Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

‘Well, cheers, then,’ said Porisch.

Meanwhile, Bertin ran through the icy night, his footsteps echoing. The sharp air revived him. The tea with grog had done him good and he’d found the unusual Pelican amusing. He would nurture that relationship. In any case, he’d had the great consolation that evening of learning that Eberhard Kroysing was alive and well. Humanity was in a strange state when a serious injury was the admission price for some peace, and people were glad to pay it. He’d write to Kroysing as soon as he could. Perhaps not immediately but when he was feeling better, so he wouldn’t sound like a professional moaner. When it got a bit warmer and the work was easier and he got some of his 1917 leave, he’d take Kroysing’s advice to heart and keep his chin up. Sweating, he made his way up to the hut just before 9pm. The men were snoring peacefully inside, unaware of what was in store for them because the gods had quarrelled and cast lots over mortal men.

IF LIEUTENANT VON ROGGSTROH had been an experienced officer as well as a well-meaning one, he would have checked whether Bertin’s superiors had all been furnished with sufficient medals before setting about actioning his good intentions, when he had a moment to do so. Unfortunately, he didn’t do that. His request arrived in the battalion orderly room in Damvillers shortly after New Year, via the depot orderly room, with the result that Colonel Stein and Major Jansch were informed almost simultaneously that they were to procure an Iron Cross, Second Class for Private Bertin.

The two officers, who, as we know, couldn’t stand each other, were also diametrically opposed types. An old cavalryman, Colonel Stein was stout and short-tempered but fairly good-natured; Major Jansch was a thin, bitter man and very restless, though self-controlled up to a point. Naturally, they both had the black and white ribbon of the Iron Cross, Second Class in their buttonholes. But reading the report, written by Lieutenant von Roggstroh, nephew of a influential landowner in East Prussia, setting out Private Bertin’s deeds and achievements, they both had the same thought: with careful handling it shouldn’t be too difficult to turn this into an Iron Cross, first class – and for themselves.

‘Look here,’ said Colonel Stein to his adviser and adjutant, ‘with all due respect to your prophetic gifts, this is impossible. It’s out of the question for some little ASC major in Damvillers to claim an Iron Cross, first class. We were at the depot. We went through the bombardment. Our ammunitions expert Sergeant Schulz issued Lieutenant von Roggstroh with 300 contact fuses and 50 time fuses. We were the most affected, and no one can take that away from us.’

We means you, thought Lieutenant Benndorf, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he said: ‘And the man whom the lieutenant expressly mentioned?’

‘Will go away empty-handed this time,’ said the colonel gruffly. ‘We come first. He’ll prefer some leave to an Iron Cross. What have those ASC men got to do with me anyway? I don’t know them, and they don’t know me, and if anyone here is to get a birdie, it’s going to be me.’

‘Hmm,’ said Lieutenant Benndorf, walking over to the window of the gloomy room where they were billeted, ‘that’s not quite true, Colonel. You do know this man.’

‘Don’t remember having the pleasure,’ muttered the colonel, whose leg was hurting him.

Lieutenant Benndorf continued, not out of malice, but because he wanted to say something to smother the nagging pain he felt at the assumption he would step aside. ‘You’ve seen the man. You even had him punished back when that flock of Frenchmen were marched past and the ASC men gave them water. Don’t you remember, sir? There was a good-for-nothing among them with a black beard who let a Frenchman drink from his canteen without the slightest compunction. He was called Bertin.’

The colonel remembered him dimly and without rancour. ‘Oh, him,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Yes, he was a right one. But if you really think that Jansch is after the prize, I suggest we pay him a visit and talk him out of it. I’ll give him a box of chocolates, and he’ll be so thrilled he’ll forget the Kaiser and our dear Lord, never mind the Iron Cross, first class, which isn’t edible after all.’ And he laughed loudly at this notion, while Lieutenant Benndorf merely smirked and nodded. The truth about Major Jansch couldn’t be hushed up in a village such as Damvillers; he had the sweet tooth of a teenage girl, which made it easier than he realised for his enemies to manipulate him, as he was soon to learn.

When his enemy, the colonel, was announced, Major Jansch got the picture immediately. His eyes flashed like a weasel’s, and his hair almost stood on end. He had been busy drawing a map of the future German Empire for Army and Fleet Weekly , which reincorporated Lutzelburg, Nanzig and Werden into the motherland, as well as Holland, Switzerland, Milan and Lombardy, Courland, Livonia, Lithuania and Estonia as far as Tartu. Currently – and shamefully – Lutzelburg, Nanzig and Werden were called Luxembourg, Nancy and Verdun. But members of the Pan-German Union and the ‘Association against the Domination of Jewry’ felt duty bound to reintroduce the honourable old German names. He folded his map up, smoothed his Balkan moustache, straightened his Litevka and went to greet his visitor.

The major’s room was overheated, and the colonel found it stuffy. Smiling pleasantly, he asked if he might open a window. Major Jansch consented with a sour look. Now they would argue and the whole world would know about it straight away, because the colonel liked to talk in a booming voice. Well, so be it. He, Jansch, was ready and would not weaken.

Within three minutes, those two roosters were at each other, feathers flying. The colonel could not believe that the major seriously thought the medal should be bequeathed to him. Everyone knew he never left the pretty stone village of Damvillers, and no one earned an Iron Cross, first class in Damvillers. Herr Jansch’s quiet, icy retort was that every man must fight at his assigned post – not turn up in Damvillers while the ammunitions depot of which he was in charge went up in flames.

Colonel Stein clutched his stomach laughing. That was priceless! Now the major was preaching morality and criticising others for sensibly retreating, when he himself had never put his nose anywhere near a shell. It was enough to make you want to climb trees!

Major Jansch said it had nothing to do with trees. Lieutenant von Roggstroh had recommended a man from the battalion for a medal, not a man from the depot personnel. Did the depot command propose to take possession of all the medals I/X/20 had won? That would take the biscuit. He was tired of all this incessant interference and grasping. No one needed to tell him how to do his job, and he would decide who in his battalion got a medal – and no doubt about that.

‘What a pity you’re so intransigent, my dear friend,’ said Colonel Stein, staying comfortably put in his chair. ‘And I had planned a friendly swap with you for a box of chocolates. You’d have got more from that than from a medal, which after all you can’t put in your mouth.’

At that, Herr Jansch blew up. Unfortunately, Colonel Stein was sitting with his back to the window and so the large tin box of Belgian sweets sitting resplendent on the floor to the major’s right did not escape his notice. Jansch slammed the lid shut and hissed angrily: ‘Did you just come here to talk nonsense? Intransigent! Swap! Is the German language not good enough for you to say what you mean? Can’t we even manage to get rid of French muck in the middle of a world war?’