all roads lead to calvary-第57章

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st　question　they　would　ask　on　being　lifted　out　of　the　ambulance。　　Even　those　who　professed　to　no　religion　seemed　comforted　by　the　idea。　He　went　by　the　title　of　〃Monsieur　le　Pretre：〃　Joan　never　learned　his　name。　　It　was　he　who　had　laid　out　the　little　cemetery　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　village　street。　　It　had　once　been　an　orchard；　and　some　of　the　trees　were　still　standing。　　In　the　centre；　rising　out　of　a　pile　of　rockwork；　he　had　placed　a　crucifix　that　had　been　found　upon　the　roadside　and　had　surrounded　it　with　flowers。　　It　formed　the　one　bright　spot　of　colour　in　the　village；　and　at　night　time；　when　all　other　sounds　were　hushed；　the　iron　wreaths　upon　its　little　crosses；　swaying　against　one　another　in　the　wind；　would　make　a　low；　clear；　tinkling　music。　　Joan　would　sometimes　lie　awake　listening　to　it。　　In　some　way　she　could　not　explain　it　always　brought　the　thought　of　children　to　her　mind。

The　doctor　himself　was　a　broad…shouldered；　bullet…headed　man；　clean　shaven；　with　close…cropped；　bristly　hair。　　He　had　curiously　square　hands；　with　short；　squat　fingers。　　He　had　been　head　surgeon　in　one　of　the　Paris　hospitals；　and　had　been　assigned　his　present　post　because　of　his　marvellous　quickness　with　the　knife。　　The　hospital　was　the　nearest　to　a　hill　of　great　strategical　importance；　and　the　fighting　in　the　neighbourhood　was　almost　continuous。　　Often　a　single　ambulance　would　bring　in　three　or　four　cases；　each　one　demanding　instant　attention。　　Dr。　Poujoulet；　with　his　hairy　arms　bare　to　the　shoulder；　would　polish　them　off　one　after　another；　with　hardly　a　moment's　rest　between；　not　allowing　time　even　for　the　washing　of　the　table。　　Joan　would　have　to　summon　all　her　nerve　to　keep　herself　from　collapsing。　　At　times　the　need　for　haste　was　such　that　it　was　impossible　to　wait　for　the　anaesthetic　to　take　effect。　The　one　redeeming　feature　was　the　extraordinary　heroism　of　the　men；　though　occasionally　there　was　nothing　for　it　but　to　call　in　the　orderlies　to　hold　some　poor　fellow　down；　and　to　deafen　one's　ears。

One　day；　after　a　successful　operation；　she　was　tending　a　young　sergeant。　　He　was　a　well…built；　handsome　man；　with　skin　as　white　as　a　woman's。　　He　watched　her　with　curious　indifference　in　his　eyes　as　she　busied　herself；　trying　to　make　him　comfortable；　and　did　nothing　to　help　her。

〃Has　Mam'selle　ever　seen　a　bull　fight？〃　he　asked　her。

〃No；〃　she　answered。　　〃I've　seen　all　the　horror　and　cruelty　I　want　to　for　the　rest　of　my　life。〃

〃Ah；〃　he　said；　〃you　would　understand　if　you　had。　　When　one　of　the　horses　goes　down　gored；　his　entrails　lying　out　upon　the　sand；　you　know　what　they　do；　don't　you？　　They　put　a　rope　round　him；　and　drag　him；　groaning；　into　the　shambles　behind。　　And　once　there；　kind　people　like　you　and　Monsieur　le　Medecin　tend　him　and　wash　him；　and　put　his　entrails　back；　and　sew　him　up　again。　　He　thinks　it　so　kind　of　themthe　first　time。　　But　the　second！　　He　understands。　　He　will　be　sent　back　into　the　arena　to　be　ripped　up　again；　and　again　after　that。　　This　is　the　third　time　I　have　been　wounded；　and　as　soon　as　you've　all　patched　me　up　and　I've　got　my　breath　again；　they'll　send　me　back　into　it。　　Mam'selle　will　forgive　my　not　feeling　grateful　to　her。〃　　He　gave　a　short　laugh　that　brought　the　blood　into　his　mouth。

The　village　consisted　of　one　long　straggling　street；　following　the　course　of　a　small　stream　between　two　lines　of　hills。　　It　was　on　one　of　the　great　lines　of　communication：　　and　troops　and　war　material　passed　through　it；　going　and　coming；　in　almost　endless　procession。　It　served　also　as　a　camp　of　rest。　　Companies　from　the　trenches　would　arrive　there；　generally　towards　the　evening；　weary；　listless；　dull…eyed；　many　of　them　staggering　like　over…driven　cattle　beneath　their　mass　of　burdens。　　They　would　fling　their　accoutrements　from　them　and　stand　in　silent　groups　till　the　sergeants　and　corporals　returned　to　lead　them　to　the　barns　and　out…houses　that　had　been　assigned　to　them；　the　houses　still　habitable　being　mostly　reserved　for　the　officers。　　Like　those　of　most　French　villages；　they　were　drab；　plaster…covered　buildings　without　gardens；　but　some　of　them　were　covered　with　vines；　hiding　their　ugliness；　and　the　village　as　a　whole；　with　its　groups；　here　and　there；　of　fine　sycamore　trees　and　its　great　stone　fountain　in　the　centre；　was　picturesque　enough。　It　had　twice　changed　hands；　and　a　part　of　it　was　in　ruins。　　From　one　or　two　of　the　more　solidly　built　houses　merely　the　front　had　fallen；　leaving　the　rooms　just　as　they　had　always　been：　　the　furniture　in　its　accustomed　place；　the　pictures　on　the　walls。　　They　suggested　doll's　houses　standing　open。　　One　wondered　when　the　giant　child　would　come　along　and　close　them　up。　　The　iron　spire　of　the　little　church　had　been　hit　twice。　　It　stood　above　the　village；　twisted　into　the　form　of　a　note　of　interrogation。　　In　the　churchyard　many　of　the　graves　had　been　ripped　open。　　Bones　and　skulls　lay　scattered　about　among　the　shattered　tombstones。　　But；　save　for　a　couple　of　holes　in　the　roof；　the　body　was　still　intact；　and　every　afternoon　a　faint；　timid…sounding　bell　called　a　few　villagers　and　a　sprinkling　of　soldiers　to　Mass。　　Most　of　the　inhabitants　had　fled；　but　the　farmers　and　shopkeepers　had　remained。　At　intervals；　the　German　batteries；　searching　round　with　apparent　aimlessness；　would　drop　a　score　or　so　of　shells　about　the　neighbourhood；　but　the　peasant；　with　an　indifference　that　was　almost　animal；　would　still　follow　his　ox…drawn　plough；　the　old；　bent　crone；　muttering　curses；　still　ply　the　hoe。　　The　proprietors　of　the　tiny　epiceries　must　have　been　rapidly　making　their　fortunes；　considering　the　prices　that　they　charged　the　unfortunate　poilu；　dreaming　of　some　small　luxury　out　of　his　five　sous　a　day。　　But　as　one　of　them；　a　stout；　smiling　lady；　explained　to　Joan；　with　a　gesture：　　〃It　is　not　often　that　one　has　a　war。〃

Joan　had　gone　out　in　September；　and　for　a　while　the　weather　was　pleasant。　　The　men；　wrapped　up　in　their　great…coats；　would　sleep　for　preference　under　the　great　sycamore　trees。　　Through　open　doorways　she　would　catch　glimpses　of　picturesque　groups　of　eager　card…players；　crowded　round　a　flickering　candle。　　From　the　darkness　there　would　steal　the　sound　of　flute　or　zither；　of　voices　singing。　Occasionally　it　would　be　some　strident　ditty　of　the　Paris　music…　halls；　but　more　often　it　was　sad　and　plaintive。　　But　early　in　October　the　rains　commenced　and　the　stream　became　a　roaring　torrent；　and　a　clammy　mist　lay　like　a　white　river　between　the　wooded　hills。

Mud！　that　seemed　to　be　the　one　word　with　which　to　describe　modern　war。　　Mud　everywhere！　　Mud　ankle…deep　upon　the　roads；　mud　into　which　you　sank　up　to　your　knees　the　moment　you　stepped　off　it；　tents　and　huts　to　which　you　waded　through　the　mud；　avoiding　the　slimy　gangways　on　which　you　slipped　and　fell；　mud…bespattered　men；　mud…bespattered　horses；　little　donkeys；　looking　as　if　they　had　been　sculptured　out　of　mud；　struggling　up　and　down　the　light　railways　that　every　now　and　then　would　disappear　and　be　lost　beneath　the　mud；　guns　and　wagons　groaning　through　the　mud；　lorries　and　ambulances；　that　in　the　darkness　had　swerved　from　the　straight　course；　overturned　and　lying　abandoned　in　the　mud；　motor…cyclists　ploughing　swift　furrows　through　the　mud；　rolling　it　back　in　liquid　streams　each　side　of　them；　staff　cars　rushing　screaming　through　the　mud；　followed　by　a　rushing　fountain　of　mud；　serried　ranks　of　muddy　men　stamping　through　the　mud　with　steady　rhythm；　moving　through　a　rain　of　mud；　rising　upward　from　the　ground；　long　lines　of　motor…　buses　filled　with　a　mass　of　muddy　humanity　packed　shoulder　to　shoulder；　rumbling　ever　through　the　endless　mud。

Men　sitting　by　the　roadside　in　the　mud；　gnawing　at　unsavoury　food；　men　squatting　by　the　ditches；　examining　their　sores；　washing　their　bleeding　feet　in　the　muddy　water；　replacing　the　muddy　rags　about　their　wounds。

A　world　without　colour。　　No　other　colour　to　be　seen　beneath　the　sky　but　mud。　　The　very　buttons　on　the　men's　coats　painted　to　make　them　look　like　mud。

Mud　and　dirt！　　Dirty　faces；　dirty　hands；　dirty　clothes；　dirty　food；　dirty　beds；　dirty　interiors；　from　which　there　was　never　time　to　wash　the　mud；　dirty　linen　hanging　up　to　dry；　beneath　which　dirty　children　played；　while　dirty　women　scolded。　　Filth　and　desolation　a