Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

The two clerks grinned to themselves. In exceptional circumstances, a soldier did of course have the right to such a pass after a tour of duty. After all, a soldier is not a prisoner with chains round his feet. But power is power, and favour is favour, and whatever this comrade imagined, nothing would come of it. He wouldn’t be going to Billy today.

Private Bertin knew the two clerks. Sperlich, good-natured but stupid, had been some kind of office worker before. Querfurth, who had a goatee and wore thick glasses for long-sightedness on his squinting eyes, had been a draughtsman in the Borsig Works at Tegel. Under the previous sergeant major, they’d been pleasant enough, but mud sticks and their dealings with Herr Glinsky had corrupted them. He sensed that the three men were against him and that it would be hard for him to claim his rights. In a friendly enough way, Glinsky asked what he wanted in Billy. Bertin said he wanted to look for an acquaintance who’d been seriously injured the day before and taken to the hospital there. Remembering the blow he’d had, he swallowed hard two or three times and his voice quivered imperceptibly.

‘Is that so?’ said the venerable Glinsky airily. ‘A wounded soldier in the hospital? And here was I was imagining a washer woman or a whore.’

Bertin heard a couple of fat flies buzzing round a fly paper hanging from the low ceiling. The company knew he was recently married; they’d expect a protest, a flash of indignation. But he didn’t even think of it. He wanted to get to Kroysing and he would, and when you want something badly, you don’t let someone like Glinsky rattle you. He gazed quietly at Glinsky’s pasty, indoors complexion and prying nose and said nothing – and that was smart. Bertin’s silence seemed to satisfy Herr Glinsky. He sat back comfortably in his chair and asked who the distinguished gentleman intended to honour with a visit. A French prisoner presumably. Bertin smiled instinctively. He’d expected that. No, he explained. It was a volunteer soldier, the leader of the standby detachment at Chambrettes-Ferme, Sergeant Kroysing. He’d been seriously wounded the day before.

Grey-skinned Glinsky’s eyes and mouth fell open in delight. The story of the court martial had done the rounds, and a man like Glinsky naturally sympathised with all the Bavarian comrades who were threatened by it. But he pulled himself together lightning-fast: ‘You can save yourself the journey. That man’s been dead for some time. He was buried this afternoon.’

Bertin grasped that Glinsky was lying. Ordinarily, the 1/X/20 orderly room had no contact with the Bavarian labour company. NCOs from the two units swapped news and got to know each other when they met by chance at the big supply stores in Mangiennes and Damvillers. But it was hard to respond to the lie; he couldn’t very well say that he wanted to visit the dead man’s grave.

‘I see,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Dead and buried?’

‘Yes,’ said Glinsky firmly, ‘and now you can return to your duties and show me your back, Mr Water Tap Man. Dismissed!’ Bertin swung round and left, while Glinsky hurried to get in touch with Sergeant Major Feicht from the Bavarian company and congratulate him on the resolution of a matter that had been hanging over his head.

Bertin stood outside in the sun, pensively putting one foot in front of the other. If he couldn’t go to Billy on a leave pass, he’d go without one. But first he’d take advice from someone who understood the situation. Sergeant Böhne was passing at that moment, rubbing his hands together. Behind him the former innkeeper Lebehde, who belonged to Böhne’s squad, was carrying a pot of extra-strong coffee, which he intended to share with Böhne and a couple of others over a celebratory game of skat. For the depot had given orders that all front-line commandos were to remain off-duty when they got back, and the company couldn’t countermand those orders. Böhne’s small, bright eyes became serious when Private Bertin explained in an undertone what was going on. Böhne was a father of two, and the young Bavarian’s accident affected him profoundly. Karl Lebehde just shrugged his shoulders at the orderly room’s decision, saying there were many ways to get to Billy.

In the meantime, the barracks door had closed behind them. There were only a few men around, and the long room was quiet. At a table in the right-hand corner, Corporals Näglein and Althans were already waiting for their coffee and game of skat. Time to take action, said Althans, if the Prussians had given up on esprit de corps . As they all knew, esprit de corps was one of Acting Lieutenant Graßnick’s catchphrases. If Corporal Näglein, a farmer from the Altmark in Saxony-Anhalt, was rather a timid man, then Corporal Althans made up for it with his cheek. Althans was a thin Reservist, who hadn’t been away from his infantry regiment for long. He’d been with them during the February attack in this area and had taken a heavy ricochet shot between the ribs, as a result of which he’d lain for months in bandages. He enjoyed showing anyone who’d look the deep hole under his chest. He performed a kind of courier service between the battalion in Damvillers and the company, without actually doing duty as an orderly. As such, he had a permanent pass that gave him permission to be out and about at any time – and it was made out to the holder, not in his name. He told Bertin he kept it in the cuff of his tunic, and that his tunic was hanging on a nail behind him. Understood?

A few minutes later, Bertin was trotting over the board walks and short cuts to the park, past columns of men unloading and hauling ammunition. He had a good cup of coffee inside him and he now had something else in the cuff of his tunic. The ammunitions expert Sergeant Schultz and his two assistants always knew of ways to get to Romagne, Mangiennes and Billy.

‘SERGEANT KROYSING, YES. He’s going to be buried at half five.’

Bertin was pointed in the direction of some steps that led underground. In the white-washed cellar, three coffins waited, one of them open. In it was visible the one part of Christoph Kroysing’s remains that was still presentable: his quiet face. The room was cooled by hanging wet linen cloths and a whirling fan, though it was still hard to breathe. But Bertin quickly forgot that. Here he was standing by the coffin of his newest and unluckiest friend. A youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance , he thought in the words of the Bible, and then, feeling solemn: Oh, Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him? Or the son of man, that thou visitest him? For man was like a blade of grass, blooming and withering like a wild flower. In Kroysing’s sallow face, his long eyelashes and widely spaced eyebrows rose like musical notes from the dead ovals of his cheeks. His tightly closed lips bent bitterly downwards, but the broad curve of his brow rose imposingly from his temples beneath his soft hair. Kroysing, thought Bertin, looking at the noble countenance of this boy, this man, why did you do them this favour? Why did you let yourself get caught? Mothers hope their prayers may be of some help, to say nothing of fathers’ hopes and of future plans. In a corner, there were further supports for yet more coffins. Shaking his head, Bertin went over to one and sat down on it to think by the whirring fan. He was back among the green-glinting beech leaves and the damaged tree trunks that looked as though they were made of corroded copper; he and Kroysing were sitting at the edge of the shell hole, a pair of field boots beside a pair of puttees, rusting shell splinters half buried in the earth, and the grey cat with the bottle-green eyes was staring hopefully at Kroysing’s hand. That was past, as irrevocably past as the sound of Kroysing’s voice, which Bertin could nonetheless still hear: ‘You’re the first person I’ve been able to speak to about these things for 60 days, and if you want, you can even be of great help to me.’ If Bertin wanted to be of help! And where did helping a person lead? Here…