Having stumbled over the debris of the wrecked houses into the middle of the square, they suddenly saw a red light beyond the hill on the other side. There was another bang. A few seconds later a shell hissed towards them and buried itself with a whine in the frozen ground, about thirty paces away: peeoow – like a locomotive exploding. Schlump jumped at the evil wailing of the shrapnel as it spat through the air. That was the French response. ‘Bloody lucky we weren’t over there,’ one of the soldiers said. They passed the fresh shell hole with trepidation. If one comes now, Schlump thought, there’s nothing you can do, you’re helpless.
They crossed another field sown with duds and shrapnel, and came to a wood. ‘This is the third line. Over there, beyond the last row of trenches, are eight thousand British and further on thirty thousand Germans in a mass grave, from the big offensive last autumn when the British were already in Aubines.’ Schlump didn’t believe the numbers the quartermaster was quoting. But a lot of what he says must be true, he thought, and now the poor fellows are rotting away. And next year others will be thinking the same thing when we’re under the ground.
Arriving at the place where the trenches began, they climbed down. The passageways were narrow, supported at the sides by woven branches. In places the rain and mud had brought the walls so close together that the soldiers’ kitbags got stuck. Elsewhere, they hit their heads on the planks or trench railway tracks above them, or their rifles would become caught. In some places the trench had been shelled, leaving a yawning hole in front of them. Progress was arduous, and they started to sweat for they were not used to this.
‘This is the lieutenant’s dugout,’ the quartermaster said. ‘Wait here.’ He climbed down. Alongside the steps that led down was a neat banister, and a roof decorated with logs had been built over the entrance, making the place seem almost cosy. The quartermaster didn’t return. After a while the lieutenant’s orderly came out and took them with him. Schlump was disappointed. He’d thought the lieutenant would come in person, shake their hands, and give them a warm welcome as new comrades. But this! It was as if the quartermaster had announced the arrival of a few sacks of peas.
On and on they stumbled, squeezing themselves through the narrow trenches, which snaked this way and that, sometimes branching off forward. It was a quiet night, the stillness punctuated only by the occasional hammering of a machine gun. They passed other dugouts that were no more than holes at the base of the trench wall, and if smoke hadn’t been rising from the chimneys that stuck out of the holes, they would have fallen in. The orderly instructed two men into each bunker.
They passed a guard, a veteran of the army. He turned round and asked, ‘Replacements?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank God for that!’
•
At five o’clock in the morning Schlump went on guard. Exhausted from the previous day’s march, he staggered along the trench, at a loss as to why it curved every few metres, as if forever having to give way to someone. He patiently negotiated the twists and bends in search of his post. All of a sudden he stopped in his tracks, puzzled. There, on the fire step, in the dim light of dawn, stood Lemke. Lemke came from Brandenburg and had arrived in the trenches with Schlump the day before. He had red hair and his face was a sea of freckles. All alone he stood there facing the enemy, his rifle at his side. From the other side a machine gun rattled at regular intervals: tak-tak-tak-tak – tak-tak-tak-tak – tak-tak-tak-tak. And with the same regularity as the machine gun, a serious-looking Lemke bowed towards the French, as if trying to introduce himself to the enemy. Schlump stood there agog and cheered up. It was such a funny sight that, try as he might to restrain himself, he burst out laughing.
‘What the devil are you doing clowning about like that?’
‘Those buggers over there are shooting so close to the ground that the mud sprays into your face!’
‘But why do you bow every time they shoot?’
‘You’ll see. If you don’t duck, you’ll get one right on the bonce. Then you’re a goner.’
Lemke jumped down. Schlump climbed up and looked out eagerly at the enemy. On the other side it glowed red again behind the mound, and large shells hurtled over his head towards the artillery. Then came the machine-gun fire: tak-tak-tak-tak – tak-tak-tak-tak – tak-tak-tak-tak. The bullets whistled around his ears like swallows after a storm. Schlump thought, If you can hear them whistling, they must have gone past you. Which means there’s no need to worry about them any more. It went on: tak-tak-tak-tak – tak-tak-tak-tak – tak-tak-tak-tak. Suddenly there was laughter behind him.
Startled, Schlump turned around. The redhead was smirking. ‘Crikey! You bow more elegantly than I do!’ Schlump hadn’t noticed he’d been doing it. They both laughed and Lemke walked off.
On sentry duty, time went slowly. It began to get light. Schlump stood motionless at his post, looking neither right nor left. Only one hour had passed, and he would have to stand there for two. They’d told him that the second hour lasted ten times as long as the first.
All of a sudden he felt the call of nature. He had an urgent need for that place where even the Kaiser had to go. But he was not allowed to leave his post. He tried his best to hold it in. Nothing helped. He was getting more desperate. He started to sweat and shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. That didn’t help. And time wasn’t passing at all; his replacement was a long way off. Now he was even more desperate. He came out in a cold sweat. His knees were trembling. A soldier must never leave his post! Especially not in the face of the enemy!
What if he did it in his trousers? No, that wasn’t on either! They’d think he’d done it because he was scared! For the rest of his life he’d be known as the man who’d crapped his pants: Scaredy Cat! Good God – he didn’t have any paper either! He remembered the slim volume of poetry his mother had given him for Christmas, which he treasured and always kept in his breast pocket.
He jumped down. Beside him was the regimental boundary. There was a sign: Infantry Regiment X – Infantry Regiment Y. And at the foot of this marker he laid a different, far less glorious one. Visibly relieved, he climbed back up to his post and looked out with a keen eye to check that the enemy had not set off at a march towards them in the meantime.
It hadn’t. Schlump let out a heavy sigh of relief.
At last his replacement came; Schlump could take a rest in the bunker. He fell asleep at once. He had two hours, then he was supposed to fetch the food. But he woke again after only one. His squad leader, Lance Corporal Golle from Saxony, was cursing wildly. Schlump listened intently. He had a bad feeling about this, and finally he worked out what was up. While on an inspection of the trench, the lieutenant had stepped in the new marker. He was apparently beside himself at this outrage because the general had planned a visit for the following day. The lance corporal was swearing his head off: ‘If I find that bastard . . . ! It’s got to be someone who reads poetry. I looked at what he wiped his arse on. I thought it was a letter. But it’s just poems about spring and that. Well I’ll get him, you mark my words. I bet it’s one of the new boys, a one-year volunteer.’
Schlump broke out into a cold sweat again, feeling afraid and ashamed. He remained as quiet as a mouse, and when it was time, he gathered up the mess tins and dashed off to fetch the food.
When he returned, he had to go back on sentry duty. He took a spade and cleared away his shame with profound embarrassment. Then he leapt on to the fire step, unable to comprehend how others dealt with such an emergency.
But the incident was soon forgotten.
•
The general really was going to come. The soldiers who weren’t standing guard had to dig trenches. In the evening they either shovelled out mud from the trenches that the rain had washed in, or worked out in the open. They had to clear the earth excavated from the trench to a distance of one metre, working as quietly as possible. But the French had got wind of what they were up to and opened fire with their machine guns. The bullets w
histled and sang around their ears, and they kept themselves poised to scramble back into the trenches in an instant.
Suddenly one of the men cried out and fell into the trench like a sack of potatoes. As he toppled back, he had enough strength to say, ‘I’m dead!’ The others leapt down and stood around him. He opened his eyes and looked around quite cheerfully. It was Lemke, the one with the freckles. He felt to check he was still in one piece and found he was able to move all his limbs; just his left leg was stiff. He started moaning at once; the wound was hurting. Blood was seeping from his calf, but it looked like a harmless flesh wound. The old soldiers, who’d been playing at war for a year or more, cursed and envied him. It was outrageous that a recruit as green as he was should immediately get a bullet with ‘home’ written on it, without having so much as seen a Frenchie. They really wanted to give him a thrashing, but when he asked for a cigarette, they gave him that instead. Then two of them took him to the hospital bunker. The others climbed back up and carried on shovelling. The machine guns on the other side had stopped rattling.
The following day not a single aeroplane was seen in the sky. The weather was gloomy and the French didn’t fancy shooting. The general definitely was coming. The more experienced soldiers were amazed: that would be a first. The lieutenant had gathered together all the platoon commanders and issued instructions. Schlump’s lance corporal came back to the dugout looking serious and said. ‘Right, the general is coming. If he addresses anyone standing guard, that man mustn’t turn round, but answer the general while continuing to look straight ahead. Clean your rifles and boots, and smarten yourselves up so that no one in my platoon stands out.’ They all laughed and cracked bad jokes about this general who was brave enough to visit the third line.
Schlump was lucky. He was standing guard when the general arrived. He heard a few voices. The general asked questions and the lieutenant answered eagerly and nervously. Several other officers were there too. Schlump, meanwhile, kept a sharp lookout for the enemy. Stopping behind him, the general asked him what his name was and what the password was. Schlump kept his eyes focused in the direction of the enemy, his back turned, and gave a terse but firm answer, without once averting his gaze. The general appeared to be satisfied. He resumed his conversation with the officers and moved on.
Schlump stayed where he was, deep in thought. He couldn’t really tell what to make of the encounter. That general is a fool, he thought, if he thinks he can try to distract the soldiers for his own amusement. I hope the other generals have more brains, otherwise we’re not going to win this war.
But he was doing the general an injustice. He wasn’t being light-hearted. On the contrary, he felt deadly serious in the third line facing the enemy.
•
Schlump had lice. He’d picked them up a while ago, when he’d been digging trenches and he’d slept with the Polacks. But those were only the large white ones with the Iron Cross marked on their back. Now he had the small red ones as well, which hid in the seams of his shirt. Those were the worst. And when he was standing guard, he’d grab the front of his coat and rub his chest raw. But they saved their worst torment for the dugout, when you were trying to get to sleep, for they livened up when it was warm.
He sat beside the candle and deloused himself, holding the critters in the flame when he’d caught them. Or he let them march along the narrow board where the soldiers put their bread when they were eating, then ran his thumb over them glissando.
Up at the front line they were anticipating an attack. Every day the seventh company sent a group from the third line to the second, into the dugout beside the lieutenant of the first company, in case of an emergency. If the French mounted an attack they were to go straight away to the front line and close the entrances to the communications trenches that led to the rear. These were two wonderful days. They didn’t have to stand guard and could while the time away. One soldier had brought along a pack of cards with him; they played the entire two days without stopping, only pausing to eat. The men were in excellent spirits, taking tricks and trumping with loud whoops of delight. They’d put a cover over the entrance to prevent their noise from reverberating beyond the dugout. The soldier who fetched the food brought back a couple of bottles of schnapps, too, which significantly increased the level of merriment. They failed to notice that the French were starting to fire their trench mortar shells with gusto, those huge things that buried themselves into the earth before exploding with a horrific racket, ripping out enormous holes you could comfortably build a house in. And when a thing like that struck, the dugout rang like a bell and it felt as if the earth was shaking momentarily.
The two days passed without the French launching an assault, however, and the soldiers were replaced by the next group. They walked back in single file. It really was quite an art to make your way through the thick mud, which would relieve you of your boots if you weren’t careful enough in bracing your feet against the trench walls.
Back in the third line things looked bad. The Frenchies had hit many parts of the trench with their mortars, and the soldiers had to climb through enormous holes. One dugout had been destroyed altogether, and no more had been seen of the poor blighters who’d been sleeping in there at the time. They went back to their own dugout. The artillery fire subsided somewhat, although every few hours a huge mortar shell flew over. One of them landed in the middle of the trench, right outside their dugout. But rather than exploding, the propeller broke off, ripping the cover with it, allowing them to scrape out the yellow filling with their fingers.
Schlump had become smarter. He now knew where to find the latrine: behind the third trench. One fine afternoon he paid a visit, relieved himself, and also took off his coat and shirt to delouse himself. You could afford to do that here in the third line. The sun shone, he was sitting comfortably on the beam, protected from the wind and out of sight of the enemy, an aeroplane revved high in the sky, a lark had even ascended and was singing its peaceful love song, free from any concern about shrapnel or shells. In the midst of this idyll Schlump was going about his business. And just as he was making good progress, having launched an assault on the terrified lice, regiments of which were perishing beneath his thumb, he suddenly heard the soft sh-sh – the firing of a trench mortar shell.
He looked up and saw the dark bird fly up almost vertically into the sky, slowly and majestically. And it was heading straight for Schlump and the latrine. He stared at the dark creature as if hypnotised, like a chicken spellbound by a snake. Finally it reached its highest point, the tip tilted, and the shell started to plummet. It was still coming his way. Schlump couldn’t move. He gazed up, and the next few moments seemed like hours. It was falling! Falling! Right on top of him. He jolted, grabbed both sides of his trousers, and ran as fast as he could along the trench, which curved left. The spell was broken!
Thud! The dull impact! Now it was going to explode. Schlump threw himself on the ground; here the communication trench was very shallow, giving only a hand’s width of cover. Now it was going to explode. But it lasted an eternity; he could have got much further away. And still it didn’t. Then, finally, came the dull boom, followed by a rumbling and drumming, as if a thousand horses were galloping towards him. And in the midst of all this, a strange splashing sound.
Schlump remembered nothing after that. When he regained consciousness, he was in the hospital bunker, where they were binding his wounds. The pain had brought him to. They had to stitch the skin where he’d suffered a graze wound to his head, while there had been minor damage to the skull, too, the surgeon said, holding his nose . . .
Schlump closed his eyes again. He felt as if the thousand horses were still galloping over him. If he could have seen himself, he would have been horrified.
•
Schlump was fortunate. The summer offensive was under way, the field hospitals were being emptied, and he was returning home in the hospital train. When he turned on to his side, he could see the picture-perfect villages rush
ing past, nestling cleanly and cosily in the countryside. So different from the joyless bare houses in France. He couldn’t get enough of the red roofs and green fields. The train ran along the Rhine, over proud bridges, slowly, but without stopping. They were unloaded in Bacharach and taken to a large, quiet house where they were cared for by silent nuns and examined by an elderly doctor. Schlump might have caught his attention because he was so young; the doctor always liked to joke with him.
Schlump was healthy and had young blood, which healed quickly. He had to stay in bed for a few months nonetheless. It was painful when they bandaged his head. And when once he grimaced, the doctor said, ‘So, young man, why did you poke your head out just when the French guns were blazing away?’ Schlump had a quick riposte: ‘You’re absolutely right, Herr Doctor, but what do you think they’d shoot at you if you poked your backside out?’ Rather than take offence at this cheeky answer, the doctor laughed, for Schlump had already told him how he’d come by his wound.
Outside the sun was shining, the cherries were ripe, but the wounded had to stay in bed, growing ever more bored. Beside him lay a good old veteran. His name was written on the board by his bed: Paul Gottlob. He was a poor weaver from Treuen in the Vogtland. Schlump had told the man of his heroic deeds in Loffrande, and the weaver always wanted to hear more, for he’d been in the field hospital for an age. Gottlob had been shot in the stomach and his recovery was a slow one. ‘Come on, boy,’ he’d say in his thick accent, ‘tell me another story. It makes the time pass quicker here.’ So Schlump launched into one: ‘Now, comrade, I’m sure you know that the peasants in France can’t read or write. And their geography’s even worse. One evening, Monsieur Rohaut comes into the bar. You know, the father of gorgeous Jeanne. We sit together for a while. Then he asks, “Is it true that there are still lots of bears and wolves in Germany?”
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