French fiction -- 20th century; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
During those days they multiplied the route-marches and the exercises
intended to let the officers get the men again in hand. These
maneuvers tired us to death, and especially the sham attacks on wooded
mounds, carried out in the evening among bogs and thorn-thickets. When
we got back, most of the men fell heavily asleep just as they had
fallen, beside their knapsacks, without having the heart to eat.
Right in the middle of the night and this paralyzed slumber, a cry
echoed through the walls, "Alarm! Stand to arms!"
We were so weary that the brutal reveille seemed at first, to the
blinking and rusted men, like the shock of a nightmare. Then, while
the cold blew in through the open door and we heard the sentries
running through the streets, while the corporals lighted the candles
and shook us with their voices, we sat up askew, and crouched, and got
our things ready, and stood up and fell in shivering, with flabby legs
and minds befogged, in the black-hued street.
After the roll-call and some orders and counter-orders, we heard the
command "Forward!" and we left the rest-camp as exhausted as when we
entered it. And thus we set out, no one knew where.
At first it was the same exodus as always. It was on the same road
that we disappeared: into the same great circles of blackness that we
sank.
We came to the shattered glass works and then to the quarry, which
daybreak was washing and fouling and making its desolation more
complete. Fatigue was gathering darkly within us and abating our pace.
Faces appeared stiff and wan, and as though they were seen through
gratings. We were surrounded by cries of "Forward!" thrown from all
directions between the twilight of the sky and the night of the earth.
It took a greater effort every time to tear ourselves away from the
halts.
We were not the only regiment in movement in these latitudes. The
twilight depths were full. Across the spaces that surrounded the
quarry men were passing without ceasing and without limit, their feet
breaking and furrowing the earth like plows. And one guessed that the
shadows also were full of hosts going as we were to the four corners of
the unknown. Then the clay and its thousand barren ruts, these
corpse-like fields, fell away. Under the ashen tints of early day,
fog-banks of men descended the slopes. From the top I saw nearly the
whole regiment rolling into the deeps. As once of an evening in the
days gone by, I had a perception of the multitude's immensity and the
threat of its might, that might which surpasses all and is impelled by
invisible mandates.
We stopped and drew breath again; and on the gloomy edge of this gulf
some soldiers even amused themselves by inciting Termite to speak of
militarism and anti-militarism. I saw faces which laughed, through
their black and woeful pattern of fatigue, around the little man who
gesticulated in impotence. Then we had to set off again.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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