Paths of Glory by Humphrey Cobb Page A

outside. They too were eating their breakfasts, talking between mouthfuls.
    â€œHey, Blackface! How was the patrol?”
    â€œGood. How was the dugout?”
    â€œDugout my———! I was carrying grenades all night.”
    â€œWhere’s that Boche helmet you promised me?”
    â€œYou can get it yourself, tomorrow.”
    â€œYes. Where?”
    â€œOver on the Pimple.”
    â€œThat official?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Latrine Gazette.”
    â€œWhat’d you do with Lejeune?”
    â€œKilled.”
    â€œWell, his troubles are over.”
    â€œHow’d it happen?”
    â€œBomb.”
    â€œAnd the lieutenant?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œA fine patrol, all right!”
    â€œYes, it was.”
    â€œI saw the lieutenant here at stand-to.”
    â€œDid you? When’d he come in?” Didier began to show interest.
    â€œHow should I know? He just showed up, that’s all, but he left before the bombardment started.”
    â€œThat’s him all right,” said Didier.
    â€œSay, what makes you think we’re going to attack, Didier?”
    â€œI read the signs.”
    â€œOr the Latrine Gazette!”
    â€œWell, you said you were carrying bombs up all night, didn’t you?”
    â€œWhere did Lejeune get it anyway? How . . . ?”
    â€œFor God’s sake, let me eat.”
    â€œYou’re a chatty bastard!”
    â€œOh, go sell your fish in some other street.”
    â€œLejeune wasn’t a bad sort. The trouble with him was his feet stank.”
    â€œSay, Didier, are you sure he was killed? He owed me three francs, you know.”
    â€œWell, you can collect it tomorrow, when you go where he’s gone.”
    â€œThanks. And I hope you’re there to see him pay me.”
    â€œI probably will be.”
    â€œJesus, don’t say that. That’s a sure way to get it.”
    â€œHe’ll get it all right. Look! His face is already in mourning! Ha, ha, ha!”
    â€œDon’t talk that way, it’s bad luck!”
    â€œLuck my———! If you stay here long enough you’ll get it.”
    â€œI won’t. They haven’t got my number over there.”
    â€œI say don’t talk that way. It’s bad luck. It’s tempting God . . .”
    â€œFat lot he has to do with it.”
    â€œHe’s with the Boche anyway.”
    â€œIf we attack, the Boche’ll never know what hit him.”
    Didier looked up and found, as he expected, that the remark had been made by one of the new class.
    â€œDon’t talk through your hat,” he said.
    â€œThe boy’s all right,” said one of the older men.
    â€œI say he’s all wrong,” said Didier.
    â€œA lot you know about it.”
    â€œMore than you, anyway. I saw the Boche wire. Also what he did to the Tirailleurs.”
    Didier got up and began collecting his things.
    â€œSay, Didier. About those three francs. Show me where Lejeune’s things are, will you . . .?”
    â€œNo,” said Didier, without trying either to conceal or to emphasize his contempt.
    Didier went down into the dugout again and began changing himself back from a scout to a soldier of the line. The place was crowded now, crowded with men who were already sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Didier took pains not to disturb them. As soon as he was fixed up he left to report to his company headquarters.
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    Roget was alone, sitting at Charpentier’s table, when Didier entered the company headquarters dugout. He was in the act of reading over his report of the patrol. This was giving him a good deal of pleasure for he found both his handwriting and prose smooth and admirable.
    He felt the presence of a man in front of him but continued for a while to absorb himself in his report. Didier waited, tolerantly. He felt he could afford to be tolerant under the circumstances, circumstances the existence of which gave him the