He had been wounded at the beginning of the campaign, at the time when
nothing could stop the invading hordes, and much too soon for his
liking. Powerless to escape from the field of battle, he soon saw
himself a prisoner in the hands of the enemy. He was a sergeant, still
young, and on active service when the war broke out. He was taken to a
hospital in Westphalia, where he remained too short a time, considering
the gravity of his wound. But as the German wounded from Ypres were
coming in, in great numbers, he had been turned out and sent to a
concentration camp. He arrived there worn out and still suffering from
his wounds, but happy to be able at last to hear news of the war--news
he had eagerly longed to hear, but which had been jealously kept from
him. There he learnt of the battle of the Marne and its happy result for
our armies, and his heart rejoiced greatly. If he still remembered the
cruel days of the retreat from Belgium, it was to recall pictures which
permitted him to imagine the Boches a prey to the sufferings that their
too precipitated retreat would bring upon them. Thus the rage he felt
in his heart at being made prisoner was slightly calmed. As hope and
confidence came back to him our sergeant regained assurance and raised
his head. He reasoned in the following manner and found consolation
therein: “I am a prisoner, it is certain; but I have done my duty,
therefore I need not be ashamed of myself. My countrymen at the present
time fight successfully against an enemy superior in numbers and one who
has been preparing for a long time to invade; consequently I may be
permitted to think of them with pride. I don’t belong to a nation
debased by defeat. The French Army guards its rights and prerogatives.
Since my soul can never be imprisoned, my thoughts are with those who
fight for the good cause, my body alone is captive. And yet, not
completely so, since it will never consent to do what my conscience does
not approve of.”
So from deduction to deduction he almost persuaded himself that he was
free. He was exceedingly proud of being a Frenchman, and, what is more,
a French soldier. From this time on, in spite of his wound, he forced
himself to walk without limping, holding his head erect. And thus he
marched with a noble, almost arrogant air, straight on, without anything
being able to stop him, disdainful of the German uniform and its chiefs,
for he had sworn to himself never to salute the officers of a nation at
war with his country, and one that had permitted such crimes in Belgium.
Orders, however, were strict on this matter, and the heads of the
barracks did not fail every day to inflict punishments in the pillory,
which punishment certain of our soldiers had incurred for not having
saluted a German officer. The punishments imposed for this neglect were
announced in huge printed letters in four languages, and revealed to the
prisoners the rigours of the German military law.
But our sergeant paid no attention to that. He kept his marks of respect
for the French doctors, the only officers sometimes seen in the camp.
But one day it happened that he was walking painfully and slowly on the
light sand, into which one sank ankle-deep. He was speaking of one thing
and another, with a comrade of his regiment, whom he had had the good
luck to find. They recalled the happy times they had spent together in
the barracks--for, thanks to a happy forgetfulness, the memory has not
kept account of the bad times. They talked of their captain, a brave
fellow, who had died courageously, perhaps a little rashly, but
nevertheless as a true-hearted man should do. They spoke of their
lieutenants, of the different ranks of the company; nobody was
overlooked. In imagination they saw gay French uniforms with their
golden stripes, before which one stood proudly erect at “attention.” The
sergeant confided to his companion the firm resolution he had made never
to salute a German officer. For example, as soon as he saw the General,
that old savage who detested the French, he turned about and showed him
his back. “Till now you have been able to escape,” his friend said, “but
take care, one day you will get into trouble.” “It is all the same to
me,” replied the other, “and then
[Illustration: _Page 44._]
I shall tell him that I had taken him for a French artilleryman, because
of his dark blue trousers with red stripes. He will be flattered; don’t
you think so?”
At this moment the two friends passed a German lieutenant, a big man,
tall and broad in proportion. The monocle stuck in his right eye
enlarged it to the disadvantage of the left one, which appeared small
and almost lost in the folds of fat of his ruddy, shaven face. With
riding-whip in his hand the officer advanced, proud, no doubt, of his
new grey-green uniform, which laced him in tightly at the waist and
emphasised the squareness of his massive shoulders. His heavy, creaking
boots sank at every step into the powdery sand. Dominating the group of
French soldiers he was passing, he looked at them straight, so that they
were forced to salute him. At his passing, all put their hands to their
caps; and he returned their salute, bending the whole of his body
stiffly, as if he were laced in corsets.
While his comrade saluted properly, the sergeant with an air of
indifference pursued his walk. He kept his head slightly turned towards
his companion, with whom he seemed to be having a most exciting
conversation, which absorbed him so that the presence of an officer
could not distract his attention.
Did the German guess the Frenchman’s intention, or did he think his
distraction culpable? I don’t know, but he approached and, looking
vexed, planted himself in front of the two, who were obliged to stop.
Fresh salute from the French soldier, this time unnoticed by the
officer.
A pause.
With a scowling expression, the officer looks at the sergeant from head
to foot; he, however, does not stir. Another pause, in which the German
finds the word he was trying to think of: “Saloutez,” says he, in an
imperative voice; “Saloutez!”
“I beg your pardon,” says the sergeant politely, with a most puzzled
look.
The lieutenant, whose French was not faultless, but who hesitated to
confess it, even to himself, seemed to be confused for a moment; his
face flushed when, in a voice still more imperative and as if trying to
persuade himself of the excellence of his accent, he repeated:
“Saloutez, mossié.”
“I don’t understand at all; what does he mean?” said our Frenchman,
turning, as if in question, towards his companion. “You understand
German. Well, answer him. ‘Saloutemossié! Saloutemossié!’ I don’t
understand.”
But the man in the pay of William began to get impatient. He lost his
temper, his face grew purple. Nervously striking his boots with his
whip, he reflected, calling up all his linguistic knowledge and
repeating to himself: “Salou ... Salou: Saloutez ... Saloutez mossié,”
after the manner of a careless pupil repeating the parts of a Latin
irregular verb. It must be very disagreeable when one wishes to exercise
one’s authority to give the impression of a scholar stammering over his
lesson. The Boche began to look grotesque. But our sergeant still went
on talking with his compatriot over the meaning of his questioner’s
words. His eyebrows contracted, his forehead wrinkled, as in the effort
of intense intellectual strain; he seemed to take as much trouble to
understand as the German took to be understood. His face remained
impassive and showed the distress of a man who cannot find what he
seeks. With imperturbable coolness he went to extremes. In despair at
not being able to understand, he shrugged his shoulders, struck his
forehead, shook his head and repeated: “No, no, I don’t understand.”
Then pointing with his finger to the German “Burô”[1] visible in the
distance, he said, “Interpret that--Burô.” “Yes, ‘dolmetscher,
burô’--they will understand.” As for him, he could not make it out, and
regretted greatly not to be able to help the officer better.
The situation became impossible. The German dared not any longer insist,
for fear of making himself ridiculous. He had the sense to understand
this, and was angry with himself. He went away furious that his
knowledge of Bossuet and Joffre did not enable him to tell the sergeant
what he thought. Because of his _amour-propre_ he still wished to
believe in French stupidity.
Our friend stayed there, looking puzzled and stupid; he scratched his
head and repeated in the most idiotic manner: “Saloutémossié,” and
looked with a questioning, wondering glance at his comrade, who
whispered to him: “You’ve got hold of a very young bird!” But with a
fresh shrug of the shoulders he turned anew to the officer, who had gone
some paces when, to make sure they were not laughing at him, he glanced
back. With his finger he pointed in the direction of the Commandant.
Then the Boche, with that persistence which is the attribute of his
race, returned to the charge, repeating, in order to make himself better
understood, always the same words: “Saloutez, mossié.” Then suiting the
action to the word, and to show by example, he raised his hand to his
cap. Then the sergeant, with a gracious smile, as if he wished to cut
short the transports of gratitude of the Boche: “Ah, I beg you, don’t
mention it, my signpost,” said he, and, with a vague flourish in the
direction of the Burô, dismissed the officer, but did not salute him.
All the same, he waited till he had got far enough from the enemy’s ears
before giving vent to the laughter that shook him.
However, from that day he judged it better to yield to the desires of
the Teuton officers, and he “salouta” them every time that he could not
avoid doing otherwise.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE FLEA MARKET]