Books: The New Book Of Martyrs
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Georges Duhamel >> The New Book Of Martyrs
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Derancourt became my friend.
His leg had been cut off at the thigh, and this had not yet
healed; he had, further, a number of other wounds which had closed
more or less during his captivity.
Derancourt never talked of himself, much less of his misfortune. I
knew from his comrades that he had fought near Longwy, his native
town, and that he had lain grievously wounded for nine days on the
battlefield. He had seen his father, who had come to succour him,
killed at his side; then he had lain beside the corpse, tortured
by a delirious dream in which nine days and nine nights had
followed one upon the other, like a dizziness of alternate
darkness and dazzling light. In the mornings, he sucked the wet
grass he clutched when he stretched out his hands.
Afterwards he had suffered in Germany, and finally he had come
back to France, mutilated, covered with wounds, and knowing that
his wife and children were left without help and without resources
in the invaded territory.
Of all this Derancourt said not a word. He apparently did not know
how to complain, and he contemplated the surrounding wretchedness
with a grave look, full of experience, which would have seemed a
little cold but for the tremulous mobility of his features.
Derancourt never played, never laughed. He sought solitude, and
spent hours, turning his head slowly from side to side,
contemplating the walls and the ceiling like one who sees things
within himself.
The day came when we had to operate on Derancourt, to make his
stump of a thigh serviceable.
He was laid on the table. He remained calm and self-controlled as
always, looking at the preparations for the operation with a kind
of indifference.
We put the chloroform pad under his nose; he drew two or three
deep breaths, and then a strange thing happened: Derancourt began
to sob in a terrible manner, and to talk of all those things he
had never mentioned. The grief he had suppressed for months
overflowed, or rather, rushed out in desperate, heartrending
lamentations.
It was not the disorderly intoxication, the muscular, animal
rebellion of those who are thrown into this artificial sleep. It
was the sudden break-up of an overstrained will under a slight
shock. For months Derancourt had braced himself against despair,
and now, all of a sudden, he gave way, and abandoned himself to
poignant words and tears. The flood withdrew suddenly, leaving the
horrible, chaotic depths beneath the sea visible.
We ceased scrubbing our hands, and stood aghast and deeply moved,
full of sadness and respect.
Then some one exclaimed:
"Quick! quick! More chloroform! Stupefy him outright, let him
sleep."
XIII
"But a man can't be paralysed by a little hole in his back! I
tell you it was only a bullet. You must take it out, doctor. Take
it out, and I shall be all right."
Thus said a Zouave, who had been lying helpless for three days on
his bed.
"If you knew how strong I am! Look at my arms! No one could unhook
a bag like me, and heave it over my shoulder--tock! A hundred
kilos--with one jerk!"
The doctor looked at the muscular torso, and his face expressed
pity, regret, embarrassment, and, perhaps, a certain wish to go
away.
"But this wretched bullet prevents me from moving my legs. You
must take it out, doctor, you must take it out!"
The doctor glances at the paralysed legs, and the swollen belly,
already lifeless. He knows that the bullet broke the spine, and
cut through the marrow which sent law and order into all this now
inanimate flesh.
"Operate, doctor. Look you, a healthy chap like me would soon get
well."
The doctor stammers vague sentences: the operation would be too
serious for the present ... better wait. ...
"No, no. Never fear. My health is first-rate. Don't be afraid, the
operation is bound to be a success."
His rugged face is contracted by his fixed idea. His voice
softens; blind confidence and supplication give it an unusual
tone. His heavy eyebrows meet and mingle under the stress of his
indomitable will; his soul makes such an effort that the
immobility of his legs seems suddenly intolerable. Heavens! Can a
man WILL so intensely, and yet be powerless to control his own
body?
"Oh, operate, operate! You will see how pleased I shall be!"
The doctor twists the sheet round his forefinger; then, hearing a
wounded man groaning in the next ward, he gets up, says he will
come back presently, and escapes.
XIV
The colloquy between the rival gods took place at the foot of the
great staircase.
The Arab soldier had just died. It was the Arab one used to see
under a shed, seated gravely on the ground in the midst of other
magnificent Arabs. In those days they had boots of crimson
leather, and majestic red mantles. They used to sit in a circle,
contemplating from under their turbans the vast expanse of mud
watered by the skies of Artois. To-day, they wear the ochre
helmet, and show the profiles of Saracen warriors.
The Algerian has just been killed, kicked in the belly by his
beautiful white horse.
In the ambulance there was a Mussulman orderly, a well-to-do
tradesman, who had volunteered for the work. He, on the other
hand, was extremely European, nay, Parisian; but a plump,
malicious smile showed itself in the midst of his crisp grey
beard, and he had the look in the eyes peculiar to those who come
from the other side of the Mediterranean.
Rashid "behaved very well." He had found native words when tending
the dying man, and had lavished on him the consolations necessary
to those of his country.
When the Algerian was dead, he arranged the winding-sheet himself,
in his own fashion; then he lighted a cigarette, and set out in
search of Monet and Renaud.
For lack of space, we had no mortuary at the time in the
ambulance. Corpses were placed in the chapel of the cemetery while
awaiting burial. The military burial-ground had been established
within the precincts of the church, close by the civilian
cemetery, and in a few weeks it had invaded it like a cancer and
threatened to devour it.
Rashid had thought of everything, and this was why he went in
search of Monet and Renaud, Catholic priests and ambulance
orderlies of the second class.
The meeting took place at the foot of the great staircase. Leaning
over the balustrade, I listened, and watched the colloquy of the
rival gods.
Monet was thirty years old; he had fine, sombre eyes, and a stiff
beard, from which a pipe emerged. Renaud carried the thin face of
a seminarist a little on one side.
Monet and Renaud listened gravely, as became people who were
deciding in the Name of the Father. Rashid was pleading for his
dead Arab with supple eloquence, wrapped in a cloud of tobacco-
smoke:
"We cannot leave the Arab's corpse under a wagon, in the storm.
... This man died for France, at his post. ... He had a right to
all honours, and it was hard enough as it was that he could not
have the obsequies he would surely have had in his own country."
Monet nodded approvingly, and Renaud, his mouth half open, was
seeking some formula.
It came, and this was it:
"Very well, Monsieur Rashid, take him into the church; that is
God's house for every one."
Rashid bowed with perfect deference, and went back to his dead.
Oh, he arranged everything very well! He had made this funeral a
personal matter. He was the family, the master of the ceremonies,
almost the priest.
The Algerian's body accordingly lay in the chapel, covered with
the old faded flag and a handful of chrysanthemums.
It was here the bearers came to take it, and carry it to
CONSECRATED GROUND, to lie among the other comrades.
Monet and Renaud were with us when it was lowered into the grave.
Rashid represented the dead man's kindred with much dignity. He
held something in his hand which he planted in the ground before
going away. It was that crescent of plain deal at the end of a
stick which is still to be seen in the midst of the worm-eaten
crosses, in the shadow of the belfry of L----.
There the same decay works towards the intermingling and the
reconciliation of ancient symbols and ancient dogmas.
XV
Nogue is courageous, but Norman; this gives to courage a special
form, which excludes neither reserve, nor prudence, nor moderation
of language.
On the day when he was wounded, he bore a preliminary operation
with perfect calm. Lifting up his shattered arm, I said:
"Are you suffering very much?" And he barely opened his lips to
reply:
"Well ... perhaps a bit."
Fever came the following days, and with it a certain discomfort.
Nogue could not eat, and when asked if he did not feel rather
hungry, he shook his head:
"I don't think so."
Well, the arm was broken very high up, the wound looked unhealthy,
the fever ran high, and we made up our minds that it was necessary
to come to a decision.
"My poor Nogue," I said, "we really can't do anything with that
arm of yours. Be sensible. Let us take it off."
If we had waited for his answer, Nogue would have been dead by
now. His face expressed great dissatisfaction, but he said neither
yes nor no.
"Don't be afraid, Nogue. I will guarantee the success of the
operation."
Then he asked to make his will. When the will had been made, Nogue
was laid upon the table and operated upon, without having
formulated either consent or refusal.
When the first dressing was made, Nogue looked at his bleeding
shoulder, and said:
"I suppose you couldn't have managed to leave just a little bit of
arm?"
After a few days the patient was able to sit up in an arm-chair.
His whole being bore witness to a positive resurrection, but his
tongue remained cautious.
"Well, now, you see, you're getting on capitally."
"Hum ... might be better."
Never could he make up his mind to give his whole-hearted
approval, even after the event, to the decision which had saved
his life. When we said to him:
"YOU'RE all right. We've done the business for YOU!" he would not
commit himself.
"We shall see, we shall see."
He got quite well, and we sent him into the interior. Since then,
he has written to us, "business letters," prudent letters which he
signs "a poor mutilated fellow."
XVI
Lapointe and Ropiteau always meet in the dressing ward. Ropiteau
is brought in on a stretcher, and Lapointe arrives on foot,
jauntily, holding up his elbow, which is going on "as well as
possible."
Lying on the table, the dressings removed from his thigh, Ropiteau
waits to be tended, looking at a winter fly walking slowly along
the ceiling, like an old man bowed down with sorrow. As soon as
Ropiteau's wounds are laid bare, Lapointe, who is versed in these
matters, opens the conversation.
"What do they put on it?"
"Well, only yellow spirit."
"That's the strongest of all. It stings, but it is first-rate for
strengthening the flesh. I always get ether."
"Ether stinks so!"
"Yes, it stinks, but one gets used to it. It warms the blood.
Don't you have tubes any longer?"
"They took out the last on Tuesday."
"Mine have been taken away, too. Wait a minute, old chap, let me
look at it. Does it itch?"
"Yes, it feels like rats gnawing at me."
"If it feels like rats, it's all right. Mine feels like rats, too.
Don't you want to scratch?"
"Yes, but they say I mustn't."
"No, of course, you mustn't. ... But you can always tap on the
dressing a little with your finger. That is a relief."
Lapointe leans over and examines Ropiteau's large wound.
"Old chap, it's getting on jolly well. Same here; I'll show you
presently. It's red, the skin is beginning to grow again. But it
is thin, very thin."
Lapointe sits down to have his dressing cut away, then he makes a
half turn towards Ropiteau.
"You see--getting on famously."
Ropiteau admires unreservedly.
"Yes, you're right. It looks first-rate."
"And you know ... such a beastly mess came out of it."
At this moment, the busy forceps cover up the wounds with the
dressing, and the operation comes to an end.
"So long!" says Lapointe to his elbow, casting a farewell glance
at it. And he adds, as he gets to the door:
"Now there are only the damned fingers that won't get on. But I
don't care. I've made up my mind to be a postman."
XVII
Bouchenton was not very communicative. We knew nothing of his
past history. As to his future plans, he revealed them by one day
presenting to the head doctor for his signature a paper asking
leave to open a Moorish cafe at Medea after his recovery, a
request the head doctor felt himself unable to endorse.
Bouchenton had undergone a long martyrdom in order to preserve an
arm from which the bone had been partially removed, but from which
a certain amount of work might still be expected. He screamed like
the others, and his cry was "Mohabdi! Mohabdi!" When the forceps
came near, he cried: "Don't put them in!" And after this he
maintained a silence made up of dignity and indolence. During the
day he was to be seen wandering about the wards, holding up his
ghostly muffled arm with his sound hand. In the evening, he
learned to play draughts, because it is a serious, silent game,
and requires consideration.
Now one day when Bouchenton, seated on a chair, was waiting for
his wound to be dressed, the poor adjutant Figuet began to
complain in a voice that was no more than the shadow of a voice,
just as his body was no more than the shadow of a body.
Figuet was crawling at the time up the slopes of a Calvary where
he was soon to fall once more, never to rise again.
The most stupendous courage and endurance foundered then in a
despair for which there seemed henceforth to be no possible
alleviation.
Figuet, I say, began to complain, and every one in the ward
feigned to be engrossed in his occupation, and to hear nothing,
because when such a man began to groan, the rest felt that the end
of all things had come.
Bouchenton turned his head, looked at the adjutant, seized his
flabby arm carefully with his right hand, and set out. Walking
with little short steps he came to the table where the suffering
man lay.
Stretching out his neck, his great bowed body straining in an
effort of attention, he looked at the wounds, the pus, the soiled
bandages, the worn, thin face, and his own wooden visage laboured
under the stress of all kinds of feelings.
Then Bouchenton did a very simple thing; he relaxed his hold on
his own boneless arm, held out his right hand to Figuet, seized
his transparent fingers and held them tightly clasped.
The adjutant ceased groaning. As long as the silent pressure
lasted, he ceased to complain, ceased perhaps to suffer.
Bouchenton kept his right hand there as long as it was necessary.
I saw this, Bouchenton, my brother. I will not forget it. And I
saw, too, your aching, useless left arm, which you had been
obliged to abandon in order to have a hand to give, hanging by
your side like a limp rag.
XVIII
To be over forty years old, to be a tradesman of repute, well
known throughout one's quarter, to be at the head of a prosperous
provision-dealer's business, and to get two fragments of shell--in
the back and the left buttock respectively--is really a great
misfortune; yet this is what happened to M. Levy, infantryman and
Territorial.
I never spoke familiarly to M. Levy, because of his age and his
air of respectability; and perhaps, too, because, in his case, I
felt a great and special need to preserve my authority.
Monsieur Levy was not always "a good patient." When I first
approached him, he implored me not to touch him "at any price."
I disregarded these injunctions, and did what was necessary.
Throughout the process, Monsieur Levy was snoring, be it said. But
he woke up at last, uttered one or two piercing cries, and
stigmatised me as a "brute." All right.
Then I showed him the big pieces of cast-iron I had removed from
his back and his buttock respectively. Monsieur Levy's eyes at
once filled with tears; he murmured a few feeling words about his
family, and then pressed my hands warmly: "Thank you, thank you,
dear Doctor."
Since then, Monsieur Levy has suffered a good deal, I must admit.
There are the plugs! And those abominable india-rubber tubes we
push into the wounds! Monsieur Levy, kneeling and prostrating
himself, his head in his bolster, suffered every day and for
several days without stoicism or resignation. I was called an
"assassin" and also on several occasions, a "brute." All right.
However, as I was determined that Monsieur Levy should get well, I
renewed the plugs, and looked sharply after the famous india-
rubber tubes.
The time came when my hands were warmly pressed and my patient
said: "Thank you, thank you, dear Doctor," every day.
At last Monsieur Levy ceased to suffer, and confined himself to
the peevish murmurs of a spoilt beauty or a child that has been
scolded. But now no one takes him seriously. He has become the
delight of the ward; he laughs so heartily when the dressing is
over, he is naturally so gay and playful, that I am rather at a
loss as to the proper expression to assume when, alluding to the
past, he says, with a look in which good nature, pride,
simplicity, and a large proportion of playful malice are mingled:
"I suffered so much! so much!"
XIX
He was no grave, handsome Arab, looking as if he had stepped from
the pages of the "Arabian Nights," but a kind of little brown
monster with an overhanging forehead and ugly, scanty hair.
He lay upon the table, screaming, because his abdomen was very
painful and his hip was all tumefied. What could we say to him? He
could understand nothing; he was strange, terrified, pitiable. ...
At my wits' ends, I took out a cigarette and placed it between his
lips. His whole face changed. He took hold of the cigarette
delicately between two bony fingers; he had a way of holding it
which was a marvel of aristocratic elegance.
While we finished the dressing, the poor fellow smoked slowly and
gravely, with all the distinction of an Oriental prince; then,
with a negligent gesture, he threw away the cigarette, of which he
had only smoked half.
Presently, suddenly becoming an animal, he spit upon my apron, and
kissed my hand like a dog, repeating something which sounded like
"Bouia! Bouia!"
XX
Gautreau looked like a beast of burden. He was heavy, square,
solid of base and majestic of neck and throat. What he could carry
on his back would have crushed an ordinary man; he had big bones,
so hard that the fragment of shell which struck him on the skull
only cracked it, and got no further into it. Gautreau arrived at
the hospital alone, on foot; he sat down on a chair in the corner,
saying:
"No need to hurry; it's only a scratch."
We gave him a cup of tea with rum in it, and he began to hum:
En courant par les epeignes
Je m'etios fait un ecourchon,
Et en courant par les epeignes
Et en courant apres not' couchon.
"Ah!" said Monsieur Boissin, "you are a man! Come here, let me
see."
Gautreau went into the operating ward saying:
"It feels queer to be walking on dry ground when you've just come
off the slime. You see: it's only a scratch. But one never knows:
there may be some bits left in it."
Dr. Boussin probed the wound, and felt the cracked bone. He was an
old surgeon who had his own ideas about courage and pain. He made
up his mind.
"I am in a hurry; you are a man. There is just a little something
to be done to you. Kneel down there and don't stir."
A few minutes later, Gautreau was on his knees, holding on to the
leg of the table. His head was covered with blood-stained
bandages, and Dr. Boussin, chisel in hand, was tapping on his
skull with the help of a little mallet, like a sculptor. Gautreau
exclaimed:
"Monsieur Bassin, Monsieur Bassin, you're hurting me."
"Not Bassin, but Boussin," replied the old man calmly.
"Well, Boussin, if you like."
There was a silence, and then Gautreau suddenly added:
"Monsieur Bassin, you are killing me with these antics."
"No fear!"
"Monsieur Bassin, I tell you you're killing me."
"Just a second more."
"Monsieur Bassin, you're driving nails into my head, it's a
shame."
"I've almost finished."
"Monsieur Bassin, I can't stand any more."
"It's all over now," said the surgeon, laying down his
instruments.
Gautreau's head was swathed with cotton wool and he left the ward.
"The old chap means well," he said, laughing, "but fancy knocking
like that ... with a hammer! It's not that it hurts so much; the
pain was no great matter. But it kills one, that sort of thing,
and I'm not going to stand that."
XXI
There is only one man in the world who can hold Hourticq's leg,
and that is Monet.
Hourticq, who is a Southerner, cries despairingly: "Oh, cette
jammbe, cette jammbe!" And his anxious eyes look eagerly round for
some one: not his doctor, but his orderly, Monet. Whatever
happens, the doctor will always do those things which doctors do.
Monet is the only person who can take the heel and then the foot
in both hands, raise the leg gently, and hold it in the air as
long as it is necessary.
There are people, it seems, who think this notion ridiculous. They
are all jealous persons who envy Monet's position and would like
to show that they too know how to hold Hourticq's leg properly.
But it is not my business to show favour to the ambitious. As soon
as Hourticq is brought in, I call Monet. If Monet is engaged,
well, I wait. He comes, lays hold of the leg, and Hourticq ceases
to lament. It is sometimes a long business, very long; big drops
of sweat come out on Monet's forehead. But I know that he would
not give up his place for anything in the world.
When Mazy arrived at the hospital, Hourticq, who is no egoist,
said to him at once in a low tone:
"Yours is a leg too, isn't it? You must try to get Monet to hold
it for you."
XXII
If Bouchard were not so bored, he would not be very wretched, for
he is very courageous, and he has a good temper. But he is
terribly bored, in his gentle, uncomplaining fashion. He is too
ill to talk or play games. He cannot sleep; he can only
contemplate the wall, and his own thoughts which creep slowly
along it, like caterpillars.
In the morning, I bring a catheter with me, and when Bouchard's
wounds are dressed, I apply it, for unfortunately, he can no
longer perform certain functions independently.
Bouchard has crossed his hands behind the nape of his neck, and
watches the process with a certain interest. I ask:
"Did I hurt you? Is it very unpleasant?"
Bouchard gives a melancholy smile and shakes his head:
"Oh, no, not at all! In fact it rather amuses me. It makes a few
minutes pass. The day is so long. ..."
XXIII
THOUGHTS OF PROSPER RUFFIN
... God! How awful it is in this carriage! Who is it who is
groaning like that? It's maddening! And then, all this would never
have happened if they had only brought the coffee at the right
time. Well now, a wretched 77 ... oh, no! Who is it who is
groaning like that? God, another jolt! No, no, man, we are not
salad. Take care there. My kidneys are all smashed.
Ah! now something is dripping on my nose. Hi! You up there, what's
happening? He doesn't answer. I suppose it's blood, all this mess.
Now again, some one is beginning to squeal like a pig. By the way,
can it be me? What! it was I who was groaning! Upon my word, it's
a little too strong, that! It was I myself who was making all the
row, and I did not know it. It's odd to hear oneself screaming.
Ah! now it's stopping, their beastly motor.
Look, there's the sun! What's that tree over there? I know, it's a
Japanese pine. Well, you see, I'm a gardener, old chap. Oh, oh,
oh! My back! What will Felicie say to me?
Look, there's Felicie coming down to the washing trough. She
pretends not to see me. ... I will steal behind the elder hedge.
Felicie! Felicie! I have a piece of a 77 in my kidneys. I like her
best in her blue bodice.
What are you putting over my nose, you people? It stinks horribly.
I am choking, I tell you. Felicie, Felicie. Put on your blue
bodice with the white spots, my little Feli ... Oh, but ... oh,
but ...!
Oh, the Whitsuntide bells already! God--the bells already ... the
Whitsun bells ... the bells. ...
XXIV
I remember him very well, although he was not long with us.
Indeed I think that I shall never forget him, and yet he stayed
such a short time. ...
When he arrived, we told him that an operation was necessary, and
he made a movement with his head, as if to say that it was our
business, not his.
We operated, and as soon as he recovered consciousness, he went
off again into a dream which was like a glorious delirium, silent
and haughty.
His breathing was so impeded by blood that it sounded like
groaning; but his eyes were full of a strange serenity. That look
was never with us.
I had to uncover and dress his wounds several times; and THOSE
WOUNDS MUST HAVE SUFFERED. But to the last, he himself seemed
aloof from everything, even his own sufferings.
XXV
"Come in here. You can see him once more."
I open the door, and push the big fair artilleryman into the room
where his brother has just died.
I turn back the sheet and uncover the face of the corpse. The
flesh is still warm.
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