1914

IT SEEMS ARCENEL FOUND a third solution, without truly choosing it, actually; there was no premeditation, just an impulse, a mood, producing in turn a moment of pique and then—motion. It all began at the end of December, with Bossis dead and Anthime evacuated, when Arcenel could not find Padioleau either. He looked for him, inquired about him as best he could, even tried to question imperious, contemptuous, tight-lipped officers, all in vain. Arcenel faced the inevitable. Maybe Padioleau had died on the same day as Bossis, buried anonymously in mud without anyone caring or noticing in the confusion. Perhaps he’d been wounded like Anthime, sent home like him without anyone taking the trouble to inform his comrades—or just maybe, who knows why, he’d been reassigned to another company.

Be that as it may, there was no trace of Padioleau. Thus deprived of his three pals, Arcenel began to feel fed up. The war was no joke, of course, but it had been just about livable with the four of them when they’d at least been able to get together and talk among themselves, trade points of view, argue so they could make peace again. They’d never wanted to imagine their reassuring bond could possibly be severed, in spite of the increasingly obvious danger everywhere. The thought had vaguely occurred to them, true, but they hadn’t really prepared themselves to see their group broken up, dispersed, and had taken no social precautions, never attempted to make other friends.

So Arcenel found himself alone. He did try, during the weeks and months that followed, to fit in better with the troop, but it was always a little artificial and he encountered resistance because he and his three buddies had been seen as standoffish, so the others now took revenge by ignoring him, although given the harsh conditions that winter, a certain solidarity had in the end kept everyone together as a company. When spring arrived, however, dragging its feet and with no letup in the fighting, the usual groups re-formed without Arcenel finding a place in any of them. That’s why one morning, since they were camped near the village of Somme-Suippe for a breather before rejoining the front lines, Arcenel, feeling blue, went off for a walk.

Just a walk, for a moment, taking advantage of some anti-typhoid procedures. Reporting for a vaccination booster shot, Arcenel was one of the very first to receive his, thanks to his prime place in the alphabetical list, so since everyone was all lined up, discreetly baring their bums to the needle with a frisson of fear, Arcenel just as discreetly walked off on the spur of the moment, without any particular plan. He left the camp with an evasive wave to the sentinel as if he were just going to go pee against a tree trunk, which in fact he did, while he was at it, but then he went on. When a path appeared, he took it simply to see, before turning off onto another and another without any precise intention, advancing automatically into the countryside without really meaning to wander off.

Relaxing instead into his appreciation of the burgeoning spring—it’s always moving to admire the spring, even when one has begun to recognize the pattern, it’s a good way to brighten a dark mood—Arcenel paid just as much attention to the silence, a silence almost untainted by the rumblings at the front, never very far away, rumblings that this morning even seemed a trifle fainter. An incomplete silence, naturally, not entirely restored but almost, and almost better than if it were perfect because it’s clawed by the cries of birds, cries that somehow amplify it and, giving depth to a background, exalt it, in the way a minor amendment gives strength to a law, a dot of contrasting color intensifies a monochrome, the tiniest splinter confirms the smoothest polish, a furtive dissonance consecrates a perfect major chord—but let’s not get carried away: let’s get back to business.

Some animals appeared, still there, seemingly bent on showing the flag: a raptor way up in the sky, a June bug sitting on a stump, a furtive rabbit, which hopped out of a bush to stare at Arcenel for a second before promptly dashing off, spring powered, without the man instinctively grabbing for the rifle he hadn’t actually brought with him, not having brought along even his canteen: proof that he’d never planned beforehand to leave the military zone, being moved solely by the idea of ambling around a little while, abstracting himself for a moment from the horrific shit hole, not even hoping— because not even thinking of it—that this stroll would pass unnoticed, forgetting that the men were recounted all the time, and the roll call endlessly repeated.