Damvillers, a modest village on the provincial railway line called Le Meusien, was one of hundreds with no influence on the fate of the wider area. That hobnailed German soldiers and distinguished officers in shiny boots now scraped across the paving stones and floorboards instead of farmers in blue jackets and clogs hadn’t changed that one iota. Some were quartered permanently in Damvillers, some temporarily, while others went there for the day to relieve the tedium or get provisions for their units. Major Jansch was in the former category, Captain Niggl in the latter.
The tedium— the German state relied on officers: active soldiers and yeomen from the Landwehr, and behind the lines men from the military Reserve and reservists from the Landsturm, important gentlemen with dirks on their belts and helmets on their heads. The shiny spike on their helmets pretty much embodied the pinnacle of human existence for them. Neither Niggl, a retired civil servant from Weilheim, nor Psalter, a head teacher from Neuruppin, nor Jansch, Berlin-Steglitz, an editor, could imagine a higher peak, although Jansch was in a special position because he had played soldiers in civilian life too as editor of Army and Fleet Weekly. In peacetime, they’d drawn a monthly income of about 300 Marks. Now, for as long as the war lasted, the paymaster handed them three times that on the first of each month, besides which eating, drinking and smoking cost very little, and accommodation and letters home nothing at all. A man could certainly manage on that. And this was how it was for hundreds of gentlemen in Crépion, Vavrille, Romagne, Chaumont, in Jamez and Vitarville; everywhere that was occupied. As far as they were concerned, the war couldn’t last long enough, even if they were often bored or required to do tedious, detailed work.
Where the lines of communication began with the field police sentries at the crossroads, a desolation descended on the men born of daily duty unrelieved by intellectual life or women and children, a struggle for existence with no science or art, gramophone music, cinema or theatre, and with almost no politics. The lines of communication were as indispensable to the front lines as a mother’s bloodstream to her unborn child, feeding them, helping them to grow and continually supplying their every need. ‘Supplies’ was the magic word in the communications zone. Everything – from hay bales for the horses to ammunition, leave trains and bread rations – rested on its absolute reliability. Without it, the men at the front wouldn’t have lasted a week. And so the staff in the communications zone bathed in the sunshine of their immeasurable importance. It radiated from every orderly and staff sergeant, but most especially from the officers. They did their duty, ate reasonably well, drank good local wine, conspired against each other and performed small reciprocal favours.
And so it was that Major Jansch, commander of the X/20 ASC battalion, came to clink his spurs on Lieutenant Psalter’s steps. A major visiting a lieutenant. And not just any major, the Great Jansch. And not just any lieutenant – flat-nosed Lieutenant Psalter from the transport depot, with his close-cropped black hair, scarred face and myopic eyes. Was it the end of the world? Not at all. A lieutenant in the transport corps has access to vehicles. Ordinarily, an off-duty ASC major would take nothing to do with him, but if that major needed a favour, he had to ask nicely. The railway transport officer at Damvillers belonged to the Moirey park officers’ drinking club, which was not on good terms with Major Jansch. The commander was in a position to question the whys and wherefores of every case of wine that Major Jansch sent home – if indeed it contained wine. This could potentially open up a great pit into which the major might quietly disappear. (The officers had agreed with Herr Graßnick to shelve the unpleasant water tap incident simply in order to get one over on Major Jansch.) Major Jansch’s goods therefore had to leave from other railway stations. And so even a newborn child could understand why Major Jansch was now affably pulling up a chair at his comrade Psalter’s desk for a chat, or, as Herr Jansch put it, a chinwag.
Herr Jansch was a gaunt man of about 50 with a long, thin moustache, who in profile looked rather like a raven. On the other armchair in Lieutenant Psalter’s rustic room sat a chubby-cheeked man with sly, watery eyes and a little beard that made him look quite friendly: Captain Niggl from the Bavarian labour company stationed on the other side of the Romagne ridge. He had come to Lieutenant Psalter with a concern of his own. As he was only passing through Damvillers, he wanted to make the most of his time and had asked to be dealt with quickly. His problem was one of the utmost importance to any soldier. It concerned beer, four barrels of Münchner Hornschuh-Bräu, which had been delivered into Captain Niggl’s hands for his four companies by way of his brother-in-law, although they were actually meant for the infantry of the two Bavarian divisions at the front. However, the high-ups had eventually realised that the ASC men must have their turn too, and the four barrels had been lying at Dun train station since the previous day. If the infantry got wind of it, it would be farewell, amber nectar. A barrel of beer was worth a little thievery. Captain Niggl indicated that if Lieutenant Psalter’s trusty lorry drivers successfully delivered the precious goods to battalion headquarters, there would be a drinking party and all the gentlemen from Damvillers would be most welcome. The beer could be watered down a tad for the ASC men. No harm in that.
Major Jansch eavesdropped on the Bavarian’s love of the bottle with disgust. He had no taste for beer – nasty, bitter stuff – or for the sour red wine that the French conned fools into buying with names such as Bordeaux and Burgundy. He loved sweet things, a taste of port or vermouth, and even then in moderation, for his passion lay in other areas. But he hid his aversion, even going as far as to the invite the Bavarian for a breakfast tipple should his business in Damvillers be finished by 11. Herr Niggl said he had just one more tiny thing to attend to at brigade HQ. He wanted to have some files delivered to Judge Advocate Mertens at Montmédy Court Martial, and none of his own men could be freed up to do it. But Damvillers regularly sent orderlies up the line – he’d find someone to take them. In the meantime, Lieutenant Psalter had combined Jansch’s and Niggl’s business and sorted them both out by phone. One of his lorries was taking a sapper commando across the sector to Vilosnes at midday, as the bridge over the Meuse at Sivry needed strengthened. The driver could easily pick up Major Jansch’s case beforehand, take it to Dun, and collect Captain Niggl’s barrels there. The three officers went their separate ways more than happy.
At quarter past 11, Major Jansch entered the mess. Soon after Herr Niggl also wheezed in. The large room was completely empty; the communications zone commanders and Fifth Army generals had once again been pushing for official hours to be observed. There was in any case plenty to do, as the battle at the Somme called for more artillery, troops and transport on a daily basis. They were bombarded with demands from the Fourth Army, which was under fire. The Verdun sector was no longer unique. The blasted French weren’t leaving all the work to the British and had even made more progress than them. It really would be a disaster if they got as far as Péronne. For the paradoxical game of war was about tracts of land as well as barrels of beer. It was a non-stop round of victories and defeats, just like Major Jansch’s egg boxes, which he maintained held red wine that he’d paid for.