What date was it that day? Immaterial. It wasn’t a good day for Christoph Kroysing. After a great deal of toing and froing, the French high command had agreed, much against its will, to a request from the foreign office to allow neutral, foreign journalists to make a short visit to the front at Verdun. Axel Krog, a diligent and respected correspondent for important Swedish newspapers, was now standing in the French battery position opposite, which had never fired a shot at this inopportune time of day. His visit aroused mixed emotions: hostility, mockery, welcome. Herr Krog was a long-time member of the Swedish colony in Paris and a great admirer of France, the accompanying officer from the General Staff press office explained. ‘He should join the Foreign Legion then,’ muttered Gunner Lepaile, in purest suburban Parisian argot. But the French artillery was the best in the world – and not just in the days of Napoleon, the only gunner to make commander. The press office wanted to give Herr Krog an opportunity to publish an impressive article in Sweden, where the Germans were shamelessly spreading their propaganda. Accordingly, he was put in the care of an observation officer and given a field glass through which to witness a bit of sharp shooting: a few Germans being picked off with slim shells. Did Herr Krog know that there was a light railway over there? Units on the Pepper ridge were being relieved that night, and the Boche was moving troops back through this valley. The gunners despised what they read in the newspapers. They spat on those who wanted to prolong the war as much as those who wanted to end it. Furthermore, the gun would now need to be cleaned again. However, at the of the day, it was a matter of honour to show how well the 31st brigade could shoot. Guns one and two were ready and trained on their target: the human game 2.5 km away that would soon appear in the field glass.
Christoph Kroysing trotted down the tracks, jumping boyishly over the shell holes. When things took a turn for the better, they didn’t do so by halves. Now he could choose whether to give his letter to this nice lieutenant or wait until the morning and give it to his comrade Bertin. In this remarkable way, the law of alternatives proved itself to be true. As he thought this, he came to the open valley floor. A light brown wasteland stretched out before him. Seventy or 80 metres before he’d reach cover.
What was that? Kroysing swung round. But even as he looked round, the burst of an explosive, the hot steel of a thudding missile crashed at his back. Pale and scared but miraculously unhurt, he made two leaps and disappeared into the next shell hole. But now the second gun chipped in. Roaring, yellow on black, the shell exploded in front of Kroysing, spun him round and threw him to the ground. God, God, God, he thought, fading from consciousness as the point of his chin hit the iron rail. Mother, Mother, Mother.
The Swedish journalist standing next to the French observer turned pale and said thank you very much. Amazingly artful shooting, but he’d rather not see any more. The men from Hessen were now speeding down the railway track at the double, the lieutenant at the front. They’d seen at once that the young Bavarian was no longer used to the fray or he would have thrown himself behind the rails immediately after the first explosion. You didn’t mess with crumps. They crouched round Kroysing’s lying body where blood was pooling. The junior MO Trichauer bent carefully over him. Nothing to be done. A morphine injection was all he could offer him now. The shell splinters had hacked through his shoulder blade and arm joint like a meat cleaver, severing his arteries and probably the lobe of his lung as well. There was no point in bringing him round. As astonished sappers and ASC men appeared above, asking why the Frogs were shooting at this unusual hour, and the group below gestured frantically for them to come down, Lieutenant Mahnitz looked with a sick heart on the creature laid out before him, with whom he’d been having such an enjoyable conversation less than five minutes before and who now began to groan like a suffocating animal. Half lying and propped up on his elbow, speaking to himself but also loud enough for his band of speechless, dirty men to hear, Mahnitz said: ‘I’d just like to know when this bloody shit will be over.’
CHAPTER SIX
To Billy
THE NEXT DAY, as the ASC men approached the front line, taking the route round the Meuse hills this time, there was talk about how lucky they’d been to be at home the day before, because there had been an armed attacked in this area and a couple of men had been seriously wounded and transported to Billy. Bertin was sceptical about these excitable rumours; he was already looking forward to seeing Kroysing. Would he come today or later? Was he already stuck down below at the gun position? In contrast to the day before, that day’s division of labour brought Bertin and his spade near to two Bavarians who were hacking away at the clay by the new track to make it easier to drag the track later.
‘Where’s your Sergeant Kroysing?’ Bertin asked the nearest one, a freckly red head with a particularly large Adam’s apple.
Without lifting his head, the Bavarian asked Bertin what he wanted with Kroysing. Bertin said he didn’t want anything in particular; he’d just found Kroysing appealing.
‘Well, lad,’ the Bavarian said, battering away at a lump of clay, ‘our Sergeant Kroysing won’t be appealing to anyone ever again.’
At first Bertin didn’t understand. His confusion lasted so long that the Bavarian lost his temper and asked him if his ears were blocked. Kroysing had stopped one, he said. He was a goner. He’d bled like a stuck pig in the truck that took him to the military hospital at Billy. Bertin didn’t reply. He stood clutching his spade. The colour drained from his face and he cleared his throat. Strange, strange. And here he was standing about stupidly, not screaming, not lashing out… That’s war for you. Nowt you can do about, lad. Had the Bavarian said that? He had. He was spitting it out, making his voice clear. It had happened the morning before. The explosion had smashed up Kroysing’s left shoulder. You today, me tomorrow. They wouldn’t be seeing Kroysing again.
They worked on. ‘Did you know Sergeant Kroysing from before?’ the Bavarian asked after a pause, looking up, his face dripping with sweat. Bertin said that he had known Kroysing before, that he had been a friend of his and that if there were more like him in the army, the world would be a better place. Yes, the Bavarian replied, blue eyes solemn in his farmer’s face. ‘You’re right there, lad. You won’t find another sergeant like him however hard you look. Even if some people are pleased that he’s out of the picture after yesterday afternoon…’ With that he drew his face down into his open collar as if he’d said too much. Bertin told him he could speak freely to him, that he knew what was what. But the Bavarian demurred. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, turning away.
But during the break the Bavarian appeared again in the company of a smaller, younger ASC man with a thin face and black, almost startled eyes. Both had their tunics open and their caps cocked over one ear. Casually and seemingly innocently, they came either side of Bertin, making it look like they were three ASC men strolling into the shade, bunking off in the hope of a nap. Between the bushy, truncated tree stumps, the remnant of a heavy shell or mine, blown off during the detonation, stuck in the soil like a small table. Its plate-like surface faced skywards, balanced on a steel leg as broad as a hand and thick as a finger. Bugger me! thought Bertin. This was their world – a world where men like Kroysing bit the dust.
This man here, the Bavarian told Bertin, was Kroysing’s buddy. He had helped to cut his tunic off his body when he was being bandaged up. Something had fallen out from the bloody tatters that no one in their detachment wanted to keep. If Bertin wanted it, he could have it. It was a letter. Bertin said he would gladly take it. He was oddly moved by this bold manifestation of the will of the dead, or almost dead. Gingerly, the Bavarian ASC man handed him a swollen rectangle of brownish red material. It was almost still sticky and looked like a thin bar of chocolate. On it shimmered fudged, blue-black writing. Bertin turned pale, but he took this last greeting and commission and put it in the side pocket of his haversack. When he slid the solid bag of blue-grey linen back over his hips, it seemed to have got heavier. He felt a cer
tain chill, a light shudder, run through his body. He thought he’d found a friend and now he had a commission to fulfil that was both unclear and full of potential complications. Poor little Kroysing! The grey cat suddenly appeared in front of Bertin like a root come to life, gazing at him insolently with her bottle-green eyes, and he was suddenly overcome with fury. Cursing, he hurled the nearest shell splinter at her, missed her of course and saw the Bavarian looking at him in astonishment. She was alive. A creature like that was still alive.
EARLY IN THE afternoon, a man stood doubtfully in front of the company orderly room. Anyone not ordered to present himself there, usually saved himself the trouble, as things only ever went well for Glinsky’s favourites; decent men gave the place a wide berth. Nonetheless, Bertin from the ASC stood before the tar paper-covered door, crooked his finger, knocked and stepped inside, assuming the prescribed posture. It was clear from the rigid expression on his face and and the little crease above the bridge of his glasses that he had something on his mind. But with his officer’s stripes on his Litevka, a cigar between his thick lips and a dead look in his protruding eyes, Herr Glinsky didn’t allow such things to trouble him and hadn’t for some time. He’d spent too long in civilian life pandering to the emotions of those he insured in order to make a living as an insurance broker. Now there was a war. The state was looking after him. It was payback time, and he took his dues. He had never realised (though Frau Glinsky had) how much it had cost him to become that unctuous individual each day. Life now was therefore all the sweeter…
Private Bertin: that was the one with the water pipe who shaved his beard off. For the moment, Glinsky concentrated on the latter description, though the former would certainly come up during their conversation. In the hot and somewhat musty air of the orderly room, he asked: ‘What on Earth does that soldier with the shaved off beard want?’
The soldier with the shaved-off beard asked for a leave pass to go to Billy and return after the curfew. The connection was unreliable, and so he might have to come back in the evening.
The two clerks grinned to themselves. In exceptional circumstances, a soldier did of course have the right to such a pass after a tour of duty. After all, a soldier is not a prisoner with chains round his feet. But power is power, and favour is favour, and whatever this comrade imagined, nothing would come of it. He wouldn’t be going to Billy today.
Private Bertin knew the two clerks. Sperlich, good-natured but stupid, had been some kind of office worker before. Querfurth, who had a goatee and wore thick glasses for long-sightedness on his squinting eyes, had been a draughtsman in the Borsig Works at Tegel. Under the previous sergeant major, they’d been pleasant enough, but mud sticks and their dealings with Herr Glinsky had corrupted them. He sensed that the three men were against him and that it would be hard for him to claim his rights. In a friendly enough way, Glinsky asked what he wanted in Billy. Bertin said he wanted to look for an acquaintance who’d been seriously injured the day before and taken to the hospital there. Remembering the blow he’d had, he swallowed hard two or three times and his voice quivered imperceptibly.
‘Is that so?’ said the venerable Glinsky airily. ‘A wounded soldier in the hospital? And here was I was imagining a washer woman or a whore.’
Bertin heard a couple of fat flies buzzing round a fly paper hanging from the low ceiling. The company knew he was recently married; they’d expect a protest, a flash of indignation. But he didn’t even think of it. He wanted to get to Kroysing and he would, and when you want something badly, you don’t let someone like Glinsky rattle you. He gazed quietly at Glinsky’s pasty, indoors complexion and prying nose and said nothing – and that was smart. Bertin’s silence seemed to satisfy Herr Glinsky. He sat back comfortably in his chair and asked who the distinguished gentleman intended to honour with a visit. A French prisoner presumably. Bertin smiled instinctively. He’d expected that. No, he explained. It was a volunteer soldier, the leader of the standby detachment at Chambrettes-Ferme, Sergeant Kroysing. He’d been seriously wounded the day before.
Grey-skinned Glinsky’s eyes and mouth fell open in delight. The story of the court martial had done the rounds, and a man like Glinsky naturally sympathised with all the Bavarian comrades who were threatened by it. But he pulled himself together lightning-fast: ‘You can save yourself the journey. That man’s been dead for some time. He was buried this afternoon.’
Bertin grasped that Glinsky was lying. Ordinarily, the 1/X/20 orderly room had no contact with the Bavarian labour company. NCOs from the two units swapped news and got to know each other when they met by chance at the big supply stores in Mangiennes and Damvillers. But it was hard to respond to the lie; he couldn’t very well say that he wanted to visit the dead man’s grave.
‘I see,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Dead and buried?’
‘Yes,’ said Glinsky firmly, ‘and now you can return to your duties and show me your back, Mr Water Tap Man. Dismissed!’ Bertin swung round and left, while Glinsky hurried to get in touch with Sergeant Major Feicht from the Bavarian company and congratulate him on the resolution of a matter that had been hanging over his head.
Bertin stood outside in the sun, pensively putting one foot in front of the other. If he couldn’t go to Billy on a leave pass, he’d go without one. But first he’d take advice from someone who understood the situation. Sergeant Böhne was passing at that moment, rubbing his hands together. Behind him the former innkeeper Lebehde, who belonged to Böhne’s squad, was carrying a pot of extra-strong coffee, which he intended to share with Böhne and a couple of others over a celebratory game of skat. For the depot had given orders that all front-line commandos were to remain off-duty when they got back, and the company couldn’t countermand those orders. Böhne’s small, bright eyes became serious when Private Bertin explained in an undertone what was going on. Böhne was a father of two, and the young Bavarian’s accident affected him profoundly. Karl Lebehde just shrugged his shoulders at the orderly room’s decision, saying there were many ways to get to Billy.
In the meantime, the barracks door had closed behind them. There were only a few men around, and the long room was quiet. At a table in the right-hand corner, Corporals Näglein and Althans were already waiting for their coffee and game of skat. Time to take action, said Althans, if the Prussians had given up on esprit de corps. As they all knew, esprit de corps was one of Acting Lieutenant Graßnick’s catchphrases. If Corporal Näglein, a farmer from the Altmark in Saxony-Anhalt, was rather a timid man, then Corporal Althans made up for it with his cheek. Althans was a thin Reservist, who hadn’t been away from his infantry regiment for long. He’d been with them during the February attack in this area and had taken a heavy ricochet shot between the ribs, as a result of which he’d lain for months in bandages. He enjoyed showing anyone who’d look the deep hole under his chest. He performed a kind of courier service between the battalion in Damvillers and the company, without actually doing duty as an orderly. As such, he had a permanent pass that gave him permission to be out and about at any time – and it was made out to the holder, not in his name. He told Bertin he kept it in the cuff of his tunic, and that his tunic was hanging on a nail behind him. Understood?
A few minutes later, Bertin was trotting over the board walks and short cuts to the park, past columns of men unloading and hauling ammunition. He had a good cup of coffee inside him and he now had something else in the cuff of his tunic. The ammunitions expert Sergeant Schultz and his two assistants always knew of ways to get to Romagne, Mangiennes and Billy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The older brother
‘SERGEANT KROYSING, YES. He’s going to be buried at half five.’
Bertin was pointed in the direction of some steps that led underground. In the white-washed cellar, three coffins waited, one of them open. In it was visible the one part of Christoph Kroysing’s remains that was still presentable: his quiet face. The room was cooled by hanging wet linen cloths and a whirling fan, though it was still ha
rd to breathe. But Bertin quickly forgot that. Here he was standing by the coffin of his newest and unluckiest friend. A youth, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance, he thought in the words of the Bible, and then, feeling solemn: Oh, Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him? Or the son of man, that thou visitest him? For man was like a blade of grass, blooming and withering like a wild flower. In Kroysing’s sallow face, his long eyelashes and widely spaced eyebrows rose like musical notes from the dead ovals of his cheeks. His tightly closed lips bent bitterly downwards, but the broad curve of his brow rose imposingly from his temples beneath his soft hair. Kroysing, thought Bertin, looking at the noble countenance of this boy, this man, why did you do them this favour? Why did you let yourself get caught? Mothers hope their prayers may be of some help, to say nothing of fathers’ hopes and of future plans. In a corner, there were further supports for yet more coffins. Shaking his head, Bertin went over to one and sat down on it to think by the whirring fan. He was back among the green-glinting beech leaves and the damaged tree trunks that looked as though they were made of corroded copper; he and Kroysing were sitting at the edge of the shell hole, a pair of field boots beside a pair of puttees, rusting shell splinters half buried in the earth, and the grey cat with the bottle-green eyes was staring hopefully at Kroysing’s hand. That was past, as irrevocably past as the sound of Kroysing’s voice, which Bertin could nonetheless still hear: ‘You’re the first person I’ve been able to speak to about these things for 60 days, and if you want, you can even be of great help to me.’ If Bertin wanted to be of help! And where did helping a person lead? Here…
Outside Verdun Page 6