Paths of Glory (21 page)

Roget took another swallow of the cognac, a smaller one. The coincidence between his wishes and his duty was already beginning to fade from his thought.

“A man has to be chosen to go before the summary court martial. That'll certainly mean execution. Didier wasn't killed, not even wounded in the attack. Where was he then? Certainly not on the parapet, for all the men in our company who scaled it were killed. Practically all, anyway, or wounded. So that makes him a candidate at once. He didn't get out of the trench. On top of that, his actions on the patrol are enough to get him shot three times over. I'll bring that out at the court martial, if necessary. And if he starts to talk, he'll only make it worse for himself. They'll realize it's a man in desperate circumstances making insane accusations in his efforts to save himself at another's expense. Make a very bad impression. Thank God Charpentier got it. He never liked me, and I didn't like the way he acted about that report of mine. I've certainly had some luck. It would be the height of stupidity for me to do anything but assist events on the road they seem to be taking anyway. Later, perhaps, I can get transferred out of this regiment. Get clean away from it . . . maybe a nice little wound . . .”

“Runner!”

“Sir?”

“Is Sergeant Gounod around?”

“I think so, sir. I'll see.”

“Tell him to come here at once.”

Roget took a third drink, put the bottle away, and lighted a fresh cigarette. He felt quite pleased with himself for having reached and taken his decision, a decision which now seemed logical, dutiful, inevitable. The alcohol had effectively anæsthetized him from his scruples and had removed his irresolution. Unconscious that he was doing so, he paid it tribute, gave it credit for its assistance: “Sufficient unto the crisis is the alcohol thereof,” he said to himself, and laughed.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” said the sergeant, saluting in the doorway of the hut.

“Yes, Gounod, come here. Read that. Understand? All right, go up to the camp and arrest Private Didier and take him down to the guard-room as ordered. But do it quietly, without anybody knowing, if you can.”

“It will be difficult, sir, with all the men around.”

“I tell you what. Better do it this way. Just tell him to come along with you, you've got a job for him. Don't arrest him formally until you're clear of the camp. And don't tell him anything. If he asks questions, say you don't know. By the way, do you know which is Didier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, don't make any mistakes.”

 

“Hey! Look at this, Arnaud. Who says there's nothing new in this world? I've had some experiences in my life, but this is the first time I've had the role of fate or God or whatever you call it thrust upon me. This is going to be interesting.”

“Interesting, that's a queer thing to call a responsibility such as this order places on you, Sancy.”

“Don't be so solemn, my boy. To a man of my temperament everything is interesting. And this is more interesting than anything. Up to now, in my scientific work, I've never played God to anything but microbes, monkeys, or rats. But now I've got to play God to my own kind, to men. What a chance to exercise my intellectual faculties!”

“You speak of yourself and God as if you were messmates. It's in poor taste, to say the least. And after all, the role is not an unusual one. Every officer who has commanded troops in the line has been responsible for the fate of his men at one time or another.”

“Oh, but that's quite different. It's more or less predetermined or collective responsibility. You're only a link in a chain of responsibility. And you can't measure your own part in it with any accuracy. But this is different. Here am I, Captain Sancy of Number 4 Company, probably the only man in the world who is being called upon to pick a fellow-man for destruction. To select him, mind you. In other words, to put my intelligence to work upon a problem which involves not a sum of money, not an ordinary question of life nor even a military one, but a man's existence. I move my finger over a row of men and when it stops and points, that point is fatal.”

“You're a strange fellow, Sancy. You seem to enjoy the job. But you're wrong about one or two things. First, you're not the only man in the world playing God, as you put it. Don't forget the other company commanders have to do the same thing. Second, it's very much a military problem. Third, surgeons are every day in the same position you're in . . .”

“Not the same at all. They're using their intelligence to preserve life. I, on the other hand, will be taking it.”

“I think you're a bit cracked sometimes. Now I'm delighted it's you who has to do the choosing and not me. I wouldn't know how.”

“Yes, I suppose you'd draw lots. No imagination.”

“Well, aren't you going to?”

“Certainly not. Besides, if I did that, I'd be disobeying. The orders are that Captain Sancy, not chance, is to select a man. And the first intelligent order I've seen come from above. Of course the company commander is the one best qualified to pick a man to be shot, because he knows his men.”

“I've never seen you so pleased since the day they put you in charge of that raid . . .”

“I like to use my head, Arnaud. The beauty of this case is its freedom from complications because all the men are equally innocent. None of them showed cowardice in the face of the enemy, but one of them's got to be shot for it none the less. Now the point is, which one?”

“One man's got to be shot for a crime he didn't commit, which nobody committed. Do you call that justice?”

“Who said anything about justice? There's no such thing. But injustice is as much a part of life as the weather. And you're getting away from the point again. He isn't being shot for a crime he didn't commit. He's being shot as an example. That's his contribution to the winning of the war. An heroic one too, if you like.”

“So you figure that the man who is shot as an example is as much a part of the scheme of an offensive as the man who calculates the barrages, the infantryman who goes over the top, or the quartermaster who doesn't?”

“Of course, why not? Discipline is the first requisite of an army. It must be maintained and one of the ways of doing it is to shoot a man now and then. He dies, therefore, for the ultimate benefit of his comrades and of the country.”

“In other words, then, you think the general ought to come down and invest the victim with the
médaille militaire,
then step aside and let the firing-squad do its work?”

“Excellent, my boy, excellent!”

“There are shirkers in every company. I've got a prize one in my platoon, if that's the way you're going about it.”

“No, no, you're off on the wrong track.”

“What track are you on then? Don't you want to narrow it down to the ones who are the poorest soldiers?”

“Citizens, my boy, citizens, not soldiers. This war isn't going to last for ever, and when it's over we'll be glad enough to be rid of the soldiers and to have some citizens for a change. Besides which, what you call a poor soldier is often a good citizen. Take me, for instance. From the point of view of a soldier, I'm a poor one. That's why I'm only wearing three stripes instead of three stars. As a matter of fact, however, I'm a very good soldier. But I'm an even better citizen. I'm intelligent, industrious, educated, in good health mentally and physically. And I contribute my talents to the betterment of the world I live in. Not out of smugness, you understand, but out of intelligence. The better the world, the better for everybody and therefore the better for me and mine.”

“Well, who've you got on your mind?”

“Easily and instantly answered: the two incorrigibles, Meyer and Férol.”

“But they're the best soldiers in the company. And as a matter of record they got farther in the attack than anybody in the regiment.”

“Which adds one more proof of their stupidity. Now listen, Arnaud. Try to get this straight. If the whole regiment had been made up of Meyers and Férols, would it have done any better, got any further? No. Shells kill good and bad soldiers without discrimination. So even speaking militarily, they aren't worth any more than anyone else. We're all cannon fodder. Are you going to ask me to preserve the life of one of these brutes and sacrifice instead some man who might be of some use to society, who may only be of a negative use but who, at least, will not be a positive danger to it the way these two have already proved themselves? No. It's either Meyer or Férol then, and I'll let you know which in a few minutes, after I've thought about it carefully.”

There was silence for some time while Captain Sancy pondered his problem. He walked up and down the hut, stopping every so often to make a note on a piece of paper which was lying on the table. Lieutenant Arnaud, sitting nearby, could see that the captain's notes were gradually taking the shape of two columns. One column was longer than the other and it held its lead throughout Sancy's deliberations. Arnaud tried to read the names at the tops of the columns, but he couldn't make out the captain's small writing at that distance. After about twenty minutes Sancy tossed the paper over without saying anything, and this is what Arnaud read:

“Those are the high spots,” said Sancy. “A fine pair, eh?”

“It looks as if Meyer's elected,” said Arnaud.

“Why do you think that?”

“His list is longer, isn't it, and blacker too?”

“Yes, on the face of it, it would be good riddance. But there's another circumstance which you've overlooked. He's a Jew.”

“All the more reason for . . .”

“That's where you're short-sighted. This is one time when being a Jew is going to save a man his life instead of costing him it.”

“What? I don't follow you . . .”

“I'll explain. I'm really using my head about this. Do you remember the Dreyfus affair? . . .”

“I've heard about it, of course. But what's that got to do with it?”

“It's a lesson, that's all, a lesson against exposing yourself to the same thing over again.”

“But this isn't going to be a Dreyfus case . . .”

“No one thought the Dreyfus case was going to be one either. They didn't dream, when they picked on that quiet little Jewish officer, that the whole world would ring for years with his name, that ministry after ministry would fall and war loom because of him, or that the whole of France would be kept in a constant state of disturbance over him and his fate.”

“But Dreyfus was an officer. This Meyer is just a common criminal, an ex-convict . . .”

“Well, half the world thought Dreyfus was a criminal too. One of the worst, a traitor to his country. And they made an ex-convict out of him at that. No, my boy, I'm not going to touch Meyer. In the first place, you never know what connexions these Jews may have. Secondly, even if he hasn't any, and this business gets out as it undoubtedly will, the cry of anti-Semitism will go up instantly. And once that cry is raised, no one can tell when or at what price it will be silenced. This is where I'm using my head, being foresighted.”

“It's tough on Férol, though, that Meyer's a Jew and that you're so foresighted.”

“It's always tough on somebody, Arnaud. Life is. The world is an immense graveyard, getting perpetual care from the survivors who are living off it.”

“But Meyer is a much greater danger to society than Férol is. He can, with his syphilis alone, cause untold havoc to society, and most probably will.”

“I grant you. But I'm saying he might be an even greater danger to society, cause even more havoc, by being dead—that is, executed by a firing-squad. Besides, he may be killed any day. No, there's no two ways about it. My mind is clear on this point. So go up to the camp, will you, and tell one of the sergeants he's to arrest Férol and bring him down to the guard-room at once.”

“Since you order it. But I can't help thinking . . .”

“What I really would have enjoyed, Arnaud, would be to have a man in the ranks who had high connexions—really high, like G.H.Q., or who was a deputy or something. I'd have picked him out of pure mischief, just to watch the court martial and the brass hats squirming out of that dilemma. It would have been most interesting. . . .”

“Yes,” said Arnaud, putting on his cap. “Probably more interesting for you than you had bargained for.”

 

Sergeant-Major Jonnart belonged to that class of men which is said to form the backbone of an army, namely, the N.C.O. of long service. He was thick of body, it is true, but not as thick of head as the runner had implied. It was just that he was incurious, unimaginative, methodical, and taciturn. Army life suited him perfectly. He liked the routine and, as it had long since become a part of his blood, he would not have known what to do without it.