Hedi Kaddour - Waltenberg

Sometimes to within kissing distance of Hans’s lips come curls of red hair which escape from beneath her bonnet, Lena leans on Hans, then moves away from him, turns on the ice, faces him, he looks at her, her cheekbones are high, her mouth wide, he releases one of the young woman’s hands, she begins to spin on the spot, the point of her skate, Hans’s hand, her long-sleeved pelisse, black velvet, a short skirt which stops above the ankle, an unblemished quartz-blue sky, a peaceful morning, intermittent rook calls arrive on the breeze, a light, continuous icy breeze, a background of faint metallic sounds.

Suddenly at the edge of the lake a loud crack, Hans feels a stab of fear, he slows but Lena forces him to continue, the crack of frozen water, everyone has heard it, sees the dark water beneath the ice, a land of snow but there is no snow on the lake, only ice, everything just froze very fast and very hard, needles of cold prick cheeks, sting throats, lustrous dark blue water beneath the ice, Lena draws Hans away, a mist of breath from Lena’s mouth, Hans tries to inhale the mist.

Another long cracking sound. Something angry stirs below, the birches white with frost, Lena has let go of Hans’s hand, she skates off towards the far end of the lake, weaving about, Hans follows her, Lena’s skirt and pelisse deliciously enhance her buttocks, Hans recalls a sentence from a fashion magazine aimed at skaters, we recommend that ladies should not take posterior flatness to extremes, Lena is far from taking posterior flatness to extremes, Hans is afraid, a cracking sound which lasts longer than the others, Hans moves closer to the shore, there is a reed-bank frozen solid and a boat with a blue prow trapped in the ice, the firs are encrusted with frost, a jay fights with a clod of frozen earth.

Hans calls out, Lena comes back towards him looking beautiful, a quick turn, her hip slides up against his, he rests his right hand on her waist, he does not dare apply pressure, Lena clamps one hand on his, the young woman does not wear corsets, we’d better go back, no, she forces Hans to make for the far end of the lake, the waterfall, every time she puts her weight on her leg Hans feels her muscles flex hard, and then a moment later the softness returns, another loud crack, the ice, the accident.

Hans deduces from the sound of the engine that the plane has managed to get airborne, one metre, two. The pilot begins a shallow turn to get round the trees, the lieutenant of the fourth troop of dragoons has dispatched two men in pursuit.

At full tilt, one rider finally succeeds in attacking the aeroplane’s tail, slicing cables which control chord and rudder with his sabre, the Taube starts spinning on its axis, starts falling, the propeller slices open the side of the horse which rolls on the ground and likewise chases its own tail, legs flailing, entrails exposed and blood spurting, with his sabre the other cavalryman runs pilot and observer through, slashes the bracing wires, then backs away and stands his horse on its rear legs.

The rest of the squadron has begun cutting the Tauben to pieces with bare steel, canvas first and the bracing-stays, then the balsa struts, so fragile, the whole a miraculous balance of weights, volume, tension, resistance, female flesh, the other machine gun has stopped firing, the dragoons slash the wooden propellers, make the propellers pay for the deaths of their comrades, the aeroplane is the future of the world, you’ll see what a cavalryman can make of the future of the world, a man with a leather flying helmet is skewered by a lance by the side of his plane, another lance pierces a fuel tank, a dragoon tosses a cotton-waste fuse on to it, other dragoons get the message, within moments all eight dreams are reduced to heaps of burning wreckage.

The meadow looks so beautiful, the reflections of red and gold from a sunset are prolonged by the flames, like a Midsummer’s Day. A few shots are still heard, and shouts, bugles sound again, the surviving cavalrymen, barely a third of the company’s strength but all the Tauben have been destroyed, they head as quickly as they can for the corner of the wood from which the jay fled, ‘Lieutenant, what do we do with the prisoner?’

The crack of the ice, Lena lets go of Hans’s hand, detaches herself, gains speed, leans forward, thrusts out her free leg, completes one loop, returns to Hans, skates off, noise of the engine still audible, bumps and jolts, the exasperated chicken bouncing over the tussocky field, the noise fades, the picture fades, then returns, on the ice the mark of the loop is perfect, think of what you love, don’t be afraid, just a few cracks, we’ll go like a train, get up steam, keep your skates in parallel lines.

Don’t be afraid, Hans, you’ve got to know the lake, lift our skates together keeping in step, you understand, it’s like a choo-choo, a train going full pelt, she laughs, detaches herself from Hans, speed, Lena legs apart, toes turned outwards, feet aligned along the same axis, a wide curve, legs and arms spread out, she leans back, the centre of the circle is at her back, she is at the very end of the lake, the ice cracks, she shouts out: it’s called a spreadeagle.

She returns to Hans who’s still moving as if he’s wading through mud, we must get back, this girl takes crazy risks, no, we’re staying, there’s nothing to be afraid of, I know all about this cracking, it happens when the lake continues to freeze, it’s not dangerous, it’s not thawing, it’s all very simple, the ice also goes crack when it continues to freeze hard, like this morning, north wind, we’ll stay, come and see the waterfall, it’s all frozen, it’s wonderful. I was looking at Lena and I was happy. Something stupid, later.

As night fell, they beat Hans senseless with the butts of their rifles. Later his comrades came for him, he was trepanned under chloroform, sent to convalesce, then was returned to the front in early December 1914, they posted him to the infantry this time, without really punishing him for letting himself be taken off guard, but they deprived him of the things he loved, the open air, Mercedes engines and flying at 120 kilometres an hour.

The French dragoons fell back in disorder, pursued by a detachment of cyclists newly brought in as support. Between them and the French lines were von Klück’s three hundred thousand men. Dragoons decimated, fleeing in knots along forest tracks, in the soft damp night, their wounded comrades left at farms, the rest made their way warily, strayed into in marshy bogs, turned back, got lost, starving, night marches, they halt on the edge of a level plain, their horses are lathered, heads drooping between their legs, lungs working like a blacksmith’s bellows, German infantry attack on foot at dawn, they come creeping through the lucerne.

The dragoons rally, to die a more honourable death, one group succeeds in reaching the heart of the forest, half the men ride barebacked, they strike their horses’ flanks with the flat of their swords, they wander, they recross deserted fields, a horse never complains, it goes on until it drops.

Suddenly, there, just in front of me, hardly able to stand, a big mare, it’s heartbreaking, she’s lost her saddle, been abandoned, that speckled-grey coat, it can’t be, it’s Kolana, Kolana out of Esquirol, Thailhac’s horse, he was killed two weeks ago, wonderful Kolana, a big-sized animal, holds herself well, plenty of muscle, good-natured, intelligent, so amenable in training, she won at Auteuil, twice, it was an honour to drill her, she trembles, she’s finished, she was born to do so many things, war was not one of them.

The Monfaubert dragoons were mentioned in regimental dispatches, then were permanently dismounted: unsuited to trench warfare, the cavalry was forced to resign itself to watch while flying took over the role it had played for centuries. The airmen adopted the title of ‘knights of the skies’ and many cavalry officers applied to serve in this new arm, in which they could keep their boots.