Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

He mimes tightening his belt.

‘He’s a laugh, this Boche!’

We have no other word than Boche for a German. To our mind this isn’t a scornful term, it’s just handy, short and amusing.

Beaucierge and I profit from our mission by getting ourselves something from the kitchens. The kitchens are the platoons’ public forum; the citizen soldiers discuss public affairs there and get to hear news that arrives with the provisions. While a dirty, jovial cook grills up a bit of meat for us, we listen to what people are saying. Naturally the deserter is much discussed. The dominant opinion seems to be:

‘He’s not as fucking stupid as we are!’

The men nod their heads. But desertion remains the great unknown…

Relief troops are always sent to the front at night.

Our battalion is returning to the line after a fortnight’s rest in the village of Laveline down in the valley. The climb up takes several hours of stiff marching, because it’s a steep slope and the men carry full kits. The dark night, made even darker by the pine trees, obscures our path and our progress is erratic. We’re sweating despite the cold.

A piercing whistle rends the night like taffeta, the rush of a shell makes us bend like blades of corn, the sudden peril overhead stops our hearts. There’s a flash somewhere, like lightning. And then a clap of thunder, which reverberates down through the gorges to break on the valley floor. Then another, and another, explosion after explosion. Showers of fire light up the bare trunks of the pines. Furious, unstoppable blocks of metal, flying express trains, fall from the sky, surround us, drive us into panic. A storm of sound deafens us. We run up the slope, our legs breaking from the effort, our chests too narrow for bursting lungs that suck in air through the tight valve of our throats. Our hearts keep stopping, and we’re dizzy and the blood rushes into our veins and then out, leaving them empty. Our eyelids are shut but the glare of flames imprints itself on our retinas… We’re running for our lives.

Suddenly it stops. Men from different units, muddled together, sink to the ground to catch their breath. The night returns to protect us, the silence is comforting.

Then somewhere near me a risibly indignant voice is raised in complaint:

‘They should be ashamed of themselves, endangering the life of a man of forty, and a father of a family!’

‘Hey. Listen to this old codger who reckons he’s unsuitable corpse material!’ jeers a Parisian with a rough accent.

‘Shut your mouth you little whippersnapper!’

‘You’ve fornicated enough already, grandpa! Let someone else have a go…’

‘Watch what you’re saying, lad! You’re talking about our wives…’

‘Leave your wife be! She’s already had enough of your old mug and now she’ll console herself with some young blokes. It’s the old ones who have to croak first, everyone knows it!’

‘They should protect the life of a family man. Not married, you little cub? You’re useless!’

‘And you want me to tell you what you are? You’re an old pervert! You just want to stay nice and safe at home putting your wife up the spout while the lads are all here getting their heads smashed in. You’re a bloody sadist!’

‘Sadist!’ repeated the other, stunned. ‘Listen to this young hooligan!’

‘That’s what I said, a sadist! Luckily there’s some justice in the world and you’re a cuckold!’

‘You little swine!’ stammered the old man.

We could hear him get to his feet. But people held him back. The Parisian made his escape. He called back:

‘Don’t complain, old dear. It’s supposed to bring you luck!’

This exchange banished the memory of the alarm. We set off again. We learn that there were victims at the rear of the column.

Back at camp, well-built shelters are in short supply and all occupied by battalion command and officers. The reserve company are accommodated in two barraques Adrian ,[27] equipped with individual bunks. The men spend a good part of the day inside, for their stay here is seen as a rest period, and their only duties are cleaning or restocking munitions.

A short while ago we were together in our hut, the four runners and the cyclist. We were all lying on our mattresses, smoking, except for Beaucierge who was passing the time with jokes in bad taste and an attempt to provoke the cyclist into single combat. The latter got rid of him by threatening to cut off his personal food supply. Further off the poilus were drinking and playing cards, or sleeping.

A shot rang out a few metres away, followed by screams. A soldier was looking gormlessly at his smoking Browning. It’s a common occurrence with automatics. Those who have them keep them loaded and when they want to take them apart for cleaning, forget to remove the bullet in the chamber. A number of accidents have resulted.

We went over to the injured man, who was still howling and pointing to his leg. While people went to get help, we started removing his trousers. The clumsy owner of the Browning was roundly cursed.

The young doctor arrived, looked at the injured man’s thigh and laughed:

‘Will you stop screaming! Can’t you see that you’ve struck it lucky?’

The man immediately stopped making a noise and his face lit up. The doctor probed his leg:

‘That doesn’t hurt? Or that?’

‘No!’

‘People would give a fortune for a wound like that! And to get it when you were asleep! You’ve got yourself three months at the rear!’

The wounded man smiled. We all did. Once the wound had been dressed, we called over the owner of the automatic. His victim shook his hand, thanked him warmly, and left on a stretcher, congratulated by the whole camp.

Since then the chump has been glorying in his clumsiness. You can hear him say: ‘It was me that got Pigeonneau out!’ And even talking about: ‘The day when I saved Pigeonneau’s life…’

Winter has come and it looks like being a harsh one.

In the beginning, icy blasts swept down the sides of the mountains, followed by the first frosts. Then one morning we woke up in a strange, heavy silence, and the daylight coming into our huts had a special glitter. Snow had fallen in the night and covered everything. It hung on the pine branches in thick layers, like tracery on a cathedral window. From now on we live in a cold, Gothic forest, smoke rising from our little Eskimo huts.

I had been back at the front for more than six months when we received two important pieces of news, which would change my destiny. Our company was to be attached to another battalion, and our lieutenant was leaving us.

THE NEW ACTING COMPANY commandant is Captain Bovin, a man already well known throughout the regiment.

This captain had for some time held the role of adjutant to the colonel and in this capacity he was feared, especially by other officers and staff. The men at the front, on the other hand, feared no one, on the basis that: ‘they can’t move us any further forward!’ Those I had spoken to depicted Captain Bovin as a kind of eminence grise, distributing favours and blame as he liked; here, blame can often get you killed… Crossing him meant jeopardising your career, if not your life, and it was easy to do, either with outbursts of temperament or youthful behaviour, or, fatally, by displaying your independence. He was also condemned by many for abusing his power by giving himself several laudatory mentions in dispatches, notably at Verdun, where he had stayed safely at the rear with the quartermaster. As an administrator whose paperwork kept him out of danger, he was accused of using this same paperwork against those who were risking their lives.