The Outcasts Chapter 3: The Soldiers, a rwby fanfic

Chapter 3

The soldiers

For hate dies, suffocated to death by its own stupidity and mediocrity. But grandeur is eternal.

Leon Degrelle

In the middle of December, the troops returned from the front. Only one division, from the neighborhood of Starhold, was expected in the town.

The crowd was gathered on the footpaths. A few houses timidly displayed red and black bunting. There were a great many women and girls, some of them carrying baskets of flowers or little parcels. The main streets were crowded with people who, after some pushing, consented to stay quietly on the pavements, waiting for the troops. We felt as if the depression which had hung over the town for weeks past had suddenly been lifted a little; as if the spell that had kept people apart had all at once been broken. It almost felt like the old days, when a big victory had been announced. We were ready to give rein to our enthusiasm; we were inclined to credit everybody with being moved by the same sensations as ourselves. We had all suffered, and the troops would bring the solution to our difficulties. We stood, craning our necks to see if they were not in sight yet, and all our hopes centered on this one idea: that everything would be changed. We stood and waited for the 'best of the nation.' Their sacrifice could not have been worthless. The dead had not died in vain that could not be, that was impossible. It seemed significant to me that we were all standing and waiting, each one formulating his wishes. How various these wishes must be! Yet they must be at one in recognizing that each wished for the best. Our troops were coming, our brave army, which had done its a duty to the utmost, which had given us glorious victories; victories that seemed almost unbearably splendid now that we had lost the war. The army had not been conquered. Our men had stood firm to the last. They were coming home and they would knit up all the old bonds.

The multiplicity of the wishes which swayed the crowd sought expression. There were murmurs, groups were formed, and little knots of people surrounded gesticulating speakers. They were saying that the men had come on foot from the front; that they had refused to form Councils; that the Valemen were following at their heels. These troops were not staying in the town. They were departing on the following day. However, the town felt that it was its duty and its pleasure to give them the joyful reception which was their due. Our unconquered heroes were coming, though a jealous fate had denied them the rewards of their bravery. And despite the sorrow, despite the changes at home, it was no more than bare justice to forget small dissensions and to receive them with joy and in unity.

The day was cold and damp and grey. I was wedged hotly and uncomfortably among the crowd. The buzz of excitement re-echoed from the houses, as we waited, listening and chattering, shivering with the cold and damp.

All at once, the soldiers appeared. We scarcely heard them, but there was a sudden movement among the crowd. A few shouts were heard, which no one took up and which soon died down again. A woman wept, her shoulders heaving, sobbing quietly, her hands clenched.

The police spread out their arms and tried to keep back the crowd. They were swallowed up as the wall of people pressed forward.

There they were! There they were: grey figures, a forest of rifles over the round flat helmets.

"Why is there no music?" somebody whispered hoarsely, breathlessly. "Why hasn't the mayor arranged any music?" Indignant whispers; then the silence. Then a voice shouted 'Hurrah. . . from somewhere at the back. Then again silence.

The soldiers marched quickly, in close formation. They had stony, expressionless faces. They looked neither to the right nor left, but straight ahead, fixedly, as though magnetized by some terrible goal, as though they were gazing from dug-outs and trenches over a wounded world. Not a word was spoken by those haggard-faced men. Just once, when someone sprang forward and almost imploringly offered a little box to the soldiers, the lieutenant waved him aside impatiently, saying: "For goodness' sake don't do that. A whole division is following on."

One platoon passed, the ranks close, a second, a third. Then a space. More space. Could this be a whole company? Three platoons? God! how terrible these men looked! - gaunt, immobile faces under shrapnel helmets, wasted limbs, ragged, dusty uniforms. . . . Did they still carry terrible visions of battle in their minds, as they carried the dust of the mangled earth on their garments? The strain was almost unbearable. They marched as though they were envoys of the deadliest, loneliest, iciest cold. Yet they had come home; here was warmth and happiness; why were they so silent? Why did they not shout and cheer; why did they not laugh?

The next company is advanced. The crowd thronged forward again. But the soldiers trudged on rapidly, doggedly, blindly, untouched by the thousand wishes, hopes, and greetings that hovered around them. And the crowd was silent.

Very few of the soldiers were wearing flowers. The little bunches which hung on their gun barrels were faded. Most of the girls in the crowd were carrying flowers, but they stood trembling, uncertain, diffident, their faces pale and twitching, as they looked at the soldiers with anxious eyes. The march went on. An officer was carrying a laurel wreath negligently, dangling it in his hand, hunching his shoulders.

The crowd pulled itself together. A few hoarse shouts were heard, as though from rusty throats. Here and there a handkerchief was waved. One man murmured, convulsed: ''Our heroes, our heroes!" They passed on, unmoved, shoulders thrust forward, their steel helmets almost hidden by bulky packs, dragging their feet, company after company, little knots of men with wide spaces between. Sweat ran from their helmets down their worn grey cheeks, their noses stood out sharply from their faces.

Not a flag, not a sign of victory. The baggage wagons were already coming in sight. So this was a whole regiment!

As I beheld these fiercely determined faces, set as though carved in wood, these eyes which looked frigidly past the crowd, coldly, malevolently, inimically - yes inimically - I knew, I realized, I felt numbly - that everything was absolutely and completely different from what I and all of us here had imagined. It must have been different all through these past years. Then what did we know? What did we know of these men, of the front line, of our soldiers? Nothing, nothing, nothing. Gods! This was terrible. Was nothing true that we had been told? We had been cheated: these were not our boys, our heroes, our defenders - these were men who had no part or lot among those who were gathered here in the streets. They were of another race, they obeyed other laws. Suddenly everything for which I had hoped, by which I had been inspired, seemed to be shallow and empty.

An officer appeared mounted on a wretched, dirty, horse. He was a major and he passed close by me. I stood to attention, but he did not so much as look at me. He turned his horse so that it stood in front of us and its hind legs pushed aside the crowd. He faced the troops and raised his hand in salute. An officer sprang out from amongst the troops and called out a command. The soldiers came to life: with one movement they turned their heads, their legs seemed to be jerked in their sockets, and their boots rang on the paving-stones.

The major stooped in his saddle. His regiment marched past, their tired, worn-out feet resounding on the asphalt. The crowd stood motionless. The whole affair seemed senseless. What was the meaning of this parade, with no music, no flags, nothing to account for it, no pageantry? Or perhaps after all there was some reason in it; some deeper, more obscure reason than we could probe. Was this a show for us or was it not? In truth it seemed to me that it was a challenge, it was mockery, defiance, contempt; a demonstration of the power of the army: the absurd goose-step, the ridiculous stiffness, and the way they threw about their legs! To them it did not seem absurd, they knew that we were ashamed of ourselves; that we could not make fun of them, neither faunus nor townspeople, though we had been ready to admit in our peace and security and respectability that this goose-step was ridiculous.

The regiment passed on. Even the policeman did not dare to smile. The major put his horse to a heavy jogtrot and followed. Now came more baggage wagons. The drivers sat motionlessly, and if anyone threw them things they gave no thanks nor even acknowledged them. There were a few tiny flags stuck in the wagons; cheap cloth hanging limply on little sticks. Camouflaged machine-gun carriages rolled past, the men with the girths over their shoulders, eight men to a trailer. Then came big guns, with the gunners sitting on them their steel helmets tilted over their faces by the jolting. A few of the bolder spirits gave them flowers. One man took no notice at all; another accepted the bunch without thanks and laid it down beside him; another looked up dazedly, never smiling, took the flowers and held them awkwardly in his hands.

All this time the woman was weeping with dull, strangled sobs that seemed to come from deep down in her breast.

Then came more infantry, and they took no notice of us either. Was it because they were still so filled with the horror of what they had lived through? This battalion came straight from the front line. These eyes fixed and staring under their helmets had seen things of which we had no conception, in a world which meant nothing to us, of which we had only vague ideas gleaned from sketchy accounts and faulty pictures. Dumbly, drearily they continued their march, as though they were still in the shadow of death. People, Country, Home, Duty - we spoke all those words, and we believed in them. But what about the troops - what were their feelings?

Company after the company passed. Pathetic little groups of men, surrounded by a terrifying atmosphere of blood, steel, explosives, of fierce contests. Did they hate the revolution? Would they fight against it? Would they come back amongst us as workmen, farmers, or students, and take part in our sorrows, our desires, our battles?

Suddenly I realized that there were no workmen, farmers, or students, they were not laborers, clerks, shopkeepers, or officials. They were soldiers: they were men who had heard the call. Here were no mummers, no conscripts. They had a vocation, they came of their own free will, and their home was in the war zone. Home - Country - People - Nation - they were imposing words when we said them, but they were shams. That was why these men would have nothing to do with us.

They were the Nation. What we had blazoned about the world they understood in a deeper sense - it was that which had urged them to do what we smugly called their duty. Their faith was not in words, it was in themselves, and they never down beside him; another looked up dazedly, never smiling, took the flowers, and held them awkwardly in his hands.

All this time the woman was weeping with dull, strangled sobs that seemed to come from deep down in her breast.

Suddenly I realized that these were no workmen, farmers, or students, they were not laborers, clerks, shopkeepers, or officials. They were soldiers: they were men who had heard the call. Here were no mummers, no conscripts. They had a vocation, they came of their own free will, and their home was in the war zone. Home - Country - People - Nation - they were imposing words when we said them, but they were shams. That was why these men would have nothing to do with us.

They were the Nation. What we had blazoned about the world they understood in a deeper sense - it was that which had urged them to do what we smugly called their duty. Their faith was not in words, it was in themselves, and they never talked about it. War had taken hold of them and would never let them go. They would never really belong to us and their homes again. This attempted fusion of them with the peaceful, ordered life of ordinary citizens was a ridiculous adulteration that could never succeed. The war was over, but the armies. were still in being. The mob was fermenting, unwieldy, with thousands of little hopes and desires, size its only might, but the soldiers would work for revolution - a different revolution whether they wanted to or not, urged on by powers which we could not realize. War had provided no solution; soldiers were still needed.

Now came the last battalion in the division. I watched perplexed, anguished, trembling, and rebellious. The last platoons swung past. The ground still echoed to their tread and the crowd began moving. I listened to the last steps of the soldiers. What did I care for the revolution now. .?

Appeals hung at the street corners. Volunteers were asked for. Companies were to be raised for defense in the Southern frontier from a Faunus revolt. I enlisted the day after the troops had entered the town.

Thanks for reading and I hope you have a great day.