by Holub, Josef
A town appears on the horizon. The regiment rides past it. It’s the town where my farmer left me just three months ago. I don’t want to think about it.
The regiment stops for the night in a valley. The villages fill up with soldiers from the mounted Jagers. As befits a count, my lieutenant is put up in the castle. Turns out he’s related to the master of the castle. Are there any nobles to whom he isn’t related? I trot along after him, to discharge my duties as his officer’s servant. Of course, I’m not quartered in the castle. That wouldn’t be right, and, anyway, I have my place with the horses. The stable is roomy. Most of the officers’ horses and servants end up in there. The horses are given beets, hay, and oats, and the servants plenty of bread and pear juice. I pull off my uniform, burrow down into the hay next to my horses, and sleep contentedly as any weary wanderer who has reached his destination. The war is getting off on the right foot.
Only rarely do I spare a thought for my farmer, his big cow shed, and his vast dung heap.
9
Usually it’s like this: You think you’ve made it into heaven, and suddenly you drop out of the clouds into the deepest pile of dreck.
It must be the end of February That’s when the thing with heaven and dreck happens to me.
The day doesn’t begin badly I feed the horses. Then I currycomb them till they whinny with rapture. It makes me happy when my lieutenant is happy and it makes him happy when his horses are happy. When they stand there all glossy and healthy.
I wait outside the castle for a window to open. Then I’ll know that my master needs me. He can’t get into his boots alone, and he has trouble with his tight pants as well.
An hour later, the lieutenant is suddenly standing in front of me so sheepish and uncertain, as if he’d gone in his pants. He can’t look into my eyes, and he tells me in a wobbling, squeaky voice that his father has sent out two replacements for the stable boy who was sent home sick. They are both trusty servants of long years’ standing, but also experienced soldiers, who now must go to war with the lieutenant. And look after him. On orders of the old count. Everything’s been sorted out with the colonel. As is the way among titled gentlemen.
All of which makes me rapidly surplus to requirements. From one moment to the next. His Grace the lieutenant is very sorry. I see he means it. But he can’t use me anymore. Three servants is too many for him. The colonel wouldn’t stand for it.
I am stunned.
I walk away.
And so I fall out of heaven into the middle of the muck. The muck is back at the other end of the regiment. I am quartered on a spill of straw next to a dung pile and a horse. The billet is poor, and the horse is worse. An awful animal. That’s how it goes, apparently. Last come gets the lousiest horse. A beast no one else would look at. In the other corner, to make things worse, are a couple of men from the Jagers. Their glee is written all over their faces. One of them must have seen me once riding the noble Arab. Now he congratulates me on this new mount. “It’s without exception the rottenest nag, the most ill-tempered monster in the regiment. The devil himself must have created that animal in a fit of rage or delirium.”
But that’s not enough to cause the world to end, I think. Anyway, wisdom comes with time, and I shouldn’t be dissatisfied, because things could have been worse. The horse looks me up and down, a little sadly, but not maliciously. So, for all its ugliness it does have a good nature. I will try to make friends with it, be strict but considerate, and then it will be the devil’s work if I can’t cope with it. At least I’ll make an effort. It’s got to work. Not least on account of the nasty faces around me. Once again, the horse shoots me a not unfriendly look. I stroke it cautiously. It doesn’t resist. Well, there’s a start. After all, a horse isn’t a person, and so it could never be half as malicious.
By the next day, the horse is obeying me. It doesn’t mind me sitting on it. I’m really proud of myself, and the horsemen around me are suddenly full of respect, and don’t tease me anymore.
But it’s too early to draw breath. My plunge has hardly begun.
The mounted Jagers don’t want to keep me. The regiment can’t have a man over, all of a sudden. Too few, yes, that happens all the time. But not one over. That’s never happened. The Jagers remember where they got me from, and they make inquiries. Yes, of course, we’re missing transport corps soldier Bayh, the horse artillery says. A certain Sergeant Krauter is missing me badly. So badly that the Russian war cannot be won without me. The guns need me. Desperately.
I could tear myself to pieces with rage and fear. The battery is in the next village. I have to walk. A long walk. Should I make a break for it? Not possible, in the green uniform. A child could tell from a mile off that I’m a mounted Jager, and not some peasant. I’d have to run naked. Can’t do that, either. Partly from shame, and partly because it’s still too cold.
Sergeant Krauter takes immediate receipt of me. His glee comes puffing out of both nostrils. He admires my pretty green uniform. With a smile, he promises me that he’ll have it as brown as dung in the space of a few days. As brown as my last blue one had been. “Inside and out,” he promises me with a sneer.
Now I’m back in the transport corps, in charge of two huge horses, and responsible for getting them harnessed up with others to the heavy seven-pound howitzers. The sergeant torments me every chance he gets, and he makes up for everything he missed during my absence. Because it’s war and he can’t keep me marching through puddles, he’s had a few new ideas. For instance, he makes me walk along behind the seven-pound gun, always just me. “You’re responsible for seeing nothing gets lost!” Because I don’t get enough sleep, I stumble along in the wake of the cannon. No sooner has the horse artillery reached the day’s destination after a long march than I am sent out on sentry duty. It’s no wonder I’m so tired, the spoon falls from my hand. While the others are asleep, I stagger along reeling with exhaustion among the cannons and the horses. And in between I polish the bronze cannons. At all times of day and night I am ordered to wipe them down. I have a feeling I scrub them so much, they’re getting smaller.
The war isn’t what it was. Krauter’s gone and spoiled it. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, my toes are bleeding into my boots. One morning my good boots that fit me weren’t there. In their place, two downtrodden foot holders. When I wear them, I slither around and my toes and heels keep hitting their tough edges.
Who stole my boots? Who would do such a thing? The sergeant? What sort of war is it where your enemy isn’t any Russian, but the sergeant of your own company?
By now, it must have gotten to be March. More and more men and horses are streaming up out of the south. We all congregate in the Hohenlohe. Marching troops, splendid horsemen on light and heavy horses, guns and wagons. And the magnificent uniforms! In every color, blue and green and yellow and red. I’m sure God is happy. He can see the colorful royal army going by at His feet, as beautiful as a flowery meadow.
My feet, though, are bloody.
One dull morning, the Wurttemburg regiments are drawn up on parade. There’s a large castle in the mist. “It belongs to the count of Hohenlohe!” someone says. Everyone gets to polishing and brushing and currycomb-ing. Is it a battle coming? No, of course not. Before a battle, you don’t brush up cannons, and anyway, we’re still in our own country. It’s a long way yet to Russia. Hundred times as far. It’s bound to be a thousand miles and more.
Then the rumor goes like wildfire through the regiments.
“The king’s coming!”
“He wants to bid his soldiers good luck as they leave the country.”
“What a good king!”
In a long, broad field he’s standing with his crown prince and various generals and people from the court. All of them mounted, naturally. To make them look powerful and important. The regiments gallop past. It’s the first time I don’t have to march. I’m allowed to sit up next to the cannon. The heavy howitzers skip fast over the uneven turf. The king doesn’
t have much time. Apparently. He wants to see all his men as they move out to war and say good-bye to them.
I don’t see much myself. Really just the powerful horse on which the king is sitting. What a big beast. A heavy special order from nature. The king needs it, too. So there’s enough space for his hanging guts, and so his weight doesn’t crush the horse.
The whole hullabaloo is over quickly.
Afterward there’s a lot of talk about it. Secretly of course, and so quietly you can hear next to nothing. So the wrong person doesn’t see or hear anything. The nice-looking young man with the fat king is apparently his bosom friend, a Count Dillen.
I wonder what a bosom friend is? Something quite special, I’ll be bound, because the gallant had a general’s uniform on and a splendid spirited horse under him. The sergeants and sergeant majors grin subtly. Maybe they’re just disrespectful, or else they know something I don’t know.
Are you allowed to grin like that about His Majesty, the highest of the high, the king? Without immediate punishment from Heaven?
10
The following morning, the regiments move off. We carry on in a northerly direction, toward Franconia. I’d never heard of Franconia before. It’s a pity that the only foreign land they taught us about at school was the Holy Land. It was probably the only one the teacher knew about.
There’s supposed to be a royal military paymaster somewhere, the chancellor with a big chest full of money. But where is he? Somewhere behind us? He hasn’t yet got as far forward as us, at any rate. So there’s no wages. And no wine. But the officers always have money. They can go out and get soused every night. If that’s what they want. Mostly, they do. After all, who knows how much longer they’re going to remain alive?
A soldier’s life is a merry life. For the officers, anyway.
Sergeant Krauter doesn’t have any money, but still he drinks wine. He secretly sells off the harness of one of the draft horses. Afterward, he gives me the blame for its disappearance. I was asleep on sentry duty, and the next day the stuff was gone, the harness. Everyone believes the sergeant, no one believes me. After all, he carries a saber and I don’t. Krauter doesn’t seem to be bothered by any sort of conscience. If I had my way, I’d shoot him at the moon with one of the seven-pound howitzers. Now I won’t get a red cent in wages, for months. Until the harness has been paid for.
What a dog’s life! If only the war with the Russians would start soon. So there’s an end to this marching, and Sergeant Krauter has something else to think about other than tormenting me.
Our regiment continues to advance through the beautiful land of Franconia. Such rich country. No little handkerchief fields and stony ground, like we have at home. Everything rich and bountiful. I wish I could take a little pleasure in it myself.
There’s something else I wish for. The sergeant. That bastard. I wish I was shot of him. It should be like the fairy tale my father told me long ago, when I was very little. In it, there was a farmer who had three wishes. I wouldn’t even need three wishes. Just one would be enough for me. What would I use it for? I wouldn’t even need time to think. Sergeant Krauter to fall off his horse. Drunk, as he always is. He wouldn’t have to break his neck. His arms and legs would be fine by me. I just want him to be invalided out, unfit for service.
These sort of un-Christian thoughts mob my head. I spend the whole day latched on to one of these fantasies. It’s all I think about. Just the busted sergeant. When I’m anywhere near him, I stare at him very hard. My head feels as though it might burst, that’s how hard I’m concentrating on him.
“Knock Sergeant Krauter off his horse!” I beseech some dark powers.
But the sergeant sits firmly in his saddle and continues to tyrannize me.
In the afternoon, though, I almost succeed. In the distance lies the fortress of Coburg. A wonderful, fairytale castle. How beautiful the world is, after all! Or rather, would be, I think. If the sergeant left me in peace. Which he has no notion of doing. I can’t stand it much longer. Before long, I’ll have lost my personal war against him.
A terrible rage takes me. I make an enormous effort, and suddenly it happens.
“Sergeant!” I order him silently, but with supernatural force. “Slip out of your stirrup and fall off! I want a good fall, so you break your collarbone, or a couple of ribs at least.” I wish so fervently that I feel the veins swell in my temples and start to hurt.
Maybe I happen to blink, or else the sergeant is too drunk — drunkards have a special guardian angel watching over them — or else it’s a strange accident. Anyway, it isn’t Sergeant Krauter who slips out of his stirrups, but the man beside him. He lurches to the side, and off he goes. And then the horse following goes and steps on him, too, which horses usually avoid doing. Nothing at all happens to the sergeant.
I made my supreme effort in vain. I’m only grateful no one realizes that I might be responsible for the accident. It doesn’t even occur to Krauter. He doesn’t suspect that I, transport soldier Bayh, may have such powers.
At any rate, I go on being tyrannized day and night. My curses on him get more and more vicious. But nothing happens anymore. I have no access to my devilish magic powers. Or they don’t exist. I hope the war in Russia will be fairer, and Sergeant Krauter catches a cannonball in the bum.
There’s still no war, though. Russia is so far away, it seems incredible that we could walk there. Perhaps the country doesn’t really exist, and the whole army is just tramping about on some cooked-up whim of Napoleon’s.
The army crawls into the Thuringian Forest. That marks the end of paradise. There is no more wine. Instead, there’s snow again, and an icy north wind that blows through our uniforms. Apparently, there are now difficulties with our supplies. The baggage column can’t keep up with us. Already, with Russia and our foes still so far away. An old sergeant, who has already fought both with and against Napoleon, blasphemes, “What’s it going to be like when we’re in enemy country, in the endless plains of Russia?”
We have our first experience of hunger. A few men still have supplies.
I don’t. And I continue to stumble and trudge along behind the seven-pound howitzer. My toenails have turned blue. I can barely walk. My bloody stumps of toes rub themselves raw with every step. Perhaps it’ll help if I stuff some old leaves in my boots. No, that doesn’t seem to make any difference. I need new boots. Desperately. Before my feet go to pot, and the rest of me along with them.
I start to keep an eye out on the various carts that are accompanying us. Before long, I figure out which one carries what. An army of this size has to drag all sorts of things with it. Including shoes and boots. I make a report and show my toes. “If we issued you new boots, now, where would that get us? And besides, there aren’t any!” exclaims Sergeant Krauter. And because he’s my immediate superior, and I have no one else to report to, I continue to trudge along in these deadly boots.
I am left with no alternative but to perpetrate a grave sin. At night, I steal. It’s not especially difficult. No one’s sleeping in the shoe cart. No one catches me. After all, I’m supposed to be the one apprehending any thieves. It’s to my own advantage that I’m set to watch over myself. Cautiously, I creep into the cart and help myself to a pair of well-made boots that fit. Here’s the odd thing — I don’t feel at all guilty. Even though I’ve robbed His Very Highness, the king.
So that my new footwear won’t draw too much attention to itself, I rub and scratch the new leather and smear dirt onto the boots till they look run-down and awful. Like my old ones. Now I can keep up with the column. My toes and heels calm down, the bleeding stops, and they’re on the way to being cured by the time the horse artillery leaves the kingdom of Saxony behind. My two big toenails start to work loose. Later on, past Smolensk, they both drop off. But I’m young, so it’s no great matter. Under the purplish scales of the old nails, healthy new ones are already starting to grow.
No one notices that I’ve got these brand-new boots in place of
my old ones. For a while, I continue to hobble like a cripple behind the shiny howitzer, just so Sergeant Krauter doesn’t get any stupid ideas.
11
In April, the Wurttemburg regiments are in the Leipzig area. There are no enemy Russians here, either. The enemy’s still at least a thousand miles off, so says Sergeant Krauter. Maybe he’s right, too, because a sergeant is bound to know more about maps and terrain than an ordinary transport soldier. If I hem and haw about it all in my mind, I don’t really know what to think. Why doesn’t Napoleon find himself an enemy who’s a little closer at hand? But they say he’s already used them all up.
In any case, there’s still no sign of a real war. Except for the terrible Krauter. It’s just as well, too, as far as the Wurttemburg army is concerned, because we have our hands full with our own problems. Food and fodder are becoming scarce.
Fortune and misfortune are still in the balance with me.
One evening, my former lieutenant comes galloping along on his lovely Arab steed, into the little Saxon village where the gleaming seven-pound howitzers and horses and Krauter and a few transport soldiers and I are bivouacked. His other horse is cantering at his side. He is in a towering rage.
The cause is the two noble servants sent by his father. The ones who caused me to tumble from heaven straight into the clutches of Sergeant Krauter only weeks ago. Now they help me get out of my pickle. Not directly, because the two of them probably don’t know who I am, and they’re miles away in any case. Gone. A clean pair of heels. They seem to have had enough of this war and don’t want to accompany Napoleon to Russia. Somewhere in the area of Leipzig, they left their noble master in the lurch, most shamefully. A right pair of dogs.