Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (2 page)

All the time we were driving, the farmer didn’t say a single word to me. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He never talks much to the help. The hands and maids and laborers he just tells what to do, or else he shouts at them.

Then suddenly, he does speak to me. Two words. “Town hall!” he says, and he points at a high, gabled building that’s taller than all the roofs around it. After a while he adds four more words, a bit more quietly: “That’s where we’re going.”

To the town hall, I think to myself, but of course I don’t ask the farmer why we have to go to the town hall. The farmer will know.

This town hall is a huge building. Fourteen windows on the front side alone. I wonder how many it has altogether — thirty or more?

There are heaps of soldiers standing outside the gate, and on the stairs, and on the second floor. Young men are coming and going the whole time.

The farmer and I hang around in a bay window for a while. Pointlessly, not doing anything. And that in the light of day. A pure waste of time! That’s the way you rob the Almighty of His day. The farmer is restless. Something is bothering him. Can it be that he’s afraid of the town hall or of all these people? Hardly. And with him being a village mayor and all. It would take more than a town hall to scare him.

And then, before long, the farmer’s name is called. Not his, actually, but Georg, his son’s. The farmer pulls a bundle of papers out of his vest pocket and goes into the room across the hall. Soon he comes out again, grabs me by the arm, and pushes me roughly through the door.

In front of me is an enormous table. Behind it are several soldiers all glittering in silver and gold. They’re bound to be officers. They remind me of the captain of the militia who was billeted with us last year. They’re all sitting there like roosters. Proud and disdainful. You can tell from looking at them that they must be important people in the kingdom.

What am I doing standing in front of these people? What do they want with me?

Fear seeps into me. I look nervously around for my farmer. But he’s not there anymore. Gone! Why didn’t he stay? Surely he wouldn’t just leave me here on my own?

The farmer’s bundle of papers is lying on the table.

“Georg Bayh,” says one of the men, in a bored, nasal tone of voice. “Step forward!” Before I can reply, someone else hisses at me: “You gone deaf, boy?” And the man in the middle orders: “Strip!”

But I’m not Georg Bayh, I think to myself. I’m not him at all. Georg Bayh is the farmer’s son. I’m only a farmhand, and my name is Adam Feuchter. Georg Bayh is at home. The farmer is going to come back any minute and explain the mistake.

I take another look around. The door is closed, and I don’t see any farmer coming in. I want to go out in the passage and call him. But the gentlemen around the table are all looking at me incredibly severely and impatiently.

“Strip!”

Strip? What would I do that for? All these gentlemen want to look at me naked? I feel ashamed in front of so many men in fine uniforms.

The officer who has the papers lying in front of him roars: “Strip! We haven’t got all blinking day!”

I look up at the men and then over to the door again. No farmer. Then I take off my clothes. I have no choice. It doesn’t take long, either; after all, I’ve only got my tunic, shirt, and pants. And shoes. Thank God I washed quickly this morning.

So I’m standing there, bare naked, and the officers inspect me from top to toe, and back up again. As if they were buying bulls or horses.

One of them walks up to me. “Open your mouth!” he orders. He puts his hand in my mouth. His fingers smell of something nasty. “Teeth are fine,” he says.

Another man says in a whining sort of voice: “There’s not much of him.” And another says: “Absolutely not. He’s just a boy. Just look at him. It’ll take a bit more to make a man of him yet.”

“Turn around!”

I panic. Suddenly I know what this is. This is the conscription commission. They’re the people from the military who travel around on the king’s behalf, looking for soldiers for the army. I’ve often listened to the
farmhands talking about how they came to be soldiers. They were inspected, just like this. And afterward, they had to serve in the army for eight or ten years.

With desperation, I yell out to the officers’ table: “Stop! You ve got the wrong person.” Suddenly my mouth is full of spit. I gulp it down and choke, “I’m not —” It’s as far as I get. Once again, my windpipe is blocked.

The men leap to their feet. One of them shouts so loud it makes his voice crack: “Who do you think you are, boy!” and another draws his saber and smacks me across the behind with the flat of it. “Speak when you’re spoken to! And not otherwise! Got that?”

My behind feels as if it’s on fire. I try to keep from crying, but I can’t quite manage it.

The men behind the table look at one another angrily.

“It’s high time that young pup was taught a lesson.” Another one echoes him: “High time he joined the army! So he learns some obedience!”

But one of the officers doesn’t agree with them.

“He’s just a boy,” he says in a quiet voice. “Just observe his skinny frame, his narrow chest. His voice hasn’t broken, you can hear it squeaking and scratching. And other signs of adolescence … Well, see for yourselves. We don’t want children in our army.”

The other men exchange cross looks again, and the important officer, the one who has the farmer’s papers in
front of him, hisses furiously: “Gentlemen! Do I have to remind you that His Majesty requires troops? Urgently! In great numbers! This is no time to be fastidious.”

The others all chorus: “Yes, sir! The king needs troops. This is no time to be fastidious.” The important officer looks at one of the papers and gives a satisfied grunt: “All right then, gentlemen. Let’s not jump to false conclusions! This fellow, what was his name again, Georg Bayh, has attained the prescribed age, and he’s big enough too. That’s what it says here, black on white.”

“He may have attained the age, even if he looks more like an altar boy, but I assure you he’s not big enough,” objects the doubter once more.

“Then measure him!”

A soldier who’s standing next to the table brings a measuring rod. “Five feet two inches, sir!” he reports.

“What?” yells the senior officer. The others all flinch.

“Not possible!” he barks, jumps out from behind the table, and stares at the measuring rod. “Ha, I’ve seen that before,” he says bitingly. “Trying to make himself short, so that he doesn’t get to wear the king’s tunic. Head up now, chest out, knees straight!”

He pulls me up by the ears and then looks at the measuring rod again. “That’s better,” he says happily. “Well, there’s not so much missing now. I want you to get up on tiptoe, got that?” It’s stock-silent in the room.
Only my occasional sobbing bursts out. I can’t help it. It comes up from the pit of my stomach. Everyone is staring at the measuring rod.

“Well, now! Five foot four. And the two little inches that are missing, he’ll make them up soon enough, the little man. Gentlemen, see for yourselves. Anyone still require convincing? Or have you seen enough?”

The officers pull their heads in further between their shoulders. They are convinced. Just the odd uncertain glance passes between them.

“Fit for service,” they pronounce, a little hesitantly, but all together.

“Now, get the little wretch out of here!” bellows the important officer. He takes the papers, smashes them on a pile of other papers on the edge of the table, and yells: “Next!”

I put my head down and make a mad dash for the door. The soldier with the measuring rod flings my clothes after me.

Bewildered and tearful, I stand in the corridor. Some people are laughing at me mockingly, but some are sympathetic. I must get out of here. Where’s the farmer? He can clear this whole thing up in no time, and I’m sure he will. I jump into my pants and shoes, jam my shirt and tunic under my arm, and go bounding down the stairs.

“Farmer! Farmer!”

But the farmer isn’t anywhere to be seen. Around the corner? Not there. Where has he got to? The sleigh and the horses aren’t in the side alley. I stop in front of the town hall, not knowing where to go. I’m shivering. I still have my shirt and tunic wedged under my arms. My chest is covered with goose bumps. I must get away from town.

Up on the second floor, a window is pulled open. An officer shouts down to those below.

Four soldiers dash up to me.

“Halt!” they shout, as I make to turn down the next street. “Stop! Stay right there! You’re coming with us.”

“I want to go home.”

“Nothing doing. Orders from the staff captain. You can’t go home. You’re a soldier now, and you’re coming to the depot with us.”

Sometime after noon I stop crying for the farmer. My sobbing is still with me, though. It gulps up from deep inside me.

Early in the afternoon, about a dozen soldiers are marching me and a whole lot of other young boys in farm clothes out of town. There’s powdery snow on the heights. Lower down in the valleys, it turns slushy. The slush is water and snow and plenty of mud, and it sloshes over the tops of our boots. The soldiers swear terribly. Each time the road goes through forest, they take the guns off their shoulders and level them at us.

I’m tired and hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since early this morning. At least it’s not raining or snowing even.

It’s getting dark as we head down into a river valley. “The Neckar,” says one of the farm boys. He must know his way around here.

“Where are we going?” we ask him.

“What do I know? Ludwigsburg, I expect. There are a lot of barracks there.”

One of the soldiers is more talkative.

“Right, you’re all going to the reception depot in Ludwigsburg. There’s going to be war again soon, and the king needs soldiers.”

“Particularly for the French emperor, that Napoleon!” another adds softly and with awe in his voice.

Dismal thoughts weigh on my brain. What do I have to do with Napoleon? Why do I suddenly have to be a soldier now? Why didn’t the farmer wait for me?

For an hour we climb through vineyards up to the heights. It’s well dark by the time we pass through a big gate into a barracks yard.

I sleepwalk across the sandy expanse. There’s no snow here, and not much slush, either. A lot of boot soles have dissolved it and left puddles of dirty water. An arrogant soldier with hat and saber marches up to us.

“Halt!” he yells. “Where are you going?”

“Recruits,” reports one of our guards.

“Wait there.”

A soldier mutters to himself: “When are we going to get some grub?” And the others take up the question.

We farm boys are all freezing. The soldiers are swinging their arms and smacking their shoulders against the cold. They’re no better off than we are. I suppose their
uniforms aren’t much good in winter. Everyone’s belly is grumbling. It’s pointless standing in the empty yard like this. I need to go very badly, but I can’t see how or where. I think of the farmhands’ room and my straw sack. It would be reasonably warm in there now. And the dung heap would be outside in front of the cow shed. I could just nip down there and let loose. But there’s no sign of any dung heap here.

Half the night must be over. It’s begun to snow. A fat soldier comes waddling up to us. He yawns and looks at the group of us, trembling with cold.

“Come with me,” he orders.

We walk right across the barracks yard toward a low building. Suddenly, I feel warmth. I revive out of my stupor. A stable. No doubt about it. Hoof scraping and lip smacking and the homey smell of straw and dung.

“No lighting a fire,” the fat soldier tells us. “You can sleep in there for tonight. There’s no more beds in the barracks.”

“And when are we getting some grub?”

“Soon.”

A little later, two soldiers come in carrying a bucket between them. It smells of broth and pickled cabbage and noodles, a good smell, a very good smell.

“What are we going to eat with? We haven’t got any eating irons.”

“There are some spoons there.”

“What about plates?”

“What do you need plates for!”

Quickly everyone grabs a spoon, and we cluster around the bucket and start shoveling the stuff into us.

It’s a thick mash of potatoes, beans, and other things, and it’s not at all bad. With a bit of effort, I manage to get several spoonfuls into myself. There’s a little scrap of bacon in one. I leave it in my mouth and enjoy the heavenly taste. But then I quickly gulp it down, because the other boys’ spoons are already scratching the bottom of the bucket, and I have to hurry to get another dab or two of the mash.

Soon after, the spoon drops from my hand. I tip back into the warm straw. This time, the hole I fall into is so deep that I forget all about the wretched world around me. Even my thoughts about the farmer disappear as quickly as the three drops of honey in the acorn coffee we get on Sundays for a treat.

In the reception depot, there are loads of soldiers and young boys on their way to becoming soldiers. Every day there are more. There haven’t been any beds for ages now. Every little bit of room in the stables has been taken. Even outside the barracks, the recruits are sometimes put up in so-called double billets. That’s two soldiers sharing a bed. While one sleeps, the others on guard duty, and then turnabout.

Soldiers out of uniform get as little respect as bare-naked kings. So the new recruits are issued uniforms in double-quick time. They stick me in a uniform, too. It doesn’t fit me anywhere, it smells of sheep droppings and tar soap, and it’s not particularly warm, either. It’s too thin for winter, but it’s still better than my thin civilian Sunday tunic. It’s pale blue from top to bottom, almost
sky blue. The pants have room enough for two scrawny bottoms like mine. I get a longish pot stuck on my head, which they call a casquette, with a horsehair plume on top. That’s the only part of my uniform that fits me at all. Thanks be to God, my boots only rubbed me sore in the beginning. I can manage to walk in them properly if I wrap the foot cloths around my toes and heels tightly enough so they don’t slip.