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

Bowed by the ceiling, seated, kneeling or groveling, they push each other in the desire not to lose their turn or to steal some other’s, and they bark like dogs, “My turn!”—“Me!”—“Me!” In this corner of modified conflict the tepid stinks of acetylene and bleeding men are horrible to swallow.

I turn away from it and seek elsewhere to find a place where I may sit down. I go forward a little, groping, still stooping and curled up, and my hands in front.

By grace of the flame which a smoker holds over his pipe I see a bench before me, full of beings. My eyes are growing accustomed to the gloom that stagnates in the cave, and I can make out pretty well this row of people whose bandages and swathings dimly whiten their beads and limbs. Crippled, gashed, deformed, motionless or restless, fast fixed in this kind of barge, they present an incongruous collection of suffering and misery.

One of them cries out suddenly, half rises, and then sits down again. His neighbor, whose greatcoat is torn and his head bare, looks at him and says to him—“What’s the use of worrying?”

And he repeats the sentence several times at random, gazing straight in front of him, his hands on his knees. A young man in the middle of the seat is talking to himself. He says that he is an aviator. There are burns down one side of his body and on his face. In his fever he is still burning; it seems to him that he is still gnawed by the pointed flames that leaped from his engine. He is muttering, “Gott mit uns!” and then, “God is with us!”

A zouave with his arm in a sling, who sits awry and seems to carry his shoulder like a torturing burden, speaks to him: “You’re the aviator that fell, aren’t you?”

“I’ve seen—things,” replies the flying-man laboriously.

“I too, I’ve seen some!” the soldier interrupts; “some people couldn’t stick it, to see what I’ve seen.”

“Come and sit here,” says one of the men on the seat to me, making room as he speaks. “Are you wounded?”

“No; I brought a wounded man here, and I’m going back.”

“You’re worse than wounded then; come and sit down.”

“I was mayor in my place,” explains one of the sufferers, “but when I go back no one will know me again, it’s so long now that I’ve been in misery.”

“Four hours now have I been stuck on this bench,” groans a sort of mendicant, whose shaking hand holds his helmet on his knees like an alms-bowl, whose head is lowered and his back rounded.

“We’re waiting to be cleared, you know,” I am informed by a big man who pants and sweats—all the bulk of him seems to be boiling. His mustache hangs as if it had come half unstuck through the moisture of his face. He turns two big and lightless eyes on me, and his wound is not visible.

“That’s so,” says another; “all the wounded of the Brigade come and pile themselves up here one after another, without counting them from other places. Yes, look at it now; this hole here, it’s the midden for the whole Brigade.”

“I’m gangrened, I’m smashed, I’m all in bits inside,” droned one who sat with his head in his hands and spoke through his fingers; “yet up to last week I was young and I was clean. They’ve changed me. Now, I’ve got nothing but a dirty old decomposed body to drag along.”

“Yesterday,” says another, “I was twenty-six years old. And now how old am I?” He tries to get up, so as to show us his shaking and faded face, worn out in a night, to show us the emaciation, the depression of cheeks and eye-sockets, and the dying flicker of light in his greasy eye.

“It hurts!” humbly says some one invisible.

“What’s the use of worrying?” repeats the other mechanically.

There was a silence, and then the aviator cried, “The padres were trying on both sides to hide their voices.”

“What’s that mean?” said the astonished zouave.

“Are you taking leave of ‘em, old chap?” asked a chasseur wounded in the hand and with one arm bound to his body, as his eyes left the mummified limb for a moment to glance at the flying-man.

The latter’s looks were distraught; he was trying to interpret a mysterious picture which everywhere he saw before his eyes—“Up there, from the sky, you don’t see much, you know. Among the squares of the fields and the little heaps of the villages the roads run like white cotton. You can make out, too, some hollow threads that look as if they’d been traced with a pin-point and scratched through fine sand. These nets that festoon the plain with regularly wavy marks, they’re the trenches. Last Sunday morning I was flying over the firing-line. Between our first lines and their first lines, between their extreme edges, between the fringes of the two huge armies that are up against each other, looking at each other and not seeing, and waiting—it’s not very far; sometimes forty yards, sometimes sixty. To me it looked about a stride, at the great height where I was planing. And behold I could make out two crowds, one among the Boches, and one of ours, in these parallel lines that seemed to touch each other; each was a solid, lively lump, and all around ‘em were dots like grains of black sand scattered on gray sand, and these hardly budged—it didn’t look like an alarm! So I went down several turns to investigate.

“Then I understood. It was Sunday, and there were two religious services being held under my eyes—the altar, the padre, and all the crowd of chaps. The more I went down the more I could see that the two things were alike—so exactly alike that it looked silly. One of the services—whichever you like—was a reflection of the other, and I wondered if I was seeing double. I went down lower; they didn’t fire at me. Why? I don’t know at all. Then I could hear. I heard one murmur. one only. I could only gather a single prayer that came up to me en bloc, the sound of a single chant that passed by me on its way to heaven. I went to and fro in space to listen to this faint mixture of hymns that blended together just the same although they were one against the other; and the more they tried to get on top of each other, the more they were blended together up in the heights of the sky where I was floating.

“I got some shrapnel just at the moment when, very low down, I made out the two voices from the earth that made up the one—‘Gott mit uns!’ and ‘God is with us!’—and I flew away.”

The young man shook his bandage-covered head; he seemed deranged by the recollection. “I said to myself at the moment, ‘I must be mad!’”

“It’s the truth of things that’s mad,” said the zouave.

With his eyes shining in delirium, the narrator sought to express and convey the deep disturbing idea that was besieging him, that he was struggling against.

“Now think of it!” he said. “Fancy those two identical crowds yelling things that are identical and yet opposite, these identical enemy cries! What must the good God think about it all? I know well enough that He knows everything, but even if He knows everything, He won’t know what to make of it.”

“Rot!” cried the zouave.

“He doesn’t care a damn for us, don’t fret yourself.”

“Anyway, what is there funny about it? That doesn’t prevent people from quarreling with each other—and don’t they! And rifle-shots speak jolly well the same language, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said the aviator, “but there’s only one God. It isn’t the departure of prayers that I don’t understand; it’s their arrival.”

The conversation dropped.

“There’s a crowd of wounded laid out in there,” the man with the dull eyes said to me, “and I’m wondering all ways how they got ‘em down here. It must have been a terrible job, tumbling them in here.”

Two Colonials, hard and lean, supporting each other like tipsy men, butted into us and recoiled, looking on the ground for some place to fall on.

“Old chap, in that trench I’m telling you of,” the hoarse voice of one was relating, “we were three days without rations, three full days without anything—anything. Willy-nilly, we had to drink our own water, and no help for it.”

The other explained that once on a time he had cholera. “Ah, that’s a dirty business—fever, vomiting, colics; old man, I was ill with that lot!”

“And then, too,” suddenly growled the flying-man, still fierce to pursue the answer to the gigantic conundrum, “what is this God thinking of to let everybody believe like that that He’s with them? Why does He let us all—all of us—shout out side by side, like idiots and brutes, ‘God is with us!’—‘No, not at all, you’re wrong; God is with us’?”

A groan arose from a stretcher, and for a moment fluttered lonely in the silence as if it were an answer.

*

Then, “I don’t believe in God,” said a pain-racked voice; “I know He doesn’t exist—because of the suffering there is. They can tell us all the clap-trap they like, and trim up all the words they can rind and all they can make up, but to say that all this innocent suffering could come from a perfect God, it’s damned skull-stuffing.”

“For my part,” another of the men on the seat goes on, “I don’t believe in God because of the cold. I’ve seen men become corpses bit by bit, just simply with cold. If there was a God of goodness, there wouldn’t be any cold. You can’t get away from that.”

“Before you can believe in God, you’ve got to do away with everything there is. So we’ve got a long way to go!”

Several mutilated men, without seeing each other, combine in head-shakes of dissent “You’re right,” says another, “you’re right.”

These men in ruins, vanquished in victory, isolated and scattered, have the beginnings of a revelation. There come moments in the tragedy of these events when men are not only sincere, but truth-telling, moments when you see that they and the truth are face to face.

“As for me,” said a new speaker, “if I don’t believe in God, it’s—” A fit of coughing terribly continued his sentence.

When the fit passed and his cheeks were purple and wet with tears, some one asked him, “Where are you wounded?”

“I’m not wounded; I’m ill.”

“Oh, I see!” they said, in a tone which meant “You’re not interesting.”

He understood, and pleaded the cause of his illness:

“I’m done in, I spit blood. I’ve no strength left, and it doesn’t come back, you know, when it goes away like that.”

“Ah, ah!” murmured the comrades—wavering, but secretly convinced all the same of the inferiority of civilian ailments to wounds.

In resignation he lowered his head and repeated to himself very quietly, “I can’t walk any more; where would you have me go?”

*

A commotion is arising for some unknown reason in. the horizontal gulf which lengthens as it contracts from stretcher to stretcher as far as the eye can see, as far as the pallid peep of daylight, in this confused corridor where the poor winking flames of candles redden and seem feverish, and winged shadows cast themselves. The odds