Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

In an effort to beat down his hurt feelings, Bertin expounded on Serbian plum brandy, which was nearly as good as this cognac. Kroysing pretended to be very interested and said that if he ever got tired of the western front, he might be tempted to go to Macedonia on account of the slivovitz – in other words, there was an uncomfortable atmosphere.

Little Süßmann looked wisely from one man to the other. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you gentlemen aren’t going to sort things out like this. You need to take your dispute seriously. It was really me who caused this problem so I need to resolve it. Our author thinks that you brought the ASC men to Douaumont and are responsible for what befell them, because you have a private matter to settle with their captain. Isn’t that right, my dear author?’ Bertin nodded. ‘To you, the Bavarian ASC men were just an appendage of the captain, unimportant statistics,’ continued Süßmann, ‘but our author’s moral searchlight is now trained on them. Look, he says: dead and wounded. Mortal beings. Your move, Lieutenant,’ he finished, stubbing out his cigarette. The ashtray on the table was made from a flattened brass cartridge case from a large howitzer shell. They were often used in this way in sapper depots.

Kroysing thought for a moment. ‘Sergeant Süßmann gets an honourable mention for setting out the characters before us correctly. Let’s consider these men. Did any of them lift a finger to stand by my brother? Not at all. And on whose account had my brother incurred Niggl & Co’s disfavour? For those men. In a certain general sense, they therefore share responsibility for his death. In the same general sense, I tossed them into a slightly more dangerous frying pan than the one they were in before. I’ll take responsibility for that. Duty demanded that some labour company or other did it. I chose that one.’

Deep in thought, Bertin took another sip of cognac. ‘I’m afraid there’s something not quite right there. The dead and wounded far outweigh the degree of guilt that can be attributed to an individual ASC man, because the company’s guilt is collective, and you must take account of the fact that the common soldier has few rights.’

‘Those affected will have to settle up with those who have so far been spared,’ said Kroysing shortly. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I’m not playing God. And how do you explain your part in it?’ Bertin looked amazed. ‘Look at that innocent angel,’ laughed Kroysing. ‘Yes, someone always has to hit us over the head with our own part in things. Who set the whole thing in motion, eh? Shook me out of my lamentable indifference? From whom did I first learn that my brother had been set up? It’s enough to astonish a layman and surprise an expert,’ he finished triumphantly, using an expression current at the time.

Bertin looked at Süßmann in shock, then at Kroysing’s triumphant face, then pensively up at the vaulted ceiling, which formed an impenetrable barrier between him and the sky. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he conceded honestly. ‘There’s certainly something in what you say. It’s hard to unravel the tangle of cause and effect. But I didn’t want that.’

‘Exactly. Neither did I. But answer me this, dear sir: would you have kept quiet if someone had told you about my dangerous character? Weren’t you rather keen for me to right the wrong, as I was the victim’s brother and the best man for the job?’

‘Yes,’ said Bertin, sunk in thought, analysing his own motives, ‘that was more or less what I wanted. In a vague way, you know. Something terrible had happened. The world had gone awry, but things have come to a pretty pass when it’s sent further awry by our attempts to put it right.’

‘Yes,’ laughed Krosying amiably, ‘the world’s construction is a bit faulty, at least from the point of view of us humans. It short circuits and backfires all the time. If we built an engine along those lines we’d probably be in heaven quicker than it takes to get from here to our new mine throwers.’

‘But where’s the fault?’ asked Bertin passionately. ‘It must be mended if our world view isn’t to collapse.’

‘Why shouldn’t our precious world view collapse?’ asked Sergeant Süßmann in astonishment. ‘Hasn’t yours collapsed?’ he asked pointing a crooked index finger at Kroysing. ‘Hasn’t mine collapsed,’ and he turned the finger on himself. ‘It’s just too bad about yours, isn’t that right, my writerly and prophetic friend? Four dead and about 40 wounded,’ he continued, ‘and here in Douaumont. If it weren’t so boring for the lieutenant, I’d tell the gentleman here the story of this hollow mountain as I experienced it. I promised him I would, in any case.’

‘Oh yes, that’s not to be missed,’ said Kroysing. ‘He ought to hear it, and I’ll be fascinated to watch our author’s face. On you go, Süßmann.’

‘A couple of thousand years after the Deluge had dried up, when God had turned his countenance away from the world and people had multiplied like ants, on the 21st of February of the year 1916, men rose up out of their trenches, sappers to the front.’ Süßmann blinked and continued in the same tone: ‘In those four days as the attack advanced, legion upon legion of grey and grey-blue martyrs died as they’d been ordered. Their bodies were strewn between Caures wood and the hills, and their souls multiplied the heavenly host by an army corps.’

‘WE LAY FLAT on the ground at the edge of the glacis and looked over at Douaumont, which was covered in snow and giving nothing away – a detachment of sappers attached to men from a platoon of the 24th. The ground was frozen, but we were hot. We’d all been drinking and besides we were scared. Not a shot came from over there, do you follow? It was so threatening. Who would have thought that Douaumont, the cornerstone of Verdun, would be undefended with no garrison? French shells were dropping on the wood behind us but they came from somewhere else. Our own artillery was bombarding the village of Douaumont and the barbed wire outside it, and there was a French machine gun rattling over there. But the block of rock itself was silent. We had our coats on but we were soaked through underneath. Crawling through frozen mud is no fun. We wanted to feel something dry under our feet, to undress, light a stove and sleep. Our artillery kept battering the bare escarpment of the casemate, but there wasn’t a whisper of a reply. Eventually, we threw ourselves forwards, the first lieutenant at the front, headed downhill to the barbed wire – which thankfully wasn’t electrified – clambered on to the monster’s roof and to hell with it. Then we were on top and wanted to get down because our goal was inside. And as we were talking and staring apprehensively into the depths below us, we suddenly saw a detachment of men nosing their way very carefully out of a tunnel, and before we could shoot them or they us, we realised they were our neighbouring platoon. The two officers glared at each other, and if I’m not mistaken they still argue today about who the genuine conqueror of Douaumont was. Inside, we took the garrison prisoners: about 20 gunners in an armoured turret. They’d been firing for four days and four nights and now they were asleep – bit rude, no? Just when we arrived. But we kindly excused them. That’s how Douaumont was captured by the heroic first battalion of the 29th regiment, and anyone who doesn’t believe it can pay me one thaler.’

Kroysing watched Private Bertin’s baffled face with amusement. Bertin sat there in his uniform, hair shorn like a real soldier, but seemed to have believed all the Supreme Army Command’s pompous self-congratulation and to want to live in a world of heroic deeds like a child in a book of fairytales. ‘So that was the famous storming of Douaumont? Before his Majesty’s eyes…’