1914

On the other hand, cavorting around or burrowed in outside the fixed, static, bogged-down ground plan of the trenches, there were wild animals too, and that was an entirely different business. Before the fields and forests had been razed and smashed to pieces by artillery fire—the fields turned to Martian deserts, the woods reduced to ragged stumps—they had harbored, at least for a little while longer, freelance animals never enslaved by men either in peacetime or in war, at liberty to live as they pleased, unfettered by any code of labor. Among these creatures a decent crop of edible bodies was still available: hares, deer, or wild boar—promptly shot even though hunting was strictly forbidden during wartime, polished off à la bayonet, chopped up with an ax or trench knife—that sometimes provided soldiers with a windfall of alimentary extras.

The same thing happened to birds or frogs, tracked and harvested during the soldiers’ off-hours, and to every kind of trout, carp, tench, and pike they fished for with grenades whenever encamped beside running water, and to bees if by some miracle they found a hive not yet completely deserted. Last on the list came the marginal creatures, declared inedible by some vague interdict or other, such as foxes, crows, weasels, moles: as for them, although they were for obscure reasons pronounced unfit for consumption, it seems the troops became less and less finicky in this regard and that every once in a while they managed, by means of a ragout, to make an exception for hedgehogs. Like the other animals, however, these would soon become scarce on the ground after the invention and swift application of poison gases throughout the theater of operations.

But there’s more to life than eating. Because in the case of armed conflict, the animal kingdom provides some members that can be too useful as potential warriors to be eaten and these are recruited by force for their aptitude for service, such as militarized horses, dogs, or pigeons: some beasts are ridden by noncoms or set to pulling wagons, others are trained to attack, or haul machine guns, while in the bird department, squadrons of globe-trotting pigeons are promoted to the rank of courier.

Last of all and alas, above all, came innumerable creatures of the tiniest size and most redoubtable nature: all sorts of die-hard parasites that, not content with offering no nutritional value whatsoever, on the contrary themselves feed voraciously on the troops. First in line, the insects: fleas, bedbugs, mosquitoes, gnats, and flies that settle in clouds on the eyes—those choice bits—of corpses. And let’s not forget that parasitic arachnid, the tick. Still, the men could have coped with them all, but there was one adversary that quickly became a perpetual and utter scourge: the louse. A prolific champion, this insect in its fraternity of millions soon completely covered everybody. The other main enemy was the rat, no less gluttonous and just as omnipresent as the louse, equally expert at reproduction, but a specialist in fattening up, hell-bent on devouring the soldiers’ provisions—including those hung preventively from a nail—or nibbling on leather straps, attacking even your shoes and your very body when you’re asleep, and fighting with the flies for your eyeballs when you’re dead.

Even if it were simply on account of those two, the louse and the rat, obstinate, meticulous, organized, as single-minded as monosyllables, both of them focused exclusively on tormenting your flesh or sucking your blood, on exterminating you each in its own style— and let’s not forget the enemy across the way, devoted through other means to the same end—you often just wanted to get the fuck on out of camp.

Well, you don’t get out of this war like that. It’s simple: you’re trapped. The enemy is in front of you, the rats and lice are with you, and behind you are the gendarmes. Since the only solution is to become an invalid, you’re reduced to waiting for that “good wound”, the one you wind up longing for, your guaranteed ticket home (vide Anthime), but there’s a problem: it doesn’t depend on you. So that wonder-working wound, some men tried to acquire it on their own without attracting too much attention, by shooting themselves in the hand, for example, but they usually failed and were confronted with their misdeed, tried, and shot for treason. Mowed down by your own side rather than asphyxiated, burned to a crisp, or shredded by gas, flamethrowers, or shells—that could be a choice. But there was also blowing your own head off, with a toe on the trigger and the rifle barrel in your mouth, a way of getting out like any other—that could be a choice too.

13