. + </p> + <p> + “Fuselli.” + </p> + <p> + “Italian parentage, I presume?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Fuselli sullenly, dragging one of the cots away from the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Parla Italiano?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean, do I speak Eyetalian? Naw, sir,” said Fuselli emphatically, “I + was born in Frisco.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? But get me some more water, will you, please?” + </p> + <p> + When Fuselli came back, he stood with his broom between his knees, blowing + on his hands that were blue and stiff from carrying the heavy bucket. The + lieutenant was dressed and was hooking the top hook of the uniform + carefully. The collar made a red mark on his pink throat. + </p> + <p> + “All right; when you're through, report back to the Company.” The + lieutenant went out, drawing on a pair of khaki-colored gloves with a + satisfied and important gesture. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli walked back slowly to the tents where the Company was quartered, + looking about him at the long lines of barracks, gaunt and dripping in the + mist, at the big tin sheds of the cook shacks where the cooks and K. P.'s + in greasy blue denims were slouching about amid a steam of cooking food. + </p> + <p> + Something of the gesture with which the lieutenant drew on his gloves + caught in the mind of Fuselli. He had seen peoople make gestures like that + in the movies, stout dignified people in evening suits. The president of + the Company that owned the optical goods store, where he had worked, at + home in Frisco, had had something of that gesture about him. + </p> + <p> + And he pictured himself drawing on a pair of gloves that way, importantly, + finger by finger, with a little wave, of self-satisfaction when the + gesture was completed.... He'd have to get that corporalship. + </p> + <p> + “There's a long, long trail a-winding Through no man's land in France.” + </p> + <p> + The company sang lustily as it splashed through the mud down a grey road + between high fences covered with great tangles of barbed wire, above which + peeked the ends of warehouses and the chimneys of factories. + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant and the top sergeant walked side by side chatting, now and + then singing a little of the song in a deprecating way. The corporal sang, + his eyes sparkling with delight. Even the sombre sergeant who rarely spoke + to anyone, sang. The company strode along, its ninety-six legs splashing + jauntily through the deep putty-colored puddles. The packs swayed merrily + from side to side as if it were they and not the legs that were walking. + </p> + <p> + “There's a long, long trail a-winding Through no man's land in France.” + </p> + <p> + At last they were going somewhere. They had separated from the contingent + they had come over with. They were all alone now. They were going to be + put to work. The lieutenant strode along importantly. The sergeant strode + along importantly. The corporal strode along importantly. The right guard + strode along more importantly than anyone. A sense of importance, of + something tremendous to do, animated the company like wine, made the packs + and the belts seem less heavy, made their necks and shoulders less stiff + from struggling with the weight of the packs, made the ninety-six legs + tramp jauntily in spite of the oozy mud and the deep putty-colored + puddles. + </p> + <p> + It was cold in the dark shed of the freight station where they waited. + Some gas lamps flickered feebly high up among the rafters, lighting up in + a ghastly way white piles of ammunition boxes and ranks and ranks of + shells that disappeared in the darkness. The raw air was full of coal + smoke and a smell of freshly-cut boards. The captain and the top sergeant + had disappeared. The men sat about, huddled in groups, sinking as far as + they could into their overcoats, stamping their numb wet feet on the + mud-covered cement of the floor. The sliding doors were shut. Through them + came a monotonous sound of cars shunting, of buffers bumping against + buffers, and now and then the shrill whistle of an engine. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, the French railroads are rotten,” said someone. + </p> + <p> + “How d'you know?” snapped Eisenstein, who sat on a box away from the rest + with his lean face in his hands staring at his mud-covered boots. + </p> + <p> + “Look at this,” Bill Grey made a disgusted gesture towards the ceiling. + “Gas. Don't even have electric light.” + </p> + <p> + “Their trains run faster than ours,” said Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + “The hell they do. Why, a fellow back in that rest camp told me that it + took four or five days to get anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “He was stuffing you,” said Eisenstein. “They used to run the fastest + trains in the world in France.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so fast as the 'Twentieth Century.' Goddam, I'm a railroad man and I + know.” + </p> + <p> + “I want five men to help me sort out the eats,” said the top sergeant, + coming suddenly out of the shadows. “Fuselli, Grey, Eisenstein, Meadville, + Williams... all right, come along.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Sarge, this guy says that frog trains are faster than our trains. + What d'ye think o' that?” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant put on his comic expression. Everybody got ready to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if he'd rather take the side-door Pullmans we're going to get + aboard tonight than the 'Sunset Limited,' he's welcome. I've seen 'em. You + fellers haven't.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. The top sergeant turned confidentially to the five men + who followed him into a small well-lighted room that looked like a freight + office. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to sort out the grub, fellers. See those cases? That's three + days' rations for the outfit. I want to sort it into three lots, one for + each car. Understand?” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli pulled open one of the boxes. The cans of bully beef flew under + his fingers. He kept looking out of the corner of his eye at Eisenstein, + who seemed very skilful in a careless way. The top sergeant stood beaming + at them with his legs wide apart. Once he said something in a low voice to + the corporal. Fuselli thought he caught the words: “privates first-class,” + and his heart started thumping hard. In a few minutes the job was done, + and everybody stood about lighting cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, fellers,” said Sergeant Jones, the sombre man who rarely spoke, “I + certainly didn't reckon when I used to be teachin' and preachin' and + tendin' Sunday School and the like that I'd come to be usin' cuss words, + but I think we got a damn good company.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we'll have you sayin' worse things than 'damn' when we get you out on + the front with a goddam German aeroplane droppin' bombs on you,” said the + top sergeant, slapping him on the back. “Now, I want you five men to look + out for the grub.” Fuselli's chest swelled. “The company'll be in charge + of the corporal for the night. Sergeant Jones and I have got to be with + the lieutenant, understand?” + </p> + <p> + They all walked back to the dingy room where the rest of the company + waited huddled in their coats, trying to keep their importance from being + too obvious in their step. + </p> + <p> + “I've really started now,” thought Fuselli to himself. “I've really + started now.” + </p> + <p> + The bare freight car clattered and rumbled monotonously over the rails. A + bitter cold wind blew up through the cracks in the grimy splintered boards + of the floor. The men huddled in the corners of the car, curled up + together like puppies in a box. It was pitch black. Fuselli lay half + asleep, his head full of curious fragmentary dreams, feeling through his + sleep the aching cold and the unending clattering rumble of the wheels and + the bodies and arms and legs muffled in coats and blankets pressing + against him. He woke up with a start. His teeth were chattering. The + clanking rumble of wheels seemed to be in his head. His head was being + dragged along, bumping over cold iron rails. Someone lighted a match. The + freight car's black swaying walls, the packs piled in the center, the + bodies heaped in the corners where, out of khaki masses here and there + gleamed an occasional white face or a pair of eyes—all showed clear + for a moment and then vanished again in the utter blackness. Fuselli + pillowed his head in the crook of someone's arm and tried to go to sleep, + but the scraping rumble of wheels over rails was too loud; he stayed with + open eyes staring into the blackness, trying to draw his body away from + the blast of cold air that blew up through a crack in the floor. + </p> + <p> + When the first greyness began filtering into the car, they all stood up + and stamped and pounded each other and wrestled to get warm. + </p> + <p> + When it was nearly light, the train stopped and they opened the sliding + doors. They were in a station, a foreign-looking station where the walls + were plastered with unfamiliar advertisements. “V-E-R-S-A-I-L-L-E-S”; + Fuselli spelt out the name. + </p> + <p> + “Versales,” said Eisenstein. “That's where the kings of France used to + live.” + </p> + <p> + The train started moving again slowly. On the platform stood the top + sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “How d'ye sleep,” he shouted as the car passed him. “Say, Fuselli, better + start some grub going.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Sarge,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant ran back to the front of the car and climbed on. With a + delicious feeling of leadership, Fuselli divided up the bread and the cans + of bully beef and the cheese. Then he sat on his pack eating dry bread and + unsavoury beef, whistling joyfully, while the train rumbled and clattered + along through a strange, misty-green countryside,—whistling joyfully + because he was going to the front, where there would be glory and + excitement, whistling joyfully because he felt he was getting along in the + world. + </p> + <p> + It was noon. A pallid little sun like a toy balloon hung low in the + reddish-grey sky. The train had stopped on a siding in the middle of a + russet plain. Yellow poplars, faint as mist, rose slender against the sky + along a black shining stream that swirled beside the track. In the + distance a steeple and a few red roofs were etched faintly in the + greyness. + </p> + <p> + The men stood about balancing first on one foot and then on the other, + stamping to get warm. On the other side of the river an old man with an + oxcart had stopped and was looking sadly at the train. + </p> + <p> + “Say, where's the front?” somebody shouted to him. + </p> + <p> + Everybody took up the cry; “Say, where's the front?” + </p> + <p> + The old man waved his hand, shook his head and shouted to the oxen. The + oxen took up again their quiet processional gait and the old man walked + ahead of them, his eyes on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “Say, ain't the frogs dumb?” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Dan,” said Bill Grey, strolling away from a group of men he had been + talking to. “These guys say we are going to the Third Army.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, fellers,” shouted Fuselli. “They say we're going to the Third Army.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's that?” + </p> + <p> + “In the Oregon forest,” ventured somebody. + </p> + <p> + “That's at the front, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + At that moment the lieutenant strode by. A long khaki muffler was thrown + carelessly round his neck and hung down his back. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, men,” he said severely, “the orders are to stay in the cars.” + </p> + <p> + The men slunk back into the cars sullenly. + </p> + <p> + A hospital train passed, clanking slowly over the cross-tracks. Fuselli + looked fixedly at the dark enigmatic windows, at the red crosses, at the + orderlies in white who leaned out of the doors, waving their hands. + Somebody noticed that there were scars on the new green paint of the last + car. + </p> + <p> + “The Huns have been shooting at it.” + </p> + <p> + “D'ye hear that? The Huns tried to shoot up that hospital train.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli remembered the pamphlet “German Atrocities” he had read one night + in the Y. M. C. A. His mind became suddenly filled with pictures of + children with their arms cut off, of babies spitted on bayonets, of women + strapped on tables and violated by soldier after soldier. He thought of + Mabe. He wished he were in a combatant service; he wanted to fight, fight. + He pictured himself shooting dozens of men in green uniforms, and he + thought of Mabe reading about it in the papers. He'd have to try to get + into a combatant service. No, he couldn't stay in the medics. + </p> + <p> + The train had started again. Misty russet fields slipped by and dark + clumps of trees that gyrated slowly waving branches of yellow and brown + leaves and patches of black lace-work against the reddish-grey sky. + Fuselli was thinking of the good chance he had of getting to be corporal. + </p> + <p> + At night. A dim-lighted station platform. The company waited in two lines, + each man sitting on his pack. On the opposite platform crowds of little + men in blue with mustaches and long, soiled overcoats that reached almost + to their feet were shouting and singing. Fuselli watched them with a faint + disgust. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, they got funny lookin' helmets, ain't they?” + </p> + <p> + “They're the best fighters in the world,” said Eisenstein, “not that + that's sayin' much about a man.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, that's an M. P.,” said Bill Grey, catching Fuselli's arm. “Let's go + ask him how near the front we are. I thought I heard guns a minute ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? I guess we're in for it now,” said Fuselli. “Say, buddy, how + near the front are we?” they spoke together excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “The front?” said the M. P., who was a red-faced Irishman with a crushed + nose. “You're 'way back in the middle of France.” The M. P. spat + disgustedly. “You fellers ain't never goin' to the front, don't you + worry.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell!” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be goddamned if I don't get there somehow,” said Bill Grey, squaring + his jaw. + </p> + <p> + A fine rain was falling on the unprotected platform. On the other side the + little men in blue were singing a song Fuselli could not understand, + drinking out of their ungainly-looking canteens. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli announced the news to the company. Everybody clustered round him + cursing. But the faint sense of importance it gave him did not compensate + for the feeling he had of being lost in the machine, of being as helpless + as a sheep in a flock. Hours passed. They stamped about the platform in + the fine rain or sat in a row on their packs, waiting for orders. A grey + belt appeared behind the trees. The platform began to take on a silvery + gleam. They sat in a row on their packs, waiting. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> + <p> + The company stood at attention lined up outside of their barracks, a long + wooden shack covered with tar paper, in front of them was a row of + dishevelled plane trees with white trunks that looked like ivory in the + faint ruddy sunlight. Then there was a rutted road on which stood a long + line of French motor trucks with hunched grey backs like elephants. Beyond + these were more plane trees and another row of barracks covered with tar + paper, outside of which other companies were lined up standing at + attention. + </p> + <p> + A bugle was sounding far away. + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant stood at attention very stiffly. Fuselli's eyes followed + the curves of his brilliantly-polished puttees up to the braid on his + sleeves. + </p> + <p> + “Parade rest!” shouted the lieutenant in a muffled voice. + </p> + <p> + Feet and hands moved in unison. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was thinking of the town. After retreat you could go down the + irregular cobbled street from the old fair-ground where the camp was to a + little square where there was a grey stone fountain and a gin-mill where + you could sit at an oak table and have beer and eggs and fried potatoes + served you by a girl with red cheeks and plump white appetizing arms. + </p> + <p> + “Attention!” + </p> + <p> + Feet and hands moved in unison again. They could hardly hear the bugle, it + was so faint. + </p> + <p> + “Men, I have some appointments to announce,” said the lieutenant, facing + the company and taking on an easy conversational tone. “At rest!... You've + done good work in the storehouse here, men. I'm glad I have such a willing + bunch of men under me. And I certainly hope that we can manage to make as + many promotions as possible—as many as possible.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli's hands were icy, and his heart was pumping the blood so fast to + his ears that he could hardly hear. + </p> + <p> + “The following privates to private first-class, read the lieutenant in a + routine voice: “Grey, Appleton, Williams, Eisenstein, Porter...Eisenstein + will be company clerk.... “ Fuselli was almost ready to cry. His name was + not on the list. The sergeant's voice came after a long pause, smooth as + velvet. + </p> + <p> + “You forget Fuselli, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so I did,” the lieutenant laughed—a small dry laugh.—“And + Fuselli.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee, I must write Mabe tonight,” Fuselli was saying to himself. “She'll + be a proud kid when she gets that letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Companee dis... missed!”, shouted the sergeant genially. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Madermoiselle from Armenteers, + Parley voo? + O Madermoiselle from Armenteers, +</pre> + <p> + struck up the sergeant in his mellow voice. + </p> + <p> + The front room of the cafe was full of soldiers. Their khaki hid the worn + oak benches and the edges of the square tables and the red tiles of the + floor. They clustered round the tables, where glasses and bottles gleamed + vaguely through the tobacco smoke. They stood in front of the bar, + drinking out of bottles, laughing, scraping their feet on the floor. A + stout girl with red cheeks and plump white arms moved contentedly among + them, carrying away empty bottles, bringing back full ones, taking the + money to a grim old woman with a grey face and eyes like bits of jet, who + stared carefully at each coin, fingered it with her grey hands and dropped + it reluctantly into the cash drawer. In the corner sat Sergeant Olster + with a flush on his face, and the corporal who had been on the Red Sox + outfield and another sergeant, a big man with black hair and a black + mustache. About them clustered, with approbation and respect in their + faces, Fuselli, Bill Grey and Meadville the cowboy, and Earl Williams, the + blue-eyed and yellow-haired drug-clerk. + </p> + <p> + “O the Yanks are having the hell of a time, Parley voo?” + </p> + <p> + They pounded their bottles on the table in time to the song. + </p> + <p> + “It's a good job,” the top sergeant said, suddenly interrupting the song. + “You needn't worry about that, fellers. I saw to it that we got a good + job.... And about getting to the front, you needn't worry about that. + We'll all get to the front soon enough.... Tell me—this war is going + to last ten years.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess we'll all be generals by that time, eh, Sarge?” said Williams. + “But, man, I wish I was back jerkin' soda water.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a great life if you don't weaken,” murmured Fuselli automatically. + </p> + <p> + “But I'm beginnin' to weaken,” said Williams. “Man, I'm homesick. I don't + care who knows it. I wish I could get to the front and be done with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, have a heart. You need a drink,” said the top sergeant, banging his + fist on the table. “Say, mamselle, mame shows, mame shows!” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know you could talk French, Sarge,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “French, hell!” said the top sergeant. “Williams is the boy can talk + French.” + </p> + <p> + “Voulay vous couchay aveck moy.... That's all I know.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Hey, mamzelle,” cried the top sergeant. “Voulay vous couchay aveck moy? + We We, champagne.” Everybody laughed, uproariously. + </p> + <p> + The girl slapped his head good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + At that moment a man stamped noisily into the cafe, a tall + broad-shouldered man in a loose English tunic, who had a swinging swagger + that made the glasses ring on all the tables. He was humming under his + breath and there was a grin on his broad red face. He went up to the girl + and pretended to kiss her, and she laughed and talked familiarly with him + in French. + </p> + <p> + “There's wild Dan Cohan,” said the dark-haired sergeant. “Say, Dan, Dan.” + </p> + <p> + “Here, yer honor.” + </p> + <p> + “Come over and have a drink. We're going to have some fizzy.” + </p> + <p> + “Never known to refuse.” + </p> + <p> + They made room for him on the bench. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm confined to barracks,” said Dan Cohan. “Look at me!” He laughed + and gave his head a curious swift jerk to one side. “Compree?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't ye scared they'll nab you?” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Nab me, hell, they can't do nothin' to me. I've had three court-martials + already and they're gettin' a fourth up on me.” + </p> + <p> + Dan Cohan pushed his head to one side and laughed. “I got a friend. My old + boss is captain, and he's goin' to fix it up. I used to alley around + politics chez moy. Compree?” + </p> + <p> + The champagne came and Dan Cohan popped the cork up to the ceiling with + dexterous red fingers. + </p> + <p> + “I was just wondering who was going to give me a drink,” he said. “Ain't + had any pay since Christ was a corporal. I've forgotten what it looks + like.” + </p> + <p> + The champagne fizzed into the beer-glasses. + </p> + <p> + “This is the life,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're damn right, buddy, if yer don't let them ride yer,” said Dan. + </p> + <p> + “What they got yer up for now, Dan?” + </p> + <p> + “Murder.” + </p> + <p> + “Murder, hell! How's that?” + </p> + <p> + “That is, if that bloke dies.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell you say!” + </p> + <p> + “It all started by that goddam convoy down from Nantes...Bill Rees an' + me.... They called us the shock troops.—Hy! Marie! Ancore champagne, + beaucoup.—I was in the Ambulance service then. God knows what rotten + service I'm in now.... Our section was on repo and they sent some of us + fellers down to Nantes to fetch a convoy of cars back to Sandrecourt. We + started out like regular racers, just the chassis, savey? Bill Rees an' me + was the goddam tail of the peerade. An' the loot was a hell of a blockhead + that didn't know if he was coming or going.” + </p> + <p> + “Where the hell's Nantes?” asked the top sergeant, as if it had just + slipped his mind. + </p> + <p> + “On the coast,” answered Fuselli. “I seen it on the map.” + </p> + <p> + “Nantes's way off to hell and gone anyway,” said wild Dan Cohan, taking a + gulp of champagne that he held in his mouth a moment, making his mouth + move like a cow ruminating. + </p> + <p> + “An' as Bill Rees an' me was the tail of the peerade an' there was lots of + cafes and little gin-mills, Bill Rees an' me'd stop off every now and then + to have a little drink an' say 'Bonjour' to the girls an' talk to the + people, an' then we'd go like a bat out of hell to catch up. Well, I don't + know if we went too fast for 'em or if they lost the road or what, but we + never saw that goddam convoy from the time we went out of Nantes. Then we + thought we might as well see a bit of the country, compree?... An' we did, + goddam it.... We landed up in Orleans, soused to the gills and without any + gas an' with an M. P; climbing up on the dashboard.” + </p> + <p> + “Did they nab you, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it,” said wild Dan Cohen, jerking his head to one side. + “They gave us gas and commutation of rations an' told us to go on in the + mornin'. You see we put up a good line of talk, compree?... Well, we went + to the swankiest restaurant.... You see we had on those bloody British + uniforms they gave us when the O. D. gave out, an' the M. P.'s didn't know + just what sort o' birds we were. So we went and ordered up a regular meal + an' lots o' vin rouge an' vin blank an' drank a few cognacs an' before we + knew it we were eating dinner with two captains and a sergeant. One o' the + captains was the drunkest man I ever did see.... Good kid! We all had + dinner and Bill Rees says, 'Let's go for a joy-ride.' An' the captains + says, 'Fine,' and the sergeant would have said, 'Fine,' but he was so + goggle-eyed drunk he couldn't. An' we started off!... Say, fellers, I'm + dry as hell! Let's order up another bottle.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said everyone. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ban swar, ma cherie, + Comment allez vous?” + </pre> + <p> + “Encore champagne, Marie, gentille!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he went on, “we went like a bat out of hell along a good state + road, and it was all fine until one of the captains thought we ought to + have a race. We did.... Compree? The flivvers flivved all right, but the + hell of it was we got so excited about the race we forgot about the + sergeant an' he fell off an' nobody missed him. An' at last we all pull up + before a gin-mill an' one captain says, 'Where's the sergeant?' an' the + other captain says there hadn't been no sergeant. An' we all had a drink + on that. An' one captain kept sayin', 'It's all imagination. Never was a + sergeant. I wouldn't associate with a sergeant, would I, lootenant?' He + kept on calling me lootenant.... Well that was how they got this new + charge against me. Somebody picked up the sergeant an' he got concussion + o' the brain an' there's hell to pay, an' if the poor buggar croaks.... + I'm it.... Compree? About that time the captains start wantin' to go to + Paris, an' we said we'd take 'em, an' so we put all the gas in my car an' + the four of us climbed on that goddam chassis an' off we went like a bat + out of hell! It'ld all have been fine if I wasn't lookin' cross-eyed.... + We piled up in about two minutes on one of those nice little stone piles + an' there we were. We all got up an' one o' the captains had his arm + broke, an' there was hell to pay, worse than losing the sergeant. So we + walked on down the road. I don't know how it got to be daylight. But we + got to some hell of a town or other an' there was two M. P.'s all ready to + meet us.... Compree?... Well, we didn't mess around with them captains. We + just lit off down a side street an' got into a little cafe an' went in + back an' had a hell of a lot o' cafe o' lay. That made us feel sort o' + good an' I says to Bill, 'Bill, we've got to get to headquarters an' tell + 'em that we accidentally smashed up our car, before the M. P.'s get busy.' + An' he says, 'You're goddamned right,' an' at that minute I sees an M. P. + through a crack in the door comin' into the cafe. We lit out into the + garden and made for the wall. We got over that, although we left a good + piece of my pants in the broken glass. But the hell of it was the M. P.'s + got over too an' they had their pop-guns out. An' the last I saw of Bill + Rees was—there was a big fat woman in a pink dress washing clothes + in a big tub, an' poor ole Bill Rees runs head on into her an' over they + both goes into the washtub. The M. P.'s got him all right. That's how I + got away. An' the last I saw of Bill Rees he was squirming about on top of + the washtub like he was swimmin', an' the fat woman was sittin' on the + ground shaking her fist at him. Bill Rees was the best buddy I ever had.” + </p> + <p> + He paused and poured the rest of the champagne in his glass and wiped the + sweat off his face with his big red hand. + </p> + <p> + “You ain't stringin' us, are you?” asked Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “You just ask Lieutenant Whitehead, who's defending me in the + court-martial, if I'm stringin' yer. I been in the ring, kid, and you can + bet your bottom dollar that a man's been in the ring'll tell the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Dan,” said the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “An' I never heard a word about Bill Rees since. I guess they got him into + the trenches and made short work of him.” + </p> + <p> + Dan Cohan paused to light a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Well, one o' the M. P.'s follows after me and starts shootin'. An' don't + you believe I ran. Gee, I was scared! But I was in luck 'cause a Frenchman + had just started his camion an' I jumped in and said the gendarmes were + after me. He was white, that frog was. He shot the juice into her an' went + off like a bat out of hell an' there was a hell of a lot of traffic on the + road because there was some damn-fool attack or other goin' on. So I got + up to Paris.... An' then it'ld all have been fine if I hadn't met up with + a Jane I knew. I still had five hundred francs on me, an' so we raised + hell until one day we was havin' dinner in the cafe de Paris, both of us + sort of jagged up, an' we didn't have enough money to pay the bill an' + Janey made a run for it, but an M. P. got me an' then there was hell to + pay.... Compree? They put me in the Bastille, great place.... Then they + shipped me off to some damn camp or other an' gave me a gun an' made me + drill for a week an' then they packed a whole gang of us, all A. W. O. + L's, into a train for the front. That was nearly the end of little Daniel + again. But when we was in Vitry-le-Francois, I chucked my rifle out of one + window and jumped out of the other an' got on a train back to Paris an' + went an' reported to headquarters how I'd smashed the car an' been in the + Bastille an' all, an' they were sore as hell at the M. P.'s an' sent me + out to a section an' all went fine until I got ordered back an' had to + alley down to this goddam camp. Ah' now I don't know what they're goin' to + do to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee whiz!” + </p> + <p> + “It's a great war, I tell you, Sarge. It's a great war. I wouldn't have + missed it.” + </p> + <p> + Across the room someone was singing. + </p> + <p> + “Let's drown 'em out,” said the top sergeant boisterously. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Mademerselle from Armenteers, + Parley voo?” + </pre> + <p> + “Well, I've got to get the hell out of here,” said wild Dan Cohan, after a + minute. “I've got a Jane waitin' for me. I'm all fixed up,... Compree?” + </p> + <p> + He swaggered out singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Bon soir, ma cherie, + Comment alley vous? + Si vous voulez + Couche avec moi....” + </pre> + <p> + The door slammed behind him, leaving the cafe quiet. + </p> + <p> + Many men had left. Madame had taken up her knitting and Marie of the plump + white arms sat beside her, leaning her head back among the bottles that + rose in tiers behind the bars. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was staring at a door on one side of the bar. Men kept opening it + and looking in and closing it again with a peculiar expression on their + faces. Now and then someone would open it with a smile and go into the + next room, shuffling his feet and closing the door carefully behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Say, I wonder what they've got there,” said the top sergeant, who had + been staring at the door. “Mush be looked into, mush be looked into,” he + added, laughing drunkenly. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno,” said Fuselli. The champagne was humming in his head like a fly + against a window pane. He felt very bold and important. + </p> + <p> + The top sergeant got to his feet unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “Corporal, take charge of the colors,” he said, and walked to the door. He + opened it a little, peeked in; winked elaborately to his friends and + skipped into the other room, closing the door carefully behind him. + </p> + <p> + The corporal went over next. He said, “Well, I'll be damned,” and walked + straight in, leaving the door ajar. In a moment it was closed from the + inside. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Bill, let's see what the hell they got in there,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “All right, old kid,” said Bill Grey. They went together over to the door. + Fuselli opened it and looked in. He let out a breath through his teeth + with a faint whistling sound. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, come in, Bill,” he said, giggling. + </p> + <p> + The room was small, nearly filled up by a dining table with a red cloth. + On the mantel above the empty fireplace were candlesticks with dangling + crystals that glittered red and yellow and purple in the lamplight, in + front of a cracked mirror that seemed a window into another dingier room. + The paper was peeling off the damp walls, giving a mortuary smell of + mildewed plaster that not even the reek of beer and tobacco had done away + with. + </p> + <p> + “Look at her, Bill, ain't she got style?” whispered Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + Bill Grey grunted. + </p> + <p> + “Say, d'ye think the Jane that feller was tellin' us he raised hell with + in Paris was like that?” + </p> + <p> + At the end of the table, leaning on her elbows, was a woman with black + frizzy hair cut short, that stuck out from her head in all directions. Her + eyes were dark and her lips red with a faint swollen look. She looked with + a certain defiance at the men who stood about the walls and sat at the + table. + </p> + <p> + The men stared at her silently. A big man with red hair and a heavy jaw + who sat next her kept edging up nearer. Someone knocked against the table + making the bottles and liqueur glasses clustered in the center jingle. + </p> + <p> + “She ain't clean; she's got bobbed hair,” said the man next Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + The woman said something in French. + </p> + <p> + Only one man understood it. His laugh rang hollowly in the silent room and + stopped suddenly. + </p> + <p> + The woman looked attentively at the faces round her for a moment, shrugged + her shoulders, and began straightening the ribbon on the hat she held on + her lap. + </p> + <p> + “How the hell did she get here? I thought the M. P.'s ran them out of town + the minute they got here,” said one man. + </p> + <p> + The woman continued plucking at her hat. + </p> + <p> + “You venay Paris?” said a boy with a soft voice who sat near her. He had + blue eyes and a milky complexion, faintly tanned, that went strangely with + the rough red and brown faces in the room. + </p> + <p> + “Oui; de Paris,” she said after a pause, glancing suddenly in the boy's + face. + </p> + <p> + “She's a liar, I can tell you that,” said the red-haired man, who by this + time had moved his chair very close to the woman's. + </p> + <p> + “You told him you came from Marseilles, and him you came from Lyon,” said + the boy with the milky complexion, smiling genially. “Vraiment de ou venay + vous?” + </p> + <p> + “I come from everywhere,” she said, and tossed the hair back from her + face. + </p> + <p> + “Travelled a lot?” asked the boy again. + </p> + <p> + “A feller told me,” said Fuselli to Bill Grey, “that he'd talked to a girl + like that who'd been to Turkey an' Egypt I bet that girl's seen some + life.” + </p> + <p> + The woman jumped to her feet suddenly screaming with rage. The man with + the red hair moved away sheepishly. Then he lifted his large dirty hands + in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Kamarad,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Nobody laughed. The room was silent except for feet scraping occasionally + on the floor. + </p> + <p> + She put her hat on and took a little box from the chain bag in her lap and + began powdering her face, making faces into the mirror she held in the + palm of her hand. + </p> + <p> + The men stared at her. + </p> + <p> + “Guess she thinks she's the Queen of the May,” said one man, getting to + his feet. He leaned across the table and spat into the fireplace. “I'm + going back to barracks.” He turned to the woman and shouted in a voice + full of hatred, “Bon swar.” + </p> + <p> + The woman was putting the powder puff away in her jet bag. She did not + look up; the door closed sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” said the woman, suddenly, tossing her head back. “Come along + one at a time; who go with me first?” + </p> + <p> + Nobody spoke. The men stared at her silently. There was no sound except + that of feet scraping occasionally on the floor. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> + <p> + The oatmeal flopped heavily into the mess-kit. Fuselli's eyes were still + glued together with sleep. He sat at the dark greasy bench and took a gulp + of the scalding coffee that smelt vaguely of dish rags. That woke him up a + little. There was little talk in the mess shack. The men, that the bugle + had wrenched out of their blankets but fifteen minutes before, sat in + rows, eating sullenly or blinking at each other through the misty + darkness. You could hear feet scraping in the ashes of the floor and mess + kits clattering against the tables and here and there a man coughing. Near + the counter where the food was served out one of the cooks swore + interminably in a whiny sing-sing voice. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, Bill, I've got a head,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're ought to have,” growled Bill Grey. “I had to carry you up into the + barracks. You said you were goin' back and love up that goddam girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I?” said Fuselli, giggling. + </p> + <p> + “I had a hell of a time getting you past the guard.” + </p> + <p> + “Some cognac!... I got a hangover now,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “I'm goddamned if I can go this much longer.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + They were washing their mess-kits in the tub of warm water thick with + grease from the hundred mess-kits that had gone before, in front of the + shack. An electric light illumined faintly the wet trunk of a plane tree + and the surface of the water where bits of oatmeal floated and coffee + grounds,—and the garbage pails with their painted signs: WET + GARBAGE, DRY GARBAGE; and the line of men who stood waiting to reach the + tub. + </p> + <p> + “This hell of a life!” said Bill Grey, savagely. + </p> + <p> + “What d'ye mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Doin' nothin' but pack bandages in packin' cases and take bandages out of + packin' cases. I'll go crazy. I've tried gettin' drunk; it don't do no + good.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee; I've got a head,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + Bill Grey put his heavy muscular hand round Fuselli's shoulder as they + strolled towards the barracks. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Dan, I'm goin' A. W. O. L.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't ye do it, Bill. Hell, look at the chance we've got to get ahead. We + can both of us get promoted if we don't get in wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't give a hoot in hell for all that.... What d'ye think I got in + this goddamed army for? Because I thought I'd look nice in the uniform?” + </p> + <p> + Bill Grey thrust his hands into his pockets and spat dismally in front of + him. + </p> + <p> + “But, Bill, you don't want to stay a buck private, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to get to the front.... I don't want to stay here till I get in + the jug for being spiffed or get a court-martial.... Say, Dan, will you + come with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, Bill, you ain't goin'. You're just kiddin', ain't yer? They'll send + us there soon enough. I want to get to be a corporal,”—he puffed out + his chest a little—“before I go to the front, so's to be able to + show what I'm good for. See, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + A bugle blew. + </p> + <p> + “There's fatigue, an' I ain't done my bunk.” + </p> + <p> + “Me neither.... They won't do nothin', Dan.... Don't let them ride yer, + Dan.” + </p> + <p> + They lined up in the dark road feeling the mud slopping under their feet. + The ruts were full of black water, in which gleamed a reflection of + distant electric lights. + </p> + <p> + “All you fellows work in Storehouse A today,” said the sergeant, who had + been a preacher, in his sad, drawling voice. “Lieutenant says that's all + got to be finished by noon. They're sending it to the front today.” + </p> + <p> + Somebody let his breath out in a whistle of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Who did that?” + </p> + <p> + Nobody answered. + </p> + <p> + “Dismissed!” snapped the sergeant disgustedly. + </p> + <p> + They straggled off into the darkness towards one of the lights, their feet + splashing confusedly in the puddles. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli strolled up to the sentry at the camp gate. He was picking his + teeth meditatively with the splinter of a pine board. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Phil, you couldn't lend me a half a dollar, could you?” Fuselli + stopped, put his hands in his pockets and looked at the sentry with the + splinter sticking out of a corner of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, Dan,” said the other man; “I'm cleaned out. Ain't had a cent since + New Year's.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the hell don't they pay us?” + </p> + <p> + “You guys signed the pay roll yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. So long!” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli strolled on down the dark road, where the mud was frozen into deep + ruts, towards the town. It was still strange to him, this town of little + houses faced with cracked stucco, where the damp made grey stains and + green stains, of confused red-tiled roofs, and of narrow cobbled streets + that zigzagged in and out among high walls overhung with balconies. At + night, when it was dark except for where a lamp in a window spilt gold + reflections out on the wet street or the light streamed out from a store + or a cafe, it was almost frighteningly unreal. He walked down into the + main square, where he could hear the fountain gurgling. In the middle he + stopped indecisively, his coat unbuttoned, his hands pushed to the bottom + of his trousers pockets, where they encountered nothing but the cloth. He + listened a long time to the gurgling of the fountain and to the shunting + of trains far away in the freight yards. “An' this is the war,” he + thought. “Ain't it queer? It's quieter than it was at home nights.” Down + the street at the end of the square a band of white light appeared, the + searchlight of a staff car. The two eyes of the car stared straight into + his eyes, dazzling him, then veered off to one side and whizzed past, + leaving a faint smell of gasoline and a sound of voices. Fuselli watched + the fronts of houses light up as the car made its way to the main road. + Then the town was dark and silent again. + </p> + <p> + He strolled across the square towards the Cheval Blanc, the large cafe + where the officers went. + </p> + <p> + “Button yer coat,” came a gruff voice. He saw a stiff tall figure at the + edge of the curve. He made out the shape of the pistol holster that hung + like a thin ham at the man's thigh. An M. P. He buttoned his coat + hurriedly and walked off with rapid steps. + </p> + <p> + He stopped outside a cafe that had “Ham and Eggs” written in white paint + on the window and looked in wistfully. Someone from behind him put two big + hands over his eyes. He wriggled his head free. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Dan,” he said. “How did you get out of the jug?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm a trusty, kid,” said Dan Cohan. “Got any dough?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a damn cent!” + </p> + <p> + “Me neither.... Come on in anyway,” said Cohan. “I'll fix it up with + Marie.” Fuselli followed doubtfully. He was a little afraid of Dan Cohan; + he remembered how a man had been court-martialed last week for trying to + bolt out of a cafe without paying for his drinks. + </p> + <p> + He sat down at a table near the door. Dan had disappeared into the back + room. Fuselli felt homesick. He was thinking how long it was since, he had + had a letter from Mabe. “I bet she's got another feller,” he told himself + savagely. He tried to remember how she looked, but he had to take out his + watch and peep in the back before he could make out if her nose were + straight or snub. He looked up, clicking the watch in his pocket. Marie of + the white arms was coming laughing out of the inner room. Her large firm + breasts, neatly held in by the close-fitting blouse, shook a little when + she laughed. Her cheeks were very red and a strand of chestnut hair hung + down along her neck. She picked it up hurriedly and caught it up with a + hairpin, walking slowly into the middle of the room as she did so with her + hands behind her head. Dan Cohan followed her into the room, a broad grin + on his face. + </p> + <p> + “All right, kid,” he said. “I told her you'ld pay when Uncle Sam came + across. Ever had any Kummel?” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell's that?” + </p> + <p> + “You'll see.” + </p> + <p> + They sat down before a dish of fried eggs at the table in the corner, the + favoured table, where Marie herself often sat and chatted, when wizened + Madame did not have her eye upon her. + </p> + <p> + Several men drew up their chairs. Wild Dan Cohan always had an audience. + </p> + <p> + “Looks like there was going to be another offensive at Verdun,” said Dan + Cohan. Someone answered vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “Funny how little we know about what's going on out there,” said one man. + “I knew more about the war when I was home in Minneapolis than I do here.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess we're lightin' into 'em all right,” said Fuselli in a patriotic + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hell! Nothin' doin' this time o' year anyway,” said Cohan. A grin spread + across his red face. “Last time I was at the front the Boche had just made + a coup de main and captured a whole trenchful.” + </p> + <p> + “Of who?” + </p> + <p> + “Of Americans—of us!” + </p> + <p> + “The hell you say!” + </p> + <p> + “That's a goddam lie,” shouted a black-haired man with an ill-shaven jaw, + who had just come in. “There ain't never been an American captured, an' + there never will be, by God!” + </p> + <p> + “How long were you at the front, buddy,” asked Cohan coolly. “I guess you + been to Berlin already, ain't yer?” + </p> + <p> + “I say that any man who says an American'ld let himself be captured by a + stinkin' Hun, is a goddam liar,” said the man with the ill-shaven jaw, + sitting down sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you'd better not say it to me,” said Cohan laughing, looking + meditatively at one of his big red fists. + </p> + <p> + There had been a look of apprehension on Marie's face. She looked at + Cohan's fist and shrugged her shoulders and laughed. + </p> + <p> + Another crowd had just slouched into the cafe. + </p> + <p> + “Well if that isn't wild Dan! Hello, old kid, how are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Dook!” + </p> + <p> + A small man in a coat that looked almost like an officer's coat, it was so + well cut, was shaking hands effusively with Cohan. He wore a corporal's + stripes and a British aviator's fatigue cap. Cohan made room for him on + the bench. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing in this hole, Dook?” The man twisted his mouth so that + his neat black mustache was a slant. + </p> + <p> + “G. O. 42,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Battle of Paris?” said Cohan in a sympathetic voice. “Battle of Nice! I'm + going back to my section soon. I'd never have got a court-martial if I'd + been with my outfit. I was in the Base Hospital 15 with pneumonia.” + </p> + <p> + “Tough luck!” + </p> + <p> + “It was a hell of a note.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Dook, your outfit was working with ours at Chamfort that time, + wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean when we evacuated the nut hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, wasn't that hell?” Dan Cohan gulped down half a glass of red wine, + smacked his thick lips, and began in his story-telling voice: + </p> + <p> + “Our section had just come out of Verdun where we'd been getting hell for + three weeks on the Bras road. There was one little hill where we'd have to + get out and shove every damn time, the mud was so deep, and God, it stank + there with the shells turning up the ground all full of mackabbies as the + poilus call them.... Say, Dook, have you got any money?” + </p> + <p> + “I've got some,” said Dook, without enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the champagne's damn good here. I'm part of the outfit in this gin + mill; they'll give it to you at a reduction.” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” + </p> + <p> + Dan Cohan turned round and whispered something to Marie. She laughed and + dived down behind the curtain. + </p> + <p> + “But that Chamfort was worse yet. Everybody was sort o' nervous because + the Germans had dropped a message sayin' they'd give 'em three days to + clear the hospital out, and that then they'd shell hell out of the place.” + </p> + <p> + “The Germans done that! Quit yer kiddin',” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “They did it at Souilly, too,” said Dook. “Hell, yes.... A funny thing + happened there. The hospital was in a big rambling house, looked like an + Atlantic City hotel.... We used to run our car in back and sleep in it. It + was where we took the shell-shock cases, fellows who were roarin' mad, and + tremblin' all over, and some of 'em paralysed like.... There was a man in + the wing opposite where we slept who kept laugh-in'. Bill Rees was on the + car with me, and we laid in our blankets in the bottom of the car and + every now and then one of us'ld turn over and whisper: 'Ain't this hell, + kid?' 'cause that feller kept laughin' like a man who had just heard a + joke that was so funny he couldn't stop laughin'. It wasn't like a crazy + man's laugh usually is. When I first heard it I thought it was a man + really laughin', and I guess I laughed too. But it didn't stop.... Bill + Rees an' me laid in our car shiverin', listenin' to the barrage in the + distance with now and then the big noise of an aeroplane bomb, an' that + feller laughin', laughin', like he'd just heard a joke, like something had + struck him funny.” Cohan took a gulp of champagne and jerked his head to + one side. “An that damn laughin' kept up until about noon the next day + when the orderlies strangled the feller.... Got their goat, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was looking towards the other side of the room, where a faint + murmur of righteous indignation was rising from the dark man with the + unshaven jaw and his companions. Fuselli was thinking that it wasn't good + to be seen round too much with a fellow like Cohan, who talked about the + Germans notifying hospitals before they bombarded them and who was waiting + for a court-martial. Might get him in wrong. He slipped out of the cafe + into the dark. A dank wind blew down the irregular street, ruffling the + reflected light in the puddles, making a shutter bang interminably + somewhere. Fuselli went to the main square again, casting an envious + glance in the window of the Cheval Blanc, where he saw officers playing + billiards in a well-lighted room painted white and gold, and a blond girl + in a raspberry-colored shirtwaist enthroned haughtily behind the bar. He + remembered the M. P. and automatically hastened his steps. In a narrow + street the other side of the square he stopped before the window of a + small grocery shop and peered inside, keeping carefully out of the oblong + of light that showed faintly the grass-grown cobbles and the green and + grey walls opposite. A girl sat knitting beside the small counter with her + two little black feet placed demurely side by side on the edge of a box + full of red beets. She was very small and slender. The lamplight gleamed + on her black hair, done close to her head. Her face was in the shadow. + Several soldiers lounged awkwardly against the counter and the jambs of + the door, following her movements with their eyes as dogs watch a plate of + meat being moved about in a kitchen. + </p> + <p> + After a little the girl rolled up her knitting and jumped to her feet, + showing her face,—an oval white face with large dark lashes and an + impertinent mouth. She stood looking at the soldiers who stood about her + in a circle, then twisted up her mouth in a grimace and disappeared into + the inner room. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli walked to the end of the street where there was a bridge over a + small stream. He leaned on the cold stone rail and looked into the water + that was barely visible gurgling beneath between rims of ice. + </p> + <p> + “O this is a hell of a life,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + He shivered in the cold wind but remained leaning over the water. In the + distance trains rumbled interminably, giving him a sense of vast desolate + distances. The village clock struck eight. The bell had a soft note like + the bass string of a guitar. In the darkness Fuselli could almost see the + girl's face grimacing with its broad impertinent lips. He thought of the + sombre barracks and men sitting about on the end of their cots. Hell, he + couldn't go back yet. His whole body was taut with desire for warmth and + softness and quiet. He slouched back along the narrow street cursing in a + dismal monotone. Before the grocery store he stopped. The men had gone. He + went in jauntily pushing his cap a little to one side so that some of his + thick curly hair came out over his forehead. The little bell in the door + clanged. + </p> + <p> + The girl came out of the inner room. She gave him her hand indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “Comment ca va! Yvonne? Bon?” + </p> + <p> + His pidgin-French made her show her little pearly teeth in a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Good,” she said in English. + </p> + <p> + They laughed childishly. + </p> + <p> + “Say, will you be my girl, Yvonne?” + </p> + <p> + She looked in his eyes and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Non compris,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “We, we; voulez vous et' ma fille?” + </p> + <p> + She shrieked with laughter and slapped him hard on the cheek. “Venez,” she + said, still laughing. He followed her. In the inner room was a large oak + table with chairs round it. At the end Eisenstein and a French soldier + were talking excitedly, so absorbed in what they were saying that they did + not notice the other two. Yvonne took the Frenchman by the hair and pulled + his head back and told him, still laughing, what Fuselli had said. He + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “No, you must not say that,” he said in English, turning to Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was angry and sat down sullenly at the end of the table, keeping + his eyes on Yvonne. She drew the knitting out of the pocket of her apron + and holding it up comically between two fingers, glanced towards the dark + corner of the room where an old woman with a lace cap on her head sat + asleep, and then let herself fall into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Boom!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli laughed until the tears filled his eyes. She laughed too. They sat + a long while looking at each other and giggling, while Eisenstein and the + Frenchman talked. Suddenly Fuselli caught a phrase that startled him. + </p> + <p> + “What would you Americans do if revolution broke out in France?” + </p> + <p> + “We'd do what we were ordered to,” said Eisenstein bitterly. “We're a + bunch of slaves.” Fuselli noticed that Eisenstein's puffy sallow face was + flushed and that there was a flash in his eyes he had never seen before. + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean, revolution?” asked Fuselli in a puzzled voice. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman turned black eyes searchingly upon him. + </p> + <p> + “I mean, stop the butchery,—overthrow the capitalist government.—The + social revolution.” + </p> + <p> + “But you're a republic already, ain't yer?” + </p> + <p> + “As much as you are.” + </p> + <p> + “You talk like a socialist,” said Fuselli. “They tell me they shoot guys + in America for talkin' like that.” + </p> + <p> + “You see!” said Eisenstein to the Frenchman. + </p> + <p> + “Are they all like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Except a very few. It's hopeless,” said Eisenstein, burying his face in + his hands. “I often think of shooting myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Better shoot someone else,” said the Frenchman. “It will be more useful.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli stirred uneasily in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Where'd you fellers get that stuff anyway?” he asked. In his mind he was + saying: “A kike and a frog, that's a good combination.” + </p> + <p> + His eye caught Yvonne's and they both laughed, Yvonne threw her knitting + ball at him. It rolled down under the table and they both scrambled about + under the chairs looking for it. + </p> + <p> + “Twice I have thought it was going to happen,” said the Frenchman. + </p> + <p> + “When was that?” + </p> + <p> + “A little while ago a division started marching on Paris.... And when I + was in Verdun.... O there will be a revolution.... France is the country + of revolutions.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll always be here to shoot you down,” said Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you've been in the war a little while. A winter in the trenches + will make any army ready for revolution.” + </p> + <p> + “But we have no way of learning the truth. And in the tyranny of the army + a man becomes a brute, a piece of machinery. Remember you are freer than + we are. We are worse than the Russians!” + </p> + <p> + “It is curious!... O but you must have some feeling of civilization. I + have always heard that Americans were free and independent. Will they let + themselves be driven to the slaughter always?” + </p> + <p> + “O I don't know.” Eisenstein got to his feet. “We'd better be getting to + barracks. Coming, Fuselli?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Guess so,” said Fuselli indifferently, without getting up. + </p> + <p> + Eisenstein and the Frenchman went out into the shop. + </p> + <p> + “Bon swar,” said Fuselli, softly, leaning across the table. “Hey, girlie?” + </p> + <p> + He threw himself on his belly on the wide table and put his arms round her + neck and kissed her, feeling everything go blank in a flame of desire. + </p> + <p> + She pushed him away calmly with strong little arms. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” she said, and jerked her head in the direction of the old woman in + the chair in the dark corner of the room. They stood side by side + listening to her faint wheezy snoring. He put his arms round her and + kissed her long on the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Demain,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She nodded her head. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli walked fast up the dark street towards the camp. The blood pounded + happily through his veins. He caught up with Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Eisenstein,” he said in a comradely voice, “I don't think you ought + to go talking round like that. You'll get yourself in too deep one of + these days.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't care!” + </p> + <p> + “But, hell, man, you don't want to get in the wrong that bad. They shoot + fellers for less than you said.” + </p> + <p> + “Let them.” + </p> + <p> + “Christ, man, you don't want to be a damn fool,” expostulated Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “How old are you, Fuselli?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm twenty now.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm thirty. I've lived more, kid. I know what's good and what's bad. This + butchery makes me unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “God, I know. It's a hell of a note. But who brought it on? If somebody + had shot that Kaiser.” + </p> + <p> + Eisenstein laughed bitterly. At the entrance of camp Fuselli lingered a + moment watching the small form of Eisenstein disappear with its curious + waddly walk into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to be damn careful who I'm seen goin' into barracks with,” he + said to himself. “That damn kike may be a German spy or a secret-service + officer.” A cold chill of terror went over him, shattering his mood of + joyous self-satisfaction. His feet slopped in the puddles, breaking + through the thin ice, as he walked up the road towards the barracks. He + felt as if people were watching him from everywhere out of the darkness, + as if some gigantic figure were driving him forward through the darkness, + holding a fist over his head, ready to crush him. + </p> + <p> + When he was rolled up in his blankets in the bunk next to Bill Grey, he + whispered to his friend: + </p> + <p> + “Say, Bill, I think I've got a skirt all fixed up in town.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Yvonne—don't tell anybody.” + </p> + <p> + Bill Grey whistled softly. + </p> + <p> + “You're some highflyer, Dan.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, man, the best ain't good enough for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm going to leave you,” said Bill Grey. + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Damn soon. I can't go this life. I don't see how you can.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli did not answer. He snuggled warmly into his blankets, thinking of + Yvonne and the corporalship. + </p> + <p> + In the light of the one flickering lamp that made an unsteady circle of + reddish glow on the station platform Fuselli looked at his pass. From + Reveille on February fourth to Reveille on February fifth he was a free + man. His eyes smarted with sleep as he walked up and down the cold station + platform. For twenty-four hours he wouldn't have to obey anybody's orders. + Despite the loneliness of going away on a train in a night like this in a + strange country Fuselli was happy. He clinked the money in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + Down the track a red eye appeared and grew nearer. He could hear the hard + puffing of the engine up the grade. Huge curves gleamed as the engine + roared slowly past him. A man with bare arms black with coal dust was + leaning out of the cab, lit up from behind by a yellowish red glare. Now + the cars were going by, flat cars with guns, tilted up like the muzzles of + hunting dogs, freight cars out of which here and there peered a man's + head. The train almost came to a stop. The cars clanged one against the + other all down the train. Fuselli was looking into a pair of eyes that + shone in the lamplight; a hand was held out to him. + </p> + <p> + “So long, kid,” said a boyish voice. “I don't know who the hell you are, + but so long; good luck.” + </p> + <p> + “So long,” stammered Fuselli. “Going to the front?” + </p> + <p> + “Yer goddam right,” answered another voice. + </p> + <p> + The train took up speed again; the clanging of car against car ceased and + in a moment they were moving fast before Fuselli's eyes. Then the station + was dark and empty again, and he was watching the red light grow smaller + and paler while the train rumbled on into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + A confusion of gold and green and crimson silks and intricate designs of + naked pink-fleshed cupids filled Fuselli's mind, when, full of wonder, he + walked down the steps of the palace out into the faint ruddy sunlight of + the afternoon. A few names, Napoleon, Josephine, the Empire, that had + never had significance in his mind before, flared with a lurid gorgeous + light in his imagination like a tableau of living statues at a vaudeville + theatre. + </p> + <p> + “They must have had a heap of money, them guys,” said the man who was with + him, a private in Aviation. “Let's go have a drink.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was silent and absorbed in his thoughts. Here was something that + supplemented his visions of wealth and glory that he used to tell Al + about, when they'd sit and watch the big liners come in, all glittering + with lights, through the Golden Gate. + </p> + <p> + “They didn't mind having naked women about, did they?” said the private in + Aviation, a morose foul-mouthed little man who had been in the woolen + business. “D'ye blame them?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can't say's I do.... I bet they was immoral, them guys,” he + continued vaguely. + </p> + <p> + They wandered about the streets of Fontainebleau listlessly, looking into + shop windows, staring at women, lolling on benches in the parks where the + faint sunlight came through a lacework of twigs purple and crimson and + yellow, that cast intricate lavender-grey shadows on the asphalt. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go have another drink,” said the private in Aviation. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli looked at his watch; they had hours before train time. + </p> + <p> + A girl in a loose dirty blouse wiped off the table. + </p> + <p> + “Vin blank,” said the other man. + </p> + <p> + “Mame shows,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + His head was full of gold and green mouldings and silk and crimson velvet + and intricate designs in which naked pink-fleshed cupids writhed + indecently. Some day, he was saying to himself, he'd make a hell of a lot + of money and live in a house like that with Mabe; no, with Yvonne, or with + some other girl. + </p> + <p> + “Must have been immoral, them guys,” said the private in Aviation, leering + at the girl in the dirty blouse. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli remembered a revel he'd seen in a moving picture of “Quo Vadis,” + people in bath robes dancing around with large cups in their hands and + tables full of dishes being upset. + </p> + <p> + “Cognac, beaucoup,” said the private in Aviation. + </p> + <p> + “Mame shows,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + The cafe was full of gold and green silks, and great brocaded beds with + heavy carvings above them, beds in which writhed, pink-fleshed and + indecent, intricate patterns of cupids. + </p> + <p> + Somebody said, “Hello, Fuselli.” + </p> + <p> + He was on the train; his ears hummed and his head had an iron band round + it. It was dark except for the little light that flickered in the ceiling. + For a minute he thought it was a goldfish in a bowl, but it was a light + that flickered in the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Fuselli,” said Eisenstein. “Feel all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said Fuselli with a thick voice. “Why shouldn't I?” + </p> + <p> + “How did you find that house?” said Eisenstein seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, I don't know,” muttered Fuselli. “I'm goin' to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + His mind was a jumble. He remembered vast halls full of green and gold + silks, and great beds with crowns over them where Napoleon and Josephine + used to sleep. Who were they? O yes, the Empire,—or was it the + Abdication? Then there were patterns of flowers and fruits and cupids, all + gilded, and a dark passage and stairs that smelt musty, where he and the + man in Aviation fell down. He remembered how it felt to rub his nose hard + on the gritty red plush carpet of the stairs. Then there were women in + open-work skirts standing about, or were those the pictures on the walls? + And there was a bed with mirrors round it. He opened his eyes. Eisenstein + was talking to him. He must have been talking to him for some time. + </p> + <p> + “I look at it this way,” he was saying. “A feller needs a little of that + to keep healthy. Now, if he's abstemious and careful...” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli went to sleep. He woke up again thinking suddenly: he must borrow + that little blue book of army regulations. It would be useful to know that + in case something came up. The corporal who had been in the Red Sox + outfield had been transferred to a Base Hospital. It was t. b. so Sergeant + Osier said. Anyway they were going to appoint an acting corporal. He + stared at the flickering little light in the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + “How did you get a pass?” Eisenstein was asking. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the sergeant fixed me up with one,” answered Fuselli mysteriously. + </p> + <p> + “You're in pretty good with the sergeant, ain't yer?” said Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli smiled deprecatingly. + </p> + <p> + “Say, d'ye know that little kid Stockton?” + </p> + <p> + “The white-faced little kid who's clerk in that outfit that has the other + end of the barracks?” + </p> + <p> + “That's him,” said Eisenstein. “I wish I could do something to help that + kid. He just can't stand the discipline.... You ought to see him wince + when the red-haired sergeant over there yells at him.... The kid looks + sicker every day.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he's got a good soft job: clerk,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Ye think it's soft? I worked twelve hours day before yesterday getting + out reports,” said Eisenstein, indignantly. “But the kid's lost it and + they keep ridin' him for some reason or other. It hurts a feller to see + that. He ought to be at home at school.” + </p> + <p> + “He's got to take his medicine,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “You wait till we get butchered in the trenches. We'll see how you like + your medicine,” said Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + “Damn fool,” muttered Fuselli, composing himself to sleep again. + </p> + <p> + The bugle wrenched Fuselli out of his blankets, half dead with sleep. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Bill, I got a head again,” he muttered. There was no answer. It was + only then that he noticed that the cot next to his was empty. The blankets + were folded neatly at the foot. Sudden panic seized him. He couldn't get + along without Bill Grey, he said to himself, he wouldn't have anyone to go + round with. He looked fixedly at the empty cot. + </p> + <p> + “Attention!” + </p> + <p> + The company was lined up in the dark with their feet in the mud puddles of + the road. The lieutenant strode up and down in front of them with the tail + of his trench coat sticking out behind. He had a pocket flashlight that he + kept flashing at the gaunt trunks of trees, in the faces of the company, + at his feet, in the puddles of the road. + </p> + <p> + “If any man knows anything about the whereabouts of Private 1st-class + William Grey, report at once, as otherwise we shall have to put him down + A. W. O. L. You know what that means?” The lieutenant spoke in short + shrill periods, chopping off the ends of his words as if with a hatchet. + </p> + <p> + No one said anything. + </p> + <p> + “I guess he's S. O. L.”; this from someone behind Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “And I have one more announcement to make, men,” said the lieutenant in + his natural voice. “I'm going to appoint Fuselli, 1st-class private, + acting corporal.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli's knees were weak under him. He felt like shouting and dancing + with joy. He was glad it was dark so that no one could see how excited he + was. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant, dismiss the company,” said the lieutenant bringing his voice + back to its military tone. + </p> + <p> + “Companee dis-missed!” said out the sergeant jovially. + </p> + <p> + In groups, talking with crisp voices, cheered by the occurrence of events, + the company straggled across the great stretch of mud puddles towards the + mess shack. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> + <p> + Yvonne tossed the omelette in the air. It landed sizzling in the pan + again, and she came forward into the light, holding the frying pan before + her. Behind her was the dark stove and above it a row of copper kettles + that gleamed through the bluish obscurity. She flicked the omelette out of + the pan into the white dish that stood in the middle of the table, full in + the yellow lamplight. + </p> + <p> + “Tiens,” she said, brushing a few stray hairs off her forehead with the + back of her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You're some cook,” said Fuselli getting to his feet. He had been + sprawling on a chair in the other end of the kitchen, watching Yvonne's + slender body in tight black dress and blue apron move in and out of the + area of light as she got dinner ready. A smell of burnt butter with a + faint tang of pepper in it, filled the kitchen, making his mouth water. + </p> + <p> + “This is the real stuff,” he was saying to himself,—“like home.” + </p> + <p> + He stood with his hands deep in his pockets and his head thrown back, + watching her cut the bread, holding the big loaf to her chest and pulling + the knife towards her, she brushed some crumbs off her dress with a thin + white hand. + </p> + <p> + “You're my girl, Yvonne; ain't yer?” Fuselli put his arms round her. + </p> + <p> + “Sale bete,” she said, laughing and pushing him away. + </p> + <p> + There was a brisk step outside and another girl came into the kitchen, a + thin yellow-faced girl with a sharp nose and long teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Ma cousine.... Mon 'tit americain.” They both laughed. Fuselli blushed as + he shook the girl's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Il est beau, hein?” said Yvonne gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “Mais, ma petite, il est charmant, vot' americain!” They laughed again. + Fuselli who did not understand laughed too, thinking to himself, “They'll + let the dinner get cold if they don't sit down soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Get maman, Dan,” said Yvonne. Fuselli went into the shop through the room + with the long oak table. In the dim light that came from the kitchen he + saw the old woman's white bonnet. Her face was in shadow but there was a + faint gleam of light in her small beady eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Supper, ma'am,” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + Grumbling in her creaky little voice, the old woman followed him back into + the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Steam, gilded by the lamplight, rose in pillars to the ceiling from the + big tureen of soup. + </p> + <p> + There was a white cloth on the table and a big loaf of bread at the end. + The plates, with borders of little roses on them, seemed, after the army + mess, the most beautiful things Fuselli had ever seen. The wine bottle was + black beside the soup tureen and the wine in the glasses cast a dark + purple stain on the cloth. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli ate his soup silently understanding very little of the French that + the two girls rattled at each other. The old woman rarely spoke and when + she did one of the girls would throw her a hasty remark that hardly + interrupted their chatter. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was thinking of the other men lining up outside the dark mess + shack and the sound the food made when it flopped into the mess kits. An + idea came to him. He'd have to bring Sarge to see Yvonne. They could set + him up to a feed. “It would help me to stay in good with him,” He had a + minute's worry about his corporalship. He was acting corporal right + enough, but he wanted them to send in his appointment. + </p> + <p> + The omelette melted in his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Damn bon,” he said to Yvonne with his mouth full. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him fixedly. + </p> + <p> + “Bon, bon,” he said again. + </p> + <p> + “You.... Dan, bon,” she said and laughed. The cousin was looking from one + to the other enviously, her upper lip lifted away from her teeth in a + smile. + </p> + <p> + The old woman munched her bread in a silent preoccupied fashion. + </p> + <p> + “There's somebody in the store,” said Fuselli after a long pause. “Je + irey.” He put his napkin down and went out wiping his mouth on the back of + his hand. Eisenstein and a chalky-faced boy were in the shop. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo! are you keepin' house here?” asked Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said Fuselli conceitedly. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got any chawclit?” asked the chalky-faced boy in a thin + bloodless voice. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli looked round the shelves and threw a cake of chocolate down on the + counter. + </p> + <p> + “Anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, thank you, corporal. How much is it?” + </p> + <p> + Whistling “There's a long, long trail a-winding,” Fuselli strode back into + the inner room. + </p> + <p> + “Combien chocolate?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + When he had received the money, he sat down at his place at table again, + smiling importantly. He must write Al about all this, he was thinking, and + he was wondering vaguely whether Al had been drafted yet. + </p> + <p> + After dinner the women sat a long time chatting over their coffee, while + Fuselli squirmed uneasily on his chair, looking now and then at his watch. + His pass was till twelve only; it was already getting on to ten. He tried + to catch Yvonne's eye, but she was moving about the kitchen putting things + in order for the night, and hardly seemed to notice him. At last the old + woman shuffled into the shop and there was the sound of a key clicking + hard in the outside door. When she came back, Fuselli said good-night to + everyone and left by the back door into the court. There he leaned sulkily + against the wall and waited in the dark, listening to the sounds that came + from the house. He could see shadows passing across the orange square of + light the window threw on the cobbles of the court. A light went on in an + upper window, sending a faint glow over the disorderly tiles of the roof + of the shed opposite. The door opened and Yvonne and her cousin stood on + the broad stone doorstep chattering. Fuselli had pushed himself in behind + a big hogshead that had a pleasant tang of old wood damp with sour wine. + At last the heads of the shadows on the cobbles came together for a moment + and the cousin clattered across the court and out into the empty streets. + Her rapid footsteps died away. Yvonne's shadow was still in the door: + </p> + <p> + “Dan,” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli came out from behind the hogshead, his whole body flushing with + delight. Yvonne pointed to his shoes. He took them off, and left them + beside the door. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. + </p> + <p> + “Viens,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He followed her, his knees trembling a little from excitement, up the + steep stairs. + </p> + <p> + The deep broken strokes of the town clock had just begun to strike + midnight when Fuselli hurried in the camp gate. He gave up his pass + jauntily to the guard and strolled towards his barracks. The long shed was + pitch black, full of a sound of deep breathing and of occasional snoring. + There was a thick smell of uniform wool on which the sweat had dried. + Fuselli undressed without haste, stretching his arms luxuriously. He + wriggled into his blankets feeling cool and tired, and went to sleep with + a smile of self-satisfaction on his lips. + </p> + <p> + The companies were lined up for retreat, standing stiff as toy soldiers + outside their barracks. The evening was almost warm. A little playful + wind, oozing with springtime, played with the swollen buds on the plane + trees. The sky was a drowsy violet color, and the blood pumped hot and + stinging through the stiffened arms and legs of the soldiers who stood at + attention. The voices of the non-coms were particularly harsh and metallic + this evening. It was rumoured that a general was about. Orders were + shouted with fury. + </p> + <p> + Standing behind the line of his company, Fuselli's chest was stuck out + until the buttons of his tunic were in danger of snapping off. His shoes + were well-shined, and he wore a new pair of puttees, wound so tightly that + his legs ached. + </p> + <p> + At last the bugle sounded across the silent camp. + </p> + <p> + “Parade rest!” shouted the lieutenant. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli's mind was full of the army regulations which he had been studying + assiduously for the last week. He was thinking of an imaginary examination + for the corporalship, which he would pass, of course. + </p> + <p> + When the company was dismissed, he went up familiarly to the top sergeant: + </p> + <p> + “Say, Sarge, doin' anything this evenin'?” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell can a man do when he's broke?” said the top sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you come down town with me. I want to introjuce you to somebody.” + </p> + <p> + “Great!” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Sarge, have they sent that appointment in yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No, they haven't, Fuselli,” said the top sergeant. “It's all made out,” + he added encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + They walked towards the town silently. The evening was silvery-violet. The + few windows in the old grey-green houses that were lighted shone orange. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm goin' to get it, ain't I?” + </p> + <p> + A staff car shot by, splashing them with mud, leaving them a glimpse of + officers leaning back in the deep cushions. + </p> + <p> + “You sure are,” said the top sergeant in his good-natured voice. + </p> + <p> + They had reached the square. They saluted stiffly as two officers brushed + past them. + </p> + <p> + “What's the regulations about a feller marryin' a French girl?” broke out + Fuselli suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking of getting hitched up, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, no.” Fuselli was crimson. “I just sort o' wanted to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Permission of C. O., that's all I know of.” + </p> + <p> + They had stopped in front of the grocery shop. Fuselli peered in through + the window. The shop was full of soldiers lounging against the counter and + the walls. In the midst of them, demurely knitting, sat Yvonne. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go and have a drink an' then come back,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + They went to the cafe where Marie of the white arms presided. Fuselli paid + for two hot rum punches. + </p> + <p> + “You see it's this way, Sarge,” he said confidentially, “I wrote all my + folks at home I'd been made corporal, an' it'ld be a hell of a note to be + let down now.” + </p> + <p> + The top sergeant was drinking his hot drink in little sips. He smiled + broadly and put his hand paternal-fashion on Fuselli's knee. + </p> + <p> + “Sure; you needn't worry, kid. I've got you fixed up all right,” he said; + then he added jovially, “Well, let's go see that girl of yours.” + </p> + <p> + They went out into the dark streets, where the wind, despite the smell of + burnt gasolene and army camps, had a faint suavity, something like the + smell of mushrooms; the smell of spring. + </p> + <p> + Yvonne sat under the lamp in the shop, her feet up on a box of canned + peas, yawning dismally. Behind her on the counter was the glass case full + of yellow and greenish-white cheeses. Above that shelves rose to the + ceiling in the brownish obscurity of the shop where gleamed faintly large + jars and small jars, cans neatly placed in rows, glass jars and + vegetables. In the corner, near the glass curtained door that led to the + inner room, hung clusters of sausages large and small, red, yellow, and + speckled. Yvonne jumped up when Fuselli and the sergeant opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “You are good,” she said. “Je mourrais de cafard.” They laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You know what that mean—cafard?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” + </p> + <p> + “It is only since the war. Avant la guerre on ne savais pas ce que c'etait + le cafard. The war is no good.” + </p> + <p> + “Funny, ain't it?” said Fuselli to the top sergeant, “a feller can't juss + figure out what the war is like.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you worry. We'll all get there,” said the top sergeant knowingly. + </p> + <p> + “This is the sarjon, Yvonne,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Oui, oui, je sais,” said Yvonne, smiling at the top sergeant. They sat in + the little room behind the shop and drank white wine, and talked as best + they could to Yvonne, who, very trim in her black dress and blue apron, + perched on the edge of her chair with her feet in tiny pumps pressed + tightly together, and glanced now and then at the elaborate stripes on the + top sergeant's arm. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli strode familiarly into the grocery shop, whistling, and threw open + the door to the inner room. His whistling stopped in the middle of a bar. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” he said in an annoyed voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, corporal,” said Eisenstein. Eisenstein, his French soldier friend, + a lanky man with a scraggly black heard and burning black eyes, and + Stockton, the chalky-faced boy, were sitting at the table that filled up + the room, chatting intimately and gaily with Yvonne, who leaned against + the yellow wall beside the Frenchman and showed all her little pearly + teeth in a laugh. In the middle of the dark oak table was a pot of + hyacinths and some glasses that had had wine in them. The odor of the + hyacinths hung in the air with a faint warm smell from the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + After a second's hesitation, Fuselli sat down to wait until the others + should leave. It was long after pay-day and his pockets were empty, so he + had nowhere else to go. + </p> + <p> + “How are they treatin' you down in your outfit now?” asked Eisenstein of + Stockton, after a silence. + </p> + <p> + “Same as ever,” said Stockton in his thin voice, stuttering a little.... + “Sometimes I wish I was dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum,” said Eisenstein, a curious expression of understanding on his + flabby face. “We'll be civilians some day.” + </p> + <p> + “I won't” said Stockton. + </p> + <p> + “Hell,” said Eisenstein. “You've got to keep your upper lip stiff. I + thought I was goin' to die in that troopship coming over here. An' when I + was little an' came over with the emigrants from Poland, I thought I was + goin' to die. A man can stand more than he thinks for.... I never thought + I could stand being in the army, bein' a slave like an' all that, an' I'm + still here. No, you'll live long and be successful yet.” He put his hand + on Stockton's shoulder. The boy winced and drew his chair away. “What for + you do that? I ain't goin' to hurt you,” said Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli looked at them both with a disgusted interest. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what you'd better do, kid,” he said condescendingly. “You + get transferred to our company. It's an Al bunch, ain't it, Eisenstein? + We've got a good loot an' a good top-kicker, an' a damn good bunch o' + fellers.” + </p> + <p> + “Our top-kicker was in here a few minutes ago,” said Eisenstein. + </p> + <p> + “He was?” asked Fuselli. “Where'd he go?” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know.” + </p> + <p> + Yvonne and the French soldier were talking in low voices, laughing a + little now and then. Fuselli leaned back in his chair looking at them, + feeling out of things, wishing despondently that he knew enough French to + understand what they were saying. He scraped his feet angrily back and + forth on the floor. His eyes lit on the white hyacinths. They made him + think of florists' windows at home at Eastertime and the noise and bustle + of San Francisco's streets. “God, I hate this rotten hole,” he muttered to + himself. He thought of Mabe. He made a noise with his lips. Hell, she was + married by this time. Anyway Yvonne was the girl for him. If he could only + have Yvonne to himself; far away somewhere, away from the other men and + that damn frog and her old mother. He thought of himself going to the + theatre with Yvonne. When he was a sergeant he would be able to afford + that sort of thing. He counted up the months. It was March. Here he'd been + in Europe five months and he was still only a corporal, and not that yet. + He clenched his fists with impatience. But once he got to be a non-com it + would go faster, he told himself reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + He leaned over and sniffed loudly at the hyacinths. + </p> + <p> + “They smell good,” he said. “Que disay vous, Yvonne?” + </p> + <p> + Yvonne looked at him as if she had forgotten that he was in the room. Her + eyes looked straight into his, and she burst out laughing. Her glance had + made him feel warm all over, and he leaned back in his chair again, + looking at her slender body so neatly cased in its black dress and at her + little head with its tightly-done hair, with a comfortable feeling of + possession. + </p> + <p> + “Yvonne, come over here,” he said, beckoning with his head. She looked + from him to the Frenchman provocatively. Then she came over and stood + behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Que voulez-vous?” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli glanced at Eisenstein. He and Stockton were deep in excited + conversation with the Frenchman again. Fuselli heard that uncomfortable + word that always made him angry, he did not know why, “Revolution.” + </p> + <p> + “Yvonne,” he said so that only she could hear, “what you say you and me + get married?” + </p> + <p> + “Marries.... moi et toi?” asked Yvonne in a puzzled voice. + </p> + <p> + “We we.” + </p> + <p> + She looked him in the eyes a moment, and then threw hack her head in a + paroxysm of hysterical laughter. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli flushed scarlet, got to his feet and strode out, slamming the door + behind him so that the glass rang. He walked hurriedly back to camp, + splashed with mud by the long lines of grey motor trucks that were + throbbing their way slowly through the main street, each with a yellow eye + that lit up faintly the tailboards of the truck ahead. The barracks were + dark and nearly empty. He sat down at the sergeant's desk and began + moodily turning over the pages of the little blue book of Army + Regulations. + </p> + <p> + The moonlight glittered in the fountain at the end of the main square of + the town. It was a warm dark night of faint clouds through which the moon + shone palely as through a thin silk canopy. Fuselli stood by the fountain + smoking a cigarette, looking at the yellow windows of the Cheval Blanc at + the other end of the square, from which came a sound of voices and of + billiard balls clinking. He stood quiet letting the acrid cigarette smoke + drift out through his nose, his ears full of the silvery tinkle of the + water in the fountain beside him. There were little drifts of warm and + chilly air in the breeze that blew fitfully from the west. Fuselli was + waiting. He took out his watch now and then and strained his eyes to see + the time, but there was not light enough. At last the deep broken note of + the bell in the church spire struck once. It must be half past ten. + </p> + <p> + He started walking slowly towards the street where Yvonne's grocery shop + was. The faint glow of the moon lit up the grey houses with the shuttered + windows and tumultuous red roofs full of little dormers and skylights. + Fuselli felt deliciously at ease with the world. He could almost feel + Yvonne's body in his arms and he smiled as he remembered the little faces + she used to make at him. He slunk past the shuttered windows of the shop + and dove into the darkness under the arch that led to the court. He walked + cautiously, on tiptoe, keeping close to the moss-covered wall, for he + heard voices in the court. He peeped round the edge of the building and + saw that there were several people in the kitchen door talking. He drew + his head back into the shadow. But he had caught a glimpse of the dark + round form of the hogshead beside the kitchen door. If he only could get + behind that as he usually did, he would be hidden until the people went + away. + </p> + <p> + Keeping well in the shadow round the edge of the court, he slipped to the + other side, and was just about to pop himself in behind the hogshead when + he noticed that someone was there before him. + </p> + <p> + He caught his breath and stood still, his heart thumping. The figure + turned and in the dark he recognised the top sergeant's round face. + </p> + <p> + “Keep quiet, can't you?” whispered the top sergeant peevishly. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli stood still with his fists clenched. The blood flamed through his + head, making his scalp tingle. + </p> + <p> + Still the top sergeant was the top sergeant, came the thought. It would + never do to get in wrong with him. Fuselli's legs moved him automatically + back into a corner of the court, where he leaned against the damp wall; + glaring with smarting eyes at the two women who stood talking outside the + kitchen door, and at the dark shadow behind the hogshead. At last, after + several smacking kisses, the women went away and the kitchen door closed. + The bell in the church spire struck eleven slowly and mournfully. When it + had ceased striking, Fuselli heard a discreet tapping and saw the shadow + of the top sergeant against the door. As he slipped in, Fuselli heard the + top sergeant's good-natured voice in a large stage whisper, followed by a + choked laugh from Yvonne. The door closed and the light was extinguished, + leaving the court in darkness except for a faint marbled glow in the sky. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli strode out, making as much noise as he could with his heels on the + cobble stones. The streets of the town were silent under the pale moon. In + the square the fountain sounded loud and metallic. He gave up his pass to + the guard and strode glumly towards the barracks. At the door he met a man + with a pack on his back. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Fuselli,” said a voice he knew. “Is my old bunk still there?” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know,” said Fuselli; “I thought they'd shipped you home.” + </p> + <p> + The corporal who had been on the Red Sox outfield broke into a fit of + coughing. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, no,” he said. “They kep' me at that goddam hospital till they saw I + wasn't goin' to die right away, an' then they told me to come back to my + outfit. So here I am!” + </p> + <p> + “Did they bust you?” said Fuselli with sudden eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, no. Why should they? They ain't gone and got a new corporal, have + they?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not exactly,” said Fuselli. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> + <p> + Meadville stood near the camp gate, watching the motor trucks go by on the + main road. Grey, lumbering, and mud-covered, they throbbed by sloughing in + and out of the mud holes in the worn road in an endless train stretching + as far as he could see into the town and as far as he could see up the + road. + </p> + <p> + He stood with his legs far apart and spat into the center of the road; + then he turned to the corporal who had been in the Red Sox outfield and + said: + </p> + <p> + “I'll be goddamed if there ain't somethin' doin'!” + </p> + <p> + “A hell of a lot doin',” said the corporal, shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + “Seen that guy Daniels who's been to the front?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he says hell's broke loose. Hell's broke loose!” + </p> + <p> + “What's happened?... Be gorry, we may see some active service,” said + Meadville, grinning. “By God, I'd give the best colt on my ranch to see + some action.” + </p> + <p> + “Got a ranch?” asked the corporal. + </p> + <p> + The motor trucks kept on grinding past monotonously; their drivers were so + splashed with mud it was hard to see what uniform they wore. + </p> + <p> + “What d'ye think?” asked Meadville. “Think I keep store?” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli walked past them towards the town. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Fuselli,” shouted Meadville. “Corporal says hell's broke loose out + there. We may smell gunpowder yet.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli stopped and joined them. + </p> + <p> + “I guess poor old Bill Grey's smelt plenty of gunpowder by this time,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had gone with him,” said Meadville. “I'll try that little trick + myself now the good weather's come on if we don't get a move on soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Too damn risky!” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to the kid. It'll be too damn risky in the trenches.... Or do you + think you're goin' to get a cushy job in camp here?” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, no! I want to go to the front. I don't want to stay in this hole.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “But ain't no good throwin' yerself in where it don't do no good.... A guy + wants to get on in this army if he can.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the good o' gettin' on?” said the corporal. “Won't get home a bit + sooner.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell! but you're a non-com.” + </p> + <p> + Another train of motor trucks went by, drowning their Talk. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli was packing medical supplies in a box in a great brownish + warehouse full of packing cases where a little sun filtered in through the + dusty air at the corrugated sliding tin doors. As he worked, he listened + to Daniels talking to Meadville who worked beside him. + </p> + <p> + “An' the gas is the goddamndest stuff I ever heard of,” he was saying. + “I've seen fellers with their arms swelled up to twice the size like + blisters from it. Mustard gas, they call it.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you get to go to the hospital?” said Meadville. + </p> + <p> + “Only pneumonia,” said Daniels, “but I had a buddy who was split right in + half by a piece of a shell. He was standin' as near me as you are an' was + whistlin' 'Tipperary' under his breath when all at once there was a big + spurt o' blood an' there he was with his chest split in half an' his head + hangin' a thread like.” + </p> + <p> + Meadville moved his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other and spat + on to the sawdust of the floor. The men within earshot stopped working and + looked admiringly at Daniels. + </p> + <p> + “Well; what d'ye reckon's goin' on at the front now?” said Meadville. + </p> + <p> + “Damned of I know. The goddam hospital at Orleans was so full up there was + guys in stretchers waiting all day on the pavement outside. I know + that.... Fellers there said hell'd broke loose for fair. Looks to me like + the Fritzies was advancin'.” + </p> + <p> + Meadville looked at him incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “Those skunks?” said Fuselli. “Why they can't advance. They're starvin' to + death.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell they are,” said Daniels. “I guess you believe everything you see + in the papers.” + </p> + <p> + Eyes looked at Daniels indignantly. They all went on working in silence. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the lieutenant, looking strangely flustered, strode into the + warehouse, leaving the tin door open behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Can anyone tell me where Sergeant Osler is?” + </p> + <p> + “He was here a few minutes ago,” spoke up Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “Well, where is he now?” snapped the lieutenant angrily. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, sir,” mumbled Fuselli, flushing. + </p> + <p> + “Go and see if you can find him.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli went off to the other end of the warehouse. Outside the door he + stopped and bit off a cigarette in a leisurely fashion. His blood boiled + sullenly. How the hell should he know where the top sergeant was? They + didn't expect him to be a mind-reader, did they? And all the flood of + bitterness that had been collecting in his spirit seethed to the surface. + They had not treated him right, He felt full of hopeless anger against + this vast treadmill to which he was bound. The endless succession of the + days, all alike, all subject to orders, to the interminable monotony of + drills and line-ups, passed before his mind. He felt he couldn't go on, + yet he knew that he must and would go on, that there was no stopping, that + his feet would go on beating in time to the steps of the treadmill. + </p> + <p> + He caught sight of the sergeant coming towards the warehouse, across the + new green grass, scarred by the marks of truck wheels. + </p> + <p> + “Sarge,” he called. Then he went up to him mysteriously. “The loot wants + to see you at once in Warehouse B.” + </p> + <p> + He slouched back to his work, arriving just in time to hear the lieutenant + say in a severe voice to the sergeant: + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant, do you know how to draw up court-martial papers?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, a look of surprise on his face. He followed + the precise steps of the lieutenant out of the door. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli had a moment of panic terror, during which he went on working + methodically, although his hands trembled. He was searching his memory for + some infringement of a regulation that might be charged against him. The + terror passed as fast as it had come. Of course he had no reason to fear. + He laughed softly to himself. What a fool he'd been to get scared like + that, and a summary court-martial couldn't do much to you anyway. He went + on working as fast and as carefully as he could, through the long + monotonous afternoon. + </p> + <p> + That night nearly the whole company gathered in a group at the end of the + barracks. Both sergeants were away. The corporal said he knew nothing, and + got sulkily into bed, where he lay, rolled in his blankets, shaken by fit + after fit of coughing. + </p> + <p> + At last someone said: + </p> + <p> + “I bet that kike Eisenstein's turned out to be a spy.” + </p> + <p> + “I bet he has too.” + </p> + <p> + “He's foreign born, ain't he? Born in Poland or some goddam place.” + </p> + <p> + “He always did talk queer.” + </p> + <p> + “I always thought,” said Fuselli, “he'd get into trouble talking the way + he did.” + </p> + <p> + “How'd he talk?” asked Daniels. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he said that war was wrong and all that goddamed pro-German stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “D'ye know what they did out at the front?” said Daniels. “In the second + division they made two fellers dig their own graves and then shot 'em for + sayin' the war was wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, they did?” + </p> + <p> + “You're goddam right, they did. I tell you, fellers, it don't do to monkey + with the buzz-saw in this army.” + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake shut up. Taps has blown. Meadville, turn the lights out!” + said the corporal angrily. The barracks was dark, full of a sound of men + undressing in their bunks, and of whispered talk. + </p> + <p> + The company was lined up for morning mess. The sun that had just risen was + shining in rosily through the soft clouds of the sky. The sparrows kept up + a great clattering in the avenue of plane trees. Their riotous chirping + could be heard above the sound of motors starting that came from a shed + opposite the mess shack. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant appeared suddenly; walking past with his shoulders stiff, so + that everyone knew at once that something important was going on. + </p> + <p> + “Attention, men, a minute,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Mess kits clattered as the men turned round. + </p> + <p> + “After mess I want you to go immediately to barracks and roll your packs. + After that every man must stand by his pack until orders come.” The + company cheered and mess kits clattered together like cymbals. + </p> + <p> + “As you were,” shouted the top sergeant jovially. + </p> + <p> + Gluey oatmeal and greasy bacon were hurriedly bolted down, and every man + in the company, his heart pounding, ran to the barracks to do up his pack, + feeling proud under the envious eyes of the company at the other end of + the shack that had received no orders. + </p> + <p> + When the packs were done up, they sat on the empty hunks and drummed their + feet against the wooden partitions waiting. + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose we'll leave here till hell freezes over,” said Meadville, + who was doing up the last strap on his pack. + </p> + <p> + “It's always like this.... You break your neck to obey orders an'...” + </p> + <p> + “Outside!” shouted the sergeant, poking his head in the door. + </p> + <p> + “Fall in! Atten-shun!” + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant in his trench coat and in a new pair of roll puttees stood + facing the company, looking solemn. + </p> + <p> + “Men,” he said, biting off his words as a man bites through a piece of + hard stick candy; “one of your number is up for courtmartial for possibly + disloyal statements found in a letter addressed to friends at home. I have + been extremely grieved to find anything of this sort in any company of + mine; I don't believe there is another man in the company... low enough to + hold... entertain such ideas....” + </p> + <p> + Every man in the company stuck out his chest, vowing inwardly to entertain + no ideas at all rather than run the risk of calling forth such disapproval + from the lieutenant. The lieutenant paused: + </p> + <p> + “All I can say is if there is any such man in the company, he had better + keep his mouth shut and be pretty damn careful what he writes home.... + Dismissed!” + </p> + <p> + He shouted the order grimly, as if it were the order for the execution of + the offender. + </p> + <p> + “That goddam skunk Eisenstein,” said someone. + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant heard it as he walked away. “Oh, sergeant,” he said + familiarly; “I think the others have got the right stuff in them.” + </p> + <p> + The company went into the barracks and waited. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant-major's office was full of a clicking of typewriters, and was + overheated by a black stove that stood in the middle of the floor, letting + out occasional little puffs of smoke from a crack in the stove pipe. The + sergeant-major was a small man with a fresh boyish face and a drawling + voice who lolled behind a large typewriter reading a magazine that lay on + his lap. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli slipped in behind the typewriter and stood with his cap in his + hand beside the sergeant-major's chair. + </p> + <p> + “Well what do you want?” asked the sergeant-major gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “A feller told me, Sergeant-Major, that you was look-in' for a man with + optical experience;” Fuselli's voice was velvety. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I worked three years in an optical-goods store at home in Frisco.” + </p> + <p> + “What's your name, rank, company?” + </p> + <p> + “Daniel Fuselli, Private 1st-class, Company C, medical supply warehouse.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, I'll attend to it.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sergeant.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; out with what you've got to say, quick.” The sergeant-major + fingered the leaves of his magazine impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “My company's all packed up to go. The transfer'll have to be today, + sergeant.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the hell didn't you come in earlier?... Stevens, make out a transfer + to headquarters company and get the major to sign it when he goes + through.... That's the way it always is,” he cried, leaning back + tragically in his swivel chair. “Everybody always puts everything off on + me at the last minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir,” said Fuselli, smiling. The sergeant-major ran his hand + through his hair and took up his magazine again peevishly. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli hurried back to barracks where he found the company still waiting. + Several men were crouched in a circle playing craps. The rest lounged in + their bare bunks or fiddled with their packs. Outside it had begun to rain + softly, and a smell of wet sprouting earth came in through the open door. + Fuselli sat on the floor beside his bunk throwing his knife down so that + it stuck in the boards between his knees. He was whistling softly to + himself. The day dragged on. Several times he heard the town clock strike + in the distance. + </p> + <p> + At last the top sergeant came in, shaking the water off his slicker, a + serious, important expression on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Inspection of medical belts,” he shouted. “Everybody open up their belt + and lay it on the foot of their bunk and stand at attention on the left + side.” + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant and a major appeared suddenly at one end of the barracks + and came through slowly, pulling the little packets out of the belts. The + men looked at them out of the corners of their eyes. As they examined the + belts, they chatted easily, as if they had been alone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the major. “We're in for it this time.... That damned + offensive.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll be able to show 'em what we're good for,” said the + lieutenant, laughing. “We haven't had a chance yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum! Better mark that belt, lieutenant, and have it changed. Been to the + front yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum, well.... You'll look at things differently when you have,” said the + major. + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Well, on the whole, lieutenant, your outfit is in very good shape.... At + ease, men!” The lieutenant and the major stood at the door a moment + raising the collars of their coats; then they dove out into the rain. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later the sergeant came in. + </p> + <p> + “All right, get your slickers on and line up.” + </p> + <p> + They stood lined up in the rain for a long while. It was a leaden + afternoon. The even clouds had a faint coppery tinge. The rain beat in + their faces, making them tingle. Fuselli was looking anxiously at the + sergeant. At last the lieutenant appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Attention!” cried the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + The roll was called and a new man fell in at the end of the line, a tall + man with large protruding eyes like a calf's. + </p> + <p> + “Private 1st-class Daniel Fuselli, fall out and report to headquarters + company!” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli saw a look of surprise come over men's faces. He smiled wanly at + Meadville. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant, take the men down to the station.” + </p> + <p> + “Squads, right,” cried the sergeant. “March!” + </p> + <p> + The company tramped off into the streaming rain. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli went back to the barracks, took off his pack and slicker and wiped + the water off his face. + </p> + <p> + The rails gleamed gold in the early morning sunshine above the deep purple + cinders of the track. Fuselli's eyes followed the track until it curved + into a cutting where the wet clay was a bright orange in the clear light. + The station platform, where puddles from the night's rain glittered as the + wind ruffled them, was empty. Fuselli started walking up and down with his + hands in his pockets. He had been sent down to unload some supplies that + were coming on that morning's train. He felt free and successful since he + joined the headquarters company! At last, he told himself, he had a job + where he could show what he was good for. He walked up and down whistling + shrilly. + </p> + <p> + A train pulled slowly into the station. The engine stopped to take water + and the couplings clanked all down the line of cars. The platform was + suddenly full of men in khaki, stamping their feet, running up and down + shouting. + </p> + <p> + “Where you guys goin'?” asked Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + “We're bound for Palm Beach. Don't we look it?” someone snarled in reply. + </p> + <p> + But Fuselli had seen a familiar face. He was shaking hands with two + browned men whose faces were grimy with days of travelling in freight + cars. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Chrisfield. Hullo, Andrews!” he cried. “When did you fellows get + over here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, 'bout four months ago,” said Chrisfield, whose black eyes looked at + Fuselli searchingly. “Oh! Ah 'member you. You're Fuselli. We was at + trainin' camp together. 'Member him, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said Andrews. “How are you makin' out?” + </p> + <p> + “Fine,” said Fuselli. “I'm in the optical department here.” + </p> + <p> + “Where the hell's that?” + </p> + <p> + “Right here.” Fuselli pointed vaguely behind the station. + </p> + <p> + “We've been training about four months near Bordeaux,” said Andrews; “and + now we're going to see what it's like.” + </p> + <p> + The whistle blew and the engine started puffing hard. Clouds of white + steam filled the station platform, where the soldiers scampered for their + cars. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck!” said Fuselli; but Andrews and Chrisfield had already gone. He + saw them again as the train pulled out, two brown and dirt-grimed faces + among many other brown and dirt-grimed faces. The steam floated up tinged + with yellow in the bright early morning air as the last car of the train + disappeared round the curve into the cutting. + </p> + <p> + The dust rose thickly about the worn broom. As it was a dark morning, very + little light filtered into the room full of great white packing cases, + where Fuselli was sweeping. He stopped now and then and leaned on his + broom. Far away he heard a sound of trains shunting and shouts and the + sound of feet tramping in unison from the drill ground. The building where + he was was silent. He went on sweeping, thinking of his company tramping + off through the streaming rain, and of those fellows he had known in + training Camp in America, Andrews and Chrisfield, jolting in box cars + towards the front, where Daniel's buddy had had his chest split in half by + a piece of shell. And he'd written home he'd been made a corporal. What + was he going to do when letters came for him, addressed Corporal Dan + Fuselli? Putting the broom away, he dusted the yellow chair and the table + covered with order slips that stood in the middle of the piles of packing + boxes. The door slammed somewhere below and there was a step on the stairs + that led to the upper part of the warehouse. A little man with a + monkey-like greyish-brown face and spectacles appeared and slipped out of + his overcoat, like a very small bean popping out of a very large pod. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant's stripes looked unusually wide and conspicuous on his thin + arm. + </p> + <p> + He grunted at Fuselli, sat down at the desk, and began at once peering + among the order slips. + </p> + <p> + “Anything in our mailbox this morning?” he asked Fuselli in a hoarse + voice. + </p> + <p> + “It's all there, sergeant,” said Fuselli. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant peered about the desk some more. + </p> + <p> + “Ye'll have to wash that window today,” he said after a pause. “Major's + likely to come round here any time.... Ought to have been done yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Fuselli dully. + </p> + <p> + He slouched over to the corner of the room, got the worn broom and began + sweeping down the stairs. The dust rose about him, making him cough. He + stopped and leaned on the broom. He thought of all the days that had gone + by since he'd last seen those fellows, Andrews and Chrisfield, at training + camp in America; and of all the days that would go by. He started sweeping + again, sweeping the dust down from stair to stair. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli sat on the end of his bunk. He had just shaved. It was a Sunday + morning and he looked forward to having the afternoon off. He rubbed his + face on his towel and got to his feet. Outside, the rain fell in great + silvery sheets, so that the noise on the tarpaper roof of the barracks was + almost deafening. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli noticed, at the other end of the row of bunks, a group of men who + all seemed to be looking at the same thing. Rolling down his sleeves, with + his tunic hitched over one arm, he walked down to see what was the matter. + Through the patter of the rain, he heard a thin voice say: + </p> + <p> + “It ain't no use, sergeant, I'm sick. I ain't a' goin' to get up.” + </p> + <p> + “The kid's crazy,” someone beside Fuselli said, turning away. + </p> + <p> + “You get up this minute,” roared the sergeant. He was a big man with black + hair who looked like a lumberman. He stood over the bunk. In the bunk at + the end of a bundle of blankets was the chalk-white face of Stockton. The + boy's teeth were clenched, and his eyes were round and protruding, it + seemed from terror. + </p> + <p> + “You get out o' bed this minute,” roared the sergeant again. + </p> + <p> + The boy; was silent; his white cheeks quivered. + </p> + <p> + “What the hell's the matter with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you yank him out yourself, Sarge?” + </p> + <p> + “You get out of bed this minute,” shouted the sergeant again, paying no + attention. + </p> + <p> + The men gathered about walked away. Fuselli watched fascinated from a + little distance. + </p> + <p> + “All right, then, I'll get the lieutenant. This is a court-martial + offence. Here, Morton and Morrison, you're guards over this man.” + </p> + <p> + The boy lay still in his blankets. He closed his eyes. By the way the + blanket rose and fell over his chest, they could see that he was breathing + heavily. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Stockton, why don't you get up, you fool?”' said Fuselli. “You can't + buck the whole army.” + </p> + <p> + The boy didn't answer. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli walked away. + </p> + <p> + “He's crazy,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant was a stoutish red-faced man who came in puffing followed + by the tall sergeant. He stopped and shook the water off his Campaign hat. + The rain kept up its deafening patter on the roof. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, are you sick? If you are, report sick call at once,” said the + lieutenant in an elaborately kind voice. + </p> + <p> + The boy looked at him dully and did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “You should get up and stand at attention when an officer speaks to you. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't goin' to get up,” came the thin voice. + </p> + <p> + The officer's red face became crimson. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant, what's the matter with the man?” he asked in a furious tone. + </p> + <p> + “I can't do anything with him, lieutenant. I think he's gone crazy.” + </p> + <p> + “Rubbish.... Mere insubordination.... You're under arrest, d'ye hear?” he + shouted towards the bed. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. The rain pattered hard on the roof. + </p> + <p> + “Have him brought down to the guardhouse, by force if necessary,” snapped + the lieutenant. He strode towards the door. “And sergeant, start drawing + up court-martial papers at once.” The door slammed behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Now you've got to get him up,” said the sergeant to the two guards. + </p> + <p> + Fuselli walked away. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't some people damn fools?” he said to a man at the other end of the + barracks. He stood looking out of the window at the bright sheets of the + rain. + </p> + <p> + “Well, get him up,” shouted the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + The boy lay with his eyes closed, his chalk-white face half-hidden by the + blankets; he was very still. + </p> + <p> + “Well, will you get up and go to the guardhouse, or have we to carry you + there?” shouted the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + The guards laid hold of him gingerly and pulled him up to a sitting + posture. + </p> + <p> + “All right, yank him out of bed.” + </p> + <p> + The frail form in khaki shirt and whitish drawers was held up for a moment + between the two men. Then it fell a limp heap on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Sarge, he's fainted.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell he has.... Say, Morrison, ask one of the orderlies to come up + from the Infirmary.” + </p> + <p> + “He ain't fainted.... The kid's dead,” said the other man. + </p> + <p> + “Give me a hand.” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant helped lift the body on the bed again. “Well, I'll be + goddamned,” said the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + The eyes had opened. They covered the head with a blanket. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART THREE: MACHINES + </h2> + <p> + The fields and the misty blue-green woods slipped by slowly as the box car + rumbled and jolted over the rails, now stopping for hours on sidings amid + meadows, where it was quiet and where above the babel of voices of the + regiment you could hear the skylarks, now clattering fast over bridges and + along the banks of jade-green rivers where the slim poplars were just + coming into leaf and where now and then a fish jumped. The men crowded in + the door, grimy and tired, leaning on each other's shoulders and watching + the plowed lands slip by and the meadows where the golden-green grass was + dappled with buttercups, and the villages of huddled red roofs lost among + pale budding trees and masses of peach blossom. Through the smells of + steam and coal smoke and of unwashed bodies in uniforms came smells of + moist fields and of manure from fresh-sowed patches and of cows and + pasture lands just coming into flower. + </p> + <p> + “Must be right smart o'craps in this country.... Ain't like that damn + Polignac, Andy?” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they made us drill so hard there wasn't any time for the grass to + grow.” + </p> + <p> + “You're damn right there warn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'd lak te live in this country a while,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “We might ask 'em to let us off right here.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't be that the front's like this,” said Judkins, poking his head out + between Andrews's and Chrisfield's heads so that the bristles of his + unshaven chin rubbed against Chrisfield's cheek. It was a large square + head with closely cropped light hair and porcelain-blue eyes under lids + that showed white in the red sunburned face, and a square jaw made a + little grey by the sprouting beard. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, how the hell long have we all been in this goddam train?... + Ah've done lost track o' the time....” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter; are you gettin' old, Chris?” asked Judkins laughing. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield had slipped out of the place he held and began poking himself + in between Andrews and Judkins. + </p> + <p> + “We've been on this train four days and five nights, an' we've got half a + day's rations left, so we must be getting somewhere,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “It can't be like this at the front.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be spring there as well as here,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + It was a day of fluffy mauve-tinted clouds that moved across the sky, + sometimes darkening to deep blue where a small rainstorm trailed across + the hills, sometimes brightening to moments of clear sunlight that gave + blue shadows to the poplars and shone yellow on the smoke of the engine + that puffed on painfully at the head of the long train. + </p> + <p> + “Funny, ain't it? How li'l everythin' is,” said Chrisfield. “Out Indiana + way we wouldn't look at a cornfield that size. But it sort o' reminds me + the way it used to be out home in the spring o' the year.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to see Indiana in the springtime,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Well you'll come out when the war's over and us guys is all home... won't + you, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet I will.” + </p> + <p> + They were going into the suburbs of a town. Rows and clusters of little + brick and stucco houses were appearing along the roads. It began to rain + from a sky full of lights of amber and lilac color. The slate roofs and + the pinkish-grey streets of the town shone cheerfully in the rain. The + little patches of garden were all vivid emerald-green. Then they were + looking at rows and rows of red chimney pots over wet slate roofs that + reflected the bright sky. In the distance rose the purple-grey spire of a + church and the irregular forms of old buildings. They passed through a + station. + </p> + <p> + “Dijon,” read Andrews. On the platform were French soldiers in their blue + coats and a good sprinkling of civilians. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, those are about the first real civies I've seen since I came + overseas,” said Judkins. “Those goddam country people down at Polignac + didn't look like real civilians. There's folks dressed like it was New + York.” + </p> + <p> + They had left the station and were rumbling slowly past interminable + freight trains. At last the train came to a dead stop. + </p> + <p> + A whistle sounded. + </p> + <p> + “Don't nobody get out,” shouted the sergeant from the car ahead. + </p> + <p> + “Hell! They keep you in this goddam car like you was a convict,” muttered + Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to get out and walk around Dijon.” + </p> + <p> + “O boy!” + </p> + <p> + “I swear I'd make a bee line for a dairy lunch,” said Judkins. + </p> + <p> + “Hell of a fine dairy lunch you'll find among those goddam frogs. No, vin + blank is all you'ld get in that goddam town.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'm goin' to sleep,” said Chrisfield. He stretched himself out on the + pile of equipment at the end of the car. Andrews sat down near him and + stared at his mud-caked boots, running one of his long hands, as brown as + Chrisfield's now, through his light short-cut hair. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield lay looking at the gaunt outline of Andrews's face against the + light through half-closed eyes. And he felt a warm sort of a smile inside + him as he said to himself: “He's a damn good kid.” Then he thought of the + spring in the hills of southern Indiana and the mocking-bird singing in + the moonlight among the flowering locust trees behind the house. He could + almost smell the heavy sweetness of the locust blooms, as he used to smell + them sitting on the steps after supper, tired from a day's heavy plowing, + while the clatter of his mother's housework came from the kitchen. He + didn't wish he was back there, but it was pleasant to think of it now and + then, and how the yellow farmhouse looked and the red barn where his + father never had been able to find time to paint the door, and the + tumble-down cowshed where the shingles were always coming off. He wondered + dully what it would be like out there at the front. It couldn't be green + and pleasant, the way the country was here. Fellows always said it was + hell out there. Well, he didn't give a damn. He went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + He woke up gradually, the warm comfort of sleep giving place slowly to the + stiffness of his uncomfortable position with the hobnails of a boot from + the back of a pack sticking into his shoulder. Andrews was sitting in the + same position, lost in thought. The rest of the men sat at the open doors + or sprawled over the equipment. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield got up, stretched himself, yawned, and went to the door to look + out. There was a heavy important step on the gravel outside. A large man + with black eyebrows that met over his nose and a very black stubbly beard + passed the car. There were a sergeants stripes on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy,” cried Chrisfield, “that bastard is a sergeant.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” asked Andrews getting up with a smile, his blue eyes looking + mildly into Chrisfield's black ones. + </p> + <p> + “You know who Ah mean.” + </p> + <p> + Under their heavy tan Chrisfield's rounded cheeks were flushed. His eyes + snapped under their long black lashes. His fists were clutched. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know, Chris. I didn't know he was in this regiment.” + </p> + <p> + “God damn him!” muttered Chrisfield in a low voice, throwing himself down + on his packs again. + </p> + <p> + “Hold your horses, Chris,” said Andrews. “We may all cash in our checks + before long... no use letting things worry us.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't give a damn if we do.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor do I, now.” Andrews sat down beside Chrisfield again. + </p> + <p> + After a while the train got jerkily into motion. The wheels rumbled and + clattered over the rails and the clots of mud bounced up and down on the + splintered boards of the floor. Chrisfield pillowed his head on his arm + and went to sleep again, still smarting from the flush of his anger. + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked out through his fingers at the swaying black box car, at + the men sprawled about on the floor, their heads nodding with each jolt, + and at the mauve-grey clouds and bits of sparkling blue sky that he could + see behind the silhouettes of the heads and shoulders of the men who stood + in the doors. The wheels ground on endlessly. + </p> + <p> + The car stopped with a jerk that woke up all the sleepers and threw one + man off his feet. A whistle blew shrilly outside. + </p> + <p> + “All right, out of the cars! Snap it up; snap it up!” yelled the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + The men piled out stiffly, handing the equipment out from hand to hand + till it formed a confused heap of packs and rifles outside. All down the + train at each door there was a confused pile of equipment and struggling + men. + </p> + <p> + “Snap it up.... Full equipment.... Line up!” the sergeant yelled. + </p> + <p> + The men fell into line slowly, with their packs and rifles. Lieutenants + hovered about the edges of the forming lines, tightly belted into their + stiff trench coats, scrambling up and down the coal piles of the siding. + The men were given “at ease” and stood leaning on their rifles staring at + a green water-tank on three wooden legs, over the top of which had been + thrown a huge piece of torn grey cheesecloth. When the confused sound of + tramping feet subsided, they could hear a noise in the distance, like + someone lazily shaking a piece of heavy sheet-iron. The sky was full of + little dabs of red, purple and yellow and the purplish sunset light was + over everything. + </p> + <p> + The order came to march. They marched down a rutted road where the puddles + were so deep they had continually to break ranks to avoid them. In a + little pine-wood on one side were rows of heavy motor trucks and + ammunition caissons; supper was cooking in a field kitchen about which + clustered the truck drivers in their wide visored caps. Beyond the wood + the column turned off into a field behind a little group of stone and + stucco houses that had lost their roofs. In the field they halted. The + grass was brilliant emerald and the wood and the distant hills were shades + of clear deep blue. Wisps of pale-blue mist lay across the field. In the + turf here and there were small clean bites, that might have been made by + some strange animal. The men looked at them curiously. + </p> + <p> + “No lights, remember we're in sight of the enemy. A match might annihilate + the detachment,” announced the lieutenant dramatically after having given + the orders for the pup tents to be set up. + </p> + <p> + When the tents were ready, the men stood about in the chilly white mist + that kept growing denser, eating their cold rations. Everywhere were + grumbling snorting voices. + </p> + <p> + “God, let's turn in, Chris, before our bones are frozen,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + Guards had been posted and walked up and down with a business-like stride, + peering now and then suspiciously into the little wood where the + truck-drivers were. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield and Andrews crawled into their little tent and rolled up + together in their blankets, getting as close to each other as they could. + At first it was very cold and hard, and they squirmed about restlessly, + but gradually the warmth from their bodies filled their thin blankets and + their muscles began to relax. Andrews went to sleep first and Chrisfield + lay listening to his deep breathing. There was a frown on his face. He was + thinking of the man who had walked past the train at Dijon. The last time + he had seen that man Anderson was at training camp. He had only been a + corporal then. He remembered the day the man had been made corporal. It + had not been long before that that Chrisfield had drawn his knife on him, + one night in the barracks. A fellow had caught his hand just in time. + Anderson had looked a bit pale that time and had walked away. But he'd + never spoken a word to Chrisfield since. As he lay with his eyes closed, + pressed close against Andrew's limp sleeping body, Chrisfield could see + the man's face, the eyebrows that joined across the nose and the jaw, + always blackish from the heavy beard, that looked blue when he had just + shaved. At last the tenseness of his mind slackened; he thought of women + for a moment, of a fair-haired girl he'd seen from the train, and then + suddenly crushing sleepiness closed down on him and everything went softly + warmly black, as he drifted off to sleep with no sense but the coldness of + one side and the warmth of his bunkie's body on the other. + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the night he awoke and crawled out of the tent. Andrews + followed him. Their teeth chattered a little, and they stretched their + legs stiffly. It was cold, but the mist had vanished. The stars shone + brilliantly. They walked out a little way into the field away from the + bunch of tents to make water. A faint rustling and breathing noise, as of + animals herded together, came from the sleeping regiment. Somewhere a + brook made a shrill gurgling. They strained their ears, but they could + hear no guns. They stood side by side looking up at the multitudes of + stars. + </p> + <p> + “That's Orion,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “That bunch of stars there is called Orion. D'you see 'em. It's supposed + to look like a man with a bow, but he always looks to me like a fellow + striding across the sky.” + </p> + <p> + “Some stars tonight, ain't there? Gee, what's that?” + </p> + <p> + Behind the dark hills a glow rose and fell like the glow in a forge. + </p> + <p> + “The front must be that way,” said Andrews, shivering. “I guess we'll know + tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; tomorrow night we'll know more about it,” said Andrews. They stood + silent a moment listening to the noise the brook made. + </p> + <p> + “God, it's quiet, ain't it? This can't be the front. Smell that?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Smells like an apple tree in bloom somewhere.... Hell, let's git in, + before our blankets git cold.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews was still staring at the group of stars he had said was Orion. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield pulled him by the arm. They crawled into their tent again, + rolled up together and immediately were crushed under an exhausted sleep. + </p> + <p> + As far ahead of him as Chrisfield could see were packs and heads with caps + at a variety of angles, all bobbing up and down with the swing of the + brisk marching time. A fine warm rain was falling, mingling with the sweat + that ran down his face. The column had been marching a long time along a + straight road that was worn and scarred with heavy traffic. Fields and + hedges where clusters of yellow flowers were in bloom had given place to + an avenue of poplars. The light wet trunks and the stiff branches hazy + with green filed by, interminable, as interminable as the confused tramp + of feet and jingle of equipment that sounded in his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Say, are we goin' towards the front?” + </p> + <p> + “Goddamned if I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't no front within miles.” + </p> + <p> + Men's sentences came shortly through their heavy breathing. + </p> + <p> + The column shifted over to the side of the road to avoid a train of motor + trucks going the other way. Chrisfield felt the heavy mud spurt up over + him as truck after truck rumbled by. With the wet back of one hand he + tried to wipe it off his face, but the grit, when he rubbed it, hurt his + skin, made tender by the rain. He swore long and whiningly, half aloud. + His rifle felt as heavy as an iron girder. + </p> + <p> + They entered a village of plaster-and-timber houses. Through open doors + they could see into comfortable kitchens where copper pots gleamed and + where the floors were of clean red tiles. In front of some of the houses + were little gardens full of crocuses and hyacinths where box-bushes shone + a very dark green in the rain. They marched through the square with its + pavement of little yellow rounded cobbles, its grey church with a pointed + arch in the door, its cafes with names painted over them. Men and women + looked out of doors and windows. The column perceptibly slackened its + speed, but kept on, and as the houses dwindled and became farther apart + along the road the men's hope of stopping vanished. Ears were deafened by + the confused tramp of feet on the macadam road. Men's feet seemed as lead, + as if all the weight of the pack hung on them. Shoulders, worn callous, + began to grow tender and sore under the constant sweating. Heads drooped. + Each man's eyes were on the heels of the man ahead of him that rose and + fell, rose and fell endlessly. Marching became for each man a personal + struggle with his pack, that seemed to have come alive, that seemed + something malicious and overpowering, wrestling to throw him. + </p> + <p> + The rain stopped and the sky brightened a little, taking on pale yellowish + lights as if the clouds that hid the sun were growing thin. + </p> + <p> + The column halted at the edge of a group of farms and barns that scattered + along the road. The men sprawled in all directions along the roadside + hiding the bright green grass with the mud-color of their uniforms. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield lay in the field beside the road, pressing his hot face into + the wet sprouting clover. The blood throbbed through his ears. His arms + and legs seemed to cleave to the ground, as if he would never be able to + move them again. He closed his eyes. Gradually a cold chill began stealing + through his body. He sat up and slipped his arms out of the harness of his + pack. Someone was handing him a cigarette, and he sniffed a little acrid + sweet smoke. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was lying beside him, his head propped against his pack, smoking, + and poking a cigarette towards his friend with a muddy hand. His blue eyes + looked strangely from out the flaming red of his mud-splotched face. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield took the cigarette, and fumbled in his pocket for a match. + </p> + <p> + “That nearly did it for me,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield grunted. He pulled greedily on the cigarette. + </p> + <p> + A whistle blew. + </p> + <p> + Slowly the men dragged themselves off the ground and fell into line, + drooping under the weight of their equipment. + </p> + <p> + The companies marched off separately. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield overheard the lieutenant saying to a sergeant: + </p> + <p> + “Damn fool business that. Why the hell couldn't they have sent us here in + the first place?” + </p> + <p> + “So we ain't goin' to the front after all?” said the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “Front, hell!” said the lieutenant. The lieutenant was a small man who + looked like a jockey with a coarse red face which, now that he was angry, + was almost purple. + </p> + <p> + “I guess they're going to quarter us here,” said somebody. + </p> + <p> + Immediately everybody began saying: “We're going to be quartered here.” + </p> + <p> + They stood waiting in formation a long while, the packs cutting into their + backs and shoulders. At last the sergeant shouted out: + </p> + <p> + “All right, take yer stuff upstairs.” Stumbling on each others' heels they + climbed up into a dark loft, where the air was heavy with the smell of hay + and with an acridity of cow manure from the stables below. There was a + little straw in the corners, on which those who got there first spread + their blankets. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield and Andrews tucked themselves in a corner from which through a + hole where the tiles had fallen off the roof, they could see down into the + barnyard, where white and speckled chickens pecked about with jerky + movements. A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway of the house looking + suspiciously at the files of khaki-clad soldiers that shuffled slowly into + the barns by every door. + </p> + <p> + An officer went up to her, a little red book in his hand. A conversation + about some matter proceeded painfully. The officer grew very red. Andrews + threw back his head and laughed, luxuriously rolling from side to side in + the straw. Chrisfield laughed too, he hardly knew why. Over their heads + they could hear the feet of pigeons on the roof, and a constant drowsy + rou-cou-cou-cou. + </p> + <p> + Through the barnyard smells began to drift... the greasiness of food + cooking in the field kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Ah hope they give us somethin' good to eat,” said Chrisfield. “Ah'm + hongry as a thrasher.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, you kin talk their language a li'l', can't ye?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded his head vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “Well, maybe we kin git some aigs or somethin' out of the lady down there. + Will ye try after mess?” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + They both lay back in the straw and closed their eyes. Their cheeks still + burned from the rain. Everything seemed very peaceful; the men sprawled + about talking in low drowsy voices. Outside, another shower had come up + and beat softly on the tiles of the roof. Chrisfield thought he had never + been so comfortable in his life, although his soaked shoes pinched his + cold feet and his knees were wet and cold. But in the drowsiness of the + rain and of voices talking quietly about him, he fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + He dreamed he was home in Indiana, but instead of his mother cooking at + the stove in the kitchen, there was the Frenchwoman who had stood in the + farmhouse door, and near her stood a lieutenant with a little red book in + his hand. He was eating cornbread and syrup off a broken plate. It was + fine cornbread with a great deal of crust on it, crisp and hot, on which + the butter was cold and sweet to his tongue. Suddenly he stopped eating + and started swearing, shouting at the top of his lungs: “You goddam...” he + started, but he couldn't seem to think of anything more to say. “You + goddam...” he started again. The lieutenant looked towards him, wrinkling + his black eyebrows that met across his nose. He was Sergeant Anderson. + Chris drew his knife and ran at him, but it was Andy his bunkie he had run + his knife into. He threw his arms round Andy's body, crying hot tears.... + He woke up. Mess kits were clinking all about the dark crowded loft. The + men had already started piling down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + The larks filled the wine-tinged air with a constant chiming of little + bells. Chrisfield and Andrews were strolling across a field of white + clover that covered the brow of a hill. Below in the valley they could see + a cluster of red roofs of farms and the white ribbon of the road where + long trains of motor trucks crawled like beetles. The sun had just set + behind the blue hills the other side of the shallow valley. The air was + full of the smell of clover and of hawthorn from the hedgerows. They took + deep breaths as they crossed the field. + </p> + <p> + “It's great to get away from that crowd,” Andrews was saying. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield walked on silently, dragging his feet through the matted + clover. A leaden dullness weighed like some sort of warm choking coverlet + on his limbs, so that it seemed an effort to walk, an effort to speak. Yet + under it his muscles were taut and trembling as he had known them to be + before when he was about to get into a fight or to make love to a girl. + </p> + <p> + “Why the hell don't they let us git into it?” he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, anything'ld be better than this... wait, wait, wait.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on, hearing the constant chirrup of the larks, the brush of + their feet through the clover, the faint jingle of some coins in + Chrisfield's pocket, and in the distance the irregular snoring of an + aeroplane motor. As they walked Andrews leaned over from time to time and + picked a couple of the white clover flowers. + </p> + <p> + The aeroplane came suddenly nearer and swooped in a wide curve above the + field, drowning every sound in the roar of its exhaust. They made out the + figures of the pilot and the observer before the plane rose again and + vanished against the ragged purple clouds of the sky. The observer had + waved a hand at them as he passed. They stood still in the darkening + field, staring up at the sky, where a few larks still hung chirruping. + </p> + <p> + “Ah'd lahk to be one o' them guys,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “You would?” + </p> + <p> + “God damn it, Ah'd do anything to git out o' this hellish infantry. This + ain't no sort o' life for a man to be treated lahk he was a nigger.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it's no sort of life for a man.” + </p> + <p> + “If they'd let us git to the front an' do some fightin' an' be done with + it.... But all we do is drill and have grenade practice an' drill again + and then have bayonet practice an' drill again. 'Nough to drive a feller + crazy.” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell's the use of talking about it, Chris? We can't be any lower + than we are, can we?” Andrews laughed. + </p> + <p> + “There's that plane again.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “There, just goin' down behind the piece o' woods.” + </p> + <p> + “That's where their field is.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah bet them guys has a good time. Ah put in an application back in + trainin' camp for Aviation. Ain't never heard nothing from it though. If + Ah had, Ah wouldn't be lower than dirt in this hawg-pen.” + </p> + <p> + “It's wonderful up here on the hill this evening,” said Andrews, looking + dreamily at the pale orange band of light where the sun had set. “Let's go + down and get a bottle of wine.” + </p> + <p> + “Now yo're talkin'. Ah wonder if that girl's down there tonight.” + </p> + <p> + “Antoinette?” + </p> + <p> + “Um-hum.... Boy, Ah'd lahk to have her all by ma-self some night.” + </p> + <p> + Their steps grew brisker as they strode along a grass-grown road that led + through high hedgerows to a village under the brow of the hill. It was + almost dark under the shadow of the bushes on either side. Overhead the + purple clouds were washed over by a pale yellow light that gradually faded + to grey. Birds chirped and rustled among the young leaves. + </p> + <p> + Andrews put his hand on Chrisfield's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Let's walk slow,” he said, “we don't want to get out of here too soon.” + He grabbed carelessly at little cluster of hawthorn flowers as he passed + them, and seemed reluctant to untangle the thorny branches that caught in + his coat and on his loosely wound puttees. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, man,” said Chrisfield, “we won't have time to get a bellyful. It + must be gettin' late already.” + </p> + <p> + They hastened their steps again and came in a moment to the first tightly + shuttered houses of the village. + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the road was an M.P., who stood with his legs wide apart, + waving his “billy” languidly. He had a red face, his eyes were fixed on + the shuttered upper window of a house, through the chinks of which came a + few streaks of yellow light. His lips were puckered up as if to whistle, + but no sound came. He swayed back and forth indecisively. An officer came + suddenly out of the little green door of the house in front of the M.P., + who brought his heels together with a jump and saluted, holding his hand a + long while to his cap. The officer flicked a hand up hastily to his hat, + snatching his cigar out of his mouth for an instant. As the officer's + steps grew fainter down the road, the M.P. gradually returned to his + former position. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield and Andrews had slipped by on the other side, and gone in at + the door of a small ramshackle house of which the windows were closed by + heavy wooden shutters. + </p> + <p> + “I bet there ain't many of them bastards at the front,” said Chris. + </p> + <p> + “Not many of either kind of bastards,” said Andrews laughing, as he closed + the door behind them. They were in a room that had once been the parlor of + a farmhouse. The chandelier with its bits of crystal and the + orange-blossoms on a piece of dusty red velvet under a bell glass on the + mantelpiece denoted that. The furniture had been taken out, and four + square oak tables crowded in. At one of the tables sat three Americans and + at another a very young olive-skinned French soldier, who sat hunched over + his table looking moodily down into his glass of wine. + </p> + <p> + A girl in a faded frock of some purplish material that showed the strong + curves of her shoulders and breasts slouched into the room, her hands in + the pocket of a dark blue apron against which her rounded forearms showed + golden brown. Her face had the same golden tan under a mass of dark blonde + hair. She smiled when she saw the two soldiers, drawing her thin lips away + from her ugly yellow teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Ca va bien, Antoinette?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oui,” she said, looking beyond their heads at the French soldier who sat + at the other side of the little room. + </p> + <p> + “A bottle of vin rouge, vite,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “Ye needn't be so damn vite about it tonight, Chris,” said one of the men + at the other table. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't a-goin' to be no roll call. Corporal tole me his-self. Sarge's gone + out to git stewed, an' the Loot's away.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said another man, “we kin stay out as late's we goddam please + tonight.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a new M.P. in town,” said Chrisfield.... “Ah saw him maself.... + You did, too, didn't you, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. He was looking at the Frenchman, who sat with his face in + shadow and his black lashes covering his eyes. A purplish flash had + suffused the olive skin at his cheekbones. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, boy,” said Chrisfield. “That ole wine sure do go down fast.... Say, + Antoinette, got any cognac?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to have some more wine,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, Andy; have all ye want. Ah want some-thin' to warm ma guts.” + </p> + <p> + Antoinette brought a bottle of cognac and two small glasses and sat down + in an empty chair with her red hands crossed on her apron. Her eyes moved + from Chrisfield to the Frenchman and back again. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield turned a little round in his chair and looked at the Frenchman, + feeling in his eyes for a moment a glance of the man's yellowish-brown + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Andrews leaned back against the wall sipping his dark-colored wine, his + eyes contracted dreamily, fixed on the shadow of the chandelier, which the + cheap oil-lamp with its tin reflector cast on the peeling plaster of the + wall opposite. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield punched him. + </p> + <p> + “Wake up, Andy, are you asleep?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Andy smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Have a li'l mo' cognac.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield poured out two more glasses unsteadily. His eyes were on + Antoinette again. The faded purple frock was hooked at the neck. The first + three hooks were undone revealing a V-shape of golden brown skin and a bit + of whitish underwear. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy,” he said, putting his arm round his friend's neck and talking + into his ear, “talk up to her for me, will yer, Andy?... Ah won't let that + goddam frog get her, no, I won't, by Gawd. Talk up to her for me, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I'll try,” he said. “But there's always the Queen of Sheba, Chris.” + </p> + <p> + “Antoinette, j'ai un ami,” started Andrews, making a gesture with a long + dirty hand towards Chris. + </p> + <p> + Antoinette showed her bad teeth in a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Joli garcon,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + Antoinette's face became impassive and beautiful again. Chrisfield leaned + back in his chair with an empty glass in his hand and watched his friend + admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Antoinette, mon ami vous... vous admire,” said Andrews in a courtly + voice. + </p> + <p> + A woman put her head in the door. It was the same face and hair as + Antoinette's, ten years older, only the skin, instead of being golden + brown, was sallow and wrinkled. + </p> + <p> + “Viens,” said the woman in a shrill voice. + </p> + <p> + Antoinette got up, brushed heavily against Chrisfield's leg as she passed + him and disappeared. The Frenchman walked across the room from his corner, + saluted gravely and went out. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield jumped to his feet. The room was like a white box reeling about + him. + </p> + <p> + “That frog's gone after her,” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + “No, he ain't, Chris,” cried someone from the next table. “Sit tight, ole + boy. We're bettin' on yer.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sit down and have a drink, Chris,” said Andy. “I've got to have + somethin' more to drink. I haven't had a thing to drink all the evening.” + He pulled him back into his chair. Chrisfield tried to get up again. + Andrews hung on him so that the chair upset. Then both sprawled on the red + tiles of the floor. + </p> + <p> + “The house is pinched!” said a voice. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield saw Judkins standing over him, a grin on his large red face. He + got to his feet and sat sulkily in his chair again. Andrews was already + sitting opposite him, looking impassive as ever. + </p> + <p> + The tables were full now. Someone was singing in a droning voice. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O the oak and the ash and the weeping willow tree, + O green grows the grass in God's countree!” + </pre> + <p> + “Ole Indiana,” shouted Chris. “That's the only God's country I know.” He + suddenly felt that he could tell Andy all about his home and the wide + corn-fields shimmering and rustling under the July sun, and the creek with + red clay banks where he used to go in swimming. He seemed to see it all + before him, to smell the winey smell of the silo, to see the cattle, with + their chewing mouths always stained a little with green, waiting to get + through the gate to the water trough, and the yellow dust and roar of + wheat-thrashing, and the quiet evening breeze cooling his throat and neck + when he lay out on a shack of hay that he had been tossing all day long + under the tingling sun. But all he managed to say was: + </p> + <p> + “Indiana's God's country, ain't it, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he has so many,” muttered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Ah've seen a hailstone measured nine inches around out home, honest to + Gawd, Ah have.” + </p> + <p> + “Must be as good as a barrage.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'd like to see any goddam barrage do the damage one of our thunder an' + lightnin' storms'll do,” shouted Chris. + </p> + <p> + “I guess all the barrage we're going to see's grenade practice.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you worry, buddy,” said somebody across the room. + </p> + <p> + “You'll see enough of it. This war's going to last damn long....” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'd lak to get in some licks at those Huns tonight; honest to Gawd Ah + would, Andy,” muttered Chris in a low voice. He felt his muscles contract + with a furious irritation. He looked through half-closed eyes at the men + in the room, seeing them in distorted white lights and reddish shadows. He + thought of himself throwing a grenade among a crowd of men. Then he saw + the face of Anderson, a ponderous white face with eyebrows that met across + his nose and a bluish, shaved chin. + </p> + <p> + “Where does he stay at, Andy? I'm going to git him.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews guessed what he meant. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down and have a drink, Chris,” he said, “Remember you're going to + sleep with the Queen of Sheba tonight.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I can't git them goddam....” his voice trailed off into an + inaudible muttering of oaths. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O the oak and the ash and the weeping willow tree, + O green grows the grass in God's countree!” + </pre> + <p> + somebody sang again. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield saw a woman standing beside the table with her back to him, + collecting the bottles. Andy was paying her. + </p> + <p> + “Antoinette,” he said. He got to his feet and put his arms round her + shoulders. With a quick movement of the elbows she pushed him back into + his chair. She turned round. He saw the sallow face and thin breasts of + the older sister. She looked in his eyes with surprise. He was grinning + drunkenly. As she left the room she made a sign to him with her head to + follow her. He got up and staggered out the door, pulling Andrews after + him. + </p> + <p> + In the inner room was a big bed with curtains where the women slept, and + the fireplace where they did their cooking. It was dark except for the + corner where he and Andrews stood blinking in the glare of a candle on the + table. Beyond they could only see ruddy shadows and the huge curtained bed + with its red coverlet. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman, somewhere in the dark of the room, said something several + times. + </p> + <p> + “Avions boches... ss-t!” + </p> + <p> + They were quiet. + </p> + <p> + Above them they heard the snoring of aeroplane motors, rising and falling + like the buzzing of a fly against a window pane. + </p> + <p> + They all looked at each other curiously. Antoinette was leaning against + the bed, her face expressionless. Her heavy hair had come undone and fell + in smoky gold waves about her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + The older woman was giggling. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, let's see what's doing, Chris,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + They went out into the dark village street. + </p> + <p> + “To hell with women, Chris, this is the war!” cried Andrews in a loud + drunken voice as they reeled arm in arm up the street. + </p> + <p> + “You bet it's the war.... Ah'm a-goin' to beat up....” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield felt his friend's hand clapped over his mouth. He let himself + go limply, feeling himself pushed to the side of the road. + </p> + <p> + Somewhere in the dark he heard an officer's voice say: + </p> + <p> + “Bring those men to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” came another voice. + </p> + <p> + Slow heavy footsteps came up the road in their direction. Andrews kept + pushing him back along the side of a house, until suddenly they both fell + sprawling in a manure pit. + </p> + <p> + “Lie still for God's sake,” muttered Andrews, throwing an arm over + Chrisfield's chest. A thick odor of dry manure filled their nostrils. + </p> + <p> + They heard the steps come nearer, wander about irresolutely and then go + off in the direction from which they had come. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the throb of motors overhead grew louder and louder. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” came the officer's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't find them, sir,” mumbled the other voice. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense. Those men were drunk,” came the officer's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” came the other voice humbly. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield started to giggle. He felt he must yell aloud with laughter. + </p> + <p> + The nearest motor stopped its singsong roar, making the night seem deathly + silent. + </p> + <p> + Andrews jumped to his feet. + </p> + <p> + The air was split by a shriek followed by a racking snorting explosion. + They saw the wall above their pit light up with a red momentary glare. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield got to his feet, expecting to see flaming ruins. The village + street was the same as ever. There was a little light from the glow the + moon, still under the horizon, gave to the sky. A window in the house + opposite showed yellow. In it was a blue silhouette of an officer's cap + and uniform. + </p> + <p> + A little group stood in the street below. + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” the form in the window was shouting in a peremptory + voice. + </p> + <p> + “German aeroplane just dropped a bomb, Major,” came a breathless voice in + reply. + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil don't he close that window?” a voice was muttering all the + while. “Juss a target for 'em to aim at... a target to aim at.” + </p> + <p> + “Any damage done?” asked the major. + </p> + <p> + Through the silence the snoring of the motors sing-songed ominously + overhead, like giant mosquitoes. + </p> + <p> + “I seem to hear more,” said the major, in his drawling voice. + </p> + <p> + “O yes sir, yes sir, lots,” answered an eager voice. + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake tell him to close the window, Lieutenant,” muttered + another voice. + </p> + <p> + “How the hell can I tell him? You tell him.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll all be killed, that's all there is about it.” + </p> + <p> + “There are no shelters or dugouts,” drawled the major from the window. + “That's Headquarters' fault.” + </p> + <p> + “There's the cellar!” cried the eager voice, again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said the major. + </p> + <p> + Three snorting explosions in quick succession drowned everything in a red + glare. The street was suddenly filled with a scuttle of villagers running + to shelter. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, they may have a roll call,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “We'd better cut for home across country,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + They climbed cautiously out of their manure pit. Chrisfield was surprised + to find that he was trembling. His hands were cold. + </p> + <p> + It was with difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering. + </p> + <p> + “God, we'll stink for a week.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's git out,” muttered Chrisfield, “o' this goddam village.” + </p> + <p> + They ran out through an orchard, broke through a hedge and climbed up the + hill across the open fields. + </p> + <p> + Down the main road an anti-aircraft gun had started barking and the sky + sparkled with exploding shrapnel. The “put, put, put” of a machine gun had + begun somewhere. Chrisfield strode up the hill in step with his friend. + Behind them bomb followed bomb, and above them the air seemed full of + exploding shrapnel and droning planes. The cognac still throbbed a little + in their blood. They stumbled against each other now and then as they + walked. From the top of the hill they turned and looked back. Chrisfield + felt a tremendous elation thumping stronger than the cognac through his + veins. Unconsciously he put his arm round his friend's shoulders. They + seemed the only live things in a reeling world. + </p> + <p> + Below in the valley a house was burning brightly. From all directions came + the yelp of anti-aircraft guns, and overhead unperturbed continued the + leisurely singsong of the motors. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Chrisfield burst out laughing. “By God, Ah always have fun when + Ah'm out with you, Andy,” he said. + </p> + <p> + They turned and hurried down the other slope of the hill towards the farms + where they were quartered. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> + <p> + As far as he could see in every direction were the grey trunks of beeches + bright green with moss on one side. The ground was thick with last year's + leaves that rustled maddeningly with every step. In front of him his eyes + followed other patches of olive-drab moving among the tree trunks. + Overhead, through the mottled light and dark green of the leaves he could + see now and then a patch of heavy grey sky, greyer than the silvery trunks + that moved about him in every direction as he walked. He strained his eyes + down each alley until they were dazzled by the reiteration of mottled grey + and green. Now and then the rustling stopped ahead of him, and the + olive-drab patches were still. Then, above the clamour of the blood in his + ears, he could hear batteries “pong, pong, pong” in the distance, and the + woods ringing with a sound like hail as a heavy shell hurtled above the + tree tops to end in a dull rumble miles away. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield was soaked with sweat, but he could not feel his arms or legs. + Every sense was concentrated in eyes and ears, and in the consciousness of + his gun. Time and again he pictured himself taking sight at something grey + that moved, and firing. His forefinger itched to press the trigger. He + would take aim very carefully, he told himself; he pictured a dab of grey + starting up from behind a grey tree trunk, and the sharp detonation of his + rifle, and the dab of grey rolling among the last year's leaves. + </p> + <p> + A branch carried his helmet off his head so that it rolled at his feet and + bounced with a faint metallic sound against the root of a tree. + </p> + <p> + He was blinded by the sudden terror that seized him. His heart seemed to + roll from side to side in his chest. He stood stiff, as if paralyzed for a + moment before he could stoop and pick the helmet up. There was a curious + taste of blood in his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Ah'll pay 'em fer that,” he muttered between clenched teeth. + </p> + <p> + His fingers were still trembling when he stooped to pick up the helmet, + which he put on again very carefully, fastening it with the strap under + his chin. Furious anger had taken hold of him. The olive-drab patches + ahead had moved forward again. He followed, looking eagerly to the right + and the left, praying he might see something. In every direction were the + silvery trunk of the beeches, each with a vivid green streak on one side. + With every step the last year's russet leaves rustled underfoot, + maddeningly loud. + </p> + <p> + Almost out of sight among the moving tree trunks was a log. It was not a + log; it was a bunch of grey-green cloth. Without thinking Chrisfield + strode towards it. The silver trunks of the beeches circled about him, + waving jagged arms. It was a German lying full length among the leaves. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield was furiously happy in the angry pumping of blood through his + veins. + </p> + <p> + He could see the buttons on the back of the long coat of the German, and + the red band on his cap. + </p> + <p> + He kicked the German. He could feel the ribs against his toes through the + leather of his boot. He kicked again and again with all his might. The + German rolled over heavily. He had no face. Chrisfield felt the hatred + suddenly ebb out of him. Where the face had been was a spongy mass of + purple and yellow and red, half of which stuck to the russet leaves when + the body rolled over. Large flies with bright shiny green bodies circled + about it. In a brown clay-grimed hand was a revolver. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield felt his spine go cold; the German had shot himself. + </p> + <p> + He ran off suddenly, breathlessly, to join the rest of the reconnoitering + squad. The silent beeches whirled about him, waving gnarled boughs above + his head. The German had shot himself. That was why he had no face. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield fell into line behind the other men. The corporal waited for + him. + </p> + <p> + “See anything?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not a goddam thing,” muttered Chrisfield almost inaudibly. The corporal + went off to the head of the line. Chrisfield was alone again. The leaves + rustled maddeningly loud underfoot. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> + <p> + Chrisfield's eyes were fixed on the leaves at the tops of the walnut + trees, etched like metal against the bright colorless sky, edged with + flicks and fringes of gold where the sunlight struck them. He stood stiff + and motionless at attention, although there was a sharp pain in his left + ankle that seemed swollen enough to burst the worn boot. He could feel the + presence of men on both sides of him, and of men again beyond them. It + seemed as if the stiff line of men in olive-drab, standing at attention, + waiting endlessly for someone to release them from their erect paralysis, + must stretch unbroken round the world. He let his glance fall to the + trampled grass of the field where the regiment was drawn up. Somewhere + behind him he could hear the clinking of spurs at some officer's heels. + Then there was the sound of a motor on the road suddenly shut off, and + there were steps coming down the line of men, and a group of officers + passed hurriedly, with a businesslike stride, as if they did nothing else + all their lives. Chrisfield made out eagles on tight khaki shoulders, then + a single star and a double star, above which was a red ear and some grey + hair; the general passed too soon for him to make out his face. Chrisfield + swore to himself a little because his ankle hurt so. His eyes travelled + back to the fringe of the trees against the bright sky. So this was what + he got for those weeks in dugouts, for all the times he had thrown himself + on his belly in the mud, for the bullets he had shot into the unknown at + grey specks that moved among the grey mud. Something was crawling up the + middle of his back. He wasn't sure if it were a louse or if he were + imagining it. An order had been shouted. Automatically he had changed his + position to parade rest. Somewhere far away a little man was walking + towards the long drab lines. A wind had come up, rustling the stiff leaves + of the grove of walnut trees. The voice squeaked above it, but Chrisfield + could not make out what it said. The wind in the trees made a vast + rhythmic sound like the churning of water astern of the transport he had + come over on. Gold flicks and olive shadows danced among the indented + clusters of leaves as they swayed, as if sweeping something away, against + the bright sky. An idea came into Chrisfield's head. Suppose the leaves + should sweep in broader and broader curves until they should reach the + ground and sweep and sweep until all this was swept away, all these pains + and lice and uniforms and officers with maple leaves or eagles or single + stars or double stars or triple stars on their shoulders. He had a sudden + picture of himself in his old comfortable overalls, with his shirt open so + that the wind caressed his neck like a girl blowing down it playfully, + lying on a shuck of hay under the hot Indiana sun. Funny he'd thought all + that, he said to himself. Before he'd known Andy he'd never have thought + of that. What had come over him these days? + </p> + <p> + The regiment was marching away in columns of fours. Chrisfield's ankle + gave him sharp hot pain with every step. His tunic was too tight and the + sweat tingled on his back. All about him were sweating irritated faces; + the woollen tunics with their high collars were like straight-jackets that + hot afternoon. Chrisfield marched with his fists clenched; he wanted to + fight somebody, to run his bayonet into a man as he ran it into the dummy + in that everlasting bayonet drill, he wanted to strip himself naked, to + squeeze the wrists of a girl until she screamed. + </p> + <p> + His company was marching past another company that was lined up to be + dismissed in front of a ruined barn which had a roof that sagged in the + middle like an old cow's back. The sergeant stood in front of them with + his arms crossed, looking critically at the company that marched past. He + had a white heavy face and black eyebrows that met over his nose. + Chrisfield stared hard at him as he passed, but Sergeant Anderson did not + seem to recognize him. It gave him a dull angry feeling as if he'd been + cut by a friend. + </p> + <p> + The company melted suddenly into a group of men unbuttoning their shirts + and tunics in front of the little board shanty where they were quartered, + which had been put up by the French at the time of the Marne, years + before, so a man had told Andy. + </p> + <p> + “What are you dreamin' about, Indiana?” said Judkins, punching Chrisfield + jovially in the ribs. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield doubled his fists and gave him a smashing blow in the jaw that + Judkins warded of just in time. + </p> + <p> + Judkins's face flamed red. He swung with a long bent arm. + </p> + <p> + “What the hell d'you think this is?” shouted somebody. “What's he want to + hit me for?” spluttered Judkins, breathless. + </p> + <p> + Men had edged in between them. + </p> + <p> + “Lemme git at him.” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, you fool,” said Andy, drawing Chrisfield away. The company + scattered sullenly. Some of the men lay down in the long uncut grass in + the shade of the ruins of the house, one of the walls of which made a wall + of the shanty where they lived. Andrews and Chrisfield strolled in silence + down the road, kicking their feet into the deep dust. Chrisfield was + limping. On both sides of the road were fields of ripe wheat, golden under + the sun. In the distance were low green hills fading to blue, pale yellow + in patches with the ripe grain. Here and there a thick clump of trees or a + screen of poplars broke the flatness of the long smooth hills. In the + hedgerows were blue cornflowers and poppies in all colors from carmine to + orange that danced in the wind on their wiry stalks. At the turn in the + road they lost the noise of the division and could hear the bees droning + in the big dull purple cloverheads and in the gold hearts of the daisies. + </p> + <p> + “You're a wild man, Chris. What the hell came over you to try an' smash + poor old Judkie's jaw? He could lick you anyway. He's twice as heavy as + you are.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield walked on in silence. + </p> + <p> + “God, I should think you'ld have had enough of that sort of thing.... I + should think you'ld be sick of wanting to hurt people. You don't like pain + yourself, do you?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews spoke in spurts, bitterly, his eyes on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “Ah think Ah sprained ma goddam ankle when Ah tumbled off the back o' the + truck yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Better go on sick call.... Say, Chris, I'm sick of this business.... + Almost like you'd rather shoot yourself than keep on.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah guess you're gettin' the dolefuls, Andy. Look... let's go in swimmin'. + There's a lake down the road.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got my soap in my pocket. We can wash a few cooties off.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't walk so goddam fast...Andy, you got more learnin' than I have. You + ought to be able to tell what it is makes a feller go crazy like that.... + Ah guess Ah got a bit o' the devil in me.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews was brushing the soft silk of a poppy petal against his face. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if it'ld have any effect if I ate some of these,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “They say you go to sleep if you lie down in a poppy-field. Wouldn't you + like to do that, Chris, an' not wake up till the war was over and you + could be a human being again.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews bit into the green seed capsule he held in his hand. A milky juice + came out. + </p> + <p> + “It's bitter...I guess it's the opium,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “A stuff that makes you go to sleep and have wonderful dreams. In + China....” + </p> + <p> + “Dreams,” interrupted Chrisfield. “Ah had one of them last night. Dreamed + Ah saw a feller that had shot hisself that I saw one time reconnoitrin' + out in the Bringy Wood.” + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Nawthin', juss a Fritzie had shot hisself.” + </p> + <p> + “Better than opium,” said Andrews, his voice trembling with sudden + excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Ah dreamed the flies buzzin' round him was aeroplanes.... Remember the + last rest village?” + </p> + <p> + “And the major who wouldn't close the window? You bet I do!” + </p> + <p> + They lay down on the grassy bank that sloped from the road to the pond. + The road was hidden from them by the tall reeds through which the wind + lisped softly. Overhead huge white cumulus clouds, piled tier on tier like + fantastic galleons in full sail, floated, changing slowly in a greenish + sky. The reflection of clouds in the silvery glisten of the pond's surface + was broken by clumps of grasses and bits of floating weeds. They lay on + their backs for some time before they started taking their clothes off, + looking up at the sky, that seemed vast and free, like the ocean, vaster + and freer than the ocean. + </p> + <p> + “Sarge says a delousin' machine's comin' through this way soon.” + </p> + <p> + “We need it, Chris.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews pulled his clothes off slowly. + </p> + <p> + “It's great to feel the sun and the wind on your body, isn't it, Chris?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews walked towards the pond and lay flat on his belly on the fine soft + grass near the edge. + </p> + <p> + “It's great to have your body there, isn't it?” he said in a dreamy voice. + “Your skin's so soft and supple, and nothing in the world has the feel a + muscle has.... Gee, I don't know what I'd do without my body.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Look how ma ole ankle's raised.... Found any cooties yet?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I'll try and drown 'em,” said Andrews. “Chris, come away from those + stinking uniforms and you'll feel like a human being with the sun on your + flesh instead of like a lousy soldier.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, boys,” came a high-pitched voice unexpectedly. A “Y” man with + sharp nose and chin had come up behind them. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” said Chrisfield sullenly, limping towards the water. + </p> + <p> + “Want the soap?” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Going to take a swim, boys?” asked the “Y” man. Then he added in a tone + of conviction, “That's great.” + </p> + <p> + “Better come in, too,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, thanks.... Say, if you don't mind my suggestion, why don't you + fellers get under the water.... You see there's two French girls looking + at you from the road.” The “Y” man giggled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “They don't mind,” said Andrews soaping, himself vigorously. + </p> + <p> + “Ah reckon they lahk it,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “I know they haven't any morals.... But still.” + </p> + <p> + “And why should they not look at us? Maybe there won't be many people who + get a chance.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen what a little splinter of a shell does to a feller's + body?” asked Andrews savagely. He splashed into the shallow water and swam + towards the middle of the pond. + </p> + <p> + “Ye might ask 'em to come down and help us pick the cooties off,” said + Chrisfield and followed in Andrews's wake. In the middle he lay on a sand + bank in the warm shallow water and looked back at the “Y” man, who still + stood on the bank. Behind him were other men undressing, and soon the + grassy slope was filled with naked men and yellowish grey underclothes, + and many dark heads and gleaming backs were bobbing up and down in the + water. When he came out, he found Andrews sitting cross-legged near his + clothes. He reached for his shirt and drew it on him. + </p> + <p> + “God, I can't make up my mind to put the damn thing on again,” said + Andrews in a low voice, almost as if he were talking to himself; “I feel + so clean and free. It's like voluntarily taking up filth and slavery + again.... I think I'll just walk off naked across the fields.” + </p> + <p> + “D'you call serving your country slavery, my friend?” The “Y” man, who had + been roaming among the bathers, his neat uniform and well-polished boots + and puttees contrasting strangely with the mud-clotted, sweat-soaked + clothing of the men about him, sat down on the grass beside Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “You're goddam right I do.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll get into trouble, my boy, if you talk that way,” said the “Y” man + in a cautious voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is your definition of slavery?” + </p> + <p> + “You must remember that you are a voluntary worker in the cause of + democracy.... You're doing this so that your children will be able to live + peaceful....” + </p> + <p> + “Ever shot a man?” + </p> + <p> + “No.... No, of course not, but I'd have enlisted, really I would. Only my + eyes are weak.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess so,” said Andrews under his breath. “Remember that your women + folks, your sisters and sweethearts and mothers, are praying for you at + this instant.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish somebody'd pray me into a clean shirt,” said Andrews, starting to + get into his clothes. “How long have you been over here?” + </p> + <p> + “Just three months.” The man's sallow face, with its pinched nose and chin + lit up. “But, boys, those three months have been worth all the other years + of my min—” he caught himself—“life.... I've heard the great + heart of America beat. O boys, never forget that you are in a great + Christian undertaking.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Chris, let's beat it.” They left the “Y” man wandering among the + men along the bank of the pond, to which the reflection of the greenish + silvery sky and the great piled white clouds gave all the free immensity + of space. From the road they could still hear his high pitched voice. + </p> + <p> + “And that's what'll survive you and me,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, you sure can talk to them guys,” said Chris admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of talking? God, there's a bit of honeysuckle still in + bloom. Doesn't that smell like home to you, Chris?” + </p> + <p> + “Say, how much do they pay those 'Y' men, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know.” + </p> + <p> + They were just in time to fall into line for mess. In the line everyone + was talking and laughing, enlivened by the smell of food and the tinkle of + mess-kits. Near the field kitchen Chrisfield saw Sergeant Anderson talking + with Higgins, his own sergeant. They were laughing together, and he heard + Anderson's big voice saying jovially, “We've pulled through this time, + Higgins.... I guess we will again.” The two sergeants looked at each other + and cast a paternal, condescending glance over their men and laughed + aloud. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield felt powerless as an ox under the yoke. All he could do was + work and strain and stand at attention, while that white-faced Anderson + could lounge about as if he owned the earth and laugh importantly like + that. He held out his plate. The K.P. splashed the meat and gravy into it. + He leaned against the tar-papered wall of the shack, eating his food and + looking sullenly over at the two sergeants, who laughed and talked with an + air of leisure while the men of their two companies ate hurriedly as dogs + all round them. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield glanced suddenly at Anderson, who sat in the grass at the back + of the house, looking out over the wheat fields, while the smoke of a + cigarette rose in spirals about his face and his fair hair. He looked + peaceful, almost happy. Chrisfield clenched his fists and felt the hatred + of that other man rising stingingly within him. + </p> + <p> + “Guess Ah got a bit of the devil in me,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + The windows were so near the grass that the faint light had a greenish + color in the shack where the company was quartered. It gave men's faces, + tanned as they were, the sickly look of people who work in offices, when + they lay on their blankets in the bunks made of chicken wire, stretched + across mouldy scantlings. Swallows had made their nests in the peak of the + roof, and their droppings made white dobs and blotches on the floorboards + in the alley between the bunks, where a few patches of yellow grass had + not yet been completely crushed away by footsteps. Now that the shack was + empty, Chrisfield could hear plainly the peep-peep of the little swallows + in their mud nests. He sat quiet on the end of one of the bunks, looking + out of the open door at the blue shadows that were beginning to lengthen + on the grass of the meadow behind. His hands, that had got to be the color + of terra cotta, hung idly between his legs. He was whistling faintly. His + eyes, in their long black eyelashes, were fixed on the distance, though he + was not thinking. He felt a comfortable unexpressed well-being all over + him. It was pleasant to be alone in the barracks like this, when the other + men were out at grenade practice. There was no chance of anyone shouting + orders at him. + </p> + <p> + A warm drowsiness came over him. From the field kitchen alongside came the + voice of a man singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O my girl's a lulu, every inch a lulu, + Is Lulu, that pretty lil' girl o' mi-ine.” + </pre> + <p> + In their mud nests the young swallows twittered faintly overhead. Now and + then there was a beat of wings and a big swallow skimmed into the shack. + Chrisfield's cheeks began to feel very softly flushed. His head drooped + over on his chest. Outside the cook was singing over and over again in a + low voice, amid a faint clatter of pans: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O my girl's a lulu, every inch a lulu, + Is Lulu, that pretty lil' girl o' mi-ine.” + </pre> + <p> + Chrisfield fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + He woke up with a start. The shack was almost dark. A tall man stood out + black against the bright oblong of the door. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here?” said a deep snarling voice. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield's eyes blinked. Automatically he got to his feet; it might be + an officer. His eyes focussed suddenly. It was Anderson's face that was + between him and the light. In the greenish obscurity the skin looked + chalk-white in contrast to the heavy eyebrows that met over the nose and + the dark stubble on the chin. + </p> + <p> + “How is it you ain't out with the company?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'm barracks guard,” muttered Chrisfield. He could feel the blood + beating in his wrists and temples, stinging his eyes like fire. He was + staring at the floor in front of Anderson's feet. + </p> + <p> + “Orders was all the companies was to go out an' not leave any guard.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!' + </p> + <p> + “We'll see about that when Sergeant Higgins comes in. Is this place tidy?” + </p> + <p> + “You say Ah'm a goddamed liar, do ye?” Chrisfield felt suddenly cool and + joyous. He felt anger taking possession of him. He seemed to be standing + somewhere away from himself watching himself get angry. + </p> + <p> + “This place has got to be cleaned up.... That damn General may come back + to look over quarters,” went on Anderson coolly. + </p> + <p> + “You call me a goddam liar,” said Chrisfield again, putting as much + insolence as he could summon into his voice. “Ah guess you doan' remember + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, you're the guy tried to run a knife into me once,” said + Anderson coolly, squaring his shoulders. “I guess you've learned a little + discipline by this time. Anyhow you've got to clean this place up. God, + they haven't even brushed the birds' nests down! Must be some company!” + said Anderson with a half laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Ah ain't agoin' to neither, fur you.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you do it or it'll be the worse for you,” shouted the sergeant + in his deep rasping voice. + </p> + <p> + “If ever Ah gits out o' the army Ah'm goin' to shoot you. You've picked on + me enough.” Chrisfield spoke slowly, as coolly as Anderson. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll see what a court-martial has to say to that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah doan give a hoot in hell what ye do.” + </p> + <p> + Sergeant Anderson turned on his heel and went out, twisting the corner + button of his tunic in his big fingers. Already the sound of tramping feet + was heard and the shouted order, “Dis-missed.” Then men crowded into the + shack, laughing and talking. Chrisfield sat still on the end of the bunk, + looking at the bright oblong of the door. Outside he saw Anderson talking + to Sergeant Higgins. They shook hands, and Anderson disappeared. + Chrisfield heard Sergeant Higgins call after him. + </p> + <p> + “I guess the next time I see you I'll have to put my heels together an' + salute.” + </p> + <p> + Andersen's booming laugh faded as he walked away. + </p> + <p> + Sergeant Higgins came into the shack and walked straight up to Chrisfield, + saying in a hard official voice: + </p> + <p> + “You're under arrest.... Small, guard this man; get your gun and cartridge + belt. I'll relieve you so you can get mess.” + </p> + <p> + He went out. Everyone's eyes were turned curiously on Chrisfield. Small, a + red-faced man with a long nose that hung down over his upper lip, shuffled + sheepishly over to his place beside Chrisfield's cot and let the butt of + his rifle come down with a bang on the floor. Somebody laughed. Andrews + walked up to them, a look of trouble in his blue eyes and in the lines of + his lean tanned cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter, Chris?” he asked in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Tol' that bastard Ah didn't give a hoot in hell what he did,” said + Chrisfield in a broken voice. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, I don't think I ought ter let anybody talk to him,” said Small + in an apologetic tone. “I don't see why Sarge always gives me all his + dirty work.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews walked off without replying. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Chris; they won't do nothin' to ye,” said Jenkins, grinning + at him good-naturedly from the door. + </p> + <p> + “Ah doan give a hoot in hell what they do,” said Chrisfield again. + </p> + <p> + He lay back in his bunk and looked at the ceiling. The barracks was full + of a bustle of cleaning up. Judkins was sweeping the floor with a broom + made of dry sticks. Another man was knocking down the swallows' nests with + a bayonet. The mud nests crumbled and fell on the floor and the bunks, + filling the air with a flutter of feathers and a smell of birdlime. The + little naked bodies, with their orange bills too big for them, gave a soft + plump when they hit the boards of the floor, where they lay giving faint + gasping squeaks. Meanwhile, with shrill little cries, the big swallows + flew back and forth in the shanty, now and then striking the low roof. + </p> + <p> + “Say, pick 'em up, can't yer?” said Small. Judkins was sweeping the little + gasping bodies out among the dust and dirt. + </p> + <p> + A stoutish man stooped and picked the little birds up one by one, + puckering his lips into an expression of tenderness. He made his two hands + into a nest-shaped hollow, out of which stretched the long necks and the + gaping orange mouths. Andrews ran into him at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Dad,” he said. “What the hell?” + </p> + <p> + “I just picked these up.” + </p> + <p> + “So they couldn't let the poor little devils stay there? God! it looks to + me as if they went out of their way to give pain to everything, bird, + beast or man.” + </p> + <p> + “War ain't no picnic,” said Judkins. + </p> + <p> + “Well, God damn it, isn't that a reason for not going out of your way to + raise more hell with people's feelings than you have to?” + </p> + <p> + A face with peaked chin and nose on which was stretched a + parchment-colored skin appeared in the door. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, boys,” said the “Y” man. “I just thought I'd tell you I'm going to + open the canteen tomorrow, in the last shack on the Beaucourt road. + There'll be chocolate, ciggies, soap, and everything.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody cheered. The “Y” man beamed. + </p> + <p> + His eye lit on the little birds in Dad's hands. + </p> + <p> + “How could you?” he said. “An American soldier being deliberately cruel. I + would never have believed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye've got somethin' to learn,” muttered Dad, waddling out into the + twilight on his bandy legs. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield had been watching the scene at the door with unseeing eyes. A + terrified nervousness that he tried to beat off had come over him. It was + useless to repeat to himself again and again that he didn't give a damn; + the prospect of being brought up alone before all those officers, of being + cross-questioned by those curt voices, frightened him. He would rather + have been lashed. Whatever was he to say, he kept asking himself; he would + get mixed up or say things he didn't mean to, or else he wouldn't be able + to get a word out at all. If only Andy could go up with him, Andy was + educated, like the officers were; he had more learning than the whole + shooting-match put together. He'd be able to defend himself, and defend + his friends, too, if only they'd let him. + </p> + <p> + “I felt just like those little birds that time they got the bead on our + trench at Boticourt,” said Jenkins, laughing. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield listened to the talk about him as if from another world. + Already he was cut off from his outfit. He'd disappear and they'd never + know or care what became of him. + </p> + <p> + The mess-call blew and the men filed out. He could hear their talk + outside, and the sound of their mess-kits as they opened them. He lay on + his bunk staring up into the dark. A faint blue light still came from + outside, giving a curious purple color to Small's red face and long + drooping nose at the end of which hung a glistening drop of moisture. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield found Andrews washing a shirt in the brook that flowed through + the ruins of the village the other side of the road from the buildings + where the division was quartered. The blue sky flicked with pinkish-white + clouds gave a shimmer of blue and lavender and white to the bright water. + At the bottom could be seen battered helmets and bits of equipment and tin + cans that had once held meat. Andrews turned his head; he had a smudge of + mud down his nose and soapsuds on his chin. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Chris,” he said, looking him in the eyes with his sparkling blue + eyes, “how's things?” There was a faint anxious frown on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Two-thirds of one month's pay an' confined to quarters,” said Chrisfield + cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, they were easy.” + </p> + <p> + “Um-hum, said Ah was a good shot an' all that, so they'd let me off this + time.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews started scrubbing at his shirt again. + </p> + <p> + “I've got this shirt so full of mud I don't think I ever will get it + clean,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Move ye ole hide away, Andy. Ah'll wash it. You ain't no good for + nothin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell no, I'll do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Move ye hide out of there.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks awfully.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews got to his feet and wiped the mud off his nose with his bare + forearm. + </p> + <p> + “Ah'm goin' to shoot that bastard,” said Chrisfield, scrubbing at the + shirt. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be an ass, Chris.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah swear to God Ah am.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of getting all wrought up. The thing's over. You'll + probably never see him again.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah ain't all het up.... Ah'm goin' to do it though.” He wrung the shirt + out carefully and flipped Andrews in the face with it. “There ye are,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “You're a good fellow, Chris, even if you are an ass.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me we're going into the line in a day or two.” + </p> + <p> + “There's been a devil of a lot of artillery going up the road; French, + British, every old kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me they's raisin' hell in the Oregon forest.” + </p> + <p> + They walked slowly across the road. A motorcycle despatch-rider whizzed + past them. + </p> + <p> + “It's them guys has the fun,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe anybody has much.” + </p> + <p> + “What about the officers?” + </p> + <p> + “They're too busy feeling important to have a real hell of a time.” + </p> + <p> + The hard cold rain beat like a lash in his; face. There was no light + anywhere and no sound but the hiss of the rain in the grass. His eyes + strained to see through the dark until red and yellow blotches danced + before them. He walked very slowly and carefully, holding something very + gently in his hand under his raincoat. He felt himself full of a strange + subdued fury; he seemed to be walking behind himself spying on his own + actions, and what he saw made him feel joyously happy, made him want to + sing. + </p> + <p> + He turned so that the rain beat against his cheek. Under his helmet he + felt his hair full of sweat that ran with the rain down his glowing face. + His fingers clutched very carefully the smooth stick he had in his hand. + </p> + <p> + He stopped and shut his eyes for a moment; through the hiss of the rain he + had heard a sound of men talking in one of the shanties. When he shut his + eyes he saw the white face of Anderson before him, with its unshaven chin + and the eyebrows that met across the nose. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he felt the wall of a house in front of him. He put out his hand. + His hand jerked back from the rough wet feel of the tar paper, as if it + had touched something dead. He groped along the wall, stepping very + cautiously. He felt as he had felt reconnoitering in the Bringy Wood. + Phrases came to his mind as they had then. Without thinking what they + meant, the words Make the world safe for Democracy formed themselves in + his head. They were very comforting. They occupied his thoughts. He said + them to himself again and again. Meanwhile his free hand was fumbling very + carefully with the fastening that held the wooden shutter over a window. + The shutter opened a very little, creaking loudly, louder than the patter + of rain on the roof of the shack. A stream of water from the roof was + pouring into his face. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a beam of light transformed everything, cutting the darkness in + two. The rain glittered like a bead curtain. Chrisfield was looking into a + little room where a lamp was burning. At a table covered with printed + blanks of different size sat a corporal; behind him was a bunk and a pile + of equipment. The corporal was reading a magazine. Chrisfield looked at + him a long time; his fingers were tight about the smooth stick. There was + no one else in the room. + </p> + <p> + A sort of panic seized Chrisfield; he strode away noisily from the window + and pushed open the door of the shack. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Sergeant Anderson?” he asked in a breathless voice of the first + man he saw. + </p> + <p> + “Corp's there if it's anything important,” said the man. “Anderson's gone + to an O. T. C. Left day before yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield was out in the rain again. It was beating straight in his face, + so that his eyes were full of water. He was trembling. He had suddenly + become terrified. The smooth stick he held seemed to burn him. He was + straining his ears for an explosion. Walking straight before him down the + road, he went faster and faster as if trying to escape from it. He + stumbled on a pile of stones. Automatically he pulled the string out of + the grenade and threw it far from him. + </p> + <p> + There was a minute's pause. + </p> + <p> + Red flame spurted in the middle of the wheatfield. He felt the sharp crash + in his eardrums. + </p> + <p> + He walked fast through the rain. Behind him, at the door of the shack, he + could hear excited voices. He walked recklessly on, the rain blinding him. + When he finally stepped into the light he was so dazzled he could not see + who was in the wine shop. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll be damned, Chris,” said Andrews's voice. Chrisfield blinked + the rain out of his lashes. Andrews sat writing with a pile of papers + before him and a bottle of champagne. It seemed to Chrisfield to soothe + his nerves to hear Andy's voice. He wished he would go on talking a long + time without a pause. + </p> + <p> + “If you aren't the crowning idiot of the ages,” Andrews went on in a low + voice. He took Chrisfield by the arm and led him into the little back + room, where was a high bed with a brown coverlet and a big kitchen table + on which were the remnants of a meal. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter? Your arm's trembling like the devil. But why.... O + pardon, Crimpette. C'est un ami.... You know Crimpette, don't you?” He + pointed to a youngish woman who had just appeared from behind the bed. She + had a flabby rosy face and violet circles under her eyes, dark as if + they'd been made by blows, and untidy hair. A dirty grey muslin dress with + half the hooks off held in badly her large breasts and flabby figure. + Chrisfield looked at her greedily, feeling his furious irritation flame + into one desire. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with you, Chris? You're crazy to break out of quarters + this way?” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, git out o' here. Ah ain't your sort anyway.... Git out o' + here.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a wild man. I'll grant you that.... But I'd just as soon be your + sort as anyone else's.... Have a drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Not now.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews sat down with his bottle and his papers, pushing away the broken + plates full of stale food to make a place on the greasy table. He took a + gulp out of the bottle, that made him cough, then put the end of his + pencil in his mouth and stared gravely at the paper. + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm your sort, Chris,” he said over his shoulder, “only they've tamed + me. O God, how tame I am.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield did not listen to what he was saying. He stood in front of the + woman, staring in her face. She looked at him in a stupid frightened way. + He felt in his pockets for some money. As he had just been paid he had a + fifty-franc note. He spread it out carefully before her. Her eyes + glistened. The pupils seemed to grow smaller as they fastened on the bit + of daintily colored paper. He crumpled it up suddenly in his fist and + shoved it down between her breasts. + </p> + <p> + Some time later Chrisfield sat down in front of Andrews. He still had his + wet slicker on. + </p> + <p> + “Ah guess you think Ah'm a swine,” he said in his normal voice. “Ah guess + you're about right.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't,” said Andrews. Something made him put his hand on + Chrisfield's hand that lay on the table. It had a feeling of cool health. + </p> + <p> + “Say, why were you trembling so when you came in here? You seem all right + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ah dunno,'” said Chrisfield in a soft resonant voice. + </p> + <p> + They were silent for a long while. They could hear the woman's footsteps + going and coming behind them. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go home,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “All right.... Bonsoir, Crimpette.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the rain had stopped. A stormy wind had torn the clouds to rags. + Here and there clusters of stars showed through. They splashed merrily + through the puddles. But here and there reflected a patch of stars when + the wind was not ruffling them. + </p> + <p> + “Christ, Ah wish Ah was like you, Andy,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “You don't want to be like me, Chris. I'm no sort of a person at all. I'm + tame. O you don't know how damn tame I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Learnin' sure do help a feller to git along in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but what's the use of getting along if you haven't any world to get + along in? Chris, I belong to a crowd that just fakes learning. I guess the + best thing that can happen to us is to get killed in this butchery. We're + a tame generation.... It's you that it matters to kill.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah ain't no good for anythin'.... Ah doan give a damn.... Lawsee, Ah feel + sleepy.” + </p> + <p> + As they slipped in the door of their quarters, the sergeant looked at + Chrisfield searchingly. Andrews spoke up at once. + </p> + <p> + “There's some rumors going on at the latrine, Sarge. The fellows from the + Thirty-second say we're going to march into hell's halfacre about + Thursday.” + </p> + <p> + “A lot they know about it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the latest edition of the latrine news.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell it is! Well, d'you want to know something, Andrews.... It'll be + before Thursday, or I'm a Dutchman.” + </p> + <p> + Sergeant Higgins put on a great air of mystery. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield went to his bunk, undressed quietly and climbed into his + blankets. He stretched his arms languidly a couple of times, and while + Andrews was still talking to the sergeant, fell asleep. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> + <p> + The moon lay among clouds on the horizon, like a big red pumpkin among its + leaves. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield squinted at it through the boughs of the apple trees laden with + apples that gave a winey fragrance to the crisp air. He was sitting on the + ground, his legs stretched limply before him, leaning against the rough + trunk of an apple tree. Opposite him, leaning against another tree, was + the square form, surmounted by a large long-jawed face, of Judkins. + Between them lay two empty cognac bottles. All about them was the rustling + orchard, with its crooked twigs that made a crackling sound rubbing + together in the gusts of the autumn wind, that came heavy with a smell of + damp woods and of rotting fruits and of all the ferment of the overripe + fields. Chrisfield felt it stirring the moist hair on his forehead and + through the buzzing haze of the cognac heard the plunk, plunk, plunk of + apples dropping that followed each gust, and the twanging of night + insects, and, far in the distance, the endless rumble of guns, like + tomtoms beaten for a dance. + </p> + <p> + “Ye heard what the Colonel said, didn't ye?” said Judkins in a voice + hoarse from too much drink. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield belched and nodded his head vaguely. He remembered Andrews's + white fury after the men had been dismissed, how he had sat down on the + end of a log by the field kitchen, staring at the patch of earth he beat + into mud with the toe of his boot. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” went on Judkins, trying to imitate the Colonel's solemn efficient + voice, “'On the subject of prisoners'”—he hiccoughed and made a limp + gesture with his hand—“'On the subject of prisoners, well, I'll + leave that to you, but juss remember... juss remember what the Huns did to + Belgium, an' I might add that we have barely enough emergency rations as + it is, and the more prisoners you have the less you fellers'll git to + eat.'” + </p> + <p> + “That's what he said, Judkie; that's what he said.” + </p> + <p> + “'An the more prisoners ye have, the less youse'll git to eat,'” chanted + Judkins, making a triumphal flourish with his hand. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield groped for the cognac bottle; it was empty; he waved it in the + air a minute and then threw it into the tree opposite him. A shower of + little apples fell about Judkins's head. He got unsteadily to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, fellers,” he said, “war ain't no picnic.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield stood up and grabbed at an apple. His teeth crunched into it. + </p> + <p> + “Sweet,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Sweet, nauthin',” mumbled Judkins, “war ain't no picnic.... I tell you, + buddy, if you take any prisoners”—he hiccoughed—“after what + the Colonel said, I'll lick the spots out of you, by God I will.... Rip up + their guts that's all, like they was dummies. Rip up their guts.” His + voice suddenly changed to one of childish dismay. “Gee, Chris, I'm going + to be sick,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Look out,” said Chrisfield, pushing him away. Judkins leaned against a + tree and vomited. + </p> + <p> + The full moon had risen above the clouds and filled the apple orchard with + chilly golden light that cast a fantastic shadow pattern of interlaced + twigs and branches upon the bare ground littered with apples. The sound of + the guns had grown nearer. There were loud eager rumbles as of bowls being + rolled very hard on a bowling alley, combined with a continuous roar like + sheets of iron being shaken. + </p> + <p> + “Ah bet it's hell out there,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “I feel better,” said Judkins. “Let's go get some more cognac.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'm hungry,” said Chrisfield. “Let's go an' get that ole woman to cook + us some aigs.” + </p> + <p> + “Too damn late,” growled Judkins. + </p> + <p> + “How the hell late is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno, I sold my watch.” + </p> + <p> + They were walking at random through the orchard. They came to a field full + of big pumpkins that gleamed in the moonlight and cast shadows black as + holes. In the distance they could see wooded hills. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield picked up a medium-sized pumpkin and threw it as hard as he + could into the air. It split into three when it landed with a thud on the + ground, and the moist yellow seeds spilled out. + </p> + <p> + “Some strong man, you are,” said Judkins, tossing up a bigger one. + </p> + <p> + “Say, there's a farmhouse, maybe we could get some aigs from the + hen-roost.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell of a lot of hens....” + </p> + <p> + At that moment the crowing of a rooster came across the silent fields. + They ran towards the dark farm buildings. + </p> + <p> + “Look out, there may be officers quartered there.” + </p> + <p> + They walked cautiously round the square, silent group of buildings. There + were no lights. The big wooden door of the court pushed open easily, + without creaking. On the roof of the barn the pigeon-cot was etched dark + against the disc of the moon. A warm smell of stables blew in their faces + as the two men tiptoed into the manure-littered farmyard. Under one of the + sheds they found a table on which a great many pears were set to ripen. + Chrisfield put his teeth into one. The rich sweet juice ran down his chin. + He ate the pear quickly and greedily, and then bit into another. + </p> + <p> + “Fill yer pockets with 'em,” whispered Judkins. + </p> + <p> + “They might ketch us.” + </p> + <p> + “Ketch us, hell. We'll be goin' into the offensive in a day or two.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah sure would like to git some aigs.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield pushed open the door of one of the barns. A smell of creamy + milk and cheeses filled his nostrils. + </p> + <p> + “Come here,” he whispered. “Want some cheese?” + </p> + <p> + A lot of cheeses ranged on a board shone silver in the moonlight that came + in through the open door. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, no, ain't fit te eat,” said Judkins, pushing his heavy fist into + one of the new soft cheeses. + </p> + <p> + “Doan do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, ain't we saved 'em from the Huns?” + </p> + <p> + “But, hell.” + </p> + <p> + “War ain't no picnic, that's all,” said Judkins. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly there was a loud squawking and all the chickens were cackling + with terror. + </p> + <p> + “Beat it,” muttered Judkins, running for the gate of the farmyard. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “God damn,” said Judkins breathless, “they ain't got no right, those frogs + ain't, to carry on like that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, Ah'm kind o' cut up 'bout that lady,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “Well, ain't we saved her from the Huns?” + </p> + <p> + “Andy don't think so.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No, he ain't.” + </p> + <p> + “I heard the lootenant say so. He's a goddam yeller dawg.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield swore sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you juss wait 'n see. I tell you, buddy, war ain't no picnic.” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell are we goin' to do with that chicken?” said Judkins. + </p> + <p> + “You remember what happened to Eddie White?” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, we'd better leave it here.” + </p> + <p> + Judkins swung the chicken by its neck round his head and threw it as hard + as he could into the bushes. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + From the table by the window of the cafe 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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'.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He's got a flower behind his ear, like a cigarette,” said Judkins, with a + disgusted snort. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess we'd better go,” said Small. “We got to be in quarters at + six.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent a moment. In the distance the guns kept up a continual + tomtom sound. + </p> + <p> + “Guess we'll be in that soon,” said Small. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield felt a chill go down his spine. He moistened his lips with his + tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Guess it's hell out there,” said Judkins. “War ain't no picnic.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah doan give a hoot in hell,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake where's a repair station?” he asked in a loud shaky voice. + </p> + <p> + “There's none in this village, Major.” + </p> + <p> + “Where the hell is there one?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said the lieutenant in a humble tone. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Thiocourt.” + </p> + <p> + “Where the hell's that?” + </p> + <p> + The chauffeur had leaned out. He had no cap and his hair was full of dust. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Lootenant, we wants to get to Chalons—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's it. Chalons sur...Chalons-sur-Marne,” said the Major. + </p> + <p> + “The billeting officer has a map,” said the lieutenant, “last house to the + left.” + </p> + <p> + “O let's go there quick,” said the major. He fumbled with the fastening of + the door. + </p> + <p> + The lieutenant opened it for him. + </p> + <p> + As he opened the door, the men nearest had a glimpse of the interior of + the car. On the far side was a long object huddled in blankets, propped up + on the seat. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't this great country?” said Andrews, who marched beside him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah'd liever be at an O. T. C. like that bastard Anderson.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This ain't no life for a white man,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The big gun fired again. Chrisfield was near it this time and felt the + concussion like a blow in the head. + </p> + <p> + “Some baby,” said the man behind him. + </p> + <p> + Someone was singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + </pre> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O ashes to ashes + An' dust to dust...” + </pre> + <p> + “Can that,” cried Judkins, “it ain't lucky.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O ashes to ashes + An' dust to dust; + If the gasbombs don't get yer + The eighty-eights must.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 shirtsleeves playing cards and + smoking. Their gestures irritated him. + </p> + <p> + “Say, tell 'em we're advancin',” he said to Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Are we?” said Andrews. “All right.... Dites-donc, les Boches courent-ils + comme des lapins?” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + One of the men turned his head and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Smell anythin', Andy?” he whispered cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “I can smell a combination of dead horses and tube roses 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....” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. Stunned 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Overhead was a droning as of gigantic mosquitoes, growing fast to a loud + throbbing. He heard the lieutenant's voice calling shrilly: + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant Higgins, Sergeant Higgins!” + </p> + <p> + 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 aeroplane 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. + </p> + <p> + The turbulent flaring darkness was calming to the grey of dawn when + Chrisfield stopped marching. His eyelids stung as if his eyeballs were + flaming hot. He could not feel his feet and legs. The guns continued + incessantly like a hammer beating on his head. He was walking very slowly + in a single file, now and then stumbling against the man ahead of him. + There was earth on both sides of him, clay walls that dripped moisture. + All at once he stumbled down some steps into a dugout, where it was + pitch-black. An unfamiliar smell struck him, made him uneasy; but his + thoughts seemed to reach him from out of a great distance. He groped to + the wall. His knees struck against a bunk with blankets in it. In another + second he was sunk fathoms deep in sleep. + </p> + <p> + When he woke up his mind was very clear. The roof of the dugout was of + logs. A bright spot far away was the door. He hoped desperately that he + wasn't on duty. He wondered where Andy was; then he remembered that Andy + was crazy,—“a yeller dawg,” Judkins had called him. Sitting up with + difficulty he undid his shoes and puttees, wrapped himself in his blanket. + All round him were snores and the deep breathing of exhausted sleep. He + closed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + He was being court-martialled. He stood with his hands at his sides before + three officers at a table. All three had the same white faces with heavy + blue jaws and eyebrows that met above the nose. They were reading things + out of papers aloud, but, although he strained his ears, he couldn't make + out what they were saying. All he could hear was a faint moaning. + Something had a curious unfamiliar smell that troubled him. He could not + stand still at attention, although the angry eyes of officers stared at + him from all round. “Anderson, Sergeant Anderson, what's that smell?” he + kept asking in a small whining voice. “Please tell a feller what that + smell is.” But the three officers at the table kept reading from their + papers, and the moaning grew louder and louder in his ears until he + shrieked aloud. There was a grenade in his hand. He pulled the string out + and threw it, and he saw the lieutenant's trench coat stand out against a + sheet of flame. Someone sprang at him. He was wrestling for his life with + Anderson, who turned into a woman with huge flabby breasts. He crushed her + to him and turned to defend himself against three officers who came at + him, their trench coats drawn in tightly at the waist until they looked + like wasps. Everything faded, he woke up. + </p> + <p> + His nostrils were still full of the strange troubling smell. He sat on the + edge of the bunk, wriggling in his clothes, for his body crawled with + lice. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, it's funny to be in where the Fritzies were not long ago,” he heard + a voice say. + </p> + <p> + “Kiddo! we're advancin',” came another voice. + </p> + <p> + “But, hell, this ain't no kind of an advance. I ain't seen a German yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah kin smell 'em though,” said Chrisfield, getting suddenly to his feet. + </p> + <p> + Sergeant Higgins' head appeared in the door. “Fall in,” he shouted. Then + he added in his normal voice, “It's up and at 'em, fellers.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield caught his puttee on a clump of briars at the edge of the + clearing and stood kicking his leg back and forth to get it free. At last + he broke away, the torn puttee dragging behind him. Out in the sunlight in + the middle of the clearing he saw a man in olive-drab kneeling beside + something on the ground. A German lay face down with a red hole in his + back. The man was going through his pockets. He looked up into + Chrisfield's face. + </p> + <p> + “Souvenirs,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What outfit are you in, buddy?” + </p> + <p> + “143rd,” said the man, getting to his feet slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Where the hell are we?” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know.” + </p> + <p> + The clearing was empty, except for the two Americans and the German with + the hole in his back. In the distance they heard a sound of artillery and + nearer the “put, put, put” of isolated machine guns. The leaves of the + trees about them, all shades of brown and crimson and yellow, danced in + the sunlight. + </p> + <p> + “Say, that damn money ain't no good, is it?” asked Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “German money? Hell, no.... I got a watch that's a peach though.” The man + held out a gold watch, looking suspiciously at Chrisfield all the while + through half-closed eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ah saw a feller had a gold-handled sword,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “Where's that?” + </p> + <p> + “Back there in the wood”; he waved his hand vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “Ah've got to find ma outfit; comin' along?” Chrisfield started towards + the other edge of the clearing. + </p> + <p> + “Looks to me all right here,” said the other man, lying down on the grass + in the sun. + </p> + <p> + The leaves rustled underfoot as Chrisfield strode through the wood. He was + frightened by being alone. He walked ahead as fast as he could, his puttee + still dragging behind him. He came to a barbed-wire entanglement half + embedded in fallen beech leaves. It had been partly cut in one place, but + in crossing he tore his thigh on a barb. Taking off the torn puttee, he + wrapped it round the outside of his trousers and kept on walking, feeling + a little blood trickle down his leg. + </p> + <p> + Later he came to a lane that cut straight through the wood where there + were many ruts through the putty-coloured mud puddles; Down the lane in a + patch of sunlight he saw a figure, towards which he hurried. It was a + young man with red hair and a pink-and-white face. By a gold bar on the + collar of his shirt Chrisfield saw that he was a lieutenant. He had no + coat or hat and there was greenish slime all over the front of his clothes + as if he had lain on his belly in a mud puddle. + </p> + <p> + “Where you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunno, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, come along.” The lieutenant started walking as fast as he + could up the lane, swinging his arms wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Seen any machine-gun nests?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a one.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum.” + </p> + <p> + He followed the lieutenant, who walked so fast he had difficulty keeping + up, splashing recklessly through the puddles. + </p> + <p> + “Where's the artillery? That's what I want to know,” cried the lieutenant, + suddenly stopping in his tracks and running a hand through his red hair. + “Where the hell's the artillery?” He looked at Chrisfield savagely out of + green eyes. “No use advancing without artillery.” He started walking + faster than ever. + </p> + <p> + All at once they saw sunlight ahead of them and olive-drab uniforms. + Machine guns started firing all around them in a sudden gust. Chrisfield + found himself running forward across a field full of stubble and sprouting + clover among a group of men he did not know. The whip-like sound of rifles + had chimed in with the stuttering of the machine guns. Little white clouds + sailed above him in a blue sky, and in front of him was a group of houses + that had the same color, white with lavender-grey shadows, as the clouds. + </p> + <p> + He was in a house, with a grenade like a tin pineapple in each hand. The + sudden loneliness frightened him again. Outside the house was a sound of + machine-gun firing, broken by the occasional bursting; of a shell. He + looked at the red-tiled roof and at a chromo of a woman nursing a child + that hung on the whitewashed wall opposite him. He was in a small kitchen. + There was a fire in the hearth where something boiled in a black pot. + Chrisfield tiptoed over and looked in. At the bottom of the bubbling water + he saw five potatoes. At the other end of the kitchen, beyond two broken + chairs, was a door. Chrisfield crept over to it, the tiles seeming to sway + under foot. He put his finger to the latch and took it off again suddenly. + Holding in his breath he stood a long time looking at the door. Then he + pulled it open recklessly. A young man with fair hair was sitting at a + table, his head resting on his hands. Chrisfield felt a spurt of joy when + he saw that the man's uniform was green. Very coolly he pressed the + spring, held the grenade a second and then threw it, throwing himself + backwards into the middle of the kitchen. The light-haired man had not + moved; his blue eyes still stared straight before him. + </p> + <p> + In the street Chrisfield ran into a tall man who was running. The man + clutched him by the arm and said: + </p> + <p> + “The barrage is moving up.” + </p> + <p> + “What barrage?” + </p> + <p> + “Our barrage; we've got to run, we're ahead of it.” His voice came in + wheezy pants. There were red splotches on his face. They ran together down + the empty village street. As they ran they passed the little red-haired + lieutenant, who leaned against a whitewashed wall, his legs a mass of + blood and torn cloth. He was shouting in a shrill delirious voice that + followed them out along the open road. + </p> + <p> + “Where's the artillery? That's what I want to know; where's the + artillery?” + </p> + <p> + The woods were grey and dripping with dawn. Chrisfield got stiffly to his + feet from the pile of leaves where he had slept. He felt numb with cold + and hunger, lonely and lost away from his outfit. All about him were men + of another division. A captain with a sandy mustache was striding up and + down with a blanket about him, on the road just behind a clump of beech + trees. Chrisfield had watched him passing back and forth, back and forth, + behind the wet clustered trunks of the trees, ever since it had been + light. Stamping his feet among the damp leaves, Chrisfield strolled away + from the group of men. No one seemed to notice him. The trees closed about + him. He could see nothing but moist trees, grey-green and black, and the + yellow leaves of saplings that cut off the view in every direction. He was + wondering dully why he was walking off that way. Somewhere in the back of + his mind there was a vague idea of finding his outfit. Sergeant Higgins + and Andy and Judkins and Small—he wondered what had become of them. + He thought of the company lined up for mess, and the smell of greasy food + that came from the field-kitchen. He was desperately hungry. He stopped + and leaned against the moss-covered trunk of a tree. The deep scratch in + his leg was throbbing as if all the blood in his body beat through it. Now + that his rustling footsteps had ceased, the woods were absolutely silent, + except for the dripping of dew from the leaves and branches. He strained + his ears to hear some other sound. Then he noticed that he was staring at + a tree full of small red crab apples. He picked a handful greedily, but + they were hard and sour and seemed to make him hungrier. The sour flavour + in his mouth made him furiously angry. He kicked at the thin trunk of the + tree while tears smarted in his eyes. Swearing aloud in a whining singsong + voice, he strode off through the woods with his eyes on the ground. Twigs + snapped viciously in his face, crooked branches caught at him, but he + plunged on. All at once he stumbled against something hard that bounced + among the leaves. + </p> + <p> + He stopped still, looking about him, terrified. Two grenades lay just + under his foot, a little further on a man was propped against a tree with + his mouth open. Chrisfield thought at first he was asleep, as his eyes + were closed. He looked at the grenades carefully. The fuses had not been + sprung. He put one in each pocket, gave a glance at the man who seemed to + be asleep, and strode off again, striking another alley in the woods, at + the end of which he could see sunlight. The sky overhead was full of heavy + purple clouds, tinged here and there with yellow. As he walked towards the + patch of sunlight, the thought came to him that he ought to have looked in + the pockets of the man he had just passed to see if he had any hard bread. + He stood still a moment in hesitation, but started walking again doggedly + towards the patch of sunlight. + </p> + <p> + Something glittered in the irregular fringe of sun and shadow. A man was + sitting hunched up on the ground with his fatigue cap pulled over his eyes + so that the little gold bar just caught the horizontal sunlight. + Chrisfield's first thought was that he might have food on him. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Lootenant,” he shouted, “d'you know where a fellow can get somethin' + to eat.” + </p> + <p> + The man lifted his head slowly. Chrisfield turned cold all over when he + saw the white heavy face of Anderson; an unshaven beard was very black on + his square chin; there was a long scratch clotted with dried blood from + the heavy eyebrow across the left cheek to the corner of the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Give me some water, buddy,” said Anderson in a weak voice. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield handed him his canteen roughly in silence. He noticed that + Anderson's arm was in a sling, and that he drank greedily, spilling the + water over his chin and his wounded arm. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Colonel Evans?” asked Anderson in a thin petulant voice. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield did not reply but stared at him sullenly. The canteen had + dropped from his hand and lay on the ground in front of him. The water + gleamed in the sunlight as it ran out among the russet leaves. A wind had + come up, making the woods resound. A shower of yellow leaves dropped about + them. + </p> + <p> + “First you was a corporal, then you was a sergeant, and now you're a + lootenant,” said Chrisfield slowly. + </p> + <p> + “You'ld better tell me where Colonel Evans is.... You must know.... He's + up that road somewhere,” said Anderson, struggling to get to his feet. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield walked away without answering. A cold hand was round the + grenade in his pocket. He walked away slowly, looking at his feet. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he found he had pressed the spring of the grenade. He struggled + to pull it out of his pocket. It stuck in the narrow pocket. His arm and + his cold fingers that clutched the grenade seemed paralyzed. Then a warm + joy went through him. He had thrown it. + </p> + <p> + Anderson was standing up, swaying backwards and forwards. The explosion + made the woods quake. A thick rain of yellow leaves came down. Anderson + was flat on the ground. He was so flat he seemed to have sunk into the + ground. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield pressed the spring of the other grenade and threw it with his + eyes closed. It burst among the thick new-fallen leaves. + </p> + <p> + A few drops of rain were falling. Chrisfield kept on along the lane, + walking fast, feeling full of warmth and strength. The rain beat hard and + cold against his back. + </p> + <p> + He walked with his eyes to the ground. A voice in a strange language + stopped him. A ragged man in green with a beard that was clotted with mud + stood in front of him with his hands up. Chrisfield burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” he said, “quick!” + </p> + <p> + The man shambled in front of him; he was trembling so hard he nearly fell + with each step. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield kicked him. + </p> + <p> + The man shambled on without turning round. Chrisfield kicked him again, + feeling the point of the man's spine and the soft flesh of his rump + against his toes with each kick, laughing so hard all the while that he + could hardly see where he was going. + </p> + <p> + “Halt!” came a voice. + </p> + <p> + “Ah've got a prisoner,” shouted Chrisfield still laughing. + </p> + <p> + “He ain't much of a prisoner,” said the man, pointing his bayonet at the + German. “He's gone crazy, I guess. I'll take keer o' him... ain't no use + sendin' him back.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Chrisfield still laughing. “Say, buddy, where can Ah' + git something to eat? Ah ain't had nothin' fur a day an a half.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a reconnoitrin' squad up the line; they'll give you somethin'.... + How's things goin' up that way?” The man pointed up the road. + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, Ah doan know. Ah ain't had nothin' to eat fur a day and a half.” + </p> + <p> + The warm smell of a stew rose to his nostrils from the mess-kit. + Chrisfield stood, feeling warm and important, filling his mouth with soft + greasy potatoes and gravy, while men about him asked him questions. + Gradually he began to feel full and content, and a desire to sleep came + over him. But he was given a gun, and had to start advancing again with + the reconnoitering squad. The squad went cautiously up the same lane + through the woods. + </p> + <p> + “Here's an officer done for,” said the captain, who walked ahead. He made + a little clucking noise of distress with his tongue. “Two of you fellows + go back and git a blanket and take him back to the cross-roads. Poor + fellow.” The captain walked on again, still making little clucking noises + with his tongue. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield looked straight ahead of him. He did not feel lonely any more + now that he was marching in ranks again. His feet beat the ground in time + with the other feet. He would not have to think whether to go to the right + or to the left. He would do as the others did. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART FOUR: RUST + </h2> + <p> + There were tiny green frogs in one of the putty-colored puddles by the + roadside. John Andrews fell out of the slowly advancing column a moment to + look at them. The frogs' triangular heads stuck out of the water in the + middle of the puddle. He leaned over, his hands on his knees, easing the + weight of the equipment on his back. That way he could see their tiny + jewelled eyes, topaz-colored. His eyes felt as if tears were coming to + them with tenderness towards the minute lithe bodies of the frogs. + Something was telling him that he must run forward and fall into line + again, that he must shamble on through the mud, but he remained staring at + the puddle, watching the frogs. Then he noticed his reflection in the + puddle. He looked at it curiously. He could barely see the outlines of a + stained grimacing mask, and the silhouette of the gun barrel slanting + behind it. So this was what they had made of him. He fixed his eyes again + on the frogs that swam with elastic, leisurely leg strokes in the + putty-colored water. + </p> + <p> + Absently, as if he had no connection with all that went on about him, he + heard the twang of bursting shrapnel down the road. He had straightened + himself wearily and taken a step forward, when he found himself sinking + into the puddle. A feeling of relief came over him. His legs sunk in the + puddle; he lay without moving against the muddy bank. The frogs had gone, + but from somewhere a little stream of red was creeping out slowly into the + putty-colored water. He watched the irregular files of men in olive-drab + shambling by. Their footsteps drummed in his ears. He felt triumphantly + separated from them, as if he were in a window somewhere watching soldiers + pass, or in a box of a theater watching some dreary monotonous play. He + drew farther and farther away from them until they had become very small, + like toy soldiers forgotten among the dust in a garret. The light was so + dim he couldn't see, he could only hear their feet tramping interminably + through the mud. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews was on a ladder that shook horribly. A gritty sponge in his + hand, he was washing the windows of a barracks. He began in the left hand + corner and soaped the small oblong panes one after the other. His arms + were like lead and he felt that he would fall from the shaking ladder, but + each time he turned to look towards the ground before climbing down he saw + the top of the general's cap and the general's chin protruding from under + the visor, and a voice snarled: “Attention,” terrifying him so that the + ladder shook more than ever; and he went on smearing soap over the oblong + panes with the gritty sponge through interminable hours, though every + joint in his body was racked by the shaking of the ladder. Bright light + flared from inside the windows which he soaped, pane after pane, + methodically. The windows were mirrors. In each pane he saw his thin face, + in shadow, with the shadow of a gun barrel slanting beside it. The jolting + stopped suddenly. He sank into a deep pit of blackness. + </p> + <p> + A shrill broken voice was singing in his ear: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's a girl in the heart of Maryland + With a heart that belongs to me-e.” + </pre> + <p> + John Andrews opened his eyes. It was pitch black, except for a series of + bright yellow oblongs that seemed to go up into the sky, where he could + see the stars. His mind became suddenly acutely conscious. He began taking + account of himself in a hurried frightened way. He craned his neck a + little. In the darkness he could make out the form of a man stretched out + flat beside him who kept moving his head strangely from side to side, + singing at the top of his lungs in a shrill broken voice. At that moment + Andrews noticed that the smell of carbolic was overpoweringly strong, that + it dominated all the familiar smells of blood and sweaty clothes. He + wriggled his shoulders so that he could feel the two poles of the + stretcher. Then he fixed his eyes again in the three bright yellow + oblongs, one above the other, that rose into the darkness. Of course, they + were windows; he was near a house. + </p> + <p> + He moved his arms a little. They felt like lead, but unhurt. Then he + realized that his legs were on fire. He tried to move them; everything + went black again in a sudden agony of pain. The voice was still shrieking + in his ears: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's a girl in the heart of Maryland + With a heart that belongs to me-e.” + </pre> + <p> + But another voice could be heard, softer, talking endlessly in tender + clear tones: + </p> + <p> + “An' he said they were goin' to take me way down south where there was a + little house on the beach, all so warm an' quiet...” + </p> + <p> + The song of the man beside him rose to a tuneless shriek, like a + phonograph running down: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “An' Mary-land was fairy-land + When she said that mine she'd be...” + </pre> + <p> + Another voice broke in suddenly in short spurts of whining groans that + formed themselves into fragments of drawn-out intricate swearing. And all + the while the soft voice went on. Andrews strained his ears to hear it. + </p> + <p> + It soothed his pain as if some cool fragrant oil were being poured over + his body. + </p> + <p> + “An' there'll be a garden full of flowers, roses an' hollyhocks, way down + there in the south, an' it'll be so warm an' quiet, an' the sun'll shine + all day, and the sky'll be so blue...” + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt his lips repeating the words like lips following a prayer. + </p> + <p> + “—An' it'll be so warm an' quiet, without any noise at all. An' the + garden'll be full of roses an'...” + </p> + <p> + But the other voices kept breaking in, drowning out the soft voice with + groans, and strings of whining oaths. + </p> + <p> + “An' he said I could sit on the porch, an' the sun'll be so warm an' + quiet, an' the garden'll smell so good, an' the beach'll be all white, an' + the sea...” + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt his head suddenly rise in the air and then his feet. He swung + out of the darkness into a brilliant white corridor. His legs throbbed + with flaming agony. The face of a man with a cigarette in his mouth peered + close to his. A hand fumbled at his throat, where the tag was, and someone + read: + </p> + <p> + “Andrews, 1.432.286.” + </p> + <p> + But he was listening to the voice out in the dark, behind him, that + shrieked in rasping tones of delirium: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's a girl in the heart of Mary-land + With a heart that belongs to me-e.” + </pre> + <p> + Then he discovered that he was groaning. His mind became entirely taken up + in the curious rhythm of his groans. The only parts of his body that + existed were his legs and something in his throat that groaned and + groaned. It was absorbing. White figures hovered about him, he saw the + hairy forearms of a man in shirt sleeves, lights glared and went out, + strange smells entered at his nose and circulated through his whole body, + but nothing could distract his attention from the singsong of his groans. + </p> + <p> + Rain fell in his face. He moved his head from side to side, suddenly + feeling conscious of himself. His mouth was dry, like leather; he put out + his tongue to try to catch raindrops in it. He was swung roughly about in + the stretcher. He lifted his head cautiously, feeling a great throb of + delight that he still could lift his head. + </p> + <p> + “Keep yer head down, can't yer?” snarled a voice beside him. He had seen + the back of a man in a gleaming wet slicker at the end of the stretcher. + </p> + <p> + “Be careful of my leg, can't yer?” he found himself whining over and over + again. Then suddenly there was a lurch that rapped his head against the + crosspiece of the stretcher, and he found himself looking up at a wooden + ceiling from which the white paint had peeled in places. He smelt gasoline + and could hear the throb of an engine. He began to think back; how long + was it since he had looked at the little frogs in the puddle? A vivid + picture came to his mind of the puddle with its putty-colored water and + the little triangular heads of the frogs. But it seemed as long ago as a + memory of childhood; all of his life before that was not so long as the + time that had gone by since the car had started. And he was jolting and + swinging about in the stretcher, clutching hard with his hands at the + poles of the stretcher. The pain in his legs grew worse; the rest of his + body seemed to shrivel under it. From below him came a rasping voice that + cried out at every lurch of the ambulance. He fought against the desire to + groan, but at last he gave in and lay lost in the monotonous singsong of + his groans. + </p> + <p> + The rain was in his face again for a moment, then his body was tilted. A + row of houses and russet trees and chimney pots against a leaden sky swung + suddenly up into sight and were instantly replaced by a ceiling and the + coffred vault of a staircase. Andrews was still groaning softly, but his + eyes fastened with sudden interest on the sculptured rosettes of the + coffres and the coats of arms that made the center of each section of + ceiling. Then he found himself staring in the face of the man who was + carrying the lower end of the stretcher. It was a white face with pimples + round the mouth and good-natured, watery blue eyes. Andrews looked at the + eyes and tried to smile, but the man carrying the stretcher was not + looking at him. + </p> + <p> + Then after more endless hours of tossing about on the stretcher, lost in a + groaning agony of pain, hands laid hold of him roughly and pulled his + clothes off and lifted him on a cot where he lay gasping, breathing in the + cool smell of disinfectant that hung about the bedclothes. He heard voices + over his head. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't bad at all... this leg wound.... I thought you said we'd have to + amputate?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what's the matter with him, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe shell-shock....” + </p> + <p> + A cold sweat of terror took hold of Andrews. He lay perfectly still with + his eyes closed. Spasm after spasm of revolt went through him. No, they + hadn't broken him yet; he still had hold of his nerves, he kept saying to + himself. Still, he felt that his hands, clasped across his belly, were + trembling. The pain in his legs disappeared in the fright in which he lay, + trying desperately to concentrate his mind on something outside himself. + He tried to think of a tune to hum to himself, but he only heard again + shrieking in his ears the voice which, it seemed to him months and years + ago, had sung: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's a girl in the heart of Maryland + With a heart that belo-ongs to me-e.” + </pre> + <p> + The voice shrieking the blurred tune and the pain in his legs mingled + themselves strangely, until they seemed one and the pain seemed merely a + throbbing of the maddening tune. + </p> + <p> + He opened his eyes. Darkness fading into a faint yellow glow. Hastily he + took stock of himself, moved his head and his arms. He felt cool and very + weak and quiet; he must have slept a long time. He passed his rough dirty, + hand over his face. The skin felt soft and cool. He pressed his cheek on + the pillow and felt himself smiling contentedly, he did not know why. + </p> + <p> + The Queen of Sheba carried a parasol with little vermilion bells all round + it that gave out a cool tinkle as she walked towards him. She wore her + hair in a high headdress thickly powdered with blue iris powder, and on + her long train, that a monkey held up at the end, were embroidered in + gaudy colors the signs of the zodiac. She was not the Queen of Sheba, she + was a nurse whose face he could not see in the obscurity, and, sticking an + arm behind his head in a deft professional manner, she gave him something + to drink from a glass without looking at him. He said “Thank you,” in his + natural voice, which surprised him in the silence; but she went off + without replying and he saw that it was a trayful of glasses that had + tinkled as she had come towards him. + </p> + <p> + Dark as it was he noticed the self-conscious tilt of the nurse's body as + she walked silently to the next cot, holding the tray of glasses in front + of her. He twisted his head round on the pillow to watch how gingerly she + put her arm under the next man's head to give him a drink. + </p> + <p> + “A virgin,” he said to himself, “very much a virgin,” and he found himself + giggling softly, notwithstanding the twinges of pain from his legs. He + felt suddenly as if his spirit had awakened from a long torpor. The spell + of dejection that had deadened him for months had slipped off. He was + free. The thought came to him gleefully, that as long as he stayed in that + cot in the hospital no one would shout orders at him. No one would tell + him to clean his rifle. There would be no one to salute. He would not have + to worry about making himself pleasant to the sergeant. He would lie there + all day long, thinking his own thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he was badly enough wounded to be discharged from the army. The + thought set his heart beating like mad. That meant that he, who had given + himself up for lost, who had let himself be trampled down unresistingly + into the mud of slavery, who had looked for no escape from the treadmill + but death, would live. He, John Andrews, would live. + </p> + <p> + And it seemed inconceivable that he had ever given himself up, that he had + ever let the grinding discipline have its way with him. He saw himself + vividly once more as he had seen himself before his life had suddenly + blotted itself out, before he had become a slave among slaves. He + renumbered the garden where, in his boyhood, he had sat dreaming through + the droning summer afternoons under the crepe myrtle bushes, while the + cornfields beyond rustled and shimmered in the heat. He remembered the day + he had stood naked in the middle of a base room while the recruiting + sergeant prodded him and measured him. He wondered suddenly what the date + was. Could it be that it was only a year ago? Yet in that year all the + other years of his life had been blotted out. But now he would begin + living again. He would give up this cowardly cringing before external + things. He would be recklessly himself. + </p> + <p> + The pain in his legs was gradually localizing itself into the wounds. For + a while he struggled against it to go on thinking, but its constant throb + kept impinging in his mind until, although he wanted desperately to comb + through his pale memories to remember, if ever so faintly, all that had + been vivid and lusty in his life, to build himself a new foundation of + resistance against the world from which he could start afresh to live, he + became again the querulous piece of hurt flesh, the slave broken on the + treadmill; he began to groan. + </p> + <p> + Cold steel-gray light filtered into the ward, drowning the yellow glow + which first turned ruddy and then disappeared. Andrews began to make out + the row of cots opposite him, and the dark beams of the ceiling above his + head. “This house must be very old,” he said to himself, and the thought + vaguely excited him. Funny that the Queen of Sheba had come to his head, + it was ages since he'd thought of all that. From the girl at the + cross-roads singing under her street-lamp to the patrician pulling roses + to pieces from the height of her litter, all the aspects' half-guessed, + all the imaginings of your desire... that was the Queen of Sheba. He + whispered the words aloud, “la reine de Saba, la reine de Saba”; and, with + a tremor of anticipation of the sort he used to feel when he was a small + boy the night before Christmas, with a sense of new; things in store for + him, he pillowed his head on his arm and went quietly to sleep. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't it juss like them frawgs te make a place like this' into a + hauspital?” said the orderly, standing with his feet wide apart and his + hands on his hips, facing a row of cots and talking to anyone who felt + well enough to listen. “Honest, I doan see why you fellers doan all cash + in yer! checks in this hole.... There warn't even electric light till we + put it in.... What d'you think o' that? That shows how much the goddam + frawgs care....” The orderly was a short man with a sallow, lined face and + large yellow teeth. When he smiled the horizontal lines in his forehead + and the lines that ran from the sides of his nose to the ends of his mouth + deepened so that his face looked as if it were made up to play a comic + part in the movies. + </p> + <p> + “It's kind of artistic, though, ain't it?” said Applebaum, whose cot was + next Andrews's,—a skinny man with large, frightened eyes and an + inordinately red face that looked as if the skin had been peeled off. + “Look at the work there is on that ceiling. Must have cost some dough when + it was noo.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't be bad as a dance hall with a little fixin' up, but a hauspital; + hell!” + </p> + <p> + Andrews lay, comfortable in his cot, looking into the ward out of another + world. He felt no connection with the talk about him, with the men who lay + silent or tossed about groaning in the rows of narrow cots that filled the + Renaissance hall. In the yellow glow of the electric lights, looking + beyond the orderly's twisted face and narrow head, he could see very + faintly, where the beams of the ceiling sprung from the wall, a row of + half-obliterated shields supported by figures carved out of the grey stone + of the wall, handed satyrs with horns and goats' beards and deep-set eyes, + little squat figures of warriors and townsmen in square hats with swords + between their bent knees, naked limbs twined in scrolls of spiked acanthus + leaves, all seen very faintly, so that when the electric lights swung back + and forth in the wind made by the orderly's hurried passing, they all + seemed to wink and wriggle in shadowy mockery of the rows of prostrate + bodies in the room beneath them. Yet they were familiar, friendly to + Andrews. He kept feeling a half-formulated desire to be up there too, + crowded under a beam, grimacing through heavy wreaths of pomegranates and + acanthus leaves, the incarnation of old rich lusts, of clear fires that + had sunk to dust ages since. He felt at home in that spacious hall, built + for wide gestures and stately steps, in which all the little routine of + the army seemed unreal, and the wounded men discarded automatons, broken + toys laid away in rows. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was snatched out of his thoughts. Applebaum was speaking to him; + he turned his head. + </p> + <p> + “How d'you loike it bein' wounded, buddy?” + </p> + <p> + “Fine.” + </p> + <p> + “Foine, I should think it was.... Better than doin' squads right all day.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you get yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't got only one arm now.... I don't give a damn.... I've driven my + last fare, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “How d'you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I used to drive a taxi.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a pretty good job, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet, big money in it, if yer in right.” + </p> + <p> + “So you used to be a taxi-driver, did you?” broke in the orderly. “That's + a fine job.... When I was in the Providence Hospital half the fractures + was caused by taxis. We had a little girl of six in the children's ward + had her feet cut clean off at the ankles by a taxi. Pretty yellow hair she + had, too. Gangrene.... Only lasted a day.... Well, I'm going off, I guess + you guys wish you was going to be where I'm goin' to be tonight.... That's + one thing you guys are lucky in, don't have to worry about propho.” The + orderly wrinkled his face up and winked elaborately. + </p> + <p> + “Say, will you do something for me?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, if it ain't no trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you buy me a book?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't ye got enough with all the books at the 'Y'?” + </p> + <p> + “No.... This is a special book,” said Andrews smiling, “a French book.” + </p> + <p> + “A French book, is it? Well, I'll see what I can do. What's it called?” + </p> + <p> + “By Flaubert.... Look, if you've got a piece of paper and a pencil, I'll + write it down.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews scrawled the title on the back of an order slip. + </p> + <p> + “There.” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell? Who's Antoine? Gee whiz, I bet that's hot stuff. I wish I + could read French. We'll have you breakin' loose out o' here an' going + down to number four, roo Villiay, if you read that kind o' book.” + </p> + <p> + “Has it got pictures?” asked Applebaum. “One feller did break out o' here + a month ago,... Couldn't stand it any longer, I guess. Well, his wound + opened an' he had a hemorrhage, an' now he's planted out in the back + lot.... But I'm goin'. Goodnight.” The orderly bustled to the end of the + ward and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + The lights went out, except for the bulb over the nurse's desk at the end, + beside the ornate doorway, with its wreathed pinnacles carved out of the + grey stone, which could be seen above the white canvas screen that hid the + door. + </p> + <p> + “What's that book about, buddy?” asked Applebaum, twisting his head at the + end of his lean neck so as to look Andrews full in the face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's about a man who wants everything so badly that he decides + there's nothing worth wanting.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess youse had a college edication,” said Applebaum sarcastically. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Andrews laughed. +</pre> + <p> + “Well, I was goin' to tell youse about when I used to drive a taxi. I was + makin' big money when I enlisted. Was you drafted?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, so was I. I doan think nauthin o' them guys that are so stuck up + 'cause they enlisted, d'you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a hell of a lot.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't yer?” came a voice from the other side of Andrews, a thin voice + that stuttered. “W-w-well, all I can say is, it'ld have sss-spoiled my + business if I hadn't enlisted. No, sir, nobody can say I didn't enlist.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's your look-out,” said Applebaum. + </p> + <p> + “You're goddam right, it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, ain't your business spoiled anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. I can pick it right up where I left off. I've got an established + reputation.” + </p> + <p> + “What at?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm an undertaker by profession; my dad was before me.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee, you were right at home!” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't any right to say that, young feller,” said the undertaker + angrily. “I'm a humane man. I won't never be at home in this dirty + butchery.” + </p> + <p> + The nurse was walking by their cots. + </p> + <p> + “How can you say such dreadful things?” she said. “But lights are out. You + boys have got to keep quiet.... And you,” she plucked at the undertaker's + bedclothes, “just remember what the Huns did in Belgium.... Poor Miss + Cavell, a nurse just like I am.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews closed his eyes. The ward was quiet except for the rasping sound + of the snores and heavy breathing of the shattered men all about him. “And + I thought she was the Queen of Sheba,” he said to himself, making a + grimace in the dark. Then he began to think of the music he had intended + to write about the Queen of Sheba before he had stripped his life off in + the bare room where they had measured him and made a soldier of him. + Standing in the dark in the desert of his despair, he would hear the sound + of a caravan in the distance, tinkle of bridles, rasping of horns, braying + of donkeys, and the throaty voices of men singing the songs of desolate + roads. He would look up, and before him he would see, astride their + foaming wild asses, the three green horsemen motionless, pointing at him + with their long forefingers. Then the music would burst in a sudden hot + whirlwind about him, full of flutes and kettledrums and braying horns and + whining bagpipes, and torches would flare red and yellow, making a tent of + light about him, on the edges of which would crowd the sumpter mules and + the brown mule drivers, and the gaudily caparisoned camels, and the + elephants glistening with jewelled harness. Naked slaves would bend their + gleaming backs before him as they laid out a carpet at his feet; and, + through the flare of torchlight, the Queen, of Sheba would advance towards + him, covered with emeralds and dull-gold ornaments, with a monkey hopping + behind holding up the end of her long train. She would put her hand with + its slim fantastic nails on his shoulder; and, looking into her eyes, he + would suddenly feel within reach all the fiery imaginings of his desire. + Oh, if he could only be free to work. All the months he had wasted in his + life seemed to be marching like a procession of ghosts before his eyes. + And he lay in his cot, staring with wide open eyes at the ceiling, hoping + desperately that his wounds would be long in healing. + </p> + <p> + Applebaum sat on the edge of his cot, dressed in a clean new uniform, of + which the left sleeve hung empty, still showing the creases in which it + had been folded. + </p> + <p> + “So you really are going,” said Andrews, rolling his head over on his + pillow to look at him. + </p> + <p> + “You bet your pants I am, Andy.... An' so could you, poifectly well, if + you'ld talk it up to 'em a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wish to God I could. Not that I want to go home, now, but ... if I + could get out of uniform.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't blame ye a bit, kid; well, next time, we'll know better.... Local + Board Chairman's going to be my job.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed. + </p> + <p> + “If I wasn't a sucker....” + </p> + <p> + “You weren't the only wewe-one,” came the undertaker's stuttering voice + from behind Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, I thought you enlisted, undertaker.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I did, by God! but I didn't think it was going to be like this.” + </p> + <p> + “What did ye think it was goin' to be, a picnic?” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, I doan care about that, or gettin' gassed, and smashed up, or + anythin', but I thought we was goin' to put things to rights by comin' + over here.... Look here, I had a lively business in the undertaking way, + like my father had had before me.... We did all the swellest work in + Tilletsville....” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” interrupted Applebaum, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Tilletsville; don't you know any geography?” + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, tell us about Tilletsville,” said Andrews soothingly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, when Senator Wallace d-d-deceased there, who d'you think had charge + of embalming the body and taking it to the station an' seeing everything + was done fitting? We did.... And I was going to be married to a dandy + girl, and I knowed I had enough pull to get fixed up, somehow, or to get a + commission even, but there I went like a sucker an' enlisted in the + infantry, too.... But, hell, everybody was saying that we was going to + fight to make the world safe for democracy, and that, if a feller didn't + go, no one'ld trade with him any more.” + </p> + <p> + He started coughing suddenly and seemed unable to stop. At last he said + weakly, in a thin little voice between coughs: + </p> + <p> + “Well, here I am. There ain't nothing to do about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Democracy.... That's democracy, ain't it: we eat stinkin' goolash an' + that there fat 'Y' woman goes out with Colonels eatin' chawklate + soufflay.... Poifect democracy!... But I tell you what: it don't do to be + the goat.” + </p> + <p> + “But there's so damn many more goats than anything else,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “There's a sucker born every minute, as Barnum said. You learn that + drivin' a taxicab, if ye don't larn nothin' else.... No, sir, I'm goin' + into politics. I've got good connections up Hundred and Twenty-fif' street + way.... You see, I've got an aunt, Mrs. Sallie Schultz, owns a hotel on a + Hundred and Tirty-tird street. Heard of Jim O'Ryan, ain't yer? Well, he's + a good friend o' hers; see? Bein' as they're both Catholics... But I'm + goin' out this afternoon, see what the town's like... an ole Ford says the + skirts are just peaches an' cream.” + </p> + <p> + “He juss s-s-says that to torment a feller,” stuttered the undertaker. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I were going with you,” said Andrews. “You'll get well plenty soon + enough, Andy, and get yourself marked Class A, and get given a gun, an—'Over + the top, boys!'... to see if the Fritzies won't make a better shot next + time.... Talk about suckers! You're the most poifect sucker I ever met.... + What did you want to tell the loot your legs didn't hurt bad for? They'll + have you out o' here before you know it.... Well, I'm goin' out to see + what the mamzelles look like.” + </p> + <p> + Applebaum, the uniform hanging in folds about his skinny body, swaggered + to the door, followed by the envious glances of the whole ward. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, guess he thinks he's goin' to get to be president,” said the + undertaker bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “He probably will,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + He settled himself in his bed again, sinking back into the dull + contemplation of the teasing, smarting pain where the torn ligaments of + his thighs were slowly knitting themselves together. He tried desperately + to forget the pain; there was so much he wanted to think out. If he could + only lie perfectly quiet, and piece together the frayed ends of thoughts + that kept flickering to the surface of his mind. He counted up the days he + had been in the hospital; fifteen! Could it be that long? And he had not + thought of anything yet. Soon, as Applebaum said, they'd be putting him in + Class A and sending him back to the treadmill, and he would not have + reconquered his courage, his dominion over himself. What a coward he had + been anyway, to submit. The man beside him kept coughing. Andrews stared + for a moment at the silhouette of the yellow face on the pillow, with its + pointed nose and small greedy eyes. He thought of the swell undertaking + establishment, of the black gloves and long faces and soft tactful voices. + That man and his father before him lived by pretending things they didn't + feel, by swathing reality with all manner of crepe and trumpery. For those + people, no one ever died, they passed away, they deceased. Still, there + had to be undertakers. There was no more stain about that than about any + other trade. And it was so as not to spoil his trade that the undertaker + had enlisted, and to make the world safe for democracy, too. The phrase + came to Andrews's mind amid an avalanche of popular tunes; of visions of + patriotic numbers on the vaudeville stage. He remembered the great flags + waving triumphantly over Fifth Avenue, and the crowds dutifully cheering. + But those were valid reasons for the undertaker; but for him, John + Andrews, were they valid reasons? No. He had no trade, he had not been + driven into the army by the force of public opinion, he had not been + carried away by any wave of blind confidence in the phrases of bought + propagandists. He had not had the strength to live. The thought came to + him of all those who, down the long tragedy of history, had given + themselves smilingly for the integrity of their thoughts. He had not had + the courage to move a muscle for his freedom, but he had been fairly + cheerful about risking his life as a soldier, in a cause he believed + useless. What right had a man to exist who was too cowardly to stand up + for what he thought and felt, for his whole makeup, for everything that + made him an individual apart from his fellows, and not a slave to stand + cap in hand waiting for someone of stronger will to tell him to act? + </p> + <p> + Like a sudden nausea, disgust surged up in him. His mind ceased + formulating phrases and thoughts. He gave himself over to disgust as a man + who has drunk a great deal, holding on tight to the reins of his will, + suddenly gives himself over pellmell to drunkenness. + </p> + <p> + He lay very still, with his eyes closed, listening to the stir of the + ward, the voices of men talking and the fits of coughing that shook the + man next him. The smarting pain throbbed monotonously. He felt hungry and + wondered vaguely if it were supper time. How little they gave you to eat + in the hospital! + </p> + <p> + He called over to the man in the opposite cot: + </p> + <p> + “Hay, Stalky, what time is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's after messtime now. Got a good appetite for the steak and onions and + French fried potatoes?” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up.” + </p> + <p> + A rattling of tin dishes at the other end of the ward made Andrews wriggle + up further on his pillow. Verses from the “Shropshire Lad” jingled + mockingly through his head: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The world, it was the old world yet, + I was I, my things were wet, + And nothing now remained to do + But begin the game anew.” + </pre> + <p> + After he had eaten, he picked up the “Tentation de Saint Antoine,” that + lay on the cot beside his immovable legs, and buried himself in it, + reading the gorgeously modulated sentences voraciously, as if the book + were a drug in which he could drink deep forgetfulness of himself. + </p> + <p> + He put the book down and closed his eyes. His mind was full of intangible + floating glow, like the ocean on a warm night, when every wave breaks into + pale flame, and mysterious milky lights keep rising to the surface out of + the dark waters and gleaming and vanishing. He became absorbed in the + strange fluid harmonies that permeated his whole body, as a grey sky at + nightfall suddenly becomes filled with endlessly changing patterns of + light and color and shadow. + </p> + <p> + When he tried to seize hold of his thoughts, to give them definite musical + expression in his mind, he found himself suddenly empty, the way a sandy + inlet on the beach that has been full of shoals of silver fishes, becomes + suddenly empty when a shadow crosses the water, and the man who is + watching sees wanly his own reflection instead of the flickering of + thousands of tiny silver bodies. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews awoke to feel a cold hand on his head. + </p> + <p> + “Feeling all right?” said a voice in his ear. + </p> + <p> + He found himself looking in a puffy, middle-aged face, with a lean nose + and grey eyes, with dark rings under them. Andrews felt the eyes looking + him over inquisitively. He saw the red triangle on the man's khaki sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you a little while, buddy.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit; have you got a chair?” said Andrews smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose it was just right of me to wake you up, but you see it + was this way.... You were the next in line, an' I was afraid I'd forget + you, if I skipped you.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Andrews, with a sudden determination to take the + initiative away from the “Y” man. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been in France? D'you like the war?” he asked + hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + The “Y” man smiled sadly. + </p> + <p> + “You seem pretty spry,” he said. “I guess you're in a hurry to get back at + the front and get some more Huns.” He smiled again, with an air of + indulgence. + </p> + <p> + Andrews did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “No, sonny, I don't like it here,” the “Y” man said, after a pause. “I + wish I was home—but it's great to feel you're doing your duty.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard about the great air raids our boys have pulled off? + They've bombarded Frankfort; now if they could only wipe Berlin off the + map.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, d'you hate 'em awful hard?” said Andrews in a low voice. “Because, + if you do, I can tell you something will tickle you most to death.... Lean + over.” + </p> + <p> + The “Y” man leant over curiously. “Some German prisoners come to this + hospital at six every night to get the garbage; now all you need to do if + you really hate 'em so bad is borrow a revolver from one of your officer + friends, and just shoot up the convoy....” + </p> + <p> + “Say... where were you raised, boy?” The “Y” man sat up suddenly with a + look of alarm on his face. “Don't you know that prisoners are sacred?” + </p> + <p> + “D'you know what our colonel told us before going into the Argonne + offensive? The more prisoners we took, the less grub there'ld be; and do + you know what happened to the prisoners that were taken? Why do you hate + the Huns?” + </p> + <p> + “Because they are barbarians, enemies of civilization. You must have + enough education to know that,” said the “Y” man, raising his voice + angrily. “What church do you belong to?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must have been connected with some church, boy. You can't have + been raised a heathen in America. Every Christian belongs or has belonged + to some church or other from baptism.” + </p> + <p> + “I make no pretensions to Christianity.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews closed his eyes and turned his head away. He could feel the “Y” + man hovering over him irresolutely. After a while he opened his eyes. The + “Y” man was leaning over the next bed. + </p> + <p> + Through the window at the opposite side of the ward he could see a bit of + blue sky among white scroll-like clouds, with mauve shadows. He stared at + it until the clouds, beginning to grow golden into evening, covered it. + Furious, hopeless irritation consumed him. How these people enjoyed + hating! At that rate it was better to be at the front. Men were more + humane when they were killing each other than when they were talking about + it. So was civilization nothing but a vast edifice of sham, and the war, + instead of its crumbling, was its fullest and most ultimate expression. + Oh, but there must be something more in the world than greed and hatred + and cruelty. Were they all shams, too, these gigantic phrases that floated + like gaudy kites high above mankind? Kites, that was it, contraptions of + tissue paper held at the end of a string, ornaments not to be taken + seriously. He thought of all the long procession of men who had been + touched by the unutterable futility of the lives of men, who had tried by + phrases to make things otherwise, who had taught unworldliness. Dim + enigmatic figures they were—Democritus, Socrates, Epicurus, Christ; + so many of them, and so vague in the silvery mist of history that he + hardly knew that they were not his own imagining; Lucretius, St. Francis, + Voltaire, Rousseau, and how many others, known and unknown, through the + tragic centuries; they had wept, some of them, and some of them had + laughed, and their phrases had risen glittering, soap bubbles to dazzle + men for a moment, and had shattered. And he felt a crazy desire to join + the forlorn ones, to throw himself into inevitable defeat, to live his + life as he saw it in spite of everything, to proclaim once more the + falseness of the gospels under the cover of which greed and fear filled + with more and yet more pain the already unbearable agony of human life. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he got out of the hospital he would desert; the determination + formed suddenly in his mind, making the excited blood surge gloriously + through his body. There was nothing else to do; he would desert. He + pictured himself hobbling away in the dark on his lame legs, stripping his + uniform off, losing himself in some out of the way corner of France, or + slipping by the sentries to Spain and freedom. He was ready to endure + anything, to face any sort of death, for the sake of a few months of + liberty in which to forget the degradation of this last year. This was his + last run with the pack. + </p> + <p> + An enormous exhilaration took hold of him. It seemed the first time in his + life he had ever determined to act. All the rest had been aimless + drifting. The blood sang m his ears. He fixed his eyes on the + half-obliterated figures that supported the shields under the beams in the + wall opposite. They seemed to be wriggling out of their contorted + positions and smiling encouragement to him. He imagined them, warriors out + of old tales, on their way to clay dragons in enchanted woods, + clever-fingered guildsmen and artisans, cupids and satyrs and fauns, + jumping from their niches and carrying him off with them in a headlong + rout, to a sound of flutes, on a last forlorn assault on the citadels of + pain. + </p> + <p> + The lights went out, and an orderly came round with chocolate that poured + with a pleasant soothing sound into the tin cups. With a greasiness of + chocolate in his mouth and the warmth of it in his stomach, John Andrews + went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + There was a stir in the ward when he woke up. Reddish sunlight filtered in + through the window opposite, and from outside came a confused noise, a + sound of bells ringing and whistles blowing. Andrews looked past his feet + towards Stalky's cot opposite. Stalky was sitting bolt upright in bed, + with his eyes round as quarters. + </p> + <p> + “Fellers, the war's over!” + </p> + <p> + “Put him out.” + </p> + <p> + “Cut that.” + </p> + <p> + “Pull the chain.” + </p> + <p> + “Tie that bull outside,” came from every side of the ward. + </p> + <p> + “Fellers,” shouted Stalky louder than ever, “it's straight dope, the war's + over. I just dreamt the Kaiser came up to me on Fourteenth Street and + bummed a nickel for a glass of beer. The war's over. Don't you hear the + whistles?” + </p> + <p> + “All right; let's go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, can't you let a feller sleep?” + </p> + <p> + The ward quieted down again, but all eyes were wide open, men lay + strangely still in their cots, waiting, wondering. + </p> + <p> + “All I can say,” shouted Stalky again, “is that she was some war while she + lasted.... What did I tell yer?” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the canvas screen in front of the door collapsed and the major + appeared with his cap askew over his red face and a brass bell in his + hand, which he rang frantically as he advanced into the ward. + </p> + <p> + “Men,” he shouted in the deep roar of one announcing baseball scores, “the + war ended at 4:03 A.M. this morning.... The Armistice is signed. To hell + with the Kaiser!” Then he rang the dinner bell madly and danced along the + aisle between the rows of cots, holding the head nurse by one hand, who + held a little yellow-headed lieutenant by the other hand, who, in turn, + held another nurse, and so on. The line advanced jerkily into the ward; + the front part was singing “The Star Spangled Banner,” and the rear the + “Yanks are Coming,” and through it all the major rang his brass bell. The + men who were well enough sat up in bed and yelled. The others rolled + restlessly about, sickened by the din. + </p> + <p> + They made the circuit of the ward and filed out, leaving confusion behind + them. The dinner bell could be heard faintly in the other parts of the + building. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what d'you think of it, undertaker?” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + The undertaker turned his small black eyes on Andrews and looked him + straight in the face. + </p> + <p> + “You know what's the matter with me, don't yer, outside o' this wound?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Coughing like I am, I'd think you'd be more observant. I got t.b., young + feller.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “They're going to move me out o' here to a t.b. ward tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “The hell they are!” Andrews's words were lost in the paroxysm of coughing + that seized the man next to him. + </p> + <p> + “Home, boys, home; it's home we want to be.” + </p> + <p> + Those well enough were singing, Stalky conducting, standing on the end of + his cot in his pink Red Cross pajamas, that were too short and showed a + long expanse of skinny leg, fuzzy with red hairs. He banged together two + bed pans to beat time. + </p> + <p> + “Home.... I won't never go home,” said the undertaker when the noise had + subsided a little. “D'you know what I wish? I wish the war'd gone on and + on until everyone of them bastards had been killed in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Which bastards?” + </p> + <p> + “The men who got us fellers over here.” He began coughing again weakly. + </p> + <p> + “But they'll be safe if every other human being....” began Andrews. He was + interrupted by a thundering voice from the end of the ward. + </p> + <p> + “Attention!” + </p> + <p> + “Home, boys, home; it's home we want to be.” + </p> + <p> + went on the song. Stalky glanced towards the end of the ward, and seeing + it was the major, dropped the bed pans that smashed at the foot of his + cot, and got as far as possible under his blankets. + </p> + <p> + “Attention!” thundered the major again. A sudden uncomfortable silence + fell upon the ward; broken only by the coughing of the man next to + Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “If I hear any more noise from this ward, I'll chuck everyone of you men + out of this hospital; if you can't walk you'll have to crawl.... The war + may be over, but you men are in the Army, and don't you forget it.” + </p> + <p> + The major glared up and down the lines of cots. He turned on his heel and + went out of the door, glancing angrily as he went at the overturned + screen. The ward was still. Outside whistles blew and churchbells rang + madly, and now and then there was a sound of singing. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> + <p> + The snow beat against the windows and pattered on the tin roof of the + lean-to, built against the side of the hospital, that went by the name of + sun parlor. It was a dingy place, decorated by strings of dusty little + paper flags that one of the “Y” men had festooned about the slanting beams + of the ceiling to celebrate Christmas. There were tables with torn + magazines piled on them, and a counter where cracked white cups were + ranged waiting for one of the rare occasions when cocoa could be bought. + In the middle of the room, against the wall of the main building, a stove + was burning, about which sat several men in hospital denims talking in + drowsy voices. Andrews watched them from his seat by the window, looking + at their broad backs bent over towards the stove and at the hands that + hung over their knees, limp from boredom. The air was heavy with a smell + of coal gas mixed with carbolic from men's clothes, and stale cigarette + smoke. Behind the cups at the counter a “Y” man, a short, red-haired man + with freckles, read the Paris edition of the New York Herald. Andrews, in + his seat by the window, felt permeated by the stagnation about him: He had + a sheaf of pencilled music-papers on his knees, that he rolled and + unrolled nervously, staring at the stove and the motionless backs of the + men about it. The stove roared a little, the “Y” man's paper rustled, + men's voices came now and then in a drowsy whisper, and outside the snow + beat evenly and monotonously against the window panes. Andrews pictured + himself vaguely walking fast through the streets, with the snow stinging + his face and the life of a city swirling about him, faces flushed by the + cold, bright eyes under hatbrims, looking for a second into his and + passing on; slim forms of women bundled in shawls that showed vaguely the + outline of their breasts and hips. He wondered if he would ever be free + again to walk at random through city streets. He stretched his legs out + across the floor in front of him; strange, stiff, tremulous legs they + were, but it was not the wounds that gave them their leaden weight. It was + the stagnation of the life about him that he felt sinking into every + crevice of his spirit, so that he could never shake it off, the stagnation + of dusty ruined automatons that had lost all life of their own, whose + limbs had practised the drill manual so long that they had no movements of + their own left, who sat limply, sunk in boredom, waiting for orders. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was roused suddenly from his thoughts; he had been watching the + snowflakes in their glittering dance just outside the window pane, when + the sound of someone rubbing his hands very close to him made him look up. + A little man with chubby cheeks and steel-grey hair very neatly flattened + against his skull, stood at the window rubbing his fat little white hands + together and making a faint unctuous puffing with each breath. Andrews + noticed that a white clerical collar enclosed the little man's pink neck, + that starched cuffs peeped from under the well-tailored sleeves of his + officer's uniform. Sam Brown belt and puttees, too, were highly polished. + On his shoulder was a demure little silver cross. Andrews' glance had + reached the pink cheeks again, when he suddenly found a pair of steely + eyes looking sharply into his. + </p> + <p> + “You look quite restored, my friend,” said a chanting clerical voice. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Splendid, splendid.... But do you mind moving into the end of the + room.... That's it.” He followed Andrews, saying in a deprecatory tone: + “We're going to have just a little bit of a prayer and then I have some + interesting things to tell you boys.” + </p> + <p> + The red-headed “Y” man had left his seat and stood in the center of the + room, his paper still dangling from his hand, saying in a bored voice: + “Please fellows, move down to the end.... Quiet, please.... Quiet, + please.” + </p> + <p> + The soldiers shambled meekly to the folding chairs at the end of the room + and after some chattering were quiet. A couple of men left, and several + tiptoed in and sat in the front row. Andrews sank into a chair with a + despairing sort of resignation, and burying his face in his hands stared + at the floor between his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Fellers,” went on the bored voice of the “Y” man, “let me introduce the + Reverend Dr. Skinner, who—” the “Y” man's voice suddenly took on + deep patriotic emotion—“who has just come back from the Army of + Occupation in Germany.” + </p> + <p> + At the words “Army of Occupation,” as if a spring had been touched, + everybody clapped and cheered. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Dr. Skinner looked about his audience with smiling confidence + and raised his hands for silence, so that the men could see the chubby + pink palms. + </p> + <p> + “First, boys, my dear friends, let us indulge in a few moments of silent + prayer to our Great Creator,” his voice rose and fell in the suave chant + of one accustomed to going through the episcopal liturgy for the + edification of well-dressed and well-fed congregations. “Inasmuch as He + has vouchsafed us safety and a mitigation of our afflictions, and let us + pray that in His good time He may see fit to return us whole in limb and + pure in heart to our families, to the wives, mothers, and to those whom we + will some day honor with the name of wife, who eagerly await our return; + and that we may spend the remainder of our lives in useful service of the + great country for whose safety and glory we have offered up our youth a + willing sacrifice.... Let us pray!” + </p> + <p> + Silence fell dully on the room. Andrews could hear the selfconscious + breathing of the men about him, and the rustling of the snow against the + tin roof. A few feet scraped. The voice began again after a long pause, + chanting: + </p> + <p> + “Our Father which art in Heaven...” + </p> + <p> + At the “Amen” everyone lifted his head cheerfully. Throats were cleared, + chairs scraped. Men settled themselves to listen. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my friends, I am going to give you in a few brief words a little + glimpse into Germany, so that you may be able to picture to yourselves the + way your comrades of the Army of Occupation manage to make themselves + comfortable among the Huns.... I ate my Christmas dinner in Coblenz. What + do you think of that? Never had I thought that a Christmas would find me + away from my home and loved ones. But what unexpected things happen to us + in this world! Christmas in Coblenz under the American flag!” + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment to allow a little scattered clapping to subside. + </p> + <p> + “The turkey was fine, too, I can tell you.... Yes, our boys in Germany are + very, very comfortable, and just waiting for the word, if necessary, to + continue their glorious advance to Berlin. For I am sorry to say, boys, + that the Germans have not undergone the change of heart for which we had + hoped. They have, indeed, changed the name of their institutions, but + their spirit they have not changed.... How grave a disappointment it must + be to our great President, who has exerted himself so to bring the German + people to reason, to make them understand the horror that they alone have + brought deliberately upon the world! Alas! Far from it. Indeed, they have + attempted with insidious propaganda to undermine the morale of our + troops....” A little storm of muttered epithets went through the room. The + Reverend Dr. Skinner elevated his chubby pink palms and smiled + benignantly..."to undermine the morale of our troops; so that the most + stringent regulations have had to be made by the commanding general to + prevent it. Indeed, my friends, I very much fear that we stopped too soon + in our victorious advance; that Germany should have been utterly crushed. + But all we can do is watch and wait, and abide by the decision of those + great men who in a short time will be gathered together at the Conference + at Paris.... Let me, boys, my dear friends, express the hope that you may + speedily be cured of your wounds, ready again to do willing service in the + ranks of the glorious army that must be vigilant for some time yet, I + fear, to defend, as Americans and Christians, the civilization you have so + nobly saved from a ruthless foe.... Let us all join together in singing + the hymn, 'Stand up, stand up for Jesus,' which I am sure you all know.” + </p> + <p> + The men got to their feet, except for a few who had lost their legs, and + sang the first verse of the hymn unsteadily. The second verse petered out + altogether, leaving only the “Y” man and the Reverend Dr. Skinner singing + away at the top of their lungs. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Dr. Skinner pulled out his gold watch and looked at it + frowning. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my, I shall miss the train,” he muttered. The “Y” man helped him into + his voluminous trench coat and they both hurried out of the door. + </p> + <p> + “Those are some puttees he had on, I'll tell you,” said the legless man + who was propped in a chair near the stove. + </p> + <p> + Andrews sat down beside him, laughing. He was a man with high cheekbones + and powerful jaws to whose face the pale brown eyes and delicately + pencilled lips gave a look of great gentleness. Andrews did not look at + his body. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody said he was a Red Cross man giving out cigarettes.... Fooled us + that time,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Have a butt? I've got one,” said the legless man. With a large shrunken + hand that was the transparent color of alabaster he held out a box of + cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks.” When Andrews struck a match he had to lean over the legless man + to light his cigarette for him. He could not help glancing down the man's + tunic at the drab trousers that hung limply from the chair. A cold shudder + went through him; he was thinking of the zigzag scars on his own thighs. + </p> + <p> + “Did you get it in the legs, too, Buddy?” asked the legless man, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I had luck.... How long have you been here?” + </p> + <p> + “Since Christ was a corporal. Oh, I doan know. I've been here since two + weeks after my outfit first went into the lines.... That was on November + 16th, 1917.... Didn't see much of the war, did I?... Still, I guess I + didn't miss much.” + </p> + <p> + “No.... But you've seen enough of the army.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true.... I guess I wouldn't mind the war if it wasn't for the + army.” + </p> + <p> + “They'll be sending you home soon, won't they?” + </p> + <p> + “Guess so.... Where are you from?” + </p> + <p> + “New York,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “I'm from Cranston, Wisconsin. D'you know that country? It's a great + country for lakes. You can canoe for days an' days without a portage. We + have a camp on Big Loon Lake. We used to have some wonderful times + there... lived like wild men. I went for a trip for three weeks once + without seeing a house. Ever done much canoeing?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so much as I'd like to.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the thing to make you feel fit. First thing you do when you shake + out of your blankets is jump in an' have a swim. Gee, it's great to swim + when the morning mist is still on the water an' the sun just strikes the + tops of the birch trees. Ever smelt bacon cooking? I mean out in the + woods, in a frying pan over some sticks of pine and beech wood.... Some + great old smell, isn't it?... And after you've paddled all day, an' feel + tired and sunburned right to the palms of your feet, to sit around the + fire with some trout roastin' in the ashes and hear the sizzlin' the bacon + makes in the pan.... O boy!” He stretched his arms wide. + </p> + <p> + “God, I'd like to have wrung that damn little parson's neck,” said Andrews + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” The legless man turned brown eyes on Andrews with a smile. “I + guess he's about as much to blame as anybody is... guys like him.... I + guess they have that kind in Germany, too.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't think we've made the world quite as safe for Democracy as it + might be?” said Andrews in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, how should I know? I bet you never drove an ice wagon.... I did, + all one summer down home.... It was some life. Get up at three o'clock in + the morning an' carry a hundred or two hundred pounds of ice into + everybody's ice box. That was the life to make a feller feel fit. I was + goin' around with a big Norwegian named Olaf, who was the strongest man I + ever knew. An' drink! He was the boy could drink. I once saw him put away + twenty-five dry Martini cocktails an' swim across the lake on top of + it.... I used to weigh a hundred and eighty pounds, and he could pick me + up with one hand and put me across his shoulder.... That was the life to + make a feller feel fit. Why, after bein' out late the night before, we'd + jump up out of bed at three o'clock feeling springy as a cat.” + </p> + <p> + “What's he doing now?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “He died on the transport coming 'cross here. Died of the flu.... I met a + feller came over in his regiment. They dropped him overboard when they + were in sight of the Azores.... Well, I didn't die of the flu. Have + another butt?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + They were silent. The fire roared in the stove. No one was talking. The + men lolled in chairs somnolently. Now and then someone spat. Outside of + the window Andrews could see the soft white dancing of the snowflakes. His + limbs felt very heavy; his mind was permeated with dusty stagnation like + the stagnation of old garrets and lumber rooms, where, among superannuated + bits of machinery and cracked grimy crockery, lie heaps of broken toys. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews sat on a bench in a square full of linden trees, with the + pale winter sunshine full on his face and hands. He had been looking up + through his eyelashes at the sun, that was the color of honey, and he let + his dazzled glance sink slowly through the black lacework of twigs, down + the green trunks of the trees to the bench opposite where sat two + nursemaids and, between them, a tiny girl with a face daintily colored and + lifeless like a doll's face, and a frilled dress under which showed small + ivory knees and legs encased in white socks and yellow sandals. Above the + yellow halo of her hair floated, with the sun shining through it, as + through a glass of claret, a bright carmine balloon which the child held + by a string. Andrews looked at her for a long time, enraptured by the + absurd daintiness of the figure between the big bundles of flesh of the + nursemaids. The thought came to him suddenly that months had gone by,—was + it only months?—since his hands had touched anything soft, since he + had seen any flowers. The last was a flower an old woman had given him in + a village in the Argonne, an orange marigold, and he remembered how soft + the old woman's withered lips had been against his cheek when she had + leaned over and kissed him. His mind suddenly lit up, as with a strain of + music, with a sense of the sweetness of quiet lives worn away monotonously + in the fields, in the grey little provincial towns, in old kitchens full + of fragrance of herbs and tang of smoke from the hearth, where there are + pots on the window-sill full of basil in flower. + </p> + <p> + Something made him go up to the little girl and take her hand. The child, + looking up suddenly and seeing a lanky soldier with pale lean face and + light, straw-colored hair escaping from under a cap too small for him, + shrieked and let go the string of the balloon, which soared slowly into + the air trembling a little in the faint cool wind that blew. The child + wailed dismally, and Andrews, quailing under the furious glances of the + nursemaids, stood before her, flushed crimson, stammering apologies, not + knowing what to do. The white caps of the nursemaids bent over and ribbons + fluttered about the child's head as they tried to console her. Andrews + walked away dejectedly, now and then looking up at the balloon, which + soared, a black speck against the grey and topaz-colored clouds. + </p> + <p> + “Sale Americain!” he heard one nursemaid exclaim to the other. But this + was the first hour in months he had had free, the first moment of + solitude; he must live; soon he would be sent back to his division. A wave + of desire for furious fleshly enjoyments went through him, making him want + steaming dishes of food drenched in rich, spice-flavored sauces; making + him want to get drunk on strong wine; to roll on thick carpets in the arms + of naked, libidinous women. He was walking down the quiet grey street of + the provincial town, with its low houses with red chimney pots, and blue + slate roofs and its irregular yellowish cobbles. A clock somewhere was + striking four with deep booming strokes, Andrews laughed. He had to be in + hospital at six. Already he was tired; his legs ached. + </p> + <p> + The window of a pastry shop appeared invitingly before him, denuded as it + was by wartime. A sign in English said: “Tea.” Walking in, he sat down in + a fussy little parlor where the tables had red cloths, and a print, in + pinkish and greenish colors, hung in the middle of the imitation brocade + paper of each wall. Under a print of a poster bed with curtains in front + of which eighteen to twenty people bowed, with the title of “Secret + d'Amour,” sat three young officers, who cast cold, irritated glances at + this private with a hospital badge on who invaded their tea shop. Andrews + stared back at them, flaming with dull anger. + </p> + <p> + Sipping the hot, fragrant tea, he sat with a blank sheet of music paper + before him, listening in spite of himself to what the officers were + saying. They were talking about Ronsard. It was with irritated surprise + that Andrews heard the name. What right had they to be talking about + Ronsard? He knew more about Ronsard than they did. Furious, conceited + phrases kept surging up in his mind. He was as sensitive, as humane, as + intelligent, as well-read as they were; what right had they to the cold + suspicious glance with which they had put him in his place when he had + come into the room? Yet that had probably been as unconscious, as + unavoidable as was his own biting envy. The thought that if one of those + men should come over to him, he would have to stand up and salute and + answer humbly, not from civility, but from the fear of being punished, was + bitter as wormwood, filled him with a childish desire—to prove his + worth to them, as when older boys had illtreated him at school and he had + prayed to have the house burn down so that he might heroically save them + all. There was a piano in an inner room, where in the dark the chairs, + upside down, perched dismally on the table tops. He almost obeyed an + impulse to go in there and start playing, by the brilliance of his playing + to force these men, who thought of him as a coarse automaton, something + between a man and a dog, to recognize him as an equal, a superior. + </p> + <p> + “But the war's over. I want to start living. Red wine, streets of the + nightingale cries to the rose,” said one of the officers. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say we go A.W.O.L. to Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “Dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what can they do? We are not enlisted men; they can only send us + home. That's just what I want.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what; we'll go to the Cochon Bleu and have a cocktail and + think about it.” + </p> + <p> + “The lion and the lizard keep their courts where... what the devil was his + name? Anyway, we'll glory and drink deep, while Major Peabody keeps his + court in Dijon to his heart's content.” + </p> + <p> + Spurs jingled as the three officers went out. A fierce disgust took + possession of John Andrews. He was ashamed of his spiteful irritation. If, + when he had been playing the piano to a roomful of friends in New York, a + man dressed as a laborer had shambled in, wouldn't he have felt a moment + of involuntary scorn? It was inevitable that the fortunate should hate the + unfortunate because they feared them. But he was so tired of all those + thoughts. Drinking down the last of his tea at a gulp, he went into the + shop to ask the old woman, with little black whiskers over her bloodless + lips, who sat behind the white desk at the end of the counter, if she + minded his playing the piano. + </p> + <p> + In the deserted tea room, among the dismal upturned chairs, his crassened + fingers moved stiffly over the keys. He forgot everything else. Locked + doors in his mind were swinging wide, revealing forgotten sumptuous halls + of his imagination. The Queen of Sheba, grotesque as a satyr, white and + flaming with worlds of desire, as the great implacable Aphrodite, stood + with her hand on his shoulder sending shivers of warm sweetness rippling + through his body, while her voice intoned in his ears all the + inexhaustible voluptuousness of life. + </p> + <p> + An asthmatic clock struck somewhere in the obscurity of the room. “Seven!” + John Andrews paid, said good-bye to the old woman with the mustache, and + hurried out into the street. “Like Cinderella at the ball,” he thought. As + he went towards the hospital, down faintly lighted streets, his steps got + slower and slower. “Why go back?” a voice kept saying inside him. + “Anything is better than that.” Better throw himself in the river, even, + than go back. He could see the olive-drab clothes in a heap among the dry + bullrushes on the river bank.... He thought of himself crashing naked + through the film of ice into water black as Chinese lacquer. And when he + climbed out numb and panting on the other side, wouldn't he be able to + take up life again as if he had just been born? How strong he would be if + he could begin life a second time! How madly, how joyously he would live + now that there was no more war.... He had reached the door of the + hospital. Furious shudders of disgust went through him. + </p> + <p> + He was standing dumbly humble while a sergeant bawled him out for being + late. + </p> + <p> + Andrews stared for a long while at the line of shields that supported the + dark ceiling beams on the wall opposite his cot. The emblems had been + erased and the grey stone figures that crowded under the shields,—the + satyr with his shaggy goat's legs, the townsman with his square hat, the + warrior with the sword between his legs,—had been clipped and + scratched long ago in other wars. In the strong afternoon light they were + so dilapidated he could hardly make them out. He wondered how they had + seemed so vivid to him when he had lain in his cot, comforted by their + comradeship, while his healing wounds itched and tingled. Still he glanced + tenderly at the grey stone figures as he left the ward. + </p> + <p> + Downstairs in the office where the atmosphere was stuffy with a smell of + varnish and dusty papers and cigarette smoke, he waited a long time, + shifting his weight restlessly from one foot to the other. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” said a red-haired sergeant, without looking up from + the pile of papers on his desk. + </p> + <p> + “Waiting for travel orders.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you the guy I told to come back at three?” + </p> + <p> + “It is three.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm!” The sergeant kept his eyes fixed on the papers, which rustled as he + moved them from one pile to another. In the end of the room a typewriter + clicked slowly and jerkily. Andrews could see the dark back of a head + between bored shoulders in a woolen shirt leaning over the machine. Beside + the cylindrical black stove against the wall a man with large mustaches + and the complicated stripes of a hospital sergeant was reading a novel in + a red cover. After a long silence the red-headed sergeant looked up from + his papers and said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “Ted.” + </p> + <p> + The man at the typewriter turned slowly round, showing a large red face + and blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “We-ell,” he drawled. + </p> + <p> + “Go in an' see if the loot has signed them papers yet.” + </p> + <p> + The man got up, stretched himself deliberately, and slouched out through a + door beside the stove. The red-haired sergeant leaned back in his swivel + chair and lit a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Hell,” he said, yawning. + </p> + <p> + The man with the mustache beside the stove let the book slip from his + knees to the floor, and yawned too. + </p> + <p> + “This goddam armistice sure does take the ambition out of a feller,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “Hell of a note,” said the red-haired sergeant. “D'you know that they had + my name in for an O.T.C.? Hell of a note goin' home without a Sam Browne.” + </p> + <p> + The other man came back and sank down into his chair in front of the + typewriter again. The slow, jerky clicking recommenced. + </p> + <p> + Andrews made a scraping noise with his foot on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what about that travel order?” said the red-haired sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “Loot's out,” said the other man, still typewriting. + </p> + <p> + “Well, didn't he leave it on his desk?” shouted the red-haired sergeant + angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't find it.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I've got to go look for it.... God!” The red-haired sergeant + stamped out of the room. A moment later he came back with a bunch of + papers in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Your name Jones?” he snapped to Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Snivisky?” + </p> + <p> + “No.... Andrews, John.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the hell couldn't you say so?” + </p> + <p> + The man with the mustaches beside the stove got to his feet suddenly. An + alert, smiling expression came over his face. + </p> + <p> + “Good afternoon, Captain Higginsworth,” he said cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + An oval man with a cigar slanting out of his broad mouth came into the + room. When he talked the cigar wobbled in his mouth. He wore greenish kid + gloves, very tight for his large hands, and his puttees shone with a dark + lustre like mahogany. + </p> + <p> + The red-haired sergeant turned round and half-saluted. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to another swell party, Captain?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The Captain grinned. + </p> + <p> + “Say, have you boys got any Red Cross cigarettes? I ain't only got cigars, + an' you can't hand a cigar to a lady, can you?” The Captain grinned again. + An appreciative giggle went round. + </p> + <p> + “Will a couple of packages do you? Because I've got some here,” said the + red-haired sergeant reaching in the drawer of his desk. + </p> + <p> + “Fine.” The captain slipped them into his pocket and swaggered out doing + up the buttons of his buff-colored coat. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant settled himself at his desk again with an important smile. + </p> + <p> + “Did you find the travel order?” asked Andrews timidly. “I'm supposed to + take the train at four-two.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't make it.... Did you say your name was Anderson?” + </p> + <p> + “Andrews.... John Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “Here it is.... Why didn't you come earlier?” + </p> + <p> + The sharp air of the ruddy winter evening, sparkling in John Andrews's + nostrils, vastly refreshing after the stale odors of the hospital, gave + him a sense of liberation. Walking with rapid steps through the grey + streets of the town, where in windows lamps already glowed orange, he kept + telling himself that another epoch was closed. It was with relief that he + felt that he would never see the hospital again or any of the people in + it. He thought of Chrisfield. It was weeks and weeks since Chrisfield had + come to his mind at all. Now it was with a sudden clench of affection that + the Indiana boy's face rose up before him. An oval, heavily-tanned face + with a little of childish roundness about it yet, with black eyebrows and + long black eyelashes. But he did not even know if Chrisfield were still + alive. Furious joy took possession of him. He, John Andrews, was alive; + what did it matter if everyone he knew died? There were jollier companions + than ever he had known, to be found in the world, cleverer people to talk + to, more vigorous people to learn from. The cold air circulated through + his nose and lungs; his arms felt strong and supple; he could feel the + muscles of his legs stretch and contract as he walked, while his feet beat + jauntily on the irregular cobblestones of the street. The waiting room at + the station was cold and stuffy, full of a smell of breathed air and + unclean uniforms. French soldiers wrapped in their long blue coats, slept + on the benches or stood about in groups, eating bread and drinking from + their canteens. A gas lamp in the center gave dingy light. Andrews settled + himself in a corner with despairing resignation. He had five hours to wait + for a train, and already his legs ached and he had a side feeling of + exhaustion. The exhilaration of leaving the hospital and walking free + through wine-tinted streets in the sparkling evening air gave way + gradually to despair. His life would continue to be this slavery of + unclean bodies packed together in places where the air had been breathed + over and over, cogs in the great slow-moving Juggernaut of armies. What + did it matter if the fighting had stopped? The armies would go on grinding + out lives with lives, crushing flesh with flesh. Would he ever again stand + free and solitary to live out joyous hours which would make up for all the + boredom of the treadmill? He had no hope. His life would continue like + this dingy, ill-smelling waiting room where men in uniform slept in the + fetid air until they should be ordered-out to march or to stand in + motionless rows, endlessly, futilely, like toy soldiers a child has + forgotten in an attic. + </p> + <p> + Andrews got up suddenly and went out on the empty platform. A cold wind + blew. Somewhere out in the freight yards an engine puffed loudly, and + clouds of white steam drifted through the faintly lighted station. He was + walking up and down with his chin sunk into his coat and his hands in his + pockets, when somebody ran into him. + </p> + <p> + “Damn,” said a voice, and the figure darted through a grimy glass door + that bore the sign: “Buvette.” Andrews followed absent-mindedly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry I ran into you.... I thought you were an M.P., that's why I + beat it.” When he spoke, the man, an American private, turned and looked + searchingly in Andrews's face. He had very red cheeks and an impudent + little brown mustache. He spoke slowly with a faint Bostonian drawl. + </p> + <p> + “That's nothing,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Let's have a drink,” said the other man. “I'm A.W.O.L. Where are you + going?” + </p> + <p> + “To some place near Bar-le-Duc, back to my Division. Been in hospital.” + </p> + <p> + “Long?” + </p> + <p> + “Since October.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee.... Have some Curacoa. It'll do you good. You look pale.... My name's + Henslowe. Ambulance with the French Army.” + </p> + <p> + They sat down at an unwashed marble table where the soot from the trains + made a pattern sticking to the rings left by wine and liqueur glasses. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to Paris,” said Henslowe. “My leave expired three days ago. I'm + going to Paris and get taken ill with peritonitis or double pneumonia, or + maybe I'll have a cardiac lesion.... The army's a bore.” + </p> + <p> + “Hospital isn't any better,” said Andrews with a sigh. “Though I shall + never forget the night with which I realized I was wounded and out of it. + I thought I was bad enough to be sent home.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I wouldn't have missed a minute of the war.... But now that it's + over...Hell! Travel is the password now. I've just had two weeks in the + Pyrenees. Nimes, Arles, Les Baux, Carcassonne, Perpignan, Lourdes, + Gavarnie, Toulouse! What do you think of that for a trip?... What were you + in?” + </p> + <p> + “Infantry.” + </p> + <p> + “Must have been hell.” + </p> + <p> + “Been! It is.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you come to Paris with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to be picked up,” stammered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Not a chance.... I know the ropes.... All you have to do is keep away + from the Olympia and the railway stations, walk fast and keep your shoes + shined... and you've got wits, haven't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not many.... Let's drink a bottle of wine. Isn't there anything to eat to + be got here?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a damn thing, and I daren't go out of the station on account of the + M.P. at the gate.... There'll be a diner on the Marseilles express.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can't go to Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure.... Look, how do you call yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “John Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, John Andrews, all I can say is that you've let 'em get your goat. + Don't give in. Have a good time, in spite of 'em. To hell with 'em.” He + brought the bottle down so hard on the table that it broke and the purple + wine flowed over the dirty marble and dripped gleaming on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Some French soldiers who stood in a group round the bar turned round. + </p> + <p> + “V'la un gars qui gaspille le bon vin,” said a tall red-faced man, with + long sloping whiskers. + </p> + <p> + “Pour vingt sous j'mangerai la bouteille,” cried a little man lurching + forward and leaning drunkenly over the table. + </p> + <p> + “Done,” said Henslowe. “Say, Andrews, he says he'll eat the bottle for a + franc.” + </p> + <p> + He placed a shining silver franc on the table beside the remnants of the + broken bottle. The man seized the neck of the bottle in a black, claw-like + hand and gave it a preparatory flourish. He was a cadaverous little man, + incredibly dirty, with mustaches and beard of a moth-eaten tow-color, and + a purple flush on his cheeks. His uniform was clotted with mud. When the + others crowded round him and tried to dissuade him, he said: “M'en fous, + c'est mon metier,” and rolled his eyes so that the whites flashed in the + dim light like the eyes of dead codfish. + </p> + <p> + “Why, he's really going to do it,” cried Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + The man's teeth flashed and crunched down on the jagged edge of the glass. + There was a terrific crackling noise. He flourished the bottle-end again. + </p> + <p> + “My God, he's eating it,” cried Henslowe, roaring with laughter, “and + you're afraid to go to Paris.” + </p> + <p> + An engine rumbled into the station, with a great hiss of escaping steam. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, that's the Paris train! Tiens!” He pressed the franc into the man's + dirt-crusted hand. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + As they left the buvette they heard again the crunching crackling noise as + the man bit another piece off the bottle. + </p> + <p> + Andrews followed Henslowe across the steam-filled platform to the door of + a first-class carriage. They climbed in. Henslowe immediately pulled down + the black cloth over the half globe of the light. The compartment was + empty. He threw himself down with a sigh of comfort on the soft + buff-colored cushions of the seat. + </p> + <p> + “But what on earth?” stammered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “M'en fous, c'est mon metier,” interrupted Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + The train pulled out of the station. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> + <p> + Henslowe poured wine from a brown earthen crock into the glasses, where it + shimmered a bright thin red, the color of currants. Andrews leaned back in + his chair and looked through half-closed eyes at the table with its white + cloth and little burnt umber loaves of bread, and out of the window at the + square dimly lit by lemon-yellow gas lamps and at the dark gables of the + little houses that huddled round it. + </p> + <p> + At a table against the wall opposite a lame boy, with white beardless face + and gentle violet-colored eyes, sat very close to the bareheaded girl who + was with him and who never took her eyes off his face, leaning on his + crutch all the while. A stove hummed faintly in the middle of the room, + and from the half-open kitchen door came ruddy light and the sound of + something frying. On the wall, in brownish colors that seemed to have + taken warmth from all the rich scents of food they had absorbed since the + day of their painting, were scenes of the Butte as it was fancied to have + once been, with windmills and wide fields. + </p> + <p> + “I want to travel,” Henslowe was saying, dragging out his words drowsily. + “Abyssinia, Patagonia, Turkestan, the Caucasus, anywhere and everywhere. + What do you say you and I go out to New Zealand and raise sheep?” + </p> + <p> + “But why not stay here? There can't be anywhere as wonderful as this.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll put off starting for New Guinea for a week. But hell, I'd go + crazy staying anywhere after this. It's got into my blood... all this + murder. It's made a wanderer of me, that's what it's done. I'm an + adventurer.” + </p> + <p> + “God, I wish it had made me into anything so interesting.” + </p> + <p> + “Tie a rock on to your scruples and throw 'em off the Pont Neuf and set + out.... O boy, this is the golden age for living by your wits.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not out of the army yet.” + </p> + <p> + “I should worry.... I'll join the Red Cross.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “I've got a tip about it.” + </p> + <p> + A girl with oval face and faint black down on her upper lip brought them + soup, a thick greenish colored soup, that steamed richly into their faces. + </p> + <p> + “If you tell me how I can get out of the army you'll probably save my + life,” said Andrews seriously. + </p> + <p> + “There are two ways...Oh, but let me tell you later. Let's talk about + something worth while...So you write music do you?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. + </p> + <p> + An omelet lay between them, pale golden-yellow with flecks of green; a few + amber bubbles of burnt butter still clustered round the edges. + </p> + <p> + “Talk about tone-poems,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “But, if you are an adventurer and have no scruples, how is it you are + still a private?” + </p> + <p> + Henslowe took a gulp of wine and laughed uproariously. + </p> + <p> + “That's the joke.” + </p> + <p> + They ate in silence for a little while. They could hear the couple + opposite them talking in low soft voices. The stove purred, and from the + kitchen came a sound of something being beaten in a bowl. Andrews leaned + back in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “This is so wonderfully quiet and mellow,” he said.... “It is so easy to + forget that there's any joy at all in life.” + </p> + <p> + “Rot...It's a circus parade.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen anything drearier than a circus parade? One of those + jokes that aren't funny.” + </p> + <p> + “Justine, encore du vin,” called Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “So you know her name?” + </p> + <p> + “I live here.... The Butte is the boss on the middle of the shield. It's + the axle of the wheel. That's why it's so quiet, like the centre of a + cyclone, of a vast whirling rotary circus parade!” + </p> + <p> + Justine, with her red hands that had washed so many dishes off which other + people had dined well, put down between them a scarlet langouste, of which + claws and feelers sprawled over the tablecloth that already had a few + purplish stains of wine. The sauce was yellow and fluffy like the breast + of a canary bird. + </p> + <p> + “D'you know,” said Andrews suddenly talking fast and excitedly while he + brushed the straggling yellow hair off his forehead, “I'd almost be + willing to be shot at the end of a year if I could live up here all that + time with a piano and a million sheets of music paper...It would be worth + it.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is a place to come back to. Imagine coming back here after the + highlands of Thibet, where you'd nearly got drowned and scalped and had + made love to the daughter of an Afghan chief... who had red lips smeared + with loukoumi so that the sweet taste stayed in your mouth.” Henslowe + stroked softly his little brown mustache. + </p> + <p> + “But what's the use of just seeing and feeling things if you can't express + them?” + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of living at all? For the fun of it, man; damn ends.” + </p> + <p> + “But the only profound fun I ever have is that...” Andrews's voice broke. + “O God, I would give up every joy in the world if I could turn out one + page that I felt was adequate.... D'you know it's years since I've talked + to anybody?” + </p> + <p> + They both stared silently out of the window at the fog that was packed + tightly against it like cotton wool, only softer, and a greenish-gold + color. + </p> + <p> + “The M.P.'s sure won't get us tonight,” said Henslowe, banging his fist + jauntily on the table. “I've a great mind to go to Rue St. Anne and leave + my card on the Provost Marshal.... God damn! D'you remember that man who + took the bite out of our wine-bottle...He didn't give a hoot in hell, did + he? Talk about expression. Why don't you express that? I think that's the + turning point of your career. That's what made you come to Paris; you + can't deny it.” + </p> + <p> + They both laughed loudly rolling about on their chairs. + </p> + <p> + Andrews caught glints of contagion in the pale violet eyes of the lame boy + and in the dark eyes of the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Let's tell them about it,” he said still laughing, with his face, + bloodless after the months in hospital, suddenly flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Salut,” said Henslowe turning round and elevating his glass. “Nous rions + parceque nous sommes gris de vin gris.” Then he told them about the man + who ate glass. He got to his feet and recounted slowly in his drawling + voice, with gestures. Justine stood by with a dish full of stuffed + tomatoes of which the red skins showed vaguely through a mantle of dark + brown sauce. When she smiled her cheeks puffed out and gave her face a + little of the look of a white cat's. + </p> + <p> + “And you live here?” asked Andrews after they had all laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Always. It is not often that I go down to town.... It's so difficult.... + I have a withered leg.” He smiled brilliantly like a child telling about a + new toy. + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I be anywhere else?” answered the girl. “It's a misfortune, but + there it is.” She tapped with the crutch on the floor, making a sound like + someone walking with it. The boy laughed and tightened his arm round her + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to live here,” said Andrews simply. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “But don't you see he's a soldier,” whispered the girl hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + A frown wrinkled the boy's forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it wasn't by choice, I suppose,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was silent. Unaccountable shame took possession of him before + these people who had never been soldiers, who would never be soldiers. + </p> + <p> + “The Greeks used to say,” he said bitterly, using as phrase that had been + a long time on his mind, “that when a man became a slave, on the first day + he lost one-half of his virtue.” + </p> + <p> + “When a man becomes a slave,” repeated the lame boy softly, “on the first + day he loses one-half of his virtue.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the use of virtue? It is love you need,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I've eaten your tomato, friend Andrews,” said Henslowe. “Justine will get + us some more.” He poured out the last of the wine that half filled each of + the glasses with its thin sparkle, the color of red currants. + </p> + <p> + Outside the fog had blotted everything out in even darkness which grew + vaguely yellow and red near the sparsely scattered street lamps. Andrews + and Henslowe felt their way blindly down the long gleaming flights of + steps that led from the quiet darkness of the Butte towards the confused + lights and noises of more crowded streets. The fog caught in their throats + and tingled in their noses and brushed against their cheeks like moist + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Why did we go away from that restaurant? I'd like to have talked to those + people some more,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “We haven't had any coffee either.... But, man, we're in Paris. We're not + going to be here long. We can't afford to stay all the time in one + place.... It's nearly closing time already....” + </p> + <p> + “The boy was a painter. He said he lived by making toys; he whittles out + wooden elephants and camels for Noah's Arks.... Did you hear that?” + </p> + <p> + They were walking fast down a straight, sloping street. Below them already + appeared the golden glare of a boulevard. + </p> + <p> + Andrews went on talking, almost to himself. “What a wonderful life that + would be to live up here in a small room that would overlook the great + rosy grey expanse of the city, to have some absurd work like that to live + on, and to spend all your spare time working and going to concerts.... A + quiet mellow existence.... Think of my life beside it. Slaving in that + iron, metallic, brazen New York to write ineptitudes about music in the + Sunday paper. God! And this.” + </p> + <p> + They were sitting down at a table in a noisy cafe, full of yellow light + flashing in eyes and on glasses and bottles, of red lips crushed against + the thin hard rims of glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't you like to just rip it off?” Andrews jerked at his tunic with + both hands where it bulged out over his chest. “Oh, I'd like to make the + buttons fly all over the cafe, smashing the liqueur glasses, snapping in + the faces of all those dandified French officers who look so proud of + themselves that they survived long enough to be victorious.” + </p> + <p> + “The coffee's famous here,” said Henslowe. “The only place I ever had it + better was at a bistro in Nice on this last permission.” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere else again!” + </p> + <p> + “That's it.... For ever and ever, somewhere else! Let's have some + prunelle. Before the war prunelle.” + </p> + <p> + The waiter was a solemn man, with a beard cut like a prime minister's. He + came with the bottle held out before him, religiously lifted. His lips + pursed with an air of intense application, while he poured the white + glinting liquid into the glasses. When he had finished he held the bottle + upside down with a tragic gesture; not a drop came out. + </p> + <p> + “It is the end of the good old times,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Damnation to the good old times,” said Henslowe. “Here's to the good old + new roughhousy circus parades.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder how many people they are good for, those circus parades of + yours,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going to spend the night?” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.... I suppose I can find a hotel or something.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you come with me and see Berthe; she probably has friends.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to wander about alone, not that I scorn Berthe's friends,” said + Andrews...."But I am so greedy for solitude.” + </p> + <p> + John Andrews was walking alone down streets full of drifting fog. Now and + then a taxi dashed past him and clattered off into the obscurity. + Scattered groups of people, their footsteps hollow in the muffling fog, + floated about him. He did not care which way he walked, but went on and + on, crossing large crowded avenues where the lights embroidered patterns + of gold and orange on the fog, rolling in wide deserted squares, diving + into narrow streets where other steps sounded sharply for a second now and + then and faded leaving nothing in his ears when he stopped still to listen + but the city's distant muffled breathing. At last he came out along the + river, where the fog was densest and coldest and where he could hear + faintly the sound of water gurgling past the piers of bridges. The glow of + the lights glared and dimmed, glared and dimmed, as he walked along, and + sometimes he could make out the bare branches of trees blurred across the + halos of the lamps. The fog caressed him soothingly and shadows kept + flicking past him, giving him glimpses of smooth curves of cheeks and + glints of eyes bright from the mist and darkness. Friendly, familiar + people seemed to fill the fog just out of his sight. The muffled murmur of + the city stirred him like the sound of the voices of friends. + </p> + <p> + “From the girl at the cross-roads singing under her street-lamp to the + patrician pulling roses to pieces from the height of her litter... all the + imagining of your desire....” + </p> + <p> + The murmur of life about him kept forming itself into long modulated + sentences in his ears,—sentences that gave him by their form a sense + of quiet well-being as if he were looking at a low relief of people + dancing, carved out of Parian in some workshop in Attica. + </p> + <p> + Once he stopped and leaned for a long while against the moisture-beaded + stern of a street-lamp. Two shadows defined, as they strolled towards him, + into the forms of a pale boy and a bareheaded girl, walking tightly laced + in each other's arms. The boy limped a little and his violet eyes were + contracted to wistfulness. John Andrews was suddenly filled with throbbing + expectation, as if those two would come up to him and put their hands on + his arms and make some revelation of vast import to his life. But when + they reached the full glow of the lamp, Andrews saw that he was mistaken. + They were not the boy and girl he had talked to on the Butte. + </p> + <p> + He walked off hurriedly and plunged again into tortuous streets, where he + strode over the cobblestone pavements, stopping now and then to peer + through the window of a shop at the light in the rear where a group of + people sat quietly about a table under a light, or into a bar where a + tired little boy with heavy eyelids and sleeves rolled up from thin grey + arms was washing glasses, or an old woman, a shapeless bundle of black + clothes, was swabbing the floor. From doorways he heard talking and soft + laughs. Upper windows sent yellow rays of light across the fog. + </p> + <p> + In one doorway the vague light from a lamp bracketed in the wall showed + two figures, pressed into one by their close embrace. As Andrews walked + past, his heavy army boots clattering loud on the wet pavement, they + lifted their heads slowly. The boy had violet eyes and pale beardless + cheeks; the girl was bareheaded and kept her brown eyes fixed on the boy's + face. Andrews's heart thumped within him. At last he had found them. He + made a step towards them, and then strode on losing himself fast in the + cool effacing fog. Again he had been mistaken. The fog swirled about him, + hiding wistful friendly faces, hands ready to meet his hands, eyes ready + to take fire with his glance, lips cold with the mist, to be crushed under + his lips. “From the girl at the singing under her street-lamp...” + </p> + <p> + And he walked on alone through the drifting fog. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> + <p> + Andrews left the station reluctantly, shivering in the raw grey mist under + which the houses of the village street and the rows of motor trucks and + the few figures of French soldiers swathed in long formless coats, showed + as vague dark blurs in the confused dawnlight. His body felt flushed and + sticky from a night spent huddled in the warm fetid air of an overcrowded + compartment. He yawned and stretched himself and stood irresolutely in the + middle of the street with his pack biting into his shoulders. Out of + sight, behind the dark mass, in which a few ruddy lights glowed, of the + station buildings, the engine whistled and the train clanked off into the + distance. Andrews listened to its faint reverberation through the mist + with a sick feeling of despair. It was the train that had brought him from + Paris back to his division. + </p> + <p> + As he stood shivering in the grey mist he remembered the curious + despairing reluctance he used to suffer when he went back to boarding + school after a holiday. How he used to go from the station to the school + by the longest road possible, taking frantic account of every moment of + liberty left him. Today his feet had the same leaden reluctance as when + they used to all but refuse to take him up the long sandy hill to the + school. + </p> + <p> + He wandered aimlessly for a while about the silent village hoping to find + a cafe where he could sit for a few minutes to take a last look at himself + before plunging again into the grovelling promiscuity of the army. Not a + light showed. All the shutters of the shabby little brick and plaster + houses were closed. With dull springless steps he walked down the road + they had pointed out to him from the R. T. O. + </p> + <p> + Overhead the sky was brightening giving the mist that clung to the earth + in every direction ruddy billowing outlines. The frozen road gave out a + faint hard resonance under his footsteps. Occasionally the silhouette of a + tree by the roadside loomed up in the mist ahead, its uppermost branches + clear and ruddy with sunlight. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was telling himself that the war was over, and that in a few + months he would be free in any case. What did a few months more or less + matter? But the same thoughts were swept recklessly away in the blind + panic that was like a stampede of wild steers within him. There was no + arguing. His spirit was contorted with revolt so that his flesh twitched + and dark splotches danced before his eyes. He wondered vaguely whether he + had gone mad. Enormous plans kept rising up out of the tumult of his mind + and dissolving suddenly like smoke in a high wind. He would run away and + if they caught him, kill himself. He would start a mutiny in his company, + he would lash all these men to frenzy by his words, so that they too + should refuse to form into Guns, so that they should laugh when the + officers got red in the face shouting orders at them, so that the whole + division should march off over the frosty hills, without arms, without + flags, calling all the men of all the armies to join them, to march on + singing, to laugh the nightmare out of their blood. Would not some + lightning flash of vision sear people's consciousness into life again? + What was the good of stopping the war if the armies continued? + </p> + <p> + But that was just rhetoric. His mind was flooding itself with rhetoric + that it might keep its sanity. His mind was squeezing out rhetoric like a + sponge that he might not see dry madness face to face. + </p> + <p> + And all the while his hard footsteps along the frozen road beat in his + ears bringing him nearer to the village where the division was quartered. + He was climbing a long hill. The mist thinned about him and became + brilliant with sunlight. Then he was walking in the full sun over the + crest of a hill with pale blue sky above his head. Behind him and before + him were mist-filled valleys and beyond other ranges of long hills, with + reddish-violet patches of woodland, glowing faintly in the sunlight. In + the valley at his feet he could see, in the shadow of the hill he stood + on, a church tower and a few roofs rising out of the mist, as out of + water. + </p> + <p> + Among the houses bugles were blowing mess-call. + </p> + <p> + The jauntiness of the brassy notes ringing up through the silence was + agony to him. How long the day would be. He looked at his watch. It was + seven thirty. How did they come to be having mess so late? + </p> + <p> + The mist seemed doubly cold and dark when he was buried in it again after + his moment of sunlight. The sweat was chilled on his face and streaks of + cold went through his clothes, soaked from the effort of carrying the + pack. In the village street Andrews met a man he did not know and asked + him where the office was. The man, who was chewing something, pointed + silently to a house with green shutters on the opposite side of the + street. + </p> + <p> + At a desk sat Chrisfield smoking a cigarette. When he jumped up Andrews + noticed that he had a corporal's two stripes on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands warmly. + </p> + <p> + “A' you all right now, ole boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, I'm fine,” said Andrews. A sudden constraint fell upon them. + </p> + <p> + “That's good,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “You're a corporal now. Congratulations.” + </p> + <p> + “Um hum. Made me more'n a month ago.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent. Chrisfield sat down in his chair again. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of a town is this?” + </p> + <p> + “It's a hell-hole, this dump is, a hell-hole.” + </p> + <p> + “That's nice.” + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to move soon, tell me.... Army o' Occupation. But Ah hadn't ought + to have told you that.... Don't tell any of the fellers.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's the outfit quartered?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye won't know it; we've got fifteen new men. No account all of 'em. + Second draft men.” + </p> + <p> + “Civilians in the town?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet.... Come with me, Andy, an Ah'll tell 'em to give you some grub + at the cookshack. No... wait a minute an' you'll miss the hike.... Hikes + every day since the goddam armistice. They sent out a general order + telling 'em to double up on the drill.” + </p> + <p> + They heard a voice shouting orders outside and the narrow street filled up + suddenly with a sound of boots beating the ground in unison. Andrews kept + his back to the window. Something in his legs seemed to be tramping in + time with the other legs. + </p> + <p> + “There they go,” said Chrisfield. “Loot's with 'em today.... Want some + grub? If it ain't been punk since the armistice.” + </p> + <p> + The “Y” hut was empty and dark; through the grimy windowpanes could be + seen fields and a leaden sky full of heavy ocherous light, in which the + leafless trees and the fields full of stubble were different shades of + dead, greyish brown. Andrews sat at the piano without playing. He was + thinking how once he had thought to express all the cramped boredom of + this life; the thwarted limbs regimented together, lashed into straight + lines, the monotony of servitude. Unconsciously as he thought of it, the + fingers of one hand sought a chord, which jangled in the badly-tuned + piano. “God, how silly!” he muttered aloud, pulling his hands away. + Suddenly he began to play snatches of things he knew, distorting them, + willfully mutilating the rhythm, mixing into them snatches of ragtime. The + piano jangled under his hands, filling the empty hut with clamor. He + stopped suddenly, letting his fingers slide from bass to treble, and began + to play in earnest. + </p> + <p> + There was a cough behind him that had an artificial, discreet ring to it. + He went on playing without turning round. Then a voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews turned to find himself staring into a face of vaguely triangular + shape with a wide forehead and prominent eyelids over protruding brown + eyes. The man wore a Y. M. C. A. uniform which was very tight for him, so + that there were creases running from each button across the front of his + tunic. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do go on playing. It's years since I heard any Debussy.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't Debussy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, wasn't it? Anyway it was just lovely. Do go on. I'll just stand here + and listen.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews went on playing for a moment, made a mistake, started over, made + the same mistake, banged on the keys with his fist and turned round again. + </p> + <p> + “I can't play,” he said peevishly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you can, my boy, you can.... Where did you learn? I would give a + million dollars to play like that, if I had it.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews glared at him silently. + </p> + <p> + “You are one of the men just back from hospital, I presume.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, worse luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't blame you. These French towns are the dullest places; though + I just love France, don't you?” The “Y” man had a faintly whining voice. + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere's dull in the army.” + </p> + <p> + “Look, we must get to know each other real well. My name's Spencer + Sheffield...Spencer B. Sheffield.... And between you and me there's not a + soul in the division you can talk to. It's dreadful not to have + intellectual people about one. I suppose you're from New York.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Um hum, so am I. You're probably read some of my things in Vain + Endeavor.... What, you've never read Vain Endeavor? I guess you didn't go + round with the intellectual set.... Musical people often don't.... Of + course I don't mean the Village. All anarchists and society women + there....” + </p> + <p> + “I've never gone round with any set, and I never...” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, we'll fix that when we all get back to New York. And now you + just sit down at that piano and play me Debussy's 'Arabesque.'... I know + you love it just as much as I do. But first what's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “Folks come from Virginia?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Andrews got to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Then you're related to the Penneltons.” + </p> + <p> + “I may be related to the Kaiser for all I know.” + </p> + <p> + “The Penneltons... that's it. You see my mother was a Miss Spencer from + Spencer Falls, Virginia, and her mother was a Miss Pennelton, so you and I + are cousins. Now isn't that a coincidence?” + </p> + <p> + “Distant cousins. But I must go back to the barracks.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in and see me any time,” Spencer B. Sheffield shouted after him. + “You know where; back of the shack; And knock twice so I'll know it's + you.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the house where he was quartered Andrews met the new top sergeant, + a lean man with spectacles and a little mustache of the color and texture + of a scrubbing brush. + </p> + <p> + “Here's a letter for you,” the top sergeant said. “Better look at the new + K. P. list I've just posted.” + </p> + <p> + The letter was from Henslowe. Andrews read it with a smile of pleasure in + the faint afternoon light, remembering Henslowe's constant drawling talk + about distant places he had never been to, and the man who had eaten + glass, and the day and a half in Paris. + </p> + <p> + “Andy,” the letter began, “I've got the dope at last. Courses begin in + Paris February fifteenth. Apply at once to your C. O. to study somethin' + at University of Paris. Any amount of lies will go. Apply all pull + possible via sergeants, lieutenants and their mistresses and laundresses. + Yours, Henslowe.” + </p> + <p> + His heart thumping, Andrews ran after the sergeant, passing, in his + excitement, a lieutenant without saluting him. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” snarled the lieutenant. + </p> + <p> + Andrews saluted, and stood stiffly at attention. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you salute me?” + </p> + <p> + “I was in a hurry, sir, and didn't see you. I was going on very urgent + company business, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Remember that just because the armistice is signed you needn't think + you're out of the army; at ease.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews saluted. The lieutenant saluted, turned swiftly on his heel and + walked away. + </p> + <p> + Andrews caught up to the sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “Sergeant Coffin. Can I speak to you a minute?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm in a hell of a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard anything about this army students' corps to send men to + universities here in France? Something the Y. M. C. A.'s getting up.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't be for enlisted men. No I ain't heard a word about it. D'you want + to go to school again?” + </p> + <p> + “If I get a chance. To finish my course.” + </p> + <p> + “College man, are ye? So am I. Well, I'll let you know if I get any + general order about it. Can't do anything without getting a general order + about it. Looks to me like it's all bushwa.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess you're right.” + </p> + <p> + The street was grey dark. Stung by a sense of impotence, surging with + despairing rebelliousness, Andrews hurried back towards the buildings + where the company was quartered. He would be late for mess. The grey + street was deserted. From a window here and there ruddy light streamed out + to make a glowing oblong on the wall of a house opposite. + </p> + <p> + “Goddam it, if ye don't believe me, you go ask the lootenant.... Look + here, Toby, didn't our outfit see hotter work than any goddam engineers?” + </p> + <p> + Toby had just stepped into the cafe, a tall man with a brown bulldog face + and a scar on his left cheek. He spoke rarely and solemnly with a Maine + coast Yankee twang. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon so,” was all he said. He sat down on the bench beside the other + man who went on bitterly: + </p> + <p> + “I guess you would reckon so.... Hell, man, you ditch diggers ain't in + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ditch diggers!” The engineer banged his fist down on the table. His lean + pickled face was a furious red. “I guess we don't dig half so many ditches + as the infantry does... an' when we've dug 'em we don't crawl into 'em an' + stay there like goddam cottontailed jackrabbits.” + </p> + <p> + “You guys don't git near enough to the front....” + </p> + <p> + “Like goddam cottontailed jackrabbits,” shouted the pickle-faced engineer + again, roaring with laughter. “Ain't that so?” He looked round the room + for approval. The benches at the two long tables were filled with infantry + men who looked at him angrily. Noticing suddenly that he had no support, + he moderated his voice. + </p> + <p> + “The infantry's damn necessary, I'll admit that; but where'd you fellers + be without us guys to string the barbed wire for you?” + </p> + <p> + “There warn't no barbed wire strung in the Oregon forest where we was, + boy. What d'ye want barbed wire when you're advancin' for?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here...I'll bet you a bottle of cognac my company had more losses + than yourn did.” + </p> + <p> + “Tek him up, Joe,” said Toby, suddenly showing an interest in the + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “All right, it's a go.” + </p> + <p> + “We had fifteen killed and twenty wounded,” announced the engineer + triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “How badly wounded?” + </p> + <p> + “What's that to you? Hand over the cognac?” + </p> + <p> + “Like hell. We had fifteen killed and twenty wounded too, didn't we, + Toby?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon you're right,” said Toby. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't I right?” asked the other man, addressing the company generally. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, goddam right,” muttered voices. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess it's all off, then,” said the engineer. + </p> + <p> + “No, it ain't,” said Toby, “reckon up yer wounded. The feller who's got + the worst wounded gets the cognac. Ain't that fair?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” + </p> + <p> + “We've had seven fellers sent home already,” said the engineer. + </p> + <p> + “We've had eight. Ain't we?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” growled everybody in the room. + </p> + <p> + “How bad was they?” + </p> + <p> + “Two of 'em was blind,” said Toby. + </p> + <p> + “Hell,” said the engineer, jumping to his feet as if taking a trick at + poker. “We had a guy who was sent home without arms nor legs, and three + fellers got t.b. from bein' gassed.” + </p> + <p> + John Andrews had been sitting in a corner of the room. He got up. + Something had made him think of the man he had known in the hospital who + had said that was the life to make a feller feel fit. Getting up at three + o'clock in the morning, you jumped out of bed just like a cat.... He + remembered how the olive-drab trousers had dangled, empty from the man's + chair. + </p> + <p> + “That's nothing; one of our sergeants had to have a new nose grafted + on....” + </p> + <p> + The village street was dark and deeply rutted with mud. Andrews wandered + up and down aimlessly. There was only one other cafe. That would be just + like this one. He couldn't go back to the desolate barn where he slept. It + would be too early to go to sleep. A cold wind blew down the street and + the sky was full of vague movement of dark clouds. The partly-frozen mud + clotted about his feet as he walked along; he could feel the water + penetrating his shoes. Opposite the Y. M. C. A. hut at the end of the + street he stopped. After a moment's indecision he gave a little laugh, and + walked round to the back where the door of the “Y” man's room was. + </p> + <p> + He knocked twice, half hoping there would be no reply. + </p> + <p> + Sheffield's whining high-pitched voice said: “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “Come right in.... You're just the man I wanted to see.” Andrews stood + with his hand on the knob. + </p> + <p> + “Do sit down and make yourself right at home.” + </p> + <p> + Spencer Sheffield was sitting at a little desk in a room with walls of + unplaned boards and one small window. Behind the desk were piles of + cracker boxes and cardboard cases of cigarettes and in the midst of them a + little opening, like that of a railway ticket office, in the wall through + which the “Y” man sold his commodities to the long lines of men who would + stand for hours waiting meekly in the room beyond. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was looking round for a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I just forgot. I'm sitting in the only chair,” said Spencer + Sheffield, laughing, twisting his small mouth into a shape like a camel's + mouth and rolling about his large protruding eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right. What I wanted to ask you was: do you know anything + about...?” + </p> + <p> + “Look, do come with me to my room,” interrupted Sheffield. “I've got such + a nice sitting-room with an open fire, just next to Lieutenant Bleezer.... + An' there we'll talk... about everything. I'm just dying to talk to + somebody about the things of the spirit.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know anything about a scheme for sending enlisted men to French + universities? Men who have not finished their courses.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, wouldn't that be just fine. I tell you, boy, there's nothing like the + U. S. government to think of things like that.” + </p> + <p> + “But have you heard anything about it?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but I surely shall.... D'you mind switching the light off?... That's + it. Now just follow me. Oh, I do need a rest. I've been working dreadfully + hard since that Knights of Columbus man came down here. Isn't it hateful + the way they try to run down the 'Y'?... Now we can have a nice long talk. + You must tell me all about yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “But don't you really know anything about that university scheme? They say + it begins February fifteenth,” Andrews said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “I'll ask Lieutenant Bleezer if he knows anything about it,” said + Sheffield soothingly, throwing an arm around Andrews's shoulder and + pushing him in the door ahead of him. + </p> + <p> + They went through a dark hall to a little room where a fire burned + brilliantly in the hearth, lighting up with tongues of red and yellow a + square black walnut table and two heavy armchairs with leather backs and + bottoms that shone like lacquer. + </p> + <p> + “This is wonderful,” said Andrews involuntarily. + </p> + <p> + “Romantic I call it. Makes you think of Dickens, doesn't it, and Locksley + Hall.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Andrews vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been in France long?” asked Andrews settling himself in one of + the chairs and looking into the dancing flames of the log fire. “Will you + smoke?” He handed Sheffield a crumpled cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks, I only smoke special kinds. I have a weak heart. That's why I + was rejected from the army.... Oh, but I think it was superb of you to + join as a private; It was my dream to do that, to be one of the nameless + marching throng.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it was damn foolish, not to say criminal,” said Andrews sullenly, + still staring into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “You can't mean that. Or do you mean that you think you had abilities + which would have been worth more to your country in another position?... I + have many friends who felt that.” + </p> + <p> + “No.... I don't think it's right of a man to go back on himself.... I + don't think butchering people ever does any good ...I have acted as if I + did think it did good... out of carelessness or cowardice, one or the + other; that I think bad.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't talk that way” said Sheffield hurriedly. “So you are a + musician, are you?” He asked the question with a jaunty confidential air. + </p> + <p> + “I used to play the piano a little, if that's what you mean,” said + Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Music has never been the art I had most interest in. But many things have + moved me intensely.... Debussy and those beautiful little things of + Nevin's. You must know them.... Poetry has been more my field. When I was + young, younger than you are, quite a lad...Oh, if we could only stay + young; I am thirty-two.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see that youth by itself is worth much. It's the most superb + medium there is, though, for other things,” said Andrews. “Well, I must + go,” he said. “If you do hear anything about that university scheme, you + will let me know, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I shall, dear boy, indeed I shall.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands in jerky dramatic fashion and Andrews stumbled down the + dark hall to the door. When he stood out in the raw night air again he + drew a deep breath. By the light that streamed out from a window he looked + at his watch. There was time to go to the regimental sergeant-major's + office before tattoo. + </p> + <p> + At the opposite end of the village street from the Y. M. C. A. hut was a + cube-shaped house set a little apart from the rest in the middle of a + broad lawn which the constant crossing and recrossing of a staff of cars + and trains of motor trucks had turned into a muddy morass in which the + wheel tracks crisscrossed in every direction. A narrow board walk led from + the main road to the door. In the middle of this walk Andrews met a + captain and automatically got off into the mud and saluted. + </p> + <p> + The regimental office was a large room that had once been decorated by wan + and ill-drawn mural paintings in the manner of Puvis de Chavannes, but the + walls had been so chipped and soiled by five years of military occupation + that they were barely recognisable. Only a few bits of bare flesh and + floating drapery showed here and there above the maps and notices that + were tacked on the walls. At the end of the room a group of nymphs in Nile + green and pastel blue could be seen emerging from under a French War Loan + poster. The ceiling was adorned with an oval of flowers and little plaster + cupids in low relief which had also suffered and in places showed the + laths. The office was nearly empty. The littered desks and silent + typewriters gave a strange air of desolation to the gutted drawing-room. + Andrews walked boldly to the furthest desk, where a little red card + leaning against the typewriter said “Regimental Sergeant-Major.” + </p> + <p> + Behind the desk, crouched over a heap of typewritten reports, sat a little + man with scanty sandy hair, who screwed up his eyes and smiled when + Andrews approached the desk. + </p> + <p> + “Well, did you fix it up for me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Fix what?” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I thought you were someone else.” The smile left the regimental + sergeant-major's thin lips. “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Regimental Sergeant-Major, can you tell me anything about a scheme + to send enlisted men to colleges over here? Can you tell me who to apply + to?” + </p> + <p> + “According to what general orders? And who told you to come and see me + about it, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard anything about it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, nothing definite. I'm busy now anyway. Ask one of your own non-coms + to find out about it.” He crouched once more over the papers. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was walking towards the door, flushing with annoyance, when he saw + that the man at the desk by the window was jerking his head in a peculiar + manner, just in the direction of the regimental sergeant-major and then + towards the door. Andrews smiled at him and nodded. Outside the door, + where an orderly sat on a short bench reading a torn Saturday Evening + Post, Andrews waited. The hall was part of what must have been a ballroom, + for it had a much-scarred hardwood floor and big spaces of bare plaster + framed by gilt-and lavender-colored mouldings, which had probably held + tapestries. The partition of unplaned boards that formed other offices cut + off the major part of a highly decorated ceiling where cupids with + crimson-daubed bottoms swam in all attitudes in a sea of pink-and blue-and + lavender-colored clouds, wreathing themselves coyly in heavy garlands of + waxy hothouse flowers, while cornucopias spilling out squashy fruits gave + Andrews a feeling of distinct insecurity as he looked up from below. + </p> + <p> + “Say are you a Kappa Mu?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked down suddenly and saw in front of him the man who had + signalled to him in the regimental sergeant-major's office. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a Kappa Mu?” he asked again. + </p> + <p> + “No, not that I know of,” stammered Andrews puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “What school did you go to?” + </p> + <p> + “Harvard.” + </p> + <p> + “Harvard.... Guess we haven't got a chapter there.... I'm from North + Western. Anyway you want to go to school in France here if you can. So do + I.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you want to come and have a drink?” + </p> + <p> + The man frowned, pulled his overseas cap down over his forehead, where the + hair grew very low, and looked about him mysteriously. “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + They splashed together down the muddy village street. “We've got thirteen + minutes before tattoo.... My name's Walters, what's yours?” He spoke in a + low voice in short staccato phrases. + </p> + <p> + “Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “Andrews, you've got to keep this dark. If everybody finds out about it + we're through. It's a shame you're not a Kappa Mu, but college men have + got to stick together, that's the way I look at it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll keep it dark enough,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “It's too good to be true. The general order isn't out yet, but I've seen + a preliminary circular. What school d'you want to go to?” + </p> + <p> + “Sorbonne, Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the stuff. D'you know the back room at Baboon's?” + </p> + <p> + Walters turned suddenly to the left up an alley, and broke through a hole + in a hawthorn hedge. + </p> + <p> + “A guy's got to keep his eyes and ears open if he wants to get anywhere in + this army,” he said. + </p> + <p> + As they ducked in the back door of a cottage, Andrews caught a glimpse of + the billowy line of a tile roof against the lighter darkness of the sky. + They sat down on a bench built into a chimney where a few sticks made a + splutter of flames. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur desire?” A red-faced girl with a baby in her arms came up to + them. + </p> + <p> + “That's Babette; Baboon I call her,” said Walters with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Chocolat,” said Walters. + </p> + <p> + “That'll suit me all right. It's my treat, remember.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not forgetting it. Now let's get to business. What you do is this. + You write an application. I'll make that out for you on the typewriter + tomorrow and you meet me here at eight tomorrow night and I'll give it to + you.... You sign it at once and hand it in to your sergeant. See?” + </p> + <p> + “This'll just be a preliminary application; when the order's out you'll + have to make another.” + </p> + <p> + The woman, this time without the baby, appeared out of the darkness of the + room with a candle and two cracked bowls from which steam rose, faint + primrose-color in the candle light. Walters drank his bowl down at a gulp, + grunted and went on talking. + </p> + <p> + “Give me a cigarette, will you?... You'll have to make it out darn soon + too, because once the order's out every son of a gun in the division'll be + making out to be a college man. How did you get your tip?” + </p> + <p> + “From a fellow in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “You've been to Paris, have you?” said Walters admiringly. “Is it the way + they say it is? Gee, these French are immoral. Look at this woman here. + She'll sleep with a feller soon as not. Got a baby too!” + </p> + <p> + “But who do the applications go in to?” + </p> + <p> + “To the colonel, or whoever he appoints to handle it. You a Catholic?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither am I. That's the hell of it. The regimental sergeant-major is.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I guess you haven't noticed the way things run up at divisional + headquarters. It's a regular cathedral. Isn't a mason in it.... But I must + beat it.... Better pretend you don't know me if you meet me on the street; + see?” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + Walters hurried out of the door. Andrews sat alone looking at the flutter + of little flames about the pile of sticks on the hearth, while he sipped + chocolate from the warm bowl held between the palms of both hands. + </p> + <p> + He remembered a speech out of some very bad romantic play he had heard + when he was very small. + </p> + <p> + “About your head I fling... the curse of Rome.” + </p> + <p> + He started to laugh, sliding back and forth on the smooth bench which had + been polished by the breeches of generations warming their feet at the + fire. The red-faced woman stood with her hands on her hips looking at him + in astonishment, while he laughed and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Mais quelle gaite, quelle gaite,” she kept saying. + </p> + <p> + The straw under him rustled faintly with every sleepy movement Andrews + made in his blankets. In a minute the bugle was going to blow and he was + going to jump out of his blankets, throw on his clothes and fall into line + for roll call in the black mud of the village street. It couldn't be that + only a month had gone by since he had got back from hospital. No, he had + spent a lifetime in this village being dragged out of his warm blankets + every morning by the bugle, shivering as he stood in line for roll call, + shuffling in a line that moved slowly past the cookshack, shuffling along + in another line to throw what was left of his food into garbage cans, to + wash his mess kit in the greasy water a hundred other men had washed their + mess kits in; lining up to drill, to march on along muddy roads, + splattered by the endless trains of motor trucks; lining up twice more for + mess, and at last being forced by another bugle into his blankets again to + sleep heavily while a smell hung in his nostrils of sweating woolen + clothing and breathed-out air and dusty blankets. In a minute the bugle + was going to blow, to snatch him out of even these miserable thoughts, and + throw him into an automaton under other men's orders. Childish spiteful + desires surged into his mind. If the bugler would only die. He could + picture him, a little man with a broad face and putty-colored cheeks, a + small rusty mustache and bow-legs lying like a calf on a marble slab in a + butcher's shop on top of his blankets. What nonsense! There were other + buglers. He wondered how many buglers there were in the army. He could + picture them all, in dirty little villages, in stone barracks, in towns, + in great camps that served the country for miles with rows of black + warehouses and narrow barrack buildings standing with their feet a little + apart; giving their little brass bugles a preliminary tap before putting + out their cheeks and blowing in them and stealing a million and a half (or + was it two million or three million) lives, and throwing the warm sentient + bodies into coarse automatons who must be kept busy, lest they grow + restive, till killing time began again. + </p> + <p> + The bugle blew with the last jaunty notes, a stir went through the barn. + </p> + <p> + Corporal Chrisfield stood on the ladder that led up from the yard, his + head on a level with the floor shouting: + </p> + <p> + “Shake it up, fellers! If a guy's late to roll call, it's K. P. for a + week.” + </p> + <p> + As Andrews, while buttoning his tunic, passed him on the ladder, he + whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Tell me we're going to see service again, Andy... Army o' Occupation.” + </p> + <p> + While he stood stiffly at attention waiting to answer when the sergeant + called his name, Andrews's mind was whirling in crazy circles of anxiety. + What if they should leave before the General Order came on the University + plan? The application would certainly be lost in the confusion of moving + the Division, and he would be condemned to keep up this life for more + dreary weeks and months. Would any years of work and happiness in some + future existence make up for the humiliating agony of this servitude? + </p> + <p> + “Dismissed!” + </p> + <p> + He ran up the ladder to fetch his mess kit and in a few minutes was in + line again in the rutted village street where the grey houses were just + forming outlines as light crept slowly into the leaden sky, while a faint + odor of bacon and coffee came to him, making him eager for food, eager to + drown his thoughts in the heaviness of swiftly-eaten greasy food and in + the warmth of watery coffee gulped down out of a tin-curved cup. He was + telling himself desperately that he must do something—that he must + make an effort to save himself, that he must fight against the deadening + routine that numbed him. + </p> + <p> + Later, while he was sweeping the rough board floor of the company's + quarters, the theme came to him which had come to him long ago, in a + former incarnation it seemed, when he was smearing windows with soap from + a gritty sponge along the endless side of the barracks in the training + camp. Time and time again in the past year he had thought of it, and + dreamed of weaving it into a fabric of sound which would express the + trudging monotony of days bowed under the yoke. “Under the Yoke”; that + would be a title for it. He imagined the sharp tap of the conductor's + baton, the silence of a crowded hall, the first notes rasping bitterly + upon the tense ears of men and women. But as he tried to concentrate his + mind on the music, other things intruded upon it, blurred it. He kept + feeling the rhythm of the Queen of Sheba slipping from the shoulders of + her gaudily caparisoned elephant, advancing towards him through the + torchlight, putting her hand, fantastic with rings and long gilded + fingernails, upon his shoulders so that ripples of delight, at all the + voluptuous images of his desire, went through his whole body, making it + quiver like a flame with yearning for unimaginable things. It all muddled + into fantastic gibberish—into sounds of horns and trombones and + double basses blown off key while a piccolo shrilled the first bars of + “The Star Spangled Banner.” + </p> + <p> + He had stopped sweeping and looked about him dazedly. He was alone. + Outside, he heard a sharp voice call “Atten-shun!” He ran down the ladder + and fell in at the end of the line under the angry glare of the + lieutenant's small eyes, which were placed very close together on either + side of a lean nose, black and hard, like the eyes of a crab. + </p> + <p> + The company marched off through the mud to the drill field. + </p> + <p> + After retreat Andrews knocked at the door at the back of the Y. M. C. A., + but as there was no reply, he strode off with a long, determined stride to + Sheffield's room. + </p> + <p> + In the moment that elapsed between his knock and an answer, he could feel + his heart thumping. A little sweat broke out on his temples. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what's the matter, boy? You look all wrought up,” said Sheffield, + holding the door half open, and blocking, with his lean form, entrance to + the room. + </p> + <p> + “May I come in? I want to talk to you,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I suppose it'll be all right.... You see I have an officer with + me...” then there was a flutter in Sheffield's voice. “Oh, do come in”; he + went on, with sudden enthusiasm. “Lieutenant Bleezer is fond of music + too.... Lieutenant, this is the boy I was telling you about. We must get + him to play for us. If he had the opportunities, I am sure he'd be a + famous musician.” + </p> + <p> + Lieutenant Bleezer was a dark youth with a hooked nose and pincenez. His + tunic was unbuttoned and he held a cigar in his hand. He smiled in an + evident attempt to put this enlisted man at his ease. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am very fond of music, modern music,” he said, leaning against the + mantelpiece. “Are you a musician by profession?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly... nearly.” Andrews thrust his hands into the bottoms of his + trouser pockets and looked from one to the other with a certain defiance. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you've played in some orchestra? How is it you are not in the + regimental band?” + </p> + <p> + “No, except the Pierian.” + </p> + <p> + “The Pierian? Were you at Harvard?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. + </p> + <p> + “So was I.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that a coincidence?” said Sheffield. “I'm so glad I just insisted + on your coming in.” + </p> + <p> + “What year were you?” asked Lieutenant Bleezer, with a faint change of + tone, drawing a finger along his scant black moustache. + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't graduated yet,” said the lieutenant with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “What I wanted to ask you, Mr. Sheffield....” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my boy; my boy, you know you've known me long enough to call me + Spence,” broke in Sheffield. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know,” went on Andrews speaking slowly, “can you help me to get + put on the list to be sent to the University of Paris?... I know that a + list has been made out, although the General Order has not come yet. I am + disliked by most of the noncoms and I don't see how I can get on without + somebody's help...I simply can't go this life any longer.” Andrews closed + his lips firmly and looked at the ground, his face flushing. + </p> + <p> + “Well, a man of your attainments certainly ought to go,” said Lieutenant + Bleezer, with a faint tremor of hesitation in his voice. “I'm going to + Oxford myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Trust me, my boy,” said Sheffield. “I'll fix it up for you, I promise. + Let's shake hands on it.” He seized Andrews's hand and pressed it warmly + in a moist palm. “If it's within human power, within human power,” he + added. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must go,” said Lieutenant Bleezer, suddenly striding to the door. + “I promised the Marquise I'd drop in. Good-bye.... Take a cigar, won't + you?” He held out three cigars in the direction of Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't you think the old aristocracy of France is just too wonderful? + Lieutenant Bleezer goes almost every evening to call on the Marquise de + Rompemouville. He says she is just too spirituelle for words.... He often + meets the Commanding Officer there.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews had dropped into a chair and sat with his face buried in his + hands, looking through his fingers at the fire, where a few white fingers + of flame were clutching intermittently at a grey beech log. His mind was + searching desperately for expedients. + </p> + <p> + He got to his feet and shouted shrilly: + </p> + <p> + “I can't go this life any more, do you hear that? No possible future is + worth all this. If I can get to Paris, all right. If not, I'll desert and + damn the consequences.” + </p> + <p> + “But I've already promised I'll do all I can....” + </p> + <p> + “Well, do it now,” interrupted Andrews brutally. + </p> + <p> + “All right, I'll go and see the colonel and tell him what a great musician + you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's go together, now.” + </p> + <p> + “But that'll look queer, dear boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't give a damn, come along.... You can talk to him. You seem to be + thick with all the officers.” + </p> + <p> + “You must wait till I tidy up,” said Sheffield. + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews strode up and down in the mud in front of the house, snapping his + fingers with impatience, until Sheffield came out, then they walked off in + silence. + </p> + <p> + “Now wait outside a minute,” whispered Sheffield when they came to the + white house with bare grapevines over the front, where the colonel lived. + </p> + <p> + After a wait, Andrews found himself at the door of a brilliantly-lighted + drawing room. There was a dense smell of cigar smoke. The colonel, an + elderly man with a benevolent beard, stood before him with a coffee cup in + his hand. Andrews saluted punctiliously. + </p> + <p> + “They tell me you are quite a pianist.... Sorry I didn't know it before,” + said the colonel in a kindly tone. “You want to go to Paris to study under + this new scheme?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What a shame I didn't know before. The list of the men going is all made + out.... Of course perhaps at the last minute... if somebody else doesn't + go... your name can go in.” + </p> + <p> + The colonel smiled graciously and turned back into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Colonel,” said Andrews, saluting. + </p> + <p> + Without a word to Sheffield, he strode off down the dark village street + towards his quarters. + </p> + <p> + Andrews stood on the broad village street, where the mud was nearly dry, + and a wind streaked with warmth ruffled the few puddles; he was looking + into the window of the cafe to see if there was anyone he knew inside from + whom he could borrow money for a drink. It was two months since he had had + any pay, and his pockets were empty. The sun had just set on a premature + spring afternoon, flooding the sky and the grey houses and the tumultuous + tiled roofs with warm violet light. The faint premonition of the stirring + of life in the cold earth, that came to Andrews with every breath he drew + of the sparkling wind, stung his dull boredom to fury. It was the first of + March, he was telling himself over and over again. The fifteenth of + February, he had expected to be in Paris, free, or half-free; at least + able to work. It was the first of March and here he was still helpless, + still tied to the monotonous wheel of routine, incapable of any real + effort, spending his spare time wandering like a lost dog up and down this + muddy street, from the Y. M. C. A. hut at one end of the village to the + church and the fountain in the middle, and to the Divisional Headquarters + at the other end, then back again, looking listlessly into windows, + staring in people's faces without seeing them. He had given up all hope of + being sent to Paris. He had given up thinking about it or about anything; + the same dull irritation of despair droned constantly in his head, + grinding round and round like a broken phonograph record. + </p> + <p> + After looking a long while in the window of the cafe of the Braves Allies, + he walked a little down the street and stood in the same position staring + into the Repos du Poilu, where a large sign “American spoken” blocked up + half the window. Two officers passed. His hand snapped up to the salute + automatically, like a mechanical signal. It was nearly dark. After a while + he began to feel serious coolness in the wind, shivered and started to + wander aimlessly down the street. + </p> + <p> + He recognised Walters coming towards him and was going to pass him without + speaking when Walters bumped into him, muttered in his ear “Come to + Baboon's,” and hurried off with his swift business-like stride. Andrews, + stood irresolutely for a while with his head bent, then went with + unresilient steps up the alley, through the hole in the hedge and into + Babette's kitchen. There was no fire. He stared morosely at the grey ashes + until he heard Walters's voice beside him: + </p> + <p> + “I've got you all fixed up.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Mean... are you asleep, Andrews? They've cut a name off the school list, + that's all. Now if you shake a leg and somebody doesn't get in ahead of + you, you'll be in Paris before you know it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's damn decent of you to come and tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Here's your application,” said Walters, drawing a paper out of his + pocket. “Take it to the colonel; get him to O. K. it and then rush it up + to the sergeant-major's office yourself. They are making out travel orders + now. So long.” + </p> + <p> + Walters had vanished. Andrews was alone again, staring at the grey ashes. + Suddenly he jumped to his feet and hurried off towards headquarters. In + the anteroom to the colonel's office he waited a long while, looking at + his boots that were thickly coated with mud. “Those boots will make a bad + impression; those boots will make a bad impression,” a voice was saying + over and over again inside of him. A lieutenant was also waiting to see + the colonel, a young man with pink cheeks and a milky-white forehead, who + held his hat in one hand with a pair of khaki-colored kid gloves, and kept + passing a hand over his light well-brushed hair. Andrews felt dirty and + ill-smelling in his badly-fitting uniform. The sight of this perfect young + man in his whipcord breeches, with his manicured nails and immaculately + polished puttees exasperated him. He would have liked to fight him, to + prove that he was the better man, to outwit him, to make him forget his + rank and his important air.... The lieutenant had gone in to see the + colonel. Andrews found himself reading a chart of some sort tacked up on + the wall. There were names and dates and figures, but he could not make + out what it was about. + </p> + <p> + “All right! Go ahead,” whispered the orderly to him; and he was standing + with his cap in his hand before the colonel who was looking at him + severely, fingering the papers he had on the desk with a heavily veined + hand. + </p> + <p> + Andrews saluted. The colonel made an impatient gesture. + </p> + <p> + “May I speak to you, Colonel, about the school scheme?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you've got permission from somebody to come to me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” Andrews's mind was struggling to find something to say. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you'd better go and get it.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Colonel, there isn't time; the travel orders are being made out at + this minute. I've heard that there's been a name crossed out on the list.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Colonel, you don't know how important it is. I am a musician by + trade; if I can't get into practice again before being demobilized, I + shan't be able to get a job.... I have a mother and an old aunt dependent + on me. My family has seen better days, you see, sir. It's only by being + high up in my profession that I can earn enough to give them what they are + accustomed to. And a man in your position in the world, Colonel, must know + what even a few months of study in Paris mean to a pianist.” + </p> + <p> + The colonel smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Let's see your application,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews handed it to him with a trembling hand. The colonel made a few + marks on one corner with a pencil. + </p> + <p> + “Now if you can get that to the sergeant-major in time to have your name + included in the orders, well and good.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews saluted, and hurried out. A sudden feeling of nausea had come over + him. He was hardly able to control a mad desire to tear the paper up. “The + sons of bitches... the sons of bitches,” he muttered to himself. Still he + ran all the way to the square, isolated building where the regimental + office was. + </p> + <p> + He stopped panting in front of the desk that bore the little red card, + Regimental Sergeant-Major. The regimental sergeant-major looked up at him + enquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Here's an application for School at the Sorbonne, Sergeant. Colonel + Wilkins told me to run up to you with it, said he was very anxious to have + it go in at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late,” said the regimental sergeant-major. + </p> + <p> + “But the colonel said it had to go in.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't help it.... Too late,” said the regimental sergeant-major. + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt the room and the men in their olive-drab shirt sleeves at the + typewriters and the three nymphs creeping from behind the French War Loan + poster whirl round his head. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him: + </p> + <p> + “Is the name Andrews, John, Sarge?” + </p> + <p> + “How the hell should I know?” said the regimental sergeant-major. + </p> + <p> + “Because I've got it in the orders already.... I don't know how it got + in.” The voice was Walters's voice, staccatto and businesslike. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, why d'you want to bother me about it? Give me that paper.” + The regimental sergeant-major jerked the paper out of Andrews's hand and + looked at it savagely. + </p> + <p> + “All right, you leave tomorrow. A copy of the orders'll go to your company + in the morning,” growled the regimental sergeant-major. + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked hard at Walters as he went out, but got no glance in + return. When he stood in the air again, disgust surged up within him, + bitterer than before. The fury of his humiliation made tears start in his + eyes. He walked away from the village down the main road, splashing + carelessly through the puddles, slipping in the wet clay of the ditches. + Something within him, like the voice of a wounded man swearing, was + whining in his head long strings of filthy names. After walking a long + while he stopped suddenly with his fists clenched. It was completely dark, + the sky was faintly marbled by a moon behind the clouds. On both sides of + the road rose the tall grey skeletons of poplars. When the sound of his + footsteps stopped, he heard a faint lisp of running water. Standing still + in the middle of the road, he felt his feelings gradually relax. He said + aloud in a low voice several times: “You are a damn fool, John Andrews,” + and started walking slowly and thoughtfully back to the village. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> + <p> + Andrews felt an arm put round his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Ah've been to hell an' gone lookin' for you, Andy,” said Chrisfield's + voice in his ear, jerking him out of the reverie he walked in. He could + feel in his face Chrisfield's breath, heavy with cognac. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to Paris tomorrow, Chris,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Ah know it, boy. Ah know it. That's why I was that right smart to talk to + you.... You doan want to go to Paris.... Why doan ye come up to Germany + with us? Tell me they live like kings up there.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Andrews, “let's go to the back room at Babette's.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield hung on his shoulder, walking unsteadily beside him. At the + hole in the hedge Chrisfield stumbled and nearly pulled them both down. + They laughed, and still laughing staggered into the dark kitchen, where + they found the red-faced woman with her baby sitting beside the fire with + no other light than the flicker of the rare flames that shot up from a + little mass of wood embers. The baby started crying shrilly when the two + soldiers stamped in. The woman got up and, talking automatically to the + baby all the while, went off to get a light and wine. + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked at Chrisfield's face by the firelight. His cheeks had lost + the faint childish roundness they had had when Andrews had first talked to + him, sweeping up cigarette butts off the walk in front of the barracks at + the training camp. + </p> + <p> + “Ah tell you, boy, you ought to come with us to Germany... nauthin' but + whores in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “The trouble is, Chris, that I don't want to live like a king, or a + sergeant or a major-general.... I want to live like John Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “What yer goin' to do in Paris, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “Study music.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah guess some day Ah'll go into a movie show an' when they turn on the + lights, who'll Ah see but ma ole frien' Andy raggin' the scales on the + pyaner.” + </p> + <p> + “Something like that.... How d'you like being a corporal, Chris?” + </p> + <p> + “O, Ah doan know.” Chrisfield spat on the floor between his feet. “It's + funny, ain't it? You an' me was right smart friends onct.... Guess it's + bein' a non-com.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews did not answer. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield sat silent with his eyes on the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Ah got him.... Gawd, it was easy,” he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah got him, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean...?” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Um-hum, in the Oregon forest,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews said nothing. He felt suddenly very tired. He thought of men he + had seen in attitudes of death. + </p> + <p> + “Ah wouldn't ha' thought it had been so easy,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + The woman came through the door at the end of the kitchen with a candle in + her hand. Chrisfield stopped speaking suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Tomorrow I'm going to Paris,” cried Andrews boisterously. “It's the end + of soldiering for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah bet it'll be some sport in Germany, Andy.... Sarge says we'll be goin' + up to Coab... what's its name?” + </p> + <p> + “Coblenz.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield poured a glass of wine out and drank it off, smacking his lips + after it and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “D'ye remember, Andy, we was both of us brushin' cigarette butts at that + bloody trainin' camp when we first met up with each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Considerable water has run under the bridge since then.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah reckon we won't meet up again, mos' likely.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, why not?” + </p> + <p> + They were silent again, staring at the fading embers of the fire. In the + dim edge of the candlelight the woman stood with her hands on her hips, + looking at them fixedly. + </p> + <p> + “Reckon a feller wouldn't know what to do with himself if he did get out + of the army... now, would he, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “So long, Chris. I'm beating it,” said Andrews in a harsh voice, jumping + to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “So long, Andy, ole man.... Ah'll pay for the drinks.” Chrisfield was + beckoning with his hand to the red-faced woman, who advanced slowly + through the candlelight. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, Chris.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews strode away from the door. A cold, needle-like rain was falling. + He pulled up his coat collar and ran down the muddy village street towards + his quarters. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI +</pre> + <p> + In the opposite corner of the compartment Andrews could see Walters + hunched up in an attitude of sleep, with his cap pulled down far over his + eyes. His mouth was open, and his head wagged with the jolting of the + train. The shade over the light plunged the compartment in dark-blue + obscurity, which made the night sky outside the window and the shapes of + trees and houses, evolving and pirouetting as they glided by, seem very + near. Andrews felt no desire to sleep; he had sat a long time leaning his + head against the frame of the window, looking out at the fleeing shadows + and the occasional little red-green lights that darted by and the glow of + the stations that flared for a moment and were lost in dark silhouettes of + unlighted houses and skeleton trees and black hillsides. He was thinking + how all the epochs in his life seemed to have been marked out by railway + rides at night. The jolting rumble of the wheels made the blood go faster + through his veins; made him feel acutely the clattering of the train along + the gleaming rails, spurning fields and trees and houses, piling up miles + and miles between the past and future. The gusts of cold night air when he + opened the window and the faint whiffs of steam and coal gas that tingled + in his nostrils excited him like a smile on a strange face seen for a + moment in a crowded street. He did not think of what he had left behind. + He was straining his eyes eagerly through the darkness towards the vivid + life he was going to live. Boredom and abasement were over. He was free to + work and hear music and make friends. He drew deep breaths; warm waves of + vigor seemed flowing constantly from his lungs and throat to his finger + tips and down through his body and the muscles of his legs. He looked at + his watch: “One.” In six hours he would be in Paris. For six hours he + would sit there looking out at the fleeting shadows of the countryside, + feeling in his blood the eager throb of the train, rejoicing in every mile + the train carried him away from things past. + </p> + <p> + Walters still slept, half slipping off the seat, with his mouth open and + his overcoat bundled round his head. Andrews looked out of the window, + feeling in his nostrils the tingle of steam and coal gas. A phrase out of + some translation of the Iliad came to his head: “Ambrosial night, Night + ambrosial unending.” But better than sitting round a camp fire drinking + wine and water and listening to the boastful yarns of long-haired + Achaeans, was this hustling through the countryside away from the + monotonous whine of past unhappiness, towards joyousness and life. + </p> + <p> + Andrews began to think of the men he had left behind. They were asleep at + this time of night, in barns and barracks, or else standing on guard with + cold damp feet, and cold hands which the icy rifle barrel burned when they + tended it. He might go far away out of sound of the tramp of marching, + away from the smell of overcrowded barracks where men slept in rows like + cattle, but he would still be one of them. He would not see an officer + pass him without an unconscious movement of servility, he would not hear a + bugle without feeling sick with hatred. If he could only express these + thwarted lives, the miserable dullness of industrialized slaughter, it + might have been almost worth while—for him; for the others, it would + never be worth while. “But you're talking as if you were out of the woods; + you're a soldier still, John Andrews.” The words formed themselves in his + mind as vividly as if he had spoken them. He smiled bitterly and settled + himself again to watch silhouettes of trees and hedges and houses and + hillsides fleeing against the dark sky. + </p> + <p> + When he awoke the sky was grey. The train was moving slowly, clattering + loudly over switches, through a town of wet slate roofs that rose in + fantastic patterns of shadow above the blue mist. Walters was smoking a + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “God! These French trains are rotten,” he said when he noticed that + Andrews was awake. “The most inefficient country I ever was in anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Inefficiency be damned,” broke in Andrews, jumping up and stretching + himself. He opened the window. “The heating's too damned efficient.... I + think we're near Paris.” + </p> + <p> + The cold air, with a flavor of mist in it, poured into the stuffy + compartment. Every breath was joy. Andrews felt a crazy buoyancy bubbling + up in him. The rumbling clatter of the train wheels sang in his ears. He + threw himself on his back on the dusty blue seat and kicked his heels in + the air like a colt. + </p> + <p> + “Liven up, for God's sake, man,” he shouted. “We're getting near Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “We are lucky bastards,” said Walters, grinning, with the cigarette + hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “I'm going to see if I can find + the rest of the gang.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews, alone in the compartment, found himself singing at the top of his + lungs. + </p> + <p> + As the day brightened the mist lifted off the flat linden-green fields + intersected by rows of leafless poplars. Salmon-colored houses with blue + roofs wore already a faintly citified air. They passed brick-kilns and + clay-quarries, with reddish puddles of water in the bottom of them; + crossed a jade-green river where a long file of canal boats with bright + paint on their prows moved slowly. The engine whistled shrilly. They + clattered through a small freight yard, and rows of suburban houses began + to form, at first chaotically in broad patches of garden-land, and then in + orderly ranks with streets between and shops at the corners. A dark-grey + dripping wall rose up suddenly and blotted out the view. The train slowed + down and went through several stations crowded with people on their way to + work,—ordinary people in varied clothes with only here and there a + blue or khaki uniform. Then there was more dark-grey wall, and the + obscurity of wide bridges under which dusty oil lamps burned orange and + red, making a gleam on the wet wall above them, and where the wheels + clanged loudly. More freight yards and the train pulled slowly past other + trains full of faces and silhouettes of people, to stop with a jerk in a + station. And Andrews was standing on the grey cement platform, sniffing + smells of lumber and merchandise and steam. His ungainly pack and + blanket-roll he carried on his shoulder like a cross. He had left his + rifle and cartridge belt carefully tucked out of sight under the seat. + </p> + <p> + Walters and five other men straggled along the platform towards him, + carrying or dragging their packs. + </p> + <p> + There was a look of apprehension on Walters's face. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do we do now?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Do!” cried Andrews, and he burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + Prostrate bodies in olive drab hid the patch of tender green grass by the + roadside. The company was resting. Chrisfield sat on a stump morosely + whittling at a stick with a pocket knife. Judkins was stretched out beside + him. + </p> + <p> + “What the hell do they make us do this damn hikin' for, Corp?” + </p> + <p> + “Guess they're askeered we'll forgit how to walk.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, ain't it better than loafin' around yer billets all day, thinkin' + an' cursin' an' wishin' ye was home?” spoke up the man who sat the other + side, pounding down the tobacco in his pipe with a thick forefinger. + </p> + <p> + “It makes me sick, trampin' round this way in ranks all day with the + goddam frawgs starin' at us an'...” + </p> + <p> + “They're laughin' at us, I bet,” broke in another voice. + </p> + <p> + “We'll be movin' soon to the Army o' Occupation,” said Chrisfield + cheerfully. “In Germany it'll be a reglar picnic.” + </p> + <p> + “An' d'you know what that means?” burst out Judkins, sitting bolt upright. + “D'you know how long the troops is goin' to stay in Germany? Fifteen + years.” + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, they couldn't keep us there that long, man.” + </p> + <p> + “They can do anythin' they goddam please with us. We're the guys as is + gettin' the raw end of this deal. It ain't the same with an' edicated guy + like Andrews or Sergeant Coffin or them. They can suck around after 'Y' + men, an' officers an' get on the inside track, an' all we can do is stand + up an' salute an' say 'Yes, lootenant' an' 'No, lootenant' an' let 'em + ride us all they goddam please. Ain't that gospel truth, corporal?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah guess you're right, Judkie; we gits the raw end of the stick.” + </p> + <p> + “That damn yellar dawg Andrews goes to Paris an' gets schoolin' free an' + all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, Andy waren't yellar, Judkins.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why did he go bellyachin' around all the time like he knew more'n + the lootenant did?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah reckon he did,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “Anyway, you can't say that those guys who went to Paris did a goddam + thing more'n any the rest of us did.... Gawd, I ain't even had a leave + yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it ain't no use crabbin'.” + </p> + <p> + “No, onct we git home an' folks know the way we've been treated, there'll + be a great ole investigation. I can tell you that,” said one of the new + men. + </p> + <p> + “It makes you mad, though, to have something like that put over on ye.... + Think of them guys in Paris, havin' a hell of a time with wine an' women, + an' we stay out here an' clean our guns an' drill.... God, I'd like to get + even with some of them guys.” + </p> + <p> + The whistle blew. The patch of grass became unbroken green again as the + men lined up along the side of the road. + </p> + <p> + “Fall in!” called the Sergeant. + </p> + <p> + “Atten-shun!” + </p> + <p> + “Right dress!” + </p> + <p> + “Front! God, you guys haven't got no snap in yer.... Stick yer belly in, + you. You know better than to stand like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Squads, right! March! Hep, hep, hep!” + </p> + <p> + The Company tramped off along the muddy road. Their steps were all the + same length. Their arms swung in the same rhythm. Their faces were cowed + into the same expression, their thoughts were the same. The tramp, tramp + of their steps died away along the road. + </p> + <p> + Birds were singing among the budding trees. The young grass by the + roadside kept the marks of the soldiers' bodies. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART5" id="link2H_PART5"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART FIVE: THE WORLD OUTSIDE + </h2> + <p> + Andrews, and six other men from his division, sat at a table outside the + cafe opposite the Gare de l'Est. He leaned back in his chair with a cup of + coffee lifted, looking across it at the stone houses with many balconies. + Steam, scented of milk and coffee, rose from the cup as he sipped from it. + His ears were full of a rumble of traffic and a clacking of heels as + people walked briskly by along the damp pavements. For a while he did not + hear what the men he was sitting with were saying. They talked and + laughed, but he looked beyond their khaki uniforms and their boat-shaped + caps unconsciously. He was taken up with the smell of the coffee and of + the mist. A little rusty sunshine shone on the table of the cafe and on + the thin varnish of wet mud that covered the asphalt pavement. Looking + down the Avenue, away from the station, the houses, dark grey tending to + greenish in the shadow and to violet in the sun, faded into a soft haze of + distance. Dull gilt lettering glittered along black balconies. In the + foreground were men and women walking briskly, their cheeks whipped a + little into color by the rawness of the morning. The sky was a faintly + roseate grey. + </p> + <p> + Walters was speaking: + </p> + <p> + “The first thing I want to see is the Eiffel Tower.” + </p> + <p> + “Why d'you want to see that?” said the small sergeant with a black + mustache and rings round his eyes like a monkey. + </p> + <p> + “Why, man, don't you know that everything begins from the Eiffel Tower? If + it weren't for the Eiffel Tower, there wouldn't be any sky-scrapers....” + </p> + <p> + “How about the Flatiron Building and Brooklyn Bridge? They were built + before the Eiffel Tower, weren't they?” interrupted the man from New York. + </p> + <p> + “The Eiffel Tower's the first piece of complete girder construction in the + whole world,” reiterated Walters dogmatically. + </p> + <p> + “First thing I'm going to do's go to the Folies Berd-jairs; me for the + w.w.'s.” + </p> + <p> + “Better lay off the wild women, Bill,” said Walters. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't goin' to look at a woman,” said the sergeant with the black + mustache. “I guess I seen enough women in my time, anyway.... The war's + over, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “You just wait, kid, till you fasten your lamps on a real Parizianne,” + said a burly, unshaven man with a corporal's stripes on his arm, roaring + with laughter. + </p> + <p> + Andrews lost track of the talk again, staring dreamily through half-closed + eyes down the long straight street, where greens and violets and browns + merged into a bluish grey monochrome at a little distance. He wanted to be + alone, to wander at random through the city, to stare dreamily at people + and things, to talk by chance to men and women, to sink his life into the + misty sparkling life of the streets. The smell of the mist brought a + memory to his mind. For a long while he groped for it, until suddenly he + remembered his dinner with Henslowe and the faces of the boy and girl he + had talked to on the Butte. He must find Henslowe at once. A second's + fierce resentment went through him against all these people about him. + Christ! He must get away from them all; his freedom had been hard enough + won; he must enjoy it to the uttermost. + </p> + <p> + “Say, I'm going to stick to you, Andy.” Walters's voice broke into his + reverie. “I'm going to appoint you the corps of interpreters.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed. + </p> + <p> + “D'you know the way to the School Headquarters?” + </p> + <p> + “The R. T. O. said take the subway.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to walk,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “You'll get lost, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + “No danger, worse luck,” said Andrews, getting to his feet. “I'll see you + fellows at the School Headquarters, whatever those are.... So long.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, I'll wait for you there,” Walters called after him. + </p> + <p> + Andrews darted down a side street. He could hardly keep from shouting + aloud when he found himself alone, free, with days and days ahead of him + to work and think, gradually to rid his limbs of the stiff attitudes of + the automaton. The smell of the streets, and the mist, indefinably + poignant, rose like incense smoke in fantastic spirals through his brain, + making him hungry and dazzled, making his arms and legs feel lithe and as + ready for delight as a crouching cat for a spring. His heavy shoes beat + out a dance as they clattered on the wet pavements under his springy + steps. He was walking very fast, stopping suddenly now and then to look at + the greens and oranges and crimsons of vegetables in a push cart, to catch + a vista down intricate streets, to look into the rich brown obscurity of a + small wine shop where workmen stood at the counter sipping white wine. + Oval, delicate faces, bearded faces of men, slightly gaunt faces of young + women, red cheeks of boys, wrinkled faces of old women, whose ugliness + seemed to have hidden in it, stirringly, all the beauty of youth and the + tragedy of lives that had been lived; the faces of the people he passed + moved him like rhythms of an orchestra. After much walking, turning always + down the street which looked pleasantest, he came to an oval with a statue + of a pompous personage on a ramping horse. “Place des Victoires,” he read + the name, which gave him a faint tinge of amusement. He looked quizzically + at the heroic features of the sun king and walked off laughing. “I suppose + they did it better in those days, the grand manner,” he muttered. And his + delight redoubled in rubbing shoulders with the people whose effigies + would never appear astride ramping-eared horses in squares built to + commemorate victories. He came out on a broad straight avenue, where there + were many American officers he had to salute, and M. P.'s and shops with + wide plate-glass windows, full of objects that had a shiny, expensive + look. “Another case of victories,” he thought, as he went off into a side + street, taking with him a glimpse of the bluish-grey pile of the Opera, + with its pompous windows and its naked bronze ladies holding lamps. + </p> + <p> + He was in a narrow street full of hotels and fashionable barber shops, + from which came an odor of cosmopolitan perfumery, of casinos and + ballrooms and diplomatic receptions, when he noticed an American officer + coming towards him, reeling a little,—a tall, elderly man with a red + face and a bottle nose. He saluted. + </p> + <p> + The officer stopped still, swaying from side to side, and said in a + whining voice: + </p> + <p> + “Shonny, d'you know where Henry'sh Bar is?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't, Major,” said Andrews, who felt himself enveloped in an odor + of cocktails. + </p> + <p> + “You'll help me to find it, shonny, won't you?... It's dreadful not to be + able to find it.... I've got to meet Lootenant Trevors in Henry'sh Bar.” + The major steadied himself by putting a hand on Andrews' shoulder. A + civilian passed them. + </p> + <p> + “Dee-donc,” shouted the major after him, “Dee-donc, Monshier, ou ay + Henry'sh Bar?” + </p> + <p> + The man walked on without answering. + </p> + <p> + “Now isn't that like a frog, not to understand his own language?” said the + major. + </p> + <p> + “But there's Henry's Bar, right across the street,” said Andrews suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Bon, bon,” said the major. + </p> + <p> + They crossed the street and went in. At the bar the major, still clinging + to Andrews' shoulder, whispered in his ear: “I'm A. W. O. L., shee?... + Shee?.... Whole damn Air Service is A. W. O. L. Have a drink with me.... + You enlisted man? Nobody cares here.... Warsh over, Sonny.... Democracy is + shafe for the world.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews was just raising a champagne cocktail to his lips, looking with + amusement at the crowd of American officers and civilians who crowded into + the small mahogany barroom, when a voice behind him drawled out: + </p> + <p> + “I'll be damned!” + </p> + <p> + Andrews turned and saw Henslowe's brown face and small silky mustache. He + abandoned his major to his fate. + </p> + <p> + “God, I'm glad to see you.... I was afraid you hadn't been able to work + it.”...Said Henslowe slowly, stuttering a little. + </p> + <p> + “I'm about crazy, Henny, with delight. I just got in a couple of hours + ago....” Laughing, interrupting each other, they chattered in broken + sentences. + </p> + <p> + “But how in the name of everything did you get here?” + </p> + <p> + “With the major?” said Andrews, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “What the devil?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that major,” whispered Andrews in his friend's ear, “rather the + worse for wear, asked me to lead him to Henry's Bar and just fed me a + cocktail in the memory of Democracy, late defunct.... But what are you + doing here? It's not exactly... exotic.” + </p> + <p> + “I came to see a man who was going to tell me how I could get to Rumania + with the Red Cross.... But that can wait.... Let's get out of here. God, I + was afraid you hadn't made it.” + </p> + <p> + “I had to crawl on my belly and lick people's boots to do it.... God, it + was low!... But here I am.” + </p> + <p> + They were out in the street again, walking and gesticulating. + </p> + <p> + “But 'Libertad, Libertad, allons, ma femme!' as Walt Whitman would have + said,” shouted Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “It's one grand and glorious feeling.... I've been here three days. My + section's gone home; God bless them.” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you have to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Do? Nothing,” cried Henslowe. “Not a blooming bloody goddam thing! In + fact, it's no use trying... the whole thing is such a mess you couldn't do + anything if you wanted to.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go and talk to people at the Schola Cantorum.” + </p> + <p> + “There'll be time for that. You'll never make anything out of music if you + get serious-minded about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, last but not least, I've got to get some money from somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you're talking!” Henslowe pulled a burnt leather pocket book out of + the inside of his tunic. “Monaco,” he said, tapping the pocket book, which + was engraved with a pattern of dull red flowers. He pursed up his lips and + pulled out some hundred franc notes, which he pushed into Andrews's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Give me one of them,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “All or none.... They last about five minutes each.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's so damn much to pay back.” + </p> + <p> + “Pay it back—heavens!... Here take it and stop your talking. I + probably won't have it again, so you'd better make hay this time. I warn + you it'll be spent by the end of the week.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I'm dead with hunger.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's sit down on the Boulevard and think about where we'll have lunch to + celebrate Miss Libertad.... But let's not call her that, sounds like + Liverpool, Andy, a horrid place.” + </p> + <p> + “How about Freiheit?” said Andrews, as they sat down in basket chairs in + the reddish yellow sunlight. + </p> + <p> + “Treasonable... off with your head.” + </p> + <p> + “But think of it, man,” said Andrews, “the butchery's over, and you and I + and everybody else will soon be human beings again. Human; all too human!” + </p> + <p> + “No more than eighteen wars going,” muttered Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't seen any papers for an age.... How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “People are fighting to beat the cats everywhere except on the' western + front,” said Henslowe. “But that's where I come in. The Red Cross sends + supply trains to keep them at it.... I'm going to Russia if I can work + it.” + </p> + <p> + “But what about the Sorbonne?” + </p> + <p> + “The Sorbonne can go to Ballyhack.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Henny, I'm going to croak on your hands if you don't take me + somewhere to get some food.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want a solemn place with red plush or with salmon pink brocade?” + </p> + <p> + “Why have a solemn place at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Because solemnity and good food go together. It's only a religious + restaurant that has a proper devotion to the belly. O, I know, we'll go + over to Brooklyn.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “To the Rive Gauche. I know a man who insists on calling it Brooklyn. + Awfully funny man... never been sober in his life. You must meet him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I want to.... It's a dog's age since I met anyone new, except you. I + can't live without having a variegated crowd about, can you?” + </p> + <p> + “You've got that right on this boulevard. Serbs, French, English, + Americans, Australians, Rumanians, Tcheco-Slovaks; God, is there any + uniform that isn't here?... I tell you, Andy, the war's been a great thing + for the people who knew how to take advantage of it. Just look at their + puttees.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess they'll know how to make a good thing of the Peace too.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's going to be the best yet.... Come along. Let's be little + devils and take a taxi.” + </p> + <p> + “This certainly is the main street of Cosmopolis.” + </p> + <p> + They threaded their way through the crowd, full of uniforms and glitter + and bright colors, that moved in two streams up and down the wide sidewalk + between the cafes and the boles of the bare trees. They climbed into a + taxi, and lurched fast through streets where, in the misty sunlight, + grey-green and grey-violet mingled with blues and pale lights as the + colors mingle in a pigeon's breast feathers. They passed the leafless + gardens of the Tuileries on one side, and the great inner Courts of the + Louvre, with their purple mansard roofs and their high chimneys on the + other, and saw for a second the river, dull jade green, and the plane + trees splotched with brown and cream color along the quais, before they + were lost in the narrow brownish-grey streets of the old quarters. + </p> + <p> + “This is Paris; that was Cosmopolis,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not particular, just at present,” cried Andrews gaily. + </p> + <p> + The square in front of the Odeon was a splash of white and the collonade a + blur of darkness as the cab swerved round the corner and along the edge of + the Luxembourg, where, through the black iron fence, many brown and + reddish colors in the intricate patterns of leafless twigs opened here and + there on statues and balustrades and vistas of misty distances. The cab + stopped with a jerk. + </p> + <p> + “This is the Place des Medicis,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + At the end of a slanting street looking very flat, through the haze, was + the dome of the Pantheon. In the middle of the square between the yellow + trams and the green low busses, was a quiet pool, where the shadow of + horizontals of the house fronts was reflected. + </p> + <p> + They sat beside the window looking out at the square. + </p> + <p> + Henslowe ordered. + </p> + <p> + “Remember how sentimental history books used to talk about prisoners who + were let out after years in dungeons, not being able to stand it, and + going back to their cells?” + </p> + <p> + “D'you like sole meuniere?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything, or rather everything! But take it from me, that's all rubbish. + Honestly I don't think I've ever been happier in my life.... D'you know, + Henslowe, there's something in you that is afraid to be happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be morbid.... There's only one real evil in the world: being + somewhere without being able to get away;... I ordered beer. This is the + only place in Paris where it's fit to drink.” + </p> + <p> + “And I'm going to every blooming concert...Colonne-Lamoureux on Sunday, I + know that.... The only evil in the world is not to be able to hear music + or to make it.... These oysters are fit for Lucullus.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not say fit for John Andrews and Bob Henslowe, damn it?... Why the + ghosts of poor old dead Romans should be dragged in every time a man eats + an oyster, I don't see. We're as fine specimens as they were. I swear I + shan't let any old turned-toclay Lucullus outlive me, even if I've never + eaten a lamprey.” + </p> + <p> + “And why should you eat a lamp—chimney, Bob?” came a hoarse voice + beside them. + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked up into a round, white face with large grey eyes hidden + behind thick steel-rimmed spectacles. Except for the eyes, the face had a + vaguely Chinese air. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Heinz! Mr. Andrews, Mr. Heineman,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “Glad to meet you,” said Heineman in a jovially hoarse voice. “You guys + seem to be overeating, to reckon by the way things are piled up on the + table.” Through the hoarseness Andrews could detect a faint Yankee tang in + Heineman's voice. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better sit down and help us,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “Sure....D'you know my name for this guy?” He turned to Andrews.... + “Sinbad!” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Sinbad was in bad in Tokio and Rome, In bad in Trinidad + And twice as bad at home.” + </pre> + <p> + He sang the words loudly, waving a bread stick to keep time. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Heinz, or you'll get us run out of here the way you got us run + out of the Olympia that night.” + </p> + <p> + They both laughed. + </p> + <p> + “An' d'you remember Monsieur Le Guy with his coat? + </p> + <p> + “Do I? God!” They laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks. Heineman + took off his glasses and wiped them. He turned to Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Paris is the best yet. First absurdity: the Peace Conference and its + nine hundred and ninety-nine branches. Second absurdity: spies. Third: + American officers A.W.O.L. Fourth: The seven sisters sworn to slay.” He + broke out laughing again, his chunky body rolling about on the chair. + </p> + <p> + “What are they?” + </p> + <p> + “Three of them have sworn to slay Sinbad, and four of them have sworn to + slay me.... But that's too complicated to tell at lunch time.... Eighth: + there are the lady relievers, Sinbad's specialty. Ninth: there's + Sinbad....” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Heinz, you're getting me maudlin,” spluttered Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “O Sinbad was in bad all around,” chanted Heineman. “But no one's given me + anything to drink,” he said suddenly in a petulant voice. “Garcon, une + bouteille de Macon, pour un Cadet de Gascogne.... What's the next? It ends + with vergogne. You've seen the play, haven't you? Greatest play going.... + Seen it twice sober and seven other times.” + </p> + <p> + “Cyrano de Bergerac?” + </p> + <p> + “That's it. Nous sommes les Cadets de Gasgogne, rhymes with ivrogne and + sans vergogne.... You see I work in the Red Cross.... You know Sinbad, old + Peterson's a brick.... I'm supposed to be taking photographs of tubercular + children at this minute.... The noblest of my professions is that of + artistic photographer.... Borrowed the photographs from the rickets man. + So I have nothing to do for three months and five hundred francs + travelling expenses. Oh, children, my only prayer is 'give us this day our + red worker's permit' and the Red Cross does the rest.” Heineman laughed + till the glasses rang on the table. He took off his glasses and wiped them + with a rueful air. + </p> + <p> + “So now I call the Red Cross the Cadets!” cried Heineman, his voice a thin + shriek from laughter. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was drinking his coffee in little sips, looking out of the window + at the people that passed. An old woman with a stand of flowers sat on a + small cane chair at the corner. The pink and yellow and blue-violet shades + of the flowers seemed to intensify the misty straw color and azured grey + of the wintry sun and shadow of the streets. A girl in a tight-fitting + black dress and black hat stopped at the stand to buy a bunch of pale + yellow daisies, and then walked slowly past the window of the restaurant + in the direction of the gardens. Her ivory face and slender body and her + very dark eyes sent a sudden flush through Andrews's whole frame as he + looked at her. The black erect figure disappeared in the gate of the + gardens. + </p> + <p> + Andrews got to his feet suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I've got to go,” he said in a strange voice.... “I just remember a man + was waiting for me at the School Headquarters.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you haven't had a liqueur yet,” cried Heineman. + </p> + <p> + “No... but where can I meet you people later?” + </p> + <p> + “Cafe de Rohan at five... opposite the Palais Royal.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll never find it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes I will,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Palais Royal metro station,” they shouted after him as he dashed out of + the door. + </p> + <p> + He hurried into the gardens. Many people sat on benches in the frail + sunlight. Children in bright-colored clothes ran about chasing hoops. A + woman paraded a bunch of toy balloons in carmine and green and purple, + like a huge bunch of parti-colored grapes inverted above her head. Andrews + walked up and down the alleys, scanning faces. The girl had disappeared. + He leaned against a grey balustrade and looked down into the empty pond + where traces of the explosion of a Bertha still subsisted. He was telling + himself that he was a fool. That even if he had found her he could not + have spoken to her; just because he was free for a day or two from the + army he needn't think the age of gold had come back to earth. Smiling at + the thought, he walked across the gardens, wandered through some streets + of old houses in grey and white stucco with slate mansard roofs and + fantastic complications of chimney-pots till he came out in front of a + church with a new classic facade of huge columns that seemed toppling by + their own weight. + </p> + <p> + He asked a woman selling newspapers what the church's name was. “Mais, + Monsieur, c'est Saint Sulpice,” said the woman in a surprised tone. + </p> + <p> + Saint Sulpice. Manon's songs came to his head, and the sentimental + melancholy of eighteenth century Paris with its gambling houses in the + Palais Royal where people dishonored themselves in the presence of their + stern Catonian fathers, and its billets doux written at little gilt + tables, and its coaches lumbering in covered with mud from the provinces + through the Porte d'Orleans and the Porte de Versailles; the Paris of + Diderot and Voltaire and Jean-Jacques, with its muddy streets and its + ordinaries where one ate bisques and larded pullets and souffles; a Paris + full of mouldy gilt magnificence, full of pompous ennui of the past and + insane hope of the future. + </p> + <p> + He walked down a narrow, smoky street full of antique shops and old + bookshops and came out unexpectedly on the river opposite the statue of + Voltaire. The name on the corner was quai Malaquais. Andrews crossed and + looked down for a long time at the river. Opposite, behind a lace-work of + leafless trees, were the purplish roofs of the Louvre with their high + peaks and their ranks and ranks of chimneys; behind him the old houses of + the quai and the wing, topped by a balustrade with great grey stone urns + of a domed building of which he did not know the name. Barges were coming + upstream, the dense green water spuming under their blunt bows, towed by a + little black tugboat with its chimney bent back to pass under the bridges. + The tug gave a thin shrill whistle. Andrews started walking downstream. He + crossed by the bridge at the corner of the Louvre, turned his back on the + arch Napoleon built to receive the famous horses from St. Marc's,—a + pinkish pastry-like affair—and walked through the Tuileries which + were full of people strolling about or sitting in the sun, of doll-like + children and nursemaids with elaborate white caps, of fluffy little dogs + straining at the ends of leashes. Suddenly a peaceful sleepiness came over + him. He sat down in the sun on a bench, watching, hardly seeing them, the + people who passed to and fro casting long shadows. Voices and laughter + came very softly to his ears above the distant stridency of traffic. From + far away he heard for a few moments notes of a military band playing a + march. The shadows of the trees were faint blue-grey in the ruddy yellow + gravel. Shadows of people kept passing and repassing across them. He felt + very languid and happy. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he started up; he had been dozing. He asked an old man with a + beautifully pointed white beard the way to rue du Faubourg St. Honore. + </p> + <p> + After losing his way a couple of times, he walked listlessly up some + marble steps where a great many men in khaki were talking. Leaning against + the doorpost was Walters. As he drew near Andrews heard him saying to the + man next to him: + </p> + <p> + “Why, the Eiffel tower was the first piece of complete girder construction + ever built.... That's the first thing a feller who's wide awake ought to + see.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me the Opery's the grandest thing to look at,” said the man next it. + </p> + <p> + “If there's wine an' women there, me for it.” + </p> + <p> + “An' don't forget the song.” + </p> + <p> + “But that isn't interesting like the Eiffel tower is,” persisted Walters. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Walters, I hope you haven't been waiting for me,” stammered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “No, I've been waiting in line to see the guy about courses.... I want to + start this thing right.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I'll see them tomorrow,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Say have you done anything about a room, Andy? Let's you and me be + bunkies.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.... But maybe you won't want to room where I do, Walters.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's that? In the Latin Quarter?... You bet. I want to see some French + life while I am about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's too late to get a room to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to the 'Y' tonight anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll get a fellow I know to put me up.... Then tomorrow, we'll see. Well, + so long,” said Andrews, moving away. + </p> + <p> + “Wait. I'm coming with you.... We'll walk around town together.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + The rabbit was rather formless, very fluffy and had a glance of madness in + its pink eye with a black center. It hopped like a sparrow along the + pavement, emitting a rubber tube from its back, which went up to a bulb in + a man's hand which the man pressed to make the rabbit hop. Yet the rabbit + had an air of organic completeness. Andrews laughed inordinately when he + first saw it. The vendor, who had a basket full of other such rabbits on + his arm, saw Andrews laughing and drew timidly near to the table; he had a + pink face with little, sensitive lips rather like a real rabbit's, and + large frightened eyes of a wan brown. + </p> + <p> + “Do you make them yourself?” asked Andrews, smiling. + </p> + <p> + The man dropped his rabbit on the table with a negligent air. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oui, Monsieur, d'apres la nature.” + </p> + <p> + He made the rabbit turn a somersault by suddenly pressing the bulb hard. + Andrews laughed and the rabbit man laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Think of a big strong man making his living that way,” said Walters, + disgusted. + </p> + <p> + “I do it all... de matiere premiere au profit de l'accapareur,” said the + rabbit man. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Andy... late as hell.... I'm sorry,” said Henslowe, dropping down + into a chair beside them. Andrews introduced Walters, the rabbit man took + off his hat, bowed to the company and went off, making the rabbit hop + before him along the edge of the curbstone. + </p> + <p> + “What's happened to Heineman?” + </p> + <p> + “Here he comes now,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + An open cab had driven up to the curb in front of the cafe. In it sat + Heineman with a broad grin on his face and beside him a woman in a + salmon-colored dress, ermine furs and an emerald-green hat. The cab drove + off and Heineman, still grinning, walked up to the table. + </p> + <p> + “Where's the lion cub?” asked Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “They say it's got pneumonia.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Heineman. Mr. Walters.” + </p> + <p> + The grin left Heineman's face; he said: “How do you do?” curtly, cast a + furious glance at Andrews and settled himself in a chair. + </p> + <p> + The sun had set. The sky was full of lilac and bright purple and carmine. + Among the deep blue shadows lights were coming on, primrose-colored street + lamps, violet arc lights, ruddy sheets of light poured out of shop + windows. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go inside. I'm cold as hell,” said Heineman crossly, and they filed + in through the revolving door, followed by a waiter with their drinks. + </p> + <p> + “I've been in the Red Cross all afternoon, Andy.... I think I am going to + work that Roumania business.... Want to come?” said Henslowe in Andrews' + ear. + </p> + <p> + “If I can get hold of a piano and some lessons and the concerts keep up + you won't be able to get me away from Paris with wild horses. No, sir, I + want to see what Paris is like.... It's going to my head so it'll be weeks + before I know what I think about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't think about it.... Drink,” growled Heineman, scowling savagely. + </p> + <p> + “That's two things I'm going to keep away from in Paris; drink and + women.... And you can't have one without the other,” said Walters. + </p> + <p> + “True enough.... You sure do need them both,” said Heineman. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was not listening to their talk; twirling the stem of his glass of + vermouth in his fingers, he was thinking of the Queen of Sheba slipping + down from off the shoulders of her elephant, glistening fantastically with + jewels in the light of crackling, resinous torches. Music was seeping up + through his mind as the water seeps into a hole dug in the sand of the + seashore. He could feel all through his body the tension of rhythms and + phrases taking form, not quite to be seized as yet, still hovering on the + borderland of consciousness. “From the girl at the cross-roads singing + under her street-lamp to the patrician pulling roses to pieces from the + height of her litter....All the imaginings of your desire....” He thought + of the girl with skin like old ivory he had seen in the Place de Medicis. + The Queen of Sheba's face was like that now in his imaginings, quiet and + inscrutable. A sudden cymbal-clanging of joy made his heart thump hard. He + was free now of the imaginings of his desire, to loll all day at cafe + tables watching the tables move in changing patterns before him, to fill + his mind and body with a reverberation of all the rhythms of men and women + moving in the frieze of life before his eyes; no more like wooden + automatons knowing only the motions of the drill manual, but supple and + varied, full of force and tragedy. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake let's beat it from here.... Gives me a pain this place + does.” Heineman beat his fist on the table. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Andrews, getting up with a yawn. + </p> + <p> + Henslowe and Andrews walked off, leaving Walters to follow them with + Heineman. + </p> + <p> + “We're going to dine at Le Rat qui Danse,” said Henslowe, “an awfully + funny place.... We just have time to walk there comfortably with an + appetite.” + </p> + <p> + They followed the long dimly-lighted Rue de Richelieu to the Boulevards, + where they drifted a little while with the crowd. The glaring lights + seemed to powder the air with gold. Cafes and the tables outside were + crowded. There was an odor of vermouth and coffee and perfume and + cigarette smoke mixed with the fumes of burnt gasoline from taxicabs. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't this mad?” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “It's always carnival at seven on the Grands Boulevards.” + </p> + <p> + They started climbing the steep streets to Montmartre. At a corner they + passed a hard-faced girl with rouge-smeared lips and overpowdered cheeks, + laughing on the arm of an American soldier, who had a sallow face and + dull-green eyes that glittered in the slanting light of a street-lamp. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Stein,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” + </p> + <p> + “A fellow from our division, got here with me this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “He's got curious lips for a Jew,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + At the fork of two slanting streets, they went into a restaurant that had + small windows pasted over with red paper, through which the light came + dimly. Inside were crowded oak tables and oak wainscoting with a shelf + round the top, on which were shell-cans, a couple of skulls, several + cracked majolica plates and a number of stuffed rats. The only people + there were a fat woman and a man with long grey hair and beard who sat + talking earnestly over two small glasses in the center of the room. A + husky-looking waitress with a Dutch cap and apron hovered near the inner + door from which came a great smell of fish frying in olive oil. + </p> + <p> + “The cook here's from Marseilles,” said Henslowe, as they settled + themselves at a table for four. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if the rest of them lost the way,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “More likely old Heinz stopped to have a drink,” said Henslowe. “Let's + have some hors d'oeuvre while we are waiting.” + </p> + <p> + The waitress brought a collection of boat-shaped plates of red salads and + yellow salads and green salads and two little wooden tubs with herrings + and anchovies. + </p> + <p> + Henslowe stopped her as she was going, saying: “Rien de plus?” + </p> + <p> + The waitress contemplated the array with a tragic air, her arms folded + over her ample bosom. “Que voulez-vous, Monsieur, c'est l'armistice.” + </p> + <p> + “The greatest fake about all this war business is the peace. I tell you, + not till the hors d'oeuvre has been restored to its proper abundance and + variety will I admit that the war's over.” + </p> + <p> + The waitress tittered. + </p> + <p> + “Things aren't what they used to be,” she said, going back to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Heineman burst into the restaurant at that moment, slamming the door + behind him so that the glass rang, and the fat woman and the hairy man + started violently in their chairs. He tumbled into a place, grinning + broadly. + </p> + <p> + “And what have you done to Walters?” + </p> + <p> + Heineman wiped his glasses meticulously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he died of drinking raspberry shrub,” he said.... “Dee-dong peteet du + ving de Bourgogne,” he shouted towards the waitress in his nasal French. + Then he added: “Le Guy is coming in a minute, I just met him.” + </p> + <p> + The restaurant was gradually filling up with men and women of very various + costumes, with a good sprinkling of Americans in uniform and out. + </p> + <p> + “God I hate people who don't drink,” cried Heineman, pouring out wine. “A + man who don't drink just cumbers the earth.” + </p> + <p> + “How are you going to take it in America when they have prohibition?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk about it; here's le Guy. I wouldn't have him know I belong to + a nation that prohibits good liquor.... Monsieur le Guy, Monsieur Henslowe + et Monsieur Andrews,” he continued getting up ceremoniously. A little man + with twirled mustaches and a small vandyke beard sat down at the fourth + place. He had a faintly red nose and little twinkling eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How glad I am,” he said, exposing his starched cuffs with a curious + gesture, “to have some one to dine with! When one begins to get old + loneliness is impossible. It is only youth that dares think.... Afterwards + one has only one thing to think about: old age.” + </p> + <p> + “There's always work,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Slavery. Any work is slavery. What is the use of freeing your intellect + if you sell yourself again to the first bidder?” + </p> + <p> + “Rot!” said Heineman, pouring out from a new bottle. + </p> + <p> + Andrews had begun to notice the girl who sat at the next table, in front + of a pale young soldier in French-blue who resembled her extraordinarily. + She had high cheek bones and a forehead in which the modelling of the + skull showed through the transparent, faintly-olive skin. Her heavy + chestnut hair was coiled carelessly at the back of her head. She spoke + very quietly, and pressed her lips together when she smiled. She ate + quickly and neatly, like a cat. + </p> + <p> + The restaurant had gradually filled up with people. The waitress and the + patron, a fat man with a wide red sash coiled tightly round his waist, + moved with difficulty among the crowded tables. A woman at a table in the + corner, with dead white skin and drugged staring eyes, kept laughing + hoarsely, leaning her head, in a hat with bedraggled white plumes, against + the wall. There was a constant jingle of plates and glasses, and an oily + fume of food and women's clothes and wine. + </p> + <p> + “D'you want to know what I really did with your friend?” said Heineman, + leaning towards Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you didn't push him into the Seine.” + </p> + <p> + “It was damn impolite.... But hell, it was damn impolite of him not to + drink.... No use wasting time with a man who don't drink. I took him into + a cafe and asked him to wait while I telephoned. I guess he's still + waiting. One of the whoreiest cafes on the whole Boulevard Clichy.” + Heineman laughed uproariously and started explaining it in nasal French to + M. le Guy. + </p> + <p> + Andrews flushed with annoyance for a moment, but soon started laughing. + Heineman had started singing again. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, Sinbad was in bad in Tokio and Rome, + In bad in Trinidad + And twice as bad at home, + O, Sinbad was in bad all around!” + </pre> + <p> + Everybody clapped. The white-faced woman in the corner cried “Bravo, + Bravo,” in a shrill nightmare voice. + </p> + <p> + Heineman bowed, his big grinning face bobbing up and down like the face of + a Chinese figure in porcelain. + </p> + <p> + “Lui est Sinbad,” he cried, pointing with a wide gesture towards Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “Give 'em some more, Heinz. Give them some more,” said Henslowe, laughing. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Big brunettes with long stelets + On the shores of Italee, + Dutch girls with golden curls + Beside the Zuyder Zee...” + </pre> + <p> + Everybody cheered again; Andrews kept looking at the girl at the next + table, whose face was red from laughter. She had a handkerchief pressed to + her mouth, and kept saying in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + “O qu'il est drole, celui-la.... O qu'il est drole.” + </p> + <p> + Heineman picked up a glass and waved it in the air before drinking it off. + Several people got up and filled it up from their bottles with white wine + and red. The French soldier at the next table pulled an army canteen from + under his chair and hung it round Heineman's neck. + </p> + <p> + Heineman, his face crimson, bowed to all sides, more like a Chinese + porcelain figure than ever, and started singing in all solemnity this + time. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hulas and hulas would pucker up their lips, + He fell for their ball-bearing hips + For they were pips...” + </pre> + <p> + His chunky body swayed to the ragtime. The woman in the corner kept time + with long white arms raised above her head. + </p> + <p> + “Bet she's a snake charmer,” said Henslowe. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, wild woman loved that child + He would drive ten women wild! + O, Sinbad was in bad all around!” + </pre> + <p> + Heineman waved his arms, pointed again to Henslowe, and sank into his + chair saying in the tones of a Shakespearean actor: + </p> + <p> + “C'est lui Sinbad.” + </p> + <p> + The girl hid her face on the tablecloth, shaken with laughter. Andrews + could hear a convulsed little voice saying: + </p> + <p> + “O qu'il est rigolo....” + </p> + <p> + Heineman took off the canteen and handed it back to the French soldier. + </p> + <p> + “Merci, Camarade,” he said solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “Eh bien, Jeanne, c'est temps de ficher le camp,” said the French soldier + to the girl. They got up. He shook hands with the Americans. Andrews + caught the girl's eye and they both started laughing convulsively again. + Andrews noticed how erect and supple she walked as his eyes followed her + to the door. + </p> + <p> + Andrews's party followed soon after. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to hurry if we want to get to the Lapin Agile before closing... + and I've got to have a drink,” said Heineman, still talking in his stagey + Shakespearean voice. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever been on the stage?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “What stage, sir? I'm in the last stages now, sir.... I am an artistic + photographer and none other.... Moki and I are going into the movies + together when they decide to have peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's Moki?” + </p> + <p> + “Moki Hadj is the lady in the salmon-colored dress,” said Henslowe, in a + loud stage whisper in Andrews's ear. “They have a lion cub named Bubu.” + </p> + <p> + “Our first born,” said Heineman with a wave of the hand. + </p> + <p> + The streets were deserted. A thin ray of moonlight, bursting now and then + through the heavy clouds, lit up low houses and roughly-cobbled streets + and the flights of steps with rare dim lamps bracketed in house walls that + led up to the Butte. + </p> + <p> + There was a gendarme in front of the door of the Lapin Agile. The street + was still full of groups that had just come out, American officers and + Y.M.C.A, women with a sprinkling of the inhabitants of the region. + </p> + <p> + “Now look, we're late,” groaned Heineman in a tearful voice. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Heinz,” said Henslowe, “le Guy'll take us to see de + Clocheville like he did last time, n'est pas, le Guy?” Then Andrews heard + him add, talking to a man he had not seen before, “Come along Aubrey, I'll + introduce you later.” + </p> + <p> + They climbed further up the hill. There was a scent of wet gardens in the + air, entirely silent except for the clatter of their feet on the cobbles. + Heineman was dancing a sort of a jig at the head of the procession. They + stopped before a tall cadaverous house and started climbing a rickety + wooden stairway. + </p> + <p> + “Talk about inside dope.... I got this from a man who's actually in the + room when the Peace Conference meets.” Andrews heard Aubrey's voice with a + Chicago burr in the r's behind him in the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Fine, let's hear it,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “Did you say the Peace Conference took dope?” shouted Heineman, whose + puffing could be heard as he climbed the dark stairs ahead of them. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Heinz.” + </p> + <p> + They stumbled over a raised doorstep into a large garret room with a tile + floor, where a tall lean man in a monastic-looking dressing gown of some + brown material received them. The only candle made all their shadows dance + fantastically on the slanting white walls as they moved about. One side of + the room had three big windows, with an occasional cracked pane mended + with newspaper, stretching from floor to ceiling. In front of them were + two couches with rugs piled on them. On the opposite wall was a confused + mass of canvases piled one against the other, leaning helter skelter + against the slanting wall of the room. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “C'est le bon vin, le bon vin, + C'est la chanson du vin.” + </pre> + <p> + chanted Heineman. Everybody settled themselves on couches. The lanky man + in the brown dressing gown brought a table out of the shadow, put some + black bottles and heavy glasses on it, and drew up a camp stool for + himself. + </p> + <p> + “He lives that way.... They say he never goes out. Stays here and paints, + and when friends come in, he feeds them wine and charges them double,” + said Henslowe. “That's how he lives.” + </p> + <p> + The lanky man began taking bits of candle out of a drawer of the table and + lighting them. Andrews saw that his feet and legs were bare below the + frayed edge of the dressing gown. The candle light lit up the men's + flushed faces and the crude banana yellows and arsenic greens of the + canvases along the walls, against which jars full of paint brushes cast + blurred shadows. + </p> + <p> + “I was going to tell you, Henny,” said Aubrey, “the dope is that the + President's going to leave the conference, going to call them all damn + blackguards to their faces and walk out, with the band playing the + 'Internationale.'” + </p> + <p> + “God, that's news,” cried Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “If he does that he'll recognize the Soviets,” said Henslowe. “Me for the + first Red Cross Mission that goes to save starving Russia.... Gee, that's + great. I'll write you a postal from Moscow, Andy, if they haven't been + abolished as delusions of the bourgeoisie.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, no.... I've got five hundred dollars' worth of Russian bonds that + girl Vera gave me.... But worth five million, ten million, fifty million + if the Czar gets back.... I'm backing the little white father,” cried + Heineman. “Anyway Moki says he's alive; that Savaroffs got him locked up + in a suite in the Ritz.... And Moki knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Moki knows a damn lot, I'll admit that,” said Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “But just think of it,” said Aubrey, “that means world revolution with the + United States at the head of it. What do you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Moki doesn't think so,” said Heineman. “And Moki knows.” + </p> + <p> + “She just knows what a lot of reactionary warlords tell her,” said Aubrey. + “This man I was talking with at the Crillon—I wish I could tell you + his name—heard it directly from...Well, you know who.” He turned to + Henslowe, who smiled knowingly. “There's a mission in Russia at this + minute making peace with Lenin.” + </p> + <p> + “A goddam outrage!” cried Heineman, knocking a bottle off the table. The + lanky man picked up the pieces patiently, without comment. + </p> + <p> + “The new era is opening, men, I swear it is...” began Aubrey. “The old + order is dissolving. It is going down under a weight of misery and + crime.... This will be the first great gesture towards a newer and better + world. There is no alternative. The chance will never come back. It is + either for us to step courageously forward, or sink into unbelievable + horrors of anarchy and civil war.... Peace or the dark ages again.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews had felt for some time an uncontrollable sleepiness coming over + him. He rolled himself on a rug and stretched out on the empty couch. The + voices arguing, wrangling, enunciating emphatic phrases, dinned for a + minute in his ears. He went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + When Andrews woke up he found himself staring at the cracked plaster of an + unfamiliar ceiling. For some moments he could not guess where he was. + Henslowe was sleeping, wrapped in another rug, on the couch beside him. + Except for Henslowe's breathing, there was complete silence. Floods of + silvery-grey light poured in through the wide windows, behind which + Andrews could see a sky full of bright dove-colored clouds. He sat up + carefully. Some time in the night he must have taken off his tunic and + boots and puttees, which were on the floor beside the couch. The tables + with the bottles had gone and the lanky man was nowhere to be seen. + </p> + <p> + Andrews went to the window in his stockinged feet. Paris way a slate-grey + and dove-color lay spread out like a Turkish carpet, with a silvery band + of mist where the river was, out of which the Eiffel Tower stood up like a + man wading. Here and there blue smoke and brown spiralled up to lose + itself in the faint canopy of brown fog that hung high above the houses. + Andrews stood a long while leaning against the window frame, until he + heard Henslowe's voice behind him: + </p> + <p> + “Depuis le jour ou je me suis donnee.” + </p> + <p> + “You look like 'Louise.'” + </p> + <p> + Andrews turned round. + </p> + <p> + Henslowe was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hair in disorder, + combing his little silky mustache with a pocket comb. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, I have a head,” he said. “My tongue feels like a nutmeg grater.... + Doesn't yours?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I feel like a fighting cock.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you say we go down to the Seine and have a bath in Benny + Franklin's bathtub?” + </p> + <p> + “Where's that? It sounds grand.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we'll have the biggest breakfast ever.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the right spirit.... Where's everybody gone to?” + </p> + <p> + “Old Heinz has gone to his Moki, I guess, and Aubrey's gone to collect + more dope at the Crillon. He says four in the morning when the drunks come + home is the prime time for a newspaper man.” + </p> + <p> + “And the Monkish man?” + </p> + <p> + “Search me.” + </p> + <p> + The streets were full of men and girls hurrying to work. Everything + sparkled, had an air of being just scrubbed. They passed bakeries from + which came a rich smell of fresh-baked bread. From cafes came whiffs of + roasting coffee. They crossed through the markets that were full of heavy + carts lumbering to and fro, and women with net bags full of vegetables. + There was a pungent scent of crushed cabbage leaves and carrots and wet + clay. The mist was raw and biting along the quais, and made the blood come + into their cheeks and their hands stiff with cold. + </p> + <p> + The bathhouse was a huge barge with a house built on it in a lozenge + shape. They crossed to it by a little gangplank on which were a few + geraniums in pots. The attendant gave them two rooms side by side on the + lower deck, painted grey, with steamed over windows, through which Andrews + caught glimpses of hurrying green water. He stripped his clothes off + quickly. The tub was of copper varnished with some white metal inside. The + water flowed in through two copper swans' necks. When Andrews stepped into + the hot green water, a little window in the partition flew open and + Henslowe shouted in to him: + </p> + <p> + “Talk about modern conveniences. You can converse while you bathe!” + </p> + <p> + Andrews scrubbed himself jauntily with a square piece of pink soap, + splashing the water about like a small boy. He stood up and lathered + himself all over and then let himself slide into the water, which splashed + out over the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you're a performing seal?” shouted Henslowe. + </p> + <p> + “It's all so preposterous,” cried Andrews, going off into convulsions of + laughter. “She has a lion cub named Bubu and Nicolas Romanoff lives in the + Ritz, and the Revolution is scheduled for day after tomorrow at twelve + noon.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd put it about the first of May,” answered Henslowe, amid a sound of + splashing. “Gee, it'd be great to be a people's Commissary.... You could + go and revolute the grand Llama of Thibet.” + </p> + <p> + “O, it's too deliciously preposterous,” cried Andrews, letting himself + slide a second time into the bathtub. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> + <p> + Two M.P.'s passed outside the window. Andrews watched the yellow pigskin + revolver cases until they were out of sight. He felt joyfully secure from + them. The waiter, standing by the door with a napkin on his arm, gave him + a sense of security so intense it made him laugh. On the marble table + before him were a small glass of beer, a notebook full of ruled sheets of + paper and a couple of yellow pencils. The beer, the color of topaz in the + clear grey light that streamed in through the window, threw a pale yellow + glow with a bright center on the table. Outside was the boulevard with a + few people walking hurriedly. An empty market wagon passed now and then, + rumbling loud. On a bench a woman in a black knitted shawl, with a bundle + of newspapers in her knees, was counting sous with loving concentration. + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked at his watch. He had an hour before going to the Schola + Cantorum. + </p> + <p> + He got to his feet, paid the waiter and strolled down the center of the + boulevard, thinking smilingly of pages he had written, of pages he was + going to write, filled with a sense of leisurely well-being. It was a grey + morning with a little yellowish fog in the air. The pavements were damp, + reflected women's dresses and men's legs and the angular outlines of + taxicabs. From a flower stand with violets and red and pink carnations + irregular blotches of color ran down into the brownish grey of the + pavement. Andrews caught a faint smell of violets in the smell of the fog + as he passed the flower stand and remembered suddenly that spring was + coming. He would not miss a moment of this spring, he told himself; he + would follow it step by step, from the first violets. Oh, how fully he + must live now to make up for all the years he had wasted in his life. + </p> + <p> + He kept on walking along the boulevard. He was remembering how he and the + girl the soldier had called Jeanne had both kindled with uncontrollable + laughter when their eyes had met that night in the restaurant. He wished + he could go down the boulevard with a girl like that, laughing through the + foggy morning. + </p> + <p> + He wondered vaguely what part of Paris he was getting to, but was too + happy to care. How beautifully long the hours were in the early morning! + </p> + <p> + At a concert at the Salle Gaveau the day before he had heard Debussy's + Nocturnes and Les Sirenes. Rhythms from them were the warp of all his + thoughts. Against the background of the grey street and the brownish fog + that hung a veil at the end of every vista he began to imagine rhythms of + his own, modulations and phrases that grew brilliant and faded, that + flapped for a while like gaudy banners above his head through the clatter + of the street. + </p> + <p> + He noticed that he was passing a long building with blank rows of windows, + at the central door of which stood groups of American soldiers smoking. + Unconsciously he hastened his steps, for fear of meeting an officer he + would have to salute. He passed the men without looking at them. + </p> + <p> + A voice detained him. “Say, Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + When he turned he saw that a short man with curly hair, whose face, though + familiar, he could not place, had left the group at the door and was + coming towards him. “Hello, Andrews.... Your name's Andrews, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Andrews shook his hand, trying to remember. + </p> + <p> + “I'm Fuselli.... Remember? Last time I saw you you was goin' up to the + lines on a train with Chrisfield.... Chris we used to call him.... At + Cosne, don't you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what's happened to Chris?” + </p> + <p> + “He's a corporal now,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Gee he is.... I'll be goddamned.... They was goin' to make me a corporal + once.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli wore stained olive-drab breeches and badly rolled puttees; his + shirt was open at the neck. From his blue denim jacket came a smell of + stale grease that Andrews recognised; the smell of army kitchens. He had a + momentary recollection of standing in line cold dark mornings and of the + sound the food made slopping into mess kits. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't they make you a corporal, Fuselli?” Andrcws said, after a + pause, in a constrained voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hell, I got in wrong, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + They were leaning against the dusty house wall. Andrews looked at his + feet. The mud of the pavement, splashing up on the wall, made an even dado + along the bottom, on which Andrews scraped the toe of his shoe up and + down. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how's everything?” Andrews asked looking up suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I've been in a labor battalion. That's how everything is.” + </p> + <p> + “God, that's tough luck!” + </p> + <p> + Andrews wanted to go on. He had a sudden fear that he would be late. But + he did not know how to break away. + </p> + <p> + “I got sick,” said Fuselli grinning. “I guess I am yet, G. O. 42. It's a + hell of a note the way they treat a feller... like he was lower than the + dirt.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you at Cosne all the time? That's damned rough luck, Fuselli.” + </p> + <p> + “Cosne sure is a hell of a hole.... I guess you saw a lot of fighting. + God! you must have been glad not to be in the goddam medics.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know that I'm glad I saw fighting.... Oh, yes, I suppose I am.” + </p> + <p> + “You see, I had it a hell of a time before they found out. Courtmartial + was damn stiff... after the armistice too.... Oh, God! why can't they let + a feller go home?” + </p> + <p> + A woman in a bright blue hat passed them. Andrews caught a glimpse of a + white over-powdered face; her hips trembled like jelly under the blue + skirt with each hard clack of her high heels on the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, that looks like Jenny.... I'm glad she didn't see me....” Fuselli + laughed. “Ought to 'a seen her one night last week. We were so dead drunk + we just couldn't move.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that bad for what's the matter with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't give a damn now; what's the use?” + </p> + <p> + “But God; man!” Andrews stopped himself suddenly. Then he said in a + different voice, “What outfit are you in now?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm on the permanent K.P. here,” Fuselli jerked his thumb towards the + door of the building. “Not a bad job, off two days a week; no drill, good + eats.... At least you get all you want.... But it surely has been hell + emptying ash cans and shovelling coal an' now all they've done is dry me + up.” + </p> + <p> + “But you'll be goin' home soon now, won't you? They can't discharge you + till they cure you.” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know.... Some guys say a guy never can be cured....” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you find K.P. work pretty damn dull?” + </p> + <p> + “No worse than anything else. What are you doin' in Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “School detachment.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “Men who wanted to study in the university, who managed to work it.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee, I'm glad I ain't goin' to school again.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, so long, Fuselli.” + </p> + <p> + “So long, Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + Fuselli turned and slouched back to the group of men at the door. Andrews + hurried away. As he turned the corner he had a glimpse of Fuselli with his + hands in his pockets and his legs crossed leaning against the wall behind + the door of the barracks. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> + <p> + The darkness, where the rain fell through the vague halos of light round + the street lamps, glittered with streaks of pale gold. Andrews's ears were + full of the sound of racing gutters and spattering waterspouts, and of the + hard unceasing beat of the rain on the pavements. It was after closing + time. The corrugated shutters were drawn down, in front of cafe windows. + Andrews's cap was wet; water trickled down his forehead and the sides of + his nose, running into his eyes. His feet were soaked and he could feel + the wet patches growing on his knees where they received the water running + off his overcoat. The street stretched wide and dark ahead of him, with an + occasional glimmer of greenish reflection from a lamp. As he walked, + splashing with long strides through the rain, he noticed that he was + keeping pace with a woman under an umbrella, a slender person who was + hurrying with small resolute steps up the boulevard. When he saw her, a + mad hope flamed suddenly through him. He remembered a vulgar little + theatre and the crude light of a spot light. Through the paint and powder + a girl's golden-brown skin had shone with a firm brilliance that made him + think of wide sun-scorched uplands, and dancing figures on Greek vases. + Since he had seen her two nights ago, he had thought of nothing else. He + had feverishly found out her name. “Naya Selikoff!” A mad hope flared + through him that this girl he was walking beside was the girl whose + slender limbs moved in an endless frieze through his thoughts. He peered + at her with eyes blurred with rain. What an ass he was! Of course it + couldn't be; it was too early. She was on the stage at this minute. Other + hungry eyes were staring at her slenderness, other hands were twitching to + stroke her golden-brown skin. Walking under the steady downpour that stung + his face and ears and sent a tiny cold trickle down his back, he felt a + sudden dizziness of desire come over him. His hands, thrust to the bottom + of his coat pockets, clutched convulsively. He felt that he would die, + that his pounding blood vessels would burst. The bead curtains of rain + rustled and tinkled about him, awakening his nerves, making his skin flash + and tingle. In the gurgle of water in gutters and water spouts he could + imagine he heard orchestras droning libidinous music. The feverish + excitement of his senses began to create frenzied rhythms in his ears: + </p> + <p> + “O ce pauvre poilu! Qu'il doit etre mouille” said a small tremulous voice + beside him. + </p> + <p> + He turned. + </p> + <p> + The girl was offering him part of her umbrella. + </p> + <p> + “O c'est un Americain!” she said again, still speaking as if to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Mais ca ne vaut pas la peine.” + </p> + <p> + “Mais oui, mais oui.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped under the umbrella beside her. + </p> + <p> + “But you must let me hold it.” + </p> + <p> + “Bien.” + </p> + <p> + As he took the umbrella he caught her eye. He stopped still in his tracks. + </p> + <p> + “But you're the girl at the Rat qui Danse.” + </p> + <p> + “And you were at the next table with the man who sang?” + </p> + <p> + “How amusing!” + </p> + <p> + “Et celui-la! O il etait rigolo....” She burst out laughing; her head, + encased in a little round black hat, bobbed up and down under the + umbrella. Andrews laughed too. Crossing the Boulevard St. Germain, a taxi + nearly ran them down and splashed a great wave of mud over them. She + clutched his arm and then stood roaring with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “O quelle horreur! Quelle horreur!” she kept exclaiming. + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But hold the umbrella over us.... You're letting the rain in on my best + hat,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + “Your name is Jeanne,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Impertinent! You heard my brother call me that.... He went back to the + front that night, poor little chap.... He's only nineteen ... he's very + clever.... O, how happy I am now that the war's over.” + </p> + <p> + “You are older than he?” + </p> + <p> + “Two years.... I am the head of the family.... It is a dignified + position.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you always lived in Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “No, we are from Laon.... It's the war.” + </p> + <p> + “Refugees?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't call us that.... We work.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going far?” she asked peering in his face. + </p> + <p> + “No, I live up here.... My name is the same as yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Jean? How funny!” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Rue Descartes.... Behind St. Etienne.” + </p> + <p> + “I live near you.” + </p> + <p> + “But you mustn't come. The concierge is a tigress.... Etienne calls her + Mme. Clemenceau.” + </p> + <p> + “Who? The saint?” + </p> + <p> + “No, you silly—my brother. He is a socialist. He's a typesetter at + l'Humanite.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? I often read l'Humanite.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy, he used to swear he'd never go in the army. He thought of going + to America.” + </p> + <p> + “That wouldn't do him any good now,” said Andrews bitterly. “What do you + do?” + </p> + <p> + “I?” a gruff bitterness came into her voice. “Why should I tell you? I + work at a dressmaker's.” + </p> + <p> + “Like Louise?” + </p> + <p> + “You've heard Louise? Oh, how I cried.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did it make you sad?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know.... But I'm learning stenography.... But here we are!” + </p> + <p> + The great bulk of the Pantheon stood up dimly through the rain beside + them. In front the tower of St. Etienne-du-Mont was just visible. The rain + roared about them. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how wet I am!” said Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “Look, they are giving Louise day after tomorrow at the Opera Comique.... + Won't you come; with me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I should cry too much.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll cry too.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's not...” + </p> + <p> + “Cest l'armistice,” interrupted Andrews. + </p> + <p> + They both laughed! + </p> + <p> + “All right! Meet me at the cafe at the end of the Boul' Mich' at a quarter + past seven.... But you probably won't come.” + </p> + <p> + “I swear I will,” cried Andrews eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “We'll see!” She darted away down the street beside St. Etienne-du-Mont. + Andrews was left alone amid the seethe of the rain and the tumultuous + gurgle of water-spouts. He felt calm and tired. + </p> + <p> + When he got to his room, he found he had no matches in his pocket. No + light came from the window through which he could hear the hissing clamor + of the rain in the court. He stumbled over a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Are you drunk?” came Walters's voice swathed in bedclothes. “There are + matches on the table.” + </p> + <p> + “But where the hell's the table?” + </p> + <p> + At last his hand, groping over the table, closed on the matchbox. + </p> + <p> + The match's red and white flicker dazzled him. He blinked his eyes; the + lashes were still full of raindrops. When he had lit a candle and set it + amongst the music papers upon the table, he tore off his dripping clothes. + </p> + <p> + “I just met the most charming girl, Walters,” Andrews stood naked beside + the pile of his clothes, rubbing himself with a towel. “Gee! I was wet.... + But she was the most charming person I've met since I've been in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said you let the girls alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Whores, I must have said.” + </p> + <p> + “Well! Any girl you could pick up on the street....” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “I guess they are all that way in this damned country.... God, it will do + me good to see a nice sweet wholesome American girl.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews did not answer. He blew out the light and got into bed. + </p> + <p> + “But I've got a new job,” Walters went on. “I'm working in the school + detachment office.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the hell do that? You came here to take courses in the Sorbonne, + didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. I go to most of them now. But in this army I like to be in the + middle of things, see? Just so they can't put anything over on me.” + </p> + <p> + “There's something in that.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a damn lot in it, boy. The only way is to keep in right and not + let the man higher up forget you.... Why, we may start fighting again. + These damn Germans ain't showin' the right spirit at all... after all the + President's done for them. I expect to get my sergeantcy out of it + anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm going to sleep,” said Andrews sulkily. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews sat at a table outside the cafe de Rohan. The sun had just + set on a ruddy afternoon, flooding everything with violet-blue light and + cold greenish shadow. The sky was bright lilac color, streaked with a few + amber clouds. The lights were on in all the windows of the Magazin du + Louvre opposite, so that the windows seemed bits of polished glass in the + afterglow. In the colonnade of the Palais Royal the shadows were deepening + and growing colder. A steady stream of people poured in and out of the + Metro. Green buses stuffed with people kept passing. The roar of the + traffic and the clatter of footsteps and the grumble of voices swirled + like dance music about Andrews's head. He noticed all at once that the + rabbit man stood in front of him, a rabbit dangling forgotten at the end + of its rubber tube. + </p> + <p> + “Et ca va bien? le commerce,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Quietly, quietly,” said the rabbit man, distractedly making the rabbit + turn a somersault at his feet. Andrews watched the people going into the + Metro. + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman amuses himself in Paris?” asked the rabbit man timidly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; and you?” + </p> + <p> + “Quietly,” the rabbit man smiled. “Women are very beautiful at this hour + of the evening,” he said again in his very timid tone. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing more beautiful than this moment of the evening... in + Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Or Parisian women.” The eyes of the rabbit man glittered. “Excuse me, + sir,” he went on. “I must try and sell some rabbits.” + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir,” said Andrews holding out his hand. + </p> + <p> + The rabbit man shook it with sudden vigor and went off, making a rabbit + hop before him along the curbstone. He was hidden by the swiftly moving + crowds. + </p> + <p> + In the square, flaring violet arclights were flickering on, lighting up + their net-covered globes that hung like harsh moons above the pavement. + </p> + <p> + Henslowe sat down on a chair beside Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “How's Sinbad?” + </p> + <p> + “Sinbad, old boy, is functioning.... Aren't you frozen?” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean, Henslowe?” + </p> + <p> + “Overheated, you chump, sitting out here in polar weather.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I mean.... How are you functioning?” said Andrews laughing. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to Poland tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “As guard on a Red Cross supply train. I think you might make it if you + want to come, if we beat it right over to the Red Cross before Major + Smithers goes. Or we might take him out to dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Henny, I'm staying.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the hell stay in this hole?” + </p> + <p> + “I like it. I'm getting a better course in orchestration than I imagined + existed, and I met a girl the other day, and I'm crazy over Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “If you go and get entangled, I swear I'll beat your head in with a Polish + shillaughly.... Of course you've met a girl—so have I—lots. We + can meet some more in Poland and dance polonaises with them.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but this girl's charming.... You've seen her. She's the girl who was + with the poilu at the Rat qui Danse the first night I was in Paris. We + went to Louise together.” + </p> + <p> + “Must have been a grand sentimental party.... I swear.... I may run after + a Jane now and again but I never let them interfere with the business of + existence,” muttered Henslowe crossly. + </p> + <p> + They were both silent. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be as bad as Heinz with his Moki and the lion cub named Bubu.... + By the way, it's dead.... Well, where shall we have dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm dining with Jeanne.... I'm going to meet her in half an hour.... I'm + awfully sorry, Henny. We might all dine together.” + </p> + <p> + “A fat chance! No, I'll have to go and find that ass Aubrey, and hear all + about the Peace Conference.... Heinz can't leave Moki because she's having + hysterics on account of Bubu. I'll probably be driven to going to see + Berthe in the end.... You're a nice one.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll have a grand seeing-off party for you tomorrow, Henny.” + </p> + <p> + “Look! I forgot! You're to meet Aubrey at the Crillon at five tomorrow, + and he's going to take you to see Genevieve Rod?” + </p> + <p> + “Who the hell's Genevieve Rod?” + </p> + <p> + “Darned if I know. But Aubrey said you'd got to come. She is an + intellectual, so Aubrey says.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the last thing I want to meet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can't help yourself. So long!” + </p> + <p> + Andrews sat a while more at the table outside the cafe. A cold wind was + blowing. The sky was blue-black and the ashen white arc lamps cast a + mortuary light over everything. In the Colonnade of the Palais Royal the + shadows were harsh and inky. In the square the people were gradually + thinning. The lights in the Magazin du Louvre had gone out. From the cafe + behind him, a faint smell of fresh-cooked food began to saturate the cold + air of the street. + </p> + <p> + Then he saw Jeanne advancing across the ash-grey pavement of the square, + slim and black under the arc lights. He ran to meet her. + </p> + <p> + The cylindrical stove in the middle of the floor roared softly. In front + of it the white cat was rolled into a fluffy ball in which ears and nose + made tiny splashes of pink like those at the tips of the petals of certain + white roses. One side of the stove at the table against the window, sat an + old brown man with a bright red stain on each cheek bone, who wore + formless corduroy clothes, the color of his skin. Holding the small spoon + in a knotted hand he was stirring slowly and continuously a liquid that + was yellow and steamed in a glass. Behind him was the window with sleet + beating against it in the leaden light of a wintry afternoon. The other + side of the stove was a zinc bar with yellow bottles and green bottles and + a water spigot with a neck like a giraffe's that rose out of the bar + beside a varnished wood pillar that made the decoration of the corner, + with a terra cotta pot of ferns on top of it. From where Andrews sat on + the padded bench at the back of the room the fern fronds made a black + lacework against the lefthand side of the window, while against the other + was the brown silhouette of the old man's head, and the slant of his cap. + The stove hid the door and the white cat, round and symmetrical, formed + the center of the visible universe. On the marble table beside Andrews + were some pieces of crisp bread with butter on them, a saucer of damson + jam and a bowl with coffee and hot milk from which the steam rose in a + faint spiral. His tunic was unbuttoned and he rested his head on his two + hands, staring through his fingers at a thick pile of ruled paper full of + hastily drawn signs, some in ink and some in pencil, where now and then he + made a mark with a pencil. At the other edge of the pile of papers were + two books, one yellow and one white with coffee stains on it. + </p> + <p> + The fire roared and the cat slept and the old brown man stirred and + stirred, rarely stopping for a moment to lift the glass to his lips. + Occasionally the scratching of sleet upon the windows became audible, or + there was a distant sound of dish pans through the door in the back. + </p> + <p> + The sallow-faced clock that hung above the mirror that backed the bar, + jerked out one jingly strike, a half hour. Andrews did not look up. The + cat still slept in front of the stove which roared with a gentle singsong. + The old brown man still stirred the yellow liquid in his glass. The clock + was ticking uphill towards the hour. + </p> + <p> + Andrews's hands were cold. There was a nervous flutter in his wrists and + in his chest. Inside of him was a great rift of light, infinitely vast and + infinitely distant. Through it sounds poured from somewhere, so that he + trembled with them to his finger tips, sounds modulated into rhythms that + washed back and forth and crossed each other like sea waves in a cove, + sounds clotted into harmonies. + </p> + <p> + Behind everything the Queen of Sheba, out of Flaubert, held her fantastic + hand with its long, gilded finger nails on his shoulder; and he was + leaning forward over the brink of life. But the image was vague, like a + shadow cast on the brilliance of his mind. + </p> + <p> + The clock struck four. + </p> + <p> + The white fluffy ball of the cat unrolled very slowly. Its eyes were very + round and yellow. It put first one leg and then the other out before it on + the tiled floor, spreading wide the pinkey-grey claws. Its tail rose up + behind it straight as the mast of a ship. With slow processional steps the + cat walked towards the door. + </p> + <p> + The old brown man drank down the yellow liquid and smacked his lips twice, + loudly, meditatively. + </p> + <p> + Andrews raised his head, his blue eyes looking straight before him without + seeing anything. Dropping the pencil, he leaned back against the wall and + stretched his arms out. Taking the coffee bowl between his two hands, he + drank s little. It was cold. He piled some jam on a piece of bread and ate + it, licking a little off his fingers afterwards. Then he looked towards + the old brown man and said: + </p> + <p> + “On est bien ici, n'est ce pas, Monsieur Morue?” + </p> + <p> + “Oui, on est bien ici,” said the old brown man in a voice so gruff it + seemed to rattle. Very slowly he got to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Good. I am going to the barge,” he said. Then he called, “Chipette!” + </p> + <p> + “Oui, m'sieu.” + </p> + <p> + A little girl in a black apron with her hair in two tight pigtails that + stood out behind her tiny bullet head as she ran, came through the door + from the back part of the house. + </p> + <p> + “There, give that to your mother,” said the old brown man, putting some + coppers in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oui, m'sieu.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd better stay here where it's warm,” said Andrews yawning. + </p> + <p> + “I have to work. It's only soldiers don't have to work,” rattled the old + brown man. + </p> + <p> + When the door opened a gust of raw air circled about the wine shop, and a + roar of wind and hiss of sleet came from the slush-covered quai outside. + The cat took refuge beside the stove, with its back up and its tail + waving. The door closed and the old brown man's silhouette, slanted + against the wind, crossed the grey oblong of the window. + </p> + <p> + Andrews settled down to work again. + </p> + <p> + “But you work a lot a lot, don't you; M'sieu Jean?” said Chipette, putting + her chin on the table beside the books and looking up into his eyes with + little eyes like black beads. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if I do.” + </p> + <p> + “When I'm grown up I shan't work a bit. I'll drive round in a carriage.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed. Chipette looked at him for a minute and then went into + the other room carrying away the empty coffee bowl. + </p> + <p> + In front of the stove the cat sat on its haunches, licking a paw + rhythmically with a pink curling tongue like a rose petal. + </p> + <p> + Andrews whistled a few bars, staring at the cat. + </p> + <p> + “What d'you think of that, Minet? That's la reine de Saba... la reine de + Saba.” + </p> + <p> + The cat curled into a ball again with great deliberation and went to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + Andrews began thinking of Jeanne and the thought gave him a sense of quiet + well-being. Strolling with her in the evening through the streets full of + men and women walking significantly together sent a languid calm through + his jangling nerves which he had never known in his life before. It + excited him to be with her, but very suavely, so that he forgot that his + limbs were swathed stiffly in an uncomfortable uniform, so that his + feverish desire seemed to fly out of him until with her body beside him, + he seemed to drift effortlessly in the stream of the lives of all the + people he passed, so languid, from the quiet loves that streamed up about + him that the hard walls of his personality seemed to have melted entirely + into the mistiness of twilight streets. And for a moment as he thought of + it a scent of flowers, heavy with pollen, and sprouting grass and damp + moss and swelling sap, seemed to tingle in his nostrils. Sometimes, + swimming in the ocean on a rough day, he had felt that same reckless + exhilaration when, towards the shore, a huge seething wave had caught him + up and sped him forward on its crest. Sitting quietly in the empty wine + shop that grey afternoon, he felt his blood grumble and swell in his veins + as the new life was grumbling and swelling in the sticky buds of the + trees, in the tender green quick under their rough bark, in the little + furry animals of the woods and in the sweet-smelling cattle that tramped + into mud the lush meadows. In the premonition of spring was a resistless + wave of force that carried him and all of them with it tumultuously. + </p> + <p> + The clock struck five. + </p> + <p> + Andrews jumped to his feet and still struggling into his overcoat darted + out of the door. + </p> + <p> + A raw wind blew on the square. The river was a muddy grey-green, swollen + and rapid. A hoarse triumphant roaring came from it. The sleet had + stopped; but the pavements were covered with slush and in the gutters were + large puddles which the wind ruffled. Everything,—houses, bridges, + river and sky,—was in shades of cold grey-green, broken by one + jagged ochre-colored rift across the sky against which the bulk of Notre + Dame and the slender spire of the crossing rose dark and purplish. Andrews + walked with long strides, splashing through the puddles, until, opposite + the low building of the Morgue, he caught a crowded green bus. + </p> + <p> + Outside the Hotel Crillon were many limousines, painted olive-drab, with + numbers in white letters on the doors; the drivers, men with their + olive-drab coat collars turned up round their red faces, stood in groups + under the portico. Andrews passed the sentry and went through the + revolving doors into the lobby, which was vividly familiar. It had the + smell he remembered having smelt in the lobbies of New York hotels,—a + smell of cigar smoke and furniture polish. On one side a door led to a big + dining room where many men and women were having tea, from which came a + smell of pastry and rich food. On the expanse of red carpet in front of + him officers and civilians stood in groups talking in low voices. There + was a sound of jingling spurs and jingling dishes from the restaurant, and + near where Andrews stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other, + sprawled in a leather chair a fat man with a black felt hat over his eyes + and a large watch chain dangling limply over his bulbous paunch. He + cleared his throat occasionally with a rasping noise and spat loudly into + the spittoon beside him. + </p> + <p> + At last Andrews caught sight of Aubrey, who was dapper with white cheeks + and tortoise shell glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” he said, seizing Andrews by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “You are late.” Then, he went on, whispering in Andrews's ear as they went + out through the revolving doors: “Great things happened in the Conference + today.... I can tell you that, old man.” + </p> + <p> + They crossed the bridge towards the portico of the Chamber of Deputies + with its high pediment and its grey columns. Down the river they could see + faintly the Eiffel Tower with a drift of mist athwart it, like a section + of spider web spun between the city and the clouds. + </p> + <p> + “Do we have to go to see these people, Aubrey?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you can't back out now. Genevieve Rod wants to know about American + music.” + </p> + <p> + “But what on earth can I tell her about American music?” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn't there a man named MacDowell who went mad or something?” Andrews + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But you know I haven't any social graces.... I suppose I'll have to say I + think Foch is a little tin god.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't say anything if you don't want to.... They're very advanced, + anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, rats!” + </p> + <p> + They were going up a brown-carpeted stair that had engravings on the + landings, where there was a faint smell of stale food and dustpans. At the + top landing Aubrey rang the bell at a varnished door. In a moment a girl + opened it. She had a cigarette in her hand, her face was pale under a mass + of reddish-chestnut hair, her eyes very large, a pale brown, as large as + the eyes of women in those paintings of Artemisias and Berenikes found in + tombs in the Fayum. She wore a plain black dress. + </p> + <p> + “Enfin!” she said, and held out her hand to Aubrey. + </p> + <p> + “There's my friend Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand to him absently, still looking at Aubrey. + </p> + <p> + “Does he speak French?... Good.... This way.” They went into a large room + with a piano where an elderly woman, with grey hair and yellow teeth and + the same large eyes as her daughter, stood before the fireplace. + </p> + <p> + “Maman... enfin ils arrivent, ces messieurs.” + </p> + <p> + “Genevieve was afraid you weren't coming,” Mme. Rod said to Andrews, + smiling. “Monsieur Aubrey gave us such a picture of your playing that we + have been excited all day.... We adore music.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could do something more to the point with it than adore it,” + said Genevieve Rod hastily, then she went on with a laugh: “But I + forget..... Monsieur Andreffs.... Monsieur Ronsard.” She made a gesture + with her hand from Andrews to a young Frenchman in a cut-away coat, with + small mustaches and a very tight vest, who bowed towards Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Now we'll have tea,” said Genevieve Rod. “Everybody talks sense until + they've had tea.... It's only after tea that anyone is ever amusing.” She + pulled open some curtains that covered the door into the adjoining room. + </p> + <p> + “I understand why Sarah Bernhardt is so fond of curtains,” she said. “They + give an air of drama to existence.... There is nothing more heroic than + curtains.” + </p> + <p> + She sat at the head of an oak table where were china platters with + vari-colored pastries, an old pewter kettle under which an alcohol lamp + burned, a Dresden china teapot in pale yellows and greens, and cups and + saucers and plates with a double-headed eagle design in dull vermilion. + “Tout ca,” said Genevieve, waving her hand across the table, “c'est + Boche.... But we haven't any others, so they'll have to do.” + </p> + <p> + The older woman, who sat beside her, whispered something in her ear and + laughed. + </p> + <p> + Genevieve put on a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles and starting pouring + out tea. + </p> + <p> + “Debussy once drank out of that cup..... It's cracked,” she said, handing + a cup to John Andrews. “Do you know anything of Moussorgski's you can play + to us after tea?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't play anything any more.... Ask me three months from now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; but nobody expects you to do any tricks with it. You can + certainly make it intelligible. That's all I want.” + </p> + <p> + “I have my doubts.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews sipped his tea slowly, looking now and then at Genevieve Rod who + had suddenly begun talking very fast to Ronsard. She held a cigarette + between the fingers of a long thin hand. Her large pale-brown eyes kept + their startled look of having just opened on the world; a little smile + appeared and disappeared maliciously in the curve of her cheek away from + her small firm lips. The older woman beside her kept looking round the + table with a jolly air of hospitality, and showing her yellow teeth in a + smile. + </p> + <p> + Afterwards they went back to the sitting room and Andrews sat down at the + piano. The girl sat very straight on a little chair beside the piano. + Andrews ran his fingers up and down the keys. + </p> + <p> + “Did you say you knew Debussy?” he said suddenly. “I? No; but he used to + come to see my father when I was a little girl.... I have been brought up + in the middle of music.... That shows how silly it is to be a woman. There + is no music in my head. Of course I am sensitive to it, but so are the + tables and chairs in this apartment, after all they've heard.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Andrews started playing Schumann. He stopped suddenly. +</pre> + <p> + “Can you sing?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to do the Proses Lyriques.... I've never heard them.” + </p> + <p> + “I once tried to sing Le Soir,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful. Do bring it out.” + </p> + <p> + “But, good Lord, it's too difficult.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the use of being fond of music if you aren't willing to mangle it + for the sake of producing it?... I swear I'd rather hear a man picking out + Aupres de ma Blonde on a trombone that Kreisler playing Paganini + impeccably enough to make you ill.” + </p> + <p> + “But there is a middle ground.” + </p> + <p> + He interrupted her by starting to play again. As he played without looking + at her, he felt that her eyes were fixed on him, that she was standing + tensely behind him. Her hand touched his shoulder. He stopped playing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I am finished.” + </p> + <p> + “You were playing something of your own?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever read La Tentation de Saint Antoine?” he asked in a low + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Flaubert's?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not his best work. A very interesting failure though,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews got up from the piano with difficulty, controlling a sudden + growing irritation. + </p> + <p> + “They seem to teach everybody to say that,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he realized that other people were in the room. He went up to + Mme. Rod. + </p> + <p> + “You must excuse me,” he said, “I have an engagement.... Aubrey, don't let + me drag you away. I am late, I've got to run.” + </p> + <p> + “You must come to see us again.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” mumbled Andrews. + </p> + <p> + Genevieve Rod went with him to the door. “We must know each other better,” + she said. “I like you for going off in a huff.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews flushed. + </p> + <p> + “I was badly brought up,” he said, pressing her thin cold hand. “And you + French must always remember that we are barbarians.... Some are repentant + barbarians.... I am not.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed, and John Andrews ran down the stairs and out into the + grey-blue streets, where the lamps were blooming into primrose color. He + had a confused feeling that he had made a fool of himself, which made him + writhe with helpless anger. He walked with long strides through the + streets of the Rive Gauche full of people going home from work, towards + the little wine shop on the Quai de la Tournelle. + </p> + <p> + It was a Paris Sunday morning. Old women in black shawls were going into + the church of St. Etienne-du-Mont. Each time the leather doors opened it + let a little whiff of incense out into the smoky morning air. Three + pigeons walked about the cobblestones, putting their coral feet one before + the other with an air of importance. The pointed facade of the church and + its slender tower and cupola cast a bluish shadow on the square in front + of it, into which the shadows the old women trailed behind them vanished + as they hobbled towards the church. The opposite side of the square and + the railing of the Pantheon and its tall brownish-gray flank were flooded + with dull orange-colored sunlight. + </p> + <p> + Andrews walked back and forth in front of the church, looking at the sky + and the pigeons and the facade of the Library of Ste. Genevieve, and at + the rare people who passed across the end of the square, noting forms and + colors and small comical aspects of things with calm delight, savoring + everything almost with complacency. His music, he felt, was progressing + now that, undisturbed, he lived all day long in the rhythm of it; his mind + and his fingers were growing supple. The hard moulds that had grown up + about his spirit were softening. As he walked back and forth in front of + the church waiting for Jeanne, he took an inventory of his state of mind; + he was very happy. + </p> + <p> + “Eh bien?” + </p> + <p> + Jeanne had come up behind him. They ran like children hand in hand across + the sunny square. + </p> + <p> + “I have not had any coffee yet,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “How late you must get up!... But you can't have any till we get to the + Porte Maillot, Jean.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I say you can't.” + </p> + <p> + “But that's cruelty.” + </p> + <p> + “It won't be long.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am dying with hunger. I will die in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't you understand? Once we get to the Porte Maillot we'll be far from + your life and my life. The day will be ours. One must not tempt fate.” + </p> + <p> + “You funny girl.” + </p> + <p> + The Metro was not crowded, Andrews and Jeanne sat opposite each other + without talking. Andrews was looking at the girl's hands, limp on her lap, + small overworked hands with places at the tips of the fingers where the + skin was broken and scarred, with chipped uneven nails. Suddenly she + caught his glance. He flushed, and she said jauntily: + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll all be rich some day, like princes and princesses in fairy + tales.” They both laughed. + </p> + <p> + As they were leaving the train at the terminus, he put his arm timidly + round her waist. She wore no corsets. His fingers trembled at the + litheness of the flesh under her clothes. Feeling a sort of terror go + through him he took away his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” she said quietly as they emerged into the sunlight and the bare + trees of the broad avenue, “you can have all the cafe-au-lait you want.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have some too.” + </p> + <p> + “Why be extravagant? I've had my petit dejeuner.” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm going to be extravagant all day.... We might as well start now. I + don't know exactly why, but I am very happy. We'll eat brioches.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, it's only profiteers who can eat brioches now-a-days.” + </p> + <p> + “You just watch us.” + </p> + <p> + They went into a patisserie. An elderly woman with a lean yellow face and + thin hair waited on them, casting envious glances up through her eyelashes + as she piled the rich brown brioches on a piece of tissue paper. + </p> + <p> + “You'll pass the day in the country?” she asked in a little wistful voice + as she handed Andrews the change. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “how well you guessed.” + </p> + <p> + As they went out of the door they heard her muttering, “O la jeunesse, la + jeunesse.” + </p> + <p> + They found a table in the sun at a cafe opposite the gate from which they + could watch people and automobiles and carriages coming in and out. + Beyond, a grass-grown bit of fortifications gave an 1870 look to things. + </p> + <p> + “How jolly it is at the Porte Maillot!” cried Andrews. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But how gay he is to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I always like it here. It's the spot in Paris where you always feel + well.... When you go out you have all the fun of leaving town, when you go + in you have all the fun of coming back to town.... But you aren't eating + any brioches?” + </p> + <p> + “I've eaten one. You eat them. You are hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne, I don't think I have ever been so happy in my life.... It's + almost worth having been in the army for the joy your freedom gives you. + That frightful life.... How is Etienne?” + </p> + <p> + “He is in Mayence. He's bored.” + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne, we must live very much, we who are free to make up for all the + people who are still... bored.” + </p> + <p> + “A lot of good it'll do them,” she cried laughing. + </p> + <p> + “It's funny, Jeanne, I threw myself into the army. I was so sick of being + free and not getting anywhere. Now I have learnt that life is to be used, + not just held in the hand like a box of bonbons that nobody eats.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him blankly. + </p> + <p> + “I mean, I don't think I get enough out of life,” he said. “Let's go.” + </p> + <p> + They got to their feet. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” she said slowly. “One takes what life gives, that is + all, there's no choice.... But look, there's the Malmaison train.... We + must run.” + </p> + <p> + Giggling and breathless they climbed on the trailer, squeezing themselves + on the back platform where everyone was pushing and exclaiming. The car + began to joggle its way through Neuilly. Their bodies were pressed + together by the men and women about them. Andrews put his arm firmly round + Jeanne's waist and looked down at her pale cheek that was pressed against + his chest. Her little round black straw hat with a bit of a red flower on + it was just under his chin. + </p> + <p> + “I can't see a thing,” she gasped, still giggling. + </p> + <p> + “I'll describe the landscape,” said Andrews. “Why, we are crossing the + Seine already.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how pretty it must be!” + </p> + <p> + An old gentleman with a pointed white beard who stood beside them laughed + benevolently. + </p> + <p> + “But don't you think the Seine's pretty?” Jeanne looked up at him + impudently. + </p> + <p> + “Without a doubt, without a doubt.... It was the way you said it,” said + the old gentleman.... “You are going to St. Germain?” he asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “No, to Malmaison.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you should go to St. Germain. M. Reinach's prehistoric museum is + there. It is very beautiful. You should not go home to your country + without seeing it.” + </p> + <p> + “Are there monkeys in it?” asked Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the old gentleman turning away. + </p> + <p> + “I adore monkeys,” said Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + The car was going along a broad empty boulevard with trees and grass plots + and rows of low store-houses and little dilapidated rooming houses along + either side. Many people had got out and there was plenty of room, but + Andrews kept his arm round the girl's waist. The constant contact with her + body made him feel very languid. + </p> + <p> + “How good it smells!” said Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “It's the spring.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to lie on the grass and eat violets.... Oh, how good you were to + bring me out like this, Jean. You must know lots of fine ladies you could + have brought out, because you are so well educated. How is it you are only + an ordinary soldier?” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! I wouldn't be an officer.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? It must be rather nice to be an officer.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Etienne want to be an officer?” + </p> + <p> + “But he's a socialist, that's different.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose I must be a socialist too, but let's talk of something + else.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews moved over to the other side of the platform. They were passing + little villas with gardens on the road where yellow and pale-purple + crocuses bloomed. Now and then there was a scent of violets in the moist + air. The sun had disappeared under soft purplish-grey clouds. There was + occasionally a rainy chill in the wind. + </p> + <p> + Andrews suddenly thought of Genevieve Rod. Curious how vividly he + remembered her face, her wide, open eyes and her way of smiling without + moving her firm lips. A feeling of annoyance went through him. How silly + of him to go off rudely like that! And he became very anxious to talk to + her again; things he wanted to say to her came to his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Well, are you asleep?” said Jeanne tugging at his arm. “Here we are.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews flushed furiously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how nice it is here, how nice it is here!” Jeanne was saying. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it is eleven o'clock,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “We must see the palace before lunch,” cried Jeanne, and she started + running up a lane of linden trees, where the fat buds were just bursting + into little crinkling fans of green. New grass was sprouting in the wet + ditches on either side. Andrews ran after her, his feet pounding hard in + the moist gravel road. When he caught up to her he threw his arms round + her recklessly and kissed her panting mouth. She broke away from him and + strode demurely arranging her hat. + </p> + <p> + “Monster,” she said, “I trimmed this hat specially to come out with you + and you do your best to wreck it.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor little hat,” said Andrews, “but it is so beautiful today, and you + are very lovely, Jeanne.” + </p> + <p> + “The great Napoleon must have said that to the Empress Josephine and you + know what he did to her,” said Jeanne almost solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “But she must have been awfully bored with him long before.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jeanne, “that's how women are.” + </p> + <p> + They went through big iron gates into the palace grounds. + </p> + <p> + Later they sat at a table in the garden of a little restaurant. The sun, + very pale, had just showed itself, making the knives and forks and the + white wine in their glasses gleam faintly. Lunch had not come yet. They + sat looking at each other silently. Andrews felt weary and melancholy. He + could think of nothing to say. Jeanne was playing with some tiny white + daisies with pink tips to their petals, arranging them in circles and + crosses on the tablecloth. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't they slow?” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “But it's nice here, isn't it?” Jeanne smiled brilliantly. “But how glum + he looks now.” She threw some daisies at him. Then, after a pause, she + added mockingly: “It's hunger, my dear. Good Lord, how dependent men are + on food!” + </p> + <p> + Andrews drank down his wine at a gulp. He felt that if he could only make + an effort he could lift off the stifling melancholy that was settling down + on him like a weight that kept growing heavier. + </p> + <p> + A man in khaki, with his face and neck scarlet, staggered into the garden + dragging beside him a mud-encrusted bicycle. He sank into an iron chair, + letting the bicycle fall with a clatter at his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Hi, hi,” he called in a hoarse voice. + </p> + <p> + A waiter appeared and contemplated him suspiciously. The man in khaki had + hair as red as his face, which was glistening with sweat. His shirt was + torn, and he had no coat. His breeches and puttees were invisible for mud. + </p> + <p> + “Gimme a beer,” croaked the man in khaki. + </p> + <p> + The waiter shrugged his shoulders and walked away. + </p> + <p> + “Il demande une biere,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Mais Monsieur....” + </p> + <p> + “I'll pay. Get it for him.” + </p> + <p> + The waiter disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “Thankee, Yank,” roared the man in khaki. + </p> + <p> + The waiter brought a tall narrow yellow glass. The man in khaki took it + from his hand, drank it down at a draught and handed back the empty glass. + Then he spat, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, got with difficulty + to his feet and shambled towards Andrews's table. + </p> + <p> + “Oi presoom the loidy and you don't mind, Yank, if Oi parley wi' yez a + bit. Do yez?” + </p> + <p> + “No, come along; where did you come from?” + </p> + <p> + The man in khaki dragged an iron chair behind him to a spot near the + table. Before sitting down he bobbed his head in the direction of Jeanne + with an air of solemnity tugging at the same time at a lock of his red + hair. After some fumbling he got a red-bordered handkerchief out of his + pocket and wiped his face with it, leaving a long black smudge of machine + oil on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Oi'm a bearer of important secret messages, Yank,” he said, leaning back + in the little iron chair. “Oi'm a despatch-rider.” + </p> + <p> + “You look all in.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it. Oi just had a little hold up, that's all, in a woodland + lane. Some buggers tried to do me in.” + </p> + <p> + “What d'you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Oi guess they had a little information... that's all. Oi'm carryin' + important messages from our headquarters in Rouen to your president. Oi + was goin' through a bloody thicket past this side. Oi don't know how you + pronounce the bloody town.... Oi was on my bike making about thoity for + the road was all a-murk when Oi saw four buggers standing acrost the + road... lookter me suspiciouslike, so Oi jus' jammed the juice into the + boike and made for the middle 'un. He dodged all right. Then they started + shootin' and a bloody bullet buggered the boike.... It was bein' born with + a caul that saved me.... Oi picked myself up outer the ditch an lost 'em + in the woods. Then Oi got to another bloody town and commandeered this old + sweatin' machine.... How many kills is there to Paris, Yank?” + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen or sixteen, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “What's he saying, Jean?” + </p> + <p> + “Some men tried to stop him on the road. He's a despatch-rider.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't he ugly? Is he English?” + </p> + <p> + “Irish.” + </p> + <p> + “You bet you, miss; Hirlanday; that's me.... You picked a good looker this + toime, Yank. But wait till Oi git to Paree. Oi clane up a good hundre' + pound on this job in bonuses. What part d'ye come from, Yank?” + </p> + <p> + “Virginia. I live in New York.” + </p> + <p> + “Oi been in Detroit; goin' back there to git in the automoebile business + soon as Oi clane up a few more bonuses. Europe's dead an stinkin', Yank. + Ain't no place for a young fellow. It's dead an stinkin', that's what it + is.” + </p> + <p> + “It's pleasanter to live here than in America.... Say, d'you often get + held up that way?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't happened to me before, but it has to pals o' moine.” + </p> + <p> + “Who d'you think it was? + </p> + <p> + “Oi dunno; 'Unns or some of these bloody secret agents round the Peace + Conference.... But Oi got to go; that despatch won't keep.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. The beer's on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank ye, Yank.” The man got to his feet, shook hands with Andrews and + Jeanne, jumped on the bicycle and rode out of the garden to the road, + threading his way through the iron chairs and tables. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn't he a funny customer?” cried Andrews, laughing. “What a wonderful + joke things are!” + </p> + <p> + The waiter arrived with the omelette that began their lunch. + </p> + <p> + “Gives you an idea of how the old lava's bubbling in the volcano. There's + nowhere on earth a man can dance so well as on a volcano.” + </p> + <p> + “But don't talk that way,” said Jeanne laying down her knife and fork. + “It's terrible. We will waste our youth to no purpose. Our fathers enjoyed + themselves when they were young.... And if there had been no war we should + have been so happy, Etienne and I. My father was a small manufacturer of + soap and perfumery. Etienne would have had a splendid situation. I should + never have had to work. We had a nice house. I should have been + married....” + </p> + <p> + “But this way, Jeanne, haven't you more freedom?” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders. Later she burst out: “But what's the good of + freedom? What can you do with it? What one wants is to live well and have + a beautiful house and be respected by people. Oh, life was so sweet in + France before the war.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case it's not worth living,” said Andrews in a savage voice, + holding himself in. + </p> + <p> + They went on eating silently. The sky became overcast. A few drops + splashed on the table-cloth. + </p> + <p> + “We'll have to take coffee inside,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “And you think it is funny that people shoot at a man on a motorcycle + going through a wood. All that seems to me terrible, terrible,” said + Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “Look out. Here comes the rain!” + </p> + <p> + They ran into the restaurant through the first hissing sheet of the shower + and sat at a table near a window watching the rain drops dance and flicker + on the green iron tables. A scent of wet earth and the mushroom-like odor + of sodden leaves came in borne on damp gusts through the open door. A + waiter closed the glass doors and bolted them. + </p> + <p> + “He wants to keep out the spring. He can't,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + They smiled at each other over their coffee cups. They were in sympathy + again. + </p> + <p> + When the rain stopped they walked across wet fields by a foot path full of + little clear puddles that reflected the blue sky and the white-and + amber-tinged clouds where the shadows were light purplish-grey. They + walked slowly arm in arm, pressing their bodies together. They were very + tired, they did not know why and stopped often to rest leaning against the + damp boles of trees. Beside a pond pale blue and amber and silver from the + reflected sky, they found under a big beech tree a patch of wild violets, + which Jeanne picked greedily, mixing them with the little crimson-tipped + daisies in the tight bouquet. At the suburban railway station, they sat + silent, side by side on a bench, sniffing the flowers now and then, so + sunk in languid weariness that they could hardly summon strength to climb + into a seat on top of a third class coach, which was crowded with people + coming home from a day in the country. Everybody had violets and crocuses + and twigs with buds on them. In people's stiff, citified clothes lingered + a smell of wet fields and sprouting woods. All the girls shrieked and + threw their arms round the men when the train went through a tunnel or + under a bridge. Whatever happened, everybody laughed. When the train + arrived in the station, it was almost with reluctance that they left it, + as if they felt that from that moment their work-a-day lives began again. + Andrews and Jeanne walked down the platform without touching each other. + Their fingers were stained and sticky from touching buds and crushing + young sappy leaves and grass stalks. The air of the city seemed dense and + unbreathable after the scented moisture of the fields. + </p> + <p> + They dined at a little restaurant on the Quai Voltaire and afterwards + walked slowly towards the Place St. Michel, feeling the wine and the + warmth of the food sending new vigor into their tired bodies. Andrews had + his arm round her shoulder and they talked in low intimate voices, hardly + moving their lips, looking long at the men and women they saw sitting + twined in each other's arms on benches, at the couples of boys and girls + that kept passing them, talking slowly and quietly, as they were, bodies + pressed together as theirs were. + </p> + <p> + “How many lovers there are,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Are we lovers?” asked Jeanne with a curious little laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder.... Have you ever been crazily in love, Jeanne?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. There was a boy in Laon named Marcelin. But I was a little + fool then. The last news of him was from Verdun.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you had many... like I am?” + </p> + <p> + “How sentimental we are,” she cried laughing. + </p> + <p> + “No. I wanted to know. I know so little of life,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “I have amused myself, as best I could,” said Jeanne in a serious tone. + “But I am not frivolous.... There have been very few men I have liked.... + So I have had few friends... do you want to call them lovers? But lovers + are what married women have on the stage.... All that sort of thing is + very silly.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so very long ago,” said Andrews, “I used to dream of being + romantically in love, with people climbing up the ivy on castle walls, and + fiery kisses on balconies in the moonlight.” + </p> + <p> + “Like at the Opera Comique,” cried Jeanne laughing. + </p> + <p> + “That was all very silly. But even now, I want so much more of life than + life can give.” + </p> + <p> + They leaned over the parapet and listened to the hurrying swish of the + river, now soft and now loud, where the reflections of the lights on the + opposite bank writhed like golden snakes. + </p> + <p> + Andrews noticed that there was someone beside them. The faint, greenish + glow from the lamp on the quai enabled him to recognize the lame boy he + had talked to months ago on the Butte. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you'll remember me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You are the American who was in the Restaurant, Place du Terte, I don't + remember when, but it was long ago.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands. + </p> + <p> + “But you are alone,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am always alone,” said the lame boy firmly. He held out his hand + again. + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck!” said the lame boy. Andrews heard his crutch tapping on the + pavement as he went away along the quai. + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne,” said Andrews, suddenly, “you'll come home with me, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + “But you have a friend living with you.” + </p> + <p> + “He's gone to Brussels. He won't be back till tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose one must pay for one's dinner,” said Jeanne maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “Good God, no.” Andrews buried his face in his hands. The singsong of the + river pouring through the bridges, filled his ears. He wanted desperately + to cry. Bitter desire that was like hatred made his flesh tingle, made his + hands ache to crush her hands in them. + </p> + <p> + “Come along,” he said gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't mean to say that,” she said in a gentle, tired voice. “You know, + I'm not a very nice person.” The greenish glow of the lamp lit up the + contour of one of her cheeks as she tilted her head up, and glimmered in + her eyes. A soft sentimental sadness suddenly took hold of Andrews; he + felt as he used to feel when, as a very small child, his mother used to + tell him Br' Rabbit stories, and he would feel himself drifting helplessly + on the stream of her soft voice, narrating, drifting towards something + unknown and very sad, which he could not help. + </p> + <p> + They started walking again, past the Pont Neuf, towards the glare of the + Place St. Michel. Three names had come into Andrews's head, “Arsinoe, + Berenike, Artemisia.” For a little while he puzzled over them, and then he + remembered that Genevieve Rod had the large eyes and the wide, smooth + forehead and the firm little lips the women had in the portraits that were + sewn on the mummy cases in the Fayum. But those patrician women of + Alexandria had not had chestnut hair with a glimpse of burnished copper in + it; they might have dyed it, though! + </p> + <p> + “Why are you laughing?” asked Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + “Because things are so silly.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you mean people are silly,” she said, looking up at him out of + the corners of her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You're right.” + </p> + <p> + They walked in silence till they reached Andrews's door. + </p> + <p> + “You go up first and see that there's no one there,” said Jeanne in a + business-like tone. + </p> + <p> + Andrews's hands were cold. He felt his heart thumping while he climbed the + stairs. + </p> + <p> + The room was empty. A fire was ready to light in the small fireplace. + Andrews hastily tidied up the table and kicked under the bed some soiled + clothes that lay in a heap in a corner. A thought came to him: how like + his performances in his room at college when he had heard that a relative + was coming to see him. + </p> + <p> + He tiptoed downstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Bien. Tu peux venir, Jeanne,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She sat down rather stiffly in the straight-backed armchair beside the + fire. + </p> + <p> + “How pretty the fire is,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Jeanne, I think I'm crazily in love with you,” said Andrews in an excited + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Like at the Opera Comique.” She shrugged her shoulders. “The room's + nice,” she said. “Oh, but, what a big bed!” + </p> + <p> + “You're the first woman who's been up here in my time, Jeanne.... Oh, but + this uniform is frightful.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews thought suddenly of all the tingling bodies constrained into the + rigid attitudes of automatons in uniforms like this one; of all the + hideous farce of making men into machines. Oh, if some gesture of his + could only free them all for life and freedom and joy. The thought drowned + everything else for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “But you pulled a button off,” cried Jeanne laughing hysterically. “I'll + just have to sew it on again.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. If you knew how I hated them.” + </p> + <p> + “What white skin you have, like a woman's. I suppose that's because you + are blond,” said Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + The sound of the door being shaken vigorously woke Andrews. He got up and + stood in the middle of the floor for a moment without being able to + collect his wits. The shaking of the door continued, and he heard + Walters's voice crying “Andy, Andy.” Andrews felt shame creeping up + through him like nausea. He felt a passionate disgust towards himself and + Jeanne and Walters. He had an impulse to move furtively as if he had + stolen something. He went to the door and opened it a little. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Walters, old man,” he said, “I can't let you in.... I've got a girl + with me. I'm sorry.... I thought you wouldn't get back till tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You're kidding, aren't you?” came Walters's voice out of the dark hall. + </p> + <p> + “No.” Andrews shut the door decisively and bolted it again. + </p> + <p> + Jeanne was still asleep. Her black hair had come undone and spread over + the pillow. Andrews pulled the covers up about her carefully. + </p> + <p> + Then he got into the other bed, where he lay awake a long time, staring at + the ceiling. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> + <p> + People walking along the boulevard looked curiously through the railing at + the line of men in olive-drab that straggled round the edge of the + courtyard. The line moved slowly, past a table where an officer and two + enlisted men sat poring over big lists of names and piles of palely tinted + banknotes and silver francs that glittered white. Above the men's heads a + thin haze of cigarette smoke rose into the sunlight. There was a sound of + voices and of feet shuffling on the gravel. The men who had been paid went + off jauntily, the money jingling in their pockets. + </p> + <p> + The men at the table had red faces and tense, serious expressions. They + pushed the money into the soldiers' hands with a rough jerk and pronounced + the names as if they were machines clicking. + </p> + <p> + Andrews saw that one of the men at the table was Walters; he smiled and + whispered “Hello” as he came up to him. Walters kept his eyes fixed on the + list. + </p> + <p> + While Andrews was waiting for the man ahead of him to be paid, he heard + two men in the line talking. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn't that a hell of a place? D'you remember the lad that died in the + barracks one day?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, I was in the medicks there too. There was a hell of a sergeant in + that company tried to make the kid get up, and the loot came and said he'd + court-martial him, an' then they found out that he'd cashed in his + checks.” + </p> + <p> + “What'd 'ee die of?” + </p> + <p> + “Heart failure, I guess. I dunno, though, he never did take to the life.” + </p> + <p> + “No. That place Cosne was enough to make any guy cash in his checks.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews got his money. As he was walking away, he strolled up to the two + men he had heard talking. + </p> + <p> + “Were you fellows in Cosne?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you know a fellow named Fuselli?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno....” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, you do,” said the other man. “You remember Dan Fuselli, the little + wop thought he was goin' to be corporal.” + </p> + <p> + “He had another think comin'.” They both laughed. + </p> + <p> + Andrews walked off, vaguely angry. There were many soldiers on the + Boulevard Montparnasse. He turned into a side street, feeling suddenly + furtive and humble, as if he would hear any minute the harsh voice of a + sergeant shouting orders at him. + </p> + <p> + The silver in his breeches pocket jingled with every step. + </p> + <p> + Andrews leaned on the balustrade of the balcony, looking down into the + square in front of the Opera Comique. He was dizzy with the beauty of the + music he had been hearing. He had a sense somewhere in the distances of + his mind of the great rhythm of the sea. People chattered all about him on + the wide, crowded balcony, but he was only conscious of the blue-grey + mistiness of the night where the lights made patterns in green-gold and + red-gold. And compelling his attention from everything else, the rhythm + swept through him like sea waves. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you'd be here,” said Genevieve Rod in a quiet voice beside him. + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt strangely tongue-tied. + </p> + <p> + “It's nice to see you,” he blurted out, after looking at her silently for + a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you love Pelleas.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the first time I've heard it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why haven't you been to see us? It's two weeks.... We've been expecting + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know...Oh, I'll certainly come. I don't know anyone at present I + can talk music to.” + </p> + <p> + “You know me.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyone else, I should have said.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you working?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.... But this hinders frightfully.” Andrews yanked at the front of his + tunic. “Still, I expect to be free very soon. I'm putting in an + application for discharge.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you will feel you can do so much better.... You will be much + stronger now that you have done your duty.” + </p> + <p> + “No... by no means.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, what was that you played at our house?” + </p> + <p> + “'The Three Green Riders on Wild Asses,'” said Andrews smiling. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “It's a prelude to the 'Queen of Sheba,'” said Andrews. “If you didn't + think the same as M. Emile Faguet and everyone else about St. Antoine, I'd + tell you what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “That was very silly of me.... But if you pick up all the silly things + people say accidentally... well, you must be angry most of the time.” + </p> + <p> + In the dim light he could not see her eyes. There was a little glow on the + curve of her cheek coming from under the dark of her hat to her rather + pointed chin. Behind it he could see other faces of men and women crowded + on the balcony talking, lit up crudely by the gold glare that came out + through the French windows from the lobby. + </p> + <p> + “I have always been tremendously fascinated by the place in La Tentation + where the Queen of Sheba visited Antoine, that's all,” said Andrews + gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the first thing you've done? It made me think a little of + Borodine.” + </p> + <p> + “The first that's at all pretentious. It's probably just a steal from + everything I've ever heard.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it's good. I suppose you had it in your head all through those + dreadful and glorious days at the front.... Is it for piano or orchestra?” + </p> + <p> + “All that's finished is for piano. I hope to orchestrate it eventually.... + Oh, but it's really silly to talk this way. I don't know enough.... I need + years of hard work before I can do anything.... And I have wasted so much + time.... That is the most frightful thing. One has so few years of youth!” + </p> + <p> + “There's the bell, we must scuttle back to our seats. Till the next + intermission.” She slipped through the glass doors and disappeared. + Andrews went back to his seat very excited, full of unquiet exultation. + The first strains of the orchestra were pain, he felt them so acutely. + </p> + <p> + After the last act they walked in silence down a dark street, hurrying to + get away from the crowds of the Boulevards. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the Avenue de l'Opera, she said: “Did you say you were + going to stay in France?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, if I can. I am going tomorrow to put in an application for + discharge in France.” + </p> + <p> + “What will you do then?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have to find a job of some sort that will let me study at the + Schola Cantorum. But I have enough money to last a little while.” + </p> + <p> + “You are courageous.” + </p> + <p> + “I forgot to ask you if you would rather take the Metro.” + </p> + <p> + “No; let's walk.” + </p> + <p> + They went under the arch of the Louvre. The air was full of a fine wet + mist, so that every street lamp was surrounded by a blur of light. + </p> + <p> + “My blood is full of the music of Debussy,” said Genevieve Rod, spreading + out her arms. + </p> + <p> + “It's no use trying to say what one feels about it. Words aren't much + good, anyway, are they?” + </p> + <p> + “That depends.” + </p> + <p> + They walked silently along the quais. The mist was so thick they could not + see the Seine, but whenever they came near a bridge they could hear the + water rustling through the arches. + </p> + <p> + “France is stifling,” said Andrews, all of a sudden. “It stifles you very + slowly, with beautiful silk bands.... America beats your brains out with a + policeman's billy.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” she asked, letting pique chill her voice. + </p> + <p> + “You know so much in France. You have made the world so neat....” + </p> + <p> + “But you seem to want to stay here,” she said with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “It's that there's nowhere else. There is nowhere except Paris where one + can find out things about music, particularly.... But I am one of those + people who was not made to be contented.” + </p> + <p> + “Only sheep are contented.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I have been happier this month in Paris than ever before in my + life. It seems six, so much has happened in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Poissac is where I am happiest.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is that?” + </p> + <p> + “We have a country house there, very old and very tumbledown. They say + that Rabelais used to come to the village. But our house is from later, + from the time of Henri Quatre. Poissac is not far from Tours. An ugly + name, isn't it? But to me it is very beautiful. The house has orchards all + round it, and yellow roses with flushed centers poke themselves in my + window, and there is a little tower like Montaigne's.” + </p> + <p> + “When I get out of the army, I shall go somewhere in the country and work + and work.” + </p> + <p> + “Music should be made in the country, when the sap is rising in the + trees.” + </p> + <p> + “'D'apres nature,' as the rabbit man said.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's the rabbit man?” + </p> + <p> + “A very pleasant person,” said Andrews, bubbling with laughter. “You shall + meet him some day. He sells little stuffed rabbits that jump, outside the + Cafe de Rohan.” + </p> + <p> + “Here we are.... Thank you for coming home with me.” + </p> + <p> + “But how soon. Are you sure it is the house? We can't have got there as + soon as this.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's my house,” said Genevieve Rod laughing. She held out her hand + to him and he shook it eagerly. The latchkey clicked in the door. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you have a cup of tea with us here tomorrow?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + The big varnished door with its knocker in the shape of a ring closed + behind her. Andrews walked away with a light step, feeling jolly and + exhilarated. + </p> + <p> + As he walked down the mist-filled quai towards the Place St. Michel, his + ears were filled with the lisping gurgle of the river past the piers of + the bridges. + </p> + <p> + Walters was asleep. On the table in his room was a card from Jeanne. + Andrews read the card holding it close to the candle. + </p> + <p> + “How long it is since I saw you!” it read. “I shall pass the Cafe de Rohan + Wednesday at seven, along the pavement opposite the Magazin du Louvre.” + </p> + <p> + It was a card of Malmaison. + </p> + <p> + Andrews flushed. Bitter melancholy throbbed through him. He walked + languidly to the window and looked out into the dark court. A window below + his spilled a warm golden haze into the misty night, through which he + could make out vaguely some pots of ferns standing on the wet flagstones. + From somewhere came a dense smell of hyacinths. Fragments of thought + slipped one after another through his mind. He thought of himself washing + windows long ago at training camp, and remembered the way the gritty + sponge scraped his hands. He could not help feeling shame when he thought + of those days. “Well, that's all over now,” he told himself. He wondered, + in a half-irritated way, about Genevieve Rod. What sort of a person was + she? Her face, with its wide eyes and pointed chin and the + reddish-chestnut hair, unpretentiously coiled above the white forehead, + was very vivid in his mind, though when he tried to remember what it was + like in profile, he could not. She had thin hands, with long fingers that + ought to play the piano well. When she grew old would she be + yellow-toothed and jolly, like her mother? He could not think of her old; + she was too vigorous; there was too much malice in her + passionately-restrained gestures. The memory of her faded, and there came + to his mind Jeanne's overworked little hands, with callous places, and the + tips of the fingers grimy and scarred from needlework. But the smell of + hyacinths that came up from the mist-filled courtyard was like a sponge + wiping all impressions from his brain. The dense sweet smell in the damp + air made him feel languid and melancholy. + </p> + <p> + He took off his clothes slowly and got into bed. The smell of the + hyacinths came to him very faintly, so that he did not know whether or not + he was imagining it. + </p> + <p> + The major's office was a large white-painted room, with elaborate + mouldings and mirrors in all four walls, so that while Andrews waited, cap + in hand, to go up to the desk, he could see the small round major with his + pink face and bald head repeated to infinity in two directions in the grey + brilliance of the mirrors. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” said the major, looking up from some papers he was + signing. + </p> + <p> + Andrews stepped up to the desk. On both sides of the room a skinny figure + in olive-drab, repeated endlessly, stepped up to endless mahogany desks, + which faded into each other in an endless dusty perspective. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind O.K.-ing this application for discharge, Major?” + </p> + <p> + “How many dependents?” muttered the major through his teeth, poring over + the application. + </p> + <p> + “None. It's for discharge in France to study music.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't do. You need an affidavit that you can support yourself, that you + have enough money to continue your studies. You want to study music, eh? + D'you think you've got talent? Needs a very great deal of talent to study + music.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.... But is there anything else I need except the affidavit?” + </p> + <p> + “No.... It'll go through in short order. We're glad to release men.... + We're glad to release any man with a good military record.... Williams!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + A sergeant came over from a small table by the door. + </p> + <p> + “Show this man what he needs to do to get discharged in France.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews saluted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figures in the + mirror, saluting down an endless corridor. + </p> + <p> + When he got out on the street in front of the great white building where + the major's office was, a morose feeling of helplessness came over him. + There were many automobiles of different sizes and shapes, limousines, + runabouts, touring cars, lined up along the curb, all painted olive-drab + and neatly stenciled with numbers in white. Now and then a personage came + out of the white marble building, puttees and Sam Browne belt gleaming, + and darted into an automobile, or a noisy motorcycle stopped with a jerk + in front of the wide door to let out an officer in goggles and + mud-splattered trench coat, who disappeared immediately through revolving + doors. Andrews could imagine him striding along halls, where from every + door came an imperious clicking of typewriters, where papers were piled + high on yellow varnished desks, where sallow-faced clerks in uniform + loafed in rooms, where the four walls were covered from floor to ceiling + with card catalogues. And every day they were adding to the paper, piling + up more little drawers with index cards. It seemed to Andrews that the + shiny white marble building would have to burst with all the paper stored + up within it, and would flood the broad avenue with avalanches of index + cards. + </p> + <p> + “Button yer coat,” snarled a voice in his ear. + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked up suddenly. An M. P. with a raw-looking face in which was + a long sharp nose, had come up to him. + </p> + <p> + Andrews buttoned up his overcoat and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Ye can't hang around here this way,” the M. P. called after him. + </p> + <p> + Andrews flushed and walked away without turning his head. He was stinging + with humiliation; an angry voice inside him kept telling him that he was a + coward, that he should make some futile gesture of protest. Grotesque + pictures of revolt flamed through his mind, until he remembered that when + he was very small, the same tumultuous pride had seethed and ached in him + whenever he had been reproved by an older person. Helpless despair + fluttered about within him like a bird beating against the wires of a + cage. Was there no outlet, no gesture of expression, would he have to go + on this way day after day, swallowing the bitter gall of indignation, that + every new symbol of his slavery brought to his lips? + </p> + <p> + He was walking in an agitated way across the Jardin des Tuileries, full of + little children and women with dogs on leashes and nursemaids with + starched white caps, when he met Genevieve Rod and her mother. Genevieve + was dressed in pearl grey, with an elegance a little too fashionable to + please Andrews. Mme. Rod wore black. In front of them a black and tan + terrier ran from one side to the other, on nervous little legs that + trembled like steel springs. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it lovely this morning?” cried Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know you had a dog.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we never go out without Santo, a protection to two lone women, you + know,” said Mme. Rod, laughing. “Viens, Santo, dis bonjour au Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “He usually lives at Poissac,” said Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + The little dog barked furiously at Andrews, a shrill bark like a child + squalling. + </p> + <p> + “He knows he ought to be suspicious of soldiers.... I imagine most + soldiers would change with him if they had a chance.... Viens Santo, viens + Santo.... Will you change lives with me, Santo?” + </p> + <p> + “You look as if you'd been quarrelling with somebody,” said Genevieve Rod + lightly. + </p> + <p> + “I have, with myself.... I'm going to write a book on slave psychology. It + would be very amusing,” said Andrews in a gruff, breathless voice. + </p> + <p> + “But we must hurry, dear, or we'll be late to the tailor's,” said Mme. + Rod. She held out her black-gloved hand to Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “We'll be in at tea time this afternoon. You might play me some more of + the 'Queen of Sheba,'” said Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I shan't be able to, but you never can tell.... Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + He was relieved to have left them. He had been afraid he would burst out + into some childish tirade. What a shame old Henslowe hadn't come back yet. + He could have poured out all his despair to him; he had often enough + before; and Henslowe was out of the army now. Wearily Andrews decided that + he would have to start scheming and intriguing again as he had schemed and + intrigued to come to Paris in the first place. He thought of the white + marble building and the officers with shiny puttees going in and out, and + the typewriters clicking in every room, and the understanding of his + helplessness before all that complication made him shiver. + </p> + <p> + An idea came to him. He ran down the steps of a metro station. Aubrey + would know someone at the Crillon who could help him. + </p> + <p> + But when the train reached the Concorde station, he could not summon the + will power to get out. He felt a harsh repugnance to any effort. What was + the use of humiliating himself and begging favors of people? It was + hopeless anyway. In a fierce burst of pride a voice inside of him was + shouting that he, John Andrews, should have no shame, that he should force + people to do things for him, that he, who lived more acutely than the + rest, suffering more pain and more joy, who had the power to express his + pain and his joy so that it would impose itself on others, should force + his will on those around him. “More of the psychology of slavery,” said + Andrews to himself, suddenly smashing the soap-bubble of his egoism. + </p> + <p> + The train had reached the Porte Maillot. + </p> + <p> + Andrews stood in the sunny boulevard in front of the metro station, where + the plane trees were showing tiny gold-brown leaves, sniffing the smell of + a flower-stall in front of which a woman stood, with a deft abstracted + gesture tying up bunch after bunch of violets. He felt a desire to be out + in the country, to be away from houses and people. There was a line of men + and women buying tickets for St. Germain; still indecisive, he joined it, + and at last, almost without intending it, found himself jolting through + Neuilly in the green trailer of the electric car, that waggled like a + duck's tail when the car went fast. + </p> + <p> + He remembered his last trip on that same car with Jeanne, and wished + mournfully that he might have fallen in love with her, that he might have + forgotten himself and the army and everything in crazy, romantic love. + </p> + <p> + When he got off the car at St. Germain, he had stopped formulating his + thoughts; soggy despair throbbed in him like an infected wound. + </p> + <p> + He sat for a while at the cafe opposite the Chateau looking at the light + red walls and the strong stone-bordered windows and the jaunty turrets and + chimneys that rose above the classic balustrade with its big urns on the + edge of the roof. The park, through the tall iron railings, was full of + russet and pale lines, all mist of new leaves. Had they really lived more + vividly, the people of the Renaissance? Andrews could almost see men with + plumed hats and short cloaks and elaborate brocaded tunics swaggering with + a hand at the sword hilt, about the quiet square in front of the gate of + the Chateau. And he thought of the great, sudden wind of freedom that had + blown out of Italy, before which dogmas and slaveries had crumbled to + dust. In contrast, the world today seemed pitifully arid. Men seemed to + have shrunk in stature before the vastness of the mechanical contrivances + they had invented. Michael Angelo, da Vinci, Aretino, Cellini; would the + strong figures of men ever so dominate the world again? Today everything + was congestion, the scurrying of crowds; men had become ant-like. Perhaps + it was inevitable that the crowds should sink deeper and deeper in + slavery. Whichever won, tyranny from above, or spontaneous organization + from below, there could be no individuals. + </p> + <p> + He went through the gates into the park, laid out with a few flower beds + where pansies bloomed; through the dark ranks of elm trunks, was brilliant + sky, with here and there a moss-green statue standing out against it. At + the head of an alley he came out on a terrace. Beyond the strong curves of + the pattern of the iron balustrade was an expanse of country, pale green, + falling to blue towards the horizon, patched with pink and slate-colored + houses and carved with railway tracks. At his feet the Seine shone like a + curved sword blade. + </p> + <p> + He walked with long strides along the terrace, and followed a road that + turned into the forest, forgetting the monotonous tread mill of his + thoughts, in the flush that the fast walking sent through his whole body, + in the rustling silence of the woods, where the moss on the north side of + the boles of the trees was emerald, and where the sky was soft grey + through a lavender lacework of branches. The green gnarled woods made him + think of the first act of Pelleas. With his tunic unbuttoned and his shirt + open at the neck and his hands stuck deep in his pockets, he went along + whistling like a school boy. + </p> + <p> + After an hour he came out of the woods on a highroad, where he found + himself walking beside a two-wheeled cart, that kept pace with him + exactly, try as he would to get ahead of it. After a while, a boy leaned + out: + </p> + <p> + “Hey, l'Americain, vous voulez monter?” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Conflans-Ste.-Honorine.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's that?” + </p> + <p> + The boy flourished his whip vaguely towards the horse's head. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “These are potatoes,” said the boy, “make yourself comfortable.'' Andrews + offered him a cigarette, which he took with muddy fingers. He had a broad + face, red cheeks and chunky features. Reddish-brown hair escaped spikily + from under a mud-spattered beret. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you say you were going?” + </p> + <p> + “Conflans-Ste.-Honorine. Silly all these saints, aren't they?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” the boy asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. I was taking a walk.” + </p> + <p> + The boy leaned over to Andrews and whispered in his car: “Deserter?” + </p> + <p> + “No.... I had a day off and wanted to see the country.” + </p> + <p> + “I just thought, if you were a deserter, I might be able to help you. Must + be silly to be a soldier. Dirty life.... But you like the country. So do + I. You can't call this country. I'm not from this part; I'm from Brittany. + There we have real country. It's stifling near Paris here, so many people, + so many houses.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems mighty fine to me.” + </p> + <p> + “That's because you're a soldier, better than barracks, hein? Dirty life + that. I'll never be a soldier. I'm going into the navy. Merchant marine, + and then if I have to do service I'll do it on the sea.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is pleasanter.” + </p> + <p> + “There's more freedom. And the sea.... We Bretons, you know, we all die of + the sea or of liquor.” + </p> + <p> + They laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been long in this part of the country?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Six months. It's very dull, this farming work. I'm head of a gang in a + fruit orchard, but not for long. I have a brother shipped on a sailing + vessel. When he comes back to Bordeaux, I'll ship on the same boat.” + </p> + <p> + “Where to?” + </p> + <p> + “South America, Peru; how should I know?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to ship on a sailing vessel,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “You would? It seems very fine to me to travel, and see new countries. And + perhaps I shall stay over there.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know? If I like it, that is.... Life is very bad in Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “It is stifling, I suppose,” said Andrews slowly, “all these nations, all + these hatreds, but still... it is very beautiful. Life is very ugly in + America.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's have something to drink. There's a bistro!” + </p> + <p> + The boy jumped down from the cart and tied the horse to a tree. They went + into a small wine shop with a counter and one square oak table. + </p> + <p> + “But won't you be late?” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “I don't care. I like talking, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + They ordered wine of an old woman in a green apron, who had three yellow + teeth that protruded from her mouth when she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't had anything to eat,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute.” The boy ran out to the cart and came back with a canvas + bag, from which he took half a loaf of bread and some cheese. + </p> + <p> + “My name's Marcel,” the boy said when they had sat for a while sipping + wine. + </p> + <p> + “Mine is Jean...Jean Andre.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a brother named Jean, and my father's name is Andre. That's + pleasant, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “But it must be a splendid job, working in a fruit orchard,” said Andrews, + munching bread and cheese. + </p> + <p> + “It's well paid; but you get tired of being in one place all the time. + It's not as it is in Brittany....” Marcel paused. He sat, rocking a little + on the stool, holding on to the seat between his legs. A curious + brilliance came into his grey eyes. “There,” he went on in a soft voice, + “it is so quiet in the fields, and from every hill you look at the sea.... + I like that, don't you?” he turned to Andrews, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “You are lucky to be free,” said Andrews bitterly. He felt as if he would + burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “But you will be demobilized soon; the butchery is over. You will go home + to your family. That will be good, hein?” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder. It's not far enough away. Restless!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you expect?” + </p> + <p> + A fine rain was falling. They climbed in on the potato sacks and the horse + started a jog trot; its lanky brown shanks glistened a little from the + rain. + </p> + <p> + “Do you come out this way often?” asked Marcel. + </p> + <p> + “I shall. It's the nicest place near Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Some Sunday you must come and I'll take you round. The Castle is very + fine. And then there is Malmaison, where the great Emperor lived with the + Empress Josephine.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews suddenly remembered Jeanne's card. This was Wednesday. He pictured + her dark figure among the crowd of the pavement in front of the Cafe de + Rohan. Of course it had to be that way. Despair, so helpless as to be + almost sweet, came over him. + </p> + <p> + “And girls,” he said suddenly to Marcel, “are they pretty round here?” + </p> + <p> + Marcel shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “It's not women that we lack, if a fellow has money,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt a sense of shame, he did not exactly know why. + </p> + <p> + “My brother writes that in South America the women are very brown and very + passionate,” added Marcel with a wistful smile. “But travelling and + reading books, that's what I like.... But look, if you want to take the + train back to Paris....” Marcel pulled up the horse to a standstill. “If + you want to take the train, cross that field by the foot path and keep + right along the road to the left till you come to the river. There's a + ferryman. The town's Herblay, and there's a station.... And any Sunday + before noon I'll be at 3 rue des Eveques, Reuil. You must come and we'll + take a walk together.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands, and Andrews strode off across the wet fields. Something + strangely sweet and wistful that he could not analyse lingered in his mind + from Marcel's talk. Somewhere, beyond everything, he was conscious of the + great free rhythm of the sea. + </p> + <p> + Then he thought of the Major's office that morning, and of his own skinny + figure in the mirrors, repeated endlessly, standing helpless and humble + before the shining mahogany desk. Even out here in these fields where the + wet earth seemed to heave with the sprouting of new growth, he was not + free. In those office buildings, with white marble halls full of the clank + of officers' heels, in index cards and piles of typewritten papers, his + real self, which they had power to kill if they wanted to, was in his name + and his number, on lists with millions of other names and other numbers. + This sentient body of his, full of possibilities and hopes and desires, + was only a pale ghost that depended on the other self, that suffered for + it and cringed for it. He could not drive out of his head the picture of + himself, skinny, in an illfitting uniform, repeated endlessly in the two + mirrors of the Major's white-painted office. + </p> + <p> + All of a sudden, through bare poplar trees, he saw the Seine. + </p> + <p> + He hurried along the road, splashing now and then in a shining puddle, + until he came to a landing place. The river was very wide, silvery, + streaked with pale-green and violet, and straw-color from the evening sky. + Opposite were bare poplars and behind them clusters of buff-colored houses + climbing up a green hill to a church, all repeated upside down in the + color-streaked river. The river was very full, and welled up above its + banks, the way the water stands up above the rim of a glass filled too + full. From the water came an indefinable rustling, flowing sound that rose + and fell with quiet rhythm in Andrews's ears. + </p> + <p> + Andrews forgot everything in the great wave of music that rose impetuously + through him, poured with the hot blood through his veins, with the + streaked colors of the river and the sky through his eyes, with the rhythm + of the flowing river through his ears. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> + <p> + “So I came without,” said Andrews, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “What fun!” cried Genevieve. “But anyway they couldn't do anything to you. + Chartres is so near. It's at the gates of Paris.” + </p> + <p> + They were alone in the compartment. The train had pulled out of the + station and was going through suburbs where the trees were in leaf in the + gardens, and fruit trees foamed above the red brick walls, among the + box-like villas. + </p> + <p> + “Anyway,” said Andrews, “it was an opportunity not to be missed.” + </p> + <p> + “That must be one of the most amusing things about being a soldier, + avoiding regulations. I wonder whether Damocles didn't really enjoy his + sword, don't you think so?” + </p> + <p> + They laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But mother was very doubtful about my coming with you this way. She's + such a dear, she wants to be very modern and liberal, but she always gets + frightened at the last minute. And my aunt will think the world's end has + come when we appear.” + </p> + <p> + They went through some tunnels, and when the train stopped at Sevres, had + a glimpse of the Seine valley, where the blue mist made a patina over the + soft pea-green of new leaves. Then the train came out on wide plains, full + of the glaucous shimmer of young oats and the golden-green of + fresh-sprinkled wheat fields, where the mist on the horizon was purplish. + The train's shadow, blue, sped along beside them over the grass and + fences. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful it is to go out of the city this way in the early + morning!... Has your aunt a piano?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a very old and tinkly one.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be amusing to play you all I have done at the 'Queen of Sheba.' + You say the most helpful things.” + </p> + <p> + “It is that I am interested. I think you will do something some day.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + They sat silent, their ears filled up by the jerking rhythm of wheels over + rails, now and then looking at each other, almost furtively. Outside, + fields and hedges and patches of blossom, and poplar trees faintly + powdered with green, unrolled, like a scroll before them, behind the + nicker of telegraph poles and the festooned wires on which the sun gave + glints of red copper. Andrews discovered all at once that the coppery + glint on the telegraph wires was the same as the glint in Genevieve's + hair. “Berenike, Artemisia, Arsinoe,” the names lingered in his mind. So + that as he looked out of the window at the long curves of the telegraph + wires that seemed to rise and fall as they glided past, he could imagine + her face, with its large, pale brown eyes and its small mouth and broad + smooth forehead, suddenly stilled into the encaustic painting on the mummy + case of some Alexandrian girl. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she said, “when did you begin to write music?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews brushed the light, disordered hair off his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I think I forgot to brush my hair this morning,” he said. “You see, + I was so excited by the idea of coming to Chartres with you.” + </p> + <p> + They laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But my mother taught me to play the piano when I was very small,” he went + on seriously. “She and I lived alone in an old house belonging to her + family in Virginia. How different all that was from anything you have ever + lived. It would not be possible in Europe to be as isolated as we were in + Virginia.... Mother was very unhappy. She had led a dreadfully thwarted + life... that unrelieved hopeless misery that only a woman can suffer. She + used to tell me stories, and I used to make up little tunes about them, + and about anything. The great success,” he laughed, “was, I remember, to a + dandelion.... I can remember so well the way Mother pursed up her lips as + she leaned over the writing desk.... She was very tall, and as it was dark + in our old sitting room, had to lean far over to see.... She used to spend + hours making beautiful copies of tunes I made up. My mother is the only + person who has ever really had any importance in my life.... But I lack + technical training terribly.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is so important?” said Genevieve, leaning towards him to + make herself heard above the clatter of the train. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it isn't. I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it always comes sooner or later, if you feel intensely enough.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is so frightful to feel all you want to express getting away + beyond you. An idea comes into your head, and you feel it grow stronger + and stronger and you can't grasp it; you have no means to express it. It's + like standing on a street corner and seeing a gorgeous procession go by + without being able to join it, or like opening a bottle of beer and having + it foam all over you without having a glass to pour it into.” + </p> + <p> + Genevieve burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “But you can drink from the bottle, can't you?” she said, her eyes + sparkling. + </p> + <p> + “I'm trying to,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are. There's the cathedral. No, it's hidden,” cried Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + They got to their feet. As they left the station, Andrews said: “But after + all, it's only freedom that matters. When I'm out of the army!...” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I suppose you are right... for you that is. The artist should be + free from any sort of entanglement.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see what difference there is between an artist and any other sort + of workman,” said Andrews savagely. + </p> + <p> + “No, but look.” + </p> + <p> + From the square where they stood, above the green blur of a little park, + they could see the cathedral, creamy yellow and rust color, with the sober + tower and the gaudy tower, and the great rose window between, the whole + pile standing nonchalantly, knee deep in the packed roofs of the town. + </p> + <p> + They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at it without speaking. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon they walked down the hill towards the river, that flowed + through a quarter of tottering, peak-gabled houses and mills, from which + came a sound of grinding wheels. Above them, towering over gardens full of + pear trees in bloom, the apse of the cathedral bulged against the pale + sky. On a narrow and very ancient bridge they stopped and looked at the + water, full of a shimmer of blue and green and grey from the sky and from + the vivid new leaves of the willow trees along the bank. + </p> + <p> + Their senses glutted with the beauty of the day and the intricate + magnificence of the cathedral, languid with all they had seen and said, + they were talking of the future with quiet voices. + </p> + <p> + “It's all in forming a habit of work,” Andrews was saying. “You have to be + a slave to get anything done. It's all a question of choosing your master, + don't you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I suppose all the men who have left their imprint on people's lives + have been slaves in a sense,” said Genevieve slowly. “Everyone has to give + up a great deal of life to live anything deeply. But it's worth, it.” She + looked Andrews full in the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think it's worth it,” said Andrews. “But you must help me. Now I + am like a man who has come up out of a dark cellar. I'm almost too dazzled + by the gorgeousness of everything. But at least I am out of the cellar.” + </p> + <p> + “Look, a fish jumped,” cried Genevieve. “I wonder if we could hire a boat + anywhere.... Don't you think it'd be fun to go out in a boat?” + </p> + <p> + A voice broke in on Genevieve's answer: “Let's see your pass, will you?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews turned round. A soldier with a round brown face and red cheeks + stood beside him on the bridge. Andrews looked at him fixedly. A little + zigzag scar above his left eye showed white on his heavily tanned skin. + </p> + <p> + “Let's see your pass,” the man said again; he had a high pitched, squeaky + voice. + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt the blood thumping in his ears. “Are you an M. P.?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well I'm in the Sorbonne Detachment.” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell's that?” said the M. P., laughing thinly. + </p> + <p> + “What does he say?” asked Genevieve, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I'll have to go see the officer and explain,” said Andrews in a + breathless voice. “You go back to your Aunt's and I'll come as soon as + I've arranged it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'll come with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Please go back. It may be serious. I'll come as soon as I can,” said + Andrews harshly. + </p> + <p> + She walked up the hill with swift decisive steps, without turning round. + </p> + <p> + “Tough luck, buddy,” said the M. P. “She's a good-looker. I'd like to have + a half-hour with her myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here. I'm in the Sorbonne School Detachment in Paris, and I came + down here without a pass. Is there anything I can do about it?” + </p> + <p> + “They'll fix you up, don't worry,” cried the M. P. shrilly. “You ain't a + member of the General Staff in disguise, are ye? School Detachment! Gee, + won't Bill Huggis laugh when he hears that? You pulled the best one yet, + buddy.... But come along,” he added in a confidential tone. “If you come + quiet I won't put the handcuffs on ye.” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know you're an M. P.?” + </p> + <p> + “You'll know soon enough.” + </p> + <p> + They turned down a narrow street between grey stucco walls leprous with + moss and water stains. + </p> + <p> + At a chair inside the window of a small wine shop a man with a red M. P. + badge sat smoking. He got up when he saw them pass and opened the door + with one hand on his pistol holster. + </p> + <p> + “I got one bird, Bill,” said the man, shoving Andrews roughly in the door. + </p> + <p> + “Good for you, Handsome; is he quiet?” + </p> + <p> + “Um.” Handsome grunted. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down there. If you move you'll git a bullet in your guts.” + </p> + <p> + The M. P. stuck out a square jaw; he had a sallow skin, puffy under the + eyes that were grey and lustreless. + </p> + <p> + “He says he's in some goddam School Detachment. First time that's been + pulled, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “School Detachment. D'you mean an O. T. C?” Bill sank laughing into his + chair by the window, spreading his legs out over the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't that rich?” said Handsome, laughing shrilly again. + </p> + <p> + “Got any papers on ye? Ye must have some sort of papers.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews searched his pockets. He flushed. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to have a school pass.” + </p> + <p> + “You sure ought. Gee, this guy's simple,” said Bill, leaning far back in + the chair and blowing smoke through his nose. + </p> + <p> + “Look at his dawg-tag, Handsome.” + </p> + <p> + The man strode over to Andrews and jerked open the top of his tunic. + Andrews pulled his body away. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't got any on. I forgot to put any on this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “No tag, no insignia.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have, infantry.” + </p> + <p> + “No papers.... I bet he's been out a hell of a time,” said Handsome + meditatively. + </p> + <p> + “Better put the cuffs on him,” said Bill in the middle of a yawn. + </p> + <p> + “Let's wait a while. When's the loot coming?” + </p> + <p> + “Not till night.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Ain't no train.” + </p> + <p> + “How about a side car?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I know he ain't comin',” snarled Bill. + </p> + <p> + “What d'you say we have a little liquor, Bill? Bet this bloke's got money. + You'll set us up to a glass o' cognac, won't you, School Detachment?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews sat very stiff in his chair, staring at them. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “order up what you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep an eye on him, Handsome. You never can tell what this quiet kind's + likely to pull off on you.” + </p> + <p> + Bill Huggis strode out of the room with heavy steps. In a moment he came + back swinging a bottle of cognac in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Tole the Madame you'd pay, Skinny,” said the man as he passed Andrews's + chair. Andrews nodded. + </p> + <p> + The two M. P.'s drew up to the table beside which Andrews sat. Andrews + could not keep his eyes off them. Bill Huggis hummed as he pulled the cork + out of the bottle. + </p> + <p> + “It's the smile that makes you happy, It's the smile that makes you sad.” + </p> + <p> + Handsome watched him, grinning. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly they both burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “An' the damn fool thinks he's in a school battalion,” said Handsome in + his shrill voice. + </p> + <p> + “It'll be another kind of a battalion you'll be in, Skinny,” cried Bill + Huggis. He stifled his laughter with a long drink from the bottle. + </p> + <p> + He smacked his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Not so goddam bad,” he said. Then he started humming again: + </p> + <p> + “It's the smile that makes you happy, It's the smile that makes you sad.” + </p> + <p> + “Have some, Skinny?” said Handsome, pushing the bottle towards Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Ye won't be gettin' good cognac where yer goin', Skinny, not by a damn + sight,” growled Bill Huggis in the middle of a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “All right, I'll take a swig.” An idea had suddenly come into Andrews's + head. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, the bastard kin drink cognac,” cried Handsome. + </p> + <p> + “Got enough money to buy us another bottle?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. He wiped his mouth absently with his handkerchief; he had + drunk the raw cognac without tasting it. + </p> + <p> + “Get another bottle, Handsome,” said Bill Huggis carelessly. A purplish + flush had appeared in the lower part of his cheeks. When the other man + came back, he burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “The last cognac this Skinny guy from the school detachment'll get for + many a day. Better drink up strong, Skinny.... They don't have that stuff + down on the farm.... School Detachment; I'll be goddamned!” He leaned back + in his chair, shaking with laughter. + </p> + <p> + Handsome's face was crimson. Only the zigzag scar over his eye remained + white. He was swearing in a low voice as he worked the cork out of the + bottle. + </p> + <p> + Andrews could not keep his eyes off the men's faces. They went from one to + the other, in spite of him. Now and then, for an instant, he caught a + glimpse of the yellow and brown squares of the wall paper and the bar with + a few empty bottles behind it. He tried to count the bottles; “one, two, + three...” but he was staring in the lustreless grey eyes of Bill Huggis, + who lay back in his chair, blowing smoke out of his nose, now and then + reaching for the cognac bottle, all the while humming faintly, under his + breath: + </p> + <p> + “It's the smile that makes you happy, It's the smile that makes you sad.” + </p> + <p> + Handsome sat with his elbows on the table, and his chin in his beefy + hands. His face was flushed crimson, but the skin was softly moulded, like + a woman's. + </p> + <p> + The light in the room was beginning to grow grey. + </p> + <p> + Handsome and Bill Huggis stood up. A young officer, with clearly-marked + features and a campaign hat worn a little on one side, came in, stood with + his feet wide apart in the middle of the floor. + </p> + <p> + Andrews went up to him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm in the Sorbonne Detachment, Lieutenant, stationed in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know enough to salute?” said the officer, looking him up and + down. “One of you men teach him to salute,” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + Handsome made a step towards Andrews and hit him with his fist between the + eyes. There was a flash of light and the room swung round, and there was a + splitting crash as his head struck the floor. He got to his feet. The fist + hit him in the same place, blinding him, the three figures and the bright + oblong of the window swung round. A chair crashed down with him, and a + hard rap in the back of his skull brought momentary blackness. + </p> + <p> + “That's enough, let him be,” he heard a voice far away at the end of a + black tunnel. + </p> + <p> + A great weight seemed to be holding him down as he struggled to get up, + blinded by tears and blood. Rending pains darted like arrows through his + head. There were handcuffs on his wrists. + </p> + <p> + “Git up,” snarled a voice. + </p> + <p> + He got to his feet, faint light came through the streaming tears in his + eyes. His forehead flamed as if hot coals were being pressed against it. + </p> + <p> + “Prisoner, attention!” shouted the officer's voice. “March!” + </p> + <p> + Automatically, Andrews lifted one foot and then the other. He felt in his + face the cool air of the street. On either side of him were the hard steps + of the M. P.'s. Within him a nightmare voice was shrieking, shrieking. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART6" id="link2H_PART6"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART SIX: UNDER THE WHEELS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> + <p> + The uncovered garbage cans clattered as they were thrown one by one into + the truck. Dust, and a smell of putrid things, hung in the air about the + men as they worked. A guard stood by with his legs wide apart, and his + rifle-butt on the pavement between them. The early mist hung low, hiding + the upper windows of the hospital. From the door beside which the garbage + cans were ranged came a thick odor of carbolic. The last garbage can + rattled into place on the truck, the four prisoners and the guard + clambered on, finding room as best they could among the cans, from which + dripped bloody bandages, ashes, and bits of decaying food, and the truck + rumbled off towards the incinerator, through the streets of Paris that + sparkled with the gaiety of early morning. + </p> + <p> + The prisoners wore no tunics; their shirts and breeches had dark stains of + grease and dirt; on their hands were torn canvas gloves. The guard was a + sheepish, pink-faced youth, who kept grinning apologetically, and had + trouble keeping his balance when the truck went round corners. + </p> + <p> + “How many days do they keep a guy on this job, Happy?” asked a boy with + mild blue eyes and a creamy complexion, and reddish curly hair. + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I know, kid; as long as they please, I guess,” said the + bull-necked man next him, who had a lined prize fighter's face, with a + heavy protruding jaw. + </p> + <p> + Then, after looking at the boy for a minute, with his face twisted into an + astonished sort of grin, he went on: “Say, kid, how in hell did you git + here? Robbin' the cradle, Oi call it, to send you here, kid.” + </p> + <p> + “I stole a Ford,” the boy answered cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “Like hell you did!” + </p> + <p> + “Sold it for five hundred francs.” + </p> + <p> + Happy laughed, and caught hold of an ash can to keep from being thrown out + of the jolting truck. + </p> + <p> + “Kin ye beat that, guard?” he cried. “Ain't that somethin'?” + </p> + <p> + The guard sniggered. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't send me to Leavenworth 'cause I was so young,” went on the kid + placidly. + </p> + <p> + “How old are you, kid?” asked Andrews, who was leaning against the + driver's seat. + </p> + <p> + “Seventeen,” said the boy, blushing and casting his eyes down. + </p> + <p> + “He must have lied like hell to git in this goddam army,” boomed the deep + voice of the truck driver, who had leaned over to spit s long squirt of + tobacco juice. + </p> + <p> + The truck driver jammed the brakes on. The garbage cans banged against + each other. + </p> + <p> + The Kid cried out in pain: “Hold your horses, can't you? You nearly broke + my leg.” + </p> + <p> + The truck driver was swearing in a long string of words. + </p> + <p> + “Goddam these dreamin', skygazin' sons of French bastards. Why don't they + get out of your way? Git out an' crank her up, Happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess a feller'd be lucky if he'd break his leg or somethin'; don't you + think so, Skinny?” said the fourth prisoner in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “It'll take mor'n a broken leg to git you out o' this labor battalion, + Hoggenback. Won't it, guard?” said Happy, as he climbed on again. + </p> + <p> + The truck jolted away, trailing a haze of cinder dust and a sour stench of + garbage behind it. Andrews noticed all at once that they were going down + the quais along the river. Notre Dame was rosy in the misty sunlight, the + color of lilacs in full bloom. He looked at it fixedly a moment, and then + looked away. He felt very far from it, like a man looking at the stars + from the bottom of a pit. + </p> + <p> + “My mate, he's gone to Leavenworth for five years,” said the Kid when they + had been silent some time listening to the rattle of the garbage cans as + the trucks jolted over the cobbles. + </p> + <p> + “Helped yer steal the Ford, did he?” asked Happy. + </p> + <p> + “Ford nothin'! He sold an ammunition train. He was a railroad man. He was + a mason, that's why he only got five years.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess five years in Leavenworth's enough for anybody,” muttered + Hoggenback, scowling. He was a square-shouldered dark man, who always hung + his head when he worked. + </p> + <p> + “We didn't meet up till we got to Paris; we was on a hell of a party + together at the Olympia. That's where they picked us up. Took us to the + Bastille. Ever been in the Bastille?” + </p> + <p> + “I have,” said Hoggenback. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't no joke, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Christ!” said Hoggenback. His face flushed a furious red. He turned away + and looked at the civilians walking briskly along the early morning + streets, at the waiters in shirt sleeves swabbing off the cafe tables, at + the women pushing handcarts full of bright-colored vegetables over the + cobblestones. + </p> + <p> + “I guess they ain't nobody gone through what we guys go through with,” + said Happy. “It'd be better if the ole war was still a' goin', to my way + o' thinkin'. They'd chuck us into the trenches then. Ain't so low as + this.” + </p> + <p> + “Look lively,” shouted the truck driver, as the truck stopped in a dirty + yard full of cinder piles. “Ain't got all day. Five more loads to get + yet.” + </p> + <p> + The guard stood by with angry face and stiff limbs; for he feared there + were officers about, and the prisoners started unloading the garbage cans; + their nostrils were full of the stench of putrescence; between their lips + was a gritty taste of cinders. + </p> + <p> + The air in the dark mess shack was thick with steam from the kitchen at + one end. The men filed past the counter, holding out their mess kits, into + which the K. P.'s splashed the food. Occasionally someone stopped to ask + for a larger helping in an ingratiating voice. They ate packed together at + long tables of roughly planed boards, stained from the constant spilling + of grease and coffee and still wet from a perfunctory scrubbing. Andrews + sat at the end of a bench, near the door through which came the glimmer of + twilight, eating slowly, surprised at the relish with which he ate the + greasy food, and at the exhausted contentment that had come over him + almost in spite of himself. Hoggenback sat opposite him. + </p> + <p> + “Funny,” he said to Hoggenback, “it's not really as bad as I thought it + would be.” + </p> + <p> + “What d'you mean, this labor battalion? Hell, a feller can put up with + anything; that's one thing you learn in the army.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess people would rather put up with things than make an effort to + change them.” + </p> + <p> + “You're goddam right. Got a butt?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews handed him a cigarette. They got to their feet and walked out into + the twilight, holding their mess kits in front of them. As they were + washing their mess kits in a tub of greasy water, where bits of food + floated in a thick scum, Hoggenback suddenly said in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + “But it all piles up, Buddy; some day there'll be an accountin'. D'you + believe in religion?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither do I. I come of folks as done their own accountin'. My father an' + my gran'father before him. A feller can't eat his bile day after day, day + after day.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid he can, Hoggenback,” broke in Andrews. They walked towards the + barracks. + </p> + <p> + “Goddam it, no,” cried Hoggenback aloud. “There comes a point where you + can't eat yer bile any more, where it don't do no good to cuss. Then you + runs amuck.” Hanging his head he went slowly into the barracks. + </p> + <p> + Andrews leaned against the outside of the building, staring up at the sky. + He was trying desperately to think, to pull together a few threads of his + life in this moment of respite from the nightmare. In five minutes the + bugle would din in his ears, and he would be driven into the barracks. A + tune came to his head that he played with eagerly for a moment, and then, + as memory came to him, tried to efface with a shudder of disgust. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's the smile that makes you happy, + There's the smile that makes you sad.” + </pre> + <p> + It was almost dark. Two men walked slowly by in front of him. + </p> + <p> + “Sarge, may I speak to you?” came a voice in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant grunted. + </p> + <p> + “I think there's two guys trying to break loose out of here.” + </p> + <p> + “Who? If you're wrong it'll be the worse for you, remember that.” + </p> + <p> + “Surley an' Watson. I heard 'em talkin' about it behind the latrine.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn fools.” + </p> + <p> + “They was sayin' they'd rather be dead than keep up this life.” + </p> + <p> + “They did, did they?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk so loud, Sarge. It wouldn't do for any of the fellers to know + I was talkin' to yer. Say, Sarge...” the voice became whining, “don't you + think I've nearly served my time down here?” + </p> + <p> + “What do I know about that? 'Tain't my job.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Sarge, I used to be company clerk with my old outfit. Don't ye need + a guy round the office?” Andrews strode past them into the barracks. Dull + fury possessed him. He took off his clothes and got silently into his + blankets. + </p> + <p> + Hoggenback and Happy were talking beside his bunk. + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind,” said Hoggenback, “somebody'll get that guy sooner or + later.” + </p> + <p> + “Git him, nauthin'! The fellers in that camp was so damn skeered they + jumped if you snapped yer fingers at 'em. It's the discipline. I'm tellin' + yer, it gits a feller in the end,” said Happy. + </p> + <p> + Andrews lay without speaking, listening to their talk, aching in every + muscle from the crushing work of the day. + </p> + <p> + “They court-martialled that guy, a feller told me,” went on Hoggenback. + “An' what d'ye think they did to him? Retired on half pay. He was a + major.” + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, if I iver git out o' this army, I'll be so goddam glad,” began + Happy. Hoggenback interrupted: + </p> + <p> + “That you'll forgit all about the raw deal they gave you, an' tell + everybody how fine ye liked it.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt the mocking notes of the bugle outside stabbing his ears. A + non-com's voice roared: “Quiet,” from the end of the building, and the + lights went out. Already Andrews could hear the deep breathing of men + asleep. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, his body throbbing with + the monotonous rhythms of the work of the day. He seemed still to hear the + sickening whine in the man's voice as he talked to the sergeant outside in + the twilight. “And shall I be reduced to that?” he was asking himself. + </p> + <p> + Andrews was leaving the latrine when he heard a voice call softly, + “Skinny.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Come here, I want to talk to you.” It was the Kid's voice. There was no + light in the ill-smelling shack that served for a latrine. Outside they + could hear the guard humming softly to himself as he went back and forth + before the barracks door. + </p> + <p> + “Let's you and me be buddies, Skinny.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Say, what d'you think the chance is o' cuttin' loose?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty damn poor,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't you just make a noise like a hoop an' roll away?” + </p> + <p> + They giggled softly. + </p> + <p> + Andrews put his hand on the boy's arm. + </p> + <p> + “But, Kid, it's too risky. I got in this fix by taking a risk. I don't + feel like beginning over again, and if they catch you, it's desertion. + Leavenworth for twenty years, or life. That'd be the end of everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what the hell's this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know; they've got to let us out some day.” + </p> + <p> + “Sh... sh....” + </p> + <p> + Kid put his hand suddenly over Andrews's mouth. They stood rigid, so that + they could hear their hearts pounding. + </p> + <p> + Outside there was a brisk step on the gravel. The sentry halted and + saluted. The steps faded into the distance, and the sentry's humming began + again. + </p> + <p> + “They put two fellers in the jug for a month for talking like we are.... + In solitary,” whispered Kid. + </p> + <p> + “But, Kid, I haven't got the guts to try anything now.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure you have, Skinny. You an' me's got more guts than all the rest of + 'em put together. God, if people had guts, you couldn't treat 'em like + they were curs. Look, if I can ever get out o' this, I've got a hunch I + can make a good thing writing movie scenarios. I want to get on in the + world, Skinny.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Kid, you won't be able to go back to the States.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't care. New Rochelle's not the whole world. They got the movies in + Italy, ain't they?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. Let's go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Look, you an' me are buddies from now on, Skinny.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt the Kid's hand press his arm. + </p> + <p> + In his dark, airless bunk, in the lowest of three tiers, Andrews lay awake + a long time, listening to the snores and the heavy breathing about him. + Thoughts fluttered restlessly in his head, but in his blank hopelessness + he could only frown and bite his lips, and roll his head from side to side + on the rolled-up tunic he used for a pillow, listening with desperate + attention to the heavy breathing of the men who slept above him and beside + him. + </p> + <p> + When he fell asleep he dreamed that he was alone with Genevieve Rod in the + concert hall of the Schola Cantorum, and that he was trying desperately + hard to play some tune for her on the violin, a tune he kept forgetting, + and in the agony of trying to remember, the tears streamed down his + cheeks. Then he had his arms round Genevieve's shoulders and was kissing + her, kissing her, until he found that it was a wooden board he was + kissing, a wooden board on which was painted a face with broad forehead + and great pale brown eyes, and small tight lips, and all the while a boy + who seemed to be both Chrisfield and the Kid kept telling him to run or + the M.P.'s would get him. Then he sat frozen in icy terror with a bottle + in his hand, while a frightful voice behind him sang very loud: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's the smile that makes you happy, + There's the smile that makes you sad.” + </pre> + <p> + The bugle woke him, and he sat up with such a start that he hit his head + hard against the bunk above him. He lay back cringing from the pain like a + child. But he had to hurry desperately to get his clothes on in time for + roll call. It was with a feeling of relief that he found that mess was not + ready, and that men were waiting in line outside the kitchen shack, + stamping their feet and clattering their mess kits as they moved about + through the chilly twilight of the spring morning. Andrews found he was + standing behind Hoggenback. + </p> + <p> + “How's she comin', Skinny?” whispered Hoggenback, in his low mysterious + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we're all in the same boat,” said Andrews with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Wish it'd sink,” muttered the other man. “D'ye know,” he went on after a + pause, “I kinder thought an edicated guy like you'd be able to keep out of + a mess like this. I wasn't brought up without edication, but I guess I + didn't have enough.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess most of 'em can; I don't sec that it's much to the point. A man + suffers as much if he doesn't know how to read and write as if he had a + college education.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno, Skinny. A feller who's led a rough life can put up with an awful + lot. The thing is, Skinny, I might have had a commission if I hadn't been + so damned impatient.... I'm a lumberman by trade, and my dad's cleaned up + a pretty thing in war contracts jus' a short time ago. He could have got + me in the engineers if I hadn't gone off an' enlisted.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you?” + </p> + <p> + “I was restless-like. I guess I wanted to see the world. I didn't care + about the goddam war, but I wanted to see what things was like over here.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you've seen,” said Andrews, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “In the neck,” said Hoggenback, as he pushed out his cup for coffee. + </p> + <p> + In the truck that was taking them to work, Andrews and the Kid sat side by + side on the jouncing backboard and tried to talk above the rumble of the + exhaust. + </p> + <p> + “Like Paris?” asked the Kid. + </p> + <p> + “Not this way,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Say, one of the guys said you could parlay French real well. I want you + to teach me. A guy's got to know languages to get along in this country.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must know some.” + </p> + <p> + “Bedroom French,” said the Kid, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “But if I want to write a movie scenario for an Eytalian firm, I can't + just write 'voulay-vous couchezavecmoa' over and over again.” + </p> + <p> + “But you'll have to learn Italian, Kid.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm goin' to. Say, ain't they taking us a hell of a ways today, Skinny?” + </p> + <p> + “We're goin' to Passy Wharf to unload rock,” said somebody in a grumbling + voice. + </p> + <p> + “No, it's a cement... cement for the stadium we're presentin' the French + Nation. Ain't you read in the 'Stars and Stripes' about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd present 'em with a swift kick, and a hell of a lot of other people, + too.” + </p> + <p> + “So we have to sweat unloadin' cement all day,” muttered Hoggenback, “to + give these goddam frawgs a stadium.” + </p> + <p> + “If it weren't that it'd be somethin' else.” + </p> + <p> + “But, ain't we got folks at home to work for?” cried Hoggenback. “Mightn't + all this sweat be doin' some good for us? Building a stadium! My gawd!” + </p> + <p> + “Pile out there.... Quick!” rasped a voice from the driver's seat. + </p> + <p> + Through the haze of choking white dust, Andrews got now and then a glimpse + of the grey-green river, with its tugboats sporting their white cockades + of steam and their long trailing plumes of smoke, and its blunt-nosed + barges and its bridges, where people walked jauntily back and forth, going + about their business, going where they wanted to go. The bags of cement + were very heavy, and the unaccustomed work sent racking pains through his + back. The biting dust stung under his finger nails, and in his mouth and + eyes. All the morning a sort of refrain went through his head: “People + have spent their lives... doing only this. People have spent their lives + doing only this.” As he crossed and recrossed the narrow plank from the + barge to the shore, he looked at the black water speeding seawards and + took extraordinary care not to let his foot slip. He did not know why, for + one-half of him was thinking how wonderful it would be to drown, to forget + in eternal black silence the hopeless struggle. Once he saw the Kid + standing before the sergeant in charge in an attitude of complete + exhaustion, and caught a glint of his blue eyes as he looked up + appealingly, looking like a child begging out of a spanking. The sight + amused him, and he said to himself: “If I had pink cheeks and cupid's bow + lips, I might be able to go through life on my blue eyes”; and he pictured + the Kid, a fat, cherubic old man, stepping out of a white limousine, the + way people do in the movies, and looking about him with those same mild + blue eyes. But soon he forgot everything in the agony of the heavy cement + bags bearing down on his back and hips. + </p> + <p> + In the truck on the way back to the mess the Kid, looking fresh and + smiling among the sweating men, like ghosts from the white dust, talking + hoarsely above the clatter of the truck, sidled up very close to Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “D'you like swimmin', Skinny?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I'd give a lot to get some of this cement dust off me,” said + Andrews, without interest. + </p> + <p> + “I once won a boy's swimmin' race at Coney,” said the Kid. Andrews did not + answer. + </p> + <p> + “Were you in the swimmin' team or anything like that, Skinny, when you + went to school?” + </p> + <p> + “No.... It would be wonderful to be in the water, though. I used to swim + way out in Chesapeake Bay at night when the water was phosphorescent.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews suddenly found the Kid's blue eyes, bright as flames from + excitement, staring into his. + </p> + <p> + “God, I'm an ass,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + He felt the Kid's fist punch him softly in the back. “Sergeant said they + was goin' to work us late as hell tonight,” the Kid was saying aloud to + the men round him. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be dead if they do,” muttered Hoggenback. + </p> + <p> + “An' you a lumberjack!” + </p> + <p> + “It ain't that. I could carry their bloody bags two at a time if I wanted + ter. A feller gets so goddam mad, that's all; so goddam mad. Don't he, + Skinny?” Hoggenback turned to Andrews and smiled. + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded his head. + </p> + <p> + After the first two or three bags Andrews carried in the afternoon, it + seemed as if every one would be the last he could possibly lift. His back + and thighs throbbed with exhaustion; his face and the tips of his fingers + felt raw from the biting cement dust. + </p> + <p> + When the river began to grow purple with evening, he noticed that two + civilians, young men with buff-colored coats and canes, were watching the + gang at work. + </p> + <p> + “They says they's newspaper reporters, writing up how fast the army's + being demobilized,” said one man in an awed voice. + </p> + <p> + “They come to the right place.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell 'em we're leavin' for home now. Loadin' our barracks bags on the + steamer.” + </p> + <p> + The newspaper men were giving out cigarettes. Several men grouped round + them. One shouted out: + </p> + <p> + “We're the guys does the light work. Blackjack Pershing's own pet labor + battalion.” + </p> + <p> + “They like us so well they just can't let us go.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn jackasses,” muttered Hoggenback, as, with his eyes to the ground, he + passed Andrews. “I could tell 'em some things'd make their goddam ears + buzz.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “What the hell's the use? I ain't got the edication to talk up to guys + like that.” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant, a short, red-faced man with a mustache clipped very short, + went up to the group round the newspaper men. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, fellers, we've got a hell of a lot of this cement to get in + before it rains,” he said in a kindly voice; “the sooner we get it in, the + sooner we get off.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to that bastard, ain't he juss too sweet for pie when there's + company?” muttered Hoggenback on his way from the barge with a bag of + cement. + </p> + <p> + The Kid brushed past Andrews without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do what I do, Skinny,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews did not turn round, but his heart started thumping very fast. A + dull sort of terror took possession of him. He tried desperately to summon + his will power, to keep from cringing, but he kept remembering the way the + room had swung round when the M.P. had hit him, and heard again the cold + voice of the lieutenant saying: “One of you men teach him how to salute.” + Time dragged out interminably. + </p> + <p> + At last, coming back to the edge of the wharf, Andrews saw that there were + no more bags in the barge. He sat down on the plank, too exhausted to + think. Blue-grey dusk was closing down on everything. The Passy bridge + stood out, purple against a great crimson afterglow. + </p> + <p> + The Kid sat down beside him, and threw an arm trembling with excitement + round his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “The guard's lookin' the other way. They won't miss us till they get to + the truck.... Come on, Skinny,” he said in a low, quiet voice. + </p> + <p> + Holding on to the plank, he let himself down into the speeding water. + Andrews slipped after him, hardly knowing what he was doing. The icy water + closing about his body made him suddenly feel awake and vigorous. As he + was swept by the big rudder of the barge, he caught hold of the Kid, who + was holding on to a rope. They worked their way without speaking round to + the outer side of the rudder. The swift river tugging savagely at them + made it hard to hold on. + </p> + <p> + “Now they can't see us,” said the Kid between clenched teeth. “Can you + work your shoes an' pants off?”' + </p> + <p> + Andrews started struggling with one boot, the Kid helping to hold him up + with his free hand. + </p> + <p> + “Mine are off,” he said. “I was all fixed.” He laughed, though his teeth + were chattering. + </p> + <p> + “All right. I've broken the laces,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Can you swim under water?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. + </p> + <p> + “We want to make for that bunch of barges the other side of the bridge. + The barge people'll hide us.” + </p> + <p> + “How d'ye know they will?” + </p> + <p> + The Kid had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Andrews hesitated a moment, then let go his hold and started swimming with + the current for all his might. + </p> + <p> + At first he felt strong and exultant, but very soon he began to feel the + icy grip of the water bearing him down; his arms and legs seemed to + stiffen. More than against the water, he was struggling against paralysis + within him, so that he thought that every moment his limbs would go rigid. + He came to the surface and gasped for air. He had a second's glimpse of + figures, tiny like toy soldiers, gesticulating wildly on the deck of the + barge. The report of a rifle snapped through the air. He dove again, + without thinking, as if his body were working independently of his mind. + </p> + <p> + The next time he came up, his eyes were blurred from the cold. There was a + taste of blood in his mouth. The shadow of the bridge was just above him. + He turned on his back for a second. There were lights on the bridge. A + current swept him past one barge and then another. Certainty possessed him + that he was going to be drowned. A voice seemed to sob in his ears + grotesquely: “And so John Andrews was drowned in the Seine, drowned in the + Seine, in the Seine.” + </p> + <p> + Then he was kicking and fighting in a furious rage against the coils about + him that wanted to drag him down and away. The black side of a barge was + slipping up stream beside him with lightning speed. How fast those barges + go, he thought. Then suddenly he found that he had hold of a rope, that + his shoulders were banging against the bow of a small boat, while in front + of him, against the dull purple sky, towered the rudder of the barge. A + strong warm hand grasped his shoulder from behind, and he was being drawn + up and up, over the bow of the boat that hurt his numbed body like blows, + out of the clutching coils of the water. + </p> + <p> + “Hide me, I'm a deserter,” he said over and over again in French. A brown + and red face with a bristly white beard, a bulbous, mullioned sort of + face, hovered over him in the middle of a pinkish mist. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> + <p> + “Oh, qu'il est propre! Oh, qu'il a la peau blanche!” Women's voices were + shrilling behind the mist. A coverlet that felt soft and fuzzy against his + skin was being put about him. He was very warm and torpid. But somewhere + in his thoughts a black crawling thing like a spider was trying to reach + him, trying to work its way through the pinkish veils of torpor. After a + long while he managed to roll over, and looked about him. + </p> + <p> + “Mais reste tranquille,” came the woman's shrill voice again. + </p> + <p> + “And the other one? Did you see the other one?” he asked in a choked + whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's all right. I'm drying it by the stove,” came another woman's + voice, deep and growling, almost like a man's. + </p> + <p> + “Maman's drying your money by the stove. It's all safe. How rich they are, + these Americans!” + </p> + <p> + “And to think that I nearly threw it overboard with the trousers,” said + the other woman again. + </p> + <p> + John Andrews began to look about him. He was in a dark low cabin. Behind + him, in the direction of the voices, a yellow light flickered. Great + dishevelled shadows of heads moved about on the ceiling. Through the close + smell of the cabin came a warmth of food cooking. He could hear the + soothing hiss of frying grease. + </p> + <p> + “But didn't you see the Kid?” he asked in English, dazedly trying to pull + himself together, to think coherently. Then he went on in French in a more + natural voice: + </p> + <p> + “There was another one with me.” + </p> + <p> + “We saw no one. Rosaline, ask the old man,” said the older woman. + </p> + <p> + “No, he didn't see anyone,” came the girl's shrill voice. She walked over + to the bed and pulled the coverlet round Andrews with an awkward gesture. + Looking up at her, he had a glimpse of the bulge of her breasts and her + large teeth that glinted in the lamplight, and very vague in the shadow, a + mop of snaky, disordered hair. + </p> + <p> + “Qu'il parle bien francais,” she said, beaming at him. Heavy steps + shuffled across the cabin as the older woman came up to the bed and peered + in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Il va mieux,” she said, with a knowing air. + </p> + <p> + She was a broad woman with a broad flat face and a swollen body swathed in + shawls. Her eyebrows were very bushy, and she had thick grey whiskers that + came down to a point on either side of her mouth, as well as a few + bristling hairs on her chin. Her voice was deep and growling, and seemed + to come from far down inside her huge body. + </p> + <p> + Steps creaked somewhere, and the old man looked at him through spectacles + placed on the end of his nose. Andrews recognized the irregular face full + of red knobs and protrusions. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks very much,” he said. + </p> + <p> + All three looked at him silently for some time. Then the old man pulled a + newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully, and fluttered it above + Andrews's eyes. In the scant light Andrews made out the name: + “Libertaire.” + </p> + <p> + “That's why,” said the old man, looking at Andrews fixedly, through his + spectacles. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a sort of a socialist,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Socialists are good-for-nothings,” snarled the old man, every red + protrusion on his face seeming to get redder. + </p> + <p> + “But I have great sympathy for anarchist comrades,” went on Andrews, + feeling a certain liveliness of amusement go through him and fade again. + </p> + <p> + “Lucky you caught hold of my rope, instead of getting on to the next + barge. He'd have given you up for sure. Sont des royalistes, ces + salauds-la.” + </p> + <p> + “We must give him something to eat; hurry, Maman.... Don't worry, he'll + pay, won't you, my little American?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded his head. + </p> + <p> + “All you want,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, if he says he's a comrade, he shan't pay, not a sou,” growled the old + man. + </p> + <p> + “We'll see about that,” cried the old woman, drawing her breath in with an + angry whistling sound. + </p> + <p> + “It's only that living's so dear nowadays,” came the girl's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll pay anything I've got,” said Andrews peevishly, closing his eyes + again. + </p> + <p> + He lay a long while on his back without moving. + </p> + <p> + A hand shoved in between his back and the pillow roused him. He sat up. + Rosaline was holding a bowl of broth in front of him that steamed in his + face. + </p> + <p> + “Mange ca,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He looked into her eyes, smiling. Her rusty hair was neatly combed. A + bright green parrot with a scarlet splash in its wings, balanced itself + unsteadily on her shoulder, looking at Andrews out of angry eyes, hard as + gems. + </p> + <p> + “Il est jaloux, Coco,” said Rosaline, with a shrill little giggle. + </p> + <p> + Andrews took the bowl in his two hands and drank some of the scalding + broth. + </p> + <p> + “It's too hot,” he said, leaning back against the girl's arm. + </p> + <p> + The parrot squawked out a sentence that Andrews did not understand. + </p> + <p> + Andrews heard the old man's voice answer from somewhere behind him: + </p> + <p> + “Nom de Dieu!” + </p> + <p> + The parrot squawked again. + </p> + <p> + Rosaline laughed. + </p> + <p> + “It's the old man who taught him that,” she said. “Poor Coco, he doesn't + know what he's saying.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he say?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “'Les bourgeois a la lanterne, nom de dieu!' It's from a song,” said + Rosaline. “Oh, qu'il est malin, ce Coco!” + </p> + <p> + Rosaline was standing with her arms folded beside the bunk. The parrot + stretched out his neck and rubbed it against her cheek, closing and + unclosing his gem-like eyes. The girl formed her lips into a kiss, and + murmured in a drowsy voice: + </p> + <p> + “Tu m'aimes, Coco, n'est-ce pas, Coco? Bon Coco.” + </p> + <p> + “Could I have something more, I'm awfully hungry,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I was forgetting,” cried Rosaline, running off with the empty bowl. + </p> + <p> + In a moment she came back without the parrot, with the bowl in her hand + full of a brown stew of potatoes and meat. + </p> + <p> + Andrews ate it mechanically, and handed back the bowl. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said, “I am going to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + He settled himself into the bunk. Rosaline drew the covers up about him + and tucked them in round his shoulders. Her hand seemed to linger a moment + as it brushed past his cheek. But Andrews had already sunk into a torpor + again, feeling nothing but the warmth of the food within him and a great + stiffness in his legs and arms. + </p> + <p> + When he woke up the light was grey instead of yellow, and a swishing sound + puzzled him. He lay listening to it for a long time, wondering what it + was. At last the thought came with a sudden warm spurt of joy that the + barge must be moving. + </p> + <p> + He lay very quietly on his back, looking up at the faint silvery light on + the ceiling of the bunk, thinking of nothing, with only a vague dread in + the back of his head that someone would come to speak to him, to question + him. + </p> + <p> + After a long time he began to think of Genevieve Rod. He was having a long + conversation with her about his music, and in his imagination she kept + telling him that he must finish the “Queen of Sheba,” and that she would + show it to Monsieur Gibier, who was a great friend of a certain concert + director, who might get it played. How long ago it must be since they had + talked about that. A picture floated through his mind of himself and + Genevieve standing shoulder to shoulder looking at the Cathedral at + Chartres, which stood up nonchalantly, above the tumultuous roofs of the + town, with its sober tower and its gaudy towers and the great rose windows + between. Inexorably his memory carried him forward, moment by moment, over + that day, until he writhed with shame and revolt. Good god! Would he have + to go on all his life remembering that? “Teach him how to salute,” the + officer had said, and Handsome had stepped up to him and hit him. Would he + have to go on all his life remembering that? + </p> + <p> + “We tied up the uniform with some stones, and threw it overboard,” said + Rosaline, jabbing him in the shoulder to draw his attention. + </p> + <p> + “That was a good idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to get up? It's nearly time to eat. How you have slept.” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven't anything to put on,” said Andrews, laughing, and waved a + bare arm above the bedclothes. + </p> + <p> + “Wait, I'll find something of the old man's. Say, do all Americans have + skin so white as that? Look.” + </p> + <p> + She put her brown hand, with its grimed and broken nails, on Andrews's + arm, that was white with a few silky yellow hairs. + </p> + <p> + “It's because I'm blond,” said Andrews. “There are plenty of blond + Frenchmen, aren't there?” + </p> + <p> + Rosaline ran off giggling, and came back in a moment with a pair of + corduroy trousers and a torn flannel shirt that smelt of pipe tobacco. + </p> + <p> + “That'll do for now,” she said. “It's warm today for April. Tonight we'll + buy you some clothes and shoes. Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “By God, I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “We're going to Havre for cargo.” She put both hands to her head and began + rearranging her straggling rusty-colored hair. “Oh, my hair,” she said, + “it's the water, you know. You can't keep respectable-looking on these + filthy barges. Say, American, why don't you stay with us a while? You can + help the old man run the boat.” + </p> + <p> + He found suddenly that her eyes were looking into his with trembling + eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what to do,” he said carelessly. “I wonder if it's safe to + go on deck.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away from him petulantly and led the way up the ladder. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, v'la le camarade,” cried the old man who was leaning with all his + might against the long tiller of the barge. “Come and help me.” + </p> + <p> + The barge was the last of a string of four that were describing a wide + curve in the midst of a reach of silvery river full of glittering patches + of pale, pea-green lavender, hemmed in on either side by frail blue roots + of poplars. The sky was a mottled luminous grey with occasional patches, + the color of robins' eggs. Andrews breathed in the dank smell of the river + and leaned against the tiller when he was told to, answering the old man's + curt questions. + </p> + <p> + He stayed with the tiller when the rest of them went down to the cabin to + eat. The pale colors and the swishing sound of the water and the + blue-green banks slipping by and unfolding on either hand, were as + soothing as his deep sleep had been. Yet they seemed only a veil covering + other realities, where men stood interminably in line and marched with + legs made all the same length on the drill field, and wore the same + clothes and cringed before the same hierarchy of polished belts and + polished puttees and stiff-visored caps, that had its homes in vast + offices crammed with index cards and card catalogues; a world full of the + tramp of marching, where cold voices kept saying:—“Teach him how to + salute.” Like a bird in a net, Andrews's mind struggled to free itself + from the obsession. + </p> + <p> + Then he thought of his table in his room in Paris, with its piled sheets + of ruled paper, and he felt he wanted nothing in the world except to work. + It would not matter what happened to him if he could only have time to + weave into designs the tangled skein of music that seethed through him as + the blood seethed through his veins. + </p> + <p> + There he stood, leaning against the long tiller, watching the blue-green + poplars glide by, here and there reflected in the etched silver mirror of + the river, feeling the moist river wind flutter his ragged shirt, thinking + of nothing. + </p> + <p> + After a while the old man came up out of the cabin, his face purplish, + puffing clouds of smoke out of his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “All right, young fellow, go down and eat,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews lay flat on his belly on the deck, with his chin resting on the + back of his two hands. The barge was tied up along the river bank among + many other barges. Beside him, a small fuzzy dog barked furiously at a + yellow mongrel on the shore. It was nearly dark, and through the pearly + mist of the river came red oblongs of light from the taverns along the + bank. A slip of a new moon, shrouded in haze, was setting behind the + poplar trees. Amid the round of despairing thoughts, the memory of the Kid + intruded itself. He had sold a Ford for five hundred francs, and gone on a + party with a man who'd stolen an ammunition train, and he wanted to write + for the Italian movies. No war could down people like that. Andrews + smiled, looking into the black water. Funny, the Kid was dead, probably, + and he, John Andrews, was alive and free. And he lay there moping, still + whimpering over old wrongs. “For God's sake be a man!” he said to himself. + He got to his feet. + </p> + <p> + At the cabin door, Rosaline was playing with the parrot. + </p> + <p> + “Give me a kiss, Coco,” she was saying in a drowsy voice, “just a little + kiss. Just a little kiss for Rosaline, poor little Rosaline.” + </p> + <p> + The parrot, which Andrews could hardly see in the dusk, leaned towards + her, fluttering his feathers, making little clucking noises. + </p> + <p> + Rosaline caught sight of Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I thought you'd gone to have a drink with the old man,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “No. I stayed here.” + </p> + <p> + “D'you like it, this life?” + </p> + <p> + Rosaline put the parrot back on his perch, where he swayed from side to + side, squawking in protest: “Les bourgeois a la lanterne, nom de dieu!” + </p> + <p> + They both laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it must be a wonderful life. This barge seems like heaven after the + army.” + </p> + <p> + “But they pay you well, you Americans.” + </p> + <p> + “Seven francs a day.” + </p> + <p> + “That's luxury, that.” + </p> + <p> + “And be ordered around all day long!” + </p> + <p> + “But you have no expenses.... It's clear gain.... You men are funny. The + old man's like that too.... It's nice here all by ourselves, isn't it, + Jean?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews did not answer. He was wondering what Genevieve Rod would say when + she found out he was a deserter. + </p> + <p> + “I hate it.... It's dirty and cold and miserable in winter,” went on + Rosaline. “I'd like to see them at the bottom of the river, all these + barges.... And Paris women, did you have a good time with them?” + </p> + <p> + “I only knew one. I go very little with women.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same, love's nice, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + They were sitting on the rail at the bow of the barge. Rosaline had sidled + up so that her leg touched Andrews's leg along its whole length. + </p> + <p> + The memory of Genevieve Rod became more and more vivid in his mind. He + kept thinking of things she had said, of the intonations of her voice, of + the blundering way she poured tea, and of her pale-brown eyes wide open on + the world, like the eyes of a woman in an encaustic painting from a tomb + in the Fayoum. + </p> + <p> + “Mother's talking to the old woman at the Creamery. They're great friends. + She won't be home for two hours yet,” said Rosaline. + </p> + <p> + “She's bringing my clothes, isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “But you're all right as you are.” + </p> + <p> + “But they're your father's.” + </p> + <p> + “What does that matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I must go back to Paris soon. There is somebody I must see in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. + </p> + <p> + “But it's not so bad, this life on the barge. I'm just lonesome and sick + of the old people. That's why I talk nastily about it.... We could have + good times together if you stayed with us a little.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned her head on his shoulder and put a hand awkwardly on his bare + forearm. + </p> + <p> + “How cold these Americans are!” she muttered, giggling drowsily. + </p> + <p> + Andrews felt her hair tickle his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “No, it's not a bad life on the barge, honestly. The only thing is, + there's nothing but old people on the river. It isn't life to be always + with old people.... I want to have a good time.” + </p> + <p> + She pressed her cheek against his. He could feel her breath heavy in his + face. + </p> + <p> + “After all, it's lovely in summer to drowse on the deck that's all warm + with the sun, and see the trees and the fields and the little houses + slipping by on either side.... If there weren't so many old people.... All + the boys go away to the cities.... I hate old people; they're so dirty and + slow. We mustn't waste our youth, must we?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews got to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” she cried sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Rosaline,” Andrews said in a low, soft voice, “I can only think of going + to Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the Paris woman,” said Rosaline scornfully. “But what does that + matter? She isn't here now.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.... Perhaps I shall never see her again anyway,” said + Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “You're a fool. You must amuse yourself when you can in this life. And you + a deserter.... Why, they may catch you and shoot you any time.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know, you're right. You're right. But I'm not made like that, + that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “She must be very good to you, your little Paris girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I've never touched her.” + </p> + <p> + Rosaline threw her head back and laughed raspingly. + </p> + <p> + “But you aren't sick, are you?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Probably I remember too vividly, that's all.... Anyway, I'm a fool, + Rosaline, because you're a nice girl.” + </p> + <p> + There were steps on the plank that led to the shore. A shawl over her head + and a big bundle under her arm, the old woman came up to them, panting + wheezily. She looked from one to the other, trying to make out their faces + in the dark. + </p> + <p> + “It's a danger... like that... youth,” she muttered between hard short + breaths. + </p> + <p> + “Did you find the clothes?” asked Andrews in a casual voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. That leaves you forty-five francs out of your money, when I've taken + out for your food and all that. Does that suit you?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much for your trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “You paid for it. Don't worry about that,” said the old woman. She gave + him the bundle. “Here are your clothes and the forty-five francs. If you + want, I'll tell you exactly what each thing cost.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll put them on first,” he said, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + He climbed down the ladder into the cabin. + </p> + <p> + Putting on new, unfamiliar-shaped clothes made him suddenly feel strong + and joyous. The old woman had bought him corduroy trousers, cheap cloth + shoes, a blue cotton shirt, woollen socks, and a second-hand black serge + jacket. When he came on deck she held up a lantern to look at him. + </p> + <p> + “Doesn't he look fine, altogether French?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Rosaline turned away without answering. A little later she picked up the + perch and carried the parrot, that swayed sleepily on the crosspiece, down + the ladder. + </p> + <p> + “Les bourgeois a la lanterne, nom de dieu!” came the old man's voice + singing on the shore. + </p> + <p> + “He's drunk as a pig,” muttered the old woman. “If only he doesn't fall + off the gang plank.” + </p> + <p> + A swaying shadow appeared at the end of the plank, standing out against + the haze of light from the houses behind the poplar trees. + </p> + <p> + Andrews put out a hand to catch him, as he reached the side of the barge. + The old man sprawled against the cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Don't bawl me out, dearie,” he said, dangling an arm round Andrews's + neck, and a hand beckoning vaguely towards his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I've found a comrade for the little American.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” said Andrews sharply. His mouth suddenly went dry with + terror. He felt his nails pressing into the palms of his cold-hands. + </p> + <p> + “I've found another American for you,” said the old man in an important + voice. “Here he comes.” Another shadow appeared at the end of the + gangplank. + </p> + <p> + “Les bourgeois a la lanterne, nom de dieu!” shouted the old man. + </p> + <p> + Andrews backed away cautiously towards the other side of the barge. All + the little muscles of his thighs were trembling. A hard voice was saying + in his head: “Drown yourself, drown yourself. Then they won't get you.” + </p> + <p> + The man was standing on the end of the plank. Andrews could see the + contour of the uniform against the haze of light behind the poplar trees. + </p> + <p> + “God, if I only had a pistol,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Buddy, where are you?” came an American voice. + </p> + <p> + The man advanced towards him across the deck. + </p> + <p> + Andrews stood with every muscle taut. + </p> + <p> + “Gee! You've taken off your uniform.... Say, I'm not an M.P. I'm A.W.O.L. + too. Shake.” He held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Andrews took the hand doubtfully, without moving from the edge of the + barge. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Buddy, it's a damn fool thing to take off your uniform. Ain't you + got any? If they pick you up like that it's life, kid.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't help it. It's done now.” + </p> + <p> + “Gawd, you still think I'm an M.P., don't yer?... I swear I ain't. Maybe + you are. Gawd, it's hell, this life. A feller can't put his trust in + nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “What division are you from?” + </p> + <p> + “Hell, I came to warn you this bastard frawg's got soused an' has been + blabbin' in the gin mill there how he was an anarchist an' all that, an' + how he had an American deserter who was an anarchist an' all that, an' I + said to myself: 'That guy'll git nabbed if he ain't careful,' so I + cottoned up to the old frawg an' said I'd go with him to see the camarade, + an' I think we'd better both of us make tracks out o' this burg.” + </p> + <p> + “It's damn decent. I'm sorry I was so suspicious. I was scared green when + I first saw you.” + </p> + <p> + “You were goddam right to be. But why did yous take yer uniform off?” + </p> + <p> + “Come along, let's beat it. I'll tell you about that.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews shook hands with the old man and the old woman. Rosaline had + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “Goodnight...Thank you,” he said, and followed the other man across the + gangplank. + </p> + <p> + As they walked away along the road they heard the old man's voice roaring: + </p> + <p> + “Les bourgeois a la lanterne, nom de dieu!” + </p> + <p> + “My name's Eddy Chambers,” said the American. + </p> + <p> + “Mine's John Andrews.” + </p> + <p> + “How long've you been out?” + </p> + <p> + “Two days.” + </p> + <p> + Eddy let the air out through his teeth in a whistle. + </p> + <p> + “I got away from a labor battalion in Paris. They'd picked me up in + Chartres without a pass.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee, I've been out a month an' more. Was you infantry too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I was in the School Detachment in Paris when I was picked up. But I + never could get word to them. They just put me to work without a trial. + Ever been in a labor battalion?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank Gawd, they ain't got my number yet.” + </p> + <p> + They were walking fast along a straight road across a plain under a clear + star-powdered sky. + </p> + <p> + “I been out eight weeks yesterday. What'd you think o' that?” said Eddy. + </p> + <p> + “Must have had plenty of money to go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I've been flat fifteen days.” + </p> + <p> + “How d'you work it?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno. I juss work it though.... Ye see, it was this way. The gang I + was with went home when I was in hauspital, and the damn skunks put me in + class A and was goin' to send me to the Army of Occupation. Gawd, it made + me sick, goin' out to a new outfit where I didn't know anybody, an' all + the rest of my bunch home walkin' down Water Street with brass bands an' + reception committees an' girls throwing kisses at 'em an' all that. Where + are yous goin'?” + </p> + <p> + “Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Gee, I wouldn't. Risky.” + </p> + <p> + “But I've got friends there. I can get hold of some money.” + </p> + <p> + “Looks like I hadn't got a friend in the world. I wish I'd gone to that + goddam outfit now.... I ought to have been in the engineers all the time, + anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you do at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Carpenter.” + </p> + <p> + “But gosh, man, with a trade like that you can always make a living + anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “You're goddam right, I could, but a guy has to live underground, like a + rabbit, at this game. If I could git to a country where I could walk + around like a man, I wouldn't give a damn what happened. If the army ever + moves out of here an' the goddam M.P.'s, I'll set up in business in one of + these here little towns. I can parlee pretty well. I'd juss as soon marry + a French girl an' git to be a regular frawg myself. After the raw deal + they've given me in the army, I don't want to have nothin' more to do with + their damn country. Democracy!” + </p> + <p> + He cleared his throat and spat angrily on the road before him. They walked + on silently. Andrews was looking at the sky, picking out constellations he + knew among the glittering masses of stars. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you try Spain or Italy?” he said after a while. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know the lingo. No, I'm going to Scotland.” + </p> + <p> + “But how can you get there?” + </p> + <p> + “Crossing on the car ferries to England from Havre. I've talked to guys + has done it.” + </p> + <p> + “But what'll you do when you do get there?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know? Live around best I can. What can a feller do when he + don't dare show his face in the street?” + </p> + <p> + “Anyway, it makes you feel as if you had some guts in you to be out on + your own this way,” cried Andrews boisterously. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you've been at it two months, boy, and you'll think what I'm + tellin' yer.... The army's hell when you're in it; but it's a hell of a + lot worse when you're out of it, at the wrong end.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a great night, anyway,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Looks like we ought to be findin' a haystack to sleep in.” + </p> + <p> + “It'd be different,” burst out Andrews, suddenly, “if I didn't have + friends here.” + </p> + <p> + “O, you've met up with a girl, have you?” asked Eddy ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The thing is we really get along together, besides all the rest.” + </p> + <p> + Eddy snorted. + </p> + <p> + “I bet you ain't ever even kissed her,” he said. “Gee, I've had buddies + has met up with that friendly kind. I know a guy married one, an' found + out after two weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “It's silly to talk about it. I can't explain it.... It gives you + confidence in anything to feel there's someone who'll always understand + anything you do.” + </p> + <p> + “I s'pose you're goin' to git married.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why. That would spoil everything.” + </p> + <p> + Eddy whistled softly. + </p> + <p> + They walked along briskly without speaking for a long time, their steps + ringing on the hard road, while the dome of the sky shimmered above their + heads. And from the ditches came the singsong shrilling of toads. For the + first time in months Andrews felt himself bubbling with a spirit of joyous + adventure. The rhythm of the three green horsemen that was to have been + the prelude to the Queen of Sheba began rollicking through his head. + </p> + <p> + “But, Eddy, this is wonderful. It's us against the universe,” he said in a + boisterous voice. + </p> + <p> + “You wait,” said Eddy. + </p> + <p> + When Andrews walked by the M.P. at the Gare-St. Lazare, his hands were + cold with fear. The M.P. did not look at him. He stopped on the crowded + pavement a little way from the station and stared into a mirror in a shop + window. Unshaven, with a check cap on the side of his head and his + corduroy trousers, he looked like a young workman who had been out of work + for a month. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, clothes do make a difference,” he said to himself. He smiled when he + thought how shocked Walters would be when he turned up in that rig, and + started walking with leisurely stride across Paris, where everything + bustled and jingled with early morning, where from every cafe came a hot + smell of coffee, and fresh bread steamed in the windows of the bakeries. + He still had three francs in his pocket. On a side street the fumes of + coffee roasting attracted him into a small bar. Several men were arguing + boisterously at the end of the bar. One of them turned a ruddy, + tow-whiskered face to Andrews, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Et toi, tu vas chomer le premier mai?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm on strike already,” answered Andrews laughing. + </p> + <p> + The man noticed his accent, looked at him sharply a second, and turned + back to the conversation, lowering his voice as he did so. Andrews drank + down his coffee and left the bar, his heart pounding. He could not help + glancing back over his shoulder now and then to see if he was being + followed. At a corner he stopped with his fists clenched and leaned a + second against a house wall. + </p> + <p> + “Where's your nerve. Where's your nerve?” He was saying to himself. + </p> + <p> + He strode off suddenly, full of bitter determination not to turn round + again. He tried to occupy his mind with plans. Let's see, what should he + do? First he'd go to his room and look up old Henslowe and Walters. Then + he would go to see Genevieve. Then he'd work, work, forget everything in + his work, until the army should go back to America and there should be no + more uniforms on the streets. And as for the future, what did he care + about the future? + </p> + <p> + When he turned the corner into the familiar street where his room was, a + thought came to him. Suppose he should find M.P.'s waiting for him there? + He brushed it aside angrily and strode fast up the sidewalk, catching up + to a soldier who was slouching along in the same direction, with his hands + in his pockets and eyes on the ground. Andrews stopped suddenly as he was + about to pass the soldier and turned. The man looked up. It was + Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + Andrews held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield seized it eagerly and shook it for a long time. “Jesus Christ! + Ah thought you was a Frenchman, Andy.... Ah guess you got yer dis-charge + then. God, Ah'm glad.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad I look like a Frenchman, anyway.... Been on leave long, Chris?” + </p> + <p> + Two buttons were off the front of Chrisfield's uniform; there were streaks + of dirt on his face, and his puttees were clothed with mud. He looked + Andrews seriously in the eyes, and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No. Ah done flew the coop, Andy,” he said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Since when?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah been out a couple o' weeks. Ah'll tell you about it, Andy. Ah was + comin' to see you now. Ah'm broke.” + </p> + <p> + “Well look, I'll be able to get hold of some money tomorrow.... I'm out + too.” + </p> + <p> + “What d'ye mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't got a discharge. I'm through with it all. I've deserted.” + </p> + <p> + “God damn! That's funny that you an' me should both do it, Andy. But why + the hell did you do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's too long to tell here. Come up to my room.” + </p> + <p> + “There may be fellers there. Ever been at the Chink's?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm stayin' there. There're other fellers who's A.W. O.L. too. The + Chink's got a gin mill.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is it.” + </p> + <p> + “Eight, rew day Petee Jardings.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's that?” + </p> + <p> + “Way back of that garden where the animals are.” + </p> + <p> + “Look, I can find you there tomorrow morning, and I'll bring some money.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah'll wait for ye, Andy, at nine. It's a bar. Ye won't be able to git in + without me, the kids is pretty scared of plainclothes men.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it'll be perfectly safe to come up to my place now.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Ah'm goin' to git the hell out of here.” + </p> + <p> + “But Chris, why did you go A.W.O.L.?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ah doan know.... A guy who's in the Paris detachment got yer address + for me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Chris, did they say anything to him about me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, nauthin'.” + </p> + <p> + “That's funny.... Well, Chris, I'll be there tomorrow, if I can find the + place.” + </p> + <p> + “Man, you've got to be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll turn up,” said Andrews with a smile. + </p> + <p> + They shook hands nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy,” said Chrisfield, still holding on to Andrews's hand, “Ah went + A.W.O.L. 'cause a sergeant...God damn it; it's weighin' on ma mind awful + these days.... There's a sergeant that knows.” + </p> + <p> + “What you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah told ye about Anderson...Ah know you ain't tole anybody, Andy.” + Chrisfield dropped Andrews's hand and looked at him in the face with an + unexpected sideways glance. Then he went on through clenched teeth: “Ah + swear to Gawd Ah ain't tole another livin' soul.... An' the sergeant in + Company D knows.” + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake, Chris, don't lose your nerve like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah ain't lost ma nerve. Ah tell you that guy knows.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield's voice rose, suddenly shrill. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Chris, we can't stand talking out here in the street like this. It + isn't safe.” + </p> + <p> + “But mebbe you'll be able to tell me what to do. You think, Andy. Mebbe, + tomorrow, you'll have thought up somethin' we can do...So long.” + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield walked away hurriedly. Andrews looked after him a moment, and + then went in through the court to the house where his room was. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the stairs an old woman's voice startled him. + </p> + <p> + “Mais, Monsieur Andre, que vous avez l'air etrange; how funny you look + dressed like that.” + </p> + <p> + The concierge was smiling at him from her cubbyhole beside the stairs. She + sat knitting with a black shawl round her head, a tiny old woman with a + hooked bird-like nose and eyes sunk in depressions full of little + wrinkles, like a monkey's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, at the town where I was demobilized, I couldn't get anything else,” + stammered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you're demobilized, are you? That's why you've been away so long. + Monsieur Valters said he didn't know where you were.... It's better that + way, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Andrews, starting up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Valters is in now,” went on the old woman, talking after him. + “And you've got in just in time for the first of May.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, the strike,” said Andrews, stopping half-way up the flight. + </p> + <p> + “It'll be dreadful,” said the old woman. “I hope you won't go out. Young + folks are so likely to get into trouble...Oh, but all your friends have + been worried about your being away so long.” + </p> + <p> + “Have they?'” said Andrews. He continued up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir, Madame.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> + <p> + “No, nothing can make me go back now. It's no use talking about it.” + </p> + <p> + “But you're crazy, man. You're crazy. One man alone can't buck the system + like that, can he, Henslowe?” + </p> + <p> + Walters was talking earnestly, leaning across the table beside the lamp. + Henslowe, who sat very stiff on the edge of a chair, nodded with + compressed lips. Andrews lay at full length on the bed, out of the circle + of light. + </p> + <p> + “Honestly, Andy,” said Henslowe with tears in his voice, “I think you'd + better do what Walters says. It's no use being heroic about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not being heroic, Henny,” cried Andrews, sitting up on the bed. He + drew his feet under him, tailor fashion, and went on talking very quietly. + “Look.. It's a purely personal matter. I've got to a point where I don't + give a damn what happens to me. I don't care if I'm shot, or if I live to + be eighty...I'm sick of being ordered round. One more order shouted at my + head is not worth living to be eighty... to me. That's all. For God's sake + let's talk about something else.” + </p> + <p> + “But how many orders have you had shouted at your head since you got in + this School Detachment? Not one. You can put through your discharge + application probably....” Walters got to his feet, letting the chair crash + to the floor behind him. He stopped to pick it up. “Look here; here's my + proposition,” he went on. “I don't think you are marked A.W.O.L. in the + School office. Things are so damn badly run there. You can turn up and say + you've been sick and draw your back pay. And nobody'll say a thing. Or + else I'll put it right up to the guy who's top sergeant. He's a good + friend of mine. We can fix it up on the records some way. But for God's + sake don't ruin your whole life on account of a little stubbornness, and + some damn fool anarchistic ideas or other a feller like you ought to have + had more sense than to pick up....” + </p> + <p> + “He's right, Andy,” said Henslowe in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Please don't talk any more about it. You've told me all that before,” + said Andrews sharply. He threw himself back on the bed and rolled over + towards the wall. + </p> + <p> + They were silent a long time. A sound of voices and footsteps drifted up + from the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + “But, look here, Andy,” said Henslowe nervously stroking his moustache. + “You care much more about your work than any abstract idea of asserting + your right of individual liberty. Even if you don't get caught.... I think + the chances of getting caught are mighty slim if you use your head.... But + even if you don't, you haven't enough money to live for long over here, + you haven't....” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think I've thought of all that? I'm not crazy, you know. I've + figured up the balance perfectly sanely. The only thing is, you fellows + can't understand. Have you ever been in a labor battalion? Have you ever + had a man you'd been chatting with five minutes before deliberately knock + you down? Good God, you don't know what you are talking about, you two.... + I've got to be free, now. I don't care at what cost. Being free's the only + thing that matters.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews lay on his back talking towards the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + Henslowe was on his feet, striding nervously about the room. + </p> + <p> + “As if anyone was ever free,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “All right, quibble, quibble. You can argue anything away if you want to. + Of course, cowardice is the best policy, necessary for survival. The man + who's got most will to live is the most cowardly... go on.” Andrews's + voice was shrill and excited, breaking occasionally like a half-grown + boy's voice. + </p> + <p> + “Andy, what on earth's got hold of you?... God, I hate to go away this + way,” added Henslowe after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “I'll pull through all right, Henny. I'll probably come to see you in + Syria, disguised as an Arab sheik.” Andrews laughed excitedly. + </p> + <p> + “If I thought I'd do any good, I'd stay.... But there's nothing I can do. + Everybody's got to settle their own affairs, in their own damn fool way. + So long, Walters.” + </p> + <p> + Walters and Henslowe shook hands absently. + </p> + <p> + Henslowe came over to the bed and held out his hand to Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Look, old man, you will be as careful as you can, won't you? And write me + care American Red Cross, Jerusalem. I'll be damned anxious, honestly.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you worry, we'll go travelling together yet,” said Andrews, sitting + up and taking Henslowe's hand. + </p> + <p> + They heard Henslowe's steps fade down the stairs and then ring for a + moment on the pavings of the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + Walters moved his chair over beside Andrews's bed. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look, let's have a man-to-man talk, Andrews. Even if you want to + ruin your life, you haven't a right to. There's your family, and haven't + you any patriotism?... Remember, there is such a thing as duty in the + world.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews sat up and said in a low, furious voice, pausing between each + word: + </p> + <p> + “I can't explain it.... But I shall never put a uniform on again.... So + for Christ's sake shut up.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, do what you goddam please; I'm through with you.” + </p> + <p> + Walters suddenly flashed into a rage. He began undressing silently. + Andrews lay a long while flat on his back in the bed, staring at the + ceiling, then he too undressed, put the light out, and got into bed. + </p> + <p> + The rue des Petits-Jardins was a short street in a district of warehouses. + A grey, windowless wall shut out the light along all of one side. Opposite + was a cluster of three old houses leaning together as if the outer ones + were trying to support the beetling mansard roof of the center house. + Behind them rose a huge building with rows and rows of black windows. When + Andrews stopped to look about him, he found the street completely + deserted. The ominous stillness that had brooded over the city during all + the walk from his room near the Pantheon seemed here to culminate in sheer + desolation. In the silence he could hear the light padding noise made by + the feet of a dog that trotted across the end of the street. The house + with the mansard roof was number eight. The front of the lower storey had + once been painted in chocolate-color, across the top of which was still + decipherable the sign: “Charbon, Bois. Lhomond.” On the grimed window + beside the door, was painted in white: “Debit de Boissons.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews pushed on the door, which opened easily. Somewhere in the interior + a bell jangled, startlingly loud after the silence of the street. On the + wall opposite the door was a speckled mirror with a crack in it, the shape + of a star, and under it a bench with three marble-top tables. The zinc bar + filled up the third wall. In the fourth was a glass door pasted up with + newspapers. Andrews walked over to the bar. The jangling of the bell faded + to silence. He waited, a curious uneasiness gradually taking possession of + him. Anyways, he thought, he was wasting his time; he ought to be doing + something to arrange his future. He walked over to the street door. The + bell jangled again when he opened it. At the same moment a man came out + through the door the newspapers were pasted over. He was a stout man in a + dirty white shirt stained to a brownish color round the armpits and caught + in very tightly at the waist by the broad elastic belt that held up his + yellow corduroy trousers. His face was flabby, of a greenish color; black + eyes looked at Andrews fixedly through barely open lids, so that they + seemed long slits above the cheekbones. + </p> + <p> + “That's the Chink,” thought Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the man, taking his place behind the bar with his legs far + apart. + </p> + <p> + “A beer, please,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “There isn't any.” + </p> + <p> + “A glass of wine then.” + </p> + <p> + The man nodded his head, and keeping his eyes fastened on Andrews all the + while, strode out of the door again. + </p> + <p> + A moment later, Chrisfield came out, with rumpled hair, yawning, rubbing + an eye with the knuckles of one fist. + </p> + <p> + “Lawsie, Ah juss woke up, Andy. Come along in back.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews followed him through a small room with tables and benches, down a + corridor where the reek of ammonia bit into his eyes, and up a staircase + littered with dirt and garbage. Chrisfield opened a door directly on the + stairs, and they stumbled into a large room with a window that gave on the + court. Chrisfield closed the door carefully, and turned to Andrews with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Ah was right smart 'askeered ye wouldn't find it, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “So this is where you live?” + </p> + <p> + “Um hum, a bunch of us lives here.” + </p> + <p> + A wide bed without coverings, where a man in olive-drab slept rolled in a + blanket, was the only furniture of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Three of us sleeps in that bed,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” cried the man in the bed, sitting up suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Al, he's a buddy o' mine,” said Chrisfield. “He's taken off + his uniform.” + </p> + <p> + “Jesus, you got guts,” said the man in the bed. + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked at him sharply. A piece of towelling, splotched here and + there with dried blood, was wrapped round his head, and a hand, swathed in + bandages, was drawn up to his body. The man's mouth took on a twisted + expression of pain as he let his head gradually down to the bed again. + </p> + <p> + “Gosh, what did you do to yourself?” cried Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “I tried to hop a freight at Marseilles.” + </p> + <p> + “Needs practice to do that sort o' thing,” said Chrisfield, who sat on the + bed, pulling his shoes off. “Ah'm go-in' to git back to bed, Andy. Ah'm + juss dead tired. Ah chucked cabbages all night at the market. They give ye + a job there without askin' no questions.” + </p> + <p> + “Have a cigarette.” Andrews sat down on the foot of the bed and threw a + cigarette towards Chrisfield. “Have one?” he asked Al. + </p> + <p> + “No. I couldn't smoke. I'm almost crazy with this hand. One of the wheels + went over it.... I cut what was left of the little finger off with a + razor.” Andrews could see the sweat rolling down his cheek as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Christ, that poor beggar's been havin' a time, Andy. We was 'askeert to + get a doctor, and we all didn't know what to do.” + </p> + <p> + “I got some pure alcohol an' washed it in that. It's not infected. I guess + it'll be all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you from, Al?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “'Frisco. Oh, I'm goin' to try to sleep. I haven't slept a wink for four + nights.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you get some dope?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we all ain't had a cent to spare for anythin', Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if we had kale we could live like kings—not,” said Al in the + middle of a nervous little giggle. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Chris,” said Andrews, “I'll halve with you. I've got five hundred + francs.” + </p> + <p> + “Jesus Gawd, man, don't kid about anything like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Here's two hundred and fifty.... It's not so much as it sounds.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews handed him five fifty-franc notes. + </p> + <p> + “Say, how did you come to bust loose?” said Al, turning his head towards + Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “I got away from a labor battalion one night. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about it, buddy. I don't feel my hand so much when I'm talking to + somebody.... I'd be home now if it wasn't for a gin mill in Alsace. Say, + don't ye think that big headgear they sport up there is awful good + looking? Got my goat every time I saw one.... I was comin' back from leave + at Grenoble, an' I went through Strasburg. Some town. My outfit was in + Coblenz. That's where I met up with Chris here. Anyway, we was raisin' + hell round Strasburg, an' I went into a gin mill down a flight of steps. + Gee, everything in that town's plumb picturesque, just like a kid I used + to know at home whose folks were Eytalian used to talk about when he said + how he wanted to come overseas. Well, I met up with a girl down there, who + said she'd just come down to a place like that to look for her brother who + was in the foreign legion.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews and Chrisfield laughed. + </p> + <p> + “What you laughin' at?” went on Al in an eager taut voice. “Honest to + Gawd. I'm goin' to marry her if I ever get out of this. She's the best + little girl I ever met up with. She was waitress in a restaurant, an' when + she was off duty she used to wear that there Alsatian costume.... Hell, I + just stayed on. Every day, I thought I'd go away the next day.... Anyway, + the war was over. I warn't a damn bit of use.... Hasn't a fellow got any + rights at all? Then the M.P.'s started cleanin' up Strasburg after + A.W.O.L.'s, an' I beat it out of there, an' Christ, it don't look as if + I'd ever be able to get back.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy,” said Chrisfield, suddenly, “let's go down after some booze.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Al, do you want me to get you anything at the drug store?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I won't do anythin' but lay low and bathe it with alcohol now and + then, against infection. Anyways, it's the first of May. You'll be crazy + to go out. You might get pulled. They say there's riots going on.” + </p> + <p> + “Gosh, I forgot it was the first of May,” cried Andrews. “They're running + a general strike to protest against the war with Russia and....” + </p> + <p> + “A guy told me,” interrupted Al, in a shrill voice, “there might be a + revolution.” + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Andy,” said Chris from the door. + </p> + <p> + On the stairs Andrews felt Chrisfield's hand squeezing his arm hard. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy,” Chris put his lips close to Andrews's ear and spoke in a + rasping whisper. “You're the only one that knows... you know what. You an' + that sergeant. Doan you say anythin' so that the guys here kin ketch on, + d'ye hear?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Chris, I won't, but man alive, you oughtn't to lose your nerve + about it. You aren't the only one who ever shot an...” + </p> + <p> + “Shut yer face, d'ye hear?” muttered Chrisfield savagely. + </p> + <p> + They went down the stairs in silence. In the room next, to the bar they + found the Chink reading a newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “Is he French?” whispered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Ah doan know what he is. He ain't a white man, Ah'll wager that,” said + Chris, “but he's square.” + </p> + <p> + “D'you know anything about what's going on?” asked Andrews in French, + going up to the Chink. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” The Chink got up, flashing a glance at Andrews out of the corners + of his slit-like eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Outside, in the streets, in Paris, anywhere where people are out in the + open and can do things. What do you think about the revolution?” + </p> + <p> + The Chink shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Anything's possible,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “D'you think they really can overthrow the army and the government in one + day, like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” broke in Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “Why, the people, Chris, the ordinary people like you and me, who are + tired of being ordered round, who are tired of being trampled down by + other people just like them, who've had the luck to get in right with the + system.” + </p> + <p> + “D'you know what I'll do when the revolution comes?” broke in the Chink + with sudden intensity, slapping himself on the chest with one hand. “I'll + go straight to one of those jewelry stores, rue Royale, and fill my + pockets and come home with my hands full of diamonds.” + </p> + <p> + “What good'll that do you?” + </p> + <p> + “What good? I'll bury them back there in the court and wait. I'll need + them in the end. D'you know what it'll mean, your revolution? Another + system! When there's a system there are always men to be bought with + diamonds. That's what the world's like.” + </p> + <p> + “But they won't be worth anything. It'll only be work that is worth + anything.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll see,” said the Chink. + </p> + <p> + “D'you think it could happen, Andy, that there'd be a revolution, an' + there wouldn't be any more armies, an' we'd be able to go round like we + are civilians? Ah doan think so. Fellers like us ain't got it in 'em to + buck the system, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “Many a system's gone down before; it will happen again.” + </p> + <p> + “They're fighting the Garde Republicaine now before the Gare de l'Est,” + said the Chink in an expressionless voice. “What do you want down here? + You'd better stay in the back. You never know what the police may put over + on us.” + </p> + <p> + “Give us two bottles of vin blank, Chink,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “When'll you pay?” + </p> + <p> + “Right now. This guy's given me fifty francs.” + </p> + <p> + “Rich, are you?” said the Chink with hatred in his voice, turning to + Andrews. “Won't last long at that rate. Wait here.” + </p> + <p> + He strode into the bar, closing the door carefully after him. A sudden + jangling of the bell was followed by a sound of loud voices and stamping + feet. Andrews and Chrisfield tiptoed into the dark corridor, where they + stood a long time, waiting, breathing the foul air that stung their + nostrils with the stench of plaster-damp and rotting wine. At last the + Chink came back with three bottles of wine. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're right,” he said to Andrews. “They are putting up barricades + on the Avenue Magenta.” + </p> + <p> + On the stairs they met a girl sweeping. She had untidy hair that straggled + out from under a blue handkerchief tied under her chin, and a + pretty-colored fleshy face. Chrisfield caught her up to him and kissed + her, as he passed. + </p> + <p> + “We all calls her the dawg-faced girl,” he said to Andrews in explanation. + “She does our work. Ah like to had a fight with Slippery over her + yisterday.... Didn't Ah, Slippery?” + </p> + <p> + When he followed Chrisfield into the room, Andrews saw a man sitting on + the window ledge smoking. He was dressed as a second lieutenant, his + puttees were brilliantly polished, and he smoked through a long, amber + cigarette-holder. His pink nails were carefully manicured. + </p> + <p> + “This is Slippery, Andy,” said Chrisfield. “This guy's an ole buddy o' + mine. We was bunkies together a hell of a time, wasn't we, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “You bet we were.” + </p> + <p> + “So you've taken your uniform off, have you? Mighty foolish,” said + Slippery. “Suppose they nab you?” + </p> + <p> + “It's all up now anyway. I don't intend to get nabbed,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “We got booze,” said Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + Slippery had taken dice from his pocket and was throwing them meditatively + on the floor between his feet, snapping his fingers with each throw. + </p> + <p> + “I'll shoot you one of them bottles, Chris,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Andrews walked over to the bed. Al was stirring uneasily, his face flushed + and his mouth twitching. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” he said. “What's the news?” + </p> + <p> + “They say they're putting up barricades near the Gare de l'Est. It may be + something.” + </p> + <p> + “God, I hope so. God, I wish they'd do everything here like they did in + Russia; then we'd be free. We couldn't go back to the States for a while, + but there wouldn't be no M.P.'s to hunt us like we were criminals.... I'm + going to sit up a while and talk.” Al giggled hysterically for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Have a swig of wine?” asked Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, it may set me up a bit; thanks.” He drank greedily from the bottle, + spilling a little over his chin. + </p> + <p> + “Say, is your face badly cut up, Al?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it's just scotched, skin's off; looks like beefsteak, I reckon.... + Ever been to Strasburg?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Man, that's the town. And the girls in that costume.... Whee!” + </p> + <p> + “Say, you're from San Francisco, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wonder if you knew a fellow I knew at training camp, a kid named + Fuselli from 'Frisco?” + </p> + <p> + “Knew him! Jesus, man, he's the best friend I've got.... Ye don't know + where he is now, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw him here in Paris two months ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll be damned.... God, that's great!” Al's voice was staccato from + excitement. “So you knew Dan at training camp? The last letter from him + was 'bout a year ago. Dan'd just got to be corporal. He's a damn clever + kid, Dan is, an' ambitious too, one of the guys always makes good.... + Gawd, I'd hate to see him this way. D'you know, we used to see a hell of a + lot of each other in 'Frisco, an' he always used to tell me how he'd make + good before I did. He was goddam right, too. Said I was too soft about + girls.... Did ye know him real well?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I even remember that he used to tell me about a fellow he knew who + was called Al.... He used to tell me about how you two used to go down to + the harbor and watch the big liners come in at night, all aflare with + lights through the Golden Gate. And he used to tell you he'd go over to + Europe in one, when he'd made his pile.” + </p> + <p> + “That's why Strasburg made me think of him,” broke in Al, tremendously + excited. “'Cause it was so picturesque like.... But honest, I've tried + hard to make good in this army. I've done everything a feller could. An' + all I did was to get into a cushy job in the regimental office.... But + Dan, Gawd, he may even be an officer by this time.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he's not that,” said Andrews. “Look here, you ought to keep quiet + with that hand of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn my hand. Oh, it'll heal all right if I forget about it. You see, my + foot slipped when they shunted a car I was just climbing into, an'...I + guess I ought to be glad I wasn't killed. But, gee, when I think that if I + hadn't been a fool about that girl I might have been home by now....” + </p> + <p> + “The Chink says they're putting up barricades on the Avenue Magenta.” + </p> + <p> + “That means business, kid!” + </p> + <p> + “Business nothin',” shouted Slippery from where he and Chrisfield leaned + over the dice on the tile floor in front of the window. “One tank an' a + few husky Senegalese'll make your goddam socialists run so fast they won't + stop till they get to Dijon.... You guys ought to have more sense.” + Slippery got to his feet and came over to the bed, jingling the dice in + his hand. “It'll take more'n a handful o' socialists paid by the Boches to + break the army. If it could be broke, don't ye think people would have + done it long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up a minute. Ah thought Ah heard somethin',” said Chrisfield + suddenly, going to the window. + </p> + <p> + They held their breath. The bed creaked as Al stirred uneasily in it. + </p> + <p> + “No, warn't anythin'; Ah'd thought Ah'd heard people singin'.” + </p> + <p> + “The Internationale,” cried Al. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up,” said Chrisfield in a low gruff voice. + </p> + <p> + Through the silence of the room they heard steps on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “All right, it's only Smiddy,” said Slippery, and he threw the dice down + on the tiles again. + </p> + <p> + The door opened slowly to let in a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a long + face and long teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Who's the frawg?” he asked in a startled way, with one hand on the door + knob. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Smiddy; it ain't a frawg; it's a guy Chris knows. He's taken + his uniform off.” + </p> + <p> + “'Lo, buddy,” said Smiddy, shaking Andrews's hand. “Gawd, you look like a + frawg.” + </p> + <p> + “That's good,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “There's hell to pay,” broke out Smiddy breathlessly. “You know Gus Evans + and the little black-haired guy goes 'round with him? They been picked up. + I seen 'em myself with some M. P.'s at Place de la Bastille. An' a guy I + talked to under the bridge where I slep' last night said a guy'd tole him + they were goin' to clean the A. W. O. L.'s out o' Paris if they had to + search through every house in the place.” + </p> + <p> + “If they come here they'll git somethin' they ain't lookin' for,” muttered + Chrisfield. + </p> + <p> + “I'm goin' down to Nice; getting too hot around here,” said Slippery. + “I've got travel orders in my pocket now.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get 'em?” + </p> + <p> + “Easy as pie,” said Slippery, lighting a cigarette and puffing affectedly + towards the ceiling. “I met up with a guy, a second loot, in the + Knickerbocker Bar. We gets drunk together, an' goes on a party with two + girls I know. In the morning I get up bright an' early, and now I've got + five thousand francs, a leave slip and a silver cigarette case, an' + Lootenant J. B. Franklin's runnin' around sayin' how he was robbed by a + Paris whore, or more likely keepin' damn quiet about it. That's my + system.” + </p> + <p> + “But, gosh darn it, I don't see how you can go around with a guy an' drink + with him, an' then rob him,” cried Al from the bed. + </p> + <p> + “No different from cleaning a guy up at craps.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “An' suppose that feller knew that I was only a bloody private. Don't you + think he'd have turned me over to the M. P.'s like winkin'?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't think so,” said Al. “They're juss like you an me, skeered to + death they'll get in wrong, but they won't light on a feller unless they + have to.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a goddam lie,” cried Chrisfield. “They like ridin' yer. A + doughboy's less'n a dawg to 'em. Ah'd shoot anyone of 'em lake Ah'd shoot + a nigger.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews was watching Chrisfield's face; it suddenly flushed red. He was + silent abruptly. His eyes met Andrews's eyes with a flash of fear. + </p> + <p> + “They're all sorts of officers, like they're all sorts of us,” Al was + insisting. + </p> + <p> + “But you damn fools, quit arguing,” cried Smiddy. “What the hell are we + goin' to do? It ain't safe here no more, that's how I look at it.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent. + </p> + <p> + At last Chrisfield said: + </p> + <p> + “What you goin' to do, Andy?” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know. I think I'll go out to St. Germain to see a boy I know + there who works on a farm to see if it's safe to take a job there. I won't + stay in Paris. Then there's a girl here I want to look up. I must see + her.” Andrews broke off suddenly, and started walking back and forth + across the end of the room. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better be damn careful; they'll probably shoot you if they catch + you,” said Slippery. + </p> + <p> + Andrews shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'd rather be shot than go to Leavenworth for twenty years, Gawd! I + would,” cried Al. + </p> + <p> + “How do you fellers eat here?” asked Slippery. + </p> + <p> + “We buy stuff an' the dawg-faced girl cooks it for us.” + </p> + <p> + “Got anything for this noon?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll go see if I can buy some stuff,” said Andrews. “It's safer for me to + go out than for you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, here's twenty francs,” said Slippery, handing Andrews a bill + with an offhand gesture. + </p> + <p> + Chrisfield followed Andrews down the stairs. When they reached the passage + at the foot of the stairs, he put his hand on Andrews's shoulder and + whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Say, Andy, d'you think there's anything in that revolution business? Ah + hadn't never thought they could buck the system thataway.” + </p> + <p> + “They did in Russia.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we'd be free, civilians, like we all was before the draft. But that + ain't possible, Andy; that ain't possible, Andy.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll see,” said Andrews, as, he opened the door to the bar. + </p> + <p> + He went up excitedly to the Chink, who sat behind the row of bottles along + the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what's happening?” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “By the Gare de l'Est, where they were putting up barricades?” + </p> + <p> + “Barricades!” shouted a young man in a red sash who was drinking at a + table. “Why, they tore down some of the iron guards round the trees, if + you call that barricades. But they're cowards. Whenever the cops charge + they run. They're dirty cowards.” + </p> + <p> + “D'you think anything's going to happen?” + </p> + <p> + “What can happen when you've got nothing but a bunch of dirty cowards?” + </p> + <p> + “What d'you think about it?” said Andrews, turning to the Chink. + </p> + <p> + The Chink shook his head without answering. Andrews went out. + </p> + <p> + When he cams back he found Al and Chrisfield alone in their room. + Chrisfield was walking up and down, biting his finger nails. On the wall + opposite the window was a square of sunshine reflected from the opposite + wall of the Court. + </p> + <p> + “For God's sake beat it, Chris. I'm all right,” Al was saying in a weak, + whining voice, his face twisted up by pain. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” cried Andrews, putting down a large bundle. + </p> + <p> + “Slippery's seen a M. P. nosin' around in front of the gin mill.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” + </p> + <p> + “They've beat it.... The trouble is Al's too sick.... Honest to gawd, + Ah'll stay with you, Al.” + </p> + <p> + “No. If you know somewhere to go, beat it, Chris. I'll stay here with Al + and talk French to the M. P.'s if they come. We'll fool 'em somehow.” + Andrews felt suddenly amused and joyous. + </p> + <p> + “Honest to gawd, Andy, Ah'd stay if it warn't that that sergeant knows,” + said Chrisfield in a jerky voice. + </p> + <p> + “Beat it, Chris. There may be no time to waste.” + </p> + <p> + “So long, Andy.” Chrisfield slipped out of the door. + </p> + <p> + “It's funny, Al,” said Andrews, sitting on the edge of the bed and + unwrapping the package of food, “I'm not a damn bit scared any more. I + think I'm free of the army, Al.... How's your hand?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno. Oh, how I wish I was in my old bunk at Coblenz. I warn't made + for buckin' against the world this way.... If we had old Dan with us.... + Funny that you know Dan.... He'd have a million ideas for gettin' out of + this fix. But I'm glad he's not here. He'd bawl me out so, for not havin' + made good. He's a powerful ambitious kid, is Dan.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's not the sort of thing a man can make good in, Al,” said Andrews + slowly. They were silent. There was no sound in the courtyard, only very + far away the clatter of a patrol of cavalry over cobblestones. The sky had + become overcast and the room was very dark. The mouldy plaster peeling off + the walls had streaks of green in it. The light from the courtyard had a + greenish tinge that made their faces look pale and dead, like the faces of + men that have long been shut up between damp prison walls. + </p> + <p> + “And Fuselli had a girl named Mabe,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she married a guy in the Naval Reserve. They had a grand wedding,” + said Al. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> + <p> + “At last I've got to you!” + </p> + <p> + John Andrews had caught sight of Genevieve on a bench at the end of the + garden under an arbor of vines. Her hair flamed bright in a splotch of sun + as she got to her feet. She held out both hands to him. + </p> + <p> + “How good-looking you are like that,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious only of her hands in his hands and of her pale-brown eyes + and of the bright sun-splotches and the green shadows fluttering all about + them. + </p> + <p> + “So you are out of prison,” she said, “and demobilized. How wonderful! Why + didn't you write? I have been very uneasy about you. How did you find me + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother said you were here.” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you like it, my Poissac?” + </p> + <p> + She made a wide gesture with her hand. They stood silent a moment, side by + side, looking about them. In front of the arbor was a parterre of rounded + box-bushes edging beds where disorderly roses hung in clusters of pink and + purple and apricot-color. And beyond it a brilliant emerald lawn full of + daisies sloped down to an old grey house with, at one end, a squat round + tower that had an extinguisher-shaped roof. Beyond the house were tall, + lush-green poplars, through which glittered patches of silver-grey river + and of yellow sand banks. From somewhere came a drowsy scent of mown + grass. + </p> + <p> + “How brown you are!” she said again. “I thought I had lost you.... You + might kiss me, Jean.” + </p> + <p> + The muscles of his arms tightened about her shoulders. Her hair flamed in + his eyes. The wind that rustled through broad grape-leaves made a flutter + of dancing light and shadow about them. + </p> + <p> + “How hot you are with the sun!” she said. “I love the smell of the sweat + of your body. You must have run very hard, coming here.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember one night in the spring we walked home from Pelleas and + Melisande? How I should have liked to have kissed you then, like this!” + Andrews's voice was strange, hoarse, as if he spoke with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “There is the chateau tres froid et tres profond,” she said with a little + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “And your hair. 'Je les tiens dans les doits, je les tiens dans la + bouche.... Toute ta chevelure, toute ta chevelure, Melisande, est tombee + de la tour.... D'you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful you are.” + </p> + <p> + They sat side by side on the stone bench without touching each other. + </p> + <p> + “It's silly,” burst out Andrews excitedly. “We should have faith in our + own selves. We can't live a little rag of romance without dragging in + literature. We are drugged with literature so that we can never live at + all, of ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Jean, how did you come down here? Have you been demobilized long?”' + </p> + <p> + “I walked almost all the way from Paris. You see, I am very dirty.” + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful! But I'll be quiet. You must tell me everything from the + moment you left me in Chartres.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you about Chartres later,” said Andrews gruffly. “It has been + superb, one of the biggest weeks in my life, walking all day under the + sun, with the road like a white ribbon in the sun over the hills and along + river banks, where there were yellow irises blooming, and through woods + full of blackbirds, and with the dust in a little white cloud round my + feet, and all the time walking towards you, walking towards you.” + </p> + <p> + “And la Reine de Saba, how is it coming?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. It's a long time since I thought of it.... You have been + here long?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly a week. But what are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I have a room overlooking the river in a house owned by a very fat woman + with a very red face and a tuft of hair on her chin....” + </p> + <p> + “Madame Boncour.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. You must know everybody.... It's so small.” + </p> + <p> + “And you're going to stay here a long time?” + </p> + <p> + “Almost forever, and work, and talk to you; may I use your piano now and + then?” + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + Genevieve Rod jumped to her feet. Then she stood looking at him, leaning + against one of the twisted stems of the vines, so that the broad leaves + fluttered about her face, A white cloud, bright as silver, covered the + sun, so that the hairy young leaves and the wind-blown grass of the lawn + took on a silvery sheen. Two white butterflies fluttered for a second + about the arbor. + </p> + <p> + “You must always dress like that,” she said after a while. + </p> + <p> + Andrews laughed. + </p> + <p> + “A little cleaner, I hope,” he said. “But there can't be much change. I + have no other clothes and ridiculously little money.” + </p> + <p> + “Who cares for money?” cried Genevieve. Andrews fancied he detected a + slight affectation in her tone, but he drove the idea from his mind + immediately. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if there is a farm round here where I could get work.” + </p> + <p> + “But you couldn't do the work of a farm labourer,” cried Genevieve, + laughing. + </p> + <p> + “You just watch me.” + </p> + <p> + “It'll spoil your hands for the piano.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't care about that; but all that's later, much later. Before + anything else I must finish a thing I am working on. There is a theme that + came to me when I was first in the army, when I was washing windows at the + training camp.” + </p> + <p> + “How funny you are, Jean! Oh, it's lovely to have you about again. But + you're awfully solemn today. Perhaps it's because I made you kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Genevieve, it's not in one day that you can unbend a slave's back, + but with you, in this wonderful place.... Oh, I've never seen such sappy + richness of vegetation! And think of it, a week's walking first across + those grey rolling uplands, and then at Blois down into the haze of + richness of the Loire.... D'you know Vendome? I came by a funny little + town from Vendome to Blois. You see, my feet.... And what wonderful cold + baths I've had on the sand banks of the Loire.... No, after a while the + rhythm of legs all being made the same length on drill fields, the + hopeless caged dullness will be buried deep in me by the gorgeousness of + this world of yours!” + </p> + <p> + He got to his feet and crushed a leaf softly between his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “You see, the little grapes are already forming.... Look up there,” she + said as she brushed the leaves aside just above his head. “These grapes + here are the earliest; but I must show you my domain, and my cousins and + the hen yard and everything.” + </p> + <p> + She took his hand and pulled him out of the arbor. They ran like children, + hand in hand, round the box-bordered paths. + </p> + <p> + “What I mean is this,” he stammered, following her across the lawn. “If I + could once manage to express all that misery in music, I could shove it + far down into my memory. I should be free to live my own existence, in the + midst of this carnival of summer.” + </p> + <p> + At the house she turned to him; “You see the very battered ladies over the + door,” she said. “They are said to be by a pupil of Jean Goujon.” + </p> + <p> + “They fit wonderfully in the landscape, don't they? Did I ever tell you + about the sculptures in the hospital where I was when I was wounded?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I want you to look at the house now. See, that's the tower; all + that's left of the old building. I live there, and right under the roof + there's a haunted room I used to be terribly afraid of. I'm still afraid + of it.... You see this Henri Quatre part of the house was just a fourth of + the house as planned. This lawn would have been the court. We dug up + foundations where the roses are. There are all sorts of traditions as to + why the house was never finished.” + </p> + <p> + “You must tell me them.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall later; but now you must come and meet my aunt and my cousins.” + </p> + <p> + “Please, not just now, Genevieve.... I don't feel like talking to anyone + except you. I have so much to talk to you about.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's nearly lunch time, Jean. We can have all that after lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can't talk to anyone else now. I must go and clean myself up a + little anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you like.... But you must come this afternoon and play to us. Two + or three people are coming to tea.... It would be very sweet of you, if + you'd play to us, Jean.” + </p> + <p> + “But can't you understand? I can't see you with other people now.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you like,” said Genevieve, flushing, her hand on the iron latch + of the door. + </p> + <p> + “Can't I come to see you tomorrow morning? Then I shall feel more like + meeting people, after talking to you a long while. You see, I....” He + paused, with his eyes on the ground. Then he burst out in a low, + passionate voice: “Oh, if I could only get it out of my mind... those + tramping feet, those voices shouting orders.” + </p> + <p> + His hand trembled when he put it in Genevieve's hand. She looked in his + eyes calmly with her wide brown eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How strange you are today, Jean! Anyway, come back early tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + She went in the door. He walked round the house, through the carriage + gate, and went off with long strides down the road along the river that + led under linden trees to the village. + </p> + <p> + Thoughts swarmed teasingly through his head, like wasps about a rotting + fruit. So at last he had seen Genevieve, and had held her in his arms and + kissed her. And that was all. His plans for the future had never gone + beyond that point. He hardly knew what he had expected, but in all the + sunny days of walking, in all the furtive days in Paris, he had thought of + nothing else. He would see Genevieve and tell her all about himself; he + would unroll his life like a scroll before her eyes. Together they would + piece together the future. A sudden terror took possession of him. She had + failed him. Floods of denial seethed through his mind. It was that he had + expected so much; he had expected her to understand him without + explanation, instinctively. He had told her nothing. He had not even told + her he was a deserter. What was it that had kept him from telling her? + Puzzle as he would, he could not formulate it. Only, far within him, the + certainty lay like an icy weight: she had failed him. He was alone. What a + fool he had been to build his whole life on a chance of sympathy? No. It + was rather this morbid playing at phrases that was at fault. He was like a + touchy old maid, thinking imaginary results. “Take life at its face + value,” he kept telling himself. They loved each other anyway, somehow; it + did not matter how. And he was free to work. Wasn't that enough? + </p> + <p> + But how could he wait until tomorrow to see her, to tell her everything, + to break down all the silly little barriers between them, so that they + might look directly into each other's lives? + </p> + <p> + The road turned inland from the river between garden walls at the entrance + to the village. Through half-open doors Andrews got glimpses of + neatly-cultivated kitchen-gardens and orchards where silver-leaved boughs + swayed against the sky. Then the road swerved again into the village, + crowded into a narrow paved street by the white and cream-colored houses + with green or grey shutters and pale, red-tiled roofs. At the end, stained + golden with lichen, the mauve-grey tower of the church held up its bells + against the sky in a belfry of broad pointed arches. In front of the + church Andrews turned down a little lane towards the river again, to come + out in a moment on a quay shaded by skinny acacia trees. On the corner + house, a ramshackle house with roofs and gables projecting in all + directions, was a sign: “Rendezvous de la Marine.” The room he stepped + into was so low, Andrews had to stoop under the heavy brown beams as he + crossed it. Stairs went up from a door behind a worn billiard table in the + corner. Mme. Boncour stood between Andrews and the stairs. She was a + flabby, elderly woman with round eyes and a round, very red face and a + curious smirk about the lips. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur payera un petit peu d'advance, n'est-ce pas, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Andrews, reaching for his pocketbook. “Shall I pay you a + week in advance?” + </p> + <p> + The woman smiled broadly. + </p> + <p> + “Si Monsieur desire.... It's that life is so dear nowadays. Poor people + like us can barely get along.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that only too well,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur est etranger....” began the woman in a wheedling tone, when she + had received the money. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I was only demobilized a short time ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Aha! Monsieur est demobilise. Monsieur remplira la petite feuille pour la + police, n'est-ce pas?” + </p> + <p> + The woman brought from behind her back a hand that held a narrow printed + slip. + </p> + <p> + “All right. I'll fill it out now,” said Andrews, his heart thumping. + </p> + <p> + Without thinking what he was doing, he put the paper on the edge of the + billiard table and wrote: “John Brown, aged 23. Chicago Ill., Etats-Unis. + Musician. Holder of passport No. 1,432,286.” + </p> + <p> + “Merci, Monsieur. A bientot, Monsieur. Au revoir, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + The woman's singing voice followed him up the rickety stairs to his room. + It was only when he had closed the door that he remembered that he had put + down for a passport number his army number. “And why did I write John + Brown as a name?” he asked himself. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, + But his soul goes marching on. + Glory, glory, hallelujah! + But his soul goes marching on.” + </pre> + <p> + He heard the song so vividly that he thought for an instant someone must + be standing beside him singing it. He went to the window and ran his hand + through his hair. Outside the Loire rambled in great loops towards the + blue distance, silvery reach upon silvery reach, with here and there the + broad gleam of a sand bank. Opposite were poplars and fields patched in + various greens rising to hills tufted with dense shadowy groves. On the + bare summit of the highest hill a windmill waved lazy arms against the + marbled sky. + </p> + <p> + Gradually John Andrews felt the silvery quiet settle about him. He pulled + a sausage and a piece of bread out of the pocket of his coat, took a long + swig of water from the pitcher on his washstand, and settled himself at + the table before the window in front of a pile of ruled sheets of music + paper. He nibbled the bread and the sausage meditatively for a long while, + then wrote “Arbeit und Rhythmus” in a large careful hand at the top of the + paper. After that he looked out of the window without moving, watching the + plumed clouds sail like huge slow ships against the slate-blue sky. + Suddenly he scratched out what he had written and scrawled above it: “The + Body and Soul of John Brown.” He got to his feet and walked about the room + with clenched hands. + </p> + <p> + “How curious that I should have written that name. How curious that I + should have written that name!” he said aloud. + </p> + <p> + He sat down at the table again and forgot everything in the music that + possessed him. + </p> + <p> + The next morning he walked out early along the river, trying to occupy + himself until it should be time to go to see Genevieve. The memory of his + first days in the army, spent washing windows at the training camp, was + very vivid in his mind. He saw himself again standing naked in the middle + of a wide, bare room, while the recruiting sergeant measured and prodded + him. And now he was a deserter. Was there any sense to it all? Had his + life led in any particular direction, since he had been caught haphazard + in the treadmill, or was it all chance? A toad hopping across a road in + front of a steam roller. + </p> + <p> + He stood still, and looked about him. Beyond a clover field was the river + with its sand banks and its broad silver reaches. A boy was wading far out + in the river catching minnows with a net. Andrews watched his quick + movements as he jerked the net through the water. And that boy, too, would + be a soldier; the lithe body would be thrown into a mould to be made the + same as other bodies, the quick movements would be standardized into the + manual at arms, the inquisitive, petulant mind would be battered into + servility. The stockade was built; not one of the sheep would escape. And + those that were not sheep? They were deserters; every rifle muzzle held + death for them; they would not live long. And yet other nightmares had + been thrown off the shoulders of men. Every man who stood up courageously + to die loosened the grip of the nightmare. + </p> + <p> + Andrews walked slowly along the road, kicking his feet into the dust like + a schoolboy. At a turning he threw himself down on the grass under some + locust trees. The heavy fragrance of their flowers and the grumbling of + the bees that hung drunkenly on the white racemes made him feel very + drowsy. A cart passed, pulled by heavy white horses; an old man with his + back curved like the top of a sunflower stalk hobbled after, using the + whip as a walking stick. Andrews saw the old man's eyes turned on him + suspiciously. A faint pang of fright went through him; did the old man + know he was a deserter? The cart and the old man had already disappeared + round the bend in the road. Andrews lay a long while listening to the + jingle of the harness thin into the distance, leaving him again to the + sound of the drowsy bees among the locust blossoms. + </p> + <p> + When he sat up, he noticed that through a break in the hedge beyond the + slender black trunks of the locusts, he could see rising above the trees + the extinguisher-shaped roof of the tower of Genevieve Rod's house. He + remembered the day he had first seen Genevieve, and the boyish awkwardness + with which she poured tea. Would he and Genevieve ever find a moment of + real contact? All at once a bitter thought came to him. “Or is it that she + wants a tame pianist as an ornament to a clever young woman's drawing + room?” He jumped to his feet and started walking fast towards the town + again. He would go to see her at once and settle all that forever. The + village clock had begun to strike; the clear notes vibrated crisply across + the fields: ten. + </p> + <p> + Walking back to the village he began to think of money. His room was + twenty francs a week. He had in his purse a hundred and twenty-four + francs. After fishing in all his pockets for silver, he found three francs + and a half more. A hundred and twenty-seven francs fifty. If he could live + on forty francs a week, he would have three weeks in which to work on the + “Body and Soul of John Brown.” Only three weeks; and then he must find + work. In any case he would write Henslowe to send him money if he had any; + this was no time for delicacy; everything depended on his having money. + And he swore to himself that he would work for three weeks, that he would + throw the idea that flamed within him into shape on paper, whatever + happened. He racked his brains to think of someone in America he could + write to for money, A ghastly sense of solitude possessed him. And would + Genevieve fail him too? + </p> + <p> + Genevieve was coming out by the front door of the house when he reached + the carriage gate beside the road. + </p> + <p> + She ran to meet him. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning. I was on my way to fetch you.” + </p> + <p> + She seized his hand and pressed it hard. + </p> + <p> + “How sweet of you!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Jean, you're not coming from the village.” + </p> + <p> + “I've been walking.” + </p> + <p> + “How early you must get up!” + </p> + <p> + “You see, the sun rises just opposite my window, and shines in on my bed. + That makes me get up early.” + </p> + <p> + She pushed him in the door ahead of her. They went through the hall to a + long high room that had a grand piano and many old high-backed chairs, and + in front of the French windows that opened on the garden, a round table of + black mahogany littered with books. Two tall girls in muslin dresses stood + beside the piano. + </p> + <p> + “These are my cousins.... Here he is at last. Monsieur Andrews, ma cousine + Berthe et ma cousine Jeanne. Now you've got to play to us; we are bored to + death with everything we know.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.... But I have a great deal to talk to you about later,” said + Andrews in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + Genevieve nodded understandingly. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you play us La Reine de Saba, Jean?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do play that,” twittered the cousins. + </p> + <p> + “If you don't mind, I'd rather play some Bach.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a lot of Bach in that chest in the corner,” cried Genevieve. + “It's ridiculous; everything in the house is jammed with music.” + </p> + <p> + They leaned over the chest together, so that Andrews felt her hair brush + against his cheek, and the smell of her hair in his nostrils. The cousins + remained by the piano. + </p> + <p> + “I must talk to you alone soon,” whispered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” she said, her face reddening as she leaned over the chest. + </p> + <p> + On top of the music was a revolver. + </p> + <p> + “Look out, it's loaded,” she said, when he picked it up. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her inquiringly. “I have another in my room. You see Mother + and I are often alone here, and then, I like firearms. Don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I hate them,” muttered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “Here's tons of Bach.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine.... Look, Genevieve,” he said suddenly, “lend me that revolver for a + few days. I'll tell you why I want it later.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Be careful, because it's loaded,” she said in an offhand + manner, walking over to the piano with two volumes under each arm. Andrews + closed the chest and followed her, suddenly bubbling with gaiety. He + opened a volume haphazard. + </p> + <p> + “To a friend to dissuade him from starting on a journey,” he read. “Oh, I + used to know that.” + </p> + <p> + He began to play, putting boisterous vigor into the tunes. In a pianissimo + passage he heard one cousin whisper to the other: “Qu'il a l'air + interessant.” + </p> + <p> + “Farouche, n'est-ce pas? Genre revolutionnaire,” answered the other + cousin, tittering. Then he noticed that Mme. Rod was smiling at him. He + got to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Mais ne vous derangez pas,” she said. + </p> + <p> + A man with white flannel trousers and tennis shoes and a man in black with + a pointed grey beard and amused grey eyes had come into the room, followed + by a stout woman in hat and veil, with long white cotton gloves on her + arms. Introductions were made. Andrews's spirits began to ebb. All these + people were making strong the barrier between him and Genevieve. Whenever + he looked at her, some well-dressed person stepped in front of her with a + gesture of politeness. He felt caught in a ring of well-dressed + conventions that danced about him with grotesque gestures of politeness. + All through lunch he had a crazy desire to jump to his feet and shout: + “Look at me; I'm a deserter. I'm under the wheels of your system. If your + system doesn't succeed in killing me, it will be that much weaker, it will + have less strength to kill others.” There was talk about his + demobilization, and his music, and the Schola Cantorum. He felt he was + being exhibited. “But they don't know what they're exhibiting,” he said to + himself with a certain bitter joy. + </p> + <p> + After lunch they went out into the grape arbor, where coffee was brought. + Andrews sat silent, not listening to the talk, which was about Empire + furniture and the new taxes, staring up into the broad sun-splotched + leaves of the grape vines, remembering how the sun and shade had danced + about Genevieve's hair when they had been in the arbor alone the day + before, turning it all to red flame. Today she sat in shadow, and her hair + was rusty and dull. Time dragged by very slowly. + </p> + <p> + At last Genevieve got to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't seen my boat,” she said to Andrews. “Let's go for a row. I'll + row you about.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews jumped up eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Make her be careful, Monsieur Andrews, she's dreadfully imprudent,'” said + Madame Rod. + </p> + <p> + “You were bored to death,” said Genevieve, as they walked out on the road. + </p> + <p> + “No, but those people all seemed to be building new walls between you and + me. God knows there are enough already.” + </p> + <p> + She looked him sharply in the eyes a second, but said nothing. + </p> + <p> + They walked slowly through the sand of the river edge, till they came to + an old flat-bottomed boat painted green with an orange stripe, drawn up + among the reeds. + </p> + <p> + “It will probably sink; can you swim?” she asked, laughing. + </p> + <p> + Andrews smiled, and said in a stiff voice: + </p> + <p> + “I can swim. It was by swimming that I got out of the army.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “When I deserted.” + </p> + <p> + “When you deserted?” + </p> + <p> + Genevieve leaned over to pull on the boat. Their heads almost touching, + they pulled the boat down to the water's edge, then pushed it half out on + to the river. + </p> + <p> + “And if you are caught?” + </p> + <p> + “They might shoot me; I don't know. Still, as the war is over, it would + probably be life imprisonment, or at least twenty years.” + </p> + <p> + “You can speak of it as coolly as that?” + </p> + <p> + “It is no new idea to my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “What induced you to do such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “I was not willing to submit any longer to the treadmill.” + </p> + <p> + “Come let's go out on the river.” + </p> + <p> + Genevieve stepped into the boat and caught up the oars. + </p> + <p> + “Now push her off, and don't fall in,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + The boat glided out into the water. Genevieve began pulling on the oars + slowly and regularly. Andrews looked at her without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “When you're tired, I'll row,” he said after a while. + </p> + <p> + Behind them the village, patched white and buff-color and russet and pale + red with stucco walls and steep, tiled roofs, rose in an irregular pyramid + to the church. Through the wide pointed arches of the belfry they could + see the bells hanging against the sky. Below in the river the town was + reflected complete, with a great rift of steely blue across it where the + wind ruffled the water. The oars creaked rhythmically as Genevieve pulled + on them. + </p> + <p> + “Remember, when you are tired,” said Andrews again after a long pause. + </p> + <p> + Genevieve spoke through clenched teeth: + </p> + <p> + “Of course, you have no patriotism.” + </p> + <p> + “As you mean it, none.” + </p> + <p> + They rounded the edge of a sand bank where the current ran hard. Andrews + put his hands beside her hands on the oars, and pushed with her. The bow + of the boat grounded in some reeds under willows. + </p> + <p> + “We'll stay here,” she said, pulling in the oars that flashed in the sun + as she jerked them, dripping silver, out of the water. + </p> + <p> + She clasped her hands round her knees and leaned over towards him. + </p> + <p> + “So that is why you want my revolver.... Tell me all about it, from + Chartres,” she said, in a choked voice. + </p> + <p> + “You see, I was arrested at Chartres and sent to a labor battalion, the + equivalent for your army prison, without being able to get word to my + commanding officer in the School Detachment....” He paused. + </p> + <p> + A bird was singing in the willow tree. The sun was under a cloud; beyond + the long pale green leaves that fluttered ever so slightly in the wind, + the sky was full of silvery and cream-colored clouds, with here and there + a patch the color of a robin's egg. Andrews began laughing softly. + </p> + <p> + “But, Genevieve, how silly those words are, those pompous, efficient + words: detachment, battalion, commanding officer. It would have all + happened anyway. Things reached the breaking point; that was all. I could + not submit any longer to the discipline.... Oh, those long Roman words, + what millstones they are about men's necks! That was silly, too; I was + quite willing to help in the killing of Germans, I had no quarrel with, + out of curiosity or cowardice.... You see, it has taken me so long to find + out how the world is. There was no one to show me the way.” + </p> + <p> + He paused as if expecting her to speak. The bird in the willow tree was + still singing. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a dangling twig blew aside a little so that Andrews could see him—a + small grey bird, his throat all puffed out with song. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me,” he said very softly, “that human society has been always + that, and perhaps will be always that: organizations growing and stifling + individuals, and individuals revolting hopelessly against them, and at + last forming new societies to crush the old societies and becoming slaves + again in their turn....” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were a socialist,” broke in Genevieve sharply, in a voice + that hurt him to the quick, he did not know why. + </p> + <p> + “A man told me at the labor battalion,” began Andrews again, “that they'd + tortured a friend of his there once by making him swallow lighted + cigarettes; well, every order shouted at me, every new humiliation before + the authorities, was as great an agony to me. Can't you understand?” His + voice rose suddenly to a tone of entreaty. + </p> + <p> + She nodded her head. They were silent. The willow leaves shivered in a + little wind. The bird had gone. + </p> + <p> + “But tell me about the swimming part of it. That sounds exciting.” + </p> + <p> + “We were working unloading cement at Passy—cement to build the + stadium the army is presenting to the French, built by slave labor, like + the pyramids.” + </p> + <p> + “Passy's where Balzac lived. Have you ever seen his house there?” + </p> + <p> + “There was a boy working with me, the Kid, 'le gosse,' it'd be in French. + Without him, I should never have done it. I was completely crushed.... I + suppose that he was drowned.... Anyway, we swam under water as far as we + could, and, as it was nearly dark, I managed to get on a barge, where a + funny anarchist family took care of me. I've never heard of the Kid since. + Then I bought these clothes that amuse you so, Genevieve, and came back to + Paris to find you, mainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean as much to you as that?” whispered Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + “In Paris, too. I tried to find a boy named Marcel, who worked on a farm + near St. Germain. I met him out there one day. I found he'd gone to + sea.... If it had not been that I had to see you, I should have gone + straight to Bordeaux or Marseilles. They aren't too particular who they + take as a seaman now.” + </p> + <p> + “But in the army didn't you have enough of that dreadful life, always + thrown among uneducated people, always in dirty, foulsmelling + surroundings, you, a sensitive person, an artist? No wonder you are almost + crazy after years of that.” Genevieve spoke passionately, with her eyes + fixed on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it wasn't that,” said Andrews with despair in his voice. “I rather + like the people you call low. Anyway, the differences between people are + so slight....” His sentence trailed away. He stopped speaking, sat + stirring uneasily on the seat, afraid he would cry out. He noticed the + hard shape of the revolver against his leg. + </p> + <p> + “But isn't there something you can do about it? You must have friends,” + burst out Genevieve. “You were treated with horrible injustice. You can + get yourself reinstated and properly demobilised. They'll see you are a + person of intelligence. They can't treat you as they would anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “I must be, as you say, a little mad, Genevieve,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “But now that I, by pure accident, have made a gesture, feeble as it is, + towards human freedom, I can't feel that.... Oh, I suppose I'm a fool.... + But there you have me, just as I am, Genevieve.” + </p> + <p> + He sat with his head drooping over his chest, his two hands clasping the + gunwales of the boat. After a long while Genevieve said in a dry little + voice: + </p> + <p> + “Well, we must go back now; it's time for tea.” + </p> + <p> + Andrews looked up. There was a dragon fly poised on the top of a reed, + with silver wings and a long crimson body. + </p> + <p> + “Look just behind you, Genevieve.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a dragon fly! What people was it that made them the symbol of life? + It wasn't the Egyptians. O, I've forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll row,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + The boat was hurried along by the current. In a very few minutes they had + pulled it up on the bank in front of the Rods' house. + </p> + <p> + “Come and have some tea,” said Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + “No, I must work.” + </p> + <p> + “You are doing something new, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews nodded. + </p> + <p> + “What's its name?” + </p> + <p> + “The Soul and Body of John Brown.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's John Brown?” + </p> + <p> + “He was a madman who wanted to free people. There's a song about him.” + </p> + <p> + “It is based on popular themes?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of.... I only thought of the name yesterday. It came to + me by a very curious accident.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll come tomorrow?” + </p> + <p> + “If you're not too busy.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see, the Boileaus are coming to lunch. There won't be anybody at + tea time. We can have tea together alone.” + </p> + <p> + He took her hand and held it, awkward as a child with a new playmate. + </p> + <p> + “All right, at about four. If there's nobody there, we'll play music,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + She pulled her hand from him hurriedly, made a curious formal gesture of + farewell, and crossed the road to the gate without looking back. There was + one idea in his head, to get to his room and lock the door and throw + himself face down on the bed. The idea amused some distant part of his + mind. That had been what he had always done when, as a child, the world + had seemed too much for him. He would run upstairs and lock the door and + throw himself face downward on the bed. “I wonder if I shall cry?” he + thought. + </p> + <p> + Madame Boncour was coming down the stairs as he went up. He backed down + and waited. When she got to the bottom, pouting a little, she said: + </p> + <p> + “So you are a friend of Mme. Rod, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “How did you know that?” + </p> + <p> + A dimple appeared near her mouth in either cheek. + </p> + <p> + “You know, in the country, one knows everything,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir,” he said, starting up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Mais, Monsieur. You should have told me. If I had known I should not have + asked you to pay in advance. Oh, never. You must pardon me, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur est Americain? You see I know a lot.” Her puffy cheeks shook + when she giggled. “And Monsieur has known Mme. Rod et Mlle. Rod a long + time. An old friend. Monsieur is a musician.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Bon soir.” Andrews ran up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir, Monsieur.” Her chanting voice followed him up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + He slammed the door behind him and threw himself on the bed. + </p> + <p> + When Andrews awoke next morning, his first thought was how long he had to + wait that day to see Genevieve. Then he remembered their talk of the day + before. Was it worth while going to see her at all, he asked himself. And + very gradually he felt cold despair taking hold of him. He felt for a + moment that he was the only living thing in a world of dead machines; the + toad hopping across the road in front of a steam roller. Suddenly he + thought of Jeanne. He remembered her grimy, overworked fingers lying in + her lap. He pictured her walking up and down in front of the Cafe de Rohan + one Wednesday night, waiting for him. In the place of Genevieve, what + would Jeanne have done? Yet people were always alone, really; however much + they loved each other, there could be no real union. Those who rode in the + great car could never feel as the others felt; the toads hopping across + the road. He felt no rancour against Genevieve. + </p> + <p> + These thoughts slipped from him while he was drinking the coffee and + eating the dry bread that made his breakfast; and afterwards, walking back + and forth along the river bank, he felt his mind and body becoming as if + fluid, and supple, trembling, bent in the rush of his music like a poplar + tree bent in a wind. He sharpened a pencil and went up to his room again. + </p> + <p> + The sky was cloudless that day. As he sat at his table the square of blue + through the window and the hills topped by their windmill and the + silver-blue of the river, were constantly in his eyes. Sometimes he wrote + notes down fast, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, seeing nothing; other + times he sat for long periods staring at the sky and at the windmill + vaguely happy, playing with unexpected thoughts that came and vanished, as + now and then a moth fluttered in the window to blunder about the ceiling + beams, and, at last, to disappear without his knowing how. + </p> + <p> + When the clock struck twelve, he found he was very hungry. For two days he + had eaten nothing but bread, sausage and cheese. Finding Madame Boncour + behind the bar downstairs, polishing glasses, he ordered dinner of her. + She brought him a stew and a bottle of wine at once, and stood over him + watching him eat it, her arms akimbo and the dimples showing in her huge + red cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur eats less than any young man I ever saw,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I'm working hard,” said Andrews, flushing. + </p> + <p> + “But when you work you have to eat a great deal, a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + “And if the money is short?” asked Andrews with a smile. + </p> + <p> + Something in the steely searching look that passed over her eyes for a + minute startled him. + </p> + <p> + “There are not many people here now, Monsieur, but you should see it on a + market day.... Monsieur will take some dessert?” + </p> + <p> + “Cheese and coffee.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more? It's the season of strawberries.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + When Madame Boncour came back with the cheese, she said: + </p> + <p> + “I had Americans here once, Monsieur. A pretty time I had with them, too. + They were deserters. They went away without paying, with the gendarmes + after them I hope they were caught and sent to the front, those + good-for-nothings.” + </p> + <p> + “There are all sorts of Americans,” said Andrews in a low voice. He was + angry with himself because his heart beat so. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm going for a little walk. Au revoir, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur is going for a little walk. Amusez-vous bien, Monsieur. Au + revoir, Monsieur,” Madame Boncour's singsong tones followed him out. + </p> + <p> + A little before four Andrews knocked at the front door of the Rods' house. + He could hear Santo, the little black and tan, barking inside. Madame Rod + opened the door for him herself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, here you are,” she said. “Come and have some tea. Did the work go + well to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “And Genevieve?” stammered Andrews. + </p> + <p> + “She went out motoring with some friends. She left a note for you. It's on + the tea-table.” + </p> + <p> + He found himself talking, making questions and answers, drinking tea, + putting cakes into his mouth, all through a white dead mist. Genevieve's + note said: + </p> + <p> + “Jean:—I'm thinking of ways and means. You must get away to a + neutral country. Why couldn't you have talked it over with me first, + before cutting off every chance of going back. I'll be in tomorrow at the + same time. + </p> + <p> + “Bien a vous. G. R.” + </p> + <p> + “Would it disturb you if I played the piano a few minutes, Madame Rod?” + Andrews found himself asking all at once. + </p> + <p> + “No, go ahead. We'll come in later and listen to you.” + </p> + <p> + It was only as he left the room that he realized he had been talking to + the two cousins as well as to Madame Rod. + </p> + <p> + At the piano he forgot everything and regained his mood of vague + joyousness. He found paper and a pencil in his pocket, and played the + theme that had come to him while he had been washing windows at the top: + of a step-ladder at training camp arranging it, modelling it, forgetting + everything, absorbed in his rhythms and cadences. When he stopped work it + was nearly dark. Genevieve Rod, a veil round her head, stood in the French + window that led to the garden. + </p> + <p> + “I heard you,” she said. “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm through. How was your motor ride?” + </p> + <p> + “I loved it. It's not often I get a chance to go motoring.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor is it often I get a chance to talk to you alone,” cried Andrews + bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “You seem to feel you have rights of ownership over me. I resent it. No + one has rights over me.” She spoke as if it were not the first time she + had thought of the phrase. + </p> + <p> + He walked over and leaned against the window beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Has it made such a difference to you, Genevieve, finding out that I am a + deserter?” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not,” she said hastily. + </p> + <p> + “I think it has, Genevieve.... What do you want me to do? Do you think I + should give myself up? A man I knew in Paris has given himself up, but he + hadn't taken his uniform off. It seems that makes a difference. He was a + nice fellow. His name was Al, he was from San Francisco. He had nerve, for + he amputated his own little finger when his hand was crushed by a freight + car.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, no. Oh, this is so frightful. And you would have been a great + composer. I feel sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, would have been? The stuff I'm doing now's better than any of the + dribbling things I've done before, I know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, but you'll need to study, to get yourself known.” + </p> + <p> + “If I can pull through six months, I'm safe. The army will have gone. I + don't believe they extradite deserters.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but the shame of it, the danger of being found out all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “I am ashamed of many things in my life, Genevieve. I'm rather proud of + this.” + </p> + <p> + “But can't you understand that other people haven't your notions of + individual liberty?” + </p> + <p> + “I must go, Genevieve.” + </p> + <p> + “You must come in again soon.” + </p> + <p> + “One of these days.” + </p> + <p> + And he was out in the road in the windy twilight, with his music papers + crumpled in his hand. The sky was full of tempestuous purple clouds; + between them were spaces of clear claret-colored light, and here and there + a gleam of opal. There were a few drops of rain in the wind that rustled + the broad leaves of the lindens and filled the wheat fields with waves + like the sea, and made the river very dark between rosy sand banks. It + began to rain. Andrews hurried home so as not to drench his only suit. + Once in his room he lit four candles and placed them at the corners of his + table. A little cold crimson light still filtered in through the rain from + the afterglow, giving the candles a ghostly glimmer. Then he lay on his + bed, and staring up at the flickering light on the ceiling, tried to + think. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're alone now, John Andrews,” he said aloud, after a half-hour, + and jumped jauntily to his feet. He stretched himself and yawned. Outside + the rain pattered loudly and steadily. “Let's have a general accounting,” + he said to himself. “It'll be easily a month before I hear from old Howe + in America, and longer before I hear from Henslowe, and already I've spent + twenty francs on food. Can't make it this way. Then, in real possessions, + I have one volume of Villon, a green book on counterpoint, a map of France + torn in two, and a moderately well-stocked mind.” + </p> + <p> + He put the two books on the middle of the table before him, on top of his + disorderly bundle of music papers and notebooks. Then he went on, piling + his possessions there as he thought of them. Three pencils, a fountain + pen. Automatically he reached for his watch, but he remembered he'd given + it to Al to pawn in case he didn't decide to give himself up, and needed + money. A toothbrush. A shaving set. A piece of soap. A hairbrush and a + broken comb. Anything else? He groped in the musette that hung on the foot + of the bed. A box of matches. A knife with one blade missing, and a mashed + cigarette. Amusement growing on him every minute, he contemplated the + pile. Then, in the drawer, he remembered, was a clean shirt and two pairs + of soiled socks. And that was all, absolutely all. Nothing saleable there. + Except Genevieve's revolver. He pulled it out of his pocket. The + candlelight flashed on the bright nickel. No, he might need that; it was + too valuable to sell. He pointed it towards himself. Under the chin was + said to be the best place. He wondered if he would pull the trigger when + the barrel was pressed against his chin. No, when his money gave out he'd + sell the revolver. An expensive death for a starving man. He sat on the + edge of the bed and laughed. + </p> + <p> + Then he discovered he was very hungry. Two meals in one day; shocking! He + said to himself. Whistling joyfully, like a schoolboy, he strode down the + rickety stairs to order a meal of Madame Boncour. + </p> + <p> + It was with a strange start that he noticed that the tune he was whistling + was: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, + But his soul goes marching on.” + </pre> + <p> + The lindens were in bloom. From a tree beside the house great gusts of + fragrance, heavy as incense, came in through the open window. Andrews lay + across the table with his eyes closed and his cheek in a mass of ruled + papers. He was very tired. The first movement of the “Soul and Body of + John Brown” was down on paper. The village clock struck two. He got to his + feet and stood a moment looking absently out of the window. It was a + sultry afternoon of swollen clouds that hung low over the river. The + windmill on the hilltop opposite was motionless. He seemed to hear + Genevieve's voice the last time he had seen her, so long ago. “You would + have been a great composer.” He walked over to the table and turned over + some sheets without looking at them. “Would have been!” He shrugged his + shoulders. So you couldn't be a great composer and a deserter too in the + year 1919. Probably Genevieve was right. But he must have something to + eat. + </p> + <p> + “But how late it is,” expostulated Madame Boncour, when he asked for + lunch. + </p> + <p> + “I know it's very late. I have just finished a third of the work I'm + doing. + </p> + <p> + “And do you get paid a great deal, when that is finished?” asked Madame + Boncour, the dimples appearing in her broad cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Some day, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “You will be lonely now that the Rods have left.” + </p> + <p> + “Have they left?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you know? Didn't you go to say goodby? They've gone to the + seashore.... But I'll make you a little omelette.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + When Madame Boncour cams back with the omelette and fried potatoes, she + said to him in a mysterious voice: + </p> + <p> + “You didn't go to see the Rods as often these last weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Boncour stood staring at him, with her red arms folded round her + breasts, shaking her head. + </p> + <p> + When he got up to go upstairs again, she suddenly shouted: + </p> + <p> + “And when are you going to pay me? It's two weeks since you have paid me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Madame Boncour, I told you I had no money. If you wait a day or two, + I'm sure to get some in the mail. It can't be more than a day or two.” + </p> + <p> + “I've heard that story before.” + </p> + <p> + “I've even tried to get work at several farms round here.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Boncour threw back her head and laughed, showing the blackened + teeth of her lower jaw. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” she said at length, “after this week, it's finished. You + either pay me, or...And I sleep very lightly, Monsieur.” Her voice took on + suddenly its usual sleek singsong tone. + </p> + <p> + Andrews broke away and ran upstairs to his room. + </p> + <p> + “I must fly the coop tonight,” he said to himself. But suppose then + letters came with money the next day. He writhed in indecision all the + afternoon. + </p> + <p> + That evening he took a long walk. In passing the Rods' house he saw that + the shutters were closed. It gave him a sort of relief to know that + Genevieve no longer lived near him. His solitude was complete, now. + </p> + <p> + And why, instead of writing music that would have been worth while if he + hadn't been a deserter, he kept asking himself, hadn't he tried long ago + to act, to make a gesture, however feeble, however forlorn, for other + people's freedom? Half by accident he had managed to free himself from the + treadmill. Couldn't he have helped others? If he only had his life to live + over again. No; he had not lived up to the name of John Brown. + </p> + <p> + It was dark when he got back to the village. He had decided to wait one + more day. + </p> + <p> + The next morning he started working on the second movement. The lack of a + piano made it very difficult to get ahead, yet he said to himself that he + should put down what he could, as it would be long before he found leisure + again. + </p> + <p> + One night he had blown out his candle and stood at the window watching the + glint of the moon on the river. He heard a soft heavy step on the landing + outside his room. A floorboard creaked, and the key turned in the lock. + The step was heard again on the stairs. John Andrews laughed aloud. The + window was only twenty feet from the ground, and there was a trellis. He + got into bed contentedly. He must sleep well, for tomorrow night he would + slip out of the window and make for Bordeaux. + </p> + <p> + Another morning. A brisk wind blew, fluttering Andrews's papers as he + worked. Outside the river was streaked blue and silver and slate-colored. + The windmill's arms waved fast against the piled clouds. The scent of the + lindens came only intermittently on the sharp wind. In spite of himself, + the tune of “John Brown's Body” had crept in among his ideas. Andrews sat + with a pencil at his lips, whistling softly, while in the back of his mind + a vast chorus seemed singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, + But his soul goes marching on. + Glory, glory, hallelujah! + But his soul goes marching on.” + </pre> + <p> + If one could only find freedom by marching for it, came the thought. + </p> + <p> + All at once he became rigid, his hands clutched the table edge. + </p> + <p> + There was an American voice under his window: + </p> + <p> + “D'you think she's kiddin' us, Charley?” + </p> + <p> + Andrews was blinded, falling from a dizzy height. God, could things repeat + themselves like that? Would everything be repeated? And he seemed to hear + voices whisper in his ears: “One of you men teach him how to salute.” + </p> + <p> + He jumped to his feet and pulled open the drawer. It was empty. The woman + had taken the revolver. “It's all planned, then. She knew,” he said aloud + in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + He became suddenly calm. + </p> + <p> + A man in a boat was passing down the river. The boat was painted bright + green; the man wore a curious jacket of a burnt-brown color, and held a + fishing pole. + </p> + <p> + Andrews sat in his chair again. The boat was out of sight now, but there + was the windmill turning, turning against the piled white clouds. + </p> + <p> + There were steps on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Two swallows, twittering, curved past the window, very near, so that + Andrews could make out the marking on their wings and the way they folded + their legs against their pale-grey bellies. There was a knock. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said Andrews firmly. + </p> + <p> + “I beg yer pardon,” said a soldier with his hat, that had a band, in his + hand. “Are you the American?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the woman down there said she thought your papers wasn't in very + good order.” The man stammered with embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + Their eyes met. + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm a deserter,” said Andrews. + </p> + <p> + The M. P. snatched for his whistle and blew it hard. There was an + answering whistle from outside the window. + </p> + <p> + “Get your stuff together.” + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, walk downstairs slowly in front of me.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the windmill was turning, turning, against the piled white clouds + of the sky. + </p> + <p> + Andrews turned his eyes towards the door. The M. P. closed the door after + them, and followed on his heels down the steps. + </p> + <p> + On John Andrews's writing table the brisk wind rustled among the broad + sheets of paper. First one sheet, then another, blew off the table, until + the floor was littered with them. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Soldiers, by John Dos Passos + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE SOLDIERS *** + +***** This file should be named 6362-h.htm or 6362-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/6/6362/ + +Produced by Eve Sobol and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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