Hans Hellmut Kirst: Officer Factory

Hans Hellmut Kirst

Officer Factory

a Novel

Kommunikations- und Verlagsgesellschaft mbH

ISBN 978-3-942932-09-7

IMPRESSUM:

Copyright:

©2011 AURIS Kommunikations- und Verlagsgesellschaft mbH, Düsseldorf, Germany

Internet:

http://www.auris-verlag.de

E-Mail:

M.Moneth@auris-verlag.de

Author:

Hans Helmut Kirst

Editorial:

Marius Moneth

Layout:

Marius Moneth

Lector:

Lea Rebecca Kawaletz

Cover:

Marius Moneth

CONDITIONS OF SALE :

This book is sold subject to the condition that

it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed an the subsequent purchaser. This work is copyright protected. All rights, including translation, reprinting and copying of the book or any parts of it are reserved.

ISBN 978-3-942932-09-7

With greatcoat flapping, Lieutenant Krafft hurried across the graveyard like some startled bird of ill omen. The mourners eyed him with interest, sensing the possibility of a diversion from the otherwise interminable boredom of the funeral ceremony.

“Let me through, please!" muttered Lieutenant Krafft discreetly. Skillfully he wormed his way between the group of officers and the open grave. “Let me through, please!"

Nods greeted Krafft's request, though no one made room for him, possibly in the hope that he would fall into the grave. That at least would have been a step in the right direction. For nothing, except perhaps an endless church parade, makes hardened soldiers more restless than a long funeral, and at least at a church parade it's possible to sit down with a roof over one's head.

“What’s the hurry?" asked Captain Feders with interest. “Have we managed to produce another corpse?"

“Not yet," said Lieutenant Krafft, pushing past him. “As far as I know."

“At this rate," observed Captain Feders unconcernedly to all within earshot, " we'll soon be able to pack up as a training school and set up as undertakers—a limited liability company, of course."

Although even here Captain Feders didn't seem to care what he said, he kept his voice low. For the General wasn't far off.

Major-General Modersohn stood at the head of the open grave, a tall, erect figure with clearly defined features. He stood there utterly motionless.

Modersohn was the sort of man who seemed not to notice what was going on around him. He never even glanced at the bustling figure of Lieutenant Krafft, and showed no reaction at all to Captain Feder's remarks. He stood there as though posing for a sculptor. Indeed all who knew him cherished the thought that they would someday see him as a statue.

Major-General Modersohn was always the center of any gathering he attended, and wherever he was, all color seemed drained from the surroundings and words rendered meaningless. Heaven and earth were reduced to the status of a backcloth. The coffin at his feet, poised on boards over the open grave, was now little more than a stage prop. The group of officers to his right, the bunch of cadets to his left, the aide-de-camp and the course commander two paces to his rear—all were reduced to more or less decorative marginal figures: a mere framework for a successful portrait of the General painted in cool, firm colors without a touch of garishness or ostentation. The General was the spirit of Prussia personified — or so at least a lot of people thought.

He was a past master in the art of commanding people's respect, appearing to be altogether above all ordinary human feeling. The weather, for instance, was a matter of supreme indifference to him, his uniform, however, never was. And even if the ice-cold wind which swept across the graveyard had started blowing solid blocks of ice, he would not have put up the collar of his greatcoat. As for putting his hands in his pockets, it was unthinkable.

He set a permanent example to his officers, who were left with no alternative but to follow it. They stood there now freezing miserably, for it was very cold and this ceremony seemed to be dragging itself out to an inordinate length.

Yet the more restlessly, the more hopefully the gathering eyed him, the more stiff and unapproachable did the General seem to become.

“Unless I'm very much mistaken," whispered Captain Feders to those beside him, “the old man's hatching up something really frightful. He's shut up like an oyster—the only question now is: who's going to force him open?"

As Lieutenant Krafft continued to make his way forward to the group in front, the officers' interest quickened visibly and they began to nudge each other surreptitiously. Their hope was that the Lieutenant would eventually find himself confronting the General, with all the inevitable dramatic consequences that would entail.

But Lieutenant Krafft was wise enough to avoid offending a statue. He had found that it was almost always more prudent to stick to the regulation way of doing things, so he now turned to Captain Kater, who was in command of the headquarters company, and said: " If you please, sir, the army chaplain is delayed—he's sprained his ankle. The M.O. is with him now."

This announcement upset Kater considerably. It seemed to him extremely painful that he should be forced to become the bearer of an unpleasant piece of news by his company officer in this way—before all the assembled officers too! For Kater knew his General. He knew that probably without ever saying a word he would give him a cold, penetrating look tantamount to a devastating reprimand. For a ceremony was in progress here, planned down to its minutest detail and brooking neither interruption nor delay. Lieutenant Krafft, or the stumbling chaplain, whichever way you liked to look at it, had landed Kater in an embarrassing situation. In an effort to gain time, he was foolish enough to ask: “How can the man have sprained his ankle?"

“Probably tight again!" said Captain Ratshelm, seething with righteous indignation.

The A.D.C. cleared his throat warningly. And though Major-General Modersohn continued to stand there without batting an eyelid, the dashing Captain Ratshelm sensed that he'd been reprimanded. He had meant well enough, but had expressed himself incorrectly. After all, he was at an officers' training school. The welfare and instruction of future officers had been entrusted to him, and it was one of his duties to express even undeniable truths with immaculate care.

So with some courage and therefore slightly excessive volume, he declared: “When I said ' tight,' I should of course have said drunk."

“The chaplain can't even have been drunk," said Captain Feders, the tactics instructor, whose mind worked very fast although not always in the pleasantest way. “It only requires the most elementary logic to see that. He is in fact almost always drunk, and so far no harm has ever befallen him. He might say his guardian angel sees to that. If, as now appears, he has sprained his ankle, then it may be presumed that he is not tight, or if you prefer drunk, and is therefore having to do without the assistance of his guardian angel—and his ankle has given in under the strain."