Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

It must have been 2.30pm when Lieutenant Graßnick appeared in the door of his well-appointed hut, which was protected by a grey waterproof tarpaulin. Bertin studied him calmly, the warm fur waistcoat under his open tunic, which the deft company tailor Krawietz had turned out for him for next to nothing, the fashionably cut britches, the high-peaked cap, the monocle set in his fat, red face. A sideways glance and a little contented smirk revealed that ‘Panje of Vranje’ was pleased to hear that Bertin was in trouble. In the doorway the broad chest and massive legs of the company commander’s bulldog also appeared, a solemn, tan-coloured beast with a white bib, which was hated because it consumed as much meat as two men, and which for that reason was never allowed to take a walk by itself in case it disappeared into a cooking pot. The acting lieutenant was in a sunny moody. Everyone knew that he was going on leave the day after next and staying away over New Year. And for that reason he gave the two truants a dressing-down in his rasping voice, accused them of betraying their comrades and only sentenced them to a hour’s punishment drill in full equipment instead of sending them straight to the cells. Böhne radiated relief. Bertin thought: now I’m curious . As Kropp stuttered out his report, Bertin opened his mouth to explain the circumstances, but with even more of a sideways smile Graßnick lifted his hand: ‘I know what you’re going to say. You’re not guilty of course. Three days’ solitary confinement. Dismissed!’

Bertin swung round. After the officer had disappeared, Sergeant Schwerdtlein came up to him and said in a low voice, ‘You can complain, but only afterwards.’

Bertin thanked him for his advice and said he would think about it. As he had to serve his time anyway, he needn’t decide whether to complain for a couple of days. Schwerdtlein walked off, shaking his head, unable to fathom either the unjust punishment or Bertin’s equanimity.

In May or June, who knew when it had been, Bertin had done something stupid that he definitely wouldn’t do now. The acting lieutenant had deigned to play a game of chess with him, and Private Bertin had been unable to resist the temptation to put him in checkmate on his third move. He fully realised that this was against the world order but he couldn’t stop himself. This latest trick of the acting lieutenant’s had settled the account. Perhaps Graßnick thought it would be a hard blow but he was wrong. Bertin ranked the places he could be as follows: he’d rather be among the charred, wet trees of Fosses wood than in the throng of the company, and he’d rather be within the four walls of a cell than in Fosses wood.

Having poured out of the depot, the ASC men from the loading parties were gathering, tired and damp, on the ridge around the camp. The Frogs had unleashed a terrifying bombardment on the right wing from Pepper ridge to Louvemont. Now their shells were exploding on the road to Ville, on Caures wood and on the ruins of Flabas. From the camp perimeter, ghostly clouds of earth could be seen rising up as columns of smoke formed above the exploding shells. The ASC men watched unperturbed. The guns couldn’t fire any further than they were doing at the moment. They’d never reach the depot and its 40,000 assorted shells.

A guard locked Private Bertin in a cell with his coat and blankets, and he slept for 12 hours that evening almost without stirring. His nose stuck out sharply in his thin face, his lips were pressed in a bitter line and his small chin disappeared under his grey blanket; he had been freezing all night without noticing it; he had withdrawn into his inner life. When he awoke, his joints were stiff, but he was refreshed and in the mood for thinking. It was better to stay lying down for a bit, to freeze and think, reflect on who he was and where he was, than to get up, get washed and get involved in discussions. He was stuck here like a scrap of muck and any boot could tread on him. But if that boot belonged to the lowest of the low, then it was better to be a scrap of muck swarming with maggots in the shape of thoughts. We invite you, Herr Bertin, to turn your attention to yourself, said the cell walls, the locked lock, the hard plank bed, the pale morning light in the open sash window. The window had no glass, instead tarpaper was nailed to its frame. He would have had to get up and stand on the plank bed to prolong the welcome darkness and he didn’t feel like doing that. He didn’t intend to get up until he heard the clatter of coffee being fetched. He intended to use this spell in prison – this gift from the shabby gods who watched over white men at the end of 1916, this kind offering of injustice, revenge, cold and loneliness – to clear his head. He’d been blundering around like a carefree puppy up until now, sometimes endangering himself inadvertently, sometimes irritating others. It was time to wake up, time to keep a weather eye on the machinations of fate. Kroysing and Roggstroh had been right. This wasn’t the place for him. He’d have to change – how remained to be seen.

The tall men in the guard squad, the first squad of the first platoon, were sitting at breakfast. They invited Bertin to help himself. They looked worried. Bertin listened. The guns had not roared like this since the heavy fighting in May and June. The wild barking of enemy fire could be picked out clearly in the frantic bombardment. But fat Sergeant Büttner exuded unshakeable calm. ‘Your squad has delivered various things for you about which I know nothing,’ he said.

Under a bench stood the lid of Bertin’s canteen neatly packed with his evening rations from the day before, some butter and cheese, his writing case and black oilcloth notebook, and five cigars in a screw of paper. Ah , thought Bertin with a surge of warmth, they’re looking out for me, they’re backing me up . Sergeant Büttner said that if Bertin wanted something to read or his pipe he would turn a blind eye. Hot coffee did a person good when he’d been freezing all the night. But what did a bit of freezing matter? Thousands of men would have given years of their lives to have frozen as tranquilly as he had done in the last 12 hours. Now the heating was on, and a pleasant warmth circulated through the whole ramshackle structure of planks and pasteboard. No one made any distinction between the prisoner eating his breakfast and his jailers.

Back in his cell, he decided to smoke a cigar, and the blue smoke wafted out of the window – it was rotten weed, company weed, but still it was a cigar. There was uproar outside – people running back and forth – no one would pay any attention to the cell window. He stretched out on the plank bed, closed his eyes and took the time to breathe again as if he were alone in the world. The cause of his incarceration slipped into the shadows. Perhaps a man had to be put in solitary confinement and robbed of his freedom in this fairly mild way to find himself.

As he blinked idly into the space in front of him, a figure appeared behind his eyelids: tanned face under a peaked cap, imperious look in his dark brown eyes, shoulders bent. The figure hid his left arm; the ribbon of the Iron Cross glowed in his buttonhole as if caught in a sunbeam. The figure’s dark grey outline remained in place although the gaps in the boarding showed through it as Bertin blinked. Kroysing, Bertin said in an undertone to the spectre, which was looking at him, I did everything I could for you. I’m just a louse, as you know, a humble ASC private, and I’ve been under close observation since the incident with the water tap. I found your brother and gave him your legacy. We read your letter, and Eberhard set off at full tilt in pursuit of justice but he hasn’t got anywhere yet. You’ve got to leave me in peace now. I’m a helpless soldier if ever there was one. I can’t write to your mother, can I? That’s up to your brother, and I can’t write to your uncle either. ‘Write!’ echoed the figure silently. Tanned face, thought Bertin, somewhat drawn, narrow cheeks, a rounded forehead, straight eyebrows, long eyelashes, kind brown eyes . They’d gone after him and brought him down, and he’d been rotting in that sodden grave in the swampy wood at Billy for quite some time now – hardly a peaceful resting place. It was understandable that he should reappear. Write? Why not? He had the time. Before he’d always fashioned his torments into shapes, sculptures made with the ivory of words; there were 12 of them out there now for people to read. This ghost within him couldn’t be laid to rest until he’d captured it in words. He had a pad of writing paper with a heavy cardboard cover and a fountain pen – of thought-provoking origins – which one of his comrades, probably Strauß the shopkeeper, had wrapped in with the cigars. So that’s what I’m supposed to do with it, he thought in shock.