Outside Verdun

by Zweig, Arnold; Rintoul, Fiona;

  The city of Verdun had watched over the crossing where the Meuse forked and formed a natural fortress for 1,500 years. The citadel sat above old churches and monasteries with formal round windows and devout pointed arches. The streets bustled with the kind of life typically found in small French towns that work with the produce of a fertile landscape. Around 15,000 people lived from their handiwork and ingenuity, born of long-standing civilisation. They produced embroidery, sweets and linen goods, smelted metal, and built machines and furniture. They fished in the river, prayed at altars decked with flowers, drank aperitifs and coffee, dressed up for weddings, and let their blonde and dark-haired children play in the streets and courtyards.

  The city was surrounded by a ring of several lines of entrenched forts, some modern, some older. The total width was more than 15km, the circumference over 50km. For across from the city, far off to the east and yet threateningly close, rose the colossus of the German Reich, which glorified war. The fortress of Verdun had known German guns and spiked helmets in 1792 and 1870. In 1914, the city was threatened with a third attack. It was averted by the French army’s victory at the Marne, and by the help of the British and the Maid of Orleans, who loved her home village of nearby Domrémy.

  On 21 February 1916, after thorough preparation, shells fell howling into the city’s streets, killing residents, splintering children’s skulls and throwing old women down stairs. Fire. Smoke. Uproar. Havoc. Aircraft dropped whistling bombs on the areas the long-range guns couldn’t reach. Over a thousand guns, among them 700 heavy guns including the heaviest available, spat cloudbursts of explosive steel on to the target area: a 30 km wide arc on the right bank the Meuse, the eastern bank, open to the south-west between Consenvoye and the Woevre plain. Then the German divisions burst out of holes and trenches full of icy mud for the attack. It was a surprise attack, and the Germans were counting on that, but the Posen grenadiers and the Thuringian reserves and the men from the Mark, Hesse, Westphalia and Lower Silesia met resistance wherever they went. Resistance from the earth, softened by snow, and from the water-logged shell holes. Resistance from the woods, which became silent clusters of auxiliaries, chained together like ancient warriors by creepers, brambles and briers that never tired. Resistance from entrenched field positions, blockhouses and barbed wire. Resistance from the French infantry, riflemen and gunners. After the first four days, the first week, the world knew that the surprise attack on Verdun had failed. Six army corps, nearly 200,000 Germans, had led the assault, and it had not been enough. The fall of Fort Douaumont made the world sit up and listen and gave the Germans a sense of victory, but victory was not theirs. The Fortress at Verdun was not to be taken by surprise attack.

  The Germans refused to capitulate in the face of this outcome. Their troops had performed feats that surpassed the legends of centuries. They’d stormed woods, taken hill ridges, cleared blockhouses and driven the enemy out of the ravines. They’d stood up under the leaden hail of shrapnel and the steel knives of shell splinters, and then, angry and dogged and full of hate and a sense of self-sacrifice, they’d drilled their bayonets into French bodies and hurled their hand grenades. From the Souville ridge beyond Douaumont, their advance troops had glimpsed the roofs of the Verdun suburbs. One more push, the commanders said, and we’ll have them. They said it in March, in April, in May and June and until the end of July, and then they didn’t say it any more. The troops didn’t know why they hadn’t advanced. They were replaced then redeployed. Hordes and hordes of men were lost and replenished with ever younger men. It wasn’t their fault that the fortress at Verdun held. They left their shattered lines at the ordained time. When ordered to do so, the sweating gunners, half deafened by their own detonations, fired. When ordered to do so, the infantry threw themselves at the French shell holes and trenches in the way they’d been taught and captured them. They raged amongst French flesh and blood, and gave of their own flesh and blood, their sweat and nerves, brains, courage and presence of mind. They’d all been told that they were defending their homeland and they believed it. They’d also been told that the French were exhausted and they’d believed that – just one last effort, one more push. They made that effort; they pushed forward once again. Orderlies fell bringing rations, lorry drivers were killed in their cabs, and the gunners worked under counter-fire. New troops were brought in to take up the charge: Bavarian divisions, Prussian guards, infantry from Württemberg, regiments from Baden and Upper Silesia. Then they finally realised that it wasn’t working. Who had made mistakes? Who was to blame? More and more missiles had been hurled, and more and more men had been torn to pieces, killed, mutilated, taken prisoner or were missing. The defence of Verdun cost the French army a quarter of a million men, including nearly 7,000 officers. The Germans lost even more. The pretty villages were turned first to ruins, then piles of rubble and finally brickworks; the woods went from having gaps and tangles to being a battlefield full of white stumps, then a wasteland. And this wasteland stretched from Flabas and Moirey to beyond the village of Souville, over hills and through gorges on both banks of the Meuse. It was a white-flecked lunar landscape across its length and breadth, the colour of the dessert, full of round holes. But protected by its heavily damaged fort, the city of Verdun stood. There were attacks and counter-attacks, and the war rumbled on around it.

  During August, ASC Private Bertin had come to feel quite at home in these ravaged spots that were still called Fosses wood, Chaume wood and Wavrille wood on the map. He had changed a lot since the beginning of July. He often looked unshaven, even bristly. His whole face was now deeply tanned and tighter. His mouth no longer fell open so easily, and behind his glasses his eyes had taken on a thoughtful, more mature look, for in the past two months he’d been plunged, much against his will, into a stampede of events. It bothered him, and the many thoughts he’d had about Kroysing’s disappearance had altered him, as had the sight of the never-ending fields of felled trees, which he’d become so used to that his feet instinctively avoided the countless steel splinters. This best of worlds here revealed a flaw in the system, and the glorified necessities of existence on earth came to seem rather odd. He’d come under fire on various occasions and had run away from shells and shrapnel, and into them as well. He relied on luck. But now it had somehow been ordained that he should have an encounter with something much different – and much hairier – before he realised what was what in the world.

  One day, in the middle of Fosses wood he heard his name being called from the far end of a valley. He was kneeling at the time, screwing a couple of rails on to a railway track that would allow ammunition to be transported to the 15cm siege guns. Startled, he shouted: ‘Over here!’

  A young lad, an NCO and sapper with a tattered Iron Cross ribbon in his buttonhole, strolled towards him with his hands in his pockets and gave him a questioning look. Above a childish nose, the lad’s eyes twinkled in his long face like the piercing eyes of an animal. Yes, little Sergeant Süßmann resembled nothing more than a small knowing monkey that appears every couple of days, has a look around, then disappears again. His puttees had been put on carelessly, and he wasn’t wearing a belt. With a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he squatted down beside Bertin.

  ‘It wasn’t easy to find you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you have,’ said Bertin. ‘I can’t screw it any tighter.’

  It was good that he’d learnt how to use all sorts of tools in his father’s joinery workshop. As a result, he was considered not to be inept. Sergeant Süßmann gave it a try. The fishplate sat right across the two sleepers.

  ‘All right,’ he said in English. ‘But I didn’t come for that. I’m to take you to the lieutenant.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Bertin.

  ‘Mine, of course; Lieutenant Kroysing. It really wasn’t easy to find you. You didn’t give him your name.’

  Bertin stood up. ‘Are you one of his men?’

  ‘But of course.’

  They moved to the next section
of track, taking the fishplates and nuts out of a sack. ‘It doesn’t do your hands much good,’ Bertin said, looking at his fingers, ‘but it’s better than being stuck in an orderly room.’ He knelt on the ground; Süßmann screwed down the other fishplate as if he weren’t his ‘superior’. Autumnal leaves drifted above their heads on a gust of wind. ‘And what does he think about his brother now – in case you happen to know?’

  ‘He’s consumed with regret,’ replied Süßmann. ‘Apparently, he’s quite certain of a few things otherwise his brother’s company and battalion staff wouldn’t be at Douaumont now.’

  Bertin looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Captain Niggl?’

  ‘Now inhabits Douaumont. Coincidence. Douaumont is a large garrison. In my father’s house there are many mansions. Now the lieutenant wants to know if you’d like to be there when that letter is read.’

  ‘But what about my company?’ Bertin asked uncertainly.

  Sergeant Süßmann spat out his cigarette end. ‘Lieutenant Kroysing is a big noise in these parts, and the further towards the front you go, the bigger a noise he becomes. Even the Panjes of this world know that. The only question is whether you have the guts. Douaumont and its approach routes are considered calm now, but our definition of calm is different from yours.’

  ‘How do you know?’ countered Bertin. ‘Before I used to be keen to distinguish myself. But now after 15 months in the Prussian Army—’ They both laughed. The ‘old guard’ with their caps pulled low and their easy stride preferred to throw themselves in the mud once too often than once too seldom. ‘If need be, I’m sure I can manage in your area. But how do I get there?’

  ‘We’ll ask for you,’ Süßmann replied simply, explaining what they had planned for Bertin. All the field railways in the area – and there were quite a few – were run by the sapper depot. Some of the workforce was billeted in dugouts, some in Nissen huts. They’d had nothing to laugh about throughout August, but things had calmed down now and as a result they were on holiday. A railway hut in Wild Boar gorge, which was east of Bezonvaux and not far from the Ornes heavy artillery batteries (‘And it’s always safe as houses where they are’), needed a temporary telephonist. They’d asked Bertin’s company to supply one, and the man they’d sent – a deaf carpenter, who was scared to death of the switchboard with its measly eight plugs – had been sent back. Bertin bent over laughing. So he had; it was Karsch the carpenter. And it wasn’t as if there weren’t plenty of intelligent men in the company.

  ‘But you won’t get me,’ Bertin said. ‘They don’t transfer Jews. That’s against the laws of nature.’

  ‘That’s no laughing matter,’ Sergeant Süßmann rebuked him. ‘Every Jew should defend the equal rights of all Jews at every turn.’

  ‘Defend them to Jansch and his gang,’ said Bertin, frowning. ‘There are 10 Jews in the company, and none of us is in the orderly room. Major Jansch is what’s called a nationalist editor.’

  ‘That won’t do him any good,’ said Süßmann contemptuously. ‘Kroysing will ask for you. You and no one else. A fortnight in a little hut in the middle of the wood. On duty for eight hours, your own master for 16.’

  ‘Done,’ said Bertin.

  ‘Take 15,’ shouted Sergeant Böhne. ASC men appeared from all sides with canteens, drinking cups and swinging haversacks (only the gas masks in their little tin canisters were never taken off; gas shells were used a lot). Bertin walked over to his tunic, which was hanging from a shell splinter sticking out of a beech tree at the height of a man. Süßmann stuck by him. As they walked, Bertin asked him if the hut came under fire much. Süßmann shook his head. The hut itself never got shot at; that was why it had been put in that out-of-the-way spot. However, 60 paces to the left and 100m to the right you came into range of the French. They’d made the most of that, but since the Bavarians had captured the Fumin and Le Chapitre woods and the Alpine Corps had attacked Thiaumont, the French batteries had slipped back. From his haversack, Bertin took some of his bread ration, a knife and a tin of artificial honey, a yellowish spread made from sugar. He offered some to Süßmann, who shook his head.

  ‘I prefer a hot breakfast,’ he said, lighting another cigarette. ‘No butter?’ he asked. ‘No lard substitute?’ (Lard substitute was the name of a tasty conserve made from the fat and flesh of pigs’ stomachs.)

  ‘Not for us,’ said Bertin.

  ‘With us you’ll get everything. Compared to what you’re used to, Douaumont is luxury.’

  ‘How far is it?’ Bertin asked.

  ‘If “they” don’t shoot, three-quarters of an hour. If they start shooting, you’ll have to lie down until they stop. And never forget your gas mask.’

  ‘We’ve got used to eating some strange things, we Jews,’ said Bertin, chewing away.

  Süßmann smoked. ‘Even before, I ate everything.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Bertin. ‘But that didn’t include lard substitute.’

  ‘Pretty soon we’ll be licking our fingers after eating it,’ said Süßmann. ‘Things are going to get serious this winter.’

  ‘How old are you, Sergeant Süßmann, if I may ask?’

  ‘Forced my way into the sappers as a volunteer at 16 and a half. Work it out.’

  Bertin propped his open knife against his knee and stopped chewing. ‘Good grief. I took you for 25.’

  Süßmann grinned. ‘I’ve seen a lot. I’ll tell you about it later. So, you’ll be asked for and you’ll set off early tomorrow morning. Ring us about 6am. We have a direct connection to you, if it hasn’t been shot to pieces. Kroysing will be pleased. He seems to think highly of you because you believed his brother straight away.’

  Bertin shook his head. ‘It wasn’t hard to believe him. Only a brother could be so blind.’

  ‘I’ll split then,’ said Süßmann in Berlinerisch, straightening his tunic.

  Bertin was taken aback by his authentic Berlin dialect. ‘Blimey. Sent you here from the Spree, did they?’

  Süßman saluted. ‘Yes, sir! Berlin W., Regentenstraße, Counsellor Süßmann. Tomorrow afternoon, then.’ He nodded and strolled off, disappearing between the tree trunks. Bertin looked after him in amazement, then lay down on the warm trampled earth of the woodland floor, chewed his sweetened black bread, looked up into the blue sky and drew contentedly on a company cigar. And as he let the gold-tinged heavens seep into him with something like joy, he considered that up until now nothing had been imposed on him that he couldn’t handle. He was still kidding himself; the war had not yet punched him in the face the way it had poor little Kroysing. You had to take your hat off to the older brother, who’d managed to manoeuvre those skilful gentlemen into his patch by their own methods. Life was a roller-coaster. The war had brought him ever closer to himself. Next stop Wild Boar gorge, then. After that Douaumont. That was fine by him. A writer shouldn’t dodge fate’s trawler nets. His eyes closed. He saw silver fish, their stupid mouths hanging open, swimming in the blue sea, all in the same direction. His hand holding the cigar fell to the ground. Nothing could happen to him. Nothing could happen to the fish either. He fell asleep.

  The following day at 2pm, Private Bertin reported to his orderly room ready to march. It’d been thought important to smarten him up. He’d been given a belt, which held the lad together, and one of those grey oil-cloth caps with a badge and a brass cross that until then had been lying around in some Prussian warehouse or other.

  It’s hot in France at the end of August. Acting Sergeant Major Glinsky wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of bestowing a parting blessing on Private Bertin. Open-collared and looking replete, Glinsky blinked as he circumambulated Bertin’s rigid figure. Everything was in order: grey trousers tucked into blackened boots, infantry tunic, rucksack packed impeccably, one boot to the right and one to the left under the rolled-up coat and folded blankets. He sat down astride a chair, all friendliness. He knew and Bertin knew that if the order had taken him to a village behind the lines, the company wou
ld have tried to snatch him back even though he’d been requested by name. But it took him to the front, and life is ruled by chance. If the sappers wanted this particular man as a telephonist, they were most welcome to him. The company had no contact with the sappers and therefore didn’t know who had made the request. Cooperation between the two units happened exclusively through the artillery depot – an arrangement that was jealously guarded – where nothing was known of what had happened to the Kroysing family.

  ‘At ease,’ said Acting Sergeant Major Glinsky. ‘You’re an educated man, so I need not waste words.’ (Oh no, thought Bertin, he’s buttering me up. What’s he planning?) ‘You have many mistakes to atone for, so we hope you’ll make a good fist of things.’

  Bertin adopted a military bearing and said: ‘Yes, indeed, Acting Sergeant Major.’ But even as he spoke these obedient words, he resolved to get a little dig in by mentioning the hospital leave to Billy that Glinsky had refused him.

  ‘It’s quite a nice little perk to spend 14 days at a switchboard,’ Glinsky continued chummily. ‘Just make sure you come back to us in one piece. Your post will be sent on. I assume we have your home address?’

  Ah, though Bertin, almost amused, he’s scratching around now, poor soul. Because what he meant by this last question was: who should receive the bad news should anything happen to him? Bertin acted daft and looked unconcerned. ‘Yes, indeed, Sergeant Major,’ he said cheerfully and waited for his moment.

  ‘It must be a good friend of yours who got you this nice little posting,’ Glinsky went on, winking confidentially. ‘Sergeant Süßmann, wasn’t it?’

  This question had a sting to it as well – the insinuation was that a Jew always looks out for another Jew, at least that was the opinion men like Glinsky had of Jews.

  But this was Bertin’s cue. ‘No,’ he said, looking evenly into Glinsky’s eyes – those sleepy, grey bulldog eyes. ‘I assume it was Lieutenant Kroysing from the sapper depot at Douaumont who arranged it.’