* * *
But Lieutenant Prouza, fired up by the great mission before him, scarcely heard. Woodenly, but in full accordance with regulations, he made a half-turn and strode out of the room, with the tank commander following along behind him. He marched enthusiastically under the chestnut trees, responding to all the salutes, no matter how slovenly, offered by the second-year soldiers lounging in the sun outside their barracks; his arm bounced up and down as though it were spring-mounted. At the Seventh Tank Battalion’s barracks, he turned the door handle energetically and pushed the door open so abruptly that it hit the nose of a myopic sergeant who was intently studying the daily cleaning schedule pinned to the inside.
“Asshole, can’t you watch where the fuck you’re going?” shouted the sergeant, but when he looked up and saw an unfamiliar lieutenant standing in the doorway, he resolved the situation by scurrying down between the bunk beds and climbing out an open window. The lieutenant took several steps into the room. Four or five faces looked up to see who it was, then quickly turned away, pretending not to have noticed him. Nobody wanted to be the one to call the room to attention.
The lieutenant knew that he was required to display patience and understanding for the common soldier; he was not just a commanding officer, but an adviser, so he was tempted to overlook this dereliction of duty. Then again, he also recalled the words of Major Kondráč: Discipline begins with a missing button. You have to be tough and consistent in demanding that soldiers fulfil even the most minor duties. This, comrade, is precisely what will make the soldiers begin to respect you.
What the wretched lieutenant didn’t know was that the major’s advice had been based solely on reading brochures which, in turn, were based on wishful thinking. His response, therefore, was guided not by common sense but by a non-empirical military pedagogical science. He walked slowly down the narrow aisle between the two rows of bunks, to the other end of the room, in complete silence. From your every gesture, he heard the major’s voice intone, from your every action, the soldiers must recognize that you are both their comrade and their commander. Then he turned around and walked back in the deep silence, starting to realize that it would not be easy to combine these two functions. He began to perspire. He looked at the tank commander, who was doing nothing to help him. A non-commissioned officer is the closest assistant to the commanding officer, said Major Kondráč. Why wasn’t the tank commander supporting him? The lieutenant walked back to the door, feeling awkward and embarrassed, and stopped in front of a soldier who was sitting on a trunk pretending to be utterly absorbed in mending a hole in his tunic. The tunic bore corporal’s stripes. The lieutenant decided to act.
“You there, Comrade Corporal —” he said. His voice sounded confused and uncertain. The soldier looked up, his face ruddy. He put down the tunic and slowly got to his feet. The tempo of these actions did not comply with regulations. In something that sounded like a Polish accent, he said, “Corporal Střevlíček.”
“Comrade Corporal,” said Prouza, with as much severity as he could muster. “Don’t you know what the duty of a private or NCO is when an officer enters the room?”
The brick-faced corporal smiled strangely, almost insolently. “Sure I do.”
“Then why haven’t you done so? How is this possible?”
“I didn’t see you,” said the corporal matter-of-factly.
The silence in the room was now tangible. “How is this possible?” the lieutenant repeated mechanically. Wasn’t his tone commanding and comradely enough?
“Because I was sewing on a button,” said the corporal.
“Don’t you lie to me!” Prouza exploded, but he caught himself. This was hardly a comradely tone. “Don’t try to tell me,…” he began, and stopped again. “How should you stand when you talk to me?” This definitely didn’t sound comradely enough.
The corporal looked down at his dirty boots, appeared to examine each one separately, and asked, “At attention, right?”
“And you call this at attention?”
“I got bow legs, Comrade Lieutenant,” said the corporal.
To salvage what he could from the débâcle, the lieutenant — this time with no effort to speak like a commanding officer who was also a comrade — said, “What is a soldier’s responsibility when an officer steps into the room?”
“He has to call everyone to attention.”
“Then do it!” This seemed like a brilliant way out of the impasse, and the lieutenant was about to breathe a private sigh of relief when, from somewhere in the back of the room, a hoarse voice said, “It’s our afternoon rest period.”
Prouza’s first instinct was to determine the speaker’s identity. It was, after all, a breach of regulations to speak in the presence of an officer without permission. But he couldn’t muster the courage, so he merely glanced at his watch, blushed, and lied loudly in the direction of the voice: “The time is now five to one. The rest period doesn’t begin till one.”
Then he turned to the corporal, who was still standing there in his shirtsleeves, and said energetically, “Carry out the order, Comrade Corporal.”
If that’s what he wants, I’ll give it to him, Střevlíček told himself, and, in emulation of the famous good soldier, he carried out the order with exaggerated zeal. In the voice of a wounded lion, and with grotesquely deformed pronunciation, he roared: “All those pre — SENT — HA — TEYUN — SHEN!”
Throughout the room, figures in shirtsleeves rose raggedly to their feet. Some were in boxer shorts and one, Corporal Vomakal, a recruit from somewhere deep in the forests of the Sumava in south Bohemia, was wearing a filthy set of long underwear. The unhappy lieutenant felt a healthy desire to give all these unwashed idlers a proper tongue-lashing, to drag the bow-legged corporal on the carpet before the CO, and to cancel all leave. But the pedagogical delusion that had formed him led him astray once again.
“Comrades,” he said, “don’t think I want to make you jump through hoops, or ‘chew you out’, as you sometimes say among yourselves.” The occasional use of military slang will have a positive impact on the men; it will remind them that you all live together in the same collective, as it were. “But discipline must be maintained and duties must be performed. I too must do my duty, and if you do yours, we’ll get along. Isn’t that so, Comrade Sergeant?” and he pointed to Sergeant Kostelník, for Major Kondráč had said that, as often as possible, one should address detailed questions to individual comrades, because in doing so one communicated more effectively with the collective.
“Right,” mumbled the sergeant.
This unsoldierly response gave the lieutenant pause, but he continued in a fatherly tone: “And why, you might ask, have I come here among you, comrades?” He paused and looked around. “I have come to ask you how the preparations for the Fučík Merit Badge exams are proceeding in your squadron. What would your response be — Comrade Corporal?”
This time he directed his question to Frištenský, a driver who had earned the nickname Bullrider because he had twice managed to break the gearshift stick and one of his steering levers in his T-34. He responded by barking: “Corporal Frištenský!”
“Comrade Corporal, is your troop fulfilling its Fučík Badge pledges?”
“Well — yeah, we are.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, we are.”
“Then why is it no one wants to come and try the test?”
Frištenský merely laughed awkwardly and shrugged his shoulders, and even the lieutenant could see that he would get no answer from him. “What would you say, Comrade Sergeant-Major?” he asked, turning to Soudek.
The regulation answer came back: “Sergeant-Major Soudek!”
“Have you read all the required books?”
“Not all of them, no.”
“Which ones have you not read?”
“Well, I — like the one about —” and his brow furrowed. The list of books he hadn’t read was long, but he didn’t even know the list. “Abou
t the — that — oh God, what was it called — It’s a Long Way to Moscow City —”
“Far from Moscow?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“And otherwise you’ve read them all, is that correct?”
Soudek swallowed and nodded.
“There now, you see, Comrade Sergeant-Major? That’s not even a compulsory book. It’s optional. So surely your fear of taking the examination is exaggerated.” He looked out over the sphinx-like faces in the room. “Now, what do you say, comrades? Can you do it?”
Not a muscle moved in any of the faces, and with a sinking feeling Lieutenant Prouza turned to a private whose face seemed less hardened than the rest. This time he was fortunate; he happened to choose the diligent, eager-to-please Pravomil Poslušný, the one who had read everything on the list except Lenin, Stalin, and Kalinin Talk to Young People.
“What about you, Comrade Private, can you do it?”
“I can, Comrade Lieutenant,” Private Poslušný replied. His voice was full of respect, which Prouza mistook for a sign of budding good will.
“So what about the exam? Will you come, comrades?” he said to the whole group.
There was no reply. “Come, comrades! Come,” he intoned hypnotically, “and you will see for yourselves that you can do it. As Suvorov used to say, comrades —” and he stopped, because he suddenly remembered that Suvorov had said nothing at all about the Fučík Badge. But Major Kondráč kept him steady and he went on: “— as I repeat to you — it’s just a matter of showing how you’ve learned from the experience of the great Julius Fučík. And you can do it. I believe you can. I know you can. Comrade Tank Commander,” and he turned to Danny, “in ten minutes you will have the candidates form up and you will march them over to the political department, is that understood?”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant,” said the tank commander, without the slightest faith in his ability to carry out the order.
“Then I will see you, comrades, in a quarter of an hour.” Turning his back on the assembly of fifty blank stares, the lieutenant walked out the door with a spring in his step.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the only soldier standing in the aisle fully dressed was Private Poslušný, and he was trembling in fear. The tank commander again ordered him to review the material in his mind and, muttering, “That snot-nosed little prick,” he left for battalion headquarters. He wasn’t entirely indifferent to the outcome; he was afraid that if he failed to round up candidates, he’d be dropped from the examining committee to test the officers’ wives that evening.
Rounding the corner, he ran into one of the career non-coms, Sergeant Semančák, known to most people as “Cash”. As his nickname suggested, Cash had an insatiable appetite for money, free time, fun, indolence, and therefore all the honorary badges and decorations that made free time, fun, and indolence more accessible. Without really knowing why (perhaps it was out of skepticism or a sense of gallows humour), Danny called out to him, “Hey, Comrade Sergeant! Come and take the Fučík Badge exam with us!”
“Yeah? Uh, when?” asked Cash cheerfully.
“Right now. In the political department in fifteen minutes.”
“But, uh, I haven’t read a bloody thing,” said Cash gleefully. He spoke Slovak, but a long time in the company of men who spoke mostly Czech had transformed his mother tongue into a living exemplar of that officially unrecognized language — Czechoslovakian.
“No sweat. I’m on the exam committee.”
“Oh well, in that case,…” said the NCO. “But you’ll have to, uh, tell me what I’m supposed to say.”
“Don’t worry. So you’ll come?”
“Sure thing. But don’t forget to help me out. Ain’t nothin’ in my head.” And he walked off towards the kitchen.
Just let them try to say I’ve done nothing about all these commitments, Danny said to himself. I’ve even roped a professional non-com into a consciousness-raising session. But it won’t do me much good — it’s going to be a disaster.
He walked into battalion headquarters and knocked on the door of the political department. On the other side he heard a sharp “Enter!”, and he did. Inside the room, Růžička and Hospodin were standing at attention before Matka, who was in the middle of dressing them down. Lieutenant Prouza, also at attention, was standing to one side, and though Matka was obviously not upbraiding him, Danny thought the grave expression on Prouza’s face suggested someone whose cherished illusions were beginning to crumble.
“Tank Commander Smiřický!” Danny announced himself.
Matka turned around to face him. He had obviously worked himself up into the state of histrionic rage that so becomes officers.
“What do you want?” he roared.
“Comrade Captain, permission to speak with Comrade First Lieutenant.”
“What about?”
“I’ve come to report to him on the Fučík Badge candidates, Comrade Captain.”
Under any other circumstances, the captain would probably have thrown him out and ordered him to wait outside. But because Matka was always on the lookout for things he could push down his underlings’ throats, the tank commander’s arrival piqued his interest. He quickly concluded that this report on the Fučík Badge tests might come in handy.
“Give him your report, then,” he said, and stuck his hands in his pockets.
Danny, who had guessed what was going on and took malicious delight in making his officers’ lives difficult, turned to Růžička. “Comrade First Lieutenant, I have to report that only two men have come forward as candidates for the Fučík Merit Badge.”
“How is this possible?” Růžička replied hoarsely, trying vainly to maintain his authority before the tank commander — no easy task given that he was on the carpet himself.
“I tried to win the comrades over,” Danny assured him, “and the lieutenant here did as well” — he turned his head towards Prouza — “but they still don’t want to take part.”
“Is that so? Well — then —” Růžička fumbled for something to say. “You’ll be responsible for this upstairs, you know that?”
“It’s a problem, Comrade First Lieu —” Danny began defensively, but Matka abruptly intervened: “How many men did you say came forward?”
“Two, Comrade Captain.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful,” said the captain slowly, his tone suggesting that his confidence in his men had been bitterly misplaced. He turned to Růžička. “Is this what you call political work? Is this what you call political agitation? A battalion of two hundred and fifty men, and only two come forward? What a wonderful comment on your work, Comrade First Lieutenant.”
Růžička took a deep breath, but let it slowly out again. As for Prouza, he experienced the demise of yet another ideal. Here was one officer berating another in the presence of a non-com inductee, when standing orders were so clear: verbal reprimands to officers must be given only when there were no soldiers of lower rank present. There must be a lot that still wasn’t perfect in the lower units, the young officer thought bitterly.
“Isn’t this grand,” the commanding officer went on. “During a spotcheck I discovered that not a single man — not a single man, Comrade First Lieutenant — knows the names of any government ministers. I discovered that not a single man knows what the capital of Bulgaria is, comrade, nor do they know when the October Revolution was. The Great October Revolution. And the report on mass political activity for August isn’t ready yet and it’s the end of September already. The political agitators are not given regular time for indoctrination. The ten-minute poli-pep talks in the morning are mere formalities, and the political billboards are gapingly empty. And now only two men — two men! — show up for the Fučík Badge test.”
“Comrade Captain —” Růžička tried to interrupt him.
“Two men, Comrade Lieutenant!” Matka continued harshly. “What do you intend to do about it? Well? What do you intend to do?”
“Com
rade Captain — I’ll go down to the barracks and — because I know I can’t depend on the non-coms, I’ll carry out — Lieutenant Hospodin and I will try to initiate a personal campaign to —”
“Isn’t it a bit early? Isn’t it a bit early to start a personal campaign, Comrade First Lieutenant?” said the captain bitterly. Růžička’s attempt to shift at least part of the blame to the tank commander obviously hadn’t worked. “A month ago, two months ago, half a year ago, is when you should have started this campaign. Well, there’s no time now to use persuasion on these men, so we’ll get things going army fashion.” He turned and strode energetically out of the political department, followed by the three officers and the tank commander. Typists and officers on the way out got quickly to their feet; the sentry at the main door gave a regulation salute as they passed. Danny was last in line as they entered the corridor of the dorm, and could already hear the inhuman voice of the man on duty roaring: “Ten — SHUN!” and then the sharp click of heels as the soldiers fell in, and finally the report, shouted out with a drill sergeant’s proficiency by an old hand:
“Comrade Captain, beg to report that while on duty with the Seventh Tank Battalion, nothing of note occurred. The company is preparing for the afternoon rest period. Sergeant Feurbach reporting.”
“At ease, comrades,” said the captain, and then burst into the dorm of the first squadron. “Attention!” he roared, without waiting for anyone else to do it. There was a flurry of activity among the beds and in a moment two ragged rows of soldiers stood in the narrow aisle. Some were in their shirts and undershorts, but most of them had their trousers on, and some were still wearing boots.
“Those in undershorts, once pace forward,” commanded the captain. About ten men stepped out of the lines. “Get into bed right now and stay there until the rest period is over. The rest of you pay attention. In three minutes the duty officer will ask the candidates for the Fučík Merit Badge to assemble in front of the building. All of you who are so unfamiliar with the standing orders that you spend your afternoon rest period fully dressed will report for the exam. If you don’t, I’ll have your balls in a vice. When Comrade Tank Commander Smiřický gives the order, you will march to the political department. As your political agitator, Sergeant Mácha will see to it that all you deadbeats who don’t know the standing orders report for this test.”
Republic Of Whores Page 7