Read The Fires of Autumn for Free Online Page A

doctor, like Martial, ‘knew things’, or so the civilians thought. They had knowledge of what the great military leaders were plotting, the date of the next offensive and the mysterious plans of the enemy.
    ‘Well, when is it going to happen? When?’ Madame Humbert eagerly asked Doctor Brun as soon as she saw him. What she meant was ‘The Victory. When will we claim Victory?’ And when Martial did not reply, she cheerfully wagged her finger at him. ‘He’s so secretive; he doesn’t want to tell us a thing,’ she said, simpering, then becoming serious again:
    ‘Well, can you explain what they’re doing, why we aren’t advancing?’
    Martial had not remained behind in his fine hospital train for long, a train that could hold up to eight beds per carriage and one hundred and twenty-eight wounded men in total, or so the newspapers proudly reported. Those trains were used for show, to comfort the civilian population and for the edification of the neutral nations. The wounded soldiers were transported in freight trains and cattle wagons, bleeding, in terrible pain, dying all along the small regional branch lines. After the first days, the really awful days, Martial had been allowed to transfer to a first-aid post on the front line. ‘He’s a hero, no one can doubt that,’ thought Bernard as he studied him with jealous admiration, for he was still in the depot: he was just a child; he wore the uniform of the army, of course, but the military medals, the honourable injuries were for the others, he told himself, looking at Raymond Détang’s arm in its sling. Détang, on convalescent leave, had come to the wedding and was now having dinner at the Bruns’ house, in their little dining room crammed full of furniture. It was raining; the wood-burning stove gave off a gentle, somewhat stifling heat. They had toasted the newlyweds, the Allies and Victory. Bernard had still not lost his enthusiasm for drinking as much as he wanted, without risking being told off by his father and mother. He was sitting between the two soldiers. Martial, thin, sunburnt, with sunken cheeks and a pinched nose, pulled at his black beard. Raymond Détang was plump and had a healthy, glowing complexion; he had shaved off his beard and was getting many flattering compliments from the ladies. Because of his appearance, the way he spoke, his gentlemanly demeanour which he used to flatter and reassure civilians (‘Don’t you worry, now; they’re done for, listen to what I’m saying, it’s just a matter of months’), because of his war stories and his healthy chubbiness, Raymond Détangfitted the ideal of a soldier as imagined by civilians in their hearts far better than the silent Martial.
    ‘That’s it, all right,’ said Adolphe Brun as he listened and drank his champagne, deep in thought. ‘That’s it, all right. They always keep a good sense of humour. I heard about one soldier who was hit by a shell and had both his legs blown off. “That’s a bit of luck,” he said. “Now I won’t have to wash my feet any more!” Then he died. Now that’s a real French soldier …’
    ‘Monsieur Détang, is it true they’ve managed to make the trenches more or less comfortable?’ asked Madame Jacquelain.
    Meanwhile, Bernard, who had achieved an extraordinary state of lucidity thanks to the champagne, but the kind of lucidity that emerged in bursts and was then suddenly hidden by a heavy curtain or a wall of dense fog, this young Bernard found a strange resemblance between these two men (Martial and Détang), as if they were related. He took a long time trying to understand the nature of this similarity. ‘They look feverish,’ he thought in the end as he looked into their deep-set eyes. Yes … even Raymond Détang’s eyes shone with a worrying glimmer. Both these men sat stiff and straight, rather too straight, as if they were standing to attention, as if, in spite of their muscles, their nerves were on edge, lying in wait, on the