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alert. ‘They aren’t really like us,’ thought Bernard as he recalled the soldiers he’d seen when they’d returned from the front. They were different, unusual. The battlefield had dragged men down, crushed them, and war did not willingly return the ones who had not yet been devoured. People talked about the regular leaves they would soon be granted, but for the moment, people turned around in the street whenever one of these fabulous heroes walked by, looking at them with curiosity, respect, love. They had cheated death, these ‘
poilus
’, the ‘hairy men’ as people called the ordinary soldiers hesitantly, apologising for using such avulgar expression (the women preferred to call them ‘
pioupious
’, ‘the young Tommies’). ‘And in a few days,’ thought Bernard, ‘I’ll be just like them. There will be an immeasurable distance between me and my parents, my friends. Martial … Détang … To think that Détang always seemed a downright idiot to me, and Martial a ridiculous smug fool. But they’ve done so many things; they’ve seen so much. They’ve killed other men. Détang says he uses his bayonet, that he skewers them like chickens. As for Martial, naturally, that isn’t his job, he dresses the soldiers’ wounds while they’re under attack, with shells falling all around him … And to think that he could have stayed behind the lines but didn’t so he could serve his country better, that he put off his wedding, even though he really wanted it …’ Not knowing how he could show what he felt, Bernard shyly touched Thérèse’s arm.
    ‘Will you think of me once in a while, when I’m gone?’ he asked.
    And immediately he berated himself: it was a silly thing to say, whiny, unworthy of a warrior. But he suddenly felt his heart fill with tenderness. Everything around him, these familiar faces, the little dining room that was so warm and peaceful, the table on which he and Thérèse had played card games and backgammon, everything, the little pitcher with the clicking spout he had found so funny when he was little, right down to the pink glass salt cellar sitting in front of him, everything seemed pleasant, friendly and full of precious, deep significance. ‘This might really be the last time that I’m warm, that I feel good, that I want for nothing,’ he thought. ‘I might be killed as soon as I get over there. Brrr … it feels really strange to think about that …’
    A cold little chill ran across his shoulders, so sharply and suddenly that he turned his head, as if someone had breathed on his back:
    ‘If I am killed, at least I will have experienced this, which isbetter than anything in the world: Papa, Mama, our family and friends. I will never have travelled or been in love …
“I am prepared to die, O Goddess, but not before having known love …”
. * Martial … One night with the woman you love, your wife … Thérèse … No, I mustn’t let myself think such thoughts. I must respect Thérèse. It isn’t possible that I could be killed as soon as I get over there, is it? But then again, if that does happen, what glory! Everyone will love me, feel sorry for me. I will remain alive in people’s memory, I will remain alive as a hero. Yes, as I fall to my death on that far-off battlefield, facing the enemy, I will feel that great surge of love upon me. It will console me, rock me gently to sleep. What is that thing we call Glory? It is to be loved by as many people as possible … Not just my parents and my friends, but even by strangers. And I, too, I will be happy to have died for them. For there’s no doubt about it, if there were no daring fellows like me to defend you, you’d be shaking in your boots, ladies,’ he concluded, imagining he was speaking to all the women whom he found lovable, sweet and kind.
    ‘They’ll think about me. They’ll worry about me … They’ll send me packages, letters, nice things to eat. And if I come back … with