Fear by Gabriel Chevallier Read Free Book Online Page A

restored. Old hands, hiding in corners, watched this massacre of newcomers astonished to learn that war consisted of having your face knocked in by a superior officer. Soldiers actually said that – this fault excepted – their colonel was not a bad man. On several occasions he had even overruled severe punishments imposed by court martials. It was true that the culprits still left with bloody faces and broken teeth.
    ‘I’m amazed that no one has hit him back,’ Bertrand said to me.
    ‘It would be too dangerous. A man who defended himself would no doubt carry the day. But there would be nothing to stop his colonel then ordering him on a mission where he’d get himself killed.’
    Once a week we were sent to the showers. The sanitation service had dreamt up the idea of eradicating parasites by soaking us in cresol. Medical orderlies washed us down with a sponge. This treatment made our skin burn for an hour but had no effect at all on the lice we rediscovered afterwards in our clothes – which had not been disinfected – in fine form and with healthy appetites. But still the weekly showers became an attraction, thanks to ‘Old Father Rosebud’. This was the name we had given to a divisional general, a thin, dirty, hunched man with bloodshot eyes, who was always there. This sadistic officer only liked to see soldiers when they were naked. He would inspect each new batch, lined up under the showers, moving along the line with the little mincing steps of an old man, keeping his eyes fixed somewhere not far below their waist. If one of the objects of his gaze struck him by its dimensions he would congratulate the possessor: ‘You’ve got a fine one there!’ His face would wrinkle up in pleasure, and he dribbled. The only other place one encountered him was the latrines. There, he would lose himself in contemplation of the ditches, plunge his cane in, and welcome the men, who were surprised to see him. ‘Go on, lads, don’t be shy, let it go. Healthy bowels make healthy soldiers. I’m just here to check on your morale.’ This behaviour, which would have been unacceptable anywhere except in a war, entertained the troops, who were not fussy about their distractions.
    ‘It is terrifying to think that the lives of ten thousand men may depend on a general like this,’ said Bertrand. ‘How are we expected to win the war with people like him at the top?’
    ‘We don’t see what is going on in the other camp,’ I replied. ‘They’ve got their own mad brutes who make just as many mistakes. The best proof is that they set off to conquer with everything they needed for a swift victory, and they failed.’
    ‘How do you think this is going to end?’
    ‘No one knows. The men who are running the war have been overwhelmed by events. The forces on both sides are still so huge that they balance each other out. It’s like when you play draughts: you have to remove a lot of pieces before you can get a true picture of the game. A lot more people must be killed before things will take shape.’
    ‘We keep nibbling at them, as . . .’[ 12 ]
    ‘The nibbling is mutual. The generals of both sides fight the war with the same military principles and cancel each other out. It takes a great idea to win a war: the wooden horse of Troy, Hannibal’s elephants, Napoleon crossing the Alps through the Saint Bernard Pass . . . those were real ideas.’
    ‘And the Paris taxis?’[ 13 ]
    ‘An idea too – which didn’t really come from the military. And still . . .’
    ‘And what about valour?’
    ‘Valour is a virtue for ordinary soldiers; leaders need the virtue of intelligence. What we lack are leaders with outstanding intelligence. Genius shakes up the old rules and principles, genius invents .’
    ‘Do you think that Napoleon . . . ?’
    ‘Napoleon would have done what he always did. He’d make something new from whatever was available to him in 1914 just like he did in 1800. Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, they were