: Henri Barbusse
: Under Fire
: OTB eBook publishing
: 9783956762710
: 1
: CHF 1.80
:
: Geschichte
: English
: 296
: kein Kopierschutz
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

The novel takes the form of journal-like anecdotes which the unnamed narrator claims to be writing to record his time in the war. It follows a squad of French volunteer soldiers on the Western front in France after the ger invasion. The book opens and ends with broad visions shared by multiple characters but beyond these the action of the novel takes place in occupied France. In contrast to many war novels which came before it, Under Fire describes war in gritty and brutal realism. It is noted for its realistic descriptions of death in war and the squalid trench conditions.

IV


Volpatte and Fouillade


AS we reached quarters again, some one cried:"But where's Volpatte?"—"And Fouillade, where's he?"

They had been requisitioned and taken off to the front line by the 5th Battalion. No doubt we should find them somewhere in quarters. No success. Two men of the squad lost!

"That's what comes of lending men," said the sergeant with a great oath. The captain, when apprised of the loss, also cursed and swore and said,"I must have those men. Let them be found at once. Allez!"

Farfadet and I are summoned by Corporal Bertrand from the barn where at full length we have already immobilized ourselves, and are growing torpid:"You must go and look for Volpatte and Fouillade."

Quickly we got up, and set off with a shiver of uneasiness. Our two comrades have been taken by the 5th and carried off to that infernal shift. Who knows where they are and what they may be by now!

We climb up the hill again. Again we begin, but in the opposite direction, the journey done since the dawn and the night. Though we are without our heavy stuff, and only carry rifles and accouterments, we feel idle, sleepy, and stiff; and the country is sad, and the sky all wisped with mist. Farfadet is soon panting. He talked a little at first, till fatigue enforced silence on him. He is brave enough, but frail, and during all his prewar life, shut up in the Town Hall office where he scribbled since the days of his"first sacrament" between a stove and some ageing cardboard files, he hardly learned the use of his legs.

Just as we emerge from the wood, slipping and floundering, to penetrate the region of communication trenches, two faint shadows are outlined in front. Two soldiers are coming up. We can see the protuberance of their burdens and the sharp lines of their rifles. The swaying double shape becomes distinct—"It's them!"

One of the shadows has a great white head, all swathed—"One of them's wounded! It's Volpatte!"

We run up to the specters, our feet making the sounds of sinking in sponge and of sticky withdrawal, and our shaken cartridges rattle in their pouches. They stand still and wait for us. When we are close up,"It's about time!" cries Volpatte.

"You're wounded, old chap?"—"What?" he says; the manifold bandages all round his head make him deaf, and we must shout to get through them. So we go close and shout. Then he replies,"That's nothing; we're coming from the hole where the 5th Battalion put us on Thur