Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

Life had taught Major Jansch self-control. ‘Whoa, whoa, hold your horses,’ he said, acting casual. Was it not the case that the First Company, like so many others, was considerably below strength? And would not the staff first have to find out the current position of the Lychow Army Group? The battalion could pass on the whereabouts of the court martial during the course of the day. The man would manage fine if he left the following morning, or afternoon, or sometime during the day. In the meantime, he could do his duty, night duty for example. He could relieve one of his comrades of that arduous task. Perhaps rations were due to be transported to the front that night. Did Sergeant Major Duhn understand his meaning? He did. The major hung up. Sometimes miracles happened. He was entitled to clutch at any straw. The French were still shelling both the standard-gauge and light railways. Maybe Herr Bertin would take a hit.

His other source of disgruntlement, admittedly, continued unabated. Easter was drawing inexorably closer. In a fortnight – at the behest of the Frau Major – Herr Jansch would have to go on leave. What for the overwhelming majority of soldiers in Europe was the greatest pleasure imaginable he viewed with dislike. What was missing from his life here in the field? Nothing, or as good as nothing. He was a master. He had lackeys and servants who trembled before him. A whole outfit was geared towards him. The population of a subject land had to speak respectfully to him and his like or there’d be hell to pay. Here he need fear no dissent. Even if people didn’t like him personally, a whole caste closed ranks behind him. But at home… He sighed.

There was no peace. He was constantly disturbed by trivial bills. He had to fight each day to preserve his inner composure in the face of the silliest disruptions. He didn’t like women. They were in every sense inadequate. And their nagging voices got on his nerves. A three-room apartment on Windhorststraße in the suburb of Steglitz – a street name that infuriated him every time he thought of it – brought no happiness when it was run by Frau Major Jansch and the maidservant Agnes Durst from Lübchen in Saxony, and a man had to constantly rescue his papers from their concepts of order. For they didn’t understand his work at Windhorststraße. They treated it with contempt. Within the family, his work was judged according to money and monetary value, and they were unable to hide their mild disdain. They – the girl, his wife and even his son. His son Otto would also be home on leave and that increased his discomfort… Lieutenant Otto Jansch was from one of those nameless infantry regiments that fight and die in enormous numbers without distinction. However, during the fighting at the end of 1915 on one of the rivers in southern Poland his son had distinguished himself, perhaps more by accident than through exceptional merit. Since then, he’d possessed an Iron Cross, first class, and his father did not possess one – and therefore had hardly any authority over his son any more. Even though his friend, Major Niggl, had done everything he could to bring the officers at the depot round to his side, he still didn’t possess one and he never would, although news had been received from the hallowed domain of the Artillery High Command that a certain Lieutenant von Roggstroh had fallen, killed in a small but successful action against Bezonvaux that had unfortunately led to considerable losses. He was supposed to have been a nice, blonde chap, little Roggstroh. Now he wouldn’t bother anyone any more. The day before yesterday, actually even yesterday, it had seemed that the longed-for decoration was about to appear on the horizon like the morning or evening star. But now it was all over.

Major Jansch grabbed the telephone, then let his hand drop. There was no point. He needed to get out, shake off his agitation, go and see his friend Niggl, get some fresh air about him. He rang for his batman and told him he wanted to get dressed and ride out.

The streets of Damvillers bustled with spring. Sparrows chirruped in the bright sunshine. Swallows shot across the light sky, and men hurried past without coats. From his high steed, Major Jansch checked whether they were saluting properly. Drills were taking place on the meadow on the other side of the village, and from the machine gun practice range came the rhythmic tap of blank cartridges. Major Niggl was not at home. In fact, he had ridden over to see Captain Lauber, the sapper commandant. Major Jansch hesitated for a moment and then, under pressure from his news, decided to fetch him from there. He didn’t particularly like Captain Lauber. Swabians were all democrats – adversaries in other words. But in his present mood he overcame his aversion, turned his chestnut horse, and rode back at a walk and over to the sapper headquarters.

Captain Lauber sat crestfallen at one end of his sofa and at the other sat Major Niggl, full of concern. An armchair was pulled up for Major Jansch, a rare visitor, and he was given a glass of cherry brandy and offered a cigar. Indeed no, Captain Lauber wasn’t smoking that day either. He didn’t feel like it. He’d received dreadful news from the Dannevoux field hospital via the brigade headquarters: the plane that wreaked havoc on Damvillers station had smashed up Dannevoux field hospital beforehand. Definitely a breach of international law. Of course the French would maintain it had been an accident if representatives of the Red Cross raised a complaint. They’d punish the airman or replace him, and they might not even do that. But that wouldn’t bring back Lieutenant Kroysing, who had been killed with a number of other wounded. Major Niggl nodded his head sympathetically. His little pale eyes were full of deepest condolences as they sought the captain’s dark eyes. Surely not the Lieutenant Kroysing he’d fought beside at Douaumont, he asked. And Captain Lauber nodded. Of course it was him; there was only one lieutenant of that name in the army. And there weren’t many officers of his calibre. He’d had high hopes for him and expected him to go far. It was from such tempered steel that the bonds had been forged that held the front together. Such men guaranteed the nation’s future: affable, always ready to listen to the men’s concerns, relentless in the pursuit of duty, completely and utterly committed. And to think how happy they’d been that the lad had escaped unharmed from that lice-infested pile of rubble that was Douaumont and had come through that mess on 14 December without serious injury, and now a stupid aerial bomb had landed on his head and killed him off. Well, today was a black day. Today the world felt like a speck in his eye. This war in the air reduced war to a kind of trade for mechanics, photographers and hurlers of bombers – it was time to abolish it and replace it with something more sensible, something that didn’t mean it was always the best men who got destroyed. It was a great and wonderful thing to defend the Fatherland, to use intelligent means and brave men to prevail against an intelligent and brave opponent. He used to have joking quarrels with his friend Reinhart about whether the heavy artillery had spelt the end of that. But when it came to this flying business, there no was point in wasting breath. It wasn’t proper; it was bloody idiotic – be done with it. So, Lieutenant Kroysing was gone too; maybe it would be his turn next. That would be fine by him. Let the next airman crack his skull the way his little boy cracked walnuts at Christmas. But until then one had carry on working, do one’s duty, look neither right nor left. His two visitors got up. Major Niggl shook the Swabian’s hand, all innocence. He and Lieutenant Kroysing had not always seen eye to eye, he said. That could happen among comrades. But that he’d now been taken from them was enough to make a man spew, and he hoped that his friend Lauber would soon recover from the knock and take a more cheerful view of the world.