December 1914
SOMETHING ABOUT SOLDIERS
A MAN GETS used to the soldier’s life without at the same time ever quite being able to tell how. We can say, in general, that the service is bearable. Each day passes after the other. The tasks that a soldier has to perform can and indeed must be described as to a certain extent rather monotonous, but it probably has to be that way, since I don’t feel that we would be right to think that a man goes into the service merely with the goal of finding exciting and diverting entertainment every day. The life of a soldier has certain definite, constantly repeated hard things about it, and yet mastering those things requires in my opinion only a reasonable, not particularly great amount of patience. In addition, there is also no doubt great charm in the service as well, like for instance the constant cleaning. You are always cleaning and yet always find yourself in a situation in which additional cleaning is urgently needed. Herein lies, in my experience, the great and good manner of passing the time in the service, which, I would say, intrinsically possesses a kind of quickly accomplished, rough, and large-scale cleanliness. The soldier does not intend to, and cannot, detour into the tiny and tiniest details of cleanliness. That would be in no way soldierly. Have for example I even once during my service, or more than two or three times, used soap? Not that I know of. I washed my hands with dirt, it was simpler that way. When I got back home I would look at myself again in the mirror. The rather grimy appearance and degenerate look that had overtaken my face puzzled me a little. Still, I was honestly happy about it.
I spoke earlier of the monotony of the service: this is probably inherent in military thinking as such. Only countless repetitions of one and the same exercise produce a high degree of competence, and competence is also beauty, and beauty is the suppleness that reminds one of the curious machinery and technology of a dream. In this consists the whole art of being a soldier, and it moves in high style from holding the weapon to combat.
The soldier is lodged now in a schoolroom, now in a high, wide dance hall decorated with old or new murals, now in a horrible barn or granary, now in a hovel or barracks dug into a cliff, now in the corridor of a monastery or a cozy farmer’s cottage. Lying and slumbering on rough straw can be just as refreshing and just as delightful as stretching out for a rest on the fanciest, most expensive bed. It depends on what you’re used to; habit is the reigning queen of our lives. The person who happens to be an artist gets used to everything in life by virtue of a wonderful ability that is granted to him! The air in the quarters where around fifty or more people are lying right up next to each other is, as you might imagine, somewhat bad, and yet I do not believe that it is such a great misfortune to have to breathe in air that is rather thick and heavy with entirely natural exhalations and emanations every now and again. A healthy individual can disregard such and other similar matters with remarkable ease, all the more so since he can after all spend the whole day literally swimming and bathing in fresh air. A soldier is more likely to be found on the wide-open mountaintops or in a green forest or in the middle of a blossoming meadow than anywhere else. Rain and sunshine, wind and storms, harden his body in every way one might wish. Does not every soldier have, to mention just one thing that possesses great value and charm, a bread sack, from which, in the field, at an opportune moment, he can draw forth a piece of meat or a sausage or whatever else good and nourishing he has taken the precaution of packing into it and valiantly eat it, thereby rejuvenating his somewhat depleted life force? To march in formation and in time down spic-and-span streets, through a beautiful, rich country, is that not magnificent? If you are quartered in a pretty village and a fellow comes strolling across the street, the army post officer who follows you everywhere like a well-trained valet eager to serve will call out his name and he can pick up his letter or package just like that.
The food a soldier receives is not exactly princely fare, of course, but he himself must admit that such a thing would be rather inappropriate and, incidentally, he would not be at all well served by it anyway. Simple food and a cheerful, unworried existence are better than fancy dishes bound up, perhaps, with sorrow and irritation. The soldier often curses and swears. But that doesn’t mean much. Swearing with honest dislike is better than a constant string of peevish grumbling objections. Someone who thunders and rages feels better afterwards.
July 1915
IN THE MILITARY
THERE are some things in the military that are without question extremely nice and pleasant, like for instance marching to music through peaceful, friendly villages where schoolgroups, groups of women, and blossoming trees stand along the side of the road. What does a soldier have to think about all day? The fact is, for the thing we call militarism to work properly, he should really think absolutely nothing or deliberately as little as possible. He is only too happy to avail himself of a custom that frees him from discomfort and complaints, since thinking, as everyone knows, does cause headaches. How attractive, delightful, and magical it sometimes seems to me not to think. That’s the thing. The moments in the military when the proper command is “At ease!” are enchanting. The way the whole group or company dissolves its form in painterly, laid-back fashion and every man is free to wander off and away however he pleases, without any further consideration of obligation or drill, is most amusing and significantly fun. At once, the majority of these fellows or (to speak more politely of these defenders of the fatherland!) individuals stick a happy, jolly, jaunty cheroot or nice white slender cigarette into their mouths, light up whatever awaits lighting up, and smoke. The truth is, mountains and mints of money are smoked up in the military. To return to people’s thoughts, you have to picture and imagine a million-strong crowd of fellows or (to be more polite) individuals who dispense with the thinking of any halfway or entirely reasonable thoughts. Is this not a picture to instill horror? Absolutely, almost! Unfortunately, I myself am one of those fellows who find it nice not to think. Also, I hold the principle of service in immensely high esteem, and thus I would prefer, in God the Merciful’s name, to keep silent on this embarrassing and inalterable circumstance or theme or I don’t know what all to call it. Soldiers in this category know how to write, gab, prattle, and nevertheless keep nice and properly quiet. But in all seriousness: There are beauties and freedoms in the military that cannot be bought at any price, and therefore I would not wish not to be a part of it. Where else but in the military and as a simple, ready-and-rough soldier could one ever dare and take the liberty to devour an apple or, say, plum tart around eight at night, in lovely evening light, on a public small-town street, with unbounded delight and complete peace of mind? Soldiers are a kind of children, and are actually a lot like children, too, sometimes treated and guided strictly, sometimes gently.