The First of July(110)

The older soldier had reached the foot of the steps to the schoolmaster’s house and barred his way before entering himself. The younger still had his gun at the ready. Did he look like a dangerous criminal? a German? a spy? But then he thought that he probably did resemble one of these: a pilferer or a deserter at the very least. Someone who might be shot.

The soldier came out again and beckoned him in. The hall was nothing like he remembered. A British sergeant came out and barked at him, then repeated the gobbledegook more slowly and more loudly. He was no different from Folz, Jean-Baptiste thought. All stripes, voice, and red scowl. The sergeant pushed his face up close. It was bristly. He shouted so loudly that it hurt Jean-Baptiste’s ears, and as he drew back from it he noticed the two soldiers grinning at each other.

The noise had obviously attracted attention. At the back of the hall a door opened and an officer came out, frowning. With his pale face and dark hair, he looked a bit like the schoolmaster, but he was a British captain. He said something to the sergeant and the man saluted sharply. The captain looked at Jean-Baptiste as if taking stock of him.

“God save the King, how do you do,” Jean-Baptiste said, and one of the soldiers sniggered.

The officer went on looking at him, and especially at his bare feet. He was conscious of dried weed on his sleeve.

“You’re French?” he said, finally.

Jean-Baptiste nodded, nodded so fast he felt dizzy and had to blink to clear his head. The captain pointed toward the back room and gestured to the soldiers to go.

The room had once been the schoolmaster’s dining room. It still had the same brown wallpaper, now with light patches where the pictures had once hung. A grimy lace curtain drooped at the window. A large table had been placed diagonally across a corner, its surface completely covered with maps and papers topped with an overflowing ashtray.

“I am Captain Bartram,” said the officer once he had sat down. “And you are?”

“Trooper Mallet, sir,” he said. “One of your men is injured, just across the river. He needs help. Quickly.”

For a second he watched the British officer’s serious face. The man was not French, but he spoke French like a Parisian.

“Commendable. But there is a war on and you are dressed, more or less, like a soldier.”

“I’ve been discharged. I was injured. I have come to see my mother. She lives here. In Corbie.”

His hand went up and touched his ribs. “And then I had—I have—a disease. Of the kidneys. From before, I think. I was in a hospital and then on a barge, but Dr. Vignon said that as we were near my home, I could leave.”

The officer looked thoughtful.

“Do you have permission to leave your regiment? Do you have papers?”

“Yes. Well, no.” Jean-Baptiste felt in his pockets. He must have swayed, because the officer got up, held him by his elbow, and guided him to a chair; then he went to the door and shouted down the corridor.

“They’ll bring you some tea,” he said.

Jean-Baptiste’s fingers were trembling as he pulled out the papers from his wet trousers, the envelope lying in his hand like little more than a slab of porridge.

“I was in the river,” he said.

“Unfortunate,” the captain said. “The water seems to have dissolved your alibi.”

Jean-Baptiste nodded miserably. He had been so careful, but it was as the schoolmaster had told him long, long ago: the river could never be trusted. It could scour a bank away, pour over the fields, drowning whatever lay in its way: a package of paper was nothing.

Suddenly the officer asked him: “Are you a deserter?”

“No, sir. I served at Verdun and was commended, and then I was injured. They thought I would die.”

The officer looked almost sad. “I’m afraid plenty of deserters have given honorable service before they decide they have given enough.”

He got up, walked over to Jean-Baptiste, and picked up his wrist. For a second he thought the captain was going to take his pulse, but he simply turned his identity bracelet around. “Well,” he said, reading it, “at least that seems to agree on who you are.”

There was a knock on the door. An orderly came in with a mug and a plate of bread. Jean-Baptiste had been ravenous earlier, but now his appetite had gone. He picked up the solid mug, almost too hot to hold, and drank. He had never tasted tea, but it was the British national drink and he had no wish to offend the officer. It was terrible—bitter-sweet with an oily surface and the color of chestnuts—but he drank a little more and felt it spread its warmth through his body.

Then he remembered his other mission and put the mug down.