by Stephen Fry
It was a large, square room, with another door leading off to a bedroom. It was amazing to Hans that anyone should wish to give up this princely suite for life on a dugout bunk but then, he reminded himself, Gloder was not anyone.
He approached the desk, pulled the envelope from his satchel and laid it squarely in the center of the massive leather-cornered blotter.
Hans stepped back into the middle of the room and looked at the effect.
Not enough.
Smiling at himself for such schoolboy foolishness, he took up a silver letter opener and a pen, arranging them above the envelope at ten-to and ten-past the hour, so that they pointed at it, shouting: “Look at me! Look at me!”
Still not quite the desired effect, he decided.
A pencil at six o’clock helped, but ruined the symmetry.
Hans opened one of the drawers and rummaged around for appropriate pointing implements. He came across two more pens, an English hand grenade of the type known as a Mills bomb, the trophy of some daring raid Hans supposed, and a loaded Luger pistol. Perhaps he should arrange a circle of bullets around the letter, their sharp ends pointing inwards? That would be very fine.
While he was pondering this artistic possibility he opened another drawer. Nothing but papers here. And at the back of the drawer a thick book bound in glowing tree-calf leather. Hans took it out. He did not think he had ever seen anything so fine. The weight of it, the sheen of it, the gleam of gold from the page edges.
The book was held shut by a gold clasp in the center of which was a small keyhole. Hans, his heart beating fast, pulled at the clasp. To his surprise it was unlocked. Perhaps it was unlockable. His own memory of such books was that the locks never worked anyway.
Hans slowly turned the first page as though he were opening an original Gutenburg bible.
Das Kriegstagebuch von Rudolf Gloder
Rudi kept a diary! Trembling, Hans turned to the next page. Two bars of music were handwritten at the top of the page and below it the words:
Blut-Brüderschaft schwöre ein Eid!
Wagner, Hans supposed. An oath to blood brotherhood. How impossibly Teutonic, how magnificently Rudi.
He turned to a random page near the beginning. In his girlish enthusiasm, Hans was hoping above all else that he might find some reference to himself, however small.
14th January, 1917
I am finding that the translation from Überleutnant to Oberleutnant is almost meaningless. It is the next hurdle that counts. “Hauptmann Gloder.” That would sound very well indeed. There are some officers who still resent my ascension. Very well, let them. Gutmann, I have noted, is the only officer to greet me as a brother, but we know his motives. The Jew will do anything to ingratiate himself into pure-blooded company. He also regards me, insultingly, as some kind of fellow intellectual. His idea of the intellect is far from mine. He is useful however. He has studied military history very deeply and I allow him to think me his friend.
Four members of a wiring detail were killed by snipers yesterday. I wrote letters of condolence to their families back home, the first time I have had to perform such a duty. Eckert showed me the standard letter that is used on such occasions. Not good enough for me. I wrote four beautiful and distinct letters, making up all sorts of nonsense about the heroism of each dead trooper. “May I add on a personal note, that Wolfgang’s loss is not just your own? He was dearly loved here. His spirit, his courage, his humor and his charm are irreplaceable to us, as his memory is sacred.” And then quotations from Goethe and Hölderlin. All for some clodhopping oaf of a farm boy who didn’t have the wit to dodge a bullet. Each letter will no doubt be framed in gilt and hung on a wall somewhere. As Puck so rightly says:—
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Otherwise a dull, bitterly cold day.
Hans looked up from the book, frowning. He did not understand the quotation in English, which he supposed to be Shakespeare, but he could not like the reference to oafs and clodhoppers. Well, bitterly cold day it was that day, and everyone has his moods. He turned ahead to the middle of the book.
22nd April, 1918
Spring at last!
Winterstürme wichen dem Wonnemond
in mildem Lichte leuchtet der Lenz;
auf linden Lüften leicht und lieblich
Wunder webend er sich wiegt;
durch Wald und Auen weht sein Atem,
weit geöffnet lacht sein Aug’.
Well, in theory. The winter storms may have vanished, but the artillery storms are with us still. And while the gentle light of springtime may in truth be shining out on lovely light balmy breezes, the breath that blows through woods and meadows is not laughing with smiling eyes, but scowling wickedly as it hisses out huge rolling clouds of poison.
Yes, another gas attack from Tommy. Two dead this morning, and Ernst Schmidt injured. Mend and I were the first to dive for masks, but Schmidt insisted on staying up to sound the alarm. He nearly paid for such stupidity with his life. As soon as I saw what he was up to, I leaped out again with a mask for him and dashed about the place like a tiger cheering the ranks and tending the wounded. Schmidt got all the credit however, so I was the first to pat him like the dumb faithful dog he is and promise the recommendation of a mention up the line for his “selfless courage.” Intensely annoying.
Hans felt his heart sink as he read on.
Went along the line relaying new orders on the use of gramophones in dugouts. How wise our masters are, what a firm grip they have on priorities! Schmidt’s bravery the talk of the ranks. None louder in their praise than I. I make a joke about “Tommy’s ‘Gift’ of poison gas” but not enough people speak English to understand the pun.
Good news and bad news came through. The good news is that we seem to be holding Messines Ridge and Armentières. If we can thrust forward before the Americans get a real foothold in the Western Front this latest push will succeed. The bad news, not a rumor this time, but certified fact, is that Rittmeister von Richthofen was shot down and killed yesterday by a tyro Canadian pilot. Much gloom all around. For two years I have envied “Den Roten Freiherrn” and the worship he inspired, but secretly I have known that Berlin’s adoption of his myth was fatal. The British will bury him with full military honors. Some doubt apparently as to whether it was the Canadian who shot him down, or Australian machine gunners on the ground. He was flying low.
An argument in the Mess after dinner. Gutmann, it turns out, venerates Wagner, which I find absurd. His theories on the works are hopelessly, and I believe wickedly, distorted. He sees them all as “layered with psychic and political meaning.” Like all his race he refuses to recognize that a thing is a thing. That a work of art means what it says and is what it is. But no, he must read his strata of convoluted rubbish into every phrase. I grew irritated and sensing the Colonel’s boredom, I decided to have a little sport with our Hugo. I said he would do well to remember Mime and Siegfried. Mime the stunted little Niebelung, teaching Siegfried to forge the sword and all the while planning to betray him. (I could tell that Gutmann knew by the way I said “Niebelung” that I really meant “Jew.”) Mime the Jew plotting to exploit Siegfried’s fearlessness and purity as a means of achieving the ring and winning power over all the world. And what happens to Mime? Why, Siegfried slays the dragon, takes the ring and then turns the sword on Mime. Ha, ha! The name Mime is, after all, very close to the word “Memme” and they don’t come any more cowardly than the Niebelungen. Of course they get their vile revenge by stabbing Siegfried in the back. But they don’t get the ring! They will never get the ring.
“The ring that they themselves made,” Gutmann pointed out smugly.
“That they made from the gold that they stole!” I retorted. “It will never belong to them. Never!”
“No, that is clear,” Gutmann agreed in that head-nodding, I’m-so-wise-and-hum
ble rabbinical manner. “Power over the world will only belong to those who are prepared to renounce love.”
“Well one thing’s for certain, it won’t belong to an overblown brothel keeper like you,” I said, losing my temper. The whole table roared with laughter. They knew that for all his precious Heidelberg wit and pretentious intellect, Gutmann’s obscene wealth comes from the string of cheap theaters his father owns all across Germany. You don’t go to such squalid places for Schiller and Shakespeare, you go there for girls. (I should know!!!)
Gutmann went very red and left the room, bowing stiffly like a bantam Junker, the junior officers repeating the taunt after him as he went: Aufgeblasene Puffmutter! Aufgeblasene Puffmutter!
In conversation with the Colonel afterwards, I said that Gutmann was not so bad a fellow. His real fault, I said, was that he had been away from real fighting for so long that he had lost touch with the reality around him. But then, I added modestly, my own theories about how middle-ranking officers should from time to time be encouraged to fight alongside the men were no doubt hopelessly outdated and sentimental . . .
“Not at all,” said the Colonel. “Not at all . . .” and I could see that I had set him thinking. Ha! I shouldn’t be surprised if Hugo Gutmann finds himself at the front line in a few days’ time and, with luck and a little management from me, the world may well be one Jew shorter.
Drunk to bed. The Colonel kept me up and dropped a hint that I may be in line for promotion!
Life is good.
With trembling fingers Hans turned the pages to an entry for a more recent date.
24th May, 1918
Bumped into Mend and Schmidt this morning. They told me some ridiculous story about last night’s French raiding party getting hold of Baligand’s best helmet, which his fool of an adjutant (at least Gutmann was diligent, God rot his soul) had left there in Oberleutnant Fleck’s dugout after yesterday afternoon’s inspection. Monsieur had crawled along some saps dug (how well I remember!) three and a half bloody years ago and crawled into Fleck’s trench, knifing the sentry and cutting the throats of any sleeping soldiers they came across, including Fleck’s. They came away with some papers (of less military importance than the crab lice nibbling at my cock), five rifles, a box of dud grenades and, it now transpires, Colonel Baligand’s fucking ceremonial fucking helmet.
I made furious saber-rattling noises about this outrage (as if I cared a damn) and was then outraged to feel Schmidt’s grubby hands on my sleeve. He babbled incomprehensibly through a gas-corrupted throat about how he knew exactly what I was thinking, and I was about to pat him fraternally on the head and leave, when I realized that in fact he was begging me not to be impulsive and attempt to retrieve the helmet myself! As though I would ever dream of doing such a dumb thing. The French can crap in it every night from now until doomsday as far as I’m concerned.
Of course, if I were challenged, I would have to have a go at it, it’s just the kind of action that makes a reputation, but Ernst the fool, was challenging me not to. The man simply worships me; it’s sick but rather exhilarating. I allowed him to believe that heroic Rudolf was indeed mad as fire and determined to launch a single-handed assault on the entire French army, just to recover a brass shitpot. Then suddenly a rather wonderful plan popped into my head. I thought, damn it, I bet I can persuade him to go!
I played on his recent injury, suggesting that I was worried about his fitness and recommending that he be relieved of combat duties. His stubborn peasant mind reacted to this as if it were a great insult! I knew he wanted to prove himself to me and I am certain that he swallowed the bait like the lumpen peasant he is. Mend was still hanging about so I dared not be too obvious. But I caught up with Schmidt later and very subtly worked on him for half an hour. I’m almost certain he will try something foolish.
Well, it may or may not work.
Past midnight now. I will take myself off in an hour or so and watch. The north revetment will give me a perfect view from the Ku’damm across to no-man’s-land. If Schmidt goes in search of glory I shall see.
What if he goes with someone else? Hm. No, he will go alone. Hans Mend is his only friend and Mend is far too much of a coward to approve of such lunacy. Schmidt will go unaccompanied and if he succeeds in bringing back the helmet I will crawl to the wire to meet him, as if on my way to do the same thing myself and we will return in triumph together.
I see from my almanac that there is almost no moon tonight. Excellent! Schmidt is certain to go.
25th May, 1918
God is good to me. I waited for an hour gazing all around me and beguiling the time by seeing how many constellations I could name. Twenty-three, not bad. I had decided that if Schmidt didn’t appear by two o’clock I would turn in. He would need at least two hours of darkness to negotiate the wire and make his way to the French lines in silence.
Sure enough, bang on fourteen hundred hours I saw him, just two meters below me, heaving himself up from the advance trench and making for the nearest doorway in the wire. It was too dark to identify him exactly, but from the piglike grunting and gasping noises bubbling from him I knew it could have been no one else but honest, stupid Schmidt.
For ten minutes I had no idea what was going on, but a shivering in the wire that twanged all along the line told me that he was at least making some progress.
He was certainly managing to keep quiet. Not a sound did I hear after that slight disturbance in the wire. For an hour I waited, field glasses trained on Sector K, where I assumed he was heading. Part of me envied him. I should like to have done what he was doing and I daresay I might have done too, if someone had dared me or doubted me. I am not a coward, God knows, but bravery must have a purpose. To make a reputation, to achieve an end. Schmidt’s style of bravery was entirely devoid of imagination, the unquestioning bravery of cannon fodder.
I became aware of light leaking into the sky from behind our lines. Still no sign of Schmidt. I gave myself up to thoughts once more, reciting Goethe to myself and translating it into French for amusement.
At last, fifteen minutes later I saw him, a dark shape zigzagging in my direction through the gloom. One arm held the colonel’s helmet by its strap, under the other I could make out the shape of some kind of sword. What an excellent fellow.
I dropped down onto the duckboards and made my way to the nearest trench ladder. I climbed up and wormed my way over dry mud toward the wire. Once there, I looked up in time to see Schmidt halt, breathless and drop down into a shell hole. It occurred to me that I could go out there now, shoot him dead and return alone in glory.
I decided against carrying out such an operation until I had thought it thoroughly through. I had no objection on moral grounds, of course. One’s personal growth in life is the only morality, but I knew well that precipitate action is always ill-advised. If you have made a plan, stick to it. Lesser men will respond to the surprise of the moment and believe they should be commended for initiative and enterprise, when all they have really done is reveal that their plan was incomplete, that they had not weighed every eventuality, predicted every move and prepared every conceivable response. Of course, an ability to react to the unexpected is vital; imagination and initiative are certainly useful weapons in the general’s armory, but they are to be deployed only when necessary—the fatal mistake is to act when unprovoked, putting into action sudden new ideas which are insufficiently analyzed. A study of various historical figures teaches us this. Most people would be amazed if they knew the detail into which great commanders went. I read last week, for example, an account of the English admiral Horatio Nelson and his strategy meetings before the crucial naval engagement at Trafalgar. He drove his officers nearly insane, loving him dearly as they did, with his insistence of going over the plans time and time again. He did not move on until he was sure that every officer in the fleet knew and understood the wider purpose and meaning of his prim
ary strategy. Only then did he begin the laborious task of explaining the tactical variations. “If this, then this,” and so on, branching out into a dozen other ifs and thens until hundreds of scenarios had been exhaustively worked through. When the battle commenced Nelson was serenity itself, amazing all with his apparent indifference to every cannonade and broadside. Of course! Because every cannonade and broadside was expected and accounted for. Even when he fell, fatally wounded, he remained calm. Just such a possibility had been foreseen and well-drilled contingency plans swung easily into operation. He died knowing that victory was assured. He lacked swagger, assurance and political craft, of course, and would never have risen any higher than admiral, but few men can combine all the qualities necessary to make a great leader of men both on and off the field of battle.
And so I refused to act on my impulse of the moment, tempting as it was, until I had weighed every possibility. I did not doubt that I could approach Schmidt then and there, in the middle of no-man’s-land, dispatch him and return safely, bearing those two ridiculous trophies home in triumph. Safer to dispatch him, return empty-handed under cover of semidarkness and then, when it was light, make my way to the body and bring everything back in full view of my fellows. They could protect me, and if needs be I could remove any telltale friendly bullet from his back before the body was seen by anyone else.
That is undoubtedly what I would have done if Schmidt had only taken half an hour less about the whole business. But it was now growing too light for me to risk venturing forward, from the standpoint of both my personal safety and the danger of being spotted from my own trenches. I cursed his laborious progress. Why hadn’t he set out earlier? I know that if I had gone off on such an expedition I shouldn’t have tarried like this. I would have been home free by now.
Schmidt too must have realized that time was running out. For at that moment, he poked his head above the edge of the crater, gathered up the sword and the helmet and started back in a crouching run. He had covered no more than ten meters when I heard the distant crack of a rifle and saw a brief spear of flame from the very direction of Sector K. Monsieur had woken up and discovered his loss. Monsieur knew how to shoot. Schmidt threw out his arms and fell forwards, spread-eagled in the dirt.
