— It's your turn now, says the black man.—If you like...
— I'm tired, says Karl.
— Oh, come now! Tired! Psychological tiredness, that's all! The black man pats him on the back. He gives Karl an encouraging grin, offering him the riding crop.
— No, says Karl.—Please, no...
-Well, I offered.
Karl is thirteen. His mother is twenty-nine. His father is dead, killed at Verdun in 1916. His mother has gone to live with her sister in a village near Thann, in Alsace...
— Leave me alone, says Karl.
— Of course. I don't want to influence you.
When Karl was thirteen he met a man who claimed to be his father. It was in a public lavatory somewhere in West London. "I'm your dad," the man had said. His stiff penis had been exposed. "Are you still at school, lad?" Karl had mumbled something and run out of the lavatory. He regretted his decision later because the man could have been his father, after all.
— Leave me in peace.
— You're a very moody chap, young Karl, laughs the black man.
He brings the riding crop down with a crack on Karl's back. Karl yells. He scrambles cut of the bed and begins to get dressed—That's it, he says.
— I'm sorry, says the black man. Please forgive me.
Karl is thirteen. He is now the provider for his mother and his aunt. The war continues not too far away. While it continues, Karl will survive...
— I misinterpreted you, that's all, says the black man. Please stay just a short while longer, eh?
— Why should I?
But Karl is weakening again.
KARL WAS THIRTEEN. His mother was twenty-nine. His father was dead, killed in the War. His mother's sister was twenty-six, also a widow. Where they lived there were many reminders of the war. It had been fought around here for a while. Broken fences, smashed trees, craters filled with water, old trenches and ruins. Ploughmen did not like to plough the ground, for they always found at least one corpse.
Karl had found a gun. It was a good French rifle. He had found plenty of ammunition in the belt of the soldier. He had tried to get the soldier's boots, but the flesh inside them had swollen up too much. Besides, Karl was perfectly satisfied with the gun. With it, he was now able to earn a decent living. Few people in the villages around Thann could do that at present.
In a thick corduroy jacket and tweed knickerbockers secured below the knee with an English soldier's puttees, with a large German knapsack over his shoulder and the French rifle in the crook of his arm, Karl sat comfortably on a slab of masonry and smoked a cigarette, waiting.
It was close to sunrise and he had arrived at the ruined farmhouse about an hour earlier. Dawn was a yellow line on the horizon. He unpacked his German field glasses and began to scan the surrounding ground—mud, tree stumps, ditches, trenches, craters, ruins... all were shadowy, all still. Karl was looking for movement.
He saw a dog. It was quite big, but thin. It sauntered along the edge of a ditch, wagging its feathery tail. Karl put down his field glasses and picked up his rifle. He. adjusted the sliding rear sight, tucked the stock firmly into his shoulder, braced his feet on the mound of brick, took precise aim and squeezed the trigger of the rifle. The stock banged into his shoulder and the gun jumped. There was a report and smoke. Karl lowered the rifle and took out his field-glasses. The dog was not quite dead. He stood up, a thumb hooked into the strap of the knapsack. By the tune he reached it, the dog would be dead.
As he skinned the animal, Karl kept his eyes peeled for other quarry. It was thin on the ground, these days. But, if anyone could get it, Karl could. He sawed off the head with the bayonet he carried for the purpose. The butcher in Thann did not ask questions when he bought Karl's loads of "mixed meat", but he did not like to be reminded too closely of the type of animal he was buying.
A little later Karl shot two rats and the cat which had been hunting them. He was amused by this exploit.
He wished he could have told someone of it. But his mother and aunt were squeamish. They preferred to believe he was hunting pigeons. Sometimes he did shoot a pigeon. He would take that home and give it to his mother to cook. "Part of the bag," he would say. It was just as well to keep up appearances.
By midday Karl had done well. His knapsack was so heavy that he had trouble carrying it. He lay in a trench which was overgrown with a rich variety of weeds and grasses and smelled delicious. The early autumn day was warm and Karl had been amazed to see a pair of hares. He had killed one, but the other had fled. He was hoping it would reappear. When he had it, he would go home. He had not eaten that morning and was both tired and hungry.
The rims of the glasses were beginning to irritate his eyes when he caught a movement to the South and adjusted the focus quickly. At first he was disappointed. It wasn't the hare, only a man.
The man was running. Sometimes he fell down, but picked himself up again immediately, running on. His back was bowed and he waved his arms loosely as he ran. Karl could now see that he was in uniform. The uniform was probably grey. It was covered in mud. The man was hatless and had no weapons. Karl hadn't seen a soldier in this part of the world for well over a year. He had heard the gunfire, as had everyone else, but otherwise his particular village had seen no action for ages.
The German soldier came closer. He was unshaven. His eyes were red. He gasped as he moved. He seemed to be running away. Surely the Allies had not broken through the German line? Karl had been certain it would hold forever. It seemed to have been holding for almost as long as he could remember. The thought unsettled him. He had been happy with the status quo and wasn't sure if he looked forward to any change.
More likely the German soldier was a deserter. A silly place to desert, round here. Still...
Karl yawned. Another quarter of an hour and he'd leave. He hung his field glasses round his neck and picked up his rifle. He sighted down the barrel, aiming at the German soldier. He pretended he was in the war and that this was an attack on his trench. He cocked the bolt of the rifle. There were thousands of them attacking now. He squeezed the trigger.
Although he was surprised when the German threw up his arms and shouted (he could hear the shout from where he lay) he did not regret his action. He raised his field glasses. The bullet had struck the soldier in the stomach. A careless shot. But then he hadn't been aiming properly. The soldier fell down in the long grass and Karl saw it waving. He frowned. The waving stopped. He wondered whether to go home or whether to cross the field and have a look at the soldier. Morally, he should look at the soldier. After all, it was the first time he had killed a human being. He shrugged and left his bag of mixed meat where it was. The soldier might have something useful on him, anyway.