Eberhard Kroysing greeted Bertin, who looked shy and unkempt, with undisguised joy. Kroysing sat up in his bed beaming and stretched out his powerful arm to Bertin, letting the ASC man’s hand disappear in his. Kroysing’s deep voice filled the room. ‘Wow!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bertin! This is definitely your best deed of this fine New Year, and you’ll be richly rewarded for it in heaven, which, like the rest of us, you seem to have to dodged so far. Now get some of those layers off, you old grey onion. Hang that lice-infested gear in the corridor. There’s a coat stand on the right outside the door.’ When Bertin asked suspiciously if things didn’t get stolen even here, there was a roar of laughter from all three beds; he could still hear it through the closed door. Obediently, he took off his head protector, coat and canvas jacket, returning in his tunic.
The room smelt of bandages and wounds, cigarettes and soap. But it was warm, light and clean – to Bertin it seemed like an enviable, heavenly existence. He might easily have thought that the times must be pretty crazy if pain, blood and wounds were the price to be paid for such modest comforts. But he had no such thoughts; he was much too steeped in the world of war with its twisted values. Besides, Kroysing immediately commanded his attention. He told him to sit on the bed, introduced him to the two lieutenants, Mettner and Flachsbauer, as a friend he’d inherited from his late brother, failing to notice that Bertin was starving, freezing and miserable. Bertin asked Kroysing how he was – ‘Great, of course,’ he replied – and to tell his story, but he was reluctant. Storytelling wasn’t his game. It was Bertin’s game, and everyone should stick to what they knew. The last time they’d met had been on the other side of Wild Boar gorge. Since then, he’d been in the thick of it. They hadn’t got Douaumont back, but they had dug themselves in quite nicely up on Pepper ridge and laid a load of mines, but just as they were about to let the Frogs have it, that 15 December business started, putting a stop to their fun. He, Kroysing, must have spent too much time sitting in the fort and the trenches because he’d lost the knack of doing a break in a field battle or he wouldn’t have had the misfortune to throw himself into a hole that was much too shallow when the advancing battery’s damned shells reached him. The shell hole had been deep and steep enough in itself but it was frozen and full of ice, and so Kroysing ended up with his great knuckle of a right leg sticking up in the air and it was caught by a shell splinter that sliced right through his puttee and shin bone, though it didn’t bisect his calf bone. He’d hobbled over to the dressing station on his stick like some demented grasshopper and had passed out there. Well, now he’d paid his debts to the French in full and could relax. He had an excellent doctor here in the hospital, and the care was first-class. For now, he wanted for nothing. The bone was healing nicely, and a piece of ivory had been inserted to replace some damaged fragments – as he’d said, the head physician was a hot shot and had worked miracles. He’d not yet decided what to do when he was better – there was still plenty of time to think about it. And now it was time to hear Bertin’s news. He must have a lot to tell too. Above all, how was Kroysing’s old friend, Captain Niggl? Here they were under the Western Group Command – west of the Meuse – and heard about as much about the eastern sector than they did about Honolulu, although they hadn’t crossed the river, geographically speaking.
There was indeed a lot to tell, said Bertin, and he began with Captain Niggl’s advancement and the great fame he’d acquired.
‘The Iron Cross, first class!’ shrieked Kroysing. ‘That cowardly swine! That shuddering pile of dirt!’ And he burst into a fit of laughter, then nearly coughed his eyes out from choking.
Someone yanked open the door, and a forehead and a couple of strands of blonde hair appeared. In a pleasant Rhenish accent a voice said: ‘Boys, keep the noise down, would you? The boss will have a fit.’
‘Sister Kläre,’ cried Kroysing. ‘Stay here! Listen to this!’
The nurse waved a hand and said, ‘Maybe later.’
Kroysing sat in bed, pale and wild-eyed. ‘I’ll be hanged if I’m going to put my dog tag back on after this,’ he said. And he described to his two room mates, battle-hardened front-line soldiers like himself, how he had ensnared the ASC captain at Douaumont – a man who’d have done a bunk if he could have and would never have gone near the front of his own free will.
The two lieutenants jeered at his fury. ‘You’re so provincial,’ said Lieutenant Mettner equably. ‘I always suspected as much. Instead of being upset because some squit is getting a medal, you should be amazed you managed an Iron Cross.’ Kroysing’s caustic reply was that he wasn’t yet as philosophical as that but would no doubt learn to be in due course.
Bertin sat on the edge of the bed, silent and gaunt. With a smile he told them what had happened when Lieutenant von Roggstroh made a recommendation on his behalf. Kroysing was only half listening. ‘So that thing is to be promoted to major as well?’ he asked wearily. ‘And there’s nothing we can do about it? Just wait!’ And he clenched his fist. ‘And you, my dear chap, have only got what you deserved. Why are you still hanging around with those lousy ASC men? When will you realise that His Majesty’s sappers need new blood, leadership material, officers? Aren’t you ashamed to stick at that job, sir, as if your being in the ASC was God’s will rather than a temporary measure? No, I’ve no sympathy for you, my dear chap. You could be out of it in five minutes. All you have to do is apply to my esteemed regiment, formerly battalion, in Brandenburg an der Havel, and I’ll take care of the rest. Then you’ll have a lovely spell near Berlin first of all, which, if I’m not mistaken, will please your young wife. You’ll get a nice new tunic and leave as a sergeant. After all, you’ve already been at the front for 12 months.’
‘Fifteen,’ corrected Bertin. ‘If you include the Lille forts.’
‘And the next time we see each other, you’ll be wearing a sword knot like your friend Süßmann… Sergeant Major Bertin, soon Lieutenant Bertin. Have some sense, man! Take stock!’
Bertin listened to him talking, and what the wounded man said now seemed sensible, compelling even. What was he doing among slaves? Wasn’t there a better way to rediscover his humanity? Naturally, Lenore would give up her apartment and join him in Brandenburg for weeks or months, unless she used her father’s influence to get him into a Potsdam regiment… For a few sparkling moments he plunged into such dreams: what a heavenly escape from this endless, unmitigated torment…
Kroysing saw his words had made an impression. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ he cried. ‘Say yes.’
Lieutenant Flachsbauer, in bed by the same wall, watched Bertin’s expression eagerly, entranced by this show, which that old devil Kroysing had pulled out of his sleeve.
‘My dear sir,’ countered Lieutenant Mettner from the bed opposite, ‘don’t let him talk you into anything. Wait until you’ve seen our bandages being changed before you make up your mind.’ And he stretched out the misshapen, bandaged stump of his arm to Bertin with a melancholy smile.
‘Mettner!’ cried Kroysing. ‘Is that what you call camaraderie? Alienating a recruit already three-quarters won over! I wouldn’t have thought you capable of such a thing. It’s unforgivable.’
‘Nonsense,’ countered Mettner phlegmatically. ‘Forgivable or not – if you’re going to play the recruiting sergeant, you should at least offer your victim something to put in his stomach. Or do I misunderstand our candidate’s wishes?’
Bertin conceded with a smile that he was absolutely famished and could certainly go some hospital food. And while, half jokingly, he described the tinned soup called ‘crown prince soup’ that was dished out to the men day after day, Lieutenant Mettner left the room – now just one man among others in his blue and white striped hospital pyjamas.
‘He’s the only one of us who can walk,’ said Kroysing by way of excuse.
Flachsbauer observed with some amusement the contrast between Kroysing’s self-confident gestures and imperious bearing and the humble demeanour of the gaunt ASC man he wante
d to seduce into playing the officer.
The one-armed man reappeared at the door with a white bowl and rapped with his foot. Bertin opened it, thanked him and started eating. The soup was made from poor quality beef provided by an elderly war cow past her best when slaughtered; the chewy morsels of her flesh sort of swam in the broth – the delicious broth. And the bright yellow noodles were war-time fare. Not much egg had been used in their manufacture, and their yellow hue came from a colouring agent, probably saffron. But this concoction, liberally seasoned with salt, parsley and leeks, constituted a meal the likes of which Private Bertin had not tasted since his wedding leave and it brought tears to his eyes – tears of shame at the happiness that flooded him, at the humiliation and indignity of being as moved now by beef soup as he once had been by music or poetry, and because he felt he could be a different man if he always ate like this. He sat head bowed, the soup bowl on his knees, his face in shadow, silently spooning the soup into his mouth, and each of the three men watching him noticed how much he was enjoying it and that his dark brown hair, greying at the temples, was going on top. But no one guessed what was going through his mind, or if they did they didn’t show it.
‘I knew,’ said Bertin, laying his spoon down in the bowl and looking up, ‘that I had found the Island of the Blessed here.’
‘But the entrance fee isn’t cheap,’ nodded the rather fat Mettner.
‘Not as dear as yours,’ replied Bertin briskly.
Lieutenant Mettner looked at him. ‘That remains to be seen,’ he said carefully. ‘What’s your line of work?’
‘Lawyer,’ replied Bertin.
‘Don’t be so modest,’ broke in Kroysing. ‘He also writes books.’
‘Good,’ continued Mettner. ‘In me you may admire a mathematician, pupil of Max Klein, Göttingen, and not a bad one either. We have plenty of free time now, and so I tried to solve a cubic equation recently to pass the time. Do you know that I don’t understand them any more. I hardly know what a logarithm is. That’s how far I’ve sunk.’
The others laughed. But Mettner continued undeterred. ‘Consider this, young man: you will probably have sunk even lower than us, and so you’ll have to start again from the beginning. We’re out of practice, our minds are dulled, our judgement is gone and our professional know-how has evaporated. And we’ll have to relearn what civilisation means. Believe me, it’s going to be quite a task. Or do you think you’ll still have respect for human life after everything that’s gone on here? Won’t you just reach for your pistol if your landlord doesn’t want to fix your shutters? I know I’ll at least want to. And when the postman rings in the morning, I know I’ll secretly want to open the door and chuck my water jug in his ugly mug. That’s how I, Hermann Mettner, feel – born in Magdeburg and not the least bit bloodthirsty. But you, my dear legal friend, have spent the last 20 months standing to attention and saying ‘Yessir’ even if the man in front of you is an absolute baffoon. You’ll definitely go to the dogs. Let’s assume the worse that happens is that you’re still in that tunic at the end of the war. When you’re released, you’ll be used to obeying. No matter what you’re asked to do, you won’t complain, and if people ask nice and politely, you’ll melt like butter. You’re sure to find people who’ll save you the trouble of making your own decisions. And once the lovely business of making money starts again, in an office or wherever, one fine day you’ll realise you lost whatever scraps of personality you had in the war and you’ll remember a certain Mettner, who only gave his right arm, and there’ll be much wailing and gnashing of teeth – or worse.’
‘How! I have spoken,’ joked Kroysing, quoting Karl Mays. ‘My dear Mettner, you’re an intelligent man, and we’re sure to hear more from you as the days get longer. And it’s brilliant that you’re trying to put my good friend Bertin off being in the rank and file. But don’t be offended if I take issue with you on certain points, for I’m a military man through and through now, and if I don’t stay in the sappers I’ll do something in the air force. This gentleman here has no right to think about himself and his personality. For now, he should think about Germany. Comrades of his and ours are being killed every day, and sometimes it’s necessary and sometimes it isn’t. If a man is courageous, devoted to duty and able to lead, then God damn it he belongs in His Imperial Majesty’s most prestigious Officer Corps until the peace bells ring out. As to what happens to him afterwards, Germany will take care of that; our country will do things properly. And now, goodnight, gentlemen, and please close your ears for a bit. I have some private matters to discuss with Bertin.’
Flachsbauer and Mettner turned to the wall. Lieutenant Mettner had long since given up trying to influence Kroysing, who was older than him but still such a boy, and he knew that his friend Flachsbauer always agreed with the person who’d spoken last – in this case the old warhorse. Just don’t rush things, he thought, as he snuggled down in his blankets. It was spite on Kroysing’s part, if not something worse, to want to get that bright, left-leaning dreamer with his jam-jar glasses into an officer’s tunic. But they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Now it was time for sleep. A man always saw things more clearly after a good sleep.
Bertin stared at Mettner’s back. Waking up with that wound must have been like coming round after a drinking bout; he’d have liked to know more about him. He’d been thinking about his Kroysing novel and felt uneasy about it, unsure whether it was good or bad. Perhaps it was bad – and he couldn’t see it. For his two years as a soldier had taken their toll, eroding his education and character… What would become of him? He was suddenly overcome with fear. Don’t think about it, an inner voice cried. Save your soul! If you start to think about it, you won’t do your job properly tomorrow. You’ll drop a dud and blow yourself up. You only have one duty: to stay alive. Eat lots of soup like that one, listen to Lieutenant Mettner and stay true to yourself… Montmédy? Ah yes, Kroysing was asking if there was any news from there. Bertin ran his hand through his hair. He hadn’t heard anything for weeks. The papers Kroysing had sent him via Süßmann had certainly been forwarded and would be there now. But since Judge Advocate Mertens’ fatal accident…
‘It’s always the wrong ones who get it,’ growled Kroysing, lying back, his nose casting a sharp shadow on the barracks wall. ‘Why couldn’t that bloody aerial bomb have blown the heroic Niggl through the roof? No, it had be a decent man and one of the most indispensable.’
Bertin nodded and said nothing. Something made him want to tell Kroysing the wild hunter the truth about that indispensable man’s death, but he let it go out of respect for the deceased. He’d heard nothing further, he lied.
‘Well, I have,’ said Kroysing. ‘His sergeant came to see me, Herr Porisch from Berlin. A queer fish, but well-meaning, no doubt about that. First of all, he made it clear that Herr Merten’s successor would not want to open the dead file. Then he gave me a piece of advice.’
Bertin had instinctively put his pipe in his mouth and was sucking on it. He saw Porisch’s pale, puffy face, brash Sergeant Fürth – Pelican – the billet at Romagne with the crossed sabres. Poor Christoph Kroysing’s affairs were in disarray, and that couldn’t be allowed to go on.
‘Porisch is clever,’ he said.
‘So he is,’ growled Kroysing. ‘He suggested I make a complaint against Niggl to the judge advocate of the Western Group Command, whose jurisdiction we fall under here, Lychow Division, German Field Post and so on – I’ve got it written down. He said I should address it to Judge Advocate Dr Posnanski, confidentially in the first instance, outline the case briefly, cite you as a witness and ask for a meeting between the three of us to discuss the matter, so that I don’t get a reputation as a troublemaker with my unit if the evidence doesn’t conform to the rather exacting standards of the military judiciary.’
Bertin said that seemed like a very sensible suggestion to him. ‘I think so too,’ continued Kroysing, ‘but before I pursue it, my young friend, I must warn you that it could crea
te unpleasantness for you. An ordinary ASC private who picks a fight with a battalion commander is letting himself in for it. I didn’t have your postal address and besides I had to deal with my leg and I learnt patience in the Prussian army. But now that you’re here, I must ask you: are you in?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Bertin without hesitation. ‘I’ll never go back on the promise I made to your brother. And now I must go if you don’t mind. My comrade Pahl is over there in ward 3.’
Kroysing reached out his hand. ‘You’re making off before I can say thank you. Fair enough – I know how it is. I’ll send the letter tomorrow. Where can I find you?’
Bertin, who’d already stood up, described his barracks under the hill near the goods siding at Vilosnes-East – very close on the map, but a good 20-minute climb on the ground. He told him his duties were always finished by dark. ‘And what happens,’ he asked, buttoning up his tunic, ‘if it’s not possible to pursue Herr Niggl in law?’
Outside Verdun Page 36
