Арнольд Цвейг: Outside Verdun

The ASC men were meticulously arranged and ordered according to size, with the giant Hildebrandt on the far left of the first column and tiny Vehse, Strauß and Naumann II furthest to the right, but an essential something was nonetheless missing, and Lieutenant Graßnick could never quite get over it. Their tunics spoiled the picture. It had started in Küstrin in Brandenburg – heavy Prussian Army Litevkas in dark grey with red lapels. Then came several dozen milky grey tunics made of a coat fabric meant for military officials. In Serbia, they’d received a batch of greyish brown infantry tunics, red about the seams from repeated delousings. Then finally in Rosenheim in Bavaria, on the way here, the depot had splashed out on a few dozen artillery tunics made of a greenish material with black piping. When the men were at work or marching, it didn’t matter. But these kinds of colour games were too risky for the parade ground… The grey field caps and blue cord epaulettes made no difference. More than half a million German men were running around like this: Landstrum reservists with no weapons, workers, salesmen, intellectuals. Not in great physical shape, but with a little military drilling. The combat units’ work slaves. Soldiers and yet not soldiers. A pitiful joke and essential troops rolled into one.

‘Attention! Company – eyes left!’

The company froze. Acting Lieutenant Graßnick, whom the men nicknamed Panje of Vranje after the small town in the Serbian mountains where he’d spent his best days, approached at an easy pace. The company tailors had done everything in their power to make a proper officer of him. His tunic hugged his back perfectly, his high grey cap with its silver cockade was perched impressively above his red face and his epaulettes looked almost as good as a real lieutenant’s. But to the actual officers he was still just a jumped-up sergeant major, and so he wafted about in a lonely void somewhere between the promoted men and the ruling class.

‘At ease!’ he croaked. ‘Listen up, everyone.’

He received the communications, accepting a piece of paper from Herr Glinksy, to whom it had in turn been handed by the clerk Sperlich, rigid with obedience, and read what was on it: a Fifth Army brigade order. The men learnt that the great attack planned for 5 May had been betrayed by Alsatian deserters, and that this had now been confirmed by French prisoners. They were reminded of their duty to be discrete even when chatting to one another, on the train or writing home.

The men stood there, trying to keep a straight face. For God’s sake, they thought. The silly French naturally hadn’t noticed that the German army planned to shower its princely leader with successful attacks and captured trenches for his birthday. Obviously, no one over there had any idea that the crown prince was born on 6 May. General Pétain had to rely on deserters – and from Alsace to boot – to alert him to the forthcoming attacks. There were two Alsatians in the company, one young, one older, both exceptionally good workers and popular comrades. ‘Alsatian traitors’ thus sounded particularly tactful. Yes, the Prussians had imbibed tact in spades. But it looked like Panje of Vranje was finishing up now in his croaking lieutenant’s voice. God help him. Amen.

But no. ‘Unfortunately,’ Herr Graßnick continued, flapping his hands excitedly, ‘unfortunately, an unprecedented lapse occurred right here in my company this afternoon. Private Bertin, step out 30 paces. Forward march!’

A twitch ran through the company, like a horse or a dog pricking up its ears. Watch out, it said. This concerns us. Such a huge body of 500 souls is very sensitive to matters of honour and shame, and in certain circumstances one individual represents the group. It took Bertin a second to grasp what was happening. He blushed, then blanched under his black beard. Only then did he move. He hadn’t expected to be plucked from among his comrades like a frog in a stork’s beak. But a soldier should be prepared for anything, as Herr Graßnick was about to teach him.

‘Didn’t you hear?’ he trumpeted into the profound silence that always descended when someone was to be punished. ‘By the rear – march!’

Obedient as a well trained dog, the trainee lawyer Bertin turned, marched round the right wing of his, the third column and breathing heavily came to halt back in his place.

‘Private Bertin, 30 paces, forward march!’

In his neatly blackened boots, Bertin sprang forward again. After 30 paces, he took position diagonally to the right of the company commander. Graßnick gave him a wry glance, looked him over and ordered him to: ‘About turn!’ The soldier swung round. Sweat ran down his glasses. Perhaps the blood was pounding in his eyes. The company rose around him like the three walls of a room under construction, the rows of his comrades in their different greys topped by a reddish strip: their faces caught in the sunlight. It was hard to feel so many eyes upon him, but there was nothing to be done about it. Why hadn’t he followed Karl Lebehde’s advice and shaved off this bloody beard that stood out like black Sauerkraut? Now he was going to pay for his obstinacy. But that fellow Graßnick could rattle on as much as he liked. What Bertin had done was right by both military and human law. Comforting prisoners was in the Bible, as was giving the thirsty to drink. It didn’t matter what happened now. He was at one with himself and the moral code in his heart. Still, he couldn’t stop his knees shaking slightly. Good that his wide trousers hid it.

‘This man,’ crowed Herr Graßnick with a forced snarl, ‘this man here had the effrontery to allow French prisoners to drink from his canteen, although the colonel had expressly forbidden it. I leave it to each of you to decide what to call such unworthy conduct. One can only describe such a man as a stain on the company.’

‘Am I in the pillory here?’ wondered the black-bearded soldier, unable to stop his nose and forehead turning a sickly grey. His sticky-out ears felt like they had when he was at school and Herr Kosch the teacher pulled them. But because he was at peace with himself, he was able to feel sorry for the superior officer to his left. A town clerk from Lausitz disguised as an officer. The ruling class would never take him seriously, and yet he had to stand there blaring on in his staccato voice, trying to sound convincing between long pauses. He was about as well suited to this as spinach to a grater. Yes, he heard Graßnick croak, Bertin’s behaviour was all the worse because he was an educated man of whom better might have been expected. He’d set a bad example to his comrades. Fortunately, his example did not extend to the whole company. The company’s morale was good. Those in higher places were well aware of that. Drastic measures to put a stop to these kinds of incidents once and for all would therefore not be necessary.

Can you put a stop to an incident? wondered Bertin but he was breathing more easily. A couple of curious gunners from the ammunitions depot staff were now watching this carry-on at the labour company scornfully. A light wind from the west carried the scent of hay. On the other side of the stream, some emaciated artillery horses were being nursed back to health in a big tent. The drivers were cutting the tall, sweet grass in preparation for winter. For a moment, Bertin almost lost himself in this illusory peaceful world – framed by the dull thud and clash of the artillery battle on the other side of the horizon. So, these are the kinds of things our company is worrying about at the siege outside Verdun , he thought. Why would a man like me worry about this rubbish? There he stood, black-haired and pale, heels together, hands on his trouser seams, letting the clatter of Graßnick’s closing remarks wash over him. Hopefully he realised that he deserved a court martial for what he’d done, Graßnick said. However, as his behaviour to date had been passable, justice would be tempered with mercy – and he’d better remember this favour. ‘Fall out!’