Read Online The Fires of Autumn by Irène Némirovsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Irène Némirovsky
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retreat – everything and everyone seemed to be fleeing.
The First and Seventh German Divisions had attacked the Sixth Division of the French Army from north of the Aisne to the Montagne de Reims. The enemy managed to cross the Aisne, and get as far as the Vesle River. On the evening of the 28th May, everyone was saying that the defences of the Vesle had been breached, that the English were pulling back, that Soissons had fallen. Bernard knew none of this. He had been wounded at the beginning of the attack. Now, he and a group of men, all injured in the recent battle, were looking for the first-aid post. But it no longer existed, destroyed by artillery or overrun by the advancing waves of the enemy. Bernard was told they had to keep going. When he tried to climb into a truck, he was pushed out; therewere too many wounded. He kept on going, his eyes blinded by a kind of bloody mist; one shoulder was torn open and fragments of shell were lodged in his cheek.
Along both sides of the road, or rather the track that remained of the wrecked road, stretched a ravaged plain, hollowed out, dug up, turned upside down, a chaotic mass of loose stones, yellowish slimy mud, shell-craters, crosses (even those were broken and had tumbled on top of each other, riddled with bullet holes, torn out by artillery fire); there were empty tin cans, helmets, boots, clothing in tatters, bits of wood and metal debris. Every now and again, you could see a section of wall that was still standing, or three stone blocks, or a slight mound on the ground, a pile of rubble – and that was all that remained of a house, a village, a church. In other places, overturned tanks, partly sunk in mud, entirely covered in dust, seemed to be reaching steel shards towards the sky. It was the bedlam of the crucial days of war, a moving wave of vehicles from three armies. Munitions caissons, small flatbed trucks for repairing the railway lines, supply wagons, ambulances, lorries loaded with petrol, troops being shifted to the rear into new positions, everything sped past Bernard like a river of grey metal. Mines had blown up the road; bridges made of wooden beams had been thrown over the shell-craters.
Every so often, the entire procession stopped under fierce artillery fire because an overturned vehicle was blocking the road, causing a deadly bottleneck. Herds of animals would come out of nowhere, followed by fleeing villagers; confused, terrified, bellowing cows charged into the trucks or ran off into the fields.
It was burning hot, a stifling spring day. Men walked through the dust, breathing it in, spitting it out again; dust mingled with their blood and sweat.
‘My God,’ thought Barnard, as he marched on as if in a dream, sometimes climbing back up on to the road, sometimes fallingdown on to the devastated stretch of land. ‘My God, please let me live through this, please let it end! Please let me rest …’
He was twenty-two years old. He was eighteen when war was declared, nineteen in the Argonne, twenty at a hospital in Marseille, not even twenty-one on the hills of Mort-Homme during the Battle of Verdun. He had aged without having had the time to grow up; he was like a piece of fruit picked too early: bite into it and all you will taste is its hard, bitter flesh. Four years! He was so tired.
‘I want to rest,’ he murmured with painful determination, talking to himself through the dust, ‘I want to rest, not just today but forever, forever. I don’t want to die, just close my eyes and not give a damn about anything. Whether we attack or run away, win or lose, I don’t give a damn any more, I don’t want to know any more. I just want to sleep.’
But sometimes, when he felt a little stronger, he would think:
‘No! I won’t rest forever. If only I can get out of here alive, I’ll enjoy everything I never had. I’ll have money, women, I’ll enjoy life, I will …’
He had never before felt that way. During the early years of the war, he
The First and Seventh German Divisions had attacked the Sixth Division of the French Army from north of the Aisne to the Montagne de Reims. The enemy managed to cross the Aisne, and get as far as the Vesle River. On the evening of the 28th May, everyone was saying that the defences of the Vesle had been breached, that the English were pulling back, that Soissons had fallen. Bernard knew none of this. He had been wounded at the beginning of the attack. Now, he and a group of men, all injured in the recent battle, were looking for the first-aid post. But it no longer existed, destroyed by artillery or overrun by the advancing waves of the enemy. Bernard was told they had to keep going. When he tried to climb into a truck, he was pushed out; therewere too many wounded. He kept on going, his eyes blinded by a kind of bloody mist; one shoulder was torn open and fragments of shell were lodged in his cheek.
Along both sides of the road, or rather the track that remained of the wrecked road, stretched a ravaged plain, hollowed out, dug up, turned upside down, a chaotic mass of loose stones, yellowish slimy mud, shell-craters, crosses (even those were broken and had tumbled on top of each other, riddled with bullet holes, torn out by artillery fire); there were empty tin cans, helmets, boots, clothing in tatters, bits of wood and metal debris. Every now and again, you could see a section of wall that was still standing, or three stone blocks, or a slight mound on the ground, a pile of rubble – and that was all that remained of a house, a village, a church. In other places, overturned tanks, partly sunk in mud, entirely covered in dust, seemed to be reaching steel shards towards the sky. It was the bedlam of the crucial days of war, a moving wave of vehicles from three armies. Munitions caissons, small flatbed trucks for repairing the railway lines, supply wagons, ambulances, lorries loaded with petrol, troops being shifted to the rear into new positions, everything sped past Bernard like a river of grey metal. Mines had blown up the road; bridges made of wooden beams had been thrown over the shell-craters.
Every so often, the entire procession stopped under fierce artillery fire because an overturned vehicle was blocking the road, causing a deadly bottleneck. Herds of animals would come out of nowhere, followed by fleeing villagers; confused, terrified, bellowing cows charged into the trucks or ran off into the fields.
It was burning hot, a stifling spring day. Men walked through the dust, breathing it in, spitting it out again; dust mingled with their blood and sweat.
‘My God,’ thought Barnard, as he marched on as if in a dream, sometimes climbing back up on to the road, sometimes fallingdown on to the devastated stretch of land. ‘My God, please let me live through this, please let it end! Please let me rest …’
He was twenty-two years old. He was eighteen when war was declared, nineteen in the Argonne, twenty at a hospital in Marseille, not even twenty-one on the hills of Mort-Homme during the Battle of Verdun. He had aged without having had the time to grow up; he was like a piece of fruit picked too early: bite into it and all you will taste is its hard, bitter flesh. Four years! He was so tired.
‘I want to rest,’ he murmured with painful determination, talking to himself through the dust, ‘I want to rest, not just today but forever, forever. I don’t want to die, just close my eyes and not give a damn about anything. Whether we attack or run away, win or lose, I don’t give a damn any more, I don’t want to know any more. I just want to sleep.’
But sometimes, when he felt a little stronger, he would think:
‘No! I won’t rest forever. If only I can get out of here alive, I’ll enjoy everything I never had. I’ll have money, women, I’ll enjoy life, I will …’
He had never before felt that way. During the early years of the war, he
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