Outside Verdun

by Zweig, Arnold; Rintoul, Fiona;

  ‘Stop stirring, Seidewitz. That’s the way of the world. A madman can get a lot done.’

  As Bertin opened the door, he knew full well that his trusty Baden Landstürmers would have slipped off to the rear as soon as the shooting started in the gorge. A tall figure was crouched by the switchboard, headphones over his ears, angrily ramming the plugs in and shouting futile hellos. Bertin closed the door softly and moved closer. And despite the horror of the situation, he couldn’t keep a note of humour out of his voice as he announced himself by clicking his heels: ‘Would you permit me to try, Lieutenant?’

  Kroysing started, glared at him and gave a silent laugh, showing his wolfish teeth. ‘Ah yes. Good timing. It’s in your line of work,’ and he slid the headphones on to the narrow table.

  Bertin threw his cap on Strumpf the park-keeper’s bed and checked the connections that could be made on that stupid switchboard with its couple of plugs: to the central exchange – in order; forward to Douaumont – broken; rearwards via the Cape camp – also in order. The telephonist there answered in some amazement; he tried to make the connection to Steinbergquell depot. Now there was a bit of trouble. Schneider, the on-duty telephonist, was a busybody who advised Bertin to return immediately and stop shirking his share of the unloading. They must all have been feeling a little weird over at the depot, for when Bertin tersely told him not to talk rubbish and put him through to Damvillers immediately, he received a testy reply. What did he want to talk to Damvillers for anyway? Instead of answering, Bertin turned to Kroysing, who bent over the mouthpiece with ominous calm: ‘Listen, you little swine, sort it out right this second or I’ll hang a charge of military treason round your neck. Connect us to Damvillers, understand?’

  In the depot’s smoky telephone exchange, Private Schneider nearly fell off his stool. That was not the voice of the insignificant Private Bertin; this man sounded like a beast of prey, who might pose a threat to stronger men than a primary school teacher such as himself. ‘Certainly, Major! Right away, sir,’ he stuttered into the instrument and made the connection.

  ‘Officer Commanding Sappers, Captain Lauber,’ a voice said. Kroysing sat in front of the instrument again, gave his name and was understood. Bertin stood beside him, filling his pipe. When he realised the conversation was going to last a while, he spread a newspaper at the foot of the palliasse and lay down for a few minutes, following the example of the Saxons outside. The way those men had looked, covered in a crust of dried sludge, flattened by exhaustion. They should be put on display in the officers’ mess at Damvillers or in a Dresden concert hall, so that people could see what war was really like. But what good would that do?

  It was a strange conversation. Captain Lauber greeted Lieutenant Kroysing with overwhelming relief, delighted that he was still alive and able to report, and asked where he was speaking from. Lieutenant Kroysing told him he was speaking from a railway siding, a blockhouse in Wild Boar gorge. It was the nearest rearwards telephone station to Douaumont, and he had immediately thought that if anything had survived that bloody bombardment, it would be this. He asked if he might keep his report brief. Douaumont had taken a pasting. The French had never thrown over so much heavy stuff before. Some of the new 40cm mortars must have been in the mix. The outer works had been battered in five places. Fire had broken out in the sapper depot – those bloody flares had caught fire again and filled the place with smoke. The dressing station had been hit again with heavy losses. There was no water to put the fires out as the pipes were burst. His men had tried – and he wasn’t joking – to bring the fires under control with sparkling mineral water, which the sick no longer needed, but the carbon dioxide content was too low. The detachments in the fort had suffered substantial losses, including the ASC. This had all happened during the course of the previous afternoon and evening. Then, however – and he begged permission to express the view that this was incomprehensible – orders had been given to evacuate Douaumont.

  His voice had taken on its usual deep, calm tone, but there was an undercurrent of barely suppressed anger. Captain Lauber must have asked something that betrayed his astonishment. No, Kroysing answered, he would not have issued such orders had he been in command of the fort. Only the upper casemates had been damaged by the 40cms, along with the masonry and brickwork. The concrete cellars were undamaged. The men would have been as safe in them as in bank vaults. Certainly, there was gas, smoke, nothing to drink, discomforts of every sort. But that was no reason to give up Douaumont, which had been bought and held since 25 February at the cost of 50,000 lives. Was there a risk of explosion? Yes, there was. There might be concealed mines, but that was a risk that had to be run – the Fatherland was owed that much. He had opposed the evacuation with all his might. Even when most of the garrison units were outside, he had raged and argued. It was mad to leave only Captain P and his handful of artillery observers inside. He’d always been a fan of logic. Either Douaumont was not suitable for occupation by German soldiers, including gunners, because of the explosion risk, or it was needed for strategic reasons – and then it had to be defended, for goodness’ sake! He’d talked through the night, until he was blue in the face, and finally this afternoon had succeeded in having these crazy orders withdrawn, machine guns brought up and men assembled. As soon as the French stopped shooting at 11.30am he went round to the rear with a few reliable men to bring back those who’d skedaddled, but before he’d managed to round up more than 30 or 40 men above the village, the Moroccans had slipped through the blasted fog into the fort. They’d captured that precious position without firing a single shot. (He was practically weeping with anger. Bertin watched him in shock and amazement.) He could not accept that the evacuation was meant to be final. Headquarters had reached a premature decision on the basis of inadequate information and a bit of smoke. If he might be permitted to make a request, the captain should mobilise everything he could for an immediate counter-attack. The French were not established in the fort. They’d pushed through deep into the area behind, but based on what could be heard through the fog, they had met with heavy resistance southeast of Douaumont. The artillery fire there had not abated, and machine guns could still be heard. If it hadn’t been for the fog, the barrage would not have started half an hour too late. Surely something could still be done. For his part, he intended, unless he received orders to the contrary, to take some infantrymen and sappers from the gorge here to sound out the approach to Douaumont.

  His voice, so emphatic under the sounding board of the low roof, was silent for a moment. He seemed to hold his breath as he listened to the other man. ‘Thank God,’ he said in relief, and then twice in succession, ‘Thank God.’ He said he would pass this explanation on to the Saxon officers. There would definitely be pockets of resistance above the village of Douaumont, and so they should assemble to the east and to the rear. Could he pull in any ASC men he might meet? All hands would be needed to prepare the roads, clear the rubble and rebuild the dugouts. Then, in a concluding tone, he promised the captain that he would do his best and would report from somewhere should he get through. In the meantime, he thanked Captain Lauber for his help and bid him farewell. He sat motionless for a moment, then slipped the headphones off and turned in his stool to face Bertin, shoulders hunched, arms hanging between his long legs. ‘Have you got any tobacco, Bertin?’ he asked and filled his big, round pipe.

  The blockhouse had small windows, and it was dark inside. But Kroysing’s bright eyes still flashed in his mud-splattered face. Bertin knew that he was about to receive a private report. ‘What about Captain Niggl?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Escaped,’ said Kroysing. ‘Temporarily escaped. Without signing. Imagine that.’ The flame from his lighter momentarily lit up his steely face. ‘I’m telling you, he was as small and used up as cigar ash after that last month and especially the last four days. We had a little private chat. Everything was looking good, and it seemed my family’s reputation would be restored. The blighter told me he was going grey.
Gave me some sob story about his children and begged for mercy. I offered to set him free with his men as soon as the French stopped firing in return for his signature. Then came the order to evacuate, and he skedaddled. He escaped from me just as I was about to finish the business off. I don’t understand it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Did those bastard French really have to help that swine out as well as giving those numbskulls at the rear such a fright that they evacuated Douaumont? But—’ and he drew himself up to his full height, fists clenched— ‘he won’t get away from me. I’m not dropping out of the race yet. He can’t have gone far. Even if I have to grab him by the scruff of the neck, I’ll get him back. But first I have to settle some scores with those gentlemen over there who smoked me out of my own private little hell. Why did they have to fling their blasted regiments upon my domain? Well, they’ll be sorry,’ he finished, straightening the heavy pistol on his belt, ‘I’ve got a crate of hand grenades waiting for them somewhere. I’ve always wanted to get them back for killing Christoph, though obviously I’d have preferred to do it after I had the signature. Now I’ll have to change the order. Why don’t you walk towards the front with me for a bit, Bertin? Don’t you have a childhood friend there?’

  Bertin stood up and scratched behind his ear. A knock at the door stopped him from answering. Two soldiers in steel helmets walked in, followed by young Süßmann, whose boots were dripping water. ‘This is the man, Lieutenant,’ he said.

  ‘Bit dark,’ said a young voice, which Bertin thought he’d heard before. He fetched Friedrich Strumpf’s candle and lit it: two field artillerymen, a lieutenant and a staff sergeant whom he’d seen at the depot.

  ‘Got it nice and comfy here, lad,’ the lieutenant said to Kroysing before realising his error. The officers then introduced themselves as if the blockhouse were a railway compartment, which one of the them had just entered. The young gunner with guard’s stripes on his uniform was looking for his guide. Kroysing laughed and said he must mean his friend Bertin who’d arrived with the artillery ammunition half an hour earlier.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lieutenant von Roggstroh. ‘It’s you I’m looking for. The sergeant said you’d show us the quickest way up to a battery position: 10.5cm field howitzers. Can you do that?’

  Bertin replied that he’d just been discussing it with Lieutenant Kroysing and was ready to go with them but had just received an order from his company to head back at once. He said he’d put the lieutenant through to the depot so that he could quickly explain. He plugged in and tried to get through: the equipment depot was engaged.

  ‘Never mind,’ said the gunner. ‘We’ll write you some bumph to take back. Is there a pen and paper here?’

  The men from Baden hadn’t had much time to pack, and an unfinished letter (‘Dear Fanny’) lay in the drawer. Von Roggstroh pulled his glove off and in clear, German handwriting wrote: ‘I requisitioned the carrier as a guide.’ He signed his name and rank, and folded the ‘bumph’ up. Bertin stuck it in his cuff.

  Kroysing searched Bertin’s face as he squeezed into his wet coat, fastened his buckle and got ready to go. ‘Take a look at this ASC private. We’ve been knocking around together for the past month, but I don’t seem to have rubbed off on him, do I?’

  Von Roggstroh looked from one of the two entirely different men to the other. Men said a lot of things the night after a battle, even in front of strangers. ‘It takes time to rub off on someone,’ he said soothingly.

  Kroysing examined his torch. ‘Too long,’ he muttered. ‘In due course, he should be taking the kind of orders my brother took.’

  ‘That’s just a whim of yours,’ countered Bertin.

  ‘Ah.’ Roggstroh looked up. ‘Do you mean your friend should register for further training?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Kroysing stared absently past Erich Süßmann’s reproachful face to the corrugated iron roof.

  Bertin had a creepy feeling. Was he to stand in for Christoph Kroysing, then? ‘Are you serious?’ he asked.

  Kroysing stared at him and shrugged. Then on the threshold, he turned. ‘What I mean is that you owe it to the Prussian state,’ and he pushed open the door, which creaked on its hinges.

  They all stepped out into the cold, damp air of the gorge where a fire burned on the left bank. Bertin saw indistinct shadows pass and the outlines of men crouching and warming themselves. The three Saxon officers were no longer lying on the ground; they sat on the broken branches smoking and shivering. Kroysing, hand on his helmet, went over and negotiated with them. Then whistle blasts rang out and soldiers ran over and gathered in groups on the right bank of the stream. Kroysing returned relieved and with renewed drive. ‘The officers have decided to reconnoitre towards Douaumont with my sappers, clear things up in the great hollow if necessary and try to make contact with the ridge,’ he told Roggstroh. ‘They have over 100 rifles. We can get somewhere with that. I have one request for you, comrade: if you find a gun intact, let it loose on Douaumont. It doesn’t matter if the range is 1,500m, 1,700m or 2,000m – whatever’s possible. Imagine if we could get the old shack back!’

  ‘Do you think that’s possible?’ asked Roggstroh.

  ‘Anything is possible,’ said Kroysing, ‘with a bit of courage and a lot of luck. On you go, Süßmann,’ and he turned to the wee lad. ‘You know the lay of the land. You lead – taking all due care, of course.’

  Süßmann made as if to click his heels. ‘Cheerio, Bertin,’ he a said, extending his hand. ‘I wonder where we’ll meet again. I’m going to bestow this pot on you as a parting gift,’ and he took off his helmet, held in the tips of his fingers, placed it on Bertin’s head and shoved Bertin’s oil-cloth cap under his arm. ‘I’ll have plenty of helmets to choose from up front – and you need to preserve that brain of yours.’ And off he walked, looking very boyish with his short hair.

  ‘Our ways part here,’ said Kroysing, sniffing the air with his wide nostrils. ‘It smells of winter. We’re going to have a wonderful Christmas. Did you hear that?’

  Dull thuds, as though wrapped in cotton wool, could be heard coming from the dense fog that began a few paces away.

  ‘The bastard French are starting up again. We thought we could pull the stars down out of the sky and had victory in the bag. That’s never good. Once again, Bertin, cheerio. Chin up, my young friend,’ he added with a wave of his right hand. ‘Cheers. Happy New Year to one and all. Vive la guerre!’ He saluted, turned round and headed off, becoming more ghostly with every menacing step he took. The three men watched him until he dissolved into the fog.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ said Lieutenant von Roggstroh. ‘It can’t get much darker.’

  They crossed the valley on the newly erected plank bridges. Roggstroh said the bridges showed what a blessing it was to have sappers and ASC men to make sure the artillery didn’t get their legs wet before they had to. The feverish wounded shivered and groaned by the fires. As they passed them, a tall man rose and, eyes tightly closed, said: ‘Buried, Doctor. Volunteer Lobedanz, University of Heidelberg, currently in the field.’ Then he sat down again and pushed his hands against the rock behind his head as though it might collapse.

  They climbed the disintegrating path that led to the battery. From time to time, the lieutenant flashed his torch. That’s how they picked out the ‘signpost’ – the dead Frenchman still standing against the beech tree, nailed in place by a shell splinter. Not for the first time, Bertin thought that he should be underground. The lieutenant said: ‘They pull some tricks round here.’

  German shells swooped and groaned overhead like giant birds of the night. No one knew where they came from or where they were going. His heart thumping, Bertin thought that Lieutenant Schanz must be dead or they would have heard his howitzers firing – what he liked to call ‘giving a concert’. The howl of battle, rising every quarter of an hour, thundered across from somewhere further forward, somewhat to the left. Then a sudden burst of rifle fire: Kroysing’s men.

  ‘We’re holding C
aillette wood,’ said the lieutenant. ‘And we’re holding Fort Vaux and Damloup, or at least we were two hours ago. Do you know what the field of fire is like? How does it lie in relation to Douaumont?’

  ‘Unfavourably,’ answered Bertin. ‘Douaumont dominates the whole area.’

  As they came on to the top, walking in goose step and feeling a few paces in front of them with their sticks, they could hear the gun battle more clearly, though they couldn’t see anything. A figure appeared from the fog, a man, a corporal, panting and shaking with fear. A lost infantryman from one of the battalions that had lain in reserve and been called out that afternoon to clear the area leading to Douaumont of French shock troops. With him was a small group that had been on the far left wing and had got separated from the company. Lost in a wilderness of mist, craters and sodden earth, they battled the terrain, expecting to drown in a sludge-filled shell hole at any moment. Lieutenant Roggstroh decided they should take the men with them. They were from the Mark, Brandenburgers from the fifth division of the military Reserve. When they reached the advance guard a minute later, the four remaining men were waiting motionless and panic-stricken. They’d been afraid the path they were on would lead them straight into the vengeful arms of the French. Now they trotted behind the officer in relief, like children who attach themselves to someone else’s mother because they’ve lost their own in the woods. They had thought there couldn’t be a soul left alive in that wilderness. The French had taken them by surprise, suddenly appearing after the wild bombardment, but had been beaten back.

  ‘They’re sick to death of it too,’ said one of the four, who was exhausted and caked in sludge. ‘If you fall down wounded here you’ll drown in the sludge whether you’re French or German,’ and he made an all-embracing arc with his arms. Now the artillery sergeant, who until then had been listening and watching attentively, prodding the sodden earth with his stick, opened his mouth. ‘How are we going to get our guns forward?’ he sighed. ‘The poor old nags.’