"God Almighty! Here's a Frog that speaks United States. Get the gang.
What's your name, bo?"
"Danner."
"Come on an' have a flock of drinks on us. You're probably dying on
French pay. You order for the gang and we'll treat." Eager, grinning
American faces. "Can you get whisky in this God-forsaken dump?"
"Straight or highball?"
"That's the talk. Straight, Dan. We're in the army now."
Hugo drank with them. Only for one moment did they remember they were in
the army to fight: "Say, Dan, the war really isn't as tough as they
claim, is it?"
"I don't know how tough they claim it is."
"Well, you seen much fightin'?"
"Three years."
"Is it true that the Heinies--?" His hands indicated his question.
"Sometimes. Accidentally, more or less. You can't help it."
"And do them machine guns really mow 'em down?"
Hugo shrugged. "There are only four men in service now who started with
my company."
"Ouch! _Garçon! Encore!_ An' tell him to make it double--no,
triple--Dan, old man. It may be my last." To Hugo: "Well, it's about
time we got here an' took the war off your shoulders. You guys sure have
had a bellyful. An' I'm goin' to get me one right here and now. Bottoms
up, you guys."
Hugo was transferred to an American unit. The officers belittled the
recommendations that came with him. They put him in the ranks. He served
behind the lines for a week. Then his regiment moved up. As soon as the
guns began to rumble, a nervous second lieutenant edged toward the
demoted private. "Say, Danner, you've been in this before. Do you think
it's all right to keep on along this road the way we are?"
"I'm sure I couldn't say. You're taking a chance. Plane strafing and
shells."
"Well, what else are we to do? These are our orders."
"Nothing," Hugo said.
When the first shells fell among them, however, Danner forgot that his
transference had cost his commission and sadly bereft Captain Crouan and
his command. He forgot his repressed anger at the stupidity of American
headquarters and their bland assumption of knowledge superior to that
gained by three years of actual fighting. He virtually took charge of
his company, ignoring the bickering of a lieutenant who swore and
shouted and accomplished nothing and who was presently beheaded for his
lack of caution. A month later, with troops that had some feeling of
respect for the enemy--a feeling gained through close and gory
association--Hugo was returned his commission.
Slowly at first, and with increasing momentum, the war was pushed up out
of the trenches and the Germans retreated. The summer that filled the
windows of American homes with gold stars passed. Hugo worked like a
slave out beyond the front trenches, scouting, spying, destroying,
salvaging, bending his heart and shoulders to a task that had long since
become an acid routine. September. October. November. The end of that
holocaust was very near.
Then there came a day warmer than the rest and less rainy. Hugo was
riding toward the lines on a _camion_. He rode as much as possible now.
He had not slept for two days. His eyes were red and twitching. He felt
tired--tired as if his fatigue were the beginning of death--tired so
that nothing counted or mattered--tired of killing, of hating, of
suffering--tired even of an ideal that had tarnished through long
weathering. The _camion_ was steel and it rattled and bumped as it moved
over the road. Hugo lay flat in it, trying to close his eyes.
After a time, moving between the stumps of a row of poplars, they came
abreast of a regiment returning from the battle. They walked slowly and
dazedly. Each individual was still amazed at being alive after the
things he had witnessed. Hugo raised himself and looked at them. The
same expression had often been on the faces of the French. The long line
of the regiment ended. Then there was an empty place on the road, and
the speed of the truck increased.
Finally it stopped with a sharp jar, and the driver shouted that he
could go no farther. Hugo clambered to the ground. He estimated that the
battery toward which he was travelling was a mile farther. He began to
walk. There was none of the former lunge and stride in his steps. He
trudged, rather, his head bent forward. A little file of men approached
him, and, even at a distance, he did not need a second glance to
identify them. Walking wounded.
By ones and twos they began to pass him. He paid scant attention. Their
field dressings were stained with the blood that their progress cost.
They cursed and muttered. Someone had given them cigarettes, and a dozen
wisps of smoke rose from each group. It was not until he reached the end
of the straggling line that he looked up. Then he saw one man whose arms
were both under bandage walking with another whose eyes were covered and
whose hand, resting on his companion's shoulder, guided his stumbling
feet.
Hugo viewed them as they came on and presently heard their conversation.
"Christ, it hurts," one of them said.
"The devil with hurting, boy," the blinded man answered. "So do I, for
that matter. I feel like there was a hot poker in my brains."
"Want another butt?"
"No, thanks. Makes me kind of sick to drag on them. Wish I had a drink,
though."
"Who doesn't?"
Hugo heard his voice. "Hey, you guys," it said. "Here's some water. And
a shot of cognac, too."
The first man stopped and the blind man ran into him, bumping his head.
He gasped with pain, but his lips smiled. "Damn nice of you, whoever you
are."
They took the canteen and swallowed. "Go on," Hugo said, and permitted
himself a small lie. "I can get more in a couple of hours." He produced
his flask. "And finish off on a shot of this."
He held the containers for the armless man and handed them to the other.
Their clothes were ragged and stained. Their shoes were in pieces. Sweat
had soaked under the blind man's armpits and stained his tunic. As Hugo
watched him swallow thirstily, he started. The chin and the hair were
familiar. His mind spun. He knew the voice, although its tenor was sadly
changed.
"Good God," he said involuntarily, "it's Lefty!"