Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

‘You did no more and no less than everyone else. Stop punishing yourself.’

‘I’m ashamed to think of it! I’ve writhed in humiliation at all the times I’ve sobbed in fear, at the tears I’ve shed, a weakling’s tears. Don’t you see, I’ve betrayed all the beliefs of my youth, Nietzsche, strength… ah, sweet god… Now I am good for emptying chamber pots and I will never be more than a clerk.’

It was a strange case of depression and I think his physical illness played a large part in it.

I saw him do something shocking. It was at the time when Diuré was suffering so badly with his thigh. One day, on the pretext of relieving his pain, Charlet had insisted he change his dressing. Diuré finally agreed. The procedure completed, I saw Charlet take the bowl behind the wash-hand basins, take out a soiled piece of gauze and carefully put it inside a tin box that he slipped into his pocket. Intrigued, I called him over a moment later and asked:

‘What’s this then, you doing bacteriology now?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What did you put in your box just then?’

He looked anxious.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Then, after a moment’s thought:

‘I can tell you and I know you won’t talk about it. You remember Richerand, who was in the School of Chemistry?’

‘A little chap, wasn’t he, rather unprepossessing?’

‘The same. I met up with him at the front. We were good friends and promised to help each other whatever happened. The promise helped sustain us a little. He didn’t let me down. He stuck by me when I was wounded. It was he who bound up my wound and transported me to the first-aid post, through an artillery barrage, with the help of another soldier whom he had persuaded to come with him. There they were able to stop the bleeding, and so Richerand probably saved my life. I am all the more grateful to him for his devotion because I know he’s very sensitive: a heap of nerves who has suffered a great deal in this war… He has just written to me (he’s at Vieil Armand[24]): “All we do is attack. Save me!” Which I know is his way of saying, I’ve reached my limit, I’ve given up hope.’

‘And so?’

‘So… How do you think I can help him from here? I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday and it’s urgent…’

He leaned over and whispered:

‘I’m going to send it to him…’

‘What “it”?’

‘Phlegmonic pus. If he injects himself with it, he has a chance of being evacuated.’

We remained silent for a long time. I said:

‘Do you realise what you are doing?’

He let his arms fall and murmured:

‘I have no choice!’

I risked the supreme argument:

‘One man leaves the front, another takes his place. By saving Richerand you are condemning someone else.’

He hadn’t considered this. He looked at me reflectively.

‘Too bad! Richerand is my friend. Do you want me to sit back and let him die? In a moment of depression he may do something foolish. I have no choice.’

He left me abruptly, one hand in his pocket, clutching the box.

The idea of denouncing him never crossed my mind, any more than it would with our comrades. Between us there is strict solidarity: we all have to do our jobs in the trenches but we consider that everyone is free to try and escape the front, and how this is done is none of our business; we congratulate those who succeed. Could I even judge Charlet? I thought of all those soldiers I had seen with the eyes of condemned men, suddenly overcome by a fatal presentiment. A man in the grip of such an obsession can no longer look after himself, fight to stay alive; he goes to his death like a sleepwalker… Could I judge Charlet? Where we had come from, you don’t judge. You submit. To submit is to risk your life; not to submit is also to risk it. Charlet’s gesture? Simply this: here is where our utter misery has taken us, this is what men are forced to resort to when their strength fails. We cannot blame: we know too well that weakness lies in wait for all of us.

It is hard to guess the age of Mademoiselle Nancey. Probably between thirty-five and forty. Sour face, thin lips, cold eyes and sharp voice; she lacks everything a man might seek in a woman, offers no physical feature that might stick in your memory. She is irritable, quick-witted, born to give orders, at no time could such a woman have possessed that hesitant grace, those little hints of consent that in most women can attract and keep a man. You can tell that she has never felt her heart heavy with longing and the sudden, irrational urge to offer it timidly. She is one of those women in whom love’s safety valve doesn’t work and so her energy must turn to other activity for release: cerebral tasks, the tasks of men. The hospital provides an excellent outlet for this energy. The indefatigable Mademoiselle Nancey does great service there, giving strong leadership to her little troop of nurses, never panicking at the sight of wounds, never moved by cries of pain.

In the mornings she leads the doctor on his rounds — a decent old civilian doctor, who signs the necessary papers, checks our condition, and asks his colleagues to assist in the most serious cases. He looks distractedly at the patients and asks:

‘How’s this one doing, mademoiselle?’

‘He’s coming along, doctor. It takes time.’

Without asking to verify this, he moves on to the next one:

‘Number 12, doctor, that’s the arm. We’re carrying on with the irrigation. But number 23 is worrying us and is in pain. You should see him.’

And sometimes she says:

‘Number 16 has healed up. We can discharge him.’

She prepares the paperwork, the doctor checks it, and the man has no choice but to go. The bonus period, those precious extra weeks that a patient who has recovered may still enjoy here, in complete safety, depends entirely on her. And bad luck for anyone who has crossed her! For having done just that, Boutroux (a thigh) left overnight, even though the scab on his extensive wound was only recent, still soft and swollen with pus. The idiot had come back drunk after an evening’s outing, and caused a scandal. His vulgarity had been noted: he was a marked man. And so the very next morning, despite his incomplete recovery, out he went. His misbehaviour had cut his period of freedom by at least three weeks: time enough to get killed twenty times over.

The threat of this terrible punishment, premature departure, keeps the lid on everyone who might be tempted to give in to their instincts. We know from the press that the offensives in Artois and Champagne have failed utterly, that the bloody battles at Hartmannswillerkopf, which fill the news reports, will not be decisive. The war cannot enter a new phase before the spring. So it is important for us to gain time. Mademoiselle Nancey can choose to give or deny us this time, time which could save our lives. It adds to her prestige.

The basic rule is thus ‘keep a low profile’. Among those closest to being fit for service, quite a few try to get in her good books by using whatever simple means they have. They offer themselves as drudges, sparing the nurses the most onerous tasks. Others go to Mass, while bragging that this assiduous churchgoing has nothing to do with their religious sentiments. (Others, it should be said, go to Mass out of conviction and no one mocks them for it.) I have the impression they are making a mistake. I don’t believe for one minute that Mademoiselle Nancey will fall for their false piety and do them any favours.

As I’ve said, Mademoiselle Nancey and I are on very good terms. Better than that, we are flirting, a respectful kind of flirtation. She favours me with special attention, seeks my advice on various plans, asks my opinion on the news.