Poor Touche! He easily recognised me by my voice and always had a smile
for me. He was awkward at table, as a man would naturally be who is not
yet accustomed to his infirmity. But he tried to manage by himself, and
used to tell us in a quiet voice:
“I am doing my best, you see: I scrape my plate until I feel there is
nothing more.”
Could I forget the name of the man who was brought in, one night, with
his two legs smashed, and who murmured simply:
“It’s hard to have to die! But come! I’ll be brave.”
But Calmel, Calmel! No one who knew him will ever wish to forget him.
Never did a man more passionately desire to live! Never did a man
attain greater nobility by his endurance and resignation! He suffered
mortal wounds which at every moment the light of the life within him
repudiated. It was he who, during a night bombardment, addressed his
hospital comrades, exhorting them to be calm, with his authoritative
moribund voice.
“Come, come!” he used to say; “we are all men here, are we not?”
Such is the strength of the spirit that these words alone, uttered
by such a man, were capable of restoring order and confidence in the
hearts of everyone.
It was to Calmel that a plump civilian, entrusted with some business or
other with the armies, said one day with jubilant conviction:
“You appear to be badly hit, my brave man. But if you knew what wounds
we inflict on them, with our 75! Terrible wounds, old boy, terrible!”
Each day brought visitors to Hill 80. They came from Amiens in
sumptuous motor cars. They chatted as they traversed the great canvas
hall, as if at a prize exhibition of agricultural produce: to the
wounded they addressed a few words that were in keeping with their
personal station, their opinions and dignity. They wrote notes on
memorandum-books and sometimes accepted invitations to supper from
the officers. There were foreigners, philanthropists, politicians,
actresses, millionaires, novelists, and “penny-a-liners.” Those who
were looking for strange sensations were sometimes admitted to the
“mosque” or the operation-room.
They went away, well content with their day when the weather was fine,
in the sure knowledge that they had seen some queer things, heroic
fighters, and a model establishment.
* * * * *
But silence! I have pronounced their names--Freyssinet, Touche,
Calmel--and the memories which they leave in my heart are too noble to
be mingled with bitterness.
What has become of Hill 80 deserted? The battle has advanced towards
the east. Winter has come; the city of tents has furled its canvas, as
a fleet of sailing ships which must prepare for new destinies.
Often, in imagination, I see again the bare plateau and the immense
burial ground left derelict in the fields and the mists, like the
wreckage of innumerable ships down in the depths of the sea.