France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
In the evening, in camp, squatted around the porridge pot or stretched
out on the cold furze, with heads resting on their knapsacks, they were
thinking of the homes from which they had been taken by force. All
the young men, strong and healthy, had come from the villages. Many
of them were already sleeping in the ground way yonder, disembowelled
by shells; others with shattered backs, like shadows, were straggling
in the fields and in the woods awaiting death. In the small country
places, left to sorrow, there were only old men, more stooped than
ever, and women who wept. The barn-floors where they thrashed corn were
mute and closed, in the deserted fields where weeds sprouted, one no
longer saw against the purple background of the sunset the silhouette
of the laborer returning home, keeping step with his tired horses.
And men with long sabres would come and in the name of the law take
away the horses one day and empty the cowshed the next; for it was not
enough that war should glut itself with human flesh, it was necessary
that it should also devour beasts, the earth itself, everything that
lived in the calm and peace of labor and love.... And at the bottom of
the hearts of all these miserable soldiers whose emaciated frames and
flagged limbs were lit up by the sinister glare of camp fires--there
was one hope, the hope of the coming battle, that is to say, the hope
of flight, of butt turned upwards, and of the German fortress.
Nevertheless we were preparing for the defence of the country which
we traversed and which was no longer threatened. To accomplish that
we thought it would be best to fell trees and scatter them on the
roads; we blew up bridges and desecrated cemeteries at the entrance to
villages under the pretext of barricading them, and we compelled the
inhabitants at the point of the bayonet to help us in the destruction
of their property. Then we would depart, leaving behind us nothing but
ruin and hatred. I remember one time we had to raze a very beautiful
park to the last staddling, in order to build barracks which we never
used at all. Our manner of doing things was not at all such as to
reassure the people. And so at our approach the houses were shut, the
peasants hid their provisions; everywhere we were met by hostile faces,
surly mouths and empty hands. There were bloody scuffles over some
potted pork discovered in a cupboard, and the general ordered an old
and kindly man shot for hiding a few kilograms of salted pork under a
heap of manure.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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