No, my dear fellow, the war hasn’t changed everybody.
You didn’t know M. Perrier-Langlade?
He was what we should call a great organiser--a man who might, for
instance, hit upon a spot where everything was going on all right, and
everyone knew his job and was busy at it. But to M. Perrier-Langlade,
who had very original views as to what was practical, everything was
going quite wrong. Objects had at once to be moved from their places
and jobs had to be exchanged. He walked with a stick in his right
hand--_his_ working tool--which he waved like a fencer or an orchestral
conductor: he tapped everybody with this annoying stick, and commands
fell from him like hail from a cloud. One works-section which his
genius had reorganised was several weeks before it could be set going
again with anything like its old smoothness. M. Perrier-Langlade had
ideas: and that is an event of momentous importance. For ordinary
mortals, you know, can never pretend to ideas: these are the preserve
of the great. And the height of M. Perrier-Langlade’s ingenuity was
to think that the suggestions we had all been wanting to work out
were entirely his own. But that again did not lead to efficiency; for
this rare mind was ever open to the latest thing in ideas--showing,
let us admit, a very generous disposition. He bent to every gust of
wind. He was indeed so unpractical that his sense of the relation
between thought and action was of the haziest. But that of course
is the penalty of an exalted position, and in other respects M.
Perrier-Langlade was a great organiser.
He loved figures. Let us do him this justice: he handled them with
the freedom of an expert. He saw in them a deep meaning which always
escaped our unmathematical minds.
M. Perrier-Langlade I had only seen from a distance--and on rare
occasions; but at last I was to talk to him. What am I saying!--I am
presuming a great deal: you know what my rank is--well, then, I was
at last to be admitted to the presence of M. Perrier-Langlade, to
hear him discourse, to profit by the kind of education which the most
insignificant of his utterances and movements were able to bestow.
It occurred last winter, during the weeks of intense cold. For a
fortnight it had been blowing--a sharp, despairing, cold east wind.
The cold and the wind had given rise to an epidemic of fires on the
front. The little stoves had been stuffed to their fullest capacity,
and they crackled and smoked convulsively, and the corners of sheds
sometimes caught their fever. A flame stuck its nose outside: the wind
snapped at it, twisted, stretched it, swelled it like a sail, and most
often it cost five or six thousand francs in wood, paper, canvas, and
other materials. When the Germans saw it happening within gunshot
distance, they despatched a few explosives with the charitable object
of helping on its sinister designs. It’s what you must expect, you
know. You either make or you don’t make war. And the miserable world
has made it--there’s no shadow of doubt about that.
We had lost in this way many huts, which were happily cut off from the
others, and it had been a useful warning to us when, one night, about
one o’clock, a fire--a terrible fire--broke out in Hut 521, which could
be seen on the plain three or four miles away from us.
We had just put on our boots and had gone out to watch it. What a sight
it was! The huge furnace with its tongues of flame, the bluish country
benumbed with frost, the wind which seemed to ripple like water in the
moonlight, and the reflections of the fire on the Siberian landscape,
honeycombed with the old trenches of 1915.
We were horrified at the thought of what was happening there; but we
did not dare to leave our post.
And we did right; for towards 3 A.M. a long line of motors came hooting
before the door--some of the wounded rescued from the fire were being
brought to us.
We got them out of the cars. How patient they were, poor things! Two
with fractured skulls, one with an amputated leg, and another with
a broken leg, and several less seriously wounded. They had lost in
the fire all the possessions which, as soldiers, they were allowed to
have--the linen bag you see hanging on the bed, containing a knife, a
box of matches, three or four old letters, and a small lead pencil. I
repeat, they did behave well; but they were pitiful to look at. They
really looked like people who for one awful moment had lain helpless
in their beds while the flames surrounded them, and who were conscious
of only one agonising thought: “If help doesn’t come at once, in five
minutes it will be too late.”
We put them into bed, and got them warm again: they needed it. I well
remember seeing icicles glistening on the bandages of the man with the
broken leg. It was a sorry business. The whole night long we looked
after them; and only in the morning were we able to chat round the
coffee-pot. The wounded were dozing. The hut was almost warm. We had
made them wear cotton caps and woollen vests, and drink a cupful of
boiling milk. They were in a half-dozing, half-waking state and seemed
to be thinking: “Lord! what a narrow shave! And it’s the second one
too. We had better look out for the third.”
It was then, old fellow, that M. Perrier-Langlade arrived on the scene.
I had gone out--I don’t remember why--and I was kicking my heels on
the frosty ground, when I saw a sumptuous motor-car come to a stop on
the road. The door clicked open, and M. Perrier-Langlade came out,
staggering under a heavy, luxurious fur cloak.
I at once thought: “Ah, good! Here’s M. Perrier-Langlade coming to
cheer up my poor patients.”
I had a hundred yards to cover. I leaped over some dizzy gratings, and
I arrived, rather out of breath, just in time to spring to attention
before the door. M. Perrier-Langlade stamped with annoyance.
“What!” he said to me. “There is no one here to receive me!”
“I ask your pardon, Monsieur----”
“Hold your tongue! You can see for yourself there is no one here. You
have to-night taken in some of the wounded from Hut 521. I went to see
the fire myself--at two o’clock in the morning--risking an attack of
pneumonia. I’m not bothering about that, though; but it is my wish that
some one should be here to receive me--here--when I come out of the
car. If you hadn’t come there would have been no one, and I will not be
kept waiting these very cold days. In future you will have an orderly
permanently stationed here.”
“But you understand, Monsieur----”
“Hold your tongue! How many wounded did you take in to-night?”
“Thirteen, Monsieur. It is true that----”
“Enough! Thirteen! Thirteen!”
M. Perrier-Langlade began to repeat the number, presumably for his own
benefit. It was quite clear that this number suggested to his mind
thoughts of a deep and wide significance. I don’t know what foolish
impulse made me then open my mouth.
“But note, sir----”
“Be quiet!” he said angrily. “Thirteen! Thirteen!”
I felt extremely confused and took refuge in complete silence. That
didn’t last long. Ravier was approaching as fast as his legs could
carry him: he had seen the motor, and had galloped.... He stopped dead
at five paces, his two heels stuck in the crunching snow, and saluted.
“There you are,” remarked M. Perrier-Langlade--“not too soon either.
How many wounded have you taken in to-night that you wouldn’t have
ordinarily?”
Ravier gave me a despairing look. I showed him my open hand, holding
apart my fingers, and Ravier, in spite of his discomfiture, replied:
“Five, sir.”
“Five! Five!” said M. Perrier-Langlade. “Then it is not thirteen, but
five!”