by Holub, Josef
“Well, now! Five foot four. And the two little inches that are missing, he’ll make them up soon enough, the little man. Gentlemen, see for yourselves. Anyone still require convincing? Or have you seen enough?”
The officers pull their heads in further between their shoulders. They are convinced. Just the odd uncertain glance passes between them.
“Fit for service,” they pronounce, a little hesitantly, but all together.
“Now, get the little wretch out of here!” bellows the important officer. He takes the papers, smashes them on a pile of other papers on the edge of the table, and yells: “Next!”
I put my head down and make a mad dash for the door. The soldier with the measuring rod flings my clothes after me.
Bewildered and tearful, I stand in the corridor. Some people are laughing at me mockingly, but some are sympathetic. I must get out of here. Where’s the farmer? He can clear this whole thing up in no time, and I’m sure he will. I jump into my pants and shoes, jam my shirt and tunic under my arm, and go bounding down the stairs.
“Farmer! Farmer!”
But the farmer isn’t anywhere to be seen. Around the corner? Not there. Where has he got to? The sleigh and the horses aren’t in the side alley. I stop in front of the town hall, not knowing where to go. I’m shivering. I still have my shirt and tunic wedged under my arms. My chest is covered with goose bumps. I must get away from town.
Up on the second floor, a window is pulled open. An officer shouts down to those below.
Four soldiers dash up to me.
“Halt!” they shout, as I make to turn down the next street. “Stop! Stay right there! You’re coming with us.”
“I want to go home.”
“Nothing doing. Orders from the staff captain. You can’t go home. You’re a soldier now, and you’re coming to the depot with us.”
Sometime after noon I stop crying for the farmer. My sobbing is still with me, though. It gulps up from deep inside me.
3
Early in the afternoon, about a dozen soldiers are marching me and a whole lot of other young boys in farm clothes out of town. There’s powdery snow on the heights. Lower down in the valleys, it turns slushy. The slush is water and snow and plenty of mud, and it sloshes over the tops of our boots. The soldiers swear terribly. Each time the road goes through forest, they take the guns off their shoulders and level them at us.
I’m tired and hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since early this morning. At least it’s not raining or snowing even.
It’s getting dark as we head down into a river valley. “The Neckar,” says one of the farm boys. He must know his way around here.
“Where are we going?” we ask him.
“What do I know? Ludwigsburg, I expect. There are a lot of barracks there.”
One of the soldiers is more talkative.
“Right, you’re all going to the reception depot in Ludwigsburg. There’s going to be war again soon, and the king needs soldiers.”
“Particularly for the French emperor, that Napoleon!” another adds softly and with awe in his voice.
Dismal thoughts weigh on my brain. What do I have to do with Napoleon? Why do I suddenly have to be a soldier now? Why didn’t the farmer wait for me?
For an hour we climb through vineyards up to the heights. It’s well dark by the time we pass through a big gate into a barracks yard.
I sleepwalk across the sandy expanse. There’s no snow here, and not much slush, either. A lot of boot soles have dissolved it and left puddles of dirty water. An arrogant soldier with hat and saber marches up to us.
“Halt!” he yells. “Where are you going?”
“Recruits,” reports one of our guards.
“Wait there.”
A soldier mutters to himself: “When are we going to get some grub?” And the others take up the question.
We farm boys are all freezing. The soldiers are swinging their arms and smacking their shoulders against the cold. They’re no better off than we are. I suppose their uniforms aren’t much good in winter. Everyone’s belly is grumbling. It’s pointless standing in the empty yard like this. I need to go very badly, but I can’t see how or where. I think of the farmhands’ room and my straw sack. It would be reasonably warm in there now. And the dung heap would be outside in front of the cow shed. I could just nip down there and let loose. But there’s no sign of any dung heap here.
Half the night must be over. It’s begun to snow. A fat soldier comes waddling up to us. He yawns and looks at the group of us, trembling with cold.
“Come with me,” he orders.
We walk right across the barracks yard toward a low building. Suddenly, I feel warmth. I revive out of my stupor. A stable. No doubt about it. Hoof scraping and lip smacking and the homey smell of straw and dung.
“No lighting a fire,” the fat soldier tells us. “You can sleep in there for tonight. There’s no more beds in the barracks.”
“And when are we getting some grub?”
“Soon.”
A little later, two soldiers come in carrying a bucket between them. It smells of broth and pickled cabbage and noodles, a good smell, a very good smell.
“What are we going to eat with? We haven’t got any eating irons.”
“There are some spoons there.”
“What about plates?”
“What do you need plates for!”
Quickly everyone grabs a spoon, and we cluster around the bucket and start shoveling the stuff into us.
It’s a thick mash of potatoes, beans, and other things, and it’s not at all bad. With a bit of effort, I manage to get several spoonfuls into myself. There’s a little scrap of bacon in one. I leave it in my mouth and enjoy the heavenly taste. But then I quickly gulp it down, because the other boys’ spoons are already scratching the bottom of the bucket, and I have to hurry to get another dab or two of the mash.
Soon after, the spoon drops from my hand. I tip back into the warm straw. This time, the hole I fall into is so deep that I forget all about the wretched world around me. Even my thoughts about the farmer disappear as quickly as the three drops of honey in the acorn coffee we get on Sundays for a treat.
4
In the reception depot, there are loads of soldiers and young boys on their way to becoming soldiers. Every day there are more. There haven’t been any beds for ages now. Every little bit of room in the stables has been taken. Even outside the barracks, the recruits are sometimes put up in so-called double billets. That’s two soldiers sharing a bed. While one sleeps, the others on guard duty, and then turnabout.
Soldiers out of uniform get as little respect as bare-naked kings. So the new recruits are issued uniforms in double-quick time. They stick me in a uniform, too. It doesn’t fit me anywhere, it smells of sheep droppings and tar soap, and it’s not particularly warm, either. It’s too thin for winter, but it’s still better than my thin civilian Sunday tunic. It’s pale blue from top to bottom, almost sky blue. The pants have room enough for two scrawny bottoms like mine. I get a longish pot stuck on my head, which they call a casquette, with a horsehair plume on top. That’s the only part of my uniform that fits me at all. Thanks be to God, my boots only rubbed me sore in the beginning. I can manage to walk in them properly if I wrap the foot cloths around my toes and heels tightly enough so they don’t slip.
Three weeks before Christmas, I bump into the son of Kleinknecht the laborer from the village. Kleinknecht is still in his civvies, and he’s quite surprised to see me in the barracks.
“They’re talking about you in the village,” he tells me.
“What are they saying?”
“I don’t know whether I should tell you. They say you stayed in town because you liked it there so much. Your farmer says he’s not going to forgive you now, whatever you do.”
“He won’t? Why not?”
“Well, because you’ve stayed away too long.”
And because he’s in a great hurry, Kleinknecht runs off.
I’m all confused. The world has gone mad! I’ve stayed in town, and my farmer won’t forgive me?
The barracks is like a typical town. There’s a big open square ringed by stables and stalls and long two-story houses. On the edge there’s a fancy house with sentries at the door and all sorts of gleaming officers going in and out. Those are the men who have a say, they all go by Your Honor or Your Grace, and there’s even supposed to be a Your Excellency among them.
That’s the house I have to get into, to tell the officers that I’m not really allowed to be a soldier at all because I’m only sixteen. If they don’t believe me, then my farmer can settle it anytime. He’s not just anyone, either, he’s the mayor in the village.
But I don’t dare go inside. Who am I going to tell about the mistake? No one would believe me. I need to think it through carefully. In the end, I don’t get around to it at all. Sergeants and corporals and lieutenants and other soldiers dressed up with sabers are using up every minute of my life.
At first, I resist all the shouting and the senseless running back and forth. Picking up your feet, trudging around the barracks yard, standing around doing nothing — what sort of work is that? Just a lot of silly hocus-pocus. When they give especially stupid commands, I make a fuss and do the exact opposite. I quickly realize how foolish that is. The sabered ones don’t take kindly to it. They tyrannize me till I don’t know which way is up. I can’t take it for very long. After a few days I’m forced into being an obedient soldier.
All I think is what the other soldiers think.
And soldiers don’t think much. Certainly, they don’t do any unnecessary thinking. They think of their straw sack when they’re tired, and of food when their bellies are grumbling. All the life in between is pretty unthinking. Well, not entirely. When the soldiers have eaten, and if they’re not being tyrannized, then they talk about buxom girls. Not that there are any of those in the barracks.
My muscles and bones remind me of their presence with tears and cramps and aches. My head gets emptier all the time. The switch from young apprentice to dutiful soldier comes on apace, almost inevitably. A person can get used to anything. I can, too.
The most important quality in a soldier is obedience. Irrespective of what he’s told to do. And, after that, marching. You can do that without thinking. After all, a soldier doesn’t march along on his head. All he needs are his legs. Marching, marching, marching, day and night. Left turn, right turn, left wheel, halt, by the right, quick march! Chest out, swing your arms! Fingers together, knees up! And finally, all our boot heels have to hit the ground together, to make a single crunching sound. That’s the really important thing, the crunch.
Almost as important as marching is shooting with a rifle. A soldier’s rifle is his girlfriend. A soldier has to be able to do everything with it. Even in his sleep. Exactly like the loading instructions in the rulebook: “LOADING THE RIFLE. Open the pan. Take the bullet. Powder in the pan. Shut the frizzen.” And so on and so forth.
Before long, I notice that common soldiers are not allowed to speak to an officer about any ordinary thing. Officers, after all, are not ordinary people with whom you can have a normal conversation.
So I continue to put off my complaint from one day to the next.
A sergeant asks us recruits if there’s anyone among us who’s good with horses. I have to laugh. It’s the first time I’ve laughed since becoming a soldier. I like horses more than I like most people.
“I’ll have you laughing on the other side of your face!” bellows the sergeant. But at least I’m allowed to stay in the stable and sleep with the horses.
So it turns out to be good for me that my farmer wasn’t some poor ox farmer, but a wealthy horse farmer. Only a few of the recruits are good with horses, whereas I know quite a bit about grooming and feeding and riding.
But I’m not allowed to ride.
After a couple of weeks, we’re almost done with the marching and rifle loading. I join the transport corps of the horse artillery and am responsible for hitching up a pair of horses to a cannon, and feeding and brushing them. That’s what I call proper work again. I like my horses, and my horses like me. Life starts to look up. It might even be an improvement on being with my farmer.
You can spot the soldiers from the horse artillery a long way off. They all wear the sky blue uniforms. Their civilian clothes have to be sent home. I’ve got my Sunday tunic in a corner of the stable. Where should I send it? I leave it hidden under the straw. I’m sure I’ll need it again one day, when they find out I’m not really old enough to be a soldier.
After two more weeks, we have to pick up some new cannons. They say they were being molded and bored and filed in Ludwigsburg, day and night. The entire horse artillery squadron marches off, with the captain leading the way. The captain goes puce with pride when he sees those heavy bronze things. You can see it in his face and the way he struts about. The guns, brand-spanking-new, are glittering in the Christmas sun. Four six-pounders and two seven-pound howitzers. The captain is so beside himself with joy that he forgets himself for a moment. Proudly, he calls out to the soldiers that it won’t be long before he uses the guns to shoot up Spain and Russia in the coming campaign.
So the cat’s out of the bag. Something was in the offing. That’s why the king needed all those soldiers and guns, they’re all going to be used against Spain or Russia. To win. As always. Of course you win if you’re on Napoleons side. Napoleon is invincible. The whole world knows that.
Spain and Russia don’t belong to Napoleon yet, but it’s only a matter of time before they have to bow the knee to him, too. Someone mutters under his breath that Napoleon can never get enough of anything. He always needs more soldiers to play with and new battles to fight. We should mark his words, Russia won’t be the end of it. Next will be India or some other place.
Foolishness? It’s what all the little birdies are chattering from the barracks roofs. And if a little birdie says it, you have to take it seriously. Napoleon seems to be capable of anything.
5
In the horse artillery there’s a certain Sergeant Krauter. He doesn’t like me. Why? No one knows. Not even I know. He bullies me any chance he gets. And as a sergeant, he has lots of opportunities. He makes me march through puddles till I look like one myself, and my leg muscles are quaking, and my sky blue uniform has turned dirt brown. But Sergeant Krauter only does that when there are puddles in the yard. Otherwise I have to go around collecting the balls of horse dung that are lying on the barracks yard, pick them up one by one with my fingers, march over to a wagon, and drop them there. And keep count of how many I’ve taken. Passing officers shake their heads when they see me, but they don’t say anything, and they don’t intervene. After all, what do they care about a private in the supply column and, in any case, they shouldn’t undermine the authority of a sergeant.
Four hundred and seventy-eight dung balls in an hour.
I’ve had enough. No more. I want to run away. Deserting, they call it. Deserting is a very grave crime. You get shot for desertion, if they catch you. And almost all deserters do get caught. Most of them get caught within a few hours, the rest over time. Even so, I want to desert. I don’t care. Because this is no sort of life, with the puddles and the dung balls. Just lately, Krauter threatened he would make me eat the dung balls.
I’ve got my Sunday tunic hidden under the straw. The next dark night, I’m going to change into it and run away from the barracks. Run off home to my farmer. He can explain everything. No matter what, I have to get away from Krauter and the dung balls.
Pitch-black night. The soldiers are snoring, and the horses are, too. Maybe the men are dreaming of women, and the horses of sacks of oats or something like that.
Tonight’s the night. I’ve already pulled on my Sunday tunic and stashed the uniform in a corner.
Suddenly, the alarm is raised. Excited blowing of trumpets, swearing of oaths, running around, and the sergeant screaming at us to get out o
f the straw. Is it on account of me? No, it’s not. I’m still here. I scramble back into my sky blue uniform and shove the Sunday tunic into the corner again.
Apparently, three men from the horse artillery had the same idea as me and ran away. A little before me. Took advantage of the dark and the fog to get over the barracks wall. Barely half an hour later, they’ve all been caught. They didn’t realize that the whole town is like one big barracks, and that it’s not so easy to get clear of it.
The deserting artillerymen aren’t shot. Instead, they’re condemned to running the gauntlet, which is worse than the firing squad, and usually just as fatal. The culprit ends up whipped to death. Apparently, the king has banned the practice. Says someone. But the generals like it. Because it’s such a powerful deterrent. So no one heeds the king’s decision. But then, maybe the king wasn’t completely serious about it himself.
The drummer boy stands in the middle of the barracks yard. The dull thumps bounce off the walls like distant thunder. The whole barracks is standing there. Everyone wants to watch the deserters being punished and beaten to death by their comrades. Bets are being made on how far this man or that is going to get.
On the sandy ground of the barracks yard, the men of the horse artillery form up in a long double row. The captain takes charge personally. He makes a big speech about military honor. Whoever violates the terms of this honor should be beaten to death like a rabid dog.
“Anyone found not to strike with all his strength,” the captain threatens us, “will be made to run the gauntlet himself!” Instead of twigs, the soldiers take the belts and harness from their uniforms and hold them ready over their shoulders.
The time is at hand. The three deserters are produced. One of them is very young. Almost a baby face. His eyes are wet. Fear twitches in his cheeks. In a few minutes, his short life will be over. He will lie broken on the sand and die.
They have to strip.
The first of them is driven between the rows. The belts and harnesses whistle down on his bare skin. He plunges like a maniac through the whistling belts. His comrades whip him mercilessly. No compassion. The captain watches every blow. The man stumbles on. He hurls himself through the gap between the soldiers. Head, back, and belly are bleeding.
