War And Peace

‘Laugh?’ he said, coming back. ‘Two Froggies ’as turned up. One’s froze to death, but the other’s a good fellow! He’s started singing.’

‘Oho! Worth a quick look . . .’

Several soldiers walked over to the Fifth Company.

CHAPTER 9

The Fifth Company had set up its makeshift camp at the very edge of the forest. A huge camp-fire was blazing away in the midst of the snow, casting a bright light on branches heavy with hoar-frost.

About midnight the soldiers had heard footsteps and the snapping of twigs in the woods.

‘It’s a bear, boys,’ said one soldier.

They all looked up and strained their ears. Out of the copse and into the bright fire-light staggered two weirdly dressed human figures clinging to one another.

It was two Frenchmen who had been hiding in the forest. They came over towards the fire, speaking in hoarse voices and saying things in a language the soldiers couldn’t understand. The taller of the two, a man wearing an officer’s hat, seemed almost dead on his feet. As he got to the fire he tried to sit down but collapsed in a heap. The other, a stocky little soldier with a handkerchief tied round his head, was stronger. He helped his companion up, pointed to his own mouth and said something. The soldiers gathered round the Frenchmen, laid the sick man out on a greatcoat, and brought some porridge and vodka for them both. The exhausted French officer was Ramballe; the little man with the handkerchief round his head was his servant, Morel.

When Morel had drunk some vodka and finished his bowl of porridge he suddenly became deliriously happy, and started babbling away to the soldiers, who couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Ramballe refused any food, and just lay there leaning on one elbow by the fire, gazing at the Russian soldiers with a blank look in his red eyes. Now and then he gave a long-drawn-out groan followed by a relapse into silence. Morel kept pointing to his shoulders, letting the soldiers know that this was an officer, and he needed warming up. A Russian officer, who had come up to the fire, sent someone to ask the colonel whether he would take in a French officer and allow him to get warm. When the word came back that the colonel wanted them to bring the officer over, Ramballe was told where to go. He got to his feet and tried to walk, but staggered, and would have fallen if he hadn’t been caught by a soldier standing near by.

‘So, you don’t want to go, then?’ said a soldier to Ramballe with a jokey wink.

‘Damn fool! Don’t talk stupid. Peasant. ’E’s a real peasant,’ came voices from all sides as they rounded on the joking soldier. Ramballe was quickly surrounded, two men held him up with their hands crossed under him and carried him off to the cottage. Ramballe put his arms round the soldiers’ necks, and as they carried him along he kept up a plaintive chant.

‘Oh, good boys! Oh you are my good, kind friends. Real men! Oh, my brave, kind friends!’ And he leant his head against the soldier’s shoulder like a child.

Meanwhile Morel was sitting in the prime position, surrounded by the soldiers.

Morel, a stocky little Frenchman with swollen, streaming eyes, was wearing a woman’s little coat and a handkerchief tied round his forage cap like a peasant woman’s. He was obviously under the influence, and with one arm flung round the soldier sitting next to him, he was singing a French song in a husky, broken voice. The soldiers held their sides as they looked at him.

‘Come on then, teach me. Tell me ’ow it goes. I’ll soon pick it up.’Ow does it go?’ said the soldier embraced by Morel, himself a singer who liked a good joke.

Vive Henri Quatre!

Vive ce roi vaillant!

sang Morel with a broad wink.

Ce diable à quatre . . .²

‘Veeva-reeká! Veef-seru-vayár! Sidyablaká!’ parroted the soldier, waving his hand and catching the tune well.

‘Bravo! Ha-ha-ha!’ A roar of happy laughter came from all sides. Morel screwed up his face and joined in with it.

‘Come on! More, more!’

Qui eut le triple talent

De boire, de battre,

Et d’être un vert gallant . . .³

‘Sounds good. Your turn, Zaletayev! . . .’

‘Kyu . . .’ began Zaletayev, struggling with the sounds. ‘Kyu-yuyu . . .’ he warbled, straining manfully to purse his lips properly. ‘Letrip-talá! Deboo-debá! Ee detravagalá . . .’

‘That’s great! Just like the Froggy! Ha-ha-ha! Hey, do you want something else to eat?’

‘Give ’im some more porridge. ’E’s famished. Take some time to fill’im up.’

They handed him more porridge, and Morel gave a laugh as he launched into his third bowlful. There were happy smiles on the faces of all the young soldiers as they watched him. The old soldiers, who considered themselves above this kind of nonsense, lay there on the other side of the fire, but now and again one of them would raise himself up on one elbow and look across at Morel with a smile on his face too.