Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

Major Jansch eavesdropped on the Bavarian’s love of the bottle with disgust. He had no taste for beer – nasty, bitter stuff – or for the sour red wine that the French conned fools into buying with names such as Bordeaux and Burgundy. He loved sweet things, a taste of port or vermouth, and even then in moderation, for his passion lay in other areas. But he hid his aversion, even going as far as to the invite the Bavarian for a breakfast tipple should his business in Damvillers be finished by 11. Herr Niggl said he had just one more tiny thing to attend to at brigade HQ. He wanted to have some files delivered to Judge Advocate Mertens at Montmédy Court Martial, and none of his own men could be freed up to do it. But Damvillers regularly sent orderlies up the line – he’d find someone to take them. In the meantime, Lieutenant Psalter had combined Jansch’s and Niggl’s business and sorted them both out by phone. One of his lorries was taking a sapper commando across the sector to Vilosnes at midday, as the bridge over the Meuse at Sivry needed strengthened. The driver could easily pick up Major Jansch’s case beforehand, take it to Dun, and collect Captain Niggl’s barrels there. The three officers went their separate ways more than happy.

At quarter past 11, Major Jansch entered the mess. Soon after Herr Niggl also wheezed in. The large room was completely empty; the communications zone commanders and Fifth Army generals had once again been pushing for official hours to be observed. There was in any case plenty to do, as the battle at the Somme called for more artillery, troops and transport on a daily basis. They were bombarded with demands from the Fourth Army, which was under fire. The Verdun sector was no longer unique. The blasted French weren’t leaving all the work to the British and had even made more progress than them. It really would be a disaster if they got as far as Péronne. For the paradoxical game of war was about tracts of land as well as barrels of beer. It was a non-stop round of victories and defeats, just like Major Jansch’s egg boxes, which he maintained held red wine that he’d paid for.

It was pleasantly quiet and cool in the stone house, where the first floor was reserved for officers. Major Jansch was served quickly. He was both a feared guest and a laughing stock on account of his meanness. That day he had a new victim to listen to his speeches – a Bavarian. They were busily drinking port, and the Bavarian was smoking a long cigar called ‘Victor of Longwy’ that cost 30 Pfennigs and was sold to the officers for 14. Major Jansch wasn’t smoking.

The two men in grey Litevkas soon came to an understanding, a certain reserve on both sides notwithstanding. In his companion Niggl, Major Jansch saw someone whose political views he’d like to investigate. The war’s second anniversary had been celebrated a few weeks previously, but the war couldn’t end until the Germans were victorious across the board and could dictate the peace. Regrettably, a lot of people at home didn’t understand that, said Jansch. They dreamt of a rapprochement, because that Red Indian hypocrite Wilson over in America had soft-soaped them. Yes, Niggl agreed, there were people like that in Munich too, but not many. Social democrats and pacifists. Long-haired types from the borough of Schwabing. Idiots. Carnival doughnuts. Right-thinking people just laughed at them.

Major Jansch frowned and took a swig of port. He had to disagree. People like that should be put in protective custody, and the sooner the better. Captain Niggl was prepared to accept this too. Very good. Protective custody, then. Or perhaps they should be drafted into a labour battalion. How about that, Major Jansch? And he blinked at his companion with his clever little eyes.

Major Jansch demonstrated his disagreement by saying nothing. Before his discharge, he had for many years been an upright Prussian garrison captain. Now he commanded 2,000 capable, hard-working men and had four averagely competent acting lieutenants as company commanders. He didn’t want to hear of men in protective custody being put in the army. Even the very best commander wouldn’t get an Iron Cross, first class out of their achievements. Unfortunately he didn’t have that honour and the way things were going it didn’t look like he’d ever get it. He was surrounded by too much envy and malice. But, then, didn’t every officer sing the same tune?

Niggl agreed that they did but without much conviction. Deep down, he felt very pleased with himself. Things hadn’t gone so well for him in ages. He’d settled a difficult matter, unpleasant for everyone concerned, and thereby confirmed his position as the father of the battalion with those involved. Unfortunately, his Third Company had suffered another lost in the preceding weeks, he told Jansch. A sergeant had died a hero’s death, and it had been Niggl’s painful duty to inform his relatives. Regrettably, the man had been entangled in some court martial proceedings in the past few months, but Niggl had been able to stall the investigation until the man was eventually killed. Coincidence, of course. Yes, the battalion had some dangerous advance positions. And a man who dirtied his own nest had to be kept away from the company. A man like that begrudged his comrades their bit of meat, rum and sugar. But the Frogs had done for Sergeant Kroysing in the end.

Major Jansch listened carefully as the Bavarian, who wasn’t used to port, chattered on. Discipline had to be maintained. Subordination was of the utmost importance. A sergeant who denigrated his comrades could ruin the troops’ morale. In any case, nothing was as dangerous in the army as the creeping discontent created by politicians’ speeches and insolent enquiries. Those fellows were always criticising the German army; they didn’t like the rations, or the leave arrangements, or the way complaints were handled. How was a commanding officer supposed to keep his troops under control, when they knew civilians could raise objections at any time? Yes, only the Pan-German Union knew how much the Reich owed its army, said Major Jansch, asking Niggl if he knew of this organisation.

Och, said Niggl dismissively, he had no time for unions and associations. His men in the Third went about their business quietly enough. News had got round quickly as to who it was who had met a hero’s death at the hands of the Frogs. And the man had scarcely been in that position two months. It hadn’t been possible to relieve him. During the battle of Verdun, things couldn’t always be done by the book, and there weren’t many volunteers to take his place. And as he wanted a commission and was going off on a course in the autumn, he had to get used life at the front, didn’t he? Yes, a brother of his had come forward, a sapper lieutenant. He wanted his brother’s effects, but he couldn’t have them because they’d already been sent to the parents in Nuremberg – sometimes the Third Company was a little too diligent in performing its duties. The field post handled three million items a day, for goodness’ sake – sometimes things went round the long way or got lost. So everything was resolved peacefully, and Judge Advocate Mertens could now put the files away.

Major Jansch sat there fingering his long moustache, watching the Bavarian in astonishment. This chap knew how to handle things, even if you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. It was very clear that in an emergency the demands of duty required solutions that would never have occurred to an old veteran like himself. It was a lesson to Jansch. He’d always been too high-minded but he wasn’t too proud to learn from a Bavarian beer drinker. He thanked his companion for a fascinating half hour in his genial company, for Niggl was wiping his mouth and getting ready to go. He had an appointment at quarter to 12 with the divisional chaplain, Father Lochner, who had offered him a lift. Naturally, he wouldn’t have the same kind of conversation with the reverent gentleman, for earthly beings should not manipulate God’s ways or use them for their own ends. And so the gentlemen said their goodbyes. The Bavarian trudged out, while the Prussian remained seated for a while. With a heavy heart, for he was very careful with money, he asked that the four glasses of port and the cigar – 114 Pfennigs – be charged to his account, consoling himself that what he had learnt from the Bavarian that day was worth 114 Pfennigs. Deep in thought, with his hands behind his back, he crept down the stairs and out into the glaring sunlight.