Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

Above Saint-Amarin we are holding the ridges of the Sudel and the Hartmann overlooking the Rhine valley. But I haven’t yet explored our positions. When we took over the sector, our battalion was kept in reserve. And for the last couple of weeks I have been attached to the intelligence service in the colonel’s office, where Nègre — taking advantage of someone going on leave — had got me a post. He even imagines getting me promoted to corporal. I tell him this is a ridiculous idea after five years of army life. But he is serious:

‘If you don’t have a job to go to, you could take up a career as an NCO. Your war service counts double. You only need another five years to have the right to retire with a pension. Think about it! They’re going to need good people to rebuild a career army. With a bit of luck you could soon find yourself with an adjutant’s baton!’

‘You’re very kind! But what about you, old chap, why aren’t you signing up again?’

‘I’ve got better things to do. It’s time I pretended to be an honest man so I can end my days in prosperity.’

‘And how will you set about doing that?’

‘I am going to become the most jingoistic patriot you can imagine, the scourge of the Boche, the whole bloody shebang!’

‘That’s rather out of fashion these days.’

‘Foolish boy! How else are you going to recoup your losses and get a nice return on your outlay?’

‘Oh, come on, Nègre! We’re going to tell them a bit of the truth once we get home!’

‘You’re still young, my boy! Who’ll want to hear the truth? The people who’ve profited from the war, who’ve been lining their pockets from it all the way through? What do you want anyone to do with your truth? You’re a victim, you’re a victim, who’s going to care? Where have you seen anyone showing pity for idiots? Get it into your head once and for all: in a few years’ time, that’s what we’ll look like: idiots. It’s time to change sides!’

‘Perhaps you’re right as regards people in their fifties. But the new generation will listen to us.’

‘And to think I had hopes for you!… Listen, you soppy idealist, the new generation will say: “They’re either trying to shock us or just drivelling.” You’re about as perceptive as mothers who really think their words of warning will keep their lovesick young daughters out of trouble.’

‘So you’ll support a new war?’

‘I’ll support whatever they like!’

‘And you’ll participate?’

‘Next time round, rest assured your old pal Nègre will be crippled by rheumatism, unfit for service, will have found himself a nice, safe position. I’ll have got myself a little trade, maybe some kind of factory, whatever, and I will be shouting: “Go on lads, on to victory, fight to the finish!”’

‘And you think that’s decent?’

‘You really have wasted these last five years! Unfortunate young man, you make me tremble with fear for you! How will you survive life?’

‘Don’t you believe that a man can have opinions and stick to them?’

‘Men’s opinions are based on the size of their bank balance. To have or not to have , as Shakespeare would say.’

‘Before the war, sure, I agree. But things will have changed. Such exceptional events must surely result in something worthy, something noble.’

‘There’s no nobility except in the face of death. Only a man who has been tested to the very depths of his soul, who has faced being blown apart by the next shell can talk of nobility.’

‘You’re being unfair to some of our leaders…’

‘Oh, that’s great! Be gentle with them, say thank you, slave! You know as well as I do that the leaders are just pursuing their careers, playing poker. Their reputation is at stake. So what? If they win, their name liveth for evermore. If they lose, they retire on a fat pension and spend the rest of their lives justifying themselves in their memoirs. It’s all too easy to be sincere when you make sure you’re well out of harm’s way.’

‘But even so there have been some great figures, like Guynemer and Driant.’[42]

‘Obviously there have been men of conviction and others who’ve done an honest job. Guynemer, sure! But remember that he performed way up in the heavens, before a bloody great public: the whole earth. That makes you a man to remember! How do you compare him with the poor idiot who’s come out of the depths of Pomerania singing Deutschland über alles for the greater glory of old Kaiser William, and who has understood what’s going on far too late? And what’s he got in common with the poilu who’s looking forward to getting his face ignominiously smashed in the mud with no one to see it and no one to shout about it? He’s risking everything: he’s risking his skin. What does he get out of it? Drill and parades. Once he’s back on the streets, he’s going to have to find a job. The boss will find him smelly and uncouth… Let me give you the balance sheet of this war: fifty great men to go down in the annals of history; millions of dead who won’t be mentioned any more; and one thousand millionaires who lay down the law. A soldier’s life is worth about fifty francs in the wallet of some fat industrialist in London, Paris, Berlin, New York, Vienna or anywhere else. Are you getting the picture?’

‘So what’s left?’

‘Nothing! That’s the whole point, absolutely nothing! Can you believe in anything after what you’ve seen? Human stupidity is incurable. All the more reason to laugh at it. Why should we care? We don’t give a damn! So let’s get back in the game, accept the old lies that keep men going. Laugh at it, for god’s sake, just laugh!’

‘But if we tell…’

‘Tell what?… You want to starve to death later on?’

‘But can’t we tell the truth about the war without taking on all the institutions of power?’

‘My boy, all the institutions lead to war. It’s the crown of the whole social order, we’ve learnt that. And since it’s the powerful who decide to go to war, and the minorities who do the fighting…’

‘We’ll tell them…’

‘Oh, you’re too much… Enough. I’m off to see if the Prussians are ready to go home yet.’

I share a bright and comfortable little shelter with Nègre, with a good stove. We are in a camp tucked away among the pines on a mountain slope. While my friend is off on his rounds, I’m sweeping up and chopping wood. In the evenings we prepare reports on the day on a drawing table and compare our maps of the sector with aerial photos sent by the division.

We spend our free time in animated debates, which usually leave me confused given Nègre’s passion for argument and his tendency to push logic to the limit. But our debates make no difference to our friendship. That’s the main thing.

We can feel that the end of the war is near.

Our telegraphists have been intercepting radio messages. We now know that an armistice is under discussion and that the Germans have asked for peace terms from GCHQ. It is nearly over.

At around six o’clock one morning, an artillery spotter wakes us up.

‘That’s it. The armistice takes effect at eleven o’clock.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Armistice at eleven o’clock. Official.’

Nègre sits up and looks at his watch.

‘Another five hours of war!’

He puts on his helmet and takes his cane.

‘Where are you off to?’ I ask.

‘I’m going down to Saint-Amarin. I’m deserting. I’m going to get myself under cover and I advise you to spend the next five hours at the bottom of the deepest trench you can find and not go out. Return to the womb of our mother earth and wait for delivery. We are as yet but embryos on the threshold of the greatest birth ever seen. In five hours we will be born.’