Schlump talked himself deeper and deeper into this bitterness; all of a sudden he saw everything with new eyes. He worked himself up and felt unhappy for the first time in his life. It was as if he’d awoken from a deep sleep; for the first time in his life he was thinking seriously about himself and the world. For a moment he lost his golden childish innocence. But it didn’t last long.
Maybe those others who despise you are right. All this is just for the morons, the blockheads. Anyone with a brain in his head works his way out of it. Just like in life. A man with a bit of guts works his way above the masses, where you’re a nobody, without a name even. ‘Yes,’ Schlump said out loud. ‘Yes, you’ve got to get out of here!’ But how? Join the artillery? They’d laugh in your face: ‘Oh, young man, want a bit of life insurance, do you? You’re no fool; I quite fancy that myself!’ The sappers? But that’s worse than up in the trenches. Those moles lie in wait for one another, and slaughter each other in the most horrific ways imaginable, without ever setting eyes on the enemy. What about the flying corps? Yes, that’s it – the flying corps, that’s the answer. There, a man is still worth something; there, courage and skill still count for something; there, every man is his own mini commander and has his opponent in his sights; there, respect and chivalry still exist. And when you’re back from a hunt, you can be a human being! Yes, that’s the right place. But how do you get in? The sergeant major would laugh at him. ‘You want to fly? What, a clown like you? I recommend you learn how to march properly first, and how to handle your rifle, you fool!’ But there was another way. He had to achieve something! Distinguish himself! And more than once; after all, he needed to get their attention. And then you’ll be promoted, you’ll be awarded the Iron Cross, and they’ll have to take you seriously when you’re a sergeant.
When I’m a sergeant, Schlump thought, I’ll get a mess tin full of food, and won’t ever have to fetch it myself. And I won’t have to dig trenches or stand guard.
Schlump resolved to go out with every patrol and volunteer at every opportunity. He was pleased with himself. And if he should cop it while on duty, well, that could be no worse than the eternal misery of the trenches.
He went to sleep a happy man.
•
Their relief came, and now they were to have six days’ rest. A chance to wash and delouse themselves, and put on fresh underwear. The march back to their quarters was long and arduous. They had to pass along a defile that was under constant shelling from the Tommies. At three o’clock in the morning, Monday morning, they arrived: exhausted, shattered, finished. Every muscle in their bodies was crying out for sleep. But they were woken again at six o’clock. Schlump was dreaming he’d been promoted to sergeant. When the soldier on duty came to wake them, he felt as if he’d only just gone to sleep. He cursed and shouted, ‘Get the hell out of here!’ The soldier heard him and Schlump was ordered out immediately to clean the large spades, while the others drank their hot coffee.
Then the day’s activities began. One inspection after another: mess tin, helmet, overcoat, coat, rifle, canteen – everything had to be as good as new. In between these came drill: down on the ground, standing up, saluting. They had no idea how to get their things clean. There was no soap any more, or only poor-quality stuff. They scrubbed and cleaned, washed and wore themselves out, polished and patched up; the rest was out of the question. Schlump thought about his dream and had no desire to perform these mundane tasks. He was upbraided when they assembled for inspection: ‘My God, what a mess we have here. Just look at this man!’ And the sergeant major with the thick notebook on his chest pulled him by the buttonhole to the front of the parade and bellowed, ‘Two hours’ punishment drill, and report every half-hour in full uniform! And woe betide you if you’re not clean! Go on, clear off!’ Schlump realised that his dream hadn’t come true.
They were permitted to sleep the following night. From the evening till the morning. But the night after that the alarm was sounded! At two o’clock they were wrenched from their sleep. Within five minutes they had to pack their kitbags and fall in outside. Then they marched off into the night. The artillery was moving into position so they had to dash past in the roadside ditch and were spattered with mud in the process. They marched for another half-hour. The path became drier. Up on the hill stood the regimental commander, who Schlump had never set eyes on before, staring at his watch. ‘Seventh company ten minutes late!’ Then they were allowed to return home – it was only alarm drill. They think they can do what they like with us, thought Schlump. He said nothing but he was furious.
They were allowed to sleep through the following night, but in the middle of the next night they had to fall in for duty. They were being sent to the second line in the first position to dig trenches. The company leader didn’t go with them, only Lieutenant Grün and two sergeants. They marched in silence and half asleep. When they arrived, it started to rain. The lieutenant soon crept into a dugout, and the two sergeants vanished as well. The corporals stood there cursing: ‘Come on, men, keep it up!’ They were in a bad mood. The Tommies were attacking from the front and the side with machine-gun fire. Schlump toiled away to create himself some cover. The trench had been blown to bits and he thought of the trumpeter who had died. The rain stopped. It became icily cold. They froze miserably and stopped working. Then they lay down in the wet mud to afford themselves a little protection from the biting wind that was chilling them to the bone.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ came a voice. The corporals didn’t say anything. They put their heads together and swore. No order came to march back. They waited for hours. It got increasingly cold. The wind turned humid; it blew sharp needles, half ice, half water. They were lying in the muck and freezing. The mud that they’d shovelled out earlier slowly started to drip down the trench walls, accumulating behind their backs.
At four o’clock the two shirkers-in-chief arrived. They’d been playing skat in a dugout. One was still laughing; he’d won. ‘Well, boys,’ he said, ‘I can’t dismiss you yet, the lieutenant’s not here.’
At five o’clock, just as there was a glimmer of light in the east, the lieutenant came, still dozy. ‘Easy march!’ he ordered quietly. They were pleased. Nobody said a word, and they tottered sluggishly back to their quarters.
Saturday was a free day. The following evening they were to return to position. Schlump had been in the mess since lunchtime. He’d given his food to the kitchen boy as he couldn’t stand the smell of swedes. But there was beer. After lunch the lance corporals came in and sat at his table, amongst them Paul Biersack from his home town, who’d just been promoted to the rank. Paul took six matches from his pocket, broke one of them and threw half of it away. Then he held up the matches so only the red heads were visible. Every man had to draw a match. The one who got the half had to pay for a round. Then the next man took the five and a half matches and let the others draw. This way nobody had to talk; they could just drink beer and ruminate, aware that the offensive was about to start and that some of them would never come back. They kept playing this wonderful game all day long and into the night, and through the night till the morning, and then to the following lunchtime, and after lunch till late in the afternoon. At the end, two of them were left: Schlump and Michael Quellmalz, the famous ‘Michel’ who went on every patrol. Paul had been the first to quit; the final two wrapped the game up at five o’clock. Schlump wrote a letter to his father, wishing him a happy birthday, and at seven o’clock they set off for the trenches.
A month later, when Schlump was in the military hospital, he remembered their lovely game. All the players had fallen, one after the other: first Paul and finally Michael Quellmalz, the famous Michel.
•
They’d been back in the trenches for God knows how long, but the opportunity for Schlump to commit an act of heroism still hadn’t arisen. He was forever having to stand guard and dig, and had no rest, no sleep. Previously he’d sometimes been able to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep a
t night, but even that was over now. Perhaps ten times in those two hours he’d get up, grab his rifle, hand grenades, and bullets, and clamber out into the trench. Once outside he’d be woken by the cold air, unable to fathom why he’d come out. Shaking his head and practically asleep again already, he’d crawl back down to get himself a few more minutes.
‘On duty!’
He woke with a jolt. ‘What is it? Where am I? Hey, what’s happening?’
‘On duty, for Christ’s sake!’
He grabbed the rifle again, and the hand grenades, the gas mask, everything, but he didn’t know whether he was asleep or awake or what was going on. Only when he was outside, when he froze bitterly once more and the lice commenced their torture inside his boots, could he be sure that he was awake, that he wasn’t dreaming.
They’d been in position for twenty days now. The chalk ate into their backs; a few bits always crumbled and found their way into their clothes whenever they crawled into the dugout. His hands were cut open. Constant filth for twenty days, nothing but filth. There were no nice words uttered any more, just curses.
How fortunate are those who’ve had a leg shot off, or an arm. They’re at home now, they can stay in bed and sleep, sleep, sleep.
Schlump was deeply disappointed by this war. And the opportunity to commit an act of heroism was still refusing to present itself.
But then, all of a sudden, the chance did come. One day, the soldier sent to fetch the food told them that the second position had been occupied by very unfamiliar-looking troops from the flying corps. They were building new dugouts. They’d come straight from Italy and were wearing Austrian uniforms. Apparently the wops got quite a shock when the heat was turned up on them.
The second position was some way behind them, up on a hill. ‘We’re not going to be relieved,’ the food carrier said. ‘We’re to hold on to the last man and final bullet. We ought to be pleased if we get our rations. We’re to make things difficult for the Tommies; if they storm our trenches, all they should find is a few dead soldiers.’
There was more news. A few days earlier, the British had made an assault on section B. The guards hadn’t seen them coming as the Tommies had blackened their faces and crawled over like cats. But as luck would have it, at that very moment our artillery was launching its own attack. They fired too short, and the whole lot fell on to the barbed-wire entanglements between the lines. The result was horrific. Screams pierced the air and the Tommies raced forward wildly. Get out of that barbed wire! But they got stuck and fell over. Our guards were on their toes. They sent out the alarm through the entire trench, and now our machine guns got going like fury, while the others tossed hand grenades. The Tommies must have thought the gates to hell had been opened. Not a single bastard got into our trench. Our lads launched a counterattack and stormed over to the other side, where they were met with such intense machine-gun fire that they had to seek cover immediately. They crawled back slowly. The enemy artillery got going too, and picked off the ones at the back. One of them, a really young fellow, became stuck in the barbed wire and couldn’t go forwards or backwards. He got shot in the stomach and his guts started pouring out. Grabbing them with his hand, he pressed them to his body and howled in pain like an animal. The Tommies were firing like crazy and the poor young man had to stay where he was. No one could come and get him. With his glassy eyes he stared at the trench, occasionally screaming ‘Mother! Mother!’
Schlump listened to all this – by now it was afternoon – and thought about his decision. He went to section B and saw the poor lad stuck in the tangle of barbed wire, holding on to his innards. The Tommies had the section under constant artillery fire, and were spraying the whole area with their machine guns from the side. Schlump climbed on to the fire step. Scarcely had he poked his head out than he heard the short, sharp tak-tak-tak coming from the other side.
He climbed out of the trench slowly, as if nothing were the matter, and stood fully upright. The bullets whistled around his ears: feeow, feeow, feeow . . . He ran over to the poor young boy. He saw him coming, and it looked to Schlump as if he were moving his hand and head slightly to show his gratitude. As carefully as he could, Schlump untangled the boy, who’d got caught by two hooks in his cartridge belt, and carried him in such a way as to shield him from enemy fire. Then he climbed down very gently and laid the poor chap on the ground, the Tommies still firing away madly.
Schlump’s young comrade had his eyes open and was still desperately clutching on to his insides. But he wasn’t moving. He was dead.
•
Michael Quellmalz, who Schlump had played matchsticks with – the famous Michel, who crawled around the barbed wire every night and was freed from other duties – had found out that the Tommies had been relieved. There were Canadians over there now, he said. The colonel had instructed a patrol to bring back a British soldier, dead or alive, from the enemy trenches. Michel wanted to undertake the mission, but he needed another man to go with him. That would be perfect for me, Schlump thought. Michel didn’t take just anybody with him, and Schlump was scared because he was still so young. But he went to see Michel and volunteered himself. Michel looked at him and said, ‘Come tonight at half past one. Sap five, section five. You don’t need a helmet, no spade, no rifle, nothing.’ Schlump was mightily proud. He was relieved from guard duty for the whole day.
He set off just after one o’clock. As a precaution he put a few hand grenades into his pocket. It was pitch black, not a star in the sky. Just occasionally the moon shot some pale rays through the clouds. Michel arrived at half past one on the dot. As ever, he had no weapons on him except for a flare gun. ‘Stay right behind me, always,’ he ordered. They crept out of the trench. Michel knew every shell hole, every clump of dirt. They zigzagged their way across. In some places Michel had already cut through the barbed wire the night before so they could get through. At one point he stopped, dug a British helmet out of the ground with his hands, clamped it between his teeth, and continued crawling, Schlump behind him all the way. His hands were hot, so he cooled them on the frozen earth.
They stopped by a huge mud heap in front of a massive shell hole. With his fingers, Michel carefully bored a tiny hole in the mud and peered through. Then he beckoned Schlump over and made him look too. To the right you could see straight into the British trench. The guard was standing there, not moving. They stayed put for a while, then Michel made a sign. Schlump looked up. The guard was being relieved. The new guard took up position silently and the first man disappeared. They waited an age. Behind them everything was dark; the Germans had been ordered not to shoot flares. To the left the Tommies shot one of their own. Up it went with a whoosh, swaying one way then the other, providing a lengthy illumination of the area around. They didn’t move a muscle, and to combat the tension Schlump bit into his own arm. Then everything was dark again. The thunder of cannon droned incessantly from the south. Down there the offensive had begun, and each night it was getting a little closer.
Michel grabbed Schlump and gestured to him not to move. Then he vanished. All alone Schlump lay there before the British trenches, waiting.
Suddenly he saw a Tommy appear in front of him in the trench, a helmet on his head and a short pipe in his mouth. Taking a closer look, he realised it was Michel! The false Tommy walked past him, over to the guard post. He leapt up, stood beside the guard and looked out. Neither man said a word. Schlump held his breath.
All of a sudden Michel swung round, smashing his fist into the Tommy’s face. He sprang out and dragged the soldier by his coat tails. Schlump bounded over to help. The guard was a strong, heavy fellow. They hauled him as far as the barbed wire, where the Tommy came to and jerked himself free! Michel grabbed his flare gun and shot him in the body. The Tommy ran a couple more paces, then started to bellow like an ox. They threw themselves on the guard and took hold of him again. The flare continued to burn his body as they pulled him like crazy towards their trench. The Tommies had been alerted and now fired
manically from all their machine guns, but their aim was wild. Flares shot into the air; their silhouettes became clearly visible and cast long shadows.
Now the bullets were whistling around Schlump’s ears and into the tangle of barbed wire, causing bright sparks to fly. One took the cap right off his head. If they attack now . . . he thought. Getting one hand free, he pulled a grenade from his pocket, yanked out the pin with his teeth, and threw it back to where he’d come from. He was in a state of incomparable excitement. The Tommy was yelling, the machine guns firing at full tilt, and Schlump gave a shrill, noisy laugh. Michel was expressionless; he still had the shag pipe in his mouth. He looked carefully in front of and behind him, avoiding all the deep holes and barbed-wire barriers.
The Tommy thrashed around in pain, and it required all their strength to keep hold of him. The barbed wire tore the clothes from their bodies, but Schlump felt nothing; he was sweating and mercilessly dragging the poor Tommy through the wire.
Finally they were back on their lines. The British had not attacked. They laid the Tommy down in the trench, but the flare had eaten away at his insides and he was no longer moving. He was dead.
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