‘That evening I knocked on my master’s door, holding the pair of shoes. The storm raged through the pine trees, making them howl, and flayed the limes in the village, driving the withered leaves into my face. My master’s wife opened up, and, Comrade, you can imagine the surprise she got when she saw me standing there at the door! She let me in; I put the stolen shoes on the table and looked at my master. He picked up the shoes, examined them all over, and put them back down. “Go to bed!” he said. I crept up to my room.
‘I started working again, comrade, I worked as hard as I could so that the master would look kindly on me again.
‘Ilse had returned from the city, and came past every morning to fetch milk from the farm. My mistress delivered her shoes and everything was all right.
‘November came, and one day the postman brought the red piece of paper. I was called up to the infantry. I really wanted to become a soldier and was looking forward to it. I ordered a soldier’s crate from the carpenter, and my mistress knitted me some stockings.
‘But at night I was unable to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking of Ilse. She was going to stay in the village and come to fetch her milk every morning from the farm, whereas I wouldn’t be there any more, I wouldn’t see her any more. I had nothing of hers, no souvenir. And she wouldn’t notice my absence, either. I’d have to go to war and maybe I’d never look her in the face again. The day was approaching ever closer and I became increasingly unsettled and miserable.
‘I had to leave the following morning. It was pitch black that last, unfortunate night. I sat on my bed, listening out for any sound. Perhaps there’d be a fire at the schoolmaster’s house and I’d be able to save her. Then I’d get to see her one last time. I brooded over the matter and entertained the craziest thoughts. Then all of a sudden it clicked. I got dressed and slipped out. It was blowing a gale outside; my hair was dishevelled in an instant. But I made my way over as if driven. I sneaked around the schoolmaster’s house I don’t know how many times. Through the storm I heard the clock strike in the tower, but couldn’t tell what time it was. I stood by the window and listened; maybe she talked in her sleep. But it was madness, for the trees were roaring like thunder and the roof tiles were rattling.
‘I tried a window in the hallway – and was able to push it open! I climbed in. Once inside, I stood motionless, holding my breath for ages. Then I crept further. All of a sudden my foot hit something. With a fright, I stood there rigid and silent. It was a pair of shoes. Kneeling down, I reached for the shoes. Her shoes! My shoes, the ones I’d run away with! I wept for joy. I kissed them, comrade; don’t laugh, I kissed them. How long was I kneeling there? I don’t know. I wanted to take them with me as a souvenir. But I’d already stolen them once. I thought of my master and put them back down. I picked them up again and started to leave. But then I saw my master in my mind, I turned round, kneeled down, was just about to put them back when a door opened! A white figure appeared, holding a lamp! It was her! Now I’m beside myself with fear, I leap in the air, she screams out loud, the lamp goes out, I hear a hard bang. Comrade, I don’t know how I got out of that house. I ran and ran, mindlessly, out on to the heath.
‘The next morning I noticed that my face and fingers had been bleeding; I must have jumped through a window. I wandered around and about, comrade, just how many days and nights I do not know. One morning – it was still dark – I returned to the village. Collapsing by her fence, I fell asleep. I was woken by the gendarme. They led me away to the city. To gaol. Then I was put in front of a court. The schoolmaster was there, as was his wife, all dressed in black. My master and my mistress. None of them looked at me. The judge in his military uniform stood up. He read something out, it was very long. I understood none of it save for one thing: there had been a hole in Ilse’s head! I grasped nothing. I didn’t say anything. They kept asking me questions. I didn’t utter a word. Then they led me away again. And now I’m here. Comrade, I didn’t kill Ilse!’
Schlump asked him how many times he’d been beaten. He didn’t know. Schlump gave him everything he had in his pockets and returned to his bureau.
•
Winter passed, the war got ever bloodier, and peace refused to come. But hope had revived: fighting had stopped in the east. The Russians were finished, in spite of the vast numbers of soldiers they’d had at their disposal. And now the troops were rolling in from the east, one train after another. The artillery was already being unloaded at the German border and heading westwards to the Front on the major roads. The soldiers in the rear echelon listened attentively; a good number of them had set out in 1914, almost four years ago. Recalling the mood back then, they sensed a fresh wave of something approaching enthusiasm in their disillusioned and withered hearts. People talked of numbers of armies that were scarcely credible. The seventeenth army was said to have arrived already, the eighteenth army was supposed to relieve the second, and things like that.
Sometimes when Schlump woke up at night he could hear a muffled rumbling and trundling from the hills around Haumont, from the masses of cannons, wagons and footsteps moving westwards. Even during the day they fancied they could hear the hum that seemed to come from the ground. There was talk of cannons that could fire from Péronne to Paris. They calculated the altitude the shells would have to reach and couldn’t believe their findings. But everyone felt that something was in the air, maybe even something major. The infantrymen went around with a heightened sense of pride. They were looking forward to the advance, beyond the trenches to where there were provisions stores containing things they knew only from the fairy tale of peacetime. It was a fever that gripped them all, a different enthusiasm from 1914, which had been the enthusiasm of desperation. All that was needed was one general, one great idea, for these soldiers to perform a miracle the like of which had never been seen before. Schlump was close to volunteering for action again. But he’d been spoiled by his time at home and in the rear. Even if we win, he told himself, it’s not going to be the filthy hero from the trenches who gets all the honours. No, those in sparkling uniforms will jump the queue. After all, most of those in the line of fire have disappeared anyway. He didn’t volunteer.
They knew when the offensive was starting; they were told by the girls who worked for the high-ranking officers. They also knew precisely which army would have the honour of launching the first attack, and what the goal was. ‘Don’t you know?’ said the pretty little Walloon girl who cleaned his room. ‘Oh, moi je sais tout – I know everything.’
The day drew closer and everyone had lost interest in the dealings of the rear echelon. It was as if all ears were cocked westwards in an attempt to intercept the telegrams floating through the ether.
The day arrived, another night passed, and then the first report came through: a victory, yes, a victory – but they didn’t hear the names they’d expected. The first offensive had come to a standstill; the supply line had been poorly organised, it was said. They’d relied on the power of the masses, and ignored the might of the brilliant idea!
A few days later came the confirmation of this terrible rumour. Schlump was still in bed; he was listening intently. He’d been woken by an odd tramping and clattering, similar to the sound of steady, unremitting rain when it hammers against the window pane and gutter. He got up and went to the window. They were passing in rows of eight, tightly packed together, without rifles, clothes in tatters, arms and heads bandaged, supported on crutches, in silence, tortured faces deadened from the strains and pains. And this procession was never-ending. Where were they all coming from? Schlump got dressed and went outside. ‘It’s been going on like this since midnight,’ said his neighbour, the clerk in the supply depot. And it continued all day. Nobody could say with any certainty where they were all coming from.
That evening Schlump went up to Maubeuge. The same scene. The commandant of Maubeuge, Major Bock, had made no provision for any hospital facilities; he probably hadn’t received any orders to that effect. All he knew was which of
the conquered towns he was to make his way to: Epernay, home of the renowned champagne cellars. The poor devils lay in the church, the market square was jammed – they lay on the paving stones, blocking all the streets. Schlump thought of the French retreat from Russia a century before. We’ve lost the war, he said to himself.
He went into the soldiers’ club, which was stuffed with wounded men. The hapless souls were pleased merely to have a roof over their heads. Schlump sat at the piano and played the tunes they all loved. Out of gratitude the soldiers plied him with schnapps, so much schnapps that he couldn’t drink it all. The glasses lined up on top of the piano. ‘Drink, comrade,’ they said. ‘Drink and play. We’re delighted to be out of that nightmare – what a cock-up!’ Schlump drank and played like a demon. As he became drunk, he turned into an automaton. They poured the schnapps down his throat and his hands played with such fury that the poor piano whimpered and moaned.
Hours passed amidst such noise, then at a stroke it fell silent. The commandant, a fat major, had entered. Schlump stood up – the others were already on their feet – and leaned against the piano. The fat major struck a table with his riding crop, causing the glasses to jump, then squawked through the fog of cigarette smoke with his shrill and sharp voice, ‘Ten o’clock! The soldiers’ club is closed! Everybody out!’ When no one moved, the major turned as red as lobster and, with his eyes bulging alarmingly, lashed the table so hard that all the glasses fell to the floor and his voice cracked. ‘Out!’ he yelled again. No one moved, but at the back a few soldiers started muttering. The fat major raised his crop and whipped the face of the nearest man, who had a bandage around his head.
Schlump couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘Kill the fat bastard!’ he screamed. Glasses started flying, followed by tables and chairs; raging and screaming to make the blood curdle.
When the men had regained their composure, the major was nowhere to be seen; he’d fled via a back door. They didn’t know where his adjutant was, either. An hour later the guards arrived. The soldiers left obediently and lay down to sleep on the cold stones outside. Schlump pushed off back to Haumont. That night he froze. The following morning he wrote to his mother and told her that Germany had lost the war.
•
Schlump was back outside his bureau, watching the wounded men loitering in the street. Barracks had been hastily set up to accommodate them. A soldier from the trenches came tottering over, his legs apart. It was only when Schlump took a closer look that he realised from the silver tassel on the man’s sword that he was a lieutenant. It would be impossible to make such a mix-up with the officers in the rear. A soldier from the artillery school, wearing tall boots and ringing spurs, came by and saluted. Stopping, the short lieutenant went red in the face and bawled out the poor cannon-cocker: ‘Gunners! Bloody gunners! Off with you! March, march!’ He must have gone insane. But Schlump was even more taken aback when the crazed lieutenant shouted at him, ‘My God, it’s you. What the devil are you doing here?’ Then Schlump recognised him; it was his neighbour, Eger, who he’d mobilised with. The two of them had set off with their soldiers’ chests and bags of enthusiasm. Eger was three years older than Schlump; he’d been immediately allocated to another regiment in the reserves and they hadn’t seen each other since. ‘I can’t look at artillerymen any more,’ he said. ‘They make me fly into a rage.’
Schlump closed up his bureau and invited Eger into his room, where he offered him cocoa and American biscuits, which the handsome little lieutenant ate with relish. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to,’ Schlump said, and the two of them prattled on for hours, before sharing a bed, even though the lieutenant had lice and scabies. In the morning they resumed their chit-chat.
‘You know,’ Eger said, ‘how I was ordered back to the west from Krotoschin. I hadn’t even located my regiment, for pity’s sake! It took me ages to find the regimental dugout in a cellar in the cliffs. From there I was sent to the third battalion, which was meant to be on the right flank at the Front. The shelling over there was crazy – well, you know what I’m talking about; I don’t need to go into any more detail. Anyway, I find my battalion chief behind a railway embankment. He’s still got three officers with him and he sends me up front straight away. I’m to take over the eleventh company, even though I don’t know the area at all. I race over the embankment, skipping along. No trenches, just shell holes. I finally find a few men at the very front, thrown together from all companies and several regiments. Crawling to my left, I make contact with the eighth company – eight or nine men at most. I crawl back in the other direction – nothing.
‘The ground fell away sharply at that point, allowing me to survey a large stretch of land. And far in the distance I noticed columns of soldiers marching to the north-east. French. They must have broken through. In a few hours we were cut off. I had no idea what was in front of us. A small forest, badly damaged by shelling – the Frenchies must be behind that. I pass the order down the line, “Proceed slowly!” We move forwards. The artillery fire is now behind us. Not a single shot, nothing! I get to my feet, advance, rifle on my arm, just like at home on the freshly ploughed fields. The ninth company to the left joins up with us. All of a sudden: tak-tak-tak-tak from the right! Five, six men lie there, screaming for mercy. I am hit and go flying into the mud. A shot on the behind. Beside me lies a man whose jaw has been shot off, another one who’s been hit in the privates. He’s wailing in sheer agony. I ought to take him with me, but I can’t. I patch him up as best I can and promise to come back for him.
‘Crawling to my left, I tell the officer to take command of my few men. Then I drag myself back. Christ, what pain! The Frenchies are pounding the embankment, but there’s no sign of our artillery. I wrench myself up and over the embankment. The battalion chief is still behind with his three officers, waving his hands furiously about in the air. I give my report and vanish, having told him to send for stretcher-bearers. An ensign runs in front of me, his upper arm badly wounded. He gives me a little support. “It’s looking bad here. We’ll be all cleaned up by the morning.” We limp on towards the south-east and come to a railway crossing. About thirty men are sitting there, waiting for stretcher-bearers. I can’t go on any further. We sit or lie down as best we can. And there it is – a shot from far behind us. Our artillery! Whee-ee! An incredibly heavy shell! Right on our bridge, on the upper edge. And then the whole payload comes down. The thirty men are rolling around and howling in agony. All of them have shots to the stomach. We were sitting on the other side, watching this gruesome scene. I think I had a fit, and ever since I’ve gone into a rage whenever I see an artilleryman.
‘ “Go on!” I say. “We’re going on.” Right next to the underpass behind the railway embankment I discover some dugouts. We creep in. Everything full, nothing but service corps! “For pity’s sake, take these wounded men. The poor bastards are bleeding to death.”
‘ “We’ve got no space, there’s no room for anyone here.”
‘We go on, and the road bends further to the south. An ambulance comes up behind us. Driving in a hurry. “It’s not stopping,” the ensign says. “We’ll see about that!” I say. I stand in the middle of the road and aim my revolver. “Stop!” I bellow as loudly as I can. And the driver does actually stop. The ambulance is empty! We drive like the clappers southwards. Suddenly we come to a halt. Field hospital; we get out.
‘It was a shell-damaged church, full to the rafters with wounded men. One was being operated on in the sacristy by the light of a tallow candle. Not a medical orderly to be seen. The ensign bandaged me up as best he could. It was a flesh wound; the bullet had gone straight through, not perilous. A nurse came. “Be on your way now,” she said. “We can’t help you here, we don’t have any bandages, we don’t have any iodine, we don’t have anything any more.” The pain had subsided; I braced myself and we marched on. Eastwards.
‘Night falls, we make slow progress. We see artillery on the retreat. Now we come across troops. A terrible crush.
The poor infantry sinks into the sludge. Automobiles race past intermittently. We march between cursed artillerymen. I think I dozed off while marching. In the morning the guns are unlimbered. We walk a little way further to a field hospital with the American colours, which they must have abandoned during the course of our advance. Beside it a munitions depot with French munitions. A huge hospital! I get a bed, right at the top. The ensign is in the neighbouring bed. We are able to lie down, to sleep! Next to us and beneath, seriously wounded men are everywhere.
‘We stay there a few days. What if aeroplanes fly across now and bomb the munitions depot? I ask the doctor about hospital trains; the railway is just next door. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week.” He shrugs.
‘And that night aeroplanes did fly over and bomb the munitions depot. It was full of mustard gas and blue-cross shells! Prussic acid and poisonous gases. Everyone makes a run for it. The seriously wounded with the shots to the stomach! Everyone save those without any legs, who are bleating with fear. My God, what a procession that was of half-dead men – in shirts or naked or with sheets around their shoulders in the moonlight. The shells start to explode, there is thunder and lightning and banging: a demonic spectacle! And these half-dead men begin to run, getting tangled up in their bandages. There is light behind us; the hospital is on fire! With every step some soldiers collapsed and moaned and bled. The roadside ditch was full. One man tore the bandages from his stomach and screamed like an imbecile; he’d gone insane. He ran around in front of us, screaming all the while. Then he collapsed and rolled on to his side. That’s a sight I’ll never forget.
‘There must have been a few thousand men in that hospital. From all sides they came across the fields. Together we wandered down the road beside the railway embankment, a grisly, ghostly procession, with groans and screams. We became fewer and fewer. One man sat naked in the new grass and started weeping. “Mother,” he wailed, “I have to die now.” We moved on, leaving in our wake a conspicuous trail of blood and bandages. Like a gigantic torch the hospital still lit up the way. We became fewer and fewer. At the end there can only have been a few hundred men.
Schlump Page 18
