On the subject of morphine the young doctor was resolute: things could not carry on like this, people become dependent on such drugs, which can lead to terrible problems, you have to understand we simply cannot carry on, we have to stop. From the day after the operation, he began to reduce the dosage.
As he resurfaced and gradually became more conscious, Édouard found himself in terrible pain, and Albert began to worry about the transfer to Paris, of which there was still no sign.
When questioned, the young doctor threw up his hands helplessly; his voice dropped to a whisper.
“Thirty-six hours he’s been here . . . I don’t understand, he should have been transferred already. Obviously, the ambulances are overstretched. But it’s really not good for him to be here . . .”
Worry was etched into his face. From that moment, a panicked Albert focused himself on a single goal: having his comrade transferred as soon as possible.
He did everything in his power. He set about questioning the nurses, who, though the hospital was quieter now, still scuttled around the corridors like mice in an attic. This tactic was useless: this was a military hospital, which meant it was almost impossible to find out anything, including the names of those who were in charge.
Every hour, he would come back to Édouard’s bedside and sit with him until he fell asleep. The rest of the time he spent lurking around the offices and the corridors that led to the main buildings. He even went to the general headquarters.
Coming back from one such mission, he ran into two soldiers cooling their heels in the corridor. From their immaculate uniforms, their freshly shaved faces, and the halo of confidence that surrounded them, it was clear they were from HQ. The first handed him a sealed envelope while the second, perhaps to give himself an air of authority, laid a hand on his pistol. Such anxious reflexes, Albert thought, were not entirely unfounded.
“We did go in,” the first soldier said almost apologetically, jerking his thumb toward the door. “But we decided it was better to wait out here. The stench . . .”
Albert went into the room, dropping the letter he had been opening, and rushed to Édouard’s bed. For the first time since being admitted, the young man’s eyes were open. He had been propped up on pillows—by a passing nurse, probably. His hands, still strapped to the bed, were covered by the sheet. He nodded his head slowly, uttering guttural sounds that trailed off into gurgles. Put this way, it does not sound like much of an improvement, but until now Albert has only seen his comrade’s body racked by spasms and terrible howls or lifeless almost to the point of coma. What he now saw was infinitely better.
It was difficult to know what mysterious current had passed between the two men in the days while Albert sat dozing in a chair, but as soon as Albert laid his hand on the bed, Édouard jerked frantically at his restraints and managed to grab him by the wrist and hold on like a drowning man. What precisely this gesture meant, no one is in any position to say. In it were condensed all the fears and all the hopes, all the pleas and all the questions of a twenty-three-year-old man who is wounded, unsure of the seriousness of his condition, and suffering so greatly he cannot locate the source of his pain.
“Finally decided to wake up, then, friend,” Albert said, attempting to put the greatest possible enthusiasm into his words.
A voice from behind made him start.
“We have to head back . . .”
Albert turned.
The soldier held out the letter he had picked up off the floor.
He spent almost four hours sitting on a chair waiting. Time enough to go through all the possible reasons why a humble solider like himself might be summoned to the office of Général Morieux. Aside from being decorated for acts of bravery regarding Édouard’s condition, it is anyone’s guess.
The result of these hours of cogitation melted away in an instant when, at the far end of the hallway, he saw the tall, thin figure of Lieutenant Pradelle appear. The officer stared him in the eye and swaggered toward him. Albert felt the lump in his throat drop into his belly and was overcome by an urge to retch he barely managed to suppress. Except for the speed, this was the same swagger that had pushed him into the shell crater. The lieutenant tore his eyes away when he drew alongside Albert, pivoted on his heels, knocked on the général’s door, and disappeared inside.
It would have taken Albert some time to digest this information, but time he did not have. The door reopened, he heard his name barked, and, faltering, he stepped into the holy of holies, which smelled of brandy and cigars; perhaps they were celebrating the coming victory early.
Général Morieux seems terribly old and looks like all those old men who have sent generations of their sons and grandsons to their death. Combine the portraits of Joffre and Pétain with those of Nivelle, Gallieni, and Ludendorff3 and you have Général Morieux: walrus whiskers, rheumy eyes sunken in his ruddy face, deep wrinkles, and an innate sense of his own importance.
Albert stands, frozen. Impossible to say whether the général is alert or half-asleep. There is an air of Kutuzov4 about him. Sitting behind his desk, he is poring over his papers. Standing facing Albert, with his back to the général, Lieutenant Pradelle does not move a muscle as he glares at him, looking him up and down. Feet apart, hands behind his back as though on inspection, he is rocking gently on his heels. Albert gets the message and stands to attention. He holds himself stiffly, arching his back until it aches. The silence is heavy. Finally the walrus lifts his head. Albert feels obliged to throw his shoulders back even further. If he carries on, he’ll end up bent double like a circus acrobat. Under normal circumstances, the général should put him at ease from this uncomfortable position, but no, he stares at Albert, clears his throat, glances down at a document.
“Soldat Maillard,” he enunciates slowly.
Albert should say “Yes, sir” or something of the kind, but slow though the général is, he is too fast for Albert.
“I have in front of me a report . . . ,” he continues. “During an action carried out by your unit on November 2, you deliberately attempted to shirk your duty.”
This is something Albert has not expected. He has imagined various scenarios, but not this. The général reads aloud:
“You ‘took shelter in a shell crater in a cowardly attempt to avoid your obligations’ . . . Thirty-eight of your valiant comrades gave their lives during that attack. For their country. But you are a scoundrel, Soldat Maillard. In fact, in my personal opinion you are a bastard!”
Albert’s heart is so heavy he could almost weep. Weeks and weeks he has been waiting for this war to be over; so this is how it will end . . .
Général Morieux is still staring at him. He finds this cowardice utterly deplorable. Furious at the moral degeneracy this pathetic soldier represents, he concludes:
“But desertion does not fall within my remit. I deal with war. You will be dealt with by the military tribunal, Soldat Maillard, the court-martial.”
Albert is no longer at attention. His hands by his sides begin to tremble. This means death. Everyone has heard of cases of desertion, of fellows shooting themselves to get away from the front lines. It is nothing new. There was much talk of courts-martial, especially in 1917, when Pétain was called in to put the shambles in order. Many were sent to their deaths; on the matter of desertion, the tribunal made no concessions. Very few faced the firing squad, but all of them were executed. And quickly. Speed in execution is part of the execution. Albert has three days left to live. At best.
He needs to explain; this is a misunderstanding. But Pradelle’s expression as he stares him down leaves no room for a misunderstanding.
This is the second time he has sent Albert to his death. With luck—a lot of luck—a man might survive being buried alive, but not a court-martial . . .
Sweat trickles between his shoulder blades, down his forehead, blurring his vision. His trembling gets steadily worse, and slowly, as he stands there, he starts to piss himself. The général and the lieutenant watch as the stain spreads from his zipper toward his boots.
Say something. Albert racks his brain but can think of nothing. The général goes on the offensive again; going on the offensive is something he knows about, being a général.
“Lieutenant d’Aulnay-Pradelle is positive. He personally saw you throwing yourself into the mud. Is that not so, Pradelle?”
“Absolutely, sir. With my own eyes, sir.”
“Well, Soldat Maillard?”
It is not for want of searching for words that Albert cannot utter a single one. Eventually he mutters:
“It wasn’t like that . . .”
The général frowns.
“What do you mean ‘wasn’t like that’? Did you fight with your unit to the end?”
“Er . . . no.”
He should say “No, sir,” but in such situations it is difficult to think of everything.
“You did not take part in the assault,” the général roars, pounding the desk with his fist, “because you were in a shell crater, am I correct?”
It is difficult to explain. All the more so since the général pounds the desk again.
“Yes or no, Soldat Maillard?”
The lamp, the inkwell, the desk blotter hover in the air. Pradelle is staring at Albert’s boots, where piss has spread to stain the threadbare carpet.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Of course I’m right! Lieutenant Pradelle saw you, did you not, Pradelle?”
“With my own eyes, sir.”
“But your cowardice was not rewarded, was it, Soldat Maillard?”
The général wags a vengeful finger.
“In fact your cowardice almost cost you your life . . . And a good thing too!”
In life, there are certain moments of truth. Granted, they are rare. In the life of Albert Maillard, the next second will be one such moment. It hangs on three words that encapsulate all his faith.
“It’s not fair.”
Had he uttered some grandiloquent phrase, some attempt at self-justification, Général Morieux would have dismissed it with a petulant wave, but this . . . The général glances down. Seems to be thinking. Pradelle is now staring at the bead of sweat poised on the end of Albert’s nose, which, given he is standing to attention, he cannot wipe away. The droplet dangles miserably, wavers, grows longer, but still it does not fall. Albert snuffles loudly. The droplet trembles but clings fast. But it is enough to rouse the général from his cogitation.
“Thing is, your service record is not bad . . . ,” he says, giving a helpless shrug. “Can’t get my head around it.”
Something has just happened, but what?
“Camp de Mailly,” the général reads aloud, “La Marne, mm-hmm . . .”
He is bent over his papers. Albert can see only the général’s white hair, balding to reveal his pink pate.
“Wounded at the Somme . . . mm-hmm . . . And again at the Battle of the Aisne! Stretcher bearer . . . mm-hmm . . .”
He shakes his head like a half-drowned parrot.
The droplet on the end of Albert’s nose finally decides to fall, and as it bursts on the carpet, it triggers a revelation: this is all horseshit.
The général is bluffing.
Albert’s neurons survey the terrain, the report, the facts, the situation. When the général looks up at him, he knows, he understands; the response does not come as a surprise.
“I am prepared to take your service record into account, Maillard.”
Albert sniffles. Pradelle is crestfallen. In filing a complaint with the général, he was trying his luck. If it worked, he would be rid of Albert Maillard, an embarrassing witness. But he made the wrong choice: at this stage of the war, no one is being shot. But Pradelle is a good loser. He bows his head and champs at the bit.
“You had a fine year in ’17,” the général carries on, “But now . . .” He shrugs again, saddened by the whole affair. It is obvious he thinks the world is going to hell in a handcart. For a military man, there is nothing worse than the end of a war. The général has done his best, cudgeled his brains, but he has to face the facts; though this is a flagrant case of desertion, it would be impossible to justify a firing squad a few days before the armistice. It is simply not done. No one would support his decision. Indeed, it would be seen as counterproductive.
Albert’s life hung by a thread: he will not be shot, because, this month, firing squads are passé.
“Thank you, sir,” he babbles.
Morieux greets these words with stoic resignation. At any other time, to thank a général would almost be an insult, but these days . . .
The matter is settled. Morieux shoos them away with a disgruntled wave. Dismissed!
What has got into Albert? Who knows? He has come within a hair’s breadth of facing the firing squad, but apparently that is not enough.
“I have a request I’d like to make, sir,” he says.
“Really? Well go on, go on . . .”
Curiously, the général is pleased at the thought of this request. It means he is still useful. He raises a questioning eyebrow to encourage the soldier. He waits. Standing next to Albert, Pradelle stiffens and looks grave.
“I’d like to request an investigation, sir,” Albert says.
“Oh, you would, would you? And what would be the subject of this investigation, dammit?”
Because much as he appreciates requests, the général has no time for investigations. He is a military man.
“Two soldiers, sir.”
“And what’s the problem with these soldiers?”
“They’re dead, sir. And it would be good to know how they died.”
Morieux knits his brow. He does not like suspicious deaths. In war, people want deaths that are clean, heroic, and conclusive, which is why, though the wounded are tolerated, no one really likes them.
“Hold your horses . . .” The général’s voice quavers. “First of all, who exactly are these men?”
“Soldat Gaston Grisonnier and Soldat Louis Thérieux, sir. People want to know how they died.”
The objective “people” is a stroke of genius; it just came to him. Albert is more resourceful than he appears.
Morieux shoots Pradelle a questioning look.
“The two men reported missing in action on Hill 113, sir,” snaps the lieutenant.
Albert is dumbfounded.
He saw them on the battlefield, they were dead, but very much present. He even rolled the old man over; he can still see the bullet wounds in his back.
“That’s impossible . . .”
“Good God, man, the lieutenant here has just told you they are missing in action! . . . Isn’t that so, Pradelle?”
“Missing In Action, sir. No question, sir.”
“Horsefeathers,” the old man snarls. “You’re not going to come in here and create a ruckus over a couple of missing soldiers.”
This is not a question, it is an order. He is livid.
“What is this damned foolishness?” he mutters to himself.
But he needs a little support.
“Well, Pradelle?”
He is calling him as witness.
“Absolutely, sir. We can’t have people kicking up a stink over a couple of MIAs.”
“You see!” the général barks, glaring at Albert.
Pradelle is staring at him, too. Is that a flicker of a smile he can see on the bastard’s lips?
Albert gives up. All he wants now is for the war to end so he can go back to Paris. In one piece, if possible. Which thought brings him back to Édouard. He hardly takes the time to give the old fogey a cursory salute (he does not click his heels; he casually brings one finger to his temple like a laborer finishing his shift and heading home), then, avoiding the lieutenant’s gaze, he takes to his heels, running through the hallways, seized by the sort of intuition parents have. He is out of breath and panting as he flings open the door of the room.
Édouard has not shifted, but he wakes when he hears Albert approach. He points weakly toward the window beside his bed. It’s true the room reeks to high heaven. Albert opens the window a little. Édouard watches intently. “More,” the injured man insists, his fingers signaling “a little more,” or “a little less.” Albert complies, opens the window a little wider and, by the time he realizes, it is too late. Having struggled to say something and found he could produce only a gurgling sound, Édouard needed to know. Now he can see his reflection in the windowpane.
The exploding shell ripped away his lower jaw; below his nose is a gaping void; his throat, his palate, his upper teeth are visible, beneath them is a pulp of crimson flesh and something deep within that must be his epiglottis. There is no tongue; his gullet is a red-raw hole . . .
Édouard Péricourt is twenty-three years old.
He blacks out.