SUMMER

When I awoke at about three o'clock in the morning on that particular day,

I was lying on the hard ground tired out, and with my face bathed in

perspiration. The hot heavy atmosphere of a July night weighed me down.

My companions were sleeping around me, wrapped in their hooded cloaks;

they speckled the grey ground with black, and the obscure plain panted; I

fancied I heard the heavy breathing of a slumbering multitude. Indistinct

sounds, the neighing of horses, the clash of arms rang out amidst the

rustling silence.

The army had halted at about midnight, and we had received orders to lie

down and sleep. We had been marching for three days, scorched by the sun

and blinded by dust. The enemy were at length in front of us, over there,

on those hills on the horizon. At daybreak a decisive battle would be

fought.

I had been a victim to despondency. For three days I had been as if

trampled on, without energy and without thought for the future. It was the

excessive fatigue, indeed, that had just awakened me. Now, lying on my

back, with my eyes wide open, I was thinking whilst gazing into the night,

I thought of this battle, this butchery, which the sun was about to light

up. For more than six years, at the first shot in each fight, I had been

saying good-bye to those I loved the most fondly, Babet and uncle Lazare.

And now, barely a month before my discharge, I had to say good-bye again,

and this time perhaps for ever.

Then my thoughts softened. With closed eyelids I saw Babet and my uncle

Lazare. How long it was since I had kissed them! I remembered the day of

our separation; my uncle weeping because he was poor, and allowing me to

leave like that, and Babet, in the evening, had vowed she would wait for

me, and that she would never love another. I had had to quit all, my

master at Grenoble, my friends at Dourgues. A few letters had come from

time to time to tell me they always loved me, and that happiness was

awaiting me in my well-beloved valley. And I, I was going to fight, I was

going to get killed.

I began dreaming of my return. I saw my poor old uncle on the threshold of

the parsonage extending his trembling arms; and behind him was Babet,

quite red, smiling through her tears. I fell into their arms and kissed

them, seeking for expressions--

Suddenly the beating of drums recalled me to stern reality. Daybreak had

come, the grey plain expanded in the morning mist. The ground became full

of life, indistinct forms appeared on all sides; a sound that became

louder and louder filled the air; it was the call of bugles, the galloping

of horses, the rumble of artillery, the shouting out of orders. War came

threatening, amidst my dream of tenderness. I rose with difficulty; it

seemed to me that my bones were broken, and that my head was about to

split. I hastily got my men together; for I must tell you that I had won

the rank of sergeant. We soon received orders to bear to the left and

occupy a hillock above the plain.

As we were about to move, the sergeant-major came running along and

shouting:

"A letter for Sergeant Gourdon!"

And he handed me a dirty crumpled letter, which had been lying perhaps for

a week in the leather bags of the post-office. I had only just time to

recognise the writing of my uncle Lazare.

"Forward, march!" shouted the major.

I had to march. For a few seconds I held the poor letter in my hand,

devouring it with my eyes; it burnt my fingers; I would have given

everything in the world to have sat down and wept at ease whilst reading

it. I had to content myself with slipping it under my tunic against my

heart.

I have never experienced such agony. By way of consolation I said to

myself what my uncle had so often repeated to me: I was in the summer of

my life, at the moment of the fierce struggle, and it was essential that I

should perform my duty bravely, if I would have a peaceful and bountiful

autumn. But these reasons exasperated me the more: this letter, which had

come to speak to me of happiness, burnt my heart, which had revolted

against the folly of war. And I could not even read it! I was perhaps

going to die without knowing what it contained, without perusing my uncle

Lazare's affectionate remarks for the last time.

We had reached the top of the hill. We were to await orders there to

advance. The battle-field had been marvellously chosen to slaughter one

another at ease. The immense plain expanded for several leagues, and was

quite bare, without a house or tree. Hedges and bushes made slight spots

on the whiteness of the ground. I have never since seen such a country, an

ocean of dust, a chalky soil, bursting open here and there, and displaying

its tawny bowels. And never either have I since witnessed a sky of such

intense purity, a July day so lovely and so warm; at eight o'clock the

sultry heat was already scorching our faces. O the splendid morning, and

what a sterile plain to kill and die in!

Firing had broken out with irregular crackling sounds, a long time since,

supported by the solemn growl of the cannon. The enemy, Austrians dressed

in white, had quitted the heights, and the plain was studded with long

files of men, who looked to me about as big as insects. One might have

thought it was an ant-hill in insurrection. Clouds of smoke hung over the

battle-field. At times, when these clouds broke asunder, I perceived

soldiers in flight, smitten with terrified panic. Thus there were currents

of fright which bore men away, and outbursts of shame and courage which

brought them back under fire.

I could neither hear the cries of the wounded, nor see the blood flow. I

could only distinguish the dead which the battalions left behind them, and

which resembled black patches. I began to watch the movements of the

troops with curiosity, irritated at the smoke which hid a good half of the

show, experiencing a sort of egotistic pleasure at the knowledge that I

was in security, whilst others were dying.

At about nine o'clock we were ordered to advance. We went down the hill at

the double and proceeded towards the centre which was giving way. The

regular beat of our footsteps appeared to me funeral-like. The bravest

among us panting, pale and with haggard features.

I have made up my mind to tell the truth. At the first whistle of the

bullets, the battalion suddenly came to a halt, tempted to fly.

"Forward, forward!" shouted the chiefs.

But we were riveted to the ground, bowing our heads when a bullet whistled

by our ears. This movement is instinctive; if shame had not restrained me,

I would have thrown myself flat on my stomach in the dust.

Before us was a huge veil of smoke which we dared not penetrate. Red

flashes passed through this smoke. And, shuddering, we still stood still.

But the bullets reached us; soldiers fell with yells. The chiefs shouted

louder:

"Forward, forward!"

The rear ranks, which they pushed on, compelled us to march. Then, closing

our eyes, we made a fresh dash and entered the smoke.

We were seized with furious rage. When the cry of "Halt!" resounded, we

experienced difficulty in coming to a standstill. As soon as one is

motionless, fear returns and one feels a wish to run away. Firing

commenced. We shot in front of us, without aiming, finding some relief in

discharging bullets into the smoke. I remember I pulled my trigger

mechanically, with lips firmly set together and eyes wide open; I was no

longer afraid, for, to tell the truth, I no longer knew if I existed. The

only idea I had in my head, was that I would continue firing until all was

over. My companion on the left received a bullet full in the face and fell

on me; I brutally pushed him away, wiping my cheek which he had drenched

with blood. And I resumed firing.

I still remember having seen our colonel, M. de Montrevert, firm and erect

upon his horse, gazing quietly towards the enemy. That man appeared to me

immense. He had no rifle to amuse himself with, and his breast was

expanded to its full breadth above us. From time to time, he looked down,

and exclaimed in a dry voice:

"Close the ranks, close the ranks!"

We closed our ranks like sheep, treading on the dead, stupefied, and

continuing firing. Until then, the enemy had only sent us bullets; a dull

explosion was heard and a shell carried off five of our men. A battery

which must have been opposite us and which we could not see, had just

opened fire. The shells struck into the middle of us, almost at one spot,

making a sanguinary gap which we closed unceasingly with the obstinacy of

ferocious brutes.

"Close the ranks, close the ranks!" the colonel coldly repeated.

We were giving the cannon human flesh. Each time a soldier was struck

down, I was taking a step nearer death, I was approaching the spot where

the shells were falling heavily, crushing the men whose turn had come to

die. The corpses were forming heaps in that place, and soon the shells

would strike into nothing more than a mound of mangled flesh; shreds of

limbs flew about at each fresh discharge. We could no longer close the

ranks.

The soldiers yelled, the chiefs themselves were moved.

"With the bayonet, with the bayonet!"

And amidst a shower of bullets the battalion rushed in fury towards the

shells. The veil of smoke was torn asunder; we perceived the enemy's

battery flaming red, which was firing at us from the mouths of all its

pieces, on the summit of a hillock. But the dash forward had commenced,

the shells stopped the dead only.

I ran beside Colonel Montrevert, whose horse had just been killed, and who

was fighting like a simple soldier. Suddenly I was struck down; it seemed

to me as if my breast opened and my shoulder was taken away. A frightful

wind passed over my face.

And I fell. The colonel fell beside me. I felt myself dying. I thought of

those I loved, and fainted whilst searching with a withering hand for my

uncle Lazare's letter.

When I came to myself again I was lying on my side in the dust. I was

annihilated by profound stupor. I gazed before me with my eyes wide open

without seeing anything; it seemed to me that I had lost my limbs, and

that my brain was empty. I did not suffer, for life seemed to have

departed from my flesh.

The rays of a hot implacable sun fell upon my face like molten lead. I did

not feel it. Life returned to me little by little; my limbs became

lighter, my shoulder alone remained crushed beneath an enormous weight.

Then, with the instinct of a wounded animal, I wanted to sit up. I uttered

a cry of pain, and fell back upon the ground.

But I lived now, I saw, I understood. The plain spread out naked and

deserted, all white in the broad sunlight. It exhibited its desolation

beneath the intense serenity of heaven; heaps of corpses were sleeping in

the warmth, and the trees that had been brought down, seemed to be other

dead who were dying. There was not a breath of air. A frightful silence

came from those piles of inanimate bodies; then, at times, there were

dismal groans which broke this silence, and conveyed a long tremor to it.

Slender clouds of grey smoke hanging over the low hills on the horizon,

was all that broke the bright blue of the sky. The butchery was continuing

on the heights.

I imagined we were conquerors, and I experienced selfish pleasure in

thinking I could die in peace on this deserted plain. Around me the earth

was black. On raising my head I saw the enemy's battery on which we had

charged, a few feet away from me. The struggle must have been horrible:

the mound was covered with hacked and disfigured bodies; blood had flowed

so abundantly that the dust seemed like a large red carpet. The cannon

stretched out their dark muzzles above the corpses. I shuddered when I

observed the silence of those guns.

Then gently, with a multitude of precautions, I succeeded in turning on my

stomach. I rested my head on a large stone all splashed with gore, and

drew my uncle Lazare's letter from my breast. I placed it before my eyes;

but my tears prevented my reading it.

And whilst the sun was roasting me in the back, the acrid smell of blood

was choking me. I could form an idea of the woeful plain around me, and

was as if stiffened with the rigidness of the dead. My poor heart was

weeping in the warm and loathsome silence of murder.

Uncle Lazare wrote to me:

"My Dear Boy,--I hear war has been declared; but I still hope you will get

your discharge before the campaign opens. Every morning I beseech the

Almighty to spare you new dangers; He will grant my prayer; He will, one

of these days, let you close my eyes.

"Ah! my poor Jean, I am becoming old, I have great need of your arm. Since

your departure I no more feel your youthfulness beside me, which gave me

back my twenty summers. Do you remember our strolls in the morning along

the oak-tree walk? Now I no longer dare to go beneath those trees; I am

alone, I am afraid. The Durance weeps. Come quickly and console me,

assuage my anxiety----"

The tears were choking me, I could not continue. At that moment a

heartrending cry was uttered a few steps away from me; I saw a soldier

suddenly rise, with the muscles of his face contracted; he extended his

arms in agony, and fell to the ground, where he writhed in frightful

convulsions; then he ceased moving.

"I have placed my hope in the Almighty," continued my uncle, "He will

bring you back safe and sound to Dourgues, and we will resume our peaceful

existence. Let me dream out loud and tell you my plans for the future.

"You will go no more to Grenoble, you will remain with me; I will make my

child a son of the soil, a peasant who shall live gaily whilst tilling the

fields.

"And I will retire to your farm. In a short time my trembling hands will

no longer be able to hold the Host. I only ask Heaven for two years of

such an existence. That will be my reward for the few good deeds I may

have done. Then you will sometimes lead me along the paths of our dear

valley, where every rock, every hedge will remind me of your youth which I

so greatly loved----"

I had to stop again. I felt such a sharp pain In my shoulder, that I

almost fainted a second time. A terrible anxiety had just taken possession

of me; it, seemed as if the sound of the fusillade was approaching, and I

thought with terror that our army was perhaps retreating, and that in its

flight it would descend to the plain and pass over my body. But I still

saw nothing but the slight cloud, of smoke hanging over the low hills.

My uncle Lazare added:

"And we shall be three to love one another. Ah! my well-beloved Jean, how

right you were to give her to drink that morning beside the Durance. I was

afraid of Babet, I was ill-humoured, and now I am jealous, for I can see

very well that I shall never be able to love you as much as she does,

'Tell him,' she repeated to me yesterday, blushing, 'that if he gets

killed, I shall go and throw myself into the river at the spot where he

gave me to drink.'

"For the love of God! be careful of your life. There are things that I

cannot understand, but I feel that happiness awaits you here. I already

call Babet my daughter; I can see her on your arm, in the church, when I

shall bless your union. I wish that to be my last mass.

"Babet is a fine, tall girl now. She will, assist you in your work----"

The sound of the fusillade had gone farther away. I was weeping sweet

tears. There were dismal moans among soldiers who were in their last

agonies between the cannon wheels. I perceived one who was endeavoring to

get rid of a comrade, wounded as he was, whose body was crushing his

chest; and, as this wounded man struggled and complained, the soldier

pushed him brutally away, and made him roll down the slope of the mound,

whilst the wretched creature yelled with pain. At that cry a murmur came

from the heap of corpses. The sun, which was sinking, shed rays of a light

fallow colour. The blue of the sky was softer.