yes, guillaumin had been quite right! ever since we had rejoined at f—— his one care had been the morale of the men! on that, indeed, depended the fate of the country, united with that of the present campaign. and this morale, in its turn, depended partly on us, in view of our responsibility.
a task which was quite new to me. i have said how, at our departure, i could not conceive myself taking an interest in these dolts. yes! but had i not felt them quiver as they marched at my side through the horror of the fire? the praise surprised on their lips that evening had made my heart beat—reciprocal esteem—and i had dreamt of something more.
during the long parches i took steps to get into touch with them, to overcome their shyness, the remains of their distrust. i was not afraid of showing a few of them what was in my heart. one of these was icard, the miller, a steady, quiet fellow, whose good sense had struck me on several occasions. under the present circumstances, the footing we were usually on, i said, was not enough. complete harmony of mind and heart between us all seemed to me necessary for our common safety.
"we're fond enough of you, already, sergeant!"
[pg 350]
i smiled.
"fonder than you were at the beginning?"
"yes, then we weren't exactly struck on you."
i think he was speaking at his comrades. their instinct must have made them realise my friendly intentions. they quickly became more familiar and expansive. the last barrier had fallen.
i again appreciated guillaumin's perspicuity. according to him these people dreaded betraying whatever tenderness and delicacy was aroused in them, by putting it into words. they were shy of talking about themselves, and expanded more willingly on a thousand and one abstract subjects. i had resigned myself to listening to an endless flow of words and pointless tales. they were flattered by my attention, and i was surprised to find them ten times less childish and narrow in their talk than many drawing-room conversationalists. it was the taste, innate in the french, for discussion and reasoning. penetration and logic are ordinary qualities in them. icard laid before me his views on the questions which impassioned him: agricultural economy, modern implements, the introduction of new crops, the causes and consequences of the population of the country districts, the remedies to be applied to it—all problems of vital importance to the nation. i who claimed to be so eclectic had to blush for myself because i had never considered them.
with him, and with some of the others, i took a delight in broaching the subject of socialistic doctrines. we were at one in our premises. starting from that point i used to get them to talk, curious to see how much electioneering patter they had retained. more than mere words, in any case! some of them were[pg 351] imbued with the party point of view. each of them, for that matter, followed wherever his temperament led him. prunelle, the jeweller, favoured the view that the state should interfere as little as possible with individual enterprise. icard, for his part, was a staunch advocate of a sort of dominant collectivism: of the most perfect organisation of society, down to the very smallest details, by its chosen representatives. he said to me:
"look at the bosches. they have it in a sense. that's what constitutes their strength. it's sad to think the poor brutes have to work for the king of prussia!"
i tried, too, to probe their inmost convictions. were they really keen about this struggle which would determine the future of their race?
it did not take long to convince me of it. their patriotism was not an abstract quality: it was more than that—a tradition, almost a physical need. a free france was just as vital to them as eating or breathing. i had the opportunity of admiring the moral unity accomplished by the work of centuries of history. the prussians had done these beaucerons a personal injury in violating the distant eastern frontier. no peace for them before these brigands had been sent back to where they came from! the question of alsace-lorraine affected them in a lesser degree. it was a long way off—almost an accomplished fact! but nevertheless it must be won back, if only as a matter of personal pride, for "swank"!
their memory of the other war had not been at all obliterated, as i should have expected it to be. most of them had heard from their parents what vexations and devastations their province had had to endure[pg 352] in those bygone days. they had before their eyes the ravages of the present war. hang it all! if only the bosches did not advance too far! we mustn't be beaten again.
and then as corporal bouguet very neatly expressed it, considering how long we had been pestered by having to put in two or three years' military service, we should be dolts not to give them a good thrashing once and for all, for the sake of gaining a quiet life!
their spirit in fact was marvellous. it must not be forgotten that we were still retreating! there was never a sign of real discouragement. it was sometimes upsetting, certainly, to leave superb positions without firing a single shot. but if it must be! if, as was still rumoured, it was for tactical reasons to lead the enemy into a trap! the fantastic exploits attributed to the artillery still continued to fire our imagination. once or twice we met convoys of prisoners. halloa! things must be on the mend! and then, why attempt to give any explanation? things went well, because they went well. even in the first platoon there was never any serious trouble, the bad seed did not bear. there was nothing worse than a little slackness, rather less energy.
there was plenty of marching. yes, but nothing dismal about it most of the time, especially when we thought we were getting near to the enemy when there would be a volley of witticisms:
"halloa! trichet!" guillaumin exclaimed. "i suppose you think prunelle's sight too good, and that's why you're sticking your gun into his eye?"
they laughed; the jeweller was short-sighted and wore glasses.
[pg 353]
the men were generally allowed to sing. when i saw they were beginning to flag, i shouted:
"strike up, bouguet! let's have one of your songs."
"which shall it be, sergeant?"
the corporal who was the songster of the platoon turned to me gaily. we were on excellent terms now.
voices were raised demanding:
"the ace of diamonds!"
"the miller's wife!"
the corporal struck up.
"miller, miller, she betrays you!..."
they exploded, nudging each other, and nodding in icard's direction who was the first to appreciate the joke.
or else it was the crocodiles, doggerel brought into fashion by lamalou, and which they never tired of:
a crocodile—on going off to war
said "good-bye, kids"—but not for evermore.
his great tail—looking very elegant
he started off—to fight the elephant!...
then the refrain!
everyone joined in the chorus.
oh the cro-cro-cro-, the cro-cro-cro-, the cro-co-di-iles,
all along the nile! they have vanished, we'll say no more!
childish songs, with a good swing to them. fatigue was forgotten. mile followed mile in the heat and dust. a refrain of that kind swept right along the column. while we drew breath, snatches of couplets reached us from the distance.
[pg 354]
"like nothin' on earth, those caterwaulers!" judsi exclaimed.
oh, that judsi! what a type he was! the incarnation, the flower of the race. in each platoon of france's army, from end to end of the campaign, i bet there was a judsi. a street-urchin, from paris or elsewhere.... an apache yesterday, perhaps—it was quite possible—but ennobled to-day by circumstances!
he was an admirable source of good-humour. made to cheer up the others. he chatted without ceasing for hours and hours at a time, accumulating eccentricities of mimicry and expression. nothing pleased him so much as to see that we were listening. that was the time when we played up hardest. i swear that by the unexpectedness of his sallies and the inflections of his hoarse voice, he often attained a pitch of drollery which was quite priceless. his slightest absurdities gave rise to fits of hilarious gaiety. the men pressed round him, as if on parade. it even interfered with the marching order. what should he do but organise relays! every quarter of an hour, he said to his neighbours:
"'ook it lads! send some other pals along now, an' we'll see if i can't raise a smile out of 'em."
they gave up their places without any sour looks.
"ain't 'e a caution!"
"fit to make yer split, the blighter!"
he was never in better form than when we were in the tightest places, when all the others were down in the dumps. on the "beauclair" evening, when we had to retire, he was worth seeing as he went off shouldering his rifle, with a uhlan's helmet, picked up in some house, in his hand, and the air of a gentleman who had[pg 355] just put an end to the war in the most brilliant style, and was on his way home where his little wife was waiting to welcome him with open arms! or again on the next day.... a hail of shells, which was beginning, had just set fire to a little bit of a house. he asked the cook's permission to make the coffee, carried off the camp kettle, collected some brands from the beams, and boiled the water on them at the window. the shower of the "black marias" continued. it was a miracle that he was not killed. but his luck, our luck, held.
what endless queer characters there were! lamalou, bouguet, gaudéreaux. we've seen them all at work—one might go on naming them indefinitely. and bouillon!
he had come one morning to ask my advice as to how to send money orders.
i had taken it as a joke:
"send them, my dear fellow? this is more the sort of time to receive them!"
"it's for marie," he said, "who's stayed behind with the kid!"
"your kid?"
"i don't know about that!"
he explained that he had lived with a girl, a rag-gatherer like himself. they had struck up acquaintance when plying their hooks, and made love across the dust-bins—and they had come to an understanding. so far, so good. but then at the end of eight months—eight months exactly, that was the annoying part!—marie had gone to boucicaut for the birth of her child, a little duck, as pretty as could be! the point was not so much to find out who its father was, as to rear the little brat! it used to be quite a paying job—[pg 356]but then the great trafalgar had come, and blimey! ever since then there hadn't been none too much to be scratched up out o' them dust-bins—so he thought that as he had a bit o' cash he'd better send some to marie, if it weren't more'n ten francs.
i realised that he must be economising out of the little tips he got from me. i was much touched by his story, and promised to make inquiries.
the matter would depend on the baggage-master. he did not put in an appearance just then. bouillon asked me about the matter again. i mentioned it casually to henriot who sent me to the captain. he greeted me affably, and i laid the matter before him. he called me back. he had learnt, he said, of my brother's death, and he expressed his sympathy for me. he added that he had watched me at work. "i'm glad to see you've been making yourself useful."
as for the money order, he undertook to see that it got to its destination, solemnly took the girl's address, and handed me a receipt.
when he got it, bouillon turned it over and over, and asked me what it meant.
the little sum had been doubled by me and doubled again by the captain.
his tanned face contracted; and tears glistened in the corners of his big eyes. he stammered in his effort to thank me.
"oh! r-r-rooky!"
i gave him a smack on the shoulder, and told him—and how sincerely i meant it—that we owed him a hundred times more!
