Suddenly he felt the wall of a house in front of him. He put out his hand. His hand jerked back from the rough wet feel of the tar paper, as if it had touched something dead. He groped along the wall, stepping very cautiously. He felt as he had felt reconnoitering in the Bringy Wood. Phrases came to his mind as they had then. Without thinking what they meant, the words
Make the world safe for Democracy
formed themselves in his head. They were very comforting. They occupied his thoughts. He said them to himself again and again. Meanwhile his free hand was fumbling very carefully with the fastening that held the wooden shutter over a window. The shutter opened a very little, creaking loudly, louder than the patter of rain on the roof of the shack. A stream of water from the roof was pouring into his face.
Suddenly a beam of light transformed everything, cutting the darkness in two. The rain glittered like a bead curtain. Chrisfield was looking into a little room where a lamp was burning. At a table covered with printed blanks of different size sat a corporal; behind him was a bunk and a pile of equipment. The corporal was reading a magazine. Chrisfield looked at him a long time; his fingers were tight about the smooth stick. There was no one else in the room.
A sort of panic seized Chrisfield; he strode away noisily from the window and pushed open the door of the shack.
“Where’s Sergeant Anderson?” he asked in a breathless voice of the first man he saw.
“Corp’s there if it’s anything important,” said the man. “Anderson’s gone to an O.T.C. Left day before yesterday.”
Chrisfield was out in the rain again. It was beating straight in his face, so that his eyes were full of water. He was trembling. He had suddenly become terrified. The smooth stick he held seemed to burn him. He was straining his ears for an explosion. Walking straight before him down the road, he went faster and faster as if trying to escape from it. He stumbled on a pile of stones. Automatically he pulled the string out of the grenade and threw it far from him.
There was a minute’s pause.
Red flame spurted in the middle of the wheatfield. He felt the sharp crash in his eardrums.
He walked fast through the rain. Behind him, at the door of the shack, he could hear excited voices. He walked recklessly on, the rain blinding him. When he finally stepped into the light he was so dazzled he could not see who was in the wine shop.
“Well, I’ll be damned, Chris,” said Andrews’s voice. Chrisfield blinked the rain out of his lashes. Andrews sat writing with a pile of papers before him and a bottle of champagne. It seemed to Chrisfield to soothe his nerves to hear Andy’s voice. He wished he would go on talking a long time without a pause.
“If you aren’t the crowning idiot of the ages,” Andrews went on in a low voice. He took Chrisfield by the arm and led him into the little back room, where was a high bed with a brown coverlet and a big kitchen table on which were the remnants of a meal.
“What’s the matter? Your arm’s trembling like the devil. But why. … O pardon, Crimpette. C’est un ami. … You know Crimpette, don’t you?” He pointed to a youngish woman who had just appeared from behind the bed. She had a flabby rosy face and violet circles under her eyes, dark as if they’d been made by blows, and untidy hair. A dirty grey muslin dress with half the hooks off held in badly her large breasts and flabby figure. Chrisfield looked at her greedily, feeling his furious irritation flame into one desire.
“What’s the matter with you, Chris? You’re crazy to break out of quarters this way?”
“Say,Andy, git out o’ here. Ah ain’t your sort anyway. … Git out o’ here.”
“You’re a wild man. I’ll grant you that. … But I’d just as soon be your sort as anyone else’s. … Have a drink.”
“Not now.”
Andrews sat down with his bottle and his papers, pushing away the broken plates full of stale food to make a place on the greasy table. He took a gulp out of the bottle, that made him cough, then put the end of his pencil in his mouth and stared gravely at the paper.
“No, I’m your sort, Chris,” he said over his shoulder, “only they’ve tamed me. O God, how tame I am.”
Chrisfield did not listen to what he was saying. He stood in front of the woman, staring in her face. She looked at him in a stupid frightened way. He felt in his pockets for some money. As he had just been paid he had a fifty-franc note. He spread it out carefully before her. Her eyes glistened. The pupils seemed to grow smaller as they fastened on the bit of daintily colored paper. He crumpled it up suddenly in his fist and shoved it down between her breasts.
Some time later Chrisfield sat down in front of Andrews. He still had his wet slicker on.
“Ah guess you think Ah’m a swine,” he said in his normal voice. “Ah guess you’re about right.”
“No, I don’t,” said Andrews. Something made him put his hand on Chrisfield’s hand that lay on the table. It had a feeling of cool health.
“Say, why were you trembling so when you came in here? You seem all right now.”
“Oh, Ah dunno’,” said Chrisfield in a soft resonant voice.
They were silent for a long while. They could hear the woman’s footsteps going and coming behind them.
“Let’s go home,” said Chrisfield.
“All right. … Bonsoir, Crimpette.”
Outside the rain had stopped. A stormy wind had torn the clouds to rags. Here and there clusters of stars showed through.
They splashed merrily through the puddles. But here and there reflected a patch of stars when the wind was not ruffling them.
“Christ, Ah wish Ah was like you, Andy,” said Chrisfield.
“You don’t want to be like me, Chris. I’m no sort of a person at all. I’m tame. O you don’t know how damn tame I am.”
“Learnin’ sure do help a feller to git along in the world.”
“Yes, but what’s the use of getting along if you haven’t any world to get along in? Chris, I belong to a crowd that just fakes learning. I guess the best thing that can happen to us is to get killed in this butchery. We’re a tame generation. … It’s you that it matters to kill.”
“Ah ain’t no good for anythin’. … Ah doan give a damn. … Lawsee, Ah feel sleepy.”
As they slipped in the door of their quarters, the sergeant looked at Chrisfield searchingly. Andrews spoke up at once.
“There’s some rumors going on at the latrine, Sarge. The fellows from the Thirty-second say we’re going to march into hell’s half-acre about Thursday.”
“A lot they know about it.”
“That’s the latest edition of the latrine news.”
“The hell it is! Well, d’you want to know something, Andrews. … It’ll be before Thursday, or I’m a Dutchman.” Sergeant Higgins put on a great air of mystery.
Chrisfield went to his bunk, undressed quietly and climbed into his blankets. He stretched his arms languidly a couple of times, and while Andrews was still talking to the sergeant, fell asleep.
The moon lay among clouds on the horizon, like a big red pumpkin among its leaves.
Chrisfield squinted at it through the boughs of the apple trees laden with apples that gave a winey fragrance to the crisp air. He was sitting on the ground, his legs stretched limply before him, leaning against the rough trunk of an apple tree. Opposite him, leaning against another tree, was the square form, surmounted by a large long-jawed face, of Judkins. Between them lay two empty cognac bottles. All about them was the rustling orchard, with its crooked twigs that made a crackling sound rubbing together in the gusts of the autumn wind, that came heavy with a smell of damp woods and of rotting fruits and of all the ferment of the over-ripe fields. Chrisfield felt it stirring the moist hair on his forehead and through the buzzing haze of the cognac heard the plunk, plunk, plunk of apples dropping that followed each gust, and the twanging of night insects, and, far in the distance, the endless rumble of guns, like tomtoms beaten for a dance.
“Ye heard what the Colonel said, didn’t ye?” said Judkins in a voice hoarse from too much drink.
Chrisfield belched and nodded his head vaguely. He remembered Andrews’s white fury after the men had been dismissed,—how he had sat down on the end of a log by the field kitchen, staring at the patch of earth he beat into mud with the toe of his boot.
“Then,” went on Judkins, trying to imitate the Colonel’s solemn efficient voice, “‘On the subject of prisoners’”—he hiccoughed and made a limp gesture with his hand—“‘On the subject of prisoners, well, I’ll leave that to you, but juss remember … juss remember what the Huns did to Belgium, an’ I might add that we have barely enough emergency rations as it is, and the more prisoners you have the less you fellers’ll git to eat.’”
“That’s what he said, Judkie; that’s what he said.”
“‘An the more prisoners ye have, the less youse’ll git to eat,’” chanted Judkins, making a triumphal flourish with his hand.
Chrisfield groped for the cognac bottle; it was empty; he waved it in the air a minute and then threw it into the tree opposite him. A shower of little apples fell about Judkins’s head. He got unsteadily to his feet.
“I tell you, fellers,” he said, “war ain’t no picnic.”
Chrisfield stood up and grabbed at an apple. His teeth crunched into it.
“Sweet,” he said.
“Sweet, nauthin’,” mumbled Judkins, “war ain’t no picnic. … I tell you, buddy, if you take any prisoners”—he hiccoughed—“after what the Colonel said, I’ll lick the spots out of you, by God I will. … Rip up their guts that’s all, like they was dummies. Rip up their guts.” His voice suddenly changed to one of childish dismay. “Gee, Chris, I’m going to be sick,” he whispered.
“Look out,” said Chrisfield, pushing him away. Judkins leaned against a tree and vomited.
The full moon had risen above the clouds and filled the apple orchard with chilly golden light that cast a fantastic shadow pattern of interlaced twigs and branches upon the bare ground littered with apples. The sound of the guns had grown nearer. There were loud eager rumbles as of bowls being rolled very hard on a bowling alley, combined with a continuous roar like sheets of iron being shaken.
“Ah bet it’s hell out there,” said Chrisfield.
“I feel better,” said Judkins. “Let’s go get some more cognac.”
“Ah’m hungry,” said Chrisfield. “Let’s go an’ get that ole woman to cook us some aigs.”
“Too damn late,” growled Judkins.
“How the hell late is it?”
“Dunno, I sold my watch.”
They were walking at random through the orchard. They came to a field full of big pumpkins that gleamed in the moonlight and cast shadows black as holes. In the distance they could see wooded hills.
Chrisfield picked up a medium-sized pumpkin and threw it as hard as he could into the air. It split into three when it landed with a thud on the ground, and the moist yellow seeds spilled out.
“Some strong man, you are,” said Judkins, tossing up a bigger one.
“Say, there’s a farmhouse, maybe we could get some aigs from the hen-roost.”
“Hell of a lot of hens. …”
At that moment the crowing of a rooster came across the silent fields. They ran towards the dark farm buildings.
“Look out, there may be officers quartered there.”
They walked cautiously round the square, silent group of buildings. There were no lights. The big wooden door of the court pushed open easily, without creaking. On the roof of the barn the pigeon-cot was etched dark against the disc of the moon. A warm smell of stables blew in their faces as the two men tiptoed into the manure-littered farmyard. Under one of the sheds they found a table on which a great many pears were set to ripen. Chrisfield put his teeth into one. The rich sweet juice ran down his chin. He ate the pear quickly and greedily, and then bit into another.
“Fill yer pockets with ’em,” whispered Judkins.
“They might ketch us.”
“Ketch us, hell. We’ll be goin’ into the offensive in a day or two.”
“Ah sure would like to git some aigs.”
Chrisfield pushed open the door of one of the barns. A smell of creamy milk and cheeses filled his nostrils.
“Come here,” he whispered. “Want some cheese?”
A lot of cheeses ranged on a board shone silver in the moonlight that came in through the open door.
“Hell, no, ain’t fit te eat,” said Judkins, pushing his heavy fist into one of the new soft cheeses.
“Doan do that.”
“Well, ain’t we saved ’em from the Huns?”
“But, hell.”
“War ain’t no picnic, that’s all,” said Judkins.
In the next door they found chickens roosting in a small room with straw on the floor. The chickens ruffled their feathers and made a muffled squeaking as they slept.
Suddenly there was a loud squawking and all the chickens were cackling with terror.
“Beat it,” muttered Judkins, running for the gate of the farmyard.
There were shrill cries of women in the house. A voice shrieking, “C’est les Boches, C’est les Boches,” rose above the cackling of chickens and the clamor of guinea-hens. As they ran, they heard the rasping cries of a woman in hysterics, rending the rustling autumn night.
“God damn,” said Judkins breathless, “they ain’t got no right, those frogs ain’t, to carry on like that.”
They ducked into the orchard again. Above the squawking of the chicken Judkins still held, swinging it by its legs, Chrisfield could hear the woman’s voice shrieking. Judkins dexterously wrung the chicken’s neck. Crushing the apples underfoot they strode fast through the orchard. The voice faded into the distance until it could not be heard above the sound of the guns.
“Gee, Ah’m kind o’ cut up ’bout that lady,” said Chrisfield.
“Well, ain’t we saved her from the Huns?”
“Andy don’t think so.”
“Well, if you want to know what I think about that guy Andy. … I don’t think much of him. I think he’s yaller, that’s all,” said Judkins.
“No, he ain’t.”
“I heard the lootenant say so. He’s a goddam yeller dawg.”
Chrisfield swore sullenly.
“Well, you juss wait ’n see. I tell you, buddy, war ain’t no picnic.”
“What the hell are we goin’ to do with that chicken?” said Judkins.
“You remember what happened to Eddie White?”
“Hell, we’d better leave it here.”
Judkins swung the chicken by its neck round his head and threw it as hard as he could into the bushes.
They were walking along the road between chestnut trees that led to their village. It was dark except for irregular patches of bright moonlight in the centre that lay white as milk among the indentated shadows of the leaves. All about them rose a cool scent of woods, of ripe fruits and of decaying leaves, of the ferment of the autumn countryside.
The lieutenant sat at a table in the sun, in the village street outside the company office. In front of him sparkled piles of money and daintily tinted banknotes. Beside him stood Sergeant Higgins with an air of solemnity and the second sergeant and the corporal. The men stood in line and as each came before the table he saluted with deference, received his money and walked away with a self-conscious air. A few villagers looked on from the small windows with grey frames of their rambling whitewashed houses. In the ruddy sunshine the line of men cast an irregular blue-violet shadow, like a gigantic centipede, on the yellow gravel road.
From the table by the window of the café of “Nos Braves Poilus” where Small and Judkins and Chrisfield had established themselves with their pay crisp in their pockets, they could see the little front garden of the house across the road, where, behind a hedge of orange marigolds, Andrews sat on the doorstep talking to an old woman hunched on a low chair in the sun just inside the door, who leant her small white head over towards his yellow one.
“There ye are,” said Judkins in a solemn tone. “He don’t even go after his pay. That guy thinks he’s the whole show, he does.”
Chrisfield flushed, but said nothing.
“He don’t do nothing all day long but talk to that ole lady,” said Small with a grin. “Guess she reminds him of his mother, or somethin’.”
“He always does go round with the frogs all he can. Looks to me like he’d rather have a drink with a frog than with an American.”
“Reckon he wants to learn their language,” said Small.
“He won’t never come to much in this army, that’s what I’m telling yer,” said Judkins.
The little houses across the way had flushed red with the sunset. Andrews got to his feet slowly and languidly and held out his hand to the old woman. She stood up, a small tottering figure in a black silk shawl. He leaned over towards her and she kissed both his cheeks vigorously several times. He walked down the road towards the billets, with his fatigue cap in his hand, looking at the ground.
“He’s got a flower behind his ear, like a cigarette,” said Judkins, with a disgusted snort.
“Well, I guess we’d better go,” said Small. “We got to be in quarters at six.”
They were silent a moment. In the distance the guns kept up a continual tomtom sound.
“Guess we’ll be in that soon,” said Small.
Chrisfield felt a chill go down his spine. He moistened his lips with his tongue.
“Guess it’s hell out there,” said Judkins. “War ain’t no picnic.”
“Ah doan give a hoot in hell,” said Chrisfield.
The men were lined up in the village street with their packs on, waiting for the order to move. Thin wreaths of white mist still lingered in the trees and over the little garden plots. The sun had not yet risen, but ranks of clouds in the pale blue sky overhead were brilliant with crimson and gold. The men stood in an irregular line, bent over a little by the weight of their equipment, moving back and forth, stamping their feet and beating their arms together, their noses and ears red from the chill of the morning. The haze of their breath rose above their heads.
Down the misty road a drab-colored limousine appeared, running slowly. It stopped in front of the line of men. The lieutenant came hurriedly out of the house opposite, drawing on a pair of gloves. The men standing in line looked curiously at the limousine. They could see that two of the tires were flat and that the glass was broken. There were scratches on the drab paint and in the door three long jagged holes that obliterated the number. A little murmur went down the line of men. The door opened with difficulty, and a major in a light buff-colored coat stumbled out. One arm, wrapped in bloody bandages, was held in a sling made of a handkerchief. His face was white and drawn into a stiff mask with pain. The lieutenant saluted.
“For God’s sake where’s a repair station?” he asked in a loud shaky voice.
“There’s none in this village, Major.”
“Where the hell is there one?”
“I don’t know,” said the lieutenant in a humble tone.
“Why the hell don’t you know? This organization’s rotten, no good. … Major Stanley’s just been killed. What the hell’s the name of this village?”
“Thiocourt.”
“Where the hell’s that?”
The chauffeur had leaned out. He had no cap and his hair was full of dust.
“You see, Lootenant, we wants to get to Châlons——”
“Yes, that’s it. Châlons sur … Châlons-sur-Marne,” said the Major.
“The billeting officer has a map,” said the lieutenant, “last house to the left.”
“O let’s go there quick,” said the major. He fumbled with the fastening of the door.
The lieutenant opened it for him.
As he opened the door, the men nearest had a glimpse of the interior of the car. On the far side was a long object huddled in blankets, propped up on the seat.
Before he got in the major leaned over and pulled a woollen rug out, holding it away from him with his one good arm. The car moved off slowly, and all down the village street the men, lined up waiting for orders, stared curiously at the three jagged holes in the door.
The lieutenant looked at the rug that lay in the middle of the road. He touched it with his foot. It was soaked with blood that in places had dried into clots.