The Solitude of Compassion by Jean Giono Page B

done.”
    He makes a gesture to indicate that he does not understand either, then a great silent laugh: “It means nothing.” We leave.
    The signal post is a little narrow hut with squared portholes. Kossiakoff sits down. The skylight which he lets me occupy frames a piece of dirty fog; in the back, barely sketched, the phantoms of trees, the canal. I do not know where to hang my lantern. With his finger Kossiakoff indicates a tree branch stuck in the ground before me.
    â€œThe marking.”
    By chance I send a long ray of light in that direction… Miracle. They respond. A little red glow under the trees. A silent dialogue begins:
    â€œArtillery?”
    â€œYes. Connection at seven o’clock in the morning; in the evening, ordinary code.”
    â€œUnderstood… Nothing to signal.”
    â€œUnderstood… End of the transmission.”
    And look. It works. I am very proud. Kossiakoff laughs.

    I sleep a lot in the barracks. Opening my eyes I find Kossiakoff in a corner, legs folded, head on his knees. He is looking at me. He has
given me the entire place. He has made himself small so as to allow me to sleep at my leisure. I am confused. I want to thank him and make him understand that I am not normally the type who sleeps on duty.
    â€œI am tired old chap… Last night Champfleury, you understand Champfleury? Vassili (I imitate an imaginary person playing the accordion), Vassili zon zon zon all night long… No sleep (I indicate my head) badly, tired, understand?”
    â€œ Ne po ni maïo. ”
    He has remained folded in his corner. He makes a gesture for me to take his hooded cloak and cover myself with it.

    The afternoon goes by quickly. I have a letter and three pipes. I read the Bible a little. (My sack arrived intact. They did not touch my razor.) Vassili sleeps, concealed under his grey covering. He does not make any more noise than a bird. At four o’clock we go to attract the artillery’s attention.
    Kossiakoff absolutely insists on holding my lantern. I walk with my arms swinging, like a bourgeois, behind him; from time to time he looks back joyfully. I feel myself attracted to this big boy who no longer speaks but who tries everything to make me happy and lets his high shoulders carry my baggage.
    The front lines are a little on edge. There is a lot of confusion. In the courtyard, under the signal post, a stretcher-bearer rushes by. A battery by the canal begins firing. Here’s the response: a grinding cluster of shells fans out over our heads—and is destroyed in flames and thunder along the canal. One by one all of the French and Russian batteries illuminate themselves. Towards the underground
shelter where my company is gathered, little black grains scurry about… Friends… Short whistlings and blows of a club. I lower my head, trembling a little in the legs. A shell explodes on the parapet across from us.
    I verify the direction with the lantern. Kossiakoff is at his post, jaw protruding, teeth clenched, nostrils open. He is breathing deeply. I watch him. A furtive glance towards me.
    â€œNiett caracho,” he says between his teeth.
    â€œHow’s it going, old chap?”
    A second shell farther on. Pieces fall on our wooden roof. “Once again funny face is going to have the best trigger.” Another quite near. A rumbling strike passes by.
    There in the trees, the illuminated letters.
    Pencil, what is happening?
    I respond: A.S. Attendez; b I am going out for instructions. I open the door. The talus, like a recently awoken dragon, blows a breath of flame, of stone, and of fine stone debris at me. A thought enlightens me: “Got him right in the belly.” The swarm of steel squeals around me “You are going to get it.” I roll into the back of the hut and onto Kossiakoff.
    I hear him say:
    â€œ Niett caracho. ”
    A grey ball comes upon us. It is the man-woman. He is covered with dust.
    â€œThe artillery