Bertin’s visits often lasted only half an hour. He needed to be on the move again. One time, he didn’t meet his friends. They were further forwards installing new mine throwers. There was to be a local operation in mid-October to improve the infantry positions. But the next time, he’d arranged to meet Süßmann and as they walked along, chatting amiably, Süßmann told him about the casualties that had so put the wind up Captain Niggl.
‘Our author is horrified by the burden on your conscience, Lieutenant,’ joked Süßmann shortly after they arrived at Kroysing’s billet, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.
Bertin, who was enjoying the first puffs of a freshly filled pipe, met Kroysing’s astonished grey eyes calmly. He knew he’d have to choose his words carefully in order not to cause offence. ‘Four dead,’ he said, ‘and so much suffering. I’m sure you’re not indifferent to that either.’
‘Why not?’ asked Kroysing.
‘Does that require an answer?’ countered Bertin, whereupon the lieutenant told him not to sit there feeling pleased with himself but to think logically.
‘Is the war my responsibility? Obviously not. I’m not even liable for the transfer of Niggl’s battalion; that was some area commander or other. And in the final analysis it was a signature from the crown prince that put his men under my command. So, what do you want from me?’
Bertin asked him to leave this nice big picture aside and concentrate on one, perhaps incidental detail: who had had the men flung into Douaumont and why?
‘Because duty required it!’ Kroysing roared.
Bertin stepped back, blushed and was silent. He didn’t tell Kroysing that people roar when they are in the wrong. Instead, he resolved to leave again as soon as possible.
Kroysing frowned darkly, annoyed by his outburst. He bit his lip, glowered straight ahead, and then at his shocked visitors. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘But you’re so naïve it can really get on people’s nerves.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Bertin answered. ‘I was really enjoying your tobacco, and now my naïvety has spoilt my enjoyment.’
Kroysing considered. The man was sensitive. That was the good side of the self-pity that had provoked his own outburst, and it made up for it. ‘Sir,’ he said jokingly, ‘you’re a sensitive soul. I obviously need to bone up on the correct treatment of ASC men. How about a conciliatory drink?’ He opened the cabinet behind him – he was so tall he only needed to stretch out his arm – pulled out a familiar bottle and filled some glasses. ‘Well, Prost,’ he said. ‘Here’s to getting along.’ Bertin took small sips, Süßmann knocked back half his glass and Kroysing downed his in one with a satisfied look in his eyes. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s the stuff. You can wage war without women, ammunition or even trenches, but not without tobacco and definitely not without alcohol.
In an effort to beat down his hurt feelings, Bertin expounded on Serbian plum brandy, which was nearly as good as this cognac. Kroysing pretended to be very interested and said that if he ever got tired of the western front, he might be tempted to go to Macedonia on account of the slivovitz – in other words, there was an uncomfortable atmosphere.
Little Süßmann looked wisely from one man to the other. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you gentlemen aren’t going to sort things out like this. You need to take your dispute seriously. It was really me who caused this problem so I need to resolve it. Our author thinks that you brought the ASC men to Douaumont and are responsible for what befell them, because you have a private matter to settle with their captain. Isn’t that right, my dear author?’ Bertin nodded. ‘To you, the Bavarian ASC men were just an appendage of the captain, unimportant statistics,’ continued Süßmann, ‘but our author’s moral searchlight is now trained on them. Look, he says: dead and wounded. Mortal beings. Your move, Lieutenant,’ he finished, stubbing out his cigarette. The ashtray on the table was made from a flattened brass cartridge case from a large howitzer shell. They were often used in this way in sapper depots.
Kroysing thought for a moment. ‘Sergeant Süßmann gets an honourable mention for setting out the characters before us correctly. Let’s consider these men. Did any of them lift a finger to stand by my brother? Not at all. And on whose account had my brother incurred Niggl & Co’s disfavour? For those men. In a certain general sense, they therefore share responsibility for his death. In the same general sense, I tossed them into a slightly more dangerous frying pan than the one they were in before. I’ll take responsibility for that. Duty demanded that some labour company or other did it. I chose that one.’
Deep in thought, Bertin took another sip of cognac. ‘I’m afraid there’s something not quite right there. The dead and wounded far outweigh the degree of guilt that can be attributed to an individual ASC man, because the company’s guilt is collective, and you must take account of the fact that the common soldier has few rights.’
‘Those affected will have to settle up with those who have so far been spared,’ said Kroysing shortly. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I’m not playing God. And how do you explain your part in it?’ Bertin looked amazed. ‘Look at that innocent angel,’ laughed Kroysing. ‘Yes, someone always has to hit us over the head with our own part in things. Who set the whole thing in motion, eh? Shook me out of my lamentable indifference? From whom did I first learn that my brother had been set up? It’s enough to astonish a layman and surprise an expert,’ he finished triumphantly, using an expression current at the time.
Bertin looked at Süßmann in shock, then at Kroysing’s triumphant face, then pensively up at the vaulted ceiling, which formed an impenetrable barrier between him and the sky. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he conceded honestly. ‘There’s certainly something in what you say. It’s hard to unravel the tangle of cause and effect. But I didn’t want that.’
‘Exactly. Neither did I. But answer me this, dear sir: would you have kept quiet if someone had told you about my dangerous character? Weren’t you rather keen for me to right the wrong, as I was the victim’s brother and the best man for the job?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertin, sunk in thought, analysing his own motives, ‘that was more or less what I wanted. In a vague way, you know. Something terrible had happened. The world had gone awry, but things have come to a pretty pass when it’s sent further awry by our attempts to put it right.’
‘Yes,’ laughed Krosying amiably, ‘the world’s construction is a bit faulty, at least from the point of view of us humans. It short circuits and backfires all the time. If we built an engine along those lines we’d probably be in heaven quicker than it takes to get from here to our new mine throwers.’
‘But where’s the fault?’ asked Bertin passionately. ‘It must be mended if our world view isn’t to collapse.’
‘Why shouldn’t our precious world view collapse?’ asked Sergeant Süßmann in astonishment. ‘Hasn’t yours collapsed?’ he asked pointing a crooked index finger at Kroysing. ‘Hasn’t mine collapsed,’ and he turned the finger on himself. ‘It’s just too bad about yours, isn’t that right, my writerly and prophetic friend? Four dead and about 40 wounded,’ he continued, ‘and here in Douaumont. If it weren’t so boring for the lieutenant, I’d tell the gentleman here the story of this hollow mountain as I experienced it. I promised him I would, in any case.’
‘Oh yes, that’s not to be missed,’ said Kroysing. ‘He ought to hear it, and I’ll be fascinated to watch our author’s face. On you go, Süßmann.’
‘A couple of thousand years after the Deluge had dried up, when God had turned his countenance away from the world and people had multiplied like ants, on the 21st of February of the year 1916, men rose up out of their trenches, sappers to the front.’ Süßmann blinked and continued in the same tone: ‘In those four days as the attack advanced, legion upon legion of grey and grey-blue martyrs died as they’d been ordered. Their bodies were strewn between Caures wood and the hills, and their souls multiplied the heavenly host by an army corps.’
CHAPTER TWO
Little Süßma
nn
‘WE LAY FLAT on the ground at the edge of the glacis and looked over at Douaumont, which was covered in snow and giving nothing away – a detachment of sappers attached to men from a platoon of the 24th. The ground was frozen, but we were hot. We’d all been drinking and besides we were scared. Not a shot came from over there, do you follow? It was so threatening. Who would have thought that Douaumont, the cornerstone of Verdun, would be undefended with no garrison? French shells were dropping on the wood behind us but they came from somewhere else. Our own artillery was bombarding the village of Douaumont and the barbed wire outside it, and there was a French machine gun rattling over there. But the block of rock itself was silent. We had our coats on but we were soaked through underneath. Crawling through frozen mud is no fun. We wanted to feel something dry under our feet, to undress, light a stove and sleep. Our artillery kept battering the bare escarpment of the casemate, but there wasn’t a whisper of a reply. Eventually, we threw ourselves forwards, the first lieutenant at the front, headed downhill to the barbed wire – which thankfully wasn’t electrified – clambered on to the monster’s roof and to hell with it. Then we were on top and wanted to get down because our goal was inside. And as we were talking and staring apprehensively into the depths below us, we suddenly saw a detachment of men nosing their way very carefully out of a tunnel, and before we could shoot them or they us, we realised they were our neighbouring platoon. The two officers glared at each other, and if I’m not mistaken they still argue today about who the genuine conqueror of Douaumont was. Inside, we took the garrison prisoners: about 20 gunners in an armoured turret. They’d been firing for four days and four nights and now they were asleep – bit rude, no? Just when we arrived. But we kindly excused them. That’s how Douaumont was captured by the heroic first battalion of the 29th regiment, and anyone who doesn’t believe it can pay me one thaler.’
Kroysing watched Private Bertin’s baffled face with amusement. Bertin sat there in his uniform, hair shorn like a real soldier, but seemed to have believed all the Supreme Army Command’s pompous self-congratulation and to want to live in a world of heroic deeds like a child in a book of fairytales. ‘So that was the famous storming of Douaumont? Before his Majesty’s eyes…’
Raucous laughter. ‘Oh boy,’ cried Kroysing, ‘spare us!’ And Süßmann, giggling like a little imp, gasped: ‘Where was Douaumont, and where was the Kaiser?’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Bertin, not at all offended, ‘that’s what it said in the report. We read it out to each other from the bulletin board at brigade headquarters in Vranje, a small mountain town north of Kumanovo in Macedonia – a crowd of field greys in the spring sunshine – and I can still hear a young hussar lieutenant next to me shouting: “Brilliant, now there’ll be an end to this shit.” How am I supposed to know what really happened?’
‘Oh boy,’ cried Kroysing again and his eyes shone in the light from his third glass of cognac, ‘haven’t you worked out yet that it’s all a lie? Lies to the rear and at the front, lies on our side and over there. We’re bluffing, and they’re bluffing. The only ones who aren’t bluffing are the dead – the only decent ones in the whole show…’
‘Nothing is true,’ said Sergeant Süßmann, ‘and everything’s permitted. Are you familiar with that expression? The Assassins’ motto.’ Bertin confirmed that he was indeed educated and knew about the Assassins – an oriental murder sect from the Middle Ages, whose sheikh was called ‘The Old Man of the Mountain’.
‘You’re educated,’ said Kroysing, calming down. ‘Thank God. Now we just need to understand how a world works where young men such as yourself are knocking about like Parsifal in squaddy’s boots. That motto rules here, my dear boy. Nothing that’s printed is true, including the Bible. Everything men want to do is permitted, and that includes you and me if we have the guts. I don’t want to hold up the youngster here, because he’ll paint you a picture of how things really are here, but if you believe what the reports say, that we captured Fort Vaux in May and then magnanimously left “the ruins of the armoured fortress” to the French the next day, you deserve the Iron Cross. We laughed ourselves silly, my boy. But the infantry were furious because they were still under fire from that concrete monstrosity, which the French were defending like mad, but now they were also being pelted with questions and threats, and being dressed down by telephone, just because some idiot from headquarters had probably looked through his periscopic binoculars, from God knows how many kilometres to the rear, and had mistaken the backs of German prisoners being led into the fort by the French for those of our heroic conquerors taking their prize. Fort Vaux fell in June, and that’s all there is to it, and the way it held out amazed the world. War only runs smoothly on paper. A plague on all writing jackals.’ And he tipped out his fourth cognac, smaller this time, and drank. ‘And now it’s your turn, young Süßmann, and I’ll become a Trappist monk.’
‘We’ll believe it when we see it,’ joked Sergeant Süßmann. ‘At least we had Douaumont and we stayed there, but the French advance positions weren’t far below. Now the show really began: counter attack! At the end of April, the French were actually tramping about above our heads. They’d retaken the upper works as far as the northwest corner, but the machine guns in the embrasures and the flanking positions stopped them coming down. Then our reinforcements arrived, and they had to leave with their tails between their legs. That’s when we learnt from the French prisoners that our success in February had been due to a bit of standard military confusion. Two fresh divisions had taken over the sector, one to the left and and one to the right of Douaumont. Each one was convinced that the other had occupied the fort, and the relieved division had withdrawn so bloody quickly to Belleville ridge that no one knew how things stood. If we’d had fresh reserves back then, our victor’s luck might have taken us forward to Fleury and Souville, and who knows if Verdun would still be in French hands today. It would still have been tough, but it would have bucked us up and the reports would have been glorious. But the miserable French weren’t giving us anything for free. We had to attack Thiaumont and Fleury, and that’s what we were doing when the great explosion happened that gave me a glimpse of the Hereafter. Prost to that!’
He drained his glass and Kroysing refilled it. Staring intently into a corner of the small room, Süßmann continued with his story in his even, boyish voice. At that time, the beginning of May, Douaumont had been the strongest support point on the front. It was packed with soldiers, supplies, ammunition and sapper equipment, and it had a large dressing station. It was like a huge communications tunnel leading to the front and back. The Bavarians storming Fleury slept there before attacking or collapsed exhausted on the paving stones afterwards. The great attack of 5 May failed after a massive bombardment, but down below the fort still teemed with life.
‘Back then, our depot was over where the ASC men sleep now underneath the armoured turret, which the French had used as an ammunition store. A few dozen shells were still left over. Our mines and flamethrower oil reserve tanks were stored there. More harmless stuff, such as flares, was lined up against the corridor wall, with crates of hand grenades on the other side. On the right of the corridor were steps leading down to the hospital rooms, where the doctors were busy day and night. Orderlies dashed back and forth, hauling in the serious cases, while those with minor injuries or who were just shell-shocked or had been buried crouched by the walls, sleeping or dozing, until they got soup, which they spooned down as if it were heaven-sent. But as we know, heaven is right beside hell, and there must have been a couple of nut cases among them, because, using the boxes of flares as cover, two or three of those Bavarian morons went over to heat up their chow with a hand grenade – it was too cold for them, do you see? In order to make it taste better, they invited the devil in.
‘Now, anyone can unscrew an infantry hand grenade and use the head, which contains the charge of powder, to warm up his food if he has a couple of stones to stand a pot on and everything nearby is h
armless. But as bad luck would have it, my Bavarians picked up a hand grenade that had already been filed off or was defective, and it blew up in their faces. That might have just been their private misfortune. Screams. Three or four more dead. A few wounded. That didn’t count for much in the battle for Fleury. But Satan decreed that the splinters should fly through the open door into the ammunition dump and stick into one of our harmless flame throwers, which are filled with a blend of heavy and light oils. The stuff flowed out, evaporated, and contact with air turned it into an explosive. I saw it with my own eyes; naturally, I don’t know where the bit of burning wood came from that set it alight – a smouldering cigarette would’ve done it. “Fire!” screamed those around the hand grenade cooks. At the same time, heavy fragments were hurled against the roof and the burning oil tipped on to the rocket crates made of nice, dry pinewood.
‘In that moment, we were already running. We ran forwards, the clever ones in silence, some screaming with terror. You know the long tunnel where I met the captain just now? It’s 80m long, I believe. Men ran into it from all the side passages. We were fighting for our lives with our friends and comrades. Woe betide anyone who stumbled or turned round. We men from the depot were pretty much the furthest back. In front of us were the minor casualties and the Bavarians who’d just been relieved. The ASC men were in the side passages and the infantrymen were up front – a seething knot of anxious grey backs, necks, heads and fists. Then a crash came from behind. There was thick smoke and heat, a dreadful stench as the signal rockets exploded like some colossal fireworks. The flames were bound to reach the shells and they did, but first they reached our hand grenades. There was a rumble from behind, and a jolt with the force of an earthquake flung us all against the walls, me included. I was 40m into the tunnel when I fell over. Actually, I didn’t fall over; I passed out. I lost consciousness propped against the curved wall and hung for I don’t know how long wedged in the throng. I assume I gradually sank to the floor with them. That must have been when the explosion came that wiped out all life in the tunnel, the side corridors, the casemates, the hospital – everywhere. I choked on the poisonous gases. I was actually dead, subjectively speaking. If you can feel fear, it’s terrible, because your lungs struggle for fresh air and inhale ever more poison and muck, your throat burns, your ears roar – but for me expiry was a relief. Let’s drink to that.’
Outside Verdun Page 17