See You Up There

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1

For Alain de Greef

For Marcel Gotlib

Morocco, November 1920

Your name, date and place of birth.

Albert Maillard. May 16, 1872.

Rue Ordener in Paris.

- Son of? - Yvette Maillard. A linen maid.

And?

Unknown.

Profession?

Bookkeeper.

Service record?

Called up in June '16. Reserves.

You saw action at your age?

Somme in July '16. Chemin des Dames '17...

Active duty in August '18.

Then found myself with kids at Hill 113.

Hill 113?

Our position at the armistice.

When did you meet Edouard Pricourt?

There, at Hill 113.

And that's when you first discussed...

A "partnership"?

It's a long story. It's complicated.

We have plenty of time.

SEE YOU UP THERE

Adapted from the novel by Pierre Lemaitre, Prix Goncourt 2013

It all started on November 9, 1918.

Rumors of an armistice were rife, so everybody kept quiet.

By everybody I mean the Germans too.

Nobody felt like shooting anymore.

Dying last is even dumber than dying first.

Sir?

The only one not happy was our lieutenant, Pradelle.

He liked war. It was his thing.

He was scarier than the Germans.

Hostilities to cease immediately. Await further orders.

November 9, 1918

LONG LIVE DEATH:

Sergeant!

Lieutenant!

Recce patrol.

But sir...

The Germans want it to end too.

No need to worry, then.

Thrieux and Grisonnier.

Thrieux! Grisonnier!

He chose old Grisonnier

and a terrified new kid, young Thrieux.

Recce. Their front line.

Execute!

You heard the lieutenant?

A daylight recce of their trenches!

The orders were absurd.

So?

So? Orders are orders!

Dear Ccile

Grisonnier and Thrieux had been gunned down!

As if by arrangement

our 75s laid down a barrage.

The Germans replied.

Bayonets on! Gather at the ladders!

And then off we went. We were really mad...

Charge! Charge!

Don't move!

Advance! Advance, soldiers!

Into battle!

Thrieux...

Grisonnier...

They'd been shot in the back. You see?

By Pradelle!

He killed them.

Now I'm dead!

You're dead?

A figure of speech.

I came to in a hole with a dead horse.

It saved me when I could no longer breathe.

A stretcher!

A stretcher!

Please. Please.

It's still war.

Please give him some morphine.

It would do terrible harm.

More terrible than that?

Be brave.

He suffered too.

Mr. Pricourt.

It's for you, Mr. Pricourt.

Mummy

A**hole

A**hole

A**hole

Wow!

You slept like a log, mate.

That stuff really works.

Don't take this badly...

I looked at your drawings.

They're great.

Your drawings are weird, but I like them a lot.

It's weird, eh?

What do you want?

Show me.

The window?

Lunchtime.

- Your friend looks sleepy. - Not really.

Just having a little rest, that's all.

Slowly...

I'll be back in an hour.

As if that was good news!

I made your transfer request. You leave in the morning.

No need to worry.

Special hospital in Paris.

They fit prostheses. Apparently...

you'd never tell afterward.

You don't want a fake jaw?

Edouard.

You can't go home like that.

You don't want to?

What do you want?

The drawings?

I don't want to see my father

He'll still love you.

Even with that face, he'll be glad to see you.

Stop it!

That hurt.

Want me to kill you?

You survive 4 years of war and now it's over you give up?

Lots of men never went home. Presumed dead.

But they'd just scrubbed their own files.

Edouard wanted me to kill his file.

On the list for November '18

I was sure to find men whose families

didn't know yet. Recent dead. Fresh dead.

I needed a man nobody would ask after.

And I found one.

He'd grown up in care. Eugne Larivire. Bingo.

Nobody cares when they're alive,

let alone dead.

Edouard Pricourt died at Hill 113 on Nov. 9, '18.

And Eugne Larivire?

Well, he got better.

Larivire. Got it? Eugne Larivire!

Take it easy with Eugne, lads.

This guy's got his transfer permit.

Get lost. You don't have a permit.

Here's his service book. Larivire.

6 vials of morphine. And they better be there on arrival!

Imagine it's on the cheek...

We're off, mate.

Yeah, alright.

Bye, Eugne! See you!

Then I wrote a letter to his family.

I didn't want them to find out from the army.

Army letters are never good news.

So I wrote them a letter.

A pretty good one too.

Dear Sir/Madam, I am Albert Maillard.

I'm a friend of Edouard's.

It's my sad duty to inform you of his death on Nov. 9, '18.

The army will have written to you

but I can tell you he died a hero while charging the enemy.

He was a wonderful chap.

Edouard left me his sketchbook

for you, if something happened.

And as something did happen to him, here it is.

Edouard rests in a quiet, pretty cemetery.

He's very comfortable.

My respects, Albert Maillard.

This is a gift from the state.

It's soft and light.

With a mustache. If you choose it...

Admire the elegance.

This one is an old mask...

It looks spectacular.

The operations will be severe

but the results are excellent.

This to this, in one year.

Then to this

in two years.

This surgery is magnificent!

My job is to mend you.

PISS OFF:

I also wrote to my fiance Ccile

to tell her I'd been demobbed and would be back soon.

None too soon.

It had taken from November to March.

What's wrong? Some problem?

Hey, you!

My photo not right?

Doesn't look like you.

- It was before. - Before what?

Before the war!

- Did you go? - I wouldn't be here otherwise!

Free-riders everywhere...

Free-riders to war?

For everything.

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