couldn’t bury it?’ the second said.
‘Stop it,’ the corporal said.
‘Or more than just the corner of a plot,’ the third said. ‘The carrion we’ll bequeath France tomorrow——’
‘Stop it!’ the corporal said.
‘Christ assoil us,’ the fourth said.
‘Aiyiyi,’ the third said. ‘We can call on him then. He need not fear cadavers.’
‘Do you want me to make them shut up, Corp?’ the Breton said.
‘Come on now,’ the corporal said. ‘Eat. You’ll spend the rest of the night wishing you did have something to clap your jaws on. Save the philosophy for then.’
‘The wit too,’ the third said.
‘Then we will starve,’ the first said.
‘Or indigest,’ the third said. ‘If much of what we’ve heard tonight is wit.’
‘Come on now,’ the corporal said. ‘I’ve told you twice. Do you want your bellies to say you’ve had enough, or that sergeant to come back in and say you’ve finished?’ So they ate again, except the man on the corporal’s left, who once more stopped his laden knife blade halfway to his mouth.
‘Polchek’s not eating,’ he said suddenly. ‘He’s not even drinking. What’s the matter, Polchek? Afraid yours wont produce anything but nettles and you wont make it to the latrine in time and we’ll have to sleep in them?’ The man addressed was on the corporal’s immediate right. He had a knowing, almost handsome metropolitan or possibly
‘A day of rest at Chaulnesmont wasn’t the right pill for that belly of his maybe,’ the first said.
‘The sergeant-major’s
‘Maybe it’ll cure all of you of having to run a fever over what I dont eat and drink,’ Polchek said.
‘What’s the matter?’ the corporal said to him. ‘You went on sick parade Sunday night before we came out. Haven’t you got over it yet?’
‘So what?’ Polchek said. ‘Is it an issue? I had a bad belly Sunday night. I’ve still got it but it’s still mine. I was just sitting here with it, not worrying half as much about what I dont put in it, as some innocent bystanders do because I dont.’
‘Do you want to make an issue of it?’ the fourth said.
‘Bang on the door,’ the corporal said to the Breton. ‘Tell the sergeant we want to report a sick man.’
‘Who’s making an issue of it now?’ Polchek said to the corporal before the Breton could move. He picked up his filled glass. ‘Come on,’ he said to the corporal. ‘No heel taps. If my belly dont like wine tonight, as Jean says that sergeant-major’s pistol will pump it all out tomorrow morning.’ He said to all of them: ‘Come on. To peace. Haven’t we finally got what we’ve all been working for for four years now? Come on, up with them!’ he said, louder and sharply, with something momentary and almost fierce in his voice, face, look. At once the same excitement, restrained fierceness, seemed to pass through all of them; they raised their glasses too except one—the fourth one of the mountain faces, not quite as tall as the others and with something momentary and anguished in it almost like despair, who suddenly half raised his glass and stopped it and did not drink when the others did and banged the bizarre and incongruous vessels down and reached for the bottles again as, preceded by the sound of the heavy boots, the door clashed open again and the sergeant and his private entered; he now held an unfolded paper in his hand.
‘Polchek,’ he said. For a second Polchek didn’t stir. Then the man who had not drunk gave a convulsive start and although he arrested it at once, when Polchek stood quietly up they both for a moment were in motion, so that the sergeant, about to address Polchek again, paused and looked from one to the other. ‘Well?’ the sergeant said. ‘Which? Dont you even know who you are?’ Nobody answered. As one the others except Polchek were looking at the man who had not drunk. ‘You,’ the sergeant said to the corporal. ‘Dont you know your own men?’
‘This is Polchek,’ the corporal said, indicating Polchek.
‘Then what’s wrong with him?’ the sergeant said. He said to the other man: ‘What’s your name?’
‘I——’ the man said; again he glanced rapidly about, at nothing, no one, anguished and despairing.
‘His name is——’ the corporal said. ‘I’ve got his papers——’ He reached inside his tunic and produced a soiled dog-eared paper, obviously a regimental posting order. ‘Pierre Bouc.’ He rattled off a number.
‘There’s no Bouc on this list,’ the sergeant said. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘You tell me,’ the corporal said. ‘He got mixed in with us somehow Monday morning. None of us know any Pierre Bouc either.’
‘Why didn’t he say something before this?’
‘Who would have listened?’ the corporal said.
‘Is that right?’ the sergeant said to the man. ‘You dont belong in this squad?’ The man didn’t answer.
‘Tell him,’ the corporal said.
‘No,’ the man whispered. Then he said loudly: ‘No!’ He blundered up. ‘I dont know them!’ he said, blundering, stumbling, half-falling backward over the bench almost as though in flight until the sergeant checked him.
‘The major will have to settle this,’ the sergeant said. ‘Give me that order.’ The corporal passed it to him. ‘Out with you,’ the sergeant said. ‘Both of you.’ Now those inside the room could see beyond the door another file of armed men, apparently a new one, waiting. The two prisoners passed on through the door and into it, the sergeant then the orderly following; the iron door clashed behind them, against that room and all it contained, signified, portended; beyond it Polchek didn’t even lower his voice:
