The Debacle - Emile Zola [139]
‘Mind how you go, young fellow-me-lad!’ Jean said more than once to Maurice. ‘This is the crunch… Don’t show the tip of your nose or it’ll get blown off! Keep your bones well inside unless you want to leave a few on the road. The ones who get back after this lot will be pretty good.’
Maurice could hardly hear for the tumult and racket of the crowd filling his ears. He no longer knew whether he was afraid or not, carried along at a run by all the others, with no will-power of his own except to get it over at once. To such an extent had he become just one single wave of this rushing torrent that when there was a sudden ebb at the far end of the trench, caused by the prospect of the open ground still to be climbed, he at once felt panic come over him and was ready to run away. Instinct took over, his muscles ran amok, obeying every wind that blew.
Men were already turning back when the colonel rushed up.
‘Now look here, boys, you’re not going to let me down and act like a lot of babies… Remember, the 106th has never retreated, and you would be the first to disgrace our flag…’
He urged on his horse and blocked the way against those who were turning tail, finding some word for each one, talking of France in a voice breaking with emotion.
Lieutenant Rochas was so moved that he fell into a furious rage and began belabouring the men with his sword as though it were a stick.
‘You bleeding lot of sods, I’ll get you up there with kicks up the arse! Will you do as you’re told, if not, the first man to turn on his heels – I’ll sock him one on the jaw!’
But violence of this kind, soldiers driven into the firing line by kicks, did not appeal to the colonel.
‘No, no, lieutenant, they’re all going to follow me… Aren’t you, boys?… You’re not going to let your old colonel have it out with the Prussians on his own! Come on, up and at ’em!’
Off he dashed, and they all went after him, for he had said that in such a fatherly way that you couldn’t let him down unless you were a lot of shits. But he was the only one to cross the bare fields quite calmly, on his tall horse, while the men scattered and ducked like snipers, taking advantage of every bit of shelter. The land went uphill and there were a good five hundred metres of stubble and beet patches before the Calvary was reached. Instead of the classical assault as in manoeuvres, in straight lines, all that could soon be seen was humped backs creeping along on the ground, soldiers alone or in little groups crawling or suddenly jumping up like insects and reaching the top by dint of agility and subterfuge. The enemy batteries must have spotted them, for shells were raking the ground so often that the explosions never stopped. Five men were killed; a lieutenant had his body cut in two.
Maurice and Jean had had the good luck to find a hedge behind which they could run along unseen. But a bullet ploughed through the side of the head of one of their companions, who fell at their feet. They had to kick him to one side. However, the dead no longer counted, there were too many of them. The horror of the battlefield, a wounded man they saw shrieking and holding his entrails in with both hands, a horse still dragging itself along on its broken legs, all this frightful agony had ceased to touch them. All they suffered from now was the overpowering heat of the noonday sun gnawing at their shoulders.
‘Oh, how thirsty I am!’ muttered Maurice. ‘I feel as if I had some soot down my throat. Can’t you smell scorching, like burning wool?’
Jean nodded.
‘It was the same smell at Solferino. I suppose it’s the smell of war… Oh, I’ve still got some brandy left, and we can have a nip.’
They coolly stopped there for a moment, behind the hedge. But far from quenching their thirst the brandy burned their insides. It was the limit, this taste of scorching in their mouths. And they were dying of hunger too. They would have liked to