minutes afterwards one of the sentries entered and reported something to the lieutenant. I caught the phrase, “Deux civils.”
The lieutenant said to me, “We will go and see,” and following the sentry we picked our way along a muddy over-grown path between two fields. Twenty yards beyond the farm buildings, in a narrow ditch, we came on what we sought: a woman and a small boy. They were very clearly dead: a small neat clot of blood on the woman’s forehead, and the child might have been sleeping. He was about six years old and he lay like an embryo in the womb with his little bony knees drawn up. “Malchance,” the lieutenant said. He bent down and turned the child over. He was wearing a holy medal round his neck, and I said to myself, ‘The juju doesn’t work.’ There was a gnawed piece of loaf under his body. I thought, I hate war.’
The lieutenant said, “Have you seen enough?” speaking savagely, almost as though I had been responsible for these deaths: perhaps to the soldier the civilian is the man who employs him to kill, who includes the guilt of murder in the pay-envelope and escapes responsibility. We walked back to the farm and sat down again in silence on the straw, out of the wind, which like an. animal seemed to know that dark was coming. The man who had doodled was relieving himself, and the man who had relieved himself was doodling. I thought how in those moments of quiet, after the sentries had been posted, they must have believed it safe to move from the ditch. I wondered whether they had lain there long-the bread had been very dry. This farm was probably their home.
The radio was working again. The lieutenant said wearily, “They are going to bomb the village. Patrols are called in for the night.” We rose and began our journey back, punting again around the shoal of bodies, filing past the church. We hadn’t gone very far, and yet it seemed a long enough journey to have made with the killing of those two as the only result. The planes had gone up, and behind us the bombing began.
Dark had fallen by the time I reached the officers’ quarters, where I was spending the night. The temperature was only a degree above zero, and the sole warmth anywhere was in the blazing market. With one wall destroyed by a bazooka and the doors buckled, canvas curtains couldn’t shut out the draughts. The electric dynamo was not working, and we had to build barricades of boxes and books to keep the candles burning. I played Quatre Vingt-et-un for Communist currency with a Captain Sorel: it wasn’t possible to play for drinks as I was a guest of the mess. The luck went wearisomely back and forth. I opened my bottle of whisky to try to warm us a little, and the others gathered round. The colonel said, “This is the first glass of whisky I have had since I left Paris.”
A lieutenant came in from his round of the sentries. “Perhaps we shall have a quiet night,” he said.
“They will not attack before four,” the colonel said. “Have you a gun?” he asked me. “No”
“I’ll find you one. Better keep it on your pillow.” He added courteously, “I am afraid you will find your mattress rather hard. And at three-thirty the mortar-fire will begin. We try to break up any concentrations.” “How long do you suppose this will go on?” “Who knows? We can’t spare any more troops from Nam Dinh. This is just a diversion. If we can hold out with no more help than we got two days ago, it is, one may say, a victory.”
The wind was up again, prowling for an entry. The canvas curtain sagged (I was reminded of Polonius stabbed behind the arras) and the candle wavered. The shadows were theatrical. We might have been a company of barn-stormers.
“Have your posts held?”
“As far as we know.” He said with an effect of great tiredness, “This is nothing, you understand, an affair of no importance compared with what is happening a hundred kilometres away at Hoa Binh. That is a battle.” “Another
The lieutenant said to me, “We will go and see,” and following the sentry we picked our way along a muddy over-grown path between two fields. Twenty yards beyond the farm buildings, in a narrow ditch, we came on what we sought: a woman and a small boy. They were very clearly dead: a small neat clot of blood on the woman’s forehead, and the child might have been sleeping. He was about six years old and he lay like an embryo in the womb with his little bony knees drawn up. “Malchance,” the lieutenant said. He bent down and turned the child over. He was wearing a holy medal round his neck, and I said to myself, ‘The juju doesn’t work.’ There was a gnawed piece of loaf under his body. I thought, I hate war.’
The lieutenant said, “Have you seen enough?” speaking savagely, almost as though I had been responsible for these deaths: perhaps to the soldier the civilian is the man who employs him to kill, who includes the guilt of murder in the pay-envelope and escapes responsibility. We walked back to the farm and sat down again in silence on the straw, out of the wind, which like an. animal seemed to know that dark was coming. The man who had doodled was relieving himself, and the man who had relieved himself was doodling. I thought how in those moments of quiet, after the sentries had been posted, they must have believed it safe to move from the ditch. I wondered whether they had lain there long-the bread had been very dry. This farm was probably their home.
The radio was working again. The lieutenant said wearily, “They are going to bomb the village. Patrols are called in for the night.” We rose and began our journey back, punting again around the shoal of bodies, filing past the church. We hadn’t gone very far, and yet it seemed a long enough journey to have made with the killing of those two as the only result. The planes had gone up, and behind us the bombing began.
Dark had fallen by the time I reached the officers’ quarters, where I was spending the night. The temperature was only a degree above zero, and the sole warmth anywhere was in the blazing market. With one wall destroyed by a bazooka and the doors buckled, canvas curtains couldn’t shut out the draughts. The electric dynamo was not working, and we had to build barricades of boxes and books to keep the candles burning. I played Quatre Vingt-et-un for Communist currency with a Captain Sorel: it wasn’t possible to play for drinks as I was a guest of the mess. The luck went wearisomely back and forth. I opened my bottle of whisky to try to warm us a little, and the others gathered round. The colonel said, “This is the first glass of whisky I have had since I left Paris.”
A lieutenant came in from his round of the sentries. “Perhaps we shall have a quiet night,” he said.
“They will not attack before four,” the colonel said. “Have you a gun?” he asked me. “No”
“I’ll find you one. Better keep it on your pillow.” He added courteously, “I am afraid you will find your mattress rather hard. And at three-thirty the mortar-fire will begin. We try to break up any concentrations.” “How long do you suppose this will go on?” “Who knows? We can’t spare any more troops from Nam Dinh. This is just a diversion. If we can hold out with no more help than we got two days ago, it is, one may say, a victory.”
The wind was up again, prowling for an entry. The canvas curtain sagged (I was reminded of Polonius stabbed behind the arras) and the candle wavered. The shadows were theatrical. We might have been a company of barn-stormers.
“Have your posts held?”
“As far as we know.” He said with an effect of great tiredness, “This is nothing, you understand, an affair of no importance compared with what is happening a hundred kilometres away at Hoa Binh. That is a battle.” “Another
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