One Sunday, when Kropp and I were detailed to lug the latrine buckets across the parade-ground on a pole between us, Himmelstoss happened to come along, all poshed up and ready to go out. He stopped in front of us and asked how we were enjoying ourselves, so we faked a stumble, regardless, and tipped a bucketful over his legs. He was furious, but we had reached breaking point.
Youll get clink for that[55]! he shouted.
But Kropp had had enough. Not before theres been an inquiry, and thats where well spill the beans[56], he said.
Is that how you talk to an NCO? roared Himmelstoss. Have you taken leave of your senses? Dont speak until youre spoken to! What did you say youd do?
Spill the beans about Corporal Himmelstoss! Sir! said Kropp, standing to attention.
Then Himmelstoss got the message, and cleared off without saying anything, although he did manage to snarl, Ill make you lot suffer for this, before he disappeared but it was the end of his power over us. During field practice he tried again with his Take cover![57] On the feet! Move, move! We obeyed all his orders, of course, because orders are orders and have to be obeyed. But we followed them so slowly that it drove Himmelstoss to despair. Taking it at a nice comfortable pace, we went down on to our knees, then on to our elbows and so on, and meanwhile he had already shouted another enraged order. He was hoarse before we were even sweating.
From then on he left us in peace. He went on calling us miserable little swine, of course. But there was respect in his voice.
There were plenty of decent drill corporals around, men who were more reasonable; the decent ones were even in the majority. More than anything else every one of them wanted to hang on to his safe job here at home for as long as possible and they could only do that by being tough with recruits.
In the process we probably picked up every little detail of parade-ground drill that there was, and often we were so angry that it brought us to screaming pitch. It made a good few of us ill, and one of us, Wolf, actually died of pneumonia. But we would have been ashamed of ourselves if we had thrown in the towel[58]. We became tough, suspicious, hardhearted, vengeful and rough and a good thing too, because they were just the qualities we needed. If they had sent us out into the trenches without this kind of training, then probably most of us would have gone mad. But this way we were prepared for what was waiting for us.
We didnt break; we adapted. The fact that we were only twenty helped us to do that, even though it made other things so difficult. But most important of all, we developed a firm, practical feeling of solidarity, which grew, on the battlefield, into the best thing that the war produced comradeship in arms.
Im sitting by Kemmerichs bed. He is fading more and more visibly. Theres a lot of to-ing and fro-ing around us.[59] A hospital train has come in, and they are sorting out any of the wounded that can be moved. A doctor goes past Kemmerichs bed and doesnt even look at him.
Next time round, Franz, I tell him.
He lifts himself up on one elbow, propped against the pillow. Theyve amputated my leg.
So now he has realized after all. I nod and by way of a response I say, You want to be glad that you got away with that.
He doesnt say anything.
I carry on talking. It could have been both your legs, Franz. Wegler lost his right arm. Thats a lot worse. And it means youll go home.
He looks at me. Do you think so?
Of course I do.
He says it again, Do you think so?
Of course you will, Franz. You just have to recover from the operation.
He signals to me to come a bit closer. I lean over him and he whispers, I dont reckon I will.
Dont talk such rubbish, Franz, youll see yourself that Im right in a couple of days. Its not such a big thing, having a leg amputated. They patch up a lot of worse things here.
He lifts his hand. Just have a look at my fingers.
Thats all because of the operation. Just get a decent amount of grub into you, and youll pick up again. Are they feeding you properly?
He lifts his hand. Just have a look at my fingers.
Thats all because of the operation. Just get a decent amount of grub into you, and youll pick up again. Are they feeding you properly?
He points to a dish, but it is still half full. I begin to get worked up. Franz, youve got to eat. Eating is the main thing. And the foods pretty good here.
He shakes his head. After a while he says slowly, I used to want to be a forester.
I try to reassure him. You still can be. They can make amazing artificial limbs these days you hardly notice that they arent real. They fix them on to the muscles. You can move the fingers on artificial hands and you can use them, you can even write. And besides, they are making improvements all the time.
He lies there for a while without a word. Then he says, You can take my flying boots for Muller.
I nod and try to think of something to say that will cheer him up. His lips are pallid, his mouth has got bigger and his teeth look very prominent, as if they were made of chalk. His flesh is melting away, his forehead is higher, his cheekbones more pronounced. The skeleton is working its way to the surface. His eyes are sinking already. In a few hours it will all be over.
He isnt the first one I have seen like this; but we grew up together, and that always makes it different. Ive copied school exercises from him. In school he usually wore a brown jacket with a belt, with parts of the sleeves worn smooth. And he was the only one of us that could do a full arm-turn on the high bar[60]. His hair flew into his face like silk when he did it. Kantorek was proud of him for being able to do it. But he couldnt stand cigarettes. His skin was very white, and there was something feminine about him.
I glance down at my own boots. They are big and heavy and my trousers are tucked into them; standing up, you look solid and strong in these wide-legged things. But when we undress for swimming we suddenly have thin legs and narrow shoulders. We arent soldiers any more then, we are almost schoolboys again; nobody would believe that we could carry a full pack. It is really strange when we are naked; we are civilians again, and we almost feel like civilians.
Whenever we went swimming, Franz Kemmerich used to look as small and slim as a child. Now he is lying there and for what reason? Everybody in the whole world ought to be made to walk past his bed and be told: This is Franz Kemmerich, hes nineteen and a half, and he doesnt want to die! Dont let him die!
My thoughts run wild. This smell of carbolic and gangrene clogs the lungs, like thick, suffocating porridge.
It gets dark. Kemmerichs face gets paler, it stands out against his pillow and is so white that it looks luminous. He makes a small movement with his mouth. I get closer to him. He whispers, If you find my watch, send it home.
I dont argue. There is no point any more. He is beyond convincing. Im sick with helplessness. That forehead, sunk in at the temples, that mouth, which is all teeth now, that thin, sharp nose. And the flit, tearful woman at home that I shall have to write to I wish I had that job behind me already.
Hospital orderlies move about with bottles and buckets. One comes up to us, glances at Kemmerich speculatively and goes away again. He is obviously waiting probably he needs the bed.
I get close to Franz and start to talk, as if that could save him: Maybe youll finish up in that convalescent home[61] in Klosterberg, Franz, up where the big houses are. Then youll be able to look out over the fields from your window, right across to the two trees on the horizon. Its the best time now, when the corn is ripening, and the fields look like mother-of-pearl[62] when the evening sun is on them. And the row of poplars by the stream where we used to catch sticklebacks. You can get yourself an aquarium again and breed fish, and you can go out without having to ask permission and you can even play the piano again if you want to.
I bend down over his face, which is now in shadow. He is still breathing, but faintly. His face is wet, he is crying. So much for my stupid chattering.
Come on, Franz I put my arm around his shoulder and my face is close to his. Do you want to get some sleep now?
He doesnt answer. The tears are running down his cheeks. I would like to wipe them away, but my handkerchief is too dirty.
An hour passes. I sit there, tense and watching his every movement, in case he might want to say something else. If only he would open his mouth wide and scream. But he just weeps, his head turned away. He doesnt talk about his mother or his brothers and sisters; he doesnt say anything. All that is probably already far behind him; now he is all alone with his life of nineteen short years, and he is crying because it is slipping away from him.
This is the hardest, the most desperately difficult leave-taking I have experienced, although it was bad with Tiedjen, too, who kept on shouting for his mother Tiedjen was a great tough chap who held the doctor away from his bed with a bayonet, his eyes wide open with terror, until he collapsed.
Suddenly Kemmerich groans, and there is rattling in his throat.
Im on my feet, rush outside and ask, Wheres the doctor? I see a white coat and grab hold of it. Please come quickly or Franz Kemmerich will die.
He pulls away from me and says to a hospital orderly who is standing nearby, Whats all this about?
The orderly replies, Bed twenty-six, amputation at the upper thigh.
How should I know anything about it? the doctor snaps, Ive done five leg amputations today. Then he pushes me out of the way, tells the orderly, Go and see to it, and rushes off to the operating room.
Im shaking with anger as I follow the orderly. The man looks round at me and says, One operation after the other since five oclock this morning crazy, I tell you; just today weve had another sixteen fatalities your man will make seventeen. Theres bound to be twenty at least
I feel faint; suddenly I cant go on. I dont even want to curse any more its pointless. I just want to throw myself down and never get up again.
We reach Kemmerichs bed. He is dead. His face is still wet with tears. His eyes are half open, and look as yellow as old-fashioned horn buttons.