Enemy Becomes Human — War and Peace

The Fifth Company bivouacs at the forest edge. A huge fire lights frosted branches. About midnight steps crackle in the snow. Someone says a bear. Two strangely clad figures cling to each other and step into the light. They are Frenchmen who have been hiding in the wood, hoarsely uttering a language the soldiers do not understand. The taller wears an officer's hat and falls as he tries to sit. The shorter, sturdy, with a shawl tied round his head, raises him and points to his mouth. The Russians spread a greatcoat, bring buckwheat porridge and vodka. The exhausted officer is Ramballe; the orderly in the shawl is Morel.

Morel drinks, finishes a bowl, and becomes unnaturally merry, chattering to men who cannot follow him. Ramballe refuses food, lies silent with red vacant eyes, and groans. Morel points to his shoulders: the officer must be warmed. A Russian officer sends to the colonel; the colonel will take him. Ramballe rises, staggers, and would fall if a soldier did not hold him. One man winks and mocks; the others rebuke him as a lout and a peasant. They lift Ramballe on crossed arms. He puts his arms round their necks and wails that these are men, his kind friends, leaning his head on a shoulder like a child.

Meanwhile Morel sits in the best place by the fire in a woman's cloak, tipsy, singing Vive Henri Quatre with an arm round the nearest soldier. A wag catches the tune in nonsense syllables. Zaletáev labours after the French words and they roar with laughter. They give Morel a third bowl of porridge: it takes a long time to fill up after starving. Young soldiers smile. Older men lie opposite, thinking such nonsense undignified, yet one raises himself on an elbow and smiles. They are men too, he says, wrapping himself in his coat. Even wormwood grows on its own root. Then they fall silent. The stars, as if knowing no one is looking, flare, vanish, and tremble, whispering something gladsome and mysterious to one another.