Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

‘A dud,’ said Süßmann beside him.

‘A dud can still take you out,’ a voice grumbled in a neighbouring shell-hole. Then the two men heard excited whispering nearby, but couldn’t follow it, for the gruesome churning of the machine guns had started up again, German guns this time.

‘Lieutenant, I’ll stay here,’ Father Lochner groaned in Kroysing’s ear.

‘Bad idea,’ was Kroysing’s emphatic reply. ‘You’re right in the middle of the shrapnel zone.’

‘But I can’t manage it,’ moaned the priest. ‘My legs won’t go any further.’

‘Nonsense, Reverend,’ said Kroysing. ‘Just a little attack of nerves. A wee nip will cure that,’ and he offered him his canteen. The aroma of cognac wafted out as he uncorked it. ‘Have a drink,’ he added in a calm, maternal voice tinged with mockery. ‘Only healthy men have nipped from that bottle.’ With shaking hands, the chaplain grasped the canteen by its felt cover, put it to his lips and took two sips, then a third. The liquor felt hot in his stomach. ‘Watch out. It works,’ said Kroysing, hooking the canteen back on to his belt. ‘You should’ve taken your quota before.’ Then he noticed that under his wrap the chaplain was worrying a silver cross with one hand and handing him something white and folded with the other.

‘You’d better take this slip of paper,’ he said. ‘It could be dangerous for you if your enemy got hold of it.’

Kroysing jerked round to face him, wild-eyed under his steel helmet. ‘Good Lord,’ he said, taking the paper and stuffing it inside his leather puttee. ‘Thank you. That could easily have looked like blackmail. But you’ll pass my message on verbally, won’t you, Reverend?’

‘If we get back in one piece,’ answered Lochner, already more composed. ‘Schnapps is one of God’s gifts.’

Three things were required to wage war, Kroysing muttered in reply, still disconcerted by his own carelessness: schnapps, tobacco and men. And then he leant his long frame over the earthen slope; it really had been a dud. Gratitude is a great virtue, he thought. That was a colossal act of stupidity. With that scrap of paper in his hand, Niggl could easily have proven that I had him moved to Douaumont purely out of private revenge and that I put him under pressure to sign a declaration that was a pack of lies. I was skating on thin ice there – and he wiped the sweat away from under his helmet. ‘Are you okay now?’ he asked the priest.

‘I’m okay.’

‘Let’s go then.’

They crawled down the last 1,000m, stooping for cover the whole way. When white flares shot up over the way, they halted unless they were in a particularly deep section of trench. Their narrow path, pitted with holes and buried in places from the gunfire, wound forwards through traverse trenches, giant mole heaps and smashed tunnels where black holes marked the entrances to the dugouts. Eventually, drenched in sweat, they caught sight of the backs of soldiers, boys really, and the curve of German steel helmets among the ridges of upturned earth. Suddenly, machine gun fire rattled near them. In a corner, smoking a pipe, sat a bearded sapper NCO, who’d been waiting for them.

‘Bang on time, Lieutenant,’ he grinned. ‘Everything’s fine here. The battalion is virtually set up. The officers are waiting for you in the big dugout.’ He spoke in an undertone and with a certain familiarity that didn’t seem to faze Kroysing. Then he frowned anxiously. ‘There seems to be a lot going on across the way. The Frogs are so bloody quiet. I think they’re listening to the racket of the relief troops arriving, and the new lot aren’t even in yet.’

‘Then we’ll have to blow some smoke in their eyes,’ answered Kroysing. ‘Father, why don’t you have a lie down? There’ll be a space in the next medical dugout. I’ll pick you up from the medical men later.’ He disappeared with the guide, and Lochner left with another man.

Bertin followed Süßmann through the deep, narrow cutting, above which the Milky Way hung like two balls of white smoke. Infantry men pushed past them, crawling out of dugouts and disappearing into others. In one place, some of them were using spades to widen a passage that incorporated a large shell hole further on. Everything was done wordlessly and as far as possible without a sound. In the former shell hole, a short, thick pipe such as Bertin had never seen before sat on a mount, and right beside it a newly dug tunnel slanted downwards. They sat down on two-handled wicker baskets filled with large shells: the lightweight mines.

‘If those are lightweight, I wouldn’t like to see the heavy ones,’ said Bertin.

A screen of wire and branches covered in earth protected the mine throwers from aerial view. Hot coffee was brought to them from the dugout. Süßmann suggested going down. Bertin asked to stay up. The cold, damp earth and the smell that escaped from it disgusted him. He watched the small, thin Saxon men at their posts in horror. There were so few of them, and their faces were wretched. This was the front – the grey Wall of Heroes that protected Germany’s conquests. They were already worn down and overextended. Gingerly sipping his hot coffee, Bertin asked Süßmann if the surrounding dugouts would withstand a bombardment.

Süßmann just laughed and said they were safe against shrapnel, nothing more. In an emergency, they might withstand one 7.5cm shell, but not 10. If the rain came, it would get inside. He pointed to the pale, hazy ball of the moon, which cast a faint glow, and said that rain was on its way as surely as their wages. The newly replenished battalion of over 700 men had 12 light and six heavy machine guns at its disposal, and with that it was expected to hold an area twice as wide as the previous month. And the French were always putting fresh divisions in the front line, and they withdrew their men after a short stint for a proper rest and a good feed. They didn’t undermine their nerves with inadequate rations of fat, poor quality jam and stale bread made with leftovers. The four mine throwers were to replace two batteries taken out of the line. Everyone was ready for peace, that much was clear, but it didn’t much look like peace. Men in helmets and caps kept rushing past them, stumbling and swearing under their breath. Like a dark cloud, danger, palpable to all, seemed to roll in across the upturned earth from the other side of the trenches. Two hundred metres of land is a broad stretch but for a bullet it’s nothing. Advancing infantrymen cover it in five minutes, a shell in a second. So this is the war at last, thought Bertin. Now you have it. You’re stuck on its outermost edge like a fly in glue. Your heart and lungs are pounding, and the enemy isn’t even doing anything. Pale light poured down from above, casting black shadows in the trench. Had they missed the sound of the rockets going up? There’d definitely be more action tonight. Bertin noticed that his knees and hands were trembling with suppressed tension. He made to leave his cover and climb up the recess cut into the trench wall.

‘Have you gone mad?’ Süßmann hissed in his hear. ‘They’ll be able to pick out your pale face against the black earth quite easily from over there with their night glasses.’

Nothing would happen in their sector, but if the French were paying attention the battalion that was being relieved might get some grief as the troops were being exchanged. Suddenly – and Bertin’s heart seemed to stop – the machine gun they had passed earlier spat out a furious volley. It thrust maliciously up into the night, though he didn’t see its fire. Three or four of the same weapons continued the noise. Nearby, rockets whistled up and released their signal lights, bathing the huddled soldiers’ faces in a strange red glow. Soon, a wild gurgling roared over their heads and there was a crash far in front of them.