Three Soldiers

  “Oh, boy,” said Chrisfield. “That ole wine sure do go down fast. … Say, Antoinette, got any cognac?”

  “I’m going to have some more wine,” said Andrews.

  “Go ahead, Andy; have all ye want. Ah want somethin’ to warm ma guts.”

  Antoinette brought a bottle of cognac and two small glasses and sat down in an empty chair with her red hands crossed on her apron. Her eyes moved from Chrisfield to the Frenchman and back again.

  Chrisfield turned a little round in his chair and looked at the Frenchman, feeling in his eyes for a moment a glance of the man’s yellowish-brown eyes.

  Andrews leaned back against the wall sipping his dark-colored wine, his eyes contracted dreamily, fixed on the shadow of the chandelier, which the cheap oil-lamp with its tin reflector cast on the peeling plaster of the wall opposite.

  Chrisfield punched him.

  “Wake up, Andy, are you asleep?”

  “No,” said Andy smiling.

  “Have a li’l mo’ cognac.”

  Chrisfield poured out two more glasses unsteadily. His eyes were on Antoinette again. The faded purple frock was hooked at the neck. The first three hooks were undone revealing a V-shape of golden brown skin and a bit of whitish underwear.

  “Say, Andy,” he said, putting his arm round his friend’s neck and talking into his ear, “talk up to her for me, will yer, Andy? … Ah won’t let that goddam frog get her, no, I won’t, by Gawd. Talk up to her for me, Andy.”

  Andrews laughed.

  “I’ll try,” he said. “But there’s always the Queen of Sheba, Chris.”

  “Antoinette, J’ai un ami,” started Andrews, making a gesture with a long dirty hand towards Chris.

  Antoinette showed her bad teeth in a smile.

  “Joli garçon,” said Andrews.

  Antoinette’s face became impassive and beautiful again. Chrisfield leaned back in his chair with an empty glass in his hand and watched his friend admiringly.

  “Antoinette, mon ami vous … vous admire,” said Andrews in a courtly voice.

  A woman put her head in the door. It was the same face and hair as Antoinette’s, ten years older, only the skin, instead of being golden brown, was sallow and wrinkled.

  “Viens,” said the woman in a shrill voice.

  Antoinette got up, brushed heavily against Chrisfield’s leg as she passed him and disappeared. The Frenchman walked across the room from his corner, saluted gravely and went out.

  Chrisfield jumped to his feet. The room was like a white box reeling about him.

  “That frog’s gone after her,” he shouted.

  “No, he ain’t, Chris,” cried someone from the next table. “Sit tight, ole boy. We’re bettin’ on yer.”

  “Yes, sit down and have a drink, Chris,” said Andy. “I’ve got to have somethin’ more to drink. I haven’t had a thing to drink all the evening.” He pulled him back into his chair. Chrisfield tried to get up again. Andrews hung on him so that the chair upset. Then both sprawled on the red tiles of the floor.

  “The house is pinched!” said a voice.

  Chrisfield saw Judkins standing over him, a grin on his large red face. He got to his feet and sat sulkily in his chair again. Andrews was already sitting opposite him, looking impassive as ever.

  The tables were full now. Someone was singing in a droning voice.

  “O the oak and the ash and the weeping willow tree,

  O green grows the grass in God’s countree!”

  “Ole Indiana,” shouted Chris. “That’s the only God’s country I know.” He suddenly felt that he could tell Andy all about his home and the wide corn-fields shimmering and rustling under the July sun, and the creek with red clay banks where he used to go in swimming. He seemed to see it all before him, to smell the winey smell of the silo, to see the cattle, with their chewing mouths always stained a little with green, waiting to get through the gate to the water trough, and the yellow dust and roar of wheat-thrashing, and the quiet evening breeze cooling his throat and neck when he lay out on a shack of hay that he had been tossing all day long under the tingling sun. But all he managed to say was:

  “Indiana’s God’s country, ain’t it, Andy?”

  “Oh, he has so many,” muttered Andrews.

  “Ah’ve seen a hailstone measured nine inches around out home, honest to Gawd, Ah have.”

  “Must be as good as a barrage.”

  “Ah’d like to see any goddam barrage do the damage one of our thunder an’ lightnin’ storms’ll do,” shouted Chris.

  “I guess all the barrage we’re going to see’s grenade practice.”

  “Don’t you worry, buddy,” said somebody across the room. “You’ll see enough of it. This war’s going to last damn long …”

  “Ah’d lake to get in some licks at those Huns tonight; honest to Gawd Ah would, Andy,” muttered Chris in a low voice. He felt his muscles contract with a furious irritation. He looked through half-closed eyes at the men in the room, seeing them in distorted white lights and reddish shadows. He thought of himself throwing a grenade among a crowd of men. Then he saw the face of Anderson, a ponderous white face with eyebrows that met across his nose and a bluish, shaved chin.

  “Where does he stay at, Andy? I’m going to git him.”

  Andrews guessed what he meant.

  “Sit down and have a drink, Chris,” he said, “Remember you’re going to sleep with the Queen of Sheba tonight.”

  “Not if I can’t git them goddam …” his voice trailed off into an inaudible muttering of oaths.

  “O the oak and the ash and the weeping willow tree,

  O green grows the grass in God’s countree,”

  somebody sang again.

  Chrisfield saw a woman standing beside the table with her back to him, collecting the bottles. Andy was paying her.

  “Antoinette,” he said. He got to his feet and put his arms round her shoulders. With a quick movement of the elbows she pushed him back into his chair. She turned round. He saw the sallow face and thin breasts of the older sister. She looked in his eyes with surprise. He was grinning drunkenly. As she left the room she made a sign to him with her head to follow her. He got up and staggered out the door, pulling Andrews after him.

  In the inner room was a big bed with curtains where the women slept, and the fireplace where they did their cooking. It was dark except for the corner where he and Andrews stood blinking in the glare of a candle on the table. Beyond they could only see ruddy shadows and the huge curtained bed with its red coverlet.

  The Frenchman, somewhere in the dark of the room, said something several times.

  “Avions boches … ss-t!”

  They were quiet.

  Above them they heard the snoring of aëroplane motors, rising and falling like the buzzing of a fly against a window pane.

  They all looked at each other curiously. Antoinette was leaning against the bed, her face expressionless. Her heavy hair had come undone and fell in smoky gold waves about her shoulders. The older woman was giggling.

  “Come on, let’s see what’s doing, Chris,” said Andrews.

  They went out into the dark village street.

  “To hell with women, Chris, this is the war!” cried Andrews in a loud drunken voice as they reeled arm in arm up the street.

  “You bet it’s the war. … Ah’m a-goin’ to beat up …” Chrisfield felt his friend’s hand clapped over his mouth. He let himself go limply, feeling himself pushed to the side of the road.

  Somewhere in the dark he heard an officer’s voice say:

  “Bring those men to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” came another voice.

  Slow heavy footsteps came up the road in their direction. Andrews kept pushing him back along the side of a house, until suddenly they both fell sprawling in a manure pit.

  “Lie still for God’s sake,” muttered Andrews, throwing an arm over Chrisfield’s chest. A thick odor of dry manure filled their nostrils.

  They heard the steps c
ome nearer, wander about irresolutely and then go off in the direction from which they had come. Meanwhile the throb of motors overhead grew louder and louder.

  “Well?” came the officer’s voice.

  “Couldn’t find them, sir,” mumbled the other voice.

  “Nonsense. Those men were drunk,” came the officer’s voice.

  “Yes, sir,” came the other voice humbly.

  Chrisfield started to giggle. He felt he must yell aloud with laughter.

  The nearest motor stopped its singsong roar, making the night seem deathly silent.

  Andrews jumped to his feet.

  The air was split by a shriek followed by a racking snorting explosion. They saw the wall above their pit light up with a red momentary glare.

  Chrisfield got to his feet, expecting to see flaming ruins. The village street was the same as ever. There was a little light from the glow the moon, still under the horizon, gave to the sky. A window in the house opposite showed yellow. In it was a blue silhouette of an officer’s cap and uniform.

  A little group stood in the street below.

  “What was that?” the form in the window was shouting in a peremptory voice.

  “German aëroplane just dropped a bomb, Major,” came a breathless voice in reply.

  “Why the devil don’t he close that window?” a voice was muttering all the while. “Juss a target for ’em to aim at … a target to aim at.”

  “Any damage done?” asked the major.

  Through the silence the snoring of the motors singsonged ominously overhead, like giant mosquitoes.

  “I seem to hear more,” said the major, in his drawling voice.

  “O yes sir, yes sir, lots,” answered an eager voice.

  “For God’s sake tell him to close the window, Lieutenant,” muttered another voice.

  “How the hell can I tell him? You tell him.”

  “We’ll all be killed, that’s all there is about it.”

  “There are no shelters or dugouts,” drawled the major from the window. “That’s Headquarters’ fault.”

  “There’s the cellar!” cried the eager voice, again.

  “Oh,” said the major.

  Three snorting explosions in quick succession drowned everything in a red glare. The street was suddenly filled with a scuttle of villagers running to shelter.

  “Say, Andy, they may have a roll call,” said Chrisfield.

  “We’d better cut for home across country,” said Andrews.

  They climbed cautiously out of their manure pit. Chrisfield was surprised to find that he was trembling. His hands were cold. It was with difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering.

  “God, we’ll stink for a week.”

  “Let’s git out,” muttered Chrisfield, “o’ this goddam village.”

  They ran out through an orchard, broke through a hedge and climbed up the hill across the open fields.

  Down the main road an anti-aircraft gun had started barking and the sky sparkled with exploding shrapnel. The “put, put, put” of a machine gun had begun somewhere.

  Chrisfield strode up the hill in step with his friend. Behind them bomb followed bomb, and above them the air seemed full of exploding shrapnel and droning planes. The cognac still throbbed a little in their blood. They stumbled against each other now and then as they walked. From the top of the hill they turned and looked back. Chrisfield felt a tremendous elation thumping stronger than the cognac through his veins. Unconsciously he put his arm round his friend’s shoulders. They seemed the only live things in a reeling world.

  Below in the valley a house was burning brightly. From all directions came the yelp of anti-aircraft guns, and overhead unperturbed continued the leisurely singsong of the motors.

  Suddenly Chrisfield burst out laughing.

  “By God, Ah always have fun when Ah’m out with you, Andy,” he said.

  They turned and hurried down the other slope of the hill towards the farms where they were quartered.

  II

  As far as he could see in every direction were the grey trunks of beeches bright green with moss on one side. The ground was thick with last year’s leaves that rustled maddeningly with every step. In front of him his eyes followed other patches of olive-drab moving among the tree trunks. Overhead, through the mottled light and dark green of the leaves he could see now and then a patch of heavy grey sky, greyer than the silvery trunks that moved about him in every direction as he walked. He strained his eyes down each alley until they were dazzled by the reiteration of mottled grey and green. Now and then the rustling stopped ahead of him, and the olive-drab patches were still. Then, above the clamour of the blood in his ears, he could hear batteries “pong, pong, pong” in the distance, and the woods ringing with a sound like hail as a heavy shell hurtled above the tree tops to end in a dull rumble miles away.

  Chrisfield was soaked with sweat, but he could not feel his arms or legs. Every sense was concentrated in eyes and ears, and in the consciousness of his gun. Time and again he pictured himself taking sight at something grey that moved, and firing. His forefinger itched to press the trigger. He would take aim very carefully, he told himself; he pictured a dab of grey starting up from behind a grey tree trunk, and the sharp detonation of his rifle, and the dab of grey rolling among the last year’s leaves.

  A branch carried his helmet off his head so that it rolled at his feet and bounced with a faint metallic sound against the root of a tree.

  He was blinded by the sudden terror that seized him. His heart seemed to roll from side to side in his chest. He stood stiff, as if paralyzed for a moment before he could stoop and pick the helmet up. There was a curious taste of blood in his mouth.

  “Ah’ll pay ’em fer that,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

  His fingers were still trembling when he stooped to pick up the helmet, which he put on again very carefully, fastening it with the strap under his chin.

  Furious anger had taken hold of him.

  The olive-drab patches ahead had moved forward again. He followed, looking eagerly to the right and the left, praying he might see something. In every direction were the silvery trunk of the beeches, each with a vivid green streak on one side. With every step the last year’s russet leaves rustled underfoot, maddeningly loud.

  Almost out of sight among the moving tree trunks was a log. It was not a log; it was a bunch of grey-green cloth. Without thinking Chrisfield strode towards it. The silver trunks of the beeches circled about him, waving jagged arms. It was a German lying full length among the leaves.

  Chrisfield was furiously happy in the angry pumping of blood through his veins.

  He could see the buttons on the back of the long coat of the German, and the red band on his cap.

  He kicked the German. He could feel the ribs against his toes through the leather of his boot. He kicked again and again with all his might. The German rolled over heavily. He had no face. Chrisfield felt the hatred suddenly ebb out of him. Where the face had been was a spongy mass of purple and yellow and red, half of which stuck to the russet leaves when the body rolled over. Large flies with bright shiny green bodies circled about it. In a brown clay-grimed hand was a revolver.

  Chrisfield felt his spine go cold; the German had shot himself.

  He ran off suddenly, breathlessly, to join the rest of the reconnoitering squad. The silent beeches whirled about him, waving gnarled boughs above his head. The German had shot himself. That was why he had no face.

  Chrisfield fell into line behind the other men. The corporal waited for him.

  “See anything?” he asked.

  “Not a goddam thing,” muttered Chrisfield almost inaudibly. The corporal went off to the head of the line.

  Chrisfield was alone again. The leaves rustled maddeningly loud underfoot.

  III

  Chrisfield’s eyes were fixed on the leaves at the tops of the walnut trees, etched like metal against the bright colorless sky, edged with flicks and fringes of gold where
the sunlight struck them. He stood stiff and motionless at attention, although there was a sharp pain in his left ankle that seemed swollen enough to burst the worn boot. He could feel the presence of men on both sides of him, and of men again beyond them. It seemed as if the stiff line of men in olive-drab, standing at attention, waiting endlessly for someone to release them from their erect paralysis, must stretch unbroken round the world. He let his glance fall to the trampled grass of the field where the regiment was drawn up. Somewhere behind him he could hear the clinking of spurs at some officer’s heels. Then there was the sound of a motor on the road suddenly shut off, and there were steps coming down the line of men, and a group of officers passed hurriedly, with a business-like stride, as if they did nothing else all their lives. Chrisfield made out eagles on tight khaki shoulders, then a single star and a double star, above which was a red ear and some grey hair; the general passed too soon for him to make out his face. Chrisfield swore to himself a little because his ankle hurt so. His eyes travelled back to the fringe of the trees against the bright sky. So this was what he got for those weeks in dugouts, for all the times he had thrown himself on his belly in the mud, for the bullets he had shot into the unknown at grey specks that moved among the grey mud. Something was crawling up the middle of his back. He wasn’t sure if it were a louse or if he were imagining it. An order had been shouted. Automatically he had changed his position to parade rest. Somewhere far away a little man was walking towards the long drab lines. A wind had come up, rustling the stiff leaves of the grove of walnut trees. The voice squeaked above it, but Chrisfield could not make out what it said. The wind in the trees made a vast rhythmic sound like the churning of water astern of the transport he had come over on. Gold flicks and olive shadows danced among the indented clusters of leaves as they swayed, as if sweeping something away, against the bright sky. An idea came into Chrisfield’s head. Suppose the leaves should sweep in broader and broader curves until they should reach the ground and sweep and sweep until all this was swept away, all these pains and lice and uniforms and officers with maple leaves or eagles or single stars or double stars or triple stars on their shoulders. He had a sudden picture of himself in his old comfortable overalls, with his shirt open so that the wind caressed his neck like a girl blowing down it playfully, lying on a shuck of hay under the hot Indiana sun. Funny he’d thought all that, he said to himself. Before he’d known Andy he’d never have thought of that. What had come over him these days?