The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (82 page)

Outside, the darkness was lit up by brief red flames; it looked as if fire were leaping from the earth, fire instantly to be covered by darkness again.

That short barrage seemed to go on forever. I thought the entire eastern front must be in turmoil, a giant offensive under way. Actually it lasted—your brother had checked it on his wristwatch—seven minutes and was comparatively harmless. The company’s casualties were four dead and seven wounded.

We were all totally exhausted after the rigors of the train journey, the march, the flight, and again the journey by truck—and now this concentrated encounter with the front. But we were to learn that there was no longer any such thing as sleep, although there were hours when one simply sank into oblivion, slept as if dead, was dragged to one’s feet, stood sentry or was sent off to one of the other platoons as a dispatch runner.

In those first nights—during the day it was hardly possible to move outside our sector—I invariably lost my sense of direction. There I would
lie, stretched out on the earth, darkness all around, waiting for a flare to go up that would allow me to recognize some landmark that would tell me whether I had to crawl forward, backward, or sideways. Sometimes, when I eventually crawled off, I was aware in that singing, cold silence of something eerie, something indescribable, like an invisible, inaudible, yet palpable breath: the proximity of the enemy. I would know then that I was quite close to the Russian positions, and often a hoarse whisper or call, a terrible, alien laugh, confirmed that I was not mistaken.

Oh, that fear of being taken prisoner by the Russians! It was that fear alone that prevented the war in Russia from ending as early as 1942. Imagine, if you will, what would have happened if our soldiers had been made to fight there for years under the same inhuman conditions, the same incompetent leadership, against the Americans or the British.

We remained in that sector for one week.

The attack expected for the morning of the following day did not come until evening. During this attack, something occurred that I would never have believed possible: we repulsed it.

From the moment I saw the first shapeless, muffled-up figures really and truly a hundred yards away from us approaching our sector—from that moment on I stood totally prepared to flee, my whistle at my lips, braced against the rear wall of the trench, one hand poised for the leap. Your brother stood there quite calmly, giving the orders that we had to pass on. Every few seconds we had to duck when a wave of Russian fire seemed to burst right in our faces, and every time that appalling fear when one could raise one’s head again: Are they here?

From time to time I would look back to make sure of a retreat under cover, for one of the old soldiers had told me, between two gulps from a bottle of schnapps, “What matters most in this whole war, kiddo, is a retreat under cover.”

The Russians came surging forward, forced over and over again by the scythelike action of our machine-gun fire to fling themselves to the ground: the screams of the wounded were already filling the thick
gray air. From the rear we were supported by heavy artillery, while the neighboring companies also aimed their fire in front of our sector. Still, it seemed hopeless to try to stem that relentless tide. Just then your brother suddenly gave the order, “Prepare to attack!” Hardly had he uttered the command when a heavy salvo of Russian naval guns forced us to take cover. I ducked, and it flashed through my mind: This is it, you can’t go back, by now the Russians are here. But suddenly your brother’s voice shouted, “Forward, charge!”

He was the first to go over the top: with a frenzied gesture and another shout, he swept the entire company after him, and charge forward we did. At first the Russians hesitated, but that moment was enough; first a few of them started running, then whole groups turned tail—we could hear the shrill yelling and cursing of their officers while the rest put up their hands. We brought back twenty prisoners, the first living Russians we had seen face to face; their eyes held only one thing—fear.

The evening of the eighth day, I was sitting, for the first time in a long while, alone with your brother in the bunker. While we waited tensely for the ration runners, we drank schnapps and smoked cigarettes. The stretcher bearer had gone back with the ration runners to pick up medicines, bandages, and antitetanus ampules, for if anyone was wounded in the daytime, we had to leave him lying where he was until nightfall. Your brother sat by the phone, and I squatted at his feet on the flattened pile of straw on which we slept.

“The whole secret of attack,” he suddenly said, after we had been silent for a long time, “is to imagine how scared the enemy is. Imagine yourself crouching in your hole and you suddenly see some characters charging at you and yelling their heads off! You go crazy with fear; you saw that on Tuesday—we lost all self-control. You have to force the enemy to become passive. Then he’s done for.”

“You’ve found the secret of how to win the war,” I said dryly. “Sell it for a fortune, and you’ve got it made.”

He gave a quick laugh, then his expression grew serious again, and he lit another cigarette. “But the terrible thing is that one doesn’t know which side one wants to win …”

At this moment the stretcher bearer rushed in, shouting, “We’re being relieved, sir, we’re being relieved!”

What was happening was that the front, whose defense was demanding increasingly pointless sacrifices, was being shortened; the lines were allowed to shrink, and for several days a few units could be saved that were then sent back to the front to reinforce the shortened line. Whatever the reason, it was wonderful to go back to the rear for at least a brief respite. The ration runner hadn’t bothered to bring any more rations; we were to have our meal in peace and quiet at the rear. At midnight, when darkness had become solid, we moved off, a sad procession: one week earlier we had moved into position with nearly eighty men, and we were returning with forty-eight.

In the dark it was impossible to make out whether it was the same place. When we actually did reach the village I was filled with a fantastic feeling of life.

Your brother was kept busy for a while, making sure his men were properly accommodated, supervising the distribution of rations. He gave orders that the following day the men would be off duty, attended to a pile of tiresome paperwork in the orderly room, and instructed me to heat up enough water for a thorough wash.

We were billeted in a farm cottage whose rough windows had been nailed up with cardboard and then draped with blankets. I lit four bunker lights, one in each corner, and stoked up the stove with plenty of wood. It was almost November. I had lost all desire for sleep, although an hour earlier I could have collapsed from exhaustion. Slowly savoring every mouthful, I emptied my mess kit, washed down the rich bean soup with generous swigs of schnapps, and stuffed the larger of my two pipes so full of tobacco that the pale yellow shreds hung over the edge. Drawing deeply on my pipe, I would drink another schnapps and watch the roaring flames as they devoured the wood in the stove. From time to time I would dip my hand in the bucket to test the heat of the water. With every pull on my pipe I sucked in something precious, indescribable, something that felt good even as I remembered the dead and the wounded: life.

When the water seemed hot enough, I carefully pulled out my underwear from the bag I had collected from the company baggage, chose a decent civilian shirt—light blue with a proper civilized collar—and sniffed it: it still smelled of Cadette’s soap.

Slowly, with an intoxicated sensuousness, I washed myself. Imagine, if you can: you live in the ground and receive every day as much or
as little liquid as you need barely to satisfy your most elementary thirst; not a single opportunity to wash even your fingertips, yet still having to spend hours crawling over the wet ground. You become matted with dirt. Fortunately, since we were all newcomers, we had been spared the otherwise inevitable lice, those demoralizing vermin that contributed significantly toward our losing the war. Later I was to become familiar with them.

I kept on washing long enough for the fresh lot of water to have heated up again; then I shaved and put on clean underwear and socks. I was filled with exaltation: never had that rotgut tasted so delicious, never had tobacco tasted so good. Just before two, your brother came back. He greeted me wearily, sat down on the bench by the stove, removed his cap, and, with a sudden gesture, flung it onto the floor in the middle of the room.

While he ate, I set the bucket of water on a low wooden stool, put soap and towel beside it, and laid out the underwear I had taken out of his pack.

Then I lay down on a bed in the corner and watched him. When he began to shave, I said, “You still owe me the solution to a riddle you asked me at the station in Abbeville. About the wine salesman …”

“Yes,” he said with a laugh, “that was two weeks ago; it feels as if it had been in another life.”

“It was in another life,” I said.

“Maybe you’re right—I’ll give you the solution before the day is out.”

The door opened, and in came Schnecker. We were surprised less at the sight of him than of a new decoration on his chest.

I had jumped to my feet and accorded him the mandatory obeisance. With a wave of the hand he said, “Lie down again.”

Your brother greeted him silently and, just as silently, offered him a stool.

Schnecker seated himself astride a chair, lit a cigarette, and proceeded to watch your brother shaving.

I had ample time to observe him as he sat turned sideways toward me. He sat extraordinarily still, almost motionless, but when I looked at him more closely I realized that he was completely drunk. He was at that stage when a drunk man is filled with a leaden stability, when
an almost idiotic law of gravity keeps him upright. When he started to speak, it became obvious that I had assumed correctly.

“My friend,” he began; his voice, very pinched, came from high up in his throat. “I see you’re up to some nice little tricks, my friend, hm?”

“What do you mean?” countered your brother, who had finished shaving. He dried his face and put on his shirt.

“I see you’re up to some nice little tricks. I haven’t heard a thing about there being no duty tomorrow, and you simply go ahead and order it.” He laughed.

Your brother laughed too. “If you haven’t heard a thing about it, so much the better.”

“But now I have heard about it,” said the captain, his tone sharpening as he jerked himself to his feet. “And I’m telling you that it’s important for the men to go over their weapons and gear tomorrow—the day after that we’re being redeployed, assigned to the Seventeenth, a bit farther south, understand?” By now he was almost shouting.

“I understand perfectly, but first I’m going to see that the men get some sleep. Besides …” he hesitated, slowly tied his neckband, ran his hand once more over his hair, looked at Schnecker, and was silent.

“Besides what?” asked the captain.

“Besides,” your brother calmly continued, “I would have preferred it if I could have seen you now and then up at the front with me this past week.”

“What’s that?” A wary look came over the captain’s face, and he shot a glance in my direction, but I had closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. The two men now lowered their voices.

“I would have preferred it if I could have seen you now and then in my sector during this past week. It would have given the men quite a boost, and me too, for that matter. It’s dreadful to feel all the time that one is alone. After all, orders are only paper.”

“Paper?” asked Schnecker. His expression was now almost maniacal; his voice had slipped too, and he was quite hoarse.

“Yes, paper!” shouted your brother, so loud that I was really startled. “Paper! Paper! A substance inferior even to that gilt tin on your manly chest!”

“Oho!” cried the captain; now he was laughing again. Suddenly he stood stiffly to attention. “I have to inform you, First Lieutenant
Schelling,” he said raspingly, “that you have been awarded the Iron Cross, First and Second Class, also the Infantry Assault Medal in Silver. You fought damn well. In fifteen minutes the gentlemen of the battalion will be holding a small celebration in your honor and”—he gave a little bow to himself—“in mine too.”

He put on his cap and marched out stiff as a ramrod. It was almost as if he hadn’t been there at all. Your brother whistled softly as he cleaned his nails, the cigarette between his lips. I rose and put out two of the lights that had begun to flicker and threatened to burst into flames.

“I don’t feel much like sleeping now—how about us looking in on the party?”

“Us?” I asked in surprise.

“Of course you’re coming along—you’re getting a decoration too, maybe a couple.”

“What, me?” I exclaimed.

“Of course,” he said, laughing. “Besides, there’ll be women there. I’d like to have one more chance to see a woman.”

“Girls?” I cried.

“Maybe girls too!” He laughed again. “I’ve no idea what kind will be there. Anyway, they’ll be women, and I’d like the chance to have a glass or two of wine with one of them.”

“Jesus!” I cried. “Women!”

He stood up and drew on his greatcoat. I put on my cap and slipped into a padded camouflage jacket.

We stepped out together into the cold night; it was quiet, something resembling peace lay spread under the dark vault of the sky. Headquarters were in a large building, something between a palace and a manor house—I imagine it had been the administrative offices of a kolkhoz.

The sentry let us pass without hindrance, although we didn’t know the password. We found ourselves walking along dark corridors and managed to rout out a telephone operator who directed us to the third floor. Raucous singing filled the corridor, which smelled of Russia. A door opened, light and noise streamed out onto the corridor, were
immediately swallowed up again, and we soon came upon a figure that was staggering toward a window, apparently to throw up.

“Hello, Piester!” cried your brother. The man turned, recognized your brother, and waved. We went closer. He leaned on a window sill and groaned pitifully. It was the adjutant, an agreeable young lieutenant not much given to talking.