Under Fire by Henri Barbusse (best books to read for students .txt) 📖

repeated as he passed on, no doubt to tell again the story of his souvenirs somewhere else.

“Look, look, corporal, those chaps over there—are they soft in the head?” On the bombarded position we saw dots of human beings emerge hurriedly and run towards the explosions.

“They’re gunners,” said Bertrand; “as soon as a shell’s burst they sprint and rummage for the fuse is the hole, for the position of the fuse gives the direction of its battery, you see, by the way it’s dug itself in; and as for the distance, you’ve only got to read it—it’s shown on the range-figures cut on the time-fuse which is set just before firing.”

“No matter—they’re off their onions to go out under such shelling.”

“Gunners, my boy,” says a man of another company who was strolling in the trench, “are either quite good or quite bad. Either they’re trumps or they’re trash. I tell you—”

“That’s true of all privates, what you’re saying.”

“Possibly; but I’m not talking to you about all privates; I’m talking to you about gunners, and I tell you too that—”

“Hey, my lads! Better find a hole to dump yourselves in, before you get one on the snitch!”

The strolling stranger carried his story away, and Cocon, who was in a perverse mood, declared: “We can be doing our hair in the dug-out, seeing it’s rather boring outside.”

“Look, they’re sending torpedoes over there!” said Paradis, pointing. Torpedoes go straight up, or very nearly so, like larks, fluttering and rustling; then they stop, hesitate, and come straight down again, heralding their fall in its last seconds by a “baby-cry” that we know well. From here, the inhabitants of the ridge seem like invisible players, lined up for a game with a ball.

“In the Argonne,” says Lamuse, “my brother says in a letter that they get turtle-doves, as he calls them. They’re big heavy things, fired off very close. They come in cooing, really they do, he says, and when they break wind they don’t half make a shindy, he says.”

“There’s nothing worse than the mortar-toad, that seems to chase after you and jump over the top of you, and it bursts in the very trench, just scraping over the bank.”

“Tiens, tiens, did you hear it?” A whistling was approaching us when suddenly it ceased. The contrivance has not burst. “It’s a shell that cried off,” Paradis asserts. And we strain our ears for the satisfaction of hearing—or of not hearing—others.

Lamuse says: “All the fields and the roads and the villages about here, they’re covered with dud shells of all sizes—ours as well, to say truth. The ground must be full of ‘em, that you can’t see. I wonder how they’ll go on, later, when the time comes to say, ‘That’s enough of it, let’s start work again.’”

And all the time, in a monotony of madness, the avalanche of fire and iron goes on; shrapnel with its whistling explosion and its overcharged heart of furious metal and the great percussion shells, whose thunder is that of the railway engine which crashes suddenly into a wall, the thunder of loaded rails or steel beams, toppling down a declivity. The air is now glutted and viewless, it is crossed and recrossed by heavy blasts, and the murder of the earth continues all around, deeply and more deeply, to the limit of completion.

There are even other guns which now join in—they are ours. Their report is like that of the 75’s, but louder, and it has a prolonged and resounding echo, like thunder reverberating among mountains.

“They’re the long 120’s. They’re on the edge of the wood half a mile away. Fine guns, old man, like gray-hounds. They’re slender and fine-nosed, those guns—you want to call them ‘Madame.’ They’re not like the 220’s—they’re all snout, like coal-scuttles, and spit their shells out from the bottom upwards. The 120’s get there just the same, but among the teams of artillery they look like kids in bassinettes.”

Conversation languishes; here and there are yawns. The dimensions and weight of this outbreak of the guns fatigue the mind. Our voices flounder in it and are drowned.

“I’ve never seen anything like this for a bombardment,” shouts Barque.

“We always say that,” replies Paradis.

“Just so,” bawls Volpatte. “There’s been talk of an attack lately; I should say this is the beginning of something.”

The others say simply, “Ah!”

Volpatte displays an intention of snatching a wink of sleep. He settles himself on the ground with his back against one wall of the trench and his feet buttressed against the other wall.

We converse together on divers subjects. Biquet tells the story of a rat he has seen: “He was cheeky and comical, you know. I’d taken off my trotter-cases, and that rat, he chewed all the edge of the uppers into embroidery. Of course, I’d greased ‘em.”

Volpatte, who is now definitely out of action, moves and says, “I can’t get to sleep for your gabbling.”

“You can’t make me believe, old fraud,” says Marthereau, “that you can raise a single snore with a shindy like this all round you.”

Volpatte replies with one.

*

Fall in! March!

We are changing our spot. Where are they taking us to? We have no idea. The most we know is that we are in reserve, and that they may take us round to strengthen certain points in succession, or to clear the communication trenches, in which the regulation of passing troops is as complicated a job, if blocks and collisions are to be avoided, as it is of the trains in a busy station. It is impossible to make out the meaning of the immense maneuver in which the rolling of our regiment is only that of a little wheel, nor what is going on in all the huge area of the sector. But, lost in the network of deeps where we go and come without end, weary, harassed and stiff-jointed by prolonged halts, stupefied by noise and delay, poisoned by smoke, we make out that our artillery is becoming more and more active; the offensive seems to have changed places.

*

Halt! A fire of intense and incredible fury was threshing the parapets of the trench where we were halted at the moment: “Fritz is going it strong; he’s afraid of an attack, he’s going dotty. Ah, isn’t he letting fly!”

A heavy hail was pouring over us, hacking terribly at atmosphere and sky, scraping and skimming all the plain.

I looked through a loophole and saw a swift and strange vision. In front of us, a dozen yards away at most, there were motionless forms outstretched side by side—a row of mown-down soldiers—and the countless projectiles that hurtled from all sides were riddling this rank of the dead!

The bullets that flayed the soil in straight streaks amid raised slender stems of cloud were perforating and ripping the bodies so rigidly close to the ground, breaking the stiffened limbs, plunging into the wan and vacant faces. bursting and bespattering the liquefied eyes; and even did that file of corpses stir and budge out of line under the avalanche.

We could hear the blunt sound of the dizzy copper points as they pierced cloth and flesh, the sound of a furious stroke with a knife, the harsh blow of a stick upon clothing. Above us rushed jets of shrill whistling. with the declining and far more serious hum of ricochets. And we bent our heads under the enormous flight of noises and voices.

“Trench must be cleared—Gee up!” We leave this most infamous corner of the battlefield where even the dead are torn, wounded, and slain anew.

We turn towards the right and towards the rear. The communication trench rises, and at the top of the gully we pass in front of a telephone station and a group of artillery officers and gunners. Here there is a further halt. We mark time, and hear the artillery observer shout his commands, which the telephonist buried beside him picks up and repeats: “First gun, same sight; two-tenths to left; three a minute!”

Some of us have risked our heads over the edge of the bank and have glimpsed for the space of the lightning’s flash all the field of battle round which our company has uncertainly wandered since the morning. I saw a limitless gray plain, across whose width the wind seemed to be driving faint and thin waves of dust, pierced in places by a more pointed billow of smoke.

Where the sun and the clouds trail patches of black and of white, the immense space sparkles dully from point to point where our batteries are firing, and I saw it one moment entirely spangled with short-lived flashes. Another minute, part of the field grew dark under a steamy and whitish film, a sort of hurricane of snow.

Afar, on the evil, endless, and half-ruined fields, caverned like cemeteries, we see the slender skeleton of a church, like a bit of torn paper; and from one margin of the picture to the other, dim rows of vertical marks, close together and underlined, like the straight strokes of a written page—these are the roads and their trees. Delicate meandering lines streak the plain backward and forward and rule it in squares, and these windings are stippled with men.

We can make out some fragments of lines made up of these human points who have emerged from the hollowed streaks and are moving on the plain in the horrible face of the flying firmament. It is difficult to believe that each of those tiny spots is a living thing with fragile and quivering flesh, infinitely unarmed in space, full of deep thoughts, full of far memories and crowded pictures. One is fascinated by this scattered dust of men as small as the stars in the sky.

Poor unknowns, poor fellow-men, it is your turn to give battle. Another time it will be ours. Perhaps to-morrow it will be ours to feel the heavens burst over our heads or the earth open under our feet, to be assailed by the prodigious plague of projectiles, to be swept away by the blasts of a tornado a hundred thousand times stronger than the tornado.

They urge us into the rearward shelters. For our eyes the field of death vanishes. To our ears the thunder is deadened on the great anvil of the clouds. The sound of universal destruction is still. The squad surrounds itself with the familiar noises of life, and sinks into the fondling littleness of the dug-outs.

[note 1] Military slang for machine-gun—Tr.

20

Under Fire

RUDELY awakened in the dark, I open my eyes: “What? What’s up?”

“Your turn on guard—it’s two o’clock in the morning,” says Corporal Bertrand at the opening into the hole where I am prostrate on the floor. I hear him without seeing him.

“I’m coming,” I growl, and shake myself, and yawn in the little sepulchral shelter. I stretch my arms, and my hands touch the soft and cold clay. Then I cleave the heavy odor that fills the dug-out and crawl out in the middle of the dense gloom between the collapsed bodies of the sleepers. After several stumbles and entanglements among accouterments, knapsacks and limbs stretched out in all directions, I put my hand on my rifle and find myself upright in the open air, half awake and dubiously balanced, assailed by the black and bitter breeze.

Shivering, I follow the corporal; he plunges in between the dark embankments whose lower ends press strangely and closely on our march. He stops; the place is here. I make out a heavy mass half-way up the ghostly wail