‘And whose fault is that?’ he said, ‘that we have been—ja, twice—compelled to destroy French property? Not yours and mine, not ours here, not the fault of any of us, all of us who have to spend the four years straining at each other from behind two wire fences. It’s the politicians, the civilian imbeciles who compel us every generation to have to rectify the blunders of their damned international horse-trading——’
‘Be seated, General,’ the old general said.
‘As you were!’ the German general said. Then he caught himself. He made a rigid quarter-turn and clapped his heels to face the old general. ‘I forgot myself for a moment. You will please to pardon it.’ He reversed the quarter-turn, but without the heel-clap this time. His voice was milder now, quieter anyway. ‘The same blunder because it is always the same alliance: only the pieces moved and swapped about. Perhaps they have to keep on doing, making the same mistake; being civilians and politicians, perhaps they cant help themselves. Or, being civilians and politicians, perhaps they dare not. Because they would be the first to vanish under that one which we would establish. Think of it, if you have not already: the alliance which would dominate all Europe. Europe? Bah. The world—Us, with you, France, and you, England—’ he seemed to catch himself again for a second, turning to the American general. ‘—with you for—with your good wishes——’
‘A minority stockholder,’ the American said.
‘Thank you,’ the German general said. ‘—An alliance, the alliance which will conquer the whole earth—Europe, Asia, Africa, the islands;—to accomplish where Bonaparte failed, what Caesar dreamed of, what Hannibal didn’t live long enough to do——’
‘Who will be emperor?’ the old general said. It was so courteous and mild that for a moment it didn’t seem to register. The German general looked at him.
‘Yes,’ the British general said as mildly: ‘Who?’ The German general looked at him. There was no movement of the face at all: the monocle simply descended from the eye, down the face and then the tunic, glinting once or twice as it turned in the air, into the palm lifted to receive it, the hand shutting on it then opening again, the monocle already in position between the thumb and the first finger, to be inserted again; and in fact there had been no eyeball behind it: no scar nor healed suture even: only the lidless and empty socket glaring down at the British general.
‘Perhaps now, General?’ the old general said.
‘Thanks,’ the German general said. But still he didn’t move. The old general set the filled brandy glass in front of his still-vacant place. ‘Thanks,’ the German general said. Still staring at the British general, he drew a handkerchief from his cuff and wiped the monocle and set it back into the socket; now the opaque oval stared down at the British general. ‘You see why we have to hate you English,’ he said. ‘You are not soldiers. Perhaps you cant be. Which is all right; if true, you cant help it; we dont hate you for that. We dont even hate you because you dont try to be. What we hate you for is because you wont even bother to try. You are in a war, you blunder through it somehow and even survive. Because of your little island you cant possibly get any bigger, and you know it. And because of that, you know that sooner or later you will be in another war, yet this time too you will not even prepare for it. Oh, you send a few of your young men to your military college, where they will be taught perfectly how to sit a horse and change a palace guard; they will even get some practical experience by transferring this ritual intact to little outposts beside rice-paddies or tea-plantations or Himalayan goatpaths. But that is all. You will wait until an enemy is actually beating at your front gate. Then you will turn out to repel him exactly like a village being turned out cursing and swearing on a winter night to salvage a burning hayrick—gather up your gutter-sweepings, the scum of your slums and stables and paddocks; they will not even be dressed to look like soldiers, but in the garments of ploughmen and ditchers and carters; your officers look like a country-house party going out to the butts for a pheasant drive. Do you see? getting out in front armed with nothing but walking sticks, saying, “Come along, lads. That seems to be enemy yonder and there appear to be a goodish number of them but I dare say not too many”—and then walking, strolling on, not even looking back to see if they are followed or not because they dont need to because they are followed, do follow, cursing and grumbling still and unprepared still, but they follow and die, still cursing and grumbling, still civilians. We have to hate you. There is an immorality, an outrageous immorality; you are not even contemptuous of glory: you are simply not interested in it: only in solvency.’ He stood, rigid and composed, staring down at the British general; he said calmly, in a voice of composed and boundless despair: ‘You are swine, you know.’ Then he said, ‘No,’ and now in his voice there was a kind of invincibly incredulous outrage too. ‘You are worse. You are unbelievable. When we are on the same side, we win—always; and the whole world gives you the credit for the victory: Waterloo. When we are against you, you lose—always: Passchendaele, Mons, Cambrai and tomorrow Amiens—and you dont even know it——’
‘If you please, General,’ the old general said in his mild voice. The German general didn’t even pause. He turned to the American.
‘You also.’
‘Swine?’ the American said.
‘Soldiers,’ the German said. ‘You are no better.’
‘You mean, no worse, dont you?’ the American said. ‘I just got back from St Mihiel last night.’
‘Then perhaps you can visit Amiens tomorrow,’ the German said. ‘I will conduct you.’
‘General,’ the old general said. This time the German general stopped and even looked at the old general. He said:
‘Not yet. I am—how you say?—supplicant.’ He said again: ‘Supplicant.’ Then he began to laugh, that is, up to the dead indomitable unregenerate eye, speaking not even to anyone, not even to himself: only to outraged and unregenerate incredulity: ‘I, a German lieutenant general, come eighty-seven kilometres to request of—ja, insist on—an Englishman and a Frenchman the defeat of my nation. We—I—could have saved it by simply refusing to meet you here. I could save it now simply by walking out. I could have done it at your aerodrome this afternoon by using on myself the pistol which I employed to preserve even in defeat the integrity of what this—’ he made a brief rapid gesture with one hand; with barely a motion of it he indicated his entire uniform—belts brass braid insigne and all ‘—represents, has won the right to stand for, preserves still that for which those of us who have died in it died for. Then this one, this blunder of the priests and politicians and civilian time-servers, would stop now, since in fact it already has, three days ago now. But I did not. I do not, as a result of which inside another year we—not us—’ again without moving he indicated his uniform ‘—but they whose blunder we tried to rectify, will be done, finished; and with them, us too since now we are no longer extricable from them—oh yes, us too, let the Americans annoy our flank as much as they like: they will not pass Verdun either; by tomorrow we will have run you—’ to the Briton ‘—out of Amiens and possibly even into what you call your ditch, and by next month your people—’ to the old general now ‘—in Paris will be cramming your official sacred talismans into brief-cases on the way to Spain or Portugal. But it will be too late, it will be over, finished; twelve months from now and we—not they for this but we, us—will have to plead with you on your terms for their survival since already it is impossible to extricate theirs from ours. Because I am a soldier first, then a German, then—or hope to be—a victorious German. But that is not even second, but only third. Because this—’ again he indicated the uniform ‘—is more important than any German or even any victory.’ Now he was looking at all of them; his voice was quite calm, almost conversational now: ‘That is our sacrifice: the whole German army against your one French regiment. But you are right. We waste time.’ He looked at them, rapidly, erect still but not quite rigid. ‘You are here. I am …’ He looked at them again; he said again, ‘Bah. For a little time anyway we dont need secrets. I am eighty-seven kilometres from here. I must return. As you say—’ he faced the American general; his heels clapped again, a sound very loud in the quiet and insulate room ‘—this is only a recess: not an abrogation.’ Still without moving, he looked rapidly from the American to the Briton then back again. ‘You are admirable. But you are not soldiers—’
‘All young men are brave,’ the American said.
‘Continue,’ the German general said. ‘Say it. Even Germans.’
‘Even Frenchmen,’ the old general said in his mild voice. ‘Wouldn’t we all be more comfortable if you would sit down?’
‘A moment,’ the German general said. He did not even look at the old general. ‘We—’ again without moving he looked rapidly from one to the other ‘—you two and I discussed this business thoroughly while your—what do I say? formal or mutual?—Commander-in-Chief was detained from us. We are agreed on what must be done; that was never any question. Now we need only to agree to do it in this little time we have out of the four years of holding one another off—we, Germans on one side, and you, English and French—’ he turned to the American; again the heels clapped ‘—you Americans too; I have not forgot you.—on the other, engaging each the other with half a hand because the other hand and a half was required to defend our back areas from our own politicians and priests. During that discussion before your Commander-in-Chief joined us, something was said about decision.’ He said again, ‘Decision.’ He didn’t even say bah now. He looked rapidly again from the American to the Briton, to the American again. ‘You,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the American general said. ‘Decision implies choice.’
The German general looked at the Briton. ‘You,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the British general said. ‘God help us.’
The German general paused. ‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry,’ the British general said. ‘Let it be just yes then.’
‘He said, God help us,’ the American general said. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ the German general said. ‘The why is to me?’
‘We’re both right this time,’ the American general said. ‘At least we dont have to cope with that.’
‘So,’ the German general said. ‘That is both of you. Three of us.’ He sat down, picked up the crumpled napkin and drew his chair up, and took up the filled brandy glass and sat back and erect again, into that same rigidity of formal attention as when he had been standing to toast his master, so that even sitting the rigidity had a sort of visible inaudibility like a soundless clap of heels, the filled glass at level with the fixed rigid glare of the opaque monocle; again without moving he seemed to glance rapidly at the other glasses. ‘Be pleased to fill, gentlemen,’ he said. But neither the Briton nor the American moved. They just sat there while across the table from them the German general sat with his lifted and rigid glass; he said, indomitable and composed, not even contemptuous: ‘So then. All that remains is to acquaint your Commander-in-Chief with what part of our earlier discussion he might be inclined to hear. Then the formal ratification of our agreement.’
‘Formal ratification of what agreement?’ the old general said.
‘Mutual ratification then,’ the German general said.
‘Of what?’ the old general said.
‘The agreement,’ the German general said.
‘What agreement?’ the old general said. ‘Do we need an agreement? Has anyone missed one?—The port is with you, General,’ he said to the Briton. ‘Fill, and pass.’
Thursday
Thursday Night
This time it was a bedroom. The grave and noble face was framed by a pillow, looking at him from beneath a flannel nightcap tied under the chin. The nightshirt was flannel too, open at the throat to reveal a small cloth bag, not new and not very clean and apparently containing something which smelled like asafoetida, on a soiled string like a necklace. The youth stood beside the bed in a brocade dressing gown.
‘They were blank shells,’ the runner said in his light dry voice. ‘The aeroplane—all four of them—flew right through the bursts. The German one never even deviated, not even going fast, even when one of ours hung right on its tail from about fifty feet for more than a minute while I could actually see the tracer going into it. The same one—aeroplane—ours—dove at us, at me; I even felt one of whatever it was coming out of the gun hit me on the leg here. It was like when a child blows a garden pea at you through a tube except for the smell, the stink, the burning phosphorus. There was a German general in it, you see. I mean, in the German one. There had to be; either we had to send someone there or they had to send someone here. And since we—or the French—were the ones who started it, thought of it first, obviously it would be our right—privilege—duty to be host. Only it would have to look all right from beneath; they couldn’t—couldn’t dare anyway—issue a synchronised simultaneous order for every man on both sides to shut their eyes and count a hundred so they had to do the next best thing to make it look all regular, all orthodox to anyone they couldn’t hide it from——’
‘What?’ the old Negro said.
‘Dont you see yet? It’s because they cant afford to let it stop like this. I mean, let us stop it. They dont dare. If they ever let us find out that we can stop a war as simply as men tired of digging a ditch decide calmly and quietly to stop digging the ditch——’
‘I mean that suit,’ the old Negro said. ‘That policeman’s suit. You just took it, didn’t you?’
‘I had to,’ the runner said with that peaceful and terrible patience. ‘I had to get out. To get back in too. At least back to where I hid my uniform. It used to be difficult enough to pass either way, in or out. But now it will be almost impossible to get back in. But dont worry about that; all I need——’
‘Is he dead?’ the old Negro said.
‘What?’ the runner said. ‘Oh, the policeman. I dont know. Probably not.’ He said with a sort of amazement: ‘I hope not.’ He said: ‘I knew night before last—two nights ago, Tuesday night—what they were planning to do, though of course I had no proof then. I tried to tell him. But you know him, you’ve probably tried yourself to tell him something you couldn’t prove or that he didn’t want to believe. So I’ll need something else. Not to prove it to him, make him believe it: there’s not time enough left to waste that way. That’s why I came here. I want you to make me a Mason too. Or maybe there’s not even time for that either. So just show me the sign—like this——’ he jerked, flicked his hand low against his flank, as near as he had been able to divine at the time or anyway remember now from the man two years ago on the day he joined the battalion.
‘That will be enough. It will have to be; I’ll bluff the rest of it through——’
