Then Süßmann’s cheerful voice crackled in Bertin’s ear. He said he was to say hello to Bertin from his company, or at least from the Fosses wood unit. He’d worked long and hard with them the day before. In particular, two Berliners had been asking for him: a funny chap with fat cheeks, freckles and very clever eyes (Bertin nodded to himself: Lebehde) and a bad-tempered hunchback (aha, Pahl). They’d said to tell him there was plenty of company news and that he should come back soon if only to see the arrival of a new sergeant major – something he would no doubt welcome.
What rubbish, thought Bertin listlessly. And from next week that will be my world again, day in, day out. Yes, he quoted the poet Schiller, the great days of Aranjuez would soon be over.
‘You’re leaving us,’ said the lad. ‘Kroysing still has a lot to discuss with you. He said to ask you to stay the night with us tomorrow.’
‘That’s easily arranged,’ said Bertin, somewhat taken aback. He’d make sure to arrive before the evening bombardment so the gunfire didn’t spoil his journey.
In the entrance tunnel to the fort, Bertin got caught up in an eddy of departing infantry – a battalion waiting for nightfall to move up to the front and send the current trench crew for a so-called rest. A great deal of food had been handed out, and the men’s cooking pots were steaming, possibly for the last time in weeks. In one corner of the yard, sergeants were bent over postal bags calling out the names of their squads: ‘Wädchen!’ – ‘Here.’ ‘Sauerbier! – ‘Here.’ ‘Klotsche!’ – ‘Here.’ ‘Frauenfeind!’ – ‘Here.’ As Bertin pushed through them, he got a whiff of them and saw their thin faces, skin stretched over bones, and exhausted expressions. Few of them were more than medium height; none of them was fresh. He almost felt guilty in their presence, because he looked upright, reasonably well fed and refreshed. Their sing-song Saxon speech helped to neutralise the bitterness that saturated their exchanges. In their caps (they wouldn’t change into steel helmets until they were at the front) and shabby uniforms they looked half-grown, more like 17-year-old schoolboys on a class outing than the living wall, which, according to the cant in the newspapers, was protecting the homeland on French soil.
It was nearly 4.30pm. The September sun bathed the pentagon’s massive inner chamber and the deep cut leading to the casemate in rich, golden light. Bertin wove his way patiently through the throngs of men, who had laid down their bundles of hand grenades, assault equipment and gas masks. Muzzle covers gleamed on their rifles, and the locks were wrapped in rags to protect them from the dust in the narrow approach trenches and shelled zones. A group who’d already eaten stopped him and asked him for a light for their cigarettes and pipes. Bertin spent a few minutes with them. They were curious because of his grey oil-cloth cap and yellow brass cross, and his glasses gave them the idea he might know when peace would come. Weariness was etched on their brows, and they made no secret of it, but Bertin knew that wouldn’t stop them giving their last. As usual, their rest days had not been restorative. They’d improved rear positions, brought up materials and been subjected to all kinds of roll calls designed to maintain discipline. The only difference compared with the front line was hot food, undisturbed sleep and plenty of water to wash in. It was something but it wasn’t much. As they swarmed around in the fort, they seemed to Bertin to be like animated fragments of the wrecked upper works, which looked as though they had long ago lost all powers of resistance. Shell holes bordered shell holes. Scraps of yellowed turf still clung on in the shadow of the ramparts, but the brickwork had collapsed, falling into the trenches outside and blocking tunnel entrances inside. The ramparts were like mounds of earth dotted with steel splinters, which was particularly astonishing when you considered the unshakable fastness of the underground fortress. The infantrymen were like that too. They looked like drifting herds of death, workers in the factory of destruction, and displayed all the indifference that industry and machines force on men. But inside they were unbroken. They went to the front without enthusiasm or illusions, buoyed only by the hope of returning in one piece in 10 days. Forward again and back again until released by a wound that hospitalised them – or death. But they didn’t like to think about that. They wanted to live. They hoped to go home. And now they wanted to sleep a couple of hours longer.
Still brooding on their fate, Bertin climbed down over some sandbags and disappeared into the bowels of the fort. With no guide, he initially got completely lost in the passages. Eventually, he ended up in the telephone exchange where a man who like himself wore glasses told him the way. With the Saxons’ lilt still in his ear, he found the telephonist’s clean Hanoverian tones almost disconcerting. He himself was a Silesian. He was visiting a Franconian and a Berliner by birth. The Germans had become thoroughly integrated and had learnt to respect one another.
‘Come in!’ Kroysing called out curtly. A visitor sat in his room, a gentleman. On the bed lay a kind of riding hat with one upturned brim. The visitor had violet lapels, a plump, brown, clean-shaven oval of a face with an exceptionally small mouth and very clear, bright eyes: a priest! A field chaplain in Douaumont with a silver cross round his neck! Bertin knew you were supposed to salute these men like officers and that they set a lot of store by that. He’d have preferred to make an immediate getaway, but Lieutenant Kroysing, behind his desk as usual, was emphatically warm: ‘At last, my friend. May I introduce you gentlemen? My friend Bertin, a trainee lawyer currently in the garb of an ASC private. Father Benedikt Lochner, currently in cavalry trooper’s garb.’
The priest laughed heartily. His hand in Bertin’s felt fat but strong. ‘You shouldn’t speak about cavalry troopers, Lieutenant. I came here riding pillion on a motorbike – what Berliners call the bridemobile and Viennese the dolly stool. So take your pick: I’m either a bride or a dolly bird.’ He ran a smoothing hand through his thin blonde hair, dabbed his head with a handkerchief, said he found it rather hot down below and took a sip of cognac. His jovial, urban Rhineland dialect sounded odd on his delicate lips.
‘It’s absolutely fine for my friend Bertin to hear what we have to discuss,’ said Kroysing, resuming their conversation. ‘In fact, no one is more qualified to listen in and comment than him. He spoke to my poor brother the day before he died, heard about his troubles and offered him help – the only man to do so in a desert, or should I say a vale of tears – and I’ll remember that until the day I die. You won’t mind that he’s a Jew. Compared to Protestant heretics, they’re chips off the old block.’
Bertin sat glumly on Kroysing’s bed. He’d have preferred to be alone with him. The priest assessed Bertin, the shape of his skull, the beginnings of a bald patch on his crown. True enough, he thought. This young man looks like a monk in some famous painting. I can’t remember which one, but it’s bound to be Italian. He may make my job easier or harder. In any case, he clearly labours and is heavy laden. Aloud, he said that he didn’t know how Captain Niggl would feel about this three-way discussion.
Bertin made to stand up, but Kroysing stretched out a hand to stop him. ‘Nothing doing,’ he said. ‘You’re staying. Shall we postpone our discussion, Father Lochner? That would be fine by me. Bertin’s here today for the last time. He has to go back to his lousy company, and I’m planning to give him a goodbye present, a special memento. I’m going to the front tonight. Our mine throwers are in position, and the section officers want to talk to me. I assume you’re prepared to risk it, Bertin? Everyone ought to see the show.’