Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

‘If that mad sapper in there—’

‘Do you think he’s mad?’

‘Of course. Those eyes. And the way he bares his teeth. Recapture Douaumont…’

‘Straight out of a padded cell,’ giggled the one with the boy’s face.

The one in the middle chipped in again: ‘If that madman in there gets orders to recapture Douaumont, will you go along with it?’

The oldest one, whose chin was covered in brown stubble, didn’t reply for a while. On the gorge floor, the blocked stream had been cleared and was gushing along its old course. Finally, he said: ‘Of course he’s mad. Of course it would be pointless. But would you want to take responsibility for it all going wrong because you refused to take part? Because a surprise attack could miraculously succeed in this bloody fog.’

‘Three to 100 it’ll fail.’

‘Three to 100, of course. One to 50 even. Different matter if the ground were firm underfoot, but in these conditions…’

‘And as all three of us think it’s mad, all three of us will go along with it and drag our men into the shambles with us, because we’re worried about responsibility.’

‘Stop stirring, Seidewitz. That’s the way of the world. A madman can get a lot done.’

As Bertin opened the door, he knew full well that his trusty Baden Landstürmers would have slipped off to the rear as soon as the shooting started in the gorge. A tall figure was crouched by the switchboard, headphones over his ears, angrily ramming the plugs in and shouting futile hellos. Bertin closed the door softly and moved closer. And despite the horror of the situation, he couldn’t keep a note of humour out of his voice as he announced himself by clicking his heels: ‘Would you permit me to try, Lieutenant?’

Kroysing started, glared at him and gave a silent laugh, showing his wolfish teeth. ‘Ah yes. Good timing. It’s in your line of work,’ and he slid the headphones on to the narrow table.

Bertin threw his cap on Strumpf the park-keeper’s bed and checked the connections that could be made on that stupid switchboard with its couple of plugs: to the central exchange – in order; forward to Douaumont – broken; rearwards via the Cape camp – also in order. The telephonist there answered in some amazement; he tried to make the connection to Steinbergquell depot. Now there was a bit of trouble. Schneider, the on-duty telephonist, was a busybody who advised Bertin to return immediately and stop shirking his share of the unloading. They must all have been feeling a little weird over at the depot, for when Bertin tersely told him not to talk rubbish and put him through to Damvillers immediately, he received a testy reply. What did he want to talk to Damvillers for anyway? Instead of answering, Bertin turned to Kroysing, who bent over the mouthpiece with ominous calm: ‘Listen, you little swine, sort it out right this second or I’ll hang a charge of military treason round your neck. Connect us to Damvillers, understand?’

In the depot’s smoky telephone exchange, Private Schneider nearly fell off his stool. That was not the voice of the insignificant Private Bertin; this man sounded like a beast of prey, who might pose a threat to stronger men than a primary school teacher such as himself. ‘Certainly, Major! Right away, sir,’ he stuttered into the instrument and made the connection.

‘Officer Commanding Sappers, Captain Lauber,’ a voice said. Kroysing sat in front of the instrument again, gave his name and was understood. Bertin stood beside him, filling his pipe. When he realised the conversation was going to last a while, he spread a newspaper at the foot of the palliasse and lay down for a few minutes, following the example of the Saxons outside. The way those men had looked, covered in a crust of dried sludge, flattened by exhaustion. They should be put on display in the officers’ mess at Damvillers or in a Dresden concert hall, so that people could see what war was really like. But what good would that do?

It was a strange conversation. Captain Lauber greeted Lieutenant Kroysing with overwhelming relief, delighted that he was still alive and able to report, and asked where he was speaking from. Lieutenant Kroysing told him he was speaking from a railway siding, a blockhouse in Wild Boar gorge. It was the nearest rearwards telephone station to Douaumont, and he had immediately thought that if anything had survived that bloody bombardment, it would be this. He asked if he might keep his report brief. Douaumont had taken a pasting. The French had never thrown over so much heavy stuff before. Some of the new 40cm mortars must have been in the mix. The outer works had been battered in five places. Fire had broken out in the sapper depot – those bloody flares had caught fire again and filled the place with smoke. The dressing station had been hit again with heavy losses. There was no water to put the fires out as the pipes were burst. His men had tried – and he wasn’t joking – to bring the fires under control with sparkling mineral water, which the sick no longer needed, but the carbon dioxide content was too low. The detachments in the fort had suffered substantial losses, including the ASC. This had all happened during the course of the previous afternoon and evening. Then, however – and he begged permission to express the view that this was incomprehensible – orders had been given to evacuate Douaumont.

His voice had taken on its usual deep, calm tone, but there was an undercurrent of barely suppressed anger. Captain Lauber must have asked something that betrayed his astonishment. No, Kroysing answered, he would not have issued such orders had he been in command of the fort. Only the upper casemates had been damaged by the 40cms, along with the masonry and brickwork. The concrete cellars were undamaged. The men would have been as safe in them as in bank vaults. Certainly, there was gas, smoke, nothing to drink, discomforts of every sort. But that was no reason to give up Douaumont, which had been bought and held since 25 February at the cost of 50,000 lives. Was there a risk of explosion? Yes, there was. There might be concealed mines, but that was a risk that had to be run – the Fatherland was owed that much. He had opposed the evacuation with all his might. Even when most of the garrison units were outside, he had raged and argued. It was mad to leave only Captain P and his handful of artillery observers inside. He’d always been a fan of logic. Either Douaumont was not suitable for occupation by German soldiers, including gunners, because of the explosion risk, or it was needed for strategic reasons – and then it had to be defended, for goodness’ sake! He’d talked through the night, until he was blue in the face, and finally this afternoon had succeeded in having these crazy orders withdrawn, machine guns brought up and men assembled. As soon as the French stopped shooting at 11.30am he went round to the rear with a few reliable men to bring back those who’d skedaddled, but before he’d managed to round up more than 30 or 40 men above the village, the Moroccans had slipped through the blasted fog into the fort. They’d captured that precious position without firing a single shot. (He was practically weeping with anger. Bertin watched him in shock and amazement.) He could not accept that the evacuation was meant to be final. Headquarters had reached a premature decision on the basis of inadequate information and a bit of smoke. If he might be permitted to make a request, the captain should mobilise everything he could for an immediate counter-attack. The French were not established in the fort. They’d pushed through deep into the area behind, but based on what could be heard through the fog, they had met with heavy resistance southeast of Douaumont. The artillery fire there had not abated, and machine guns could still be heard. If it hadn’t been for the fog, the barrage would not have started half an hour too late. Surely something could still be done. For his part, he intended, unless he received orders to the contrary, to take some infantrymen and sappers from the gorge here to sound out the approach to Douaumont.