Арнольд Цвейг - Outside Verdun

If you had to lie in bed as he did, though admittedly he was no longer a cripple, but an airman and an eagle, you could happily spend half an hour dreaming about cheese – and in wartime the whole world dreamt with you. People must have learnt how to use milk properly very early on – the people of the steppes would have known, horsemen with their mare’s milk, and the herdsmen races with their cow’s and goat’s milk, their sheep’s and ass’s milk. It was funny to think that they had only make these nutritional discoveries in order to have them taken away from them by warriors: Semites and Ancient Greeks, Teutons and Mongols. They had all gloried in the desire to take from others, to rob and kill, and no one understood that better than Eberhard Kroysing, as he stretched out his legs and flexed his toes. For some time now it had been his turn to kill and conquer, and now it was his chieftain’s privilege to steal the most desirable woman – the sweetest and loveliest in the whole tribe. The world had not come as far as it had through the fist alone, and to win her he would have to be considered and persuasive, and use all his will power and guile, combined with the ardour of courtship. He would do it. The only other serious contender had been removed from the field, that sneaky Mettner. He was to leave the next day for a German orthopaedic hospital, where according to his papers he would be fitted with a prosthetic arm. But perhaps the downy-haired mathematician had sensed that Kläre felt nothing more for him than friendship and sympathy, and no doubt that wasn’t enough for Mettner. Well, buzz off then, old pal. You’ll soon find another girl to suit you, and there’ll be no Kroysing to queer your pitch.

Lieutenant Mettner was in fact in his uniform watching the orderly Mehlhose strap up his luggage and carry it out. ‘I hope I’ll hear from you again, Kroysing,’ he said. ‘I think it’s a shame you’re not going back to civilian life too. You’re a talented man. In different times, that is in peacetime, you’d have become one of those crusading engineers who travels round the world doing battle with wild rivers and waterfalls – creative warriors, or warlike creators, if you prefer. But nowadays—’

‘I’m going to be an airman,’ said Kroysing curtly. ‘And I’m quite happy with the division of labour we’ve come up with. You work on the future, and I’ll take care of the present.’

Mettner shook his head. ‘I’m very much afraid flying won’t agree with you.’

‘Rubbish,’ cried Kroysing. ‘I’ll only get back to full strength and put some weight back on when I’m regularly sat behind a machine gun inside one of those bloody boxes chucking lovely bombs down on my fellow men. Then those little Frenchmen won’t wander about so brazenly down below.’ And he pointed through the window to an aeroplane flying at a considerable height across the beautiful blue spring sky like a black insect.

The painter Jean-François Rouard was to bomb the ammunitions train and the barracks at Vilosnes-East that night, then bear right to blow up the railway line at Damvillers. He’d received the order half an hour ago; it was to be a beautiful full moon that night, but the weather might break the next day or the day after and it might rain. He knew that stretch of countryside but was doing a test flight to check the times. The Germans would try to retake Bezonvaux, which had been a terrible loss to their line. They had sent in two regiments from Baden. Two men with the numbers 83 and 47 had been taken prisoner – crack regiments that hadn’t suddenly appeared there for fun. Well, they were going to disturb those gentlemen’s plans and extend them a warm welcome before they’d prepared their new positions. Jean-François Rouard was a go-getter – canvases, women, railway stations, it was all the same to him. He was all keyed up, pipe in his mouth, in a leather jacket and trousers, listening to the beat of the plane’s plucky engine, as he made signs to the pilot and noted his times.

In the meantime, Lieutenant Mettner had taken his leave of Kroysing. He was to take the train around midday from Sedan or Montmédy depending on the connections and couldn’t wait any longer. His parting from Sister Kläre took place in men’s ward 3 and was brief, cordial and non-committal, and from now on Flachsbauer and Kroysing would share the room alone. Eberhard Kroysing eyed Mettner’s empty bed with philosophical calm; he’d be able to use it to spread out his maps now. Today was a good day. He’d got rid of a rival, and furthermore it was spring. The window could be left open, and the beginnings of certain songs were coming true: ‘Balmy airs approach, blue and flowing.’ He felt like getting a flute out and giving a spirited rendition of Mendelsohn’s air. And later in the day he would present a certain lady with an either/or decision. And as a sign that she was breaking definitively with her past and making a full-scale transfer to a certain Herr Kroysing, she would finally find time that evening to phone a certain high-ranking personage, a shy and silly boy at best, who would then probably turn up the following afternoon and sit about looking miserable. But it had to stop sometime.

The ASC men in the Barkopp working gave the arrival of spring a muted welcome. Half of France was stuck to their legs, to quote Karl Lebehde. Great clods of earth clung to their boots as they ranged across country. Because of the thaw, a cache of shells and crates of ammunition, which the gunners must have used as a platform for their guns, had come to light in one of the ravines. It was going to be bloody awful job to dig them out of the muck and get them to the nearest field railway. But Sergeant Barkopp had promised them the following day off, as they’d have filled the last freight car with the new find by the time they finished work that day. Together with the three French goods wagons, which were filled with gigantic paper bags whose content was unknown, a train would be ready to leave that night, 16 axles, enough to add to the next empty transport. The ASC men were sometimes called ‘shovellers’, and the five men working on the new find justified their name that day, shovelling away layers of clay to expose the shells, carefully scraping out the loose earth between them with picks: yes, the caps were still on the fuses and so the steel cylinders were as harmless as babies’ bottles, but freezing cold, slippery and heavy, and very hard on the hands. But men who’d warmed their hands on their own urine during the great cold didn’t think twice about grasping hold of the cold, slimy earth.

‘Did you know we’re on guard duty tonight?’ Lebehde asked Bertin, who was beside him.

‘It’s all one to me. Who’s the third?’

‘That tall lad from Stuttgart. They’re going on about the cases of explosives. He already told me he wants number one so he can hit the sack before midnight.’

Bertin laughed at the scorn in Lebehde’s voice. ‘He’s welcome as far as I’m concerned,’ he said. ‘I’ll take number two.’

‘Then I have no choice but to take number three and be the first to greet the new spring,’ grinned Lebehde. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, I’ll say. My name’s Lebehde. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? My name’s spring . The pleasure is all mine, Mr Spring. I’ve already met your worthy family about 40 times. I hope you won’t bite me. In that case I won’t go up to see Wilhelm tonight. I’ll take a sniff round the new field kitchen for the Oldenburgers. They’re supposed to be relieved at the front tomorrow. How about you?’

‘I’ll definitely make a flying visit,’ said Bertin, trying to lift the rear part of a shell.

‘Oh well,’ said Lebehde, ‘maybe I’ll have a heart and come too. Who knows how much more we’ll see of Wilhelm. The old joker’s supposed to be sent to Berlin soon. I’ll be jolly glad when he’s safely out of here.’