claptrap!’ agree the men, clustering round so as not to miss anything.
First there was the rather confused official statement on the progress of the war. They shake their heads.
‘Meaning, we’re stuck in this shit for the winter!’
Then I scan the columns signed by great names: academicians, retired generals, even men of the Church, and pluck out these rare and precious flowers of prose:
‘That war has an educational value can never be doubted by anyone with the slightest powers of observation . . .’
‘It was time war came to France to revive the true meaning of the Ideal and the Divine.’
‘One of the surprises of this war, and one of the wonders, is the brilliant role played by poetry.’
Someone interrupted:
‘How much do these blokes get paid to write this fucking rubbish?’
Continuing, I indulged my audience:
‘O dead, would that you were alive!’
‘Merriment reigns in the trenches!’
‘Now I can follow you into the attack; I can feel the joy that overwhelms you at the moment of supreme effort, the ecstasy, the transmigration of the soul, the unfettered flight of the spirit.’
They reflect for a moment. And then Bougnou, self-effacing, obedient little Bougnou, who never says a word, passes judgement on these famous writers in his little-girl voice:
‘Oh, what scum!’
In the afternoon the corporal takes me aside: ‘I want you to join a fatigue party this evening. We’re going to go and collect some wicker hurdles.’[ 17 ]
‘Oh no, not that. I am already a bomber. I don’t want to go on fatigues as well.’
‘Shut up. This way we’ll miss the attack . . .’
His assurance calms me down. I pass quite a pleasant evening.
It has already been dark for some time when we set off. There are five of us. I’ve left my rifle and my pack in a little corner of the trench where I can get them later and just kept a haversack and the rest of my kit. We walk fast along the dark trenches that have been battered by shells, in a hurry to get to the rear where we can shelter.
Unfortunately the wet weather in the last few days and the damp biscuits I’ve eaten have brought back my upset stomach. I have to make frequent stops and force the others to wait, complaining, afraid that a shot will catch us at any moment. It isn’t easy for me to find a suitable spot in the dark. At one point a man suddenly jumps up and tries to chase me off.
‘Get out of here! These are the commandant’s latrines.’
I tell this dutiful servant in no uncertain terms that no commandant in the world could make my guts stand to attention. His nose and the noises from my bowels convince him that I am telling the truth. He makes himself scarce.
We find the hurdles in a depot and assemble our load. Then we sit in a covered shelter, huddled close together to keep warm, and light up our cigarettes.
Heavy shells start landing not far off and make a terrible racket in this deserted spot. We squeeze down into the depth of the shadows, telling ourselves that our shelter is solid. Above all, we are thinking of what’s about to happen to the battalion up ahead. Better to be where we are.
And then the shelling stops and silence returns. We stop talking. We listen to the confused sounds from the front, off in the distance. We doze, we let the time pass. We feel like deserters.
‘I suppose we’d better go back,’ says the corporal.
Off we go again. It is quite a struggle moving forward with the wicker hurdles that are wider than the trenches so that we have to carry them at an angle. In normal times we would never have wanted such a task. But now we feel privileged.
We reach our positions.
The whole battalion is in the trench, bayonets fixed, in total silence.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re about to attack.’
So the attack hasn’t happened!
‘Tell the captain that the hurdles have arrived,’ says the corporal.
The message passes from man to man. I think of my rifle, and of going to get it . . .
First there was the rather confused official statement on the progress of the war. They shake their heads.
‘Meaning, we’re stuck in this shit for the winter!’
Then I scan the columns signed by great names: academicians, retired generals, even men of the Church, and pluck out these rare and precious flowers of prose:
‘That war has an educational value can never be doubted by anyone with the slightest powers of observation . . .’
‘It was time war came to France to revive the true meaning of the Ideal and the Divine.’
‘One of the surprises of this war, and one of the wonders, is the brilliant role played by poetry.’
Someone interrupted:
‘How much do these blokes get paid to write this fucking rubbish?’
Continuing, I indulged my audience:
‘O dead, would that you were alive!’
‘Merriment reigns in the trenches!’
‘Now I can follow you into the attack; I can feel the joy that overwhelms you at the moment of supreme effort, the ecstasy, the transmigration of the soul, the unfettered flight of the spirit.’
They reflect for a moment. And then Bougnou, self-effacing, obedient little Bougnou, who never says a word, passes judgement on these famous writers in his little-girl voice:
‘Oh, what scum!’
In the afternoon the corporal takes me aside: ‘I want you to join a fatigue party this evening. We’re going to go and collect some wicker hurdles.’[ 17 ]
‘Oh no, not that. I am already a bomber. I don’t want to go on fatigues as well.’
‘Shut up. This way we’ll miss the attack . . .’
His assurance calms me down. I pass quite a pleasant evening.
It has already been dark for some time when we set off. There are five of us. I’ve left my rifle and my pack in a little corner of the trench where I can get them later and just kept a haversack and the rest of my kit. We walk fast along the dark trenches that have been battered by shells, in a hurry to get to the rear where we can shelter.
Unfortunately the wet weather in the last few days and the damp biscuits I’ve eaten have brought back my upset stomach. I have to make frequent stops and force the others to wait, complaining, afraid that a shot will catch us at any moment. It isn’t easy for me to find a suitable spot in the dark. At one point a man suddenly jumps up and tries to chase me off.
‘Get out of here! These are the commandant’s latrines.’
I tell this dutiful servant in no uncertain terms that no commandant in the world could make my guts stand to attention. His nose and the noises from my bowels convince him that I am telling the truth. He makes himself scarce.
We find the hurdles in a depot and assemble our load. Then we sit in a covered shelter, huddled close together to keep warm, and light up our cigarettes.
Heavy shells start landing not far off and make a terrible racket in this deserted spot. We squeeze down into the depth of the shadows, telling ourselves that our shelter is solid. Above all, we are thinking of what’s about to happen to the battalion up ahead. Better to be where we are.
And then the shelling stops and silence returns. We stop talking. We listen to the confused sounds from the front, off in the distance. We doze, we let the time pass. We feel like deserters.
‘I suppose we’d better go back,’ says the corporal.
Off we go again. It is quite a struggle moving forward with the wicker hurdles that are wider than the trenches so that we have to carry them at an angle. In normal times we would never have wanted such a task. But now we feel privileged.
We reach our positions.
The whole battalion is in the trench, bayonets fixed, in total silence.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re about to attack.’
So the attack hasn’t happened!
‘Tell the captain that the hurdles have arrived,’ says the corporal.
The message passes from man to man. I think of my rifle, and of going to get it . . .
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