Fable, A - William Faulkner [169]
'I-' the man said; again he glanced rapidly about, at nothing, no one, anguished and despairing.
'His name is-' the corporal said. 'I've got his papers-' He reached inside his tunic and produced a soiled dogeared paper, obviously a regimental posting order. 'Pierre Bouc.' He rattled off a number.
There's no Bouc on this list,' the sergeant said. 'What's he doing here?'
'You tell me,' the corporal said. 'He got mixed in with us somehow Monday morning. None of us know any Pierre Bouc either,'
'Why didn't he say something before this?'
'Who would have listened?' the corporal said.
'Is that right?' the sergeant said to the man. 'You dont belong in this squad?' The man didn't answer.
'Tell him,' the corporal said.
'No,' the man whispered. Then he said loudly: 'No!' He blundered up. 'I dont know them!' he said, blundering, stumbling, half-falling backward over the bench almost as though in flight until the sergeant checked him.
'The major will have to settle this,' the sergeant said. 'Give me that order.' The corporal passed it to him. 'Out with you,' the sergeant said. 'Both of you.' Now those inside the room could see beyond the door another file of armed men, apparently a new one, waiting. The two prisoners passed on through the door and into it, the sergeant, then the orderly following; the iron door clashed behind them, against that room and all it contained, signified, portended; beyond it Polchek didn't even lower his voice: 'They promised me brandy. Where is it?'
'Shut up,' the sergeant's voice said. 'You'll get what's coming to you, no bloody fear.'
'I'd better,' Polcheck said. 'If I dont, I might know what to do about it,'
'I've told him once,' the sergeant's voice said. 'If he dont shut up this time, shut him up,'
'With pleasure, sergeant,' another voice said. 'Can do,'
Take them on,' the sergeant's voice said. Though before the iron clash of the door had ceased the corporal was already speaking, not loud: just prompt, still mild, not peremptory: just firm: 'Eat,' The same man essayed to speak again but again the corporal forestalled him. 'Eat,' he said. 'Next time he will take it out,' But they were spared that. The door opened almost immediately, but this time it was only the sergeant, alone, the eleven heads which remained turning as one to look at him where he faced the corporal down the length of the littered table.
'You,' the sergeant said.
'Me?' the corporal said.
'Yes,' the sergeant said. Still the corporal didn't move. He said again: 'You mean me?'
'Yes,' the sergeant said. 'Come on,' The corporal rose then. He gave one rapid look about at the ten faces now turning from the sergeant to look at him-faces dirty, unshaven, strained, which had slept too little in too long, harassed, but absolute, one in whatever it was-not trust exactly, not dependence: perhaps just one-ness, singleness.
'You're in charge, Paul,' he said to the Breton.
'Right,' the Breton said. Till you get back,' But this time the corridor was empty; it was the sergeant himself who closed the door behind them and turned the heavy key and pocketed it. There was no one in sight at all where he-the corporal-had expected to find armed men bristling until the moment when they in the white glittering room in the Hotel de Ville sent for them for the last time. Then the sergeant turned from the door and now he-the corporal-realised that they were even hurrying a little: not at all furtive nor even surreptitious: just expedite, walking rapidly back up the corridor which he had already traversed three times-once yesterday morning when the guards had brought them from the lorry to the Thursday Night cell, and twice last night when the guards had taken them to the Hotel de Ville and brought them back, their-his and the sergeant's-heavy boots not ringing because (so recent the factory-when it had been a factory-was) these were not stone but brick, but making instead a dull and heavy sound seeming only the louder because there were only four now instead of