John Passos - One Man's Initiation, 1917

“I am sure that many people have, and will. You probably’ll do it yourself, Will. But go on.”

The sun burst from the huddled clouds for a moment, mottling the hills and the scarred valleys with light. The shadow of an aeroplane flying low passed across the field, and the snoring of its motors cut out all other sound.

“Well, our louie’s name’s Duval, but he spells it with a small ’d’ and a big ’V.’ He’s been wanting a Croix de Guerre for a hell of a time because lots of fellows in the section have been getting ’em. He tried giving dinners to the General Staff and everything, but that didn’t seem to work. So there was nothing to it but to get wounded. So he took to going to the front posts; but the trouble was that it was a hell of a quiet sector and no shells ever came within a mile of it. At last somebody made a mistake and a little Austrian eighty-eight came tumbling in and popped about fifty yards from his staff car. He showed the most marvellous presence of mind, ’cause he clapped his hand over his eye and sank back in the seat with a groan. The doctor asked what was the matter, but old Duval just kept his hand tight over his eye and said, ’Nothing, nothing; just a scratch,’ and went off to inspect the posts. Of course the posts didn’t need inspecting. And he rode round all day with a handkerchief over one eye and a look of heroism in the other. But never would he let the doctor even peep at it. Next morning he came out with a bandage round his head as big as a sheik’s turban. He went to see headquarters in that get-up and lunched with the staff-officers. Well, he got his Croix de Guerre all right-cited for assuring the evacuation of the wounded under fire and all the rest of it.”

“Some bird. He’ll probably get to be a general before the war’s over.”

Howe poured out the last of the champagne, and threw the bottle listlessly off into the grass, where it struck an empty shell-case and broke.

“But, Will, you can’t like this,” he said. “It’s all so like an ash-heap, a huge garbage-dump of men and equipment.”

“I suppose it is ...” said the ruddy-faced youth, discovering the grease on his nose and rubbing it off with the back of his hand. “Damn those dirty Fords. They get grease all over you! I suppose it is that life was so dull in America that anything seems better. I worked a year in an office before leaving home. Give me the garbage-dump.”

“Look,” said Martin, shading his eyes with his hand and staring straight up into the sky. “There are two planes fighting.”

They both screwed up their eyes to stare into the sky, where two bits of mica were circling. Below them, like wads of cotton-wool, some white and others black, were rows of the smoke-puffs of shrapnel from anti-aircraft guns.

The two boys watched the specks in silence. At last one began to grow larger, seemed to be falling in wide spirals. The other had vanished. The falling aeroplane started rising again into the middle sky, then stopped suddenly, burst into flames, and fluttered down behind the hills, leaving an irregular trail of smoke.

“More garbage,” said the ruddy-faced youth, as he rose to his feet.

“Shrapnel. What a funny place to shoot shrapnel!”

“They must have got the bead on that bunch of material the genie’s bringing in.”

There was an explosion and a vicious whine of shrapnel bullets among the trees. On the road a staff-car turned round hastily and speeded back.

Martin got up from where he was lying on the grass under a pine tree, looking at the sky, and put his helmet on; as he did so there was another sharp bang overhead and a little reddish-brown cloud that suddenly spread and drifted away among the quiet tree-tops. He took off his helmet and examined it quizzically.

“Tom, I’ve got a dent in the helmet.”

Tom Randolph made a grab for the little piece of jagged iron that had rebounded from the helmet and lay at his feet.

“God damn, it’s hot,” he cried, dropping it; “anyway, finding’s keepings.” He put his foot on the shrapnel splinter.

“That ought to be mine, I swear, Tom.”

“You’ve got the dent, Howe; what more do you want?”

“Damn hog.”

Martin sat on the top step of the dugout, diving down whenever he heard a shell-shriek loudening in the distance. Beside him was a tall man with the crossed cannon of the artillery in his helmet, and a shrunken brown face with crimson-veined cheeks and very long silky black moustaches.

“A dirty business,” he said. “It’s idiotic... Name of a dog!”

Grabbing each other’s arms, they tumbled down the steps together as a shell passed overhead to burst in a tree down the road.

“Now look at that.” The man held up his musette to Howe. “I’ve broken the bottle of Bordeaux I had in my musette. It’s idiotic.”

“Been on permission?”

“Don’t I look it?”

They sat at the top of the steps again; the man took out bits of wet glass dripping red wine from his little bag, swearing all the while.

“I was bringing it to the little captain. He’s a nice little old chap, the little captain, and he loves good wine.”

“Bordeaux?”

“Can’t you smell it? It’s Medoc, 1900, from my own vines... Look, taste it, there’s still a little.” He held up the neck of the bottle and Martin took a sip.

The artilleryman drank the rest of it, twisted his long moustaches and heaved a deep sigh.

“Go there, my poor good old wine.” He threw the remnants of the bottle into the underbrush. Shrapnel burst a little down the road. “Oh, this is a dirty business! I am a Gascon... I like to live.” He put a dirty brown hand on Martin’s arm.

“How old do you think I am?”

“Thirty-five.”

“I am twenty-four. Look at the picture.” From a tattered black note-book held together by an elastic band he pulled a snapshot of a jolly-looking young man with a fleshy face and his hands tucked into the top of a wide, tightly-wound sash. He looked at the picture, smiling and tugging at one of his long moustaches. “Then I was twenty. It’s the war.” He shrugged his shoulders and put the picture carefully back into his inside pocket. “Oh, it’s idiotic!”

“You must have had a tough time.”

“It’s just that people aren’t meant for this sort of thing,” said the artilleryman quietly. “You don’t get accustomed. The more you see the worse it is. Then you end by going crazy. Oh, it’s idiotic!”

“How did you find things at home?”

“Oh, at home! Oh, what do I care about that now? They get on without you... But we used to know how to live, we Gascons. We worked so hard on the vines and on the fruit-trees, and we kept a horse and carriage. I had the best-looking rig in the department. Sunday it was fun; we’d play bowls and I’d ride about with my wife. Oh, she was nice in those days! She was young and fat and laughed all the time. She was something a man could put his arms around, she was. We’d go out in my rig. It was click-clack of the whip in the air and off we were in the broad road... Sacred name of a pig, that one was close... And the Marquis of Montmarieul had a rig, too, but not so good as mine, and my horse would always pass his in the road. Oh, it was funny, and he’d look so sour to have common people like us pass him in the road... Boom, there’s another... And the Marquis now is nicely embusqué in the automobile service. He is stationed at Versailles... And look at me... But what do I care about all that now?”

“But after the war ...”

“After the war?” He spat savagely on the first step of the dugout. “They learn to get on without you.”

“But we’ll be free to do as we please.”

“We’ll never forget.”