Spring came. There were rumours of an offensive, the mood was bad, the soldiers were starving and openly expressing their disgruntlement. Rations were smaller and yet had to last just as long. They were usually gone by the first evening, which meant an enforced fast from one lunch to the next. And usually the soldier sent to fetch them dropped half on the way back or never returned at all, for the Tommies fired at each one of them with their cannon, hunting the men down like hares.
The twelve days were up and they were waiting to be relieved. Thank God, Schlump thought. Sleep, delousing, fresh underwear. But nothing came of it.
‘The company’s going to sector D.’
Which meant back to the front line, except this time to sector D, which was the best sector in the regiment: better dugouts and peaceful. The group had found a tolerable bunker. There was a draught, it was freezing, and water dripped from the walls, which was horrible when cold drops splashed your neck as you were trying to get to sleep. But the men were exhausted and had to put up with it, just as they did with the lice.
The group had chopped some wood for the platoon commander, in return for which they each received a slice of bread. Schlump was enjoying two hours’ rest. He lay on the bunk with his metal mess tin beneath his head. The slats were hard and scraped your hips. In the wall beside him must be a rats’ nest with several young, for they screamed like tiny children and made quite a racket. From time to time the mother would quite happily climb over Schlump’s tummy to take a sniff of the bread. He let it scrabble around while he ate his slice of dry bread. He thought of home, of sweet little Nelly, and Estelle, and felt happy. Then he fell asleep.
‘Guard duty!’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Schlump cursed. ‘I’ve just been dreaming of food and women. If only I could have a proper sleep, a proper sleep in a proper bed, as long as I liked, without freezing.’
‘Guard duty!’
He staggered out, still half asleep. The rifle, the ammo belt, gas mask, hand grenades – he picked up all of these mechanically, his eyes closed. Outside it was bitterly cold; it was three o’clock in the morning. He wrenched his eyes open, violently, but could see nothing. He walked along the long trench, which was just a sunken thoroughfare. Tripping up, he swore.
Schlump relieved the soldier on duty, who left without a word. Now it was his turn to stand there again. His legs froze within seconds and the stamping began, the incessant stamping.
It was a godforsaken sap. Schlump was all alone; he couldn’t see anything apart from barbed wire. The trench ran forward diagonally, turned on itself, then ran diagonally backwards. A Tommy could easily hop into the trench behind him and knock him silently to the floor with a crack to the skull. An unsettling thought. ‘Watch out,’ the soldiers from the other company said as they were being relieved. ‘A Tommy came in from behind and slit the throats of two of our men.’
Then Schlump saw something black scuttling about. A rat. His neighbour in the dugout, perhaps, the one with all those children. She came up to him, nudged his rifle, nibbled at his gas mask, sniffed the hand grenades, and gave him a long stare. She appeared to know him and wasn’t in the least afraid. Standing on her hind legs, she started to clean her whiskers and wash her paws. Schlump looked at the rat affectionately. He was delighted with his new friend, and spoke to her softly. ‘Stay a while. Why don’t you sit down on the gas mask?’
‘What are you thinking of?’ she said. ‘I’ve got seven children to feed who are crying with hunger. I’ve got to go home. Farewell!’ She nodded to him a few times, then vanished. Schlump checked the time. Not even five minutes had passed of the two hours he had to stand guard here.
•
There was still ages to go until the two hours were up. Schlump was stamping heavily from one foot to the other.
There! There in front of the barbed wire! No, it was nothing. There it was again! It was eerie. The moon had not yet shown her face; it was pitch black. Schlump wanted to sleep – at his post! – and leaned against the trench wall where earlier he’d chatted to his friend. There it was again! Yes, no doubt about it. My God, bodies were creeping towards him.
He took his rifle and shot, shot blindly out of the trench. Sparks flew as the bullets clanged against the barbed wire.
Suddenly he stopped. It was deathly quiet, save for the odd shot to his left and right; some machine-gun fire, but that sounded far in the distance. The silence was creepy. His heart was pounding loudly, much more loudly than the report of his rifle. He heard footsteps behind him. He turned around. It was the corporal on duty.
‘Anything wrong?’
‘No, but shoot a flare, would you?’
The rocket raced into the sky with a whoosh and a hiss; on the opposite side the shadows sank slowly, the flare burned out. Nothing.
The corporal went on his way.
Loneliness again. Now the cold was torture; it bit into his knees, his feet. He was wearing threadbare socks, his boots stuck to his feet, and the lice were eating away at his scalp.
Four o’clock. The soldier responsible for maintaining contact between the dugout and the guard post hadn’t shown up yet. He was probably sitting in the dugout, warming himself with the smoke coming from the pipe. Oh, to be sleeping in the dugout! Schlump pictured it in all its detail: the men snoring, the candle still burning, albeit weakly, the stove crackling. Paradise.
The second hour was an eternity. Would it go on like this for ever? Day and night, day and night! Good God!
It got increasingly colder and Schlump didn’t dare move his feet any longer for fear of pain.
•
Five o’clock. No relief. ‘Bastards! Always five minutes late.’ Still no sign. Schlump began to curse loudly. Fury welled up inside him. He wanted to run over to the dugout and toss in a grenade. But what was that? To his left, a burst of fire erupted wildly, flares, colourful ones, and then a barrage! The Tommies were shelling with their artillery, too.
Whee-ee, whee-ee!
From the Tommies’ trenches came the ‘Christmas tree’: red, green and yellow flares. Now all hell was let loose: grenades, heavy shells, light shells, shrapnel, straight shooters, small ones, big ones, small ones. The bombardment became more intense, wilder: trench mortars, aerial torpedoes. Schlump could clearly see them glowing in the sky, the mortar bombs, big ones and small ones, then the flares! Finally our artillery returned fire, but more sparingly. The shells whizzed right over Schlump’s head and exploded on the other side, massive explosions. A thrilling spectacle! Schlump couldn’t help laughing; he laughed out loud amidst this hellish turmoil. He was enjoying himself. To his left and right, hot pieces of shrapnel buffeted the wet mud: pff, pff, pff. Once the shells had exploded, the heavy fuses hurtled on their own through the air, humming like bumble bees. What a concert!
This lasted for an hour, until six o’clock, then it was over at a stroke. Silence. In the east the sky became a touch lighter. A star glistened cheerfully, shining innocently like the baby Jesus.
And then the relief came.
•
The British appeared to be on the verge of launching an offensive.
At seven o’clock Schlump was back on duty again, but this time he was posted in the trench and could move around freely. He didn’t have to spend the whole time in one spot while his feet turned to ice. The trench was littered with shrapnel from the barrage. Schlump could scarcely believe that he’d come through it unscathed. Some of the hunks of metal he saw wouldn’t have left much of him intact.
Now they started firing again: one, two smaller shells. And what was that? A really heavy straight shooter. To his left, directly behind the trench wall, a colossal sheaf of mud and stones flew up. And what an explosion! Schlump flung himself into a shell hole, which was rather comfortable as it happened and extended deep into the ground. In the subterranean world another war was being played out, maybe even worse than the one on the surface. You seldom saw these pale, nervous miners, these moles. They burrowed down below, a
lways listening, and seeking to blow the Tommies into the air or crush them when they themselves tunnelled into the ground. Recently they’d blown a long section of trench into the air at Souchez. The valley smoked for days afterwards and stank of powder. An entire company of brave soldiers had been wiped out.
Schlump leaned against the entrance, to give himself at least a modicum of cover from the heavy shells. He smoked a cigarette. There they were landing again, right next to him, where the machine-gun nest had been built, bomb-proofed with cement. Beside it was a store for hundreds of hand grenades.
One, two! Those were the small shells; now the heavy one would be on its way. Yes, there it was. A terrible explosion, and Schlump was given a sharp jolt by the wall he was leaning against. A loud boom came from the dugout. Schlump teetered forward. The heavy shell had hit the machine-gun nest and the hand grenades had exploded. Two soldiers shot high into the sky; Schlump had a clear view of them, their arms and legs spread-eagled. And around the two bodies innumerable tiny black dots reeled: fragments of stone and dirt. Everything landed on the Tommies’ side. The trench was completely destroyed. There was no trace of the other two machine gunners. Schlump crawled out of the rubble and checked that his legs were still in one piece. The Tommies kept up their fire. Two small shells, then a heavy-duty one.
His relief arrived. ‘You’ve got to get the food!’
Now? In this barrage? For Christ’s sake! Schlump thought, pouring the last of the coffee into his mess tin, in an attempt to smear it clean with his filthy hands.
He set off, running as fast as he could, above cover; the trench was too full of mud and everything was thawing. Along the second and third line, behind the artillery position, back, back, back to the quarry. This was where the kitchen boys came with two barrels that they’d mounted on to a wagon. There was sauerkraut. First Schlump had them fill his mess tin and gobbled the whole lot up. You only got this privilege with the seventh company. They’d been put in charge of the kitchen and they were the best thieves in the whole company. Then Schlump had all the mess tins filled and went back.
It was like a punishment, having to struggle through all those old trenches with full mess tins. Trenches that had been fought over last year, where now the artillery stood. A dead infantryman lay beside the artillery; his body had been there for several days. He’d died going to fetch food. The shot had torn off the top of his skull. It lay beside him like a plate, and death had neatly placed his brain on top. Schlump clambered through the second position, which was now unoccupied, to the third line of the first position. He saw the holes they’d dug out with their fingernails in mortal fear after the assaults two years ago, in an attempt to afford themselves some cover from the frenzied fire. Schlump thought of the mass graves that the quartermaster had shown him last year, and the feeling he’d had then gripped him again like a cold fist.
At that moment a shell whistled past and plugged in an old grave ten paces from him. Bones soared into the air; the old leather helmet, which funnily enough had remained on its post all this time, spun around madly then slowly came back to rest.
Schlump had thrown himself on the ground, the hot sauerkraut all over his fingers and coat.
‘They’re going to be mad at me,’ he muttered to himself.
•
The nights were still freezing cold. They were back in the third line and had just been given supper: a small chunk of bread, a little ‘monkey fat’, as they called it (some schmaltz substitute), and a teaspoon of jam. Starving, they ate the whole lot at once – they wouldn’t be getting anything else for two days. Their next task was to haul timbers, eight per man. Those pieces of oak were unbelievably heavy, and Schlump almost collapsed. He decided to take two at a time so he’d only have to make four trips. An icy wind was blowing which cut into his fingers like a thousand knives. The cold crept under his fingernails and Schlump gritted his teeth so hard that tears came to his eyes. On the second trip he only took one piece of wood. The pain was so excruciating that he thought the cold would rip off his fingers.
He’d brought all eight pieces of wood into the trench, all eight. The others had finished too. The two men who were supposed to be on non-combat duty only – a couple of luckless fellows who’d been sent to the trenches four times, practically cripples – couldn’t physically move the wood, so had to stand guard.
Schlump crept into the dugout. All of them were now starving, but the bread was finished. They cursed and lay down, but they were so hungry they couldn’t get to sleep. ‘They do as they please with us,’ lamented someone who’d been at the Somme. ‘If we avoid being blown to bits they let us die of hunger.’
Night passed. The following morning they collected unexploded shells because raw iron was needed back in Germany. The men were promised seven pfennigs for each piece. But they had to keep their wits about them, for there was no let-up from the Tommies’ artillery. And nobody ever saw any money. When the offensive was launched, all that remained of the company was the sergeant and his clerks.
It was lunchtime, and the man charged with collecting the food set off. He came back a few hours later having spilled nothing. But their hunger returned in the afternoon. What a night it was going to be! And no food again till tomorrow evening! Schlump teamed up with another man to go and beg for bread from the artillery, who often had some left over. He and his companion made their way to the rear and although they weren’t given anything in the artillery canteen, they came across the bread wagon as they continued towards the heavy artillery. They asked the two gunners sitting on the wagon if they could have some bread. ‘What do you take us for?’ the two cannon-cockers scoffed, and drove on. Schlump clenched his fists and said, ‘Right. We’re going to make mincemeat of those two. We’ll give them a good hiding and then take as much bread as we need for the whole group . . . But they’ve got rifles and we’ve got nothing,’ he continued sadly. ‘They’ll just gun us down.’ They cursed and returned to the dugout with empty hands.
There was one man in the group who Schlump found it impossible to get on with, who couldn’t stand him, although Schlump hadn’t the faintest idea why. He was a nauseating individual who made life difficult for Schlump in every conceivable way. ‘You swine, I bet you ate all the bread you nicked on the way back,’ he sneered. Schlump put up with a lot of abuse from him without saying anything in return. He knew that the slightest reaction was all the other man needed as an excuse to fly at him. But the entire platoon was exhausted and highly irritable. ‘Hey, how about you get us some wood, too? We do all the hard work and he just sits by the stove warming his bones,’ the man spat venomously. Maybe he’d taken against him because Schlump was a volunteer – a sabre-rattler, the others used to call him. Maybe he had a wife and children at home who wrote him sour letters. He was from Brandenburg, had a small head with straw-blonde hair and a huge nose that ended in a sharp point.
That night they had to dig again. They picked up their spades, but did nothing apart from grumble. Suddenly Pointy-Nose lashed out at Schlump: ‘Do something, you war-loving swine. Do something, or I’ll smash your face in!’ There must be something wrong with him in the head. But it was the tipping point for Schlump. There was only a certain amount he could take: ‘Shut your big fat face, you prick!’
‘What did you call me?’ Pointy-Nose screamed, grabbing his bayonet and making for Schlump. The others stood in a circle around the two men and watched. Well, it was a bit of variety.
They fought that night, the two of them, in the face of the enemy. It was a struggle for life and death. Pointy-Nose was taller and stronger than Schlump, his eyes shone white and his face was crazily contorted, which they could just about make out in the faint illumination provided by the snow. ‘Bravo, lad! Look at the young lad!’ the others shouted, forgetting all else. Schlump was beside himself with fury, he was sweating . . . and now he had him, he was lying on the ground. Schlump was kneeling on his chest, both hands tight around the man’s neck, his thumbs pressing on the throat.
‘You’re never getting up again, you bastard,’ he panted. He wanted to strangle him, but the others pulled him away.
From then on Pointy-Nose gave him no more trouble. But Schlump was always on his guard; he thought the man capable of anything. It was dreadful – your own comrade!
•
Schlump wasn’t in the least bit proud of his victory. He thought about the fight as he lay on the slats; it made him feel uneasy, as if he’d defiled himself somehow. In his mind he ran through the whole of the previous day. In the afternoon he’d tried to pilfer bread – in fact, steal it violently – and in the night he’d had a punch-up with his comrade. That was what it had sunk to, that was what happened when you came down in the world. And he remembered what the sergeant had told him back in Loffrande: ‘Only the fools end up in the trenches, or those who’ve been in trouble.’ Was the man right? There must be something in what he’d said, because plenty of people surely thought the same. Maybe they all think the same. It’s just that we, the poor bastards at the Front, don’t realise. Yes, that’s right, that’s how it is. We’re treated with such contempt that even a blind man would notice. Those two gunners on the bread wagon yesterday, just remember how scornfully they laughed in your face. Two filthy infantrymen, begging for bread! And the sergeant who gave them a mere slice for chopping wood. He must have bread till it was coming out of his ears! ‘Those poor bastards,’ he must have thought. What’s more, those were heavy logs they chopped for a slice of bread. And the lieutenant had forbidden them to get caught doing it! The Tommies, meanwhile, had been firing without any let-up, scattering their shrapnel everywhere! For one measly slice of bread!
And then that time when they’d been resting, when the first company had returned from the front trenches, those wretched fellows had looked ghastly: emaciated, ashen-faced, grubby chalk worked around the stubble, stooped, utterly worn out, filthy, terribly filthy, lice-ridden and bloody, and only twenty men left of the sixty who’d been positioned on the front line. These men were standing by their quarters when the fat sergeant major came out, who’d spent each one of the twelve nights playing cards and getting drunk. This sergeant major, the mother superior of the company, came and ranted at them as if they were common criminals. If that wasn’t contempt, then what was? And sometimes, when you wandered past the lieutenant’s dugout in the trench, a smell wafted out, a smell of frying and stewing! Did you ever see an officer eating from the same mess tin as you? No, never, just as you’d never eat out of the same dish as a dog! So it really was true what the service corps sergeant had said – no man with a hint of self-respect ends up in the trenches.
Schlump Page 10
