Then someone shouts out the number of our company we can hear that it is our company commander, so he must have made it; his arm is in a sling. We move towards him and I pick out Kat and Albert, we join together, prop each other up and look at each other.
And we hear our number called again, and then again. He can go on calling, but they wont hear him in the clearing stations or out in no mans land.
Again: B company over here!
And then more quietly: Nobody else from В Company?
He is silent, and then his voice sounds hoarse when he asks, Is that all? Then he gives the command: Number off!
It is a grey morning. It was still summer when we went up the line and there were a hundred and fifty of us. Now we are shivering. It is autumn, the leaves rustle, the voices are tired as they call out: One two three four and they are silent after thirty-two. And there is a long silence before the voice asks, Any more? and waits a bit and then says quietly, By squads but then breaks down, and can only finish the command with, B Company painfully, B Company march at ease.
A line, a short line, stumbles off into the morning.
Thirty-two men.
VII
They take us back further behind the line than usual, back to an infantry base depot[170], so that they can get our company up to strength. We need more than a hundred men.
For the moment we just idle around when we are off duty. After a couple of days Himmelstoss comes over to talk to us. He has changed his high and mighty attitude since being in the trenches. He suggests a truce with us, and I am willing, because I saw how he carried Haie Westhus out of the fighting when his back had been ripped apart. Besides, now that he talks to us sensibly, we have no objections to him standing us a drink in the canteen. Only Tjaden is suspicious and keeps his distance.
But even he is won over when Himmelstoss tells us that hes going to be standing in for the ginger-headed cook, whos off on leave. To prove it he comes up with two pounds of sugar for us and half a pound of butter just for Tjaden. He even arranges for us to be detailed to the kitchens for the next three days to peel potatoes and turnips. The food he gives us there is one hundred per cent officers mess quality.
So at the moment weve got the two things any soldier needs to keep him happy: good food and rest. It isnt much, when you think about it. A few years ago we would really have despised ourselves. Now we are pretty well content. You can get used to anything even being in the trenches.
This habit of getting used to things is the reason that we seem to forget so quickly. The day before yesterday we were still under fire, today we are fooling about, seeing what we can scrounge around here, tomorrow well be back in the trenches. In fact we dont really forget anything. All the time we are out here the days at the front sink into us like stones the moment they are over, because they are too much for us to think about right away. If we even tried, they would kill us. Because one thing has become clear to me: you can cope with all the horror as long as you simply duck thinking about it but it will kill you if you try to come to terms with it.
In the same way that we turn into animals when we go up the line, because it is the only way we can survive, when we are back behind the lines we become superficial jokers and idlers. We cant do anything about it its compulsive. We want to go on living at any price, and therefore we cant burden ourselves with emotions that might be all very nice to have in peacetime, but are out of place here. Kemmerich is dead, Haie Westhus is dying, therell be a few problems with Hans Kramers body on Judgement Day[171] when they try to resurrect what was left after the shell hit him, Martens lost both legs, Meyer is dead, Marks is dead, Beyer is dead, Hammerling is dead, a hundred and twenty men are lying out there somewhere with a bullet in them. Its all a bloody business, but whats that got to do with us were alive. If it were possible to save them well, then you should just watch us, we wouldnt care if we got it ourselves, wed just go at it, because weve got plenty of guts[172] when we need them; we dont have much in the way of ordinary fear were afraid of death, of course, but thats different, thats physical.
But our mates are dead, and we cant help them. They are at peace who knows what we might still have to face? We want to chuck ourselves down and sleep, or stuff as much food into our bellies as we can, and booze and smoke, so that the passing hours arent so empty. Life is short.
The horror of the front fades away when you turn your back on it, so we can attack it with coarse or black humour. When someone is dead we say hes pushing up the daisies[173], and we talk about everything the same way, to save ourselves from going mad; as long as we can take things like that we are actually fighting back.
But we do not forget. All that stuff in the war issues of the papers about the wonderful cheeriness of the troops, who start arranging little tea-dances[174] the minute they get back from being under heavy fire in the line, is complete rubbish. It isnt because we are naturally cheerful that we make jokes, its just that we keep cheerful because if we didnt, wed be done for. At the same, it cant hold all that much longer the jokes get more bitter with every month that passes.
One thing I do know: everything that is sinking into us like a stone now, while we are in the war, will rise up again when the war is over, and thats when the real life-and-death struggle will start.
The days, the weeks, the years spent out here will come back to us again, and our dead comrades in arms will rise again and march with us, our heads will be clear and we will have an aim in life, and with our dead comrades beside us and the years we spent in the line behind us we shall march forward but against whom, against whom?
A while ago there was a concert party for the troops near here. Coloured posters advertising the performance are still stuck up on a hoarding. Kropp and I stand and gaze wide-eyed at one of them. We cant imagine that such things still exist. The picture is of a girl in a light summer frock with a shiny red belt around her waist. She is standing with one hand resting on a low balustrade, and she is holding a straw hat in the other. She is wearing white stockings and white shoes, elegant shoes with buckles and high heels. Behind her is the sea, bright blue and shining, dotted with white-crested waves, and over to one side of her you can make out the curve of a sunlit bay. The girl is beautiful, with a little nose, red lips and long legs, unbelievably clean and tidy she must take two baths a day, and her fingernails surely never have any dirt under them at the worst a bit of sand from the beach.
Next to her stands a man in white slacks with a blue jacket and a yachting cap, but he doesnt interest us nearly as much.
For us, the girl on the poster is a miracle. We have forgotten completely that such things exist, and even now we can scarcely believe our eyes. At any rate, we havent seen anything like this for years, nothing remotely approaching this for light-heartedness, beauty and happiness. We get the churned-up feeling that this is it, this is what peace must be like.
Just look at those flimsy shoes she wouldnt be able to march for many miles in them! I say, and then at once I feel stupid, because it is ridiculous to think about marching when you are looking at a picture like that.
How old do you reckon she is? asks Kropp.
I have a guess: Twenty-two at the most, Albert.
Shed be older than us, then, wouldnt she? I bet shes no more than seventeen.
Our flesh tingles. Albert, that would be a bit of all right, wouldnt it?
He nods. Ive got a pair of white slacks at home, too.
White slacks are one thing, I say, but a girl like that
We look each other up and down. Not much of a picture there, two faded, darned and dirty uniforms. It is hopeless comparing ourselves with her.
The first thing we do is to tear the picture of the young man off the hoarding, taking great care not to damage the girl. At least thats a start. Then Kropp suggests, Why dont we go and get deloused?
I am a bit dubious about it, because it damages your stuff and the lice are back within a couple of hours anyway. But after we have gazed at the picture again, I agree. I even go a step further: We might see if we could get our hands on a clean shirt[175] from somewhere
For some reason Albert reckons, Socks would be even better. Maybe socks as well. We could scrounge around a bit.
At that point Leer and Tjaden wander over; they see the poster and within seconds the conversation gets pretty lewd. Leer was the first one in our class at school to have a girlfriend and he used to tell us interesting details. His enthusiastic comments about the picture are quite specific and Tjaden joins in vigorously.
It doesnt really bother us. You cant have soldiers without a bit of dirty talk; its just that we arent really in the mood for it at the moment, so we clear off, and quick-march ourselves across to the delousing station[176], feeling as if were heading for some high-class and fashionable gents outfitters.
Our billets are in houses close to the canal. On the far side of the canal there are ponds with poplar trees around them and on the far side of the canal there are women as well.
The houses on our side have been emptied. Sometimes you still see local people in the houses on the other side.
In the evenings we go for a swim. Three women come walking along the canal bank. They walk slowly and they dont look away, even though we arent wearing any trunks.
Our billets are in houses close to the canal. On the far side of the canal there are ponds with poplar trees around them and on the far side of the canal there are women as well.
The houses on our side have been emptied. Sometimes you still see local people in the houses on the other side.
In the evenings we go for a swim. Three women come walking along the canal bank. They walk slowly and they dont look away, even though we arent wearing any trunks.
Leer shouts across to them. They laugh, and stop to have a look at us. We shout across any broken French that comes into our heads, all mixed-up and hurried, just so that they dont go away. The things we shout are not exactly drawing-room pleasantries, but where would we have picked up that sort of vocabulary anyway?