That night there was shooting, and the following morning dead soldiers were found in the streets. It was high time they pushed on. But how? They could hardly carry their supplies on their backs!
They were standing by the main road that led from west to east, watching intently the scene being played out before them: the retreat of the rear echelon! It had been going on all day, one column after another – service corps wagons, hours-long processions of lorries, flocks of sheep, ox-drawn carts that had come from the Ukraine in spring, in between a single soldier pushing his kitbag in a perambulator, a huge herd of mares, each with an adorable filly at her side, more lorries, and behind a reservist with a pipe in his mouth, slightly tipsy, humming a soldier’s song. He gave everyone a friendly wave with his walking stick and seemed to be without a care in the world. Then came more columns, automobiles, foot artillery, sappers, service corps columns, engineers – everything and everyone that makes up an army’s vast retinue. As time went on, the procession became ever more densely packed, and it was no longer possible to get from one side of the road to the other.
They were standing there all together – Jolles, Schlump, the orderlies, the cook, the captain – and no one knew what to do. The philosopher Gack stood apart from the rest, looking gloomy and muttering to himself. The captain wanted to contact rear command for some orders. But they knew that wouldn’t be of any help either. Jolles got chatting with some bridge engineers who’d sent their officers packing. Their plan was to use their pontoons to get home by river, but they were out of supplies. Jolles didn’t trust them as they were drunk and lacking any discipline. Eventually he managed to find a service corps unit which was also without a commander. They were haggling with a driver who was standing with his two ponies. He was prepared to take them in return for provisions for him and the horses until they got to the border.
They were out of bread. They’d found plenty of preserves, cigars and delicacies in the mess, but not enough bread. Jolles, their jack of all trades, came to the rescue once more. He’d discovered that there was a supply train in the freight yard, which must have bread too. They crossed the bridge over the Maas and ran back to the station. A supply train was indeed there, but plundering was already well under way. If they were going to get anything they’d have to wait their turn. They watched Belgian civilians roll out enormous cheeses as large as mill wheels. French prisoners were looting a carriage laden with sekt. They were smashing the tops off the bottles and necking the contents, cutting their lips in the process. Next to them service corps soldiers and automobile drivers were fighting over a carriage crammed with furs for the drivers and officers. Infantrymen were at logger-heads over a carriage full of bread.
Jolles sprang forward and shouted out, ‘Comrades, stop! Comrades! There’s enough for everybody!’ They did stop. He jumped up into the carriage and tossed out the loaves. Each man took away whatever he could carry. The philosopher had stayed behind in their quarters to guard their supplies and had lent his rifle to the cook, to whom the other men brought all their booty.
Another carriage contained infantry uniforms. Four men were throwing out coats and trousers. Beside the carriage, soldiers stood in their underwear, helping themselves to new clothes. Schlump, who was fed up with his shabby coat, went over and grabbed an elegant new Litewka. He put it on and threw the old one away. Jolles had also rustled up a bicycle from somewhere. Packing everything on to their backs, they headed into town.
Near the bridge they heard shots and sharp commands. Jolles, who was in front on his bicycle, got off, turned around and yelled to them, ‘Back! Looters are being shot!’ They gave him a puzzled look, then understood. Turning swiftly on their heels, they darted through a house and hid their booty in a stable. ‘That could have gone pear-shaped,’ Jolles said. They waited a few hours, by which time the company of recruits – the only one still obeying its commanding officer – had disappeared.
Arriving back at their billet, they sat down wearily on their kitbags. Out of the blue Schlump leapt up, slapped his palm against his forehead and shouted, ‘I don’t believe it! What an idiot I am!’
He’d thrown away his old coat into which the ten thousand marks had been sewn. He ran back to the freight yard as fast as he could, but the Belgians had already squirrelled everything away, including his coat. Schlump was a poor man once again.
•
They left very early the next morning, but the retreat on the old military road was already in full swing and they had to wait for hours before there was a break in the procession and they could join the throng. Overnight people had stuck up pieces of white paper signed by Hindenburg on their houses. The text called for level-headedness and asked the troops to form soldiers’ councils and obey their orders. Schlump could sense just how difficult this decision must have been for an old field commander who would never abandon his troops; later he realised that by issuing this order the ancient Hindenburg had spared his people no end of misery. The soldiers’ councils felt they bore responsibility, they negotiated with the officers, and so a terrible danger was averted: chaos.
When they finally took their place on the road, they were part of a never-ending line that slowly twisted and turned its way through the whole of Belgium back to Germany. Following the River Maas, they passed magnificent castles that were reflected in the green water of this wide, proud river. But on both sides of the road they saw the first victims of the retreat: corpses, automobiles, dying horses kicking with their back feet as if trying to drive away death that was squatting on their bellies. Belgian peasants had come bearing neat little baskets, offering the soldiers butter at the most exorbitant prices.
When they reached Huy, they left the beautiful valley and the majestic river, and turned right to climb the steep road that led up to the high plateau. The heavy wagons, the large automobiles and the foot artillery continued on the lower road to Liège, which they’d conquered four years previously. Huy is an old nest clinging to the rocks that descend in a sheer drop to the Maas. From the top they had a wonderful view. The sun was shining, and in the distance blue forests were gleaming. Jolles rode ahead on his bike, the captain had got hold of a walking stick and strode alongside the horses; behind him were the two orderlies. Schlump sat on the wagon, singing a song. Behind trotted Gack the philosopher, kitbag on his back and rifle over his shoulder. He was wearing a sombre expression and muttering to himself. They passed through silent forests, where the autumn had left a few flashes of gold. The sky, however, had preserved all the colours of autumn, and the men were caressed by a soft, cool breeze.
Schlump stopped singing and started to dream. He thought of when the war began, that summer’s night when he’d been allowed to kiss Johanna, of poor Michel, of the nightingale that had enchanted him, of his strange, long dream. He felt as if he could now go on with the dream, as if Michel were wandering next to him, invisibly with his wife, as if he were pointing to the blue mountains that Schlump had seen in his dream and which he was now heading towards. He was filled with a wonderful sense of bliss, delightfully certain that everything would turn out all right in the end. He thought of Joan of Arc in the church, who was the same person as his Johanna back home – the girl he’d soon be able to embrace again. He saw the world and the future in a thousand marvellous colours. He would work like the dear departed Michel; he was determined to make something of his life, because surely there would be peace again now, soon, peace! Peace and decency – how lovely life would be! What a golden era was beginning now! All of a sudden he started laughing out loud for sheer joy; the shocked carriage driver turned round. Schlump was back to his cheerful self, and he sang again, a bright and joyful tune.
He noticed the swarthy philosopher walking behind him. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ Schlump laughed. ‘Are you scoffing acorns?’
The philosopher rolled his eyes and gave him a wild look. ‘I finished the last of my bread yesterday.’
‘But look, there’s plenty more bread here, and meat, and what
ever you fancy!’
‘Are you saying,’ the philosopher thundered, ‘are you saying that I’m a thief, a robber, a plunderer? What you’re offering me are stolen goods, aren’t they? Do none of you feel any shame?’
Schlump gazed at him in absolute astonishment and said nothing. They were already some way into the uplands of the Belgian Eifel; the road snaked from one peak to the next. They crossed a narrow valley and climbed back up the steep road on the other side. In front of them and behind them they could see the endless procession advancing slowly. It looked as if the road had come to life and was heading eastwards with them, back home.
Evening came and they looked for somewhere to stay and keep their horses. They would be on their way again very early the next morning. When the captain complained about having to sleep on straw, they laughed, and Jolles said, ‘Well, Captain, just be glad you never had to go to war; sometimes we had to sleep in shit.’
They passed through Stavelot and arrived in Malmedy, the first town in Germany: home. Here they learned that revolution really had broken out in Berlin and other cities. Near the station they stopped for ages. Supposedly a train was ready to leave. Jolles said, ‘Our supplies are running low, so I think it’s best if everyone tries to get home as soon as possible.’ They packed their kitbags and handed out the bread and tinned meat. The captain was chatting with a group of officers. The philosopher said he’d look after the captain’s share; the others shook his hand and left.
The station was a horrific sight. A supply train carrying flour had derailed, strewing flour knee-high between the tracks. There was a train ready to depart; the locomotive was already steaming and soldiers were running back and forth excitedly. But there was no room; all the carriages were jam-packed and the windows had been smashed, as if there’d been a fight for every place.
Suddenly Jolles whistled; he’d found an empty brakeman’s cab. He and Schlump piled in; the others, the orderlies and the cook, had vanished. More and more soldiers appeared. Russian prisoners in their dark-yellow uniforms squatted on the buffers and roofs. An entire detachment of recruits, really young lads who’d run away from their officers, were still racing up and down the platform. They perched on the running boards and steps leading up to the brakeman’s cab. ‘Hold on tight, boys, when the train leaves,’ said Schlump, who was peering out of the window.
Out of nowhere the swarthy philosopher Gack appeared with his kitbag and rifle. He went searching all the way down the train until he spied Schlump. He looked alarmingly feral; his beard had grown over the past few days, his eyes were sat deep in their sockets, and his voice sounded desperately sad.
‘Schlump, I beseech you, both of you, think of the soldier’s oath you swore and return to your captain!’
He spoke so loudly that the entire train could hear. Men stared at him from every window, and when he’d finished he was met by resounding laughter from all quarters. One man called out in a shrill and scornful voice, ‘Keep your hair on, old chap! After all, the Kaiser himself has done a runner!’
The swarthy philosopher shrugged when he heard the Kaiser mentioned. He rolled his eyes before taking a large army pistol from his belt, which he must have found somewhere, and shooting himself in the chest. He cast Schlump a final glance before collapsing to the ground. The kitbag slid over his head, the straps had come loose and countless sheets of draft paper, filled with writing, billowed over his face.
At that moment the locomotive pulled away and the train started moving.
•
They headed into the rough peaks of the Eifel. At night the train stopped somewhere. Jolles got out; he wanted to continue on foot to Aachen, where he had a sister. It was icily cold. The poor boys on the runner boards had vanished and the Russians on the buffers were nowhere to be seen either. There were a few left on the roofs; they’d frozen to death. Jolles disappeared into the darkness. It was a brief farewell and they never saw each other again.
The train stopped in Jingerrath. It wasn’t going any further. Schlump went down into the waiting room to warm himself up. He was on his own now. A few soldiers were asleep beside him. He came back out a few hours later. Up on the platform – like a vast block – was a column of soldiers. They waited in formation, in rows of twenty, silent and still on the endless platform. There must have been in excess of a thousand men, waiting for a fast train from Strasbourg which was going on to Cologne. Schlump knew there was going to be a terrific struggle, and he was right. When a rumbling sounded in the rails, the soldiers tensed in anticipation like a huge beast crouching for the kill. A pair of white lights appeared in the night. They approached, but then stopped a fair distance from the station. The beast set itself in motion, charging at speed towards the lights. Schlump ran behind. A fierce battle ensued for every window. They crawled on top of the locomotive and the coal wagon, screams and cries pierced the night, glass shattered. Then all was quiet and the lights went on their way.
Schlump went back down to the waiting room. He was hungry. Unpacking his supplies, he ate in peace. Another train pulled in above; he went on eating. After a few hours he went out and saw a long passenger train. He walked the length of the platform. Everything was dark and quiet, then he heard someone speak.
‘Any room in there?’ Schlump asked.
No answer. Someone laughed and he knew that it was hopeless. He headed back towards the locomotive, where he’d seen a slim crack of light. It was the baggage car. Schlump took the fifty-mark note from his back trouser pocket and waited. Waited a long time until finally someone came out. A postal official. Schlump went up to him and offered his hand with the fifty-mark note. ‘Do you think you might find some space for me, comrade?’ The man inspected the note with his pocket lamp, then said, ‘Come on.’ He led a delighted Schlump into the warm baggage car; it was very cosy. A few drivers and service corps soldiers were sitting playing cards. ‘Got any cigarettes?’ they asked. ‘You’ll get schnapps in return!’ Schlump had some packets in his coat, from the officers’ mess in Charleroi. The train pulled out of the station and he fell asleep, comfortably stretched out on a soft bale.
They alighted in Cologne, where there were sailors with rifles slung over their shoulders, muzzles pointing down. In the underpass, rifles were piled high to the ceiling. The officers were not wearing epaulettes.
Schlump caught a local train to Kassel, and once there found a train ready to leave for Halle which had room. But they had to wait in an unheated carriage until six in the evening. At four o’clock a locomotive arrived, steaming, puffing, screeching and wheezing. But the train didn’t move; only a shudder quivered down its spine. At six o’clock another locomotive appeared and it took them twelve hours to get to Halle, where Schlump had a connection straight away. He was amazed that everything was still running so smoothly. His journey took another twelve hours. And when, in the evening, he got out in his small home town, the guard asked him for his ticket. Schlump looked at him blankly. ‘A ticket?’ he asked. ‘Well you see, comrade, we didn’t really have time to sort that out.’ He left the station as a simple soldier, just as on the day he’d embarked from there.
Someone was standing on the steps by the exit: Johanna – St Joan. Schlump rushed towards her. ‘How did you know?’
She gazed at him, her eyes radiating happiness. ‘I’ve been waiting for you every day,’ she said. He took her in his arms and kissed her in front of all the other people there.
Then the two of them went to his mother, who at that moment could not have dreamed that the happiest moment in her whole life had just arrived.
AFTERWORD
A pale wall in the living room of a grey house with a pointed roof in the thousand-year-old Thuringian town of Altenburg. The sun is shining through the large windows. Against one wall is a blue sofa, at the other end of the room a grand piano, while a colourful Bauhaus carpet adorns the floor. Cups and small porcelain plates sit on a round coffee table. A closer look at the pale wall reveals a fine crack in the plaster. Here, on th
is wall, in this house, a strange German fairy tale began. Or is this where it ended?
The house, with its large fir trees in the garden and white bench beside the front door, was built at the beginning of the 1930s by doctor of philosophy and schoolmaster Hans Herbert Grimm. Some of the money to finance the house came from a book he’d written, although nobody here in Altenburg nor anyone anywhere else was to know he was its author. Schlump – Tales and adventures from the life of the anonymous soldier Emil Schulz, known as ‘Schlump’. Narrated by himself: the book of his life. Grimm was worried that he wouldn’t be able to go on living normally if it became known that he’d written the novel. It would spell the end of his career as a teacher, and of his peaceful existence in his beloved Altenburg, if word got out that he was the author of a book that described the German soldiers of the Great War as less than heroic, German military strategy as misguided, senseless and foolish, the Kaiser as a coward, and the entire war as a cruel, bad joke.
Hans Herbert Grimm wanted to remain unidentified. But of course he wanted his book to be a success, too, with lots of readers. This was not easy from a position of anonymity. Kurt Wolff, who published Schlump, made great efforts to publicise the book, spending considerable amounts of money on the promotional literature. ‘Schlump!’ was written in large type, followed by the question ‘Have you read Schlump yet?’ and the invitation ‘If not, then make sure to do so as soon as possible. You’ll be glad you did as you won’t have laughed so much in a long time. Here is a book which every German man must read.’ According to the text of the advertisement, the novel was politically neutral and unbiased, but every war veteran would be able to recognise themselves and their experiences in it. Schlump, it continued, represented a turning point in popular and truthful depictions of the war. It was nothing like the conventional, rather dry war stories. Below this, the urgent question was posed again: ‘Have you read Schlump yet?’ Followed by the prediction: ‘This question will soon be on men’s lips everywhere.’
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