Schlump

by Hans Herbert Grimm

  It was beginning to get light in the east. The sergeant major barked, ‘Shoulder arms! Fall in!’ and they marched back home.

  More torture for Schlump. His ankle had swollen, and with every step he felt as if his skin would be flayed. He moaned and gritted his teeth. The road went on for ever.

  But everything in life must come to an end, and finally they arrived back at their village, utterly exhausted. They wrapped the covers around themselves, laid their coats over their shoulders and waists, and fell asleep. Early in the morning, before the sun came up, it was icily cold. They stood old petrol cans beside them, in which they made small fires. But the warmth barely radiated a quarter of a metre.

  Schlump woke at eight the following morning. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. His limbs seemed paralysed or broken; he couldn’t tell. He finally sat up, but this was excruciatingly painful. He was rigid from the cold. But when he glanced next to him he was even more amazed. He was able to look through a large hole into the stable below. The rim of the hole was charred and the petrol drum lay below. Schlump couldn’t believe his eyes. Had he moved even a fraction he’d have been lying down there too. And the straw he’d been sleeping on was also singed. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone up in flames.

  The Polacks were already up and warming themselves on the fire in the other drum. Schlump got up and sat down next to them in a state of shock, for he didn’t know whether he’d almost burned or frozen.

  Then it was time for roll call.

  •

  Roll call was over. Schlump was sitting beside the drum, cutting out a piece of his underwear, a rag from each leg. Unscrewing the bolt of his rifle, he used it to stuff the rags into his boots below the ankle, for they still hurt with a vengeance with each step. Then he smoked a cigarette and warmed his fingers. Beside him sat a soldier from the music corps, a handsome chap, slim and muscular, with a chiselled face. But he seemed beset with worries. He was staring vacantly into space, and he dropped into the fire the cigarette that Schlump had given him, even though he’d only just lit it.

  Schlump asked him how he’d come to be there. ‘We’ve got to dig trenches too now,’ he said. He was no longer a recruit as he had the Iron Cross. He must have already been in the army as he also wore the marksman’s braid, which was awarded in peacetime. Schlump asked him how long he’d been a soldier. ‘I was in my second year of service when the war broke out.’ After a while he continued, ‘Until nine months ago I was at the Front. Then I was transferred to the music corps. I played the trumpet, although my main instrument is the cello. But I signed up to go back to the Front.’

  ‘Why?’ Schlump asked. ‘Surely you lot don’t need any more training, do you?’ Schlump was fascinated by the trumpeter. The way he spoke was so refined, even though he’d been a soldier for four years now, and then there was the way he looked so sad and chose to sit amongst the recruits, the Polacks even. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that, comrade?’ the trumpeter said. ‘I’m in no mood for laughing. I feel as if I’m about to go mad. Listen to me, comrade, just listen. You seem to be a reasonable fellow, the kind of chap I could pour my heart out to. Do you have time?’

  ‘Until they call us,’ Schlump said.

  ‘Well listen then.’ And he started to talk. Schlump had the impression that the man next to him was trying to give a confession, for he spoke long-windedly, sometimes confused, and his eyes were as wide as saucers, as if he were reading everything from the past.

  ‘I was telling you that I was already in the army when war broke out. We went to the Front, I was there before Paris; wherever something was happening, I was there. I was the first in my regiment to be awarded the Iron Cross, and that meant something back then. I was the first one given leave; that was Whitsun 1915. And then my bad luck began. Let me tell you the whole story, comrade. I went home. You can imagine how proud I was to be the first one back from the war. I was invited by everybody, and wherever I went they fed me until I was bursting.

  ‘Well, one day I was invited to a birthday party. Not too far away, about half an hour’s tram ride. I arrived, greeted everyone, and there, sitting at the table, was a girl. Comrade, this was a girl the like of which you’ll never have set eyes on in your life. You’re laughing, but don’t imagine that I’m in love – all that is past now. But just so you know how beautiful she was, let me tell you one thing. I ask the other people who she is and why she’s dressed in black. “What?” they say. “Don’t you know the fair Lieselott? Why, she is renowned for her beauty.” So why is she in mourning? “Her brother was killed. He volunteered, and people even say that he was seeking death because he’d fallen in love with his own sister. But she’s an upright girl, too upright; she won’t look at another man, although many have tried with her and failed. So just watch out!” That’s what people said, so you can believe me when I say she was beautiful.

  ‘I watched her dancing. Oh, how she could dance! It didn’t happen often, for she didn’t want to on account of her brother’s death. But when she danced, comrade, it was like listening to an unearthly music. Her body played as it danced; I fancied I could hear a wonderful, joyful allegro, followed by a soft, divine andante. She had a very slim waist and a powerful body. And her mouth! So elegantly curved and blossoming red. Curved as Mozart’s lips might be as he conducted a graceful minuet. And her nostrils would flutter slightly, just like a butterfly about to take off from an apple blossom. I could see nothing but her; everything else blurred into a fog. I don’t know what I said or did that evening. I just saw her, even when I wasn’t looking. It felt as if everything had become transparent, as if I could see Lieselott through all those standing in front of her, as if I could see through myself when I turned my back to her. Comrade, I was bewitched.

  ‘She allowed me to take her home. Just imagine, comrade, I told her exactly what I thought of her. And she wasn’t angry, not at all. Do you know what, comrade? I kissed her.’

  Suddenly he grabbed Schlump by the arms and shook him. ‘Comrade, can you understand what that is like, have you ever loved a woman like that?’ Then he spoke softly again. ‘No, that can’t happen more than once in the world. You cannot understand.’ The trumpeter followed this comment with a long pause.

  ‘To cut the story short,’ he continued, ‘she was kind to me too. I only had eight days’ leave and these soon came to an end. I spoke to her father. It all felt like a dream, and on the day before I left we had a war wedding.

  ‘Her father had rented a small attic apartment. I can’t remember who was at the ceremony; I think it was just our parents. I could only see her.

  ‘Then they were all gone.

  ‘The following day I had to return to the Front.’

  The trumpeter didn’t say any more. He poked around in the ashes, tossed in a piece of wood and stared at the flames.

  Then the corporal arrived with the order to fall in. Schlump took his rifle and went outside. They practised falling to the ground and standing up, and for this exercise the corporal had chosen the dirtiest place.

  •

  That evening the trumpeter returned. Schlump sat next to him. ‘I left early that morning, comrade.’ The trumpeter continued the story. ‘You can imagine how I was feeling. I’d never feared death before; I’d always been reckless in the face of danger and gone on the craziest escapades. But now! I wanted to live, I didn’t want to lose my happiness; I shivered when I thought of it. I went back to the Front. And just imagine, my captain was assigned to take over the battalion of recruits and he wanted to bring me with him as a musician! How willingly I followed him. I didn’t have to go to the trenches, I was certain to see my wife again!

  ‘We wrote each other letters. Every day. I couldn’t bear the separation. I thought hard about how I could get home again. I cooked up the most idiotic plans. But I had to wait.

  ‘I noticed that she was writing more seldom. The way in which she wrote her letters changed too. It sounded as if she was preoc
cupied. I sensed this acutely, I wasn’t mistaken. I racked my febrile mind as to what it could be. Finally I thought, we’re going to have a baby, and wrote to her even more tenderly than before.

  ‘And then at Christmas I struck lucky. I was given leave! The captain was sending his clobber back home and a stack of presents to his wife. I was allowed to go too, as the orderly couldn’t manage it all on his own. Besides, the orderly didn’t know the city where the captain lived, whereas I hailed from the same place. And so we left. Arriving back home, I ran up the steps. Rang the bell. She opened the door, gave an ear-piercing scream, and was about to collapse. I caught hold of my wife, took her indoors and gave her a kiss.

  ‘When she came round, she pushed me away, dashed into the bedroom and bolted the door behind her. I could hear her sobbing loudly. I was speechless with shock.

  ‘I knocked and she unbolted the door. I went in and tried to calm her down. She pushed me away again. I asked her what this was all about. Finally she began to speak, in fits and starts. Gradually her eyes dried altogether and she stared straight in front of her as she talked. Talked harshly, soberly and defiantly, as if she were in court. And comrade, just listen to what she had to say.

  ‘She’d been invited back by the people whose house we’d met at. Once again there was a soldier there, just as before, only this time he was a lieutenant in the flying corps. And apparently he looked so much like me, so similar, that she’d been taken aback. And he behaved just like I had: he never let her out of his sight, following her wherever she went. Everything was just as it had been on our evening. And he spoke the same words to her, and took her home too, and – well, comrade, you can imagine the rest.

  ‘I staggered out of the room and sat down at the table; I sat there the whole night. I don’t know what went through my mind. In the morning I even had a short doze. When I woke up she was standing at the door, dressed exactly as she’d been the night before; she probably hadn’t slept either. She stood there, her hands clutching the frame. She fixed her gaze on me with her large, deeply sad eyes, and looked utterly submissive, as if begging me to strike her dead.

  ‘She served me, she obeyed me like a dog. I could have trampled her to death, she wouldn’t have complained.’

  All of a sudden the trumpeter stood up, rolled his eyes terrifyingly, grabbed both of Schlump’s shoulders with his hands, and yelled so loudly that the Polacks rushed over to see what was going on. ‘And three days later, comrade, three days later she drowned herself!’

  The trumpeter laughed, a frightful booming laugh. Then he sat back down and spoke very softly. ‘I went straight to the sergeant and told him I wanted to go to the Front, and that the next day I’d be right in the thick of it, and,’ now he was speaking very quietly, ‘and I promised him that I wouldn’t be coming back.’

  That night they went out again to dig trenches; the musicians joined them. Once more the lance corporal sang the verses and the company the chorus:

  Three lilies, three lilies,

  I planted on his tomb.

  Then came a proud horseman

  And snapped them bloom by bloom.

  The French had long since realised that trenches were being dug throughout the night. They shelled with their heavy coal boxes. And this time there were casualties: two wounded and one dead. The dead man was the trumpeter.

  •

  For eight nights the recruits dug trenches, then marched off again. Not back to Carvin, but to Mons-en-P. Drill and exercises continued. They practised assault, they learned how to negotiate obstacles, they attacked and took trenches with hand grenades, they ran across boggy meadows and wallowed in the mud. They often returned home like pigs, caked from head to foot in muck. Sometimes they went to Loffrande, and Schlump gazed longingly at the houses whose occupants he knew so well. He felt like a deposed king, ashamed to march through the village as a recruit where he had once been in command, and was glad when they failed to recognise him amongst the many faces. The soldiers had practically no free time, for everything had to be kept clean, and there was muster every day, today with mess tin, canteen and kitbag, tomorrow with spade, rifle and cartridge belt, the following day with shoes, boots and coat.

  Once, in one of the rare free quarters of an hour, he was standing outside his old headquarters as a group of Loffrande girls arrived to have their passes stamped. Not recognising Schlump, they walked straight past him. When they came back out, he approached them: Marie, Jeanne and Estelle. Estelle let out a cry, blushed and jumped for joy. Then she turned very quiet and sad once more. The other two laughed and went on their way. But he could only exchange a few words with Estelle. As she bid him a sorrowful goodbye, there were tears in her eyes.

  Finally they were going to the Front. In the morning, they paraded in the market square; the sergeant major filed up and down the ranks, first on his own, then with the captain. The musicians moved to the front, the captain mounted his horse, then they marched in an arc around the market square and off to the west. The sergeant major stood in the middle of the square, leaning on a stake to which pigs or calves would be tied in peacetime, and watched thoughtfully the long procession of recruits heading for the Front. This was not the first, nor would it be the last. How many had he seen go before them, and how many of those were still alive now? Perhaps he was wondering where all this young blood was coming from, which never seemed to run out and marched so cheerfully to the Front. Perhaps he was wondering why he had been spared.

  As Schlump marched off, he noticed the strange expression on the sergeant major’s face, and he had a peculiar, unpleasant feeling.

  The captain accompanied the soldiers for a while, then he turned around and the band followed him. The recruits marched onwards, each company led by a staff sergeant. Then the companies separated, each one going to a different regiment.

  It was a long march, at the end of which they had to wait outside the regimental office. It was a long wait. At last a clerk came out of the large building and assigned each platoon to a different battalion. Then they waited outside the battalion office, another long wait. Eventually another clerk came out and assigned them to the companies. With twenty others Schlump was assigned to the seventh company, which was quartered in a former bread factory, an hour from Carvin. It was another long wait outside the company office. After an eternity the sergeant major appeared and inspected the new recruits. He stopped in front of Schlump, who’d attracted his attention on account of his threadbare uniform. Stabbing his finger into Schlump’s chest, the sergeant major questioned him about it. Schlump replied that he’d been drafted a long time ago and so his clothes were no longer new. ‘I see,’ the sergeant major said. ‘Drafted. And you couldn’t get yourself a decent uniform? You must be a right old fool, my friend!’ He turned around and left the recruits standing there. After an age the company clerk came out and told them, ‘The company is about to be relieved. You’ll be leaving tonight for the third line, where you’ll wait in reserve.’

  •

  They took up position around ten o’clock that evening, ready for their lengthy march on the main road that led to Aubines. It was a starry night, and freezing. Their combat packs – a sandbag with bread, iron rations, and mess tin – and the steel helmet were new to the soldiers, for as recruits they’d still been wearing the old leather helmets. They also had blisters from the ten-hour march they’d done earlier that day. The soldiers were led by a quartermaster from Upper Silesia, an uncouth, boorish man, but a decent soul. He told them about where they were being positioned. ‘They’ll be happy to see some reinforcements,’ he said. ‘The company’s too weak. The group of eight has to man three or four posts; that’s too much.’

  They arrived at Aubines around midnight. It was a dark village that stood on the far side of a hill above which the moon was yet to rise. They passed by a guard who didn’t move a muscle. Light slanted through tiny cracks in cellar windows. ‘That’s the heavy artillery in there,’ the quartermaster said, mentioning the calibre. T
hey crossed a railway embankment to an overgrown dirt track. The recruits were no longer saying much, and because it was so quiet they held on tight to their spades to stop them clanking against the rifles. With the other hand they tugged on the rifle straps to prevent the guns from slipping from their shoulders. Now the moon was brightly illuminating the men. They all marched in a semi-doze, with their heads bowed. Schlump thought about many of the things he’d experienced since the day he’d moved into the barracks. Then he remembered the barracks he was about to become acquainted with. Invigorated by his curiosity, he looked keenly into the night before him.

  By one o’clock they had arrived at Saint-Laurent. ‘Here’s the field artillery.’

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Behind them the guns fired. It sounded as if something was bursting with excessive pressure. Then the shells wailed into the distance, hissing as they got ever further away. After a while the echo came from the other side, the impact a muffled bang.

  The quartermaster cursed. ‘Stupid bastards, why the hell are they giving us trouble now, just when we’re trying to get past? It won’t be long before the Frenchies start firing.’

  They moved through the heavily shelled town. Barely a single house had its roof left. On some you could still read the shop signs and advertisements for a brand of cognac. In many cases, however, the facade had been torn away, leaving the house’s intestines hanging out and allowing passers-by to peer into the rooms. On one wall was a picture with a dedication: Hommage à mes parents. A child’s tentative hand had written this in large writing: To my parents. And the child’s parents had been so delighted they’d proudly framed its work. What a surprise they’ll get, Schlump thought, when they see their house again.

  The soldiers had to cross an open square, in the middle of which was a severely damaged iron pavilion where the band used to play when the fair was on. ‘A cursed spot, here,’ the quartermaster said. ‘This is where the Frenchies always fire their artillery.’