The Debacle - Emile Zola [45]
Chouteau was carrying the squad’s rice ration, and out of breath and furious with the load weighing him down he threw it away, thinking nobody was looking. But Loubet had seen.
‘You’re making a mistake, mate, shouldn’t do things like that because later on your pals ’ll have to tighten their belts.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ answered Chouteau. ‘As they’ve got everything, they’ll give us some more at the next stop.’
So Loubet, who was carrying the bacon, convinced by this argument, got rid of that too.
Maurice was having more and more trouble with his foot, and obviously the heel was inflamed again. He was limping so painfully that Jean became more and more concerned.
‘Not so good? Starting up again?’
Then, as they called a short halt to let the men get their breath back, he gave him a bit of good advice.
‘Take your boots off and walk barefoot, the cold mud will take away the smarting.’
And Maurice was indeed able in this way to keep up without too much difficulty and he felt a deep sense of gratitude coming over him. It was a real stroke of luck to have a corporal like this, an old soldier knowing all the tricks of the trade, a yokel and not very polished, obviously, but a good type all the same.
It was late when they reached Contreuve where they were to bivouac after crossing the Châlons–Vouziers road and going down a steep hill into the Semide gorge. The country was changing, and it was already the Ardennes. From the big bare hills above the village where the 7th corps was to camp, the valley of the Aisne could be made out in the distance veiled in the pale mist of the rainstorms.
By six Gaude had still not sounded rations, so Jean, for the sake of something to do, and also because he was worried about the rising wind, wanted to put up the tent himself. He showed his men how you should choose a site on a gentle slope, drive in the pegs at an angle and dig a gulley round the canvas for drainage. Maurice was exempt from all fatigues because of his foot, so he looked on and was surprised at the shrewd skill of this big, raw-boned fellow. He himself was dead beat but was kept going by the hope which was being reborn in every heart. They really had marched hard from Rheims, sixty kilometres in two stages. If they went on at this rate and straight ahead they would without doubt knock out the IInd German army and join up with Bazaine before the IIIrd, that of the Crown Prince of Prussia, said to be at Vitry-le-François, had had time to move up to Verdun.
‘Look here, are they going to let us peg out with hunger?’ asked Chouteau, realizing that it was seven o’clock and no issue had been made.
Jean had prudently ordered Loubet to light a fire all the same and put on a pan of water, and as there was no wood he had to shut his eyes when Loubet got some by simply ripping off the palings from a near-by garden. But when Jean mentioned doing some rice and bacon they had to own up that the rice and the bacon had been dumped in the mud along the Saint-Etienne road. Chouteau told a barefaced lie and swore that the package must have come untied and dropped from his pack without his noticing.
‘You’re a lot of swine!’ Jean shouted furiously. ‘Throwing food away when there are so many poor buggers with empty stomachs!’
And it was just the same over the three loaves that had been tied outside the packs: nobody had listened to him and the rains had soaked them and turned them into a soggy mess you couldn’t bite on at all.
‘We’re in a nice old mess!’ he said. ‘We had plenty of everything, and now look at us without a crust to eat… You’re a lot of fucking swine!’
Then the sergeants’ call was sounded for orders to be given, and Sergeant