The Good Soldier Svejk (58 page)

"It's just a few steps from here, sir, right behind that wooden hut."

"You go on in front, you skunk, so that I can see whether you can march properly in step."

"It's really most curious," thought Lieutenant Dub to himself, "but upon my word this wretched fellow seems quite all right."

Schweik went on in front, commending himself to the will of God. But he had a sort of inkling that there would be a well behind the hut, and so he was not surprised to find that there was one. In fact, there was a pump as well, and when they reached it, Schweik moved the pump handle up and down, whereupon out

flowed some yellowish water, so that Schweik was able to announce with all due solemnity :

"Here's the water that tastes of iron, sir."

At this juncture, the man with the side curls, now very much scared, came up, and Schweik told him in German to bring a glass, as the lieutenant wanted to have a drink.

Lieutenant Dub was so flabbergasted that he drank up the whole glass of water, which left in his mouth a flavour of horse urine and liquid manure, and, quite dazed by what had happened to him, he gave the Jew with the side curls a five-crown note and turning to Schweik, said :

"What are you hanging about here for? Get back to your right place."

Five minutes later Schweik made his appearance in the staff carriage, and mysteriously beckoned to Lieutenant Lukash to come outside. He then said to him :

"Beg to report, sir, that in five minutes, or ten at the most, I shall be as tight as a lord, but I'm going to lay down in my truck, so perhaps you wouldn't mind, sir, not calling me for another three hours and not giving me any orders until I've slept it off. There's nothing wrong with me, only I got nabbed by Lieutenant Dub, and I told him it was water, so I had to drink up the whole bottle of brandy right under his nose so as to prove to him that it was water. There's nothing wrong, sir; I never gave the game away, like you told me, and I was on my guard, but now I beg to report, sir, that I can feel my legs beginning to wobble. Of course, sir, I can stand liquor all right, because when I was with Mr. Katz -"

"Get out of it, you hog !" shouted Lieutenant Lukash, but he was not really angry with Schweik, On the other hand, his dislike of Lieutenant Dub was a hundred per cent, greater than before.

Schweik crept cautiously into his truck and as he lay down on his greatcoat and valise, he said to Quartermaster-sergeant Vanek and the rest :

"Here's a chap who for once in a way has got tight and doesn't want to be woke up."

With these words he rolled over on his side and began to snore.

The vapours which he now began to exhale soon made their

presence felt, and Jurajde, the cook, sniffing the atmosphere in the truck, remarked :

"My God, what a stink of brandy!"

Marek, the volunteer officer, who at last, after all his tribulations, had managed to get a job as keeper of battalion records, was seated at the folding table. He was preparing an advance and reserve stock of heroic deeds for the battalion, and it was plain that this peep into the future was causing him much amusement.

Quartermaster-sergeant Vanek looked on with interest at the volunteer officer who, with a broad grin, was writing busily. Presently, he stood up and looked over the shoulder of the volunteer officer, who began to explain matters to him :

"This is no end of a lark, laying up stocks of history for the battalion. The chief thing is to go about the job in a systematic way. There's got to be system in the whole business."

"A systematic system," remarked Quartermaster-sergeant Vanek, with a more or less contemptuous smile.

"Yes," said the volunteer officer in an offhand tone, "a systematized, systematic system for writing the history of the battalion. It's no use coming out with great victories right at the very start. The whole thing's got to take its course gradually and according to a definite plan. One battalion can't win the war right off. The important thing for a painstaking historian like me to do is first of all to draw up a general scheme of the victories we're going to win. For example, this is where I describe how our battalion, about two months from now, nearly crosses the Russian frontier, which is strongly guarded, let us say, by some regiments of Don Cossacks, while a number of enemy divisions are about to surround us by a flanking movement. At first sight, it looks as if our battalion's done for and that they'll make mincemeat of us. But then Captain Sagner issues this order to the battalion : 'It is not God's will that we should perish here; let us retreat.' So our battalion takes to its heels, but the enemy division, which has now surrounded us, sees that we're really chasing after them, and so they begin to take fright and skedaddle, so that without firing a shot they get captured by our reserves. That's where the history of our battalion really begins. From quite a trifling event, if I may speak prophetically, Sergeant, matters of great moment de-

velop. Our battalion passes from victory to victory. It'll be interesting to see how our battalion takes the enemy by surprise while they're asleep. Each man in the battalion will pick one of the enemy and with all his might will shove his bayonet through his chest. The bayonets, with their well-ground edges, will slide in as if they were cutting butter, and only here and there you'll hear a rib cracking. The bodies of the sleeping enemy will twitch, their eyes, horrified but already sightless, will bulge, they will make gurgling noises and then grow rigid. Blood and foam will appear on the lips of the sleeping enemy and that will end the whole business. Our battalion will score a victory. Or it'll be even better, say, in about three months' time, when our battalion captures the Czar. But we'll talk about that later on, Sergeant. In the meanwhile I must lay in a stock of little incidents giving proof of unexampled bravery. Thus, I'll write about the dogged self-sacrifice of our men when they are studded with bits of hand grenade. And then, through the explosion of an enemy mine, one of our sergeants, say, of the 12th or 13th company, will have his head blown off. And, by the way," continued Marek, with a gesture indicating sudden remembrance, "I nearly forgot to tell you, Sergeant, to get me a list of all the N. C. O.'s. Tell me the name of one of the sergeant-majors in the 12th company. Houska? Very well, then, Houska's going to have his head blown off by this mine. His head will fly off, but his body will go on walking for another few yards, he'll take aim and shoot down an enemy aeroplane. Of course, the royal family will have to arrange a special evening party in their own home to celebrate exploits of that kind. Quite a select affair, to be held in the apartment next to the Emperor's bedroom. The place will be lit up with candles only, because, as I expect you know, electric light is unpopular in court circles, on account of our aged monarch's prejudice against short circuits. The festivities in honour of our battalion will begin at six p. m. At that hour the grandchildren of His Royal Highness will be in bed, and after the Emperor has proposed a toast to our draft, a few words will be said by the Archduchess Marie Valerie, who will refer to you, Sergeant, in terms of approval. I tell you, Austria's got lots and lots of battalions, but ours is the only one that'll distinguish itself to that extent. Of course, from the notes

I have made, it is evident that our battalion will suffer severe and irretrievable losses, because a battalion without any dead can hardly be called a battalion. A fresh article will have to be written about our losses. Victories are all very well in their way, and I've got about forty-two of 'em on tap now. But the history of the battalion has got to be something more than a string of dry facts about victories. So, as I say, there's got to be plenty of losses as well. For instance, Sergeant, you're going west by the side of a brook, and Baloun here, who's squinting at us with such a queer look in his eyes, is not going to be done in by a bullet or by shrapnel or by a bomb. No, he's going to be strangled by a lasso chucked out of an enemy aeroplane just at the moment when he's guzzling Lieutenant Lukash's lunch. But don't get the wind up, Baloun. You'll be mentioned all right in the history of the battalion and there'll be an account of how you met death like a hero, grub in mouth, on the way from the officers' mess to the trenches. You'll be mentioned along with all the men of our battalion who fell for the glory of our empire, like Quartermaster-sergeant Vanek here."

"What sort of a death have you got me down for, Marek?" "Wait a bit, Sergeant. Don't be in such a hurry. You've got to go slow with this sort of thing."

The volunteer officer lapsed into thought. Then he said : "You're from Kralupy, aren't you? Very well, then, you write home to Kralupy and tell them that you're going to vanish without a trace, but be careful how you put it. Or perhaps you'd rather be gravely wounded behind the barbed wire in no-man's-land. We can leave you lying there quite nicely with a broken leg all day long. In the night the enemy will get at our position with a searchlight and then they'll spot you. So they'll
strafe
you with plenty of bombs and shrapnel. You'll have rendered invaluable services to the army because the enemy will use up as much ammunition on you as on the whole battalion and your ingredient parts and accessories will sail about in the air and chant a great anthem of victory. And in the same way everyone in the battalion will have his turn at distinguishing himself, until, say somewhere in September, there'll be nothing left of us except these glorious pages of history which will thrill the hearts of all Austrians. And this

is how I've wound up the whole thing, Sergeant : All honour to the memory of the fallen ! Their love for our monarchy is the holiest love, for it culminates in death. Let their names, e.g., Vanek, be uttered with awe. And they who were most closely affected by the loss of their bread winners—let them proudly dry their tears, for they who fell were the heroes of our battalion."

Chodounsky the telephonist and Jurajda the cook were listening with bated breath to the volunteer officer's account of the projected history of the battalion.

"Gather round, gentlemen," said the volunteer officer, turning over his collection of jottings. "I've got you all down. Here we are, page 15, Telephonist Chodounsky fell on September 3rd, side by side with Jurajda the battalion cook. Just listen here to what I've written about you : 'Unexampled heroism. The former, at the risk of his life, protected the telephone wires in his bombproof shelter, remaining there at the telephone for three days without being relieved. The latter, seeing the menace from the enemy on the flank, hurled himself on the enemy with a cauldron of boiling soap, spreading terror and scalds among the enemy. Both died a glorious death. The former blown to pieces by a mine, the latter suffocated by poison gas. Both perished with the cry (in German) : "Long live our battalion commander!" ' The supreme command can only show its gratitude by issuing orders acquainting the rest of the army with the gallantry of our battalion and urging them to take an example from us. Here's an extract from an army order which will be read to all detachments. I may say that it's very much like the order issued by Archduke Karl in 1805, on the day before he and his army got a devil of a walloping at Padua : 'I hope that the whole army will take the above-mentioned battalion as an example and in particular will gird itself with that spirit of self-reliance, self-confidence and unwavering dauntlessness in the face of danger, that unexampled heroism, that attachment to and confidence in their superior officers, in short, with all those virtues by which this battalion distinguished itself and led it on to memorable exploits, to the welfare and victory of our Emperor.' "

From the spot where Schweik was reposing, he could be heard talking in his sleep:

"You're quite right, Mrs. Muller. There's lots of people who looks like each other. At Kralup there used to be a man named Jarosh who made water pumps and he was the very image of a watchmaker at Pardubice named Lejhanzl, and he again was as like another fellow named Piskor at Jicin, and the whole lot of 'em couldn't be told apart from the corpse of a stranger who was found in a pond, all rotting away, just near the railway line at Neuhaus." Snores were now heard, and then : "So they all had to pay a whopping big fine, and to-morrow, Mrs. Muller, I want you to cook me some noodles."

At this point Schweik rolled over on to the other side and went on snoring, while Jurajda and the volunteer officer started an argument on the future life.

While they were arguing about reincarnation and lizards and infusions, Lieutenant Dub popped his head in at the door, which was ajar.

"Is Schweik here?" he asked.

"Beg to report, sir, he's asleep," replied the volunteer officer.

"When I ask for him, it's your business to pull yourself together and fetch him."

"I can't do that, sir; he's asleep."

"Well, wake him up, then. I'm surprised that you didn't think of that at once. You ought to show more willingness to help your superior officers. You don't know me yet. But when you do get to know me -"

The volunteer officer began to wake Schweik up.

"Get up, Schweik. There's a fire."

"The time there was a fire at Odkolek's mills," mumbled Schweik, turning over on to the other side again, "the firemen came along from as far away as Vysocany."

"You see, sir," said the volunteer officer, courteously, to Lieutenant Dub, "that I'm waking him up, but it's no use."

Lieutenant Dub lost his temper.

"What's your name? Marek? Oh, yes ; you're the volunteer officer who spends all his time under close arrest, aren't you?"