Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

Lieutenant Benndorf stood there, fighting with his coat. His right arm was already in the sleeve, and he pointed with his walking stick to the soaring columns of thick smoke. The men in the guardroom shrunk back the tiniest bit. They weren’t firemen, but they’d have to obey the order. Bertin in particular felt compelled to obey, though he wasn’t sure why. He was overcome by a sense of responsibility for things that had nothing to do with him, and felt an impulse to throw away his bundle of blankets and follow his officer, who would shortly disappear past the barracks into the field of fire. But what happened? The lieutenant was indeed moving, but he turned his back on the orderly room, hobbled frantically towards the road, turned at the top of the stairs and again shouted: ‘Put out the explosive dumps!’ then clattered down the steps to the road on his gammy leg. There – Bertin could hardly believe his eyes – a grey car pulled up. Colonel Stein, his red face unrecognisable against the wide back seat, was waving both his arms about like a madman, his mouth a round, shouting hole. Eventually the lieutenant flung himself on to the other seat, and before he had even slammed the door shut the car sped of towards Damvillers. Bertin stared in blank astonishment, then he slapped his thigh, burst out laughing and turned to Büttner who’d followed him outside.

‘Might as well scarper,’ he said with contempt.

‘Company to report at Gibercy!’ shouted a passing telephonist who’d just run out of the switchboard room. The next minute there was a fresh crash, this time on the earthen ridge, and shell splinters whistled over the guardroom hut. A stream of tall ASC men thundered down the steps. The remaining heroes from 1/X/20 were evacuating their depot.

‘COMPANY TO REPORT at Gibercy.’ Private Bertin, in his overcoat and field cap, with his bundle under his arm, stopped halfway down the steps to the street and deliberated. He was now almost alone. There would soon be another crash behind him. He knew exactly what he was going to do. His thinking was crystal clear – he was no longer an oppressed soldier led by others. He was an educated man of 28 evaluating the situation. The village of Gibercy lay among large empty camps beyond the hills. But the road leading there crossed a broad flat hollow vulnerable to shells and to observation from the captive balloon. Where was the most secure place in the camp complex? Definitely the former mill, once a bathing station and now the field gun depot. Field gun ammunition is the most dangerous of all because it comprises cartridges and shells, and men who knew what they were doing had chosen to store it in that depot… Bertin ran. Down the stairway, along the slope of the road and the duck boards, between the grass mounds that separated the various ammunition dumps. The ammunitions expert Sergeant Schulz lived in a hut on the bank of a stream called the Theinte with two subordinates: little Strauß and stiff-legged Fannrich – just as Sergeant Knappe lived beside the siege gun ammunition in the upper park, though being a more solitary type than the lively Schulz he lived alone. The hut was empty; its occupants had fled. Never mind, thought Bertin. I’m here now: j’y suis, j’y reste . A warm stove, a camp bed and blankets, dry wood, a canteen, stores of coffee, sugar and cigars. The coffee was good enough for a family; you just had to grind it on a bit of newspaper with an empty bottle. Bertin listened uneasily to what was going on outside: dull crashing. It seemed to be following the little troop that had hurried up the hill earlier. Much better to roam round someone else’s billet with the kettle boiling. On the right was Fannrich and Strauß’s room, on the left Herr Schulz’s sanctuary, demarcated by a tarpaulin, and in the middle a little hall where a telephone sat on a small table. You could live the high life here. Nice view of the tumbling burn, afternoon sun on the windows, no men from the company, no depot commanders, nothing… They fairly skedaddled, Bertin thought, as a hiss told him the water was ready. And as he tipped the roughly ground beans into the boiling water and stirred the thick mixture with a shard of wood: they really did scarper! Be fair, he told himself, as he hung his tunic up beside his overcoat and a pleasant coffee smell mixed with the smoke from the cigar he’d pinched: be fair, man. Officer’s stripes don’t protect you from shell-fire. And Benndorf had been hit long ago, which was why he limped, and fat Stein as well, back in the days when high ups such as colonels got wounded in the field. Even Panje of Vranje had once sat bravely on his nag until the last man in the column had swung into cover. How long ago was that? Nine months? That was life behind the lines for you.

The sky had darkened in the meantime, and rain began to drum on the roof. Well, thought Bertin, that’ll put the explosives dumps out without any help from me, and then everyone will be happy . You can never have too much rain in wartime. Four dead, he thought, more than a dozen wounded, and the administrative heads are on leave and the officers have buggered off in a car – funny old world, and it certainly does make you think, though my name isn’t Pahl. They can all go to hell, as far as I’m concerned . Strauß had books, some of which Bertin had lent to him. He decided to celebrate by reading for an hour or so. He examined the bookshelf by a pile of old newspapers. He could’ve looked over his own manuscript but he wanted to steer clear of the present, and so eventually he chose The Golden Pot, magicked up by E.T.A. Hoffmann 100 years previously. It was raining outside. He savoured every mouthful of his black coffee, steeped in a timeless world of gnomes and salamanders, ghostly advisers and charming maidens, and the city of Dresden as it had never been… Then the telephone shrilled. Bertin started, torn from the waking dream Hoffmann had created. It really didn’t concern him. The three men in charge of that phone would be playing skat in a dugout somewhere on the Flabas road – God alone knew which one. But Private Bertin was at the table about to lift the receiver when the phone shrilled again.

‘No one there,’ Bertin heard the voice on the line say.

‘Hello, hello,’ he said quickly. ‘Steinbergquell field gun depot.’

‘They’re there now, Lieutenant,’ the voice said.

‘Hello, you’ve not been flattened then? We heard you were on fire.’

‘We’re fine,’ Bertin replied. ‘There was quite a bit of smoke, but we’re still here.’

‘Can we stock up with you, then?’

‘Depends on the calibre,’ Bertin replied.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ came the angry reply. ‘Have you just fallen from the moon? Which bore do you think a German field gun has?’

So the telephonists had faithfully plugged the connection before clearing off. This really was a field gun battery on the line. Now he could hear someone else chipping in, an officer. Where do I know that voice from? he wondered. Have I done something stupid? Then he gave the required information. The bombardment had caused severe damage to the heavy ammunition. The company had departed and the depot commanders had withdrawn, presumably to Damvillers.

‘Withdrawn – hmm. And how come you’re answering the telephone?’

‘Coincidence, Lieutenant,’ Bertin replied in embarrassment, unable to think of anything better on the spur of the moment. How could he have known he was speaking to the field guns? He couldn’t have. But where do I know that voice from, he wondered again.

‘A happy coincidence,’ said the other man. ‘In any case, you obviously haven’t “departed”. That shouldn’t be forgotten. We’ll be there about five, five thirty – as soon as we can. We’re going to hold on here,’ Bertin heard him shouting to his men. ‘God preserve me but one of the lads has kept his head. Tell me,’ he said, reverting to Bertin, ‘haven’t we spoken before? Aren’t you that lad with the glasses from Wild Boar gorge, who in October… what’s your name again?’