William Faulkner - A Fable

‘Polchek’s not eating,’ he said suddenly. ‘He’s not even drinking. What’s the matter, Polchek? Afraid yours wont produce anything but nettles and you wont make it to the latrine in time and we’ll have to sleep in them?’ The man addressed was on the corporal’s immediate right. He had a knowing, almost handsome metropolitan or possibly banlieu face, bold but not at all arrogant, masked, composed, and only when you caught his eyes unawares did you realise how alert.

‘A day of rest at Chaulnesmont wasn’t the right pill for that belly of his maybe,’ the first said.

‘The sergeant-major’s coup de grâce tomorrow morning will be though,’ the fourth said.

‘Maybe it’ll cure all of you of having to run a fever over what I dont eat and drink,’ Polchek said.

‘What’s the matter?’ the corporal said to him. ‘You went on sick parade Sunday night before we came out. Haven’t you got over it yet?’

‘So what?’ Polchek said. ‘Is it an issue? I had a bad belly Sunday night. I’ve still got it but it’s still mine. I was just sitting here with it, not worrying half as much about what I dont put in it, as some innocent bystanders do because I dont.’

‘Do you want to make an issue of it?’ the fourth said.

‘Bang on the door,’ the corporal said to the Breton. ‘Tell the sergeant we want to report a sick man.’

‘Who’s making an issue of it now?’ Polchek said to the corporal before the Breton could move. He picked up his filled glass. ‘Come on,’ he said to the corporal. ‘No heel taps. If my belly dont like wine tonight, as Jean says that sergeant-major’s pistol will pump it all out tomorrow morning.’ He said to all of them: ‘Come on. To peace. Haven’t we finally got what we’ve all been working for for four years now? Come on, up with them!’ he said, louder and sharply, with something momentary and almost fierce in his voice, face, look. At once the same excitement, restrained fierceness, seemed to pass through all of them; they raised their glasses too except one—the fourth one of the mountain faces, not quite as tall as the others and with something momentary and anguished in it almost like despair, who suddenly half raised his glass and stopped it and did not drink when the others did and banged the bizarre and incongruous vessels down and reached for the bottles again as, preceded by the sound of the heavy boots, the door clashed open again and the sergeant and his private entered; he now held an unfolded paper in his hand.

‘Polchek,’ he said. For a second Polchek didn’t stir. Then the man who had not drunk gave a convulsive start and although he arrested it at once, when Polchek stood quietly up they both for a moment were in motion, so that the sergeant, about to address Polchek again, paused and looked from one to the other. ‘Well?’ the sergeant said. ‘Which? Dont you even know who you are?’ Nobody answered. As one the others except Polchek were looking at the man who had not drunk. ‘You,’ the sergeant said to the corporal. ‘Dont you know your own men?’

‘This is Polchek,’ the corporal said, indicating Polchek.

‘Then what’s wrong with him?’ the sergeant said. He said to the other man: ‘What’s your name?’

‘I——’ the man said; again he glanced rapidly about, at nothing, no one, anguished and despairing.

‘His name is——’ the corporal said. ‘I’ve got his papers——’ He reached inside his tunic and produced a soiled dog-eared paper, obviously a regimental posting order. ‘Pierre Bouc.’ He rattled off a number.

‘There’s no Bouc on this list,’ the sergeant said. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘You tell me,’ the corporal said. ‘He got mixed in with us somehow Monday morning. None of us know any Pierre Bouc either.’

‘Why didn’t he say something before this?’

‘Who would have listened?’ the corporal said.

‘Is that right?’ the sergeant said to the man. ‘You dont belong in this squad?’ The man didn’t answer.

‘Tell him,’ the corporal said.

‘No,’ the man whispered. Then he said loudly: ‘No!’ He blundered up. ‘I dont know them!’ he said, blundering, stumbling, half-falling backward over the bench almost as though in flight until the sergeant checked him.

‘The major will have to settle this,’ the sergeant said. ‘Give me that order.’ The corporal passed it to him. ‘Out with you,’ the sergeant said. ‘Both of you.’ Now those inside the room could see beyond the door another file of armed men, apparently a new one, waiting. The two prisoners passed on through the door and into it, the sergeant then the orderly following; the iron door clashed behind them, against that room and all it contained, signified, portended; beyond it Polchek didn’t even lower his voice:

‘They promised me brandy. Where is it?’

‘Shut up,’ the sergeant’s voice said. ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you, no bloody fear.’

‘I’d better,’ Polchek said. ‘If I dont, I might know what to do about it.’

‘I’ve told him once,’ the sergeant’s voice said. ‘If he dont shut up this time, shut him up.’

‘With pleasure, sergeant,’ another voice said. ‘Can do.’

‘Take them on,’ the sergeant’s voice said. Though before the iron clash of the door had ceased the corporal was already speaking, not loud: just prompt, still mild, not peremptory: just firm:

‘Eat.’ The same man essayed to speak again but again the corporal forestalled him. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘Next time he will take it out.’ But they were spared that. The door opened almost immediately, but this time it was only the sergeant, alone, the eleven heads which remained turning as one to look at him where he faced the corporal down the length of the littered table.

‘You,’ the sergeant said.

‘Me?’ the corporal said.

‘Yes,’ the sergeant said. Still the corporal didn’t move. He said again:

‘You mean me?’

‘Yes,’ the sergeant said. ‘Come on.’ The corporal rose then. He gave one rapid look about at the ten faces now turning from the sergeant to look at him—faces dirty, unshaven, strained, which had slept too little in too long, harassed, but absolute, one in whatever it was—not trust exactly, not dependence: perhaps just one-ness, singleness.

‘You’re in charge, Paul,’ he said to the Breton.

‘Right,’ the Breton said. ‘Till you get back.’ But this time the corridor was empty; it was the sergeant himself who closed the door behind them and turned the heavy key and pocketed it. There was no one in sight at all where he—the corporal—had expected to find armed men bristling until they in the white glittering room in the Hôtel de Ville sent for them for the last time. Then the sergeant turned from the door and now he—the corporal—realised that they were even hurrying a little: not at all furtive nor even surreptitious: just expedite, walking rapidly back up the corridor which he had already traversed three times—once yesterday morning when the guards had brought them from the lorry to the cell, and twice last night when the guards had taken them to the Hôtel de Ville and brought them back, their—his and the sergeant’s—heavy boots not ringing because (so recent the factory—when it had been a factory—was) these were not stone but brick, but making instead a dull and heavy sound seeming only the louder because there were only four now instead of twenty-six plus the guards. So to him it was as though there was no other way out of it save that one exit, no destination to go to in it except on, so that he had already begun to pass the small arch with its locked iron gate when the sergeant checked and turned him, nor any other life in or near it so that he didn’t even recognise the silhouette of the helmet and the rifle until the man was in the act of unlocking the gate from the outside and swinging it back for them to pass through.