John Passos: One Man's Initiation, 1917

“Coming, Tom?”

“Too damn sleepy,” came Randolph’s voice from under a blanket.

“I’ve got cigarettes, Tom. I’ll smoke ’em all up if you don’t come.”

“All right, I’ll come.”

“Less noise, name of God!” cried a man, sitting up on his stretcher.

After the hospital, smelling of chloride and blankets and reeking clothes, the night air was unbelievably sweet. Like a gilt fringe on a dark shawl, a little band of brightness had appeared in the east.

“Some dawn, Howe, ain’t it?”

As they were going off, their motor chugging regularly, an orderly said:

“It’s a special case. Go for orders to the commandant.”

Colours formed gradually out of chaotic grey as the day brightened. At the dressing-station an attendant ran up to the car.

“Oh, you’re for the special case? Have you anything to tie a man with?”

“No, why?”

“It’s nothing. He just tried to stab the sergeant-major.”

The attendant raised a fist and tapped on his head as if knocking on a door. “It’s nothing. He’s quieter now.”

“What caused it?”

“Who knows? There is so much... He says he must kill everyone...”

“Are you ready?”

A lieutenant of the medical corps came to the door and looked out. He smiled reassuringly at Martin Howe. “He’s not violent any more. And we’ll send two guardians.”

A sergeant came out with a little packet which he handed to Martin.

“That’s his. Will you give it to them at the hospital at Fourreaux? And here’s his knife. They can give it back to him when he gets better. He has an idea he ought to kill everyone he sees... Funny idea.”

The sun had risen and shone gold across the broad rolling lands, so that the hedges and the poplar-rows cast long blue shadows over the fields. The man, with a guardian on either side of him who cast nervous glances to the right and to the left, came placidly, eyes straight in front of him, out of the dark interior of the dressing-station. He was a small man with moustaches and small, good-natured lips puffed into an o-shape. At the car he turned and saluted.

“Good-bye, my lieutenant. Thank you for your kindness,” he said.

“Good-bye, old chap,” said the lieutenant.

The little man stood up in the car, looking about him anxiously.

“I’ve lost my knife. Where’s my knife?”

The guards got in behind him with a nervous, sheepish air. They answered reassuringly, “The driver’s got it. The American’s got it.”

“Good.”

The orderly jumped on the seat with the two Americans to show the way. He whispered in Martin’s ear:

“He’s crazy. He says that to stop the war you must kill everybody, kill everybody.”

In an open valley that sloped between hills covered with beech-woods, stood the tall abbey, a Gothic nave and apse with beautifully traced windows, with the ruin of a very ancient chapel on one side, and crossing the back, a well-proportioned Renaissance building that had been a dormitory. The first time that Martin saw the abbey, it towered in ghostly perfection above a low veil of mist that made the valley seem a lake in the shining moonlight. The lines were perfectly quiet, and when he stopped the motor of his ambulance, he could hear the wind rustling among the beech-woods. Except for the dirty smell of huddled soldiers that came now and then in drifts along with the cool wood-scents, there might have been no war at all. In the soft moonlight the great traceried windows and the buttresses and the high-pitched roof seemed as gorgeously untroubled by decay as if the carvings on the cusps and arches had just come from under the careful chisels of the Gothic workmen.

“And you say we’ve progressed,” he whispered to Tom Randolph.

“God, it is fine.”

They wandered up and down the road a long time, silently, looking at the tall apse of the abbey, breathing the cool night air, moist with mist, in which now and then was the huddled, troubling smell of soldiers. At last the moon, huge and swollen with gold, set behind the wooded hills, and they went back to the car, where they rolled up in their blankets and went to sleep.

Behind the square lantern that rose over the crossing, there was a trap door in the broken tile roof, from which you could climb to the observation post in the lantern. Here, half on the roof and half on the platform behind the trap-door, Martin would spend the long summer afternoons when there was no call for the ambulance, looking at the Gothic windows of the lantern and the blue sky beyond, where huge soft clouds passed slowly over, darkening the green of the woods and of the weed-grown fields of the valley with their moving shadows.

There was almost no activity on that part of the front. A couple of times a day a few snapping discharges would come from the seventy-fives of the battery behind the Abbey, and the woods would resound like a shaken harp as the shells passed over to explode on the crest of the hill that blocked the end of the valley where the Boches were.

Martin would sit and dream of the quiet lives the monks must have passed in their beautiful abbey so far away in the Forest of the Argonne, digging and planting in the rich lands of the valley, making flowers bloom in the garden, of which traces remained in the huge beds of sunflowers and orange marigolds that bloomed along the walls of the dormitory. In a room in the top of the house he had found a few torn remnants of books; there must have been a library in the old days, rows and rows of musty-smelling volumes in rich brown calf worn by use to a velvet softness, and in cream-coloured parchment where the finger-marks of generations showed brown; huge psalters with notes and chants illuminated in green and ultramarine and gold; manuscripts out of the Middle Ages with strange script and pictures in pure vivid colours; lives of saints, thoughts polished by years of quiet meditation of old divines; old romances of chivalry; tales of blood and death and love where the crude agony of life was seen through a dawn-like mist of gentle beauty.

“God! if there were somewhere nowadays where you could flee from all this stupidity, from all this cant of governments, and this hideous reiteration of hatred, this strangling hatred ...” he would say to himself, and see himself working in the fields, copying parchments in quaint letterings, drowsing his feverish desires to calm in the deep-throated passionate chanting of the endless offices of the Church.

One afternoon towards evening as he lay on the tiled roof with his shirt open so that the sun warmed his throat and chest, half asleep in the beauty of the building and of the woods and the clouds that drifted overhead, he heard a strain from the organ in the church: a few deep notes in broken rhythm that filled him with wonder, as if he had suddenly been transported back to the quiet days of the monks. The rhythm changed in an instant, and through the squeakiness of shattered pipes came a swirl of fake-oriental ragtime that resounded like mocking laughter in the old vaults and arches. He went down into the church and found Tom Randolph playing on the little organ, pumping desperately with his feet.

“Hello! Impiety I call it; putting your lustful tunes into that pious old organ.”

“I bet the ole monks had a merry time, lecherous ole devils,” said Tom, playing away.

“If there were monasteries nowadays,” said Martin, “I think I’d go into one.”

“But there are. I’ll end up in one, most like, if they don’t put me in jail first. I reckon every living soul would be a candidate for either one if it’d get them out of this God-damned war.”

There was a shriek overhead that reverberated strangely in the vaults of the church and made the swallows nesting there fly in and out through the glassless windows. Tom Randolph stopped on a wild chord.