Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (3 page)

Three weeks before Christmas, I bump into the son of Kleinknecht the laborer from the village. Kleinknecht is still in his civvies, and he’s quite surprised to see me in the barracks.

“They’re talking about you in the village,” he tells me.

“What are they saying?”

“I don’t know whether I should tell you. They say you stayed in town because you liked it there so much. Your farmer says he’s not going to forgive you now, whatever you do.”

“He won’t? Why not?”

“Well, because you’ve stayed away too long.”

And because he’s in a great hurry, Kleinknecht runs off.

I’m all confused. The world has gone mad! I’ve stayed in town, and my farmer won’t forgive me?

The barracks is like a typical town. There’s a big open square ringed by stables and stalls and long two-story
houses. On the edge there’s a fancy house with sentries at the door and all sorts of gleaming officers going in and out. Those are the men who have a say, they all go by Your Honor or Your Grace, and there’s even supposed to be a Your Excellency among them.

That’s the house I have to get into, to tell the officers that I’m not really allowed to be a soldier at all because I’m only sixteen. If they don’t believe me, then my farmer can settle it anytime. He’s not just anyone, either, he’s the mayor in the village.

But I don’t dare go inside. Who am I going to tell about the mistake? No one would believe me. I need to think it through carefully. In the end, I don’t get around to it at all. Sergeants and corporals and lieutenants and other soldiers dressed up with sabers are using up every minute of my life.

At first, I resist all the shouting and the senseless running back and forth. Picking up your feet, trudging around the barracks yard, standing around doing nothing — what sort of work is that? Just a lot of silly hocus-pocus. When they give especially stupid commands, I make a fuss and do the exact opposite. I quickly realize how foolish that is. The sabered ones don’t take kindly to it. They tyrannize me till I don’t know which way is up. I can’t take it for very long. After a few days I’m forced into being an obedient soldier.

All I think is what the other soldiers think.

And soldiers don’t think much. Certainly, they don’t do any unnecessary thinking. They think of their straw sack when they’re tired, and of food when their bellies are grumbling. All the life in between is pretty unthinking. Well, not entirely. When the soldiers have eaten, and if they’re not being tyrannized, then they talk about buxom girls. Not that there are any of those in the barracks.

My muscles and bones remind me of their presence with tears and cramps and aches. My head gets emptier all the time. The switch from young apprentice to dutiful soldier comes on apace, almost inevitably. A person can get used to anything. I can, too.

The most important quality in a soldier is obedience. Irrespective of what he’s told to do. And, after that, marching. You can do that without thinking. After all, a soldier doesn’t march along on his head. All he needs are his legs. Marching, marching, marching, day and night. Left turn, right turn, left wheel, halt, by the right, quick march! Chest out, swing your arms! Fingers together, knees up! And finally, all our boot heels have to hit the ground together, to make a single crunching sound. That’s the really important thing, the crunch.

Almost as important as marching is shooting with a rifle. A soldier’s rifle is his girlfriend. A soldier has to be
able to do everything with it. Even in his sleep. Exactly like the loading instructions in the rulebook: “LOADING THE RIFLE. Open the pan. Take the bullet. Powder in the pan. Shut the frizzen.” And so on and so forth.

Before long, I notice that common soldiers are not allowed to speak to an officer about any ordinary thing. Officers, after all, are not ordinary people with whom you can have a normal conversation.

So I continue to put off my complaint from one day to the next.

A sergeant asks us recruits if there’s anyone among us who’s good with horses. I have to laugh. It’s the first time I’ve laughed since becoming a soldier. I like horses more than I like most people.

“I’ll have you laughing on the other side of your face!” bellows the sergeant. But at least I’m allowed to stay in the stable and sleep with the horses.

So it turns out to be good for me that my farmer wasn’t some poor ox farmer, but a wealthy horse farmer. Only a few of the recruits are good with horses, whereas I know quite a bit about grooming and feeding and riding.

But I’m not allowed to ride.

After a couple of weeks, we’re almost done with the marching and rifle loading. I join the transport corps of the horse artillery and am responsible for hitching up a
pair of horses to a cannon, and feeding and brushing them. That’s what I call proper work again. I like my horses, and my horses like me. Life starts to look up. It might even be an improvement on being with my farmer.

You can spot the soldiers from the horse artillery a long way off. They all wear the sky blue uniforms. Their civilian clothes have to be sent home. I’ve got my Sunday tunic in a corner of the stable. Where should I send it? I leave it hidden under the straw. I’m sure I’ll need it again one day, when they find out I’m not really old enough to be a soldier.

After two more weeks, we have to pick up some new cannons. They say they were being molded and bored and filed in Ludwigsburg, day and night. The entire horse artillery squadron marches off, with the captain leading the way. The captain goes puce with pride when he sees those heavy bronze things. You can see it in his face and the way he struts about. The guns, brand-spanking-new, are glittering in the Christmas sun. Four six-pounders and two seven-pound howitzers. The captain is so beside himself with joy that he forgets himself for a moment. Proudly, he calls out to the soldiers that it won’t be long before he uses the guns to shoot up Spain and Russia in the coming campaign.

So the cat’s out of the bag. Something was in the offing. That’s why the king needed all those soldiers
and guns, they’re all going to be used against Spain or Russia. To win. As always. Of course you win if you’re on Napoleons side. Napoleon is invincible. The whole world knows that.

Spain and Russia don’t belong to Napoleon yet, but it’s only a matter of time before they have to bow the knee to him, too. Someone mutters under his breath that Napoleon can never get enough of anything. He always needs more soldiers to play with and new battles to fight. We should mark his words, Russia won’t be the end of it. Next will be India or some other place.

Foolishness? It’s what all the little birdies are chattering from the barracks roofs. And if a little birdie says it, you have to take it seriously. Napoleon seems to be capable of anything.

In the horse artillery there’s a certain Sergeant Krauter. He doesn’t like me. Why? No one knows. Not even I know. He bullies me any chance he gets. And as a sergeant, he has lots of opportunities. He makes me march through puddles till I look like one myself, and my leg muscles are quaking, and my sky blue uniform has turned dirt brown. But Sergeant Krauter only does that when there are puddles in the yard. Otherwise I have to go around collecting the balls of horse dung that are lying on the barracks yard, pick them up one by one with my fingers, march over to a wagon, and drop them there. And keep count of how many I’ve taken. Passing officers shake their heads when they see me, but they don’t say anything, and they don’t intervene. After all, what do they care about a private in the supply column and, in
any case, they shouldn’t undermine the authority of a sergeant.

Four hundred and seventy-eight dung balls in an hour.

I’ve had enough. No more. I want to run away. Deserting, they call it. Deserting is a very grave crime. You get shot for desertion, if they catch you. And almost all deserters do get caught. Most of them get caught within a few hours, the rest over time. Even so, I want to desert. I don’t care. Because this is no sort of life, with the puddles and the dung balls. Just lately, Krauter threatened he would make me eat the dung balls.

I’ve got my Sunday tunic hidden under the straw. The next dark night, I’m going to change into it and run away from the barracks. Run off home to my farmer. He can explain everything. No matter what, I have to get away from Krauter and the dung balls.

Pitch-black night. The soldiers are snoring, and the horses are, too. Maybe the men are dreaming of women, and the horses of sacks of oats or something like that.

Tonight’s the night. I’ve already pulled on my Sunday tunic and stashed the uniform in a corner.

Suddenly, the alarm is raised. Excited blowing of trumpets, swearing of oaths, running around, and the sergeant screaming at us to get out of the straw. Is it on account of me? No, it’s not. I’m still here. I scramble back into my sky blue uniform and shove the Sunday tunic into the corner again.

Apparently, three men from the horse artillery had the same idea as me and ran away. A little before me. Took advantage of the dark and the fog to get over the barracks wall. Barely half an hour later, they’ve all been caught. They didn’t realize that the whole town is like one big barracks, and that it’s not so easy to get clear of it.

The deserting artillerymen aren’t shot. Instead, they’re condemned to running the gauntlet, which is worse than the firing squad, and usually just as fatal. The culprit ends up whipped to death. Apparently, the king has banned the practice. Says someone. But the generals like it. Because it’s such a powerful deterrent. So no one heeds the king’s decision. But then, maybe the king wasn’t completely serious about it himself.

The drummer boy stands in the middle of the barracks yard. The dull thumps bounce off the walls like distant thunder. The whole barracks is standing there. Everyone wants to watch the deserters being punished and beaten to death by their comrades. Bets are being made on how far this man or that is going to get.

On the sandy ground of the barracks yard, the men of the horse artillery form up in a long double row. The captain takes charge personally. He makes a big speech about military honor. Whoever violates the terms of this honor should be beaten to death like a rabid dog.

“Anyone found not to strike with all his strength,”
the captain threatens us, “will be made to run the gauntlet himself!” Instead of twigs, the soldiers take the belts and harness from their uniforms and hold them ready over their shoulders.

The time is at hand. The three deserters are produced. One of them is very young. Almost a baby face. His eyes are wet. Fear twitches in his cheeks. In a few minutes, his short life will be over. He will lie broken on the sand and die.

They have to strip.

The first of them is driven between the rows. The belts and harnesses whistle down on his bare skin. He plunges like a maniac through the whistling belts. His comrades whip him mercilessly. No compassion. The captain watches every blow. The man stumbles on. He hurls himself through the gap between the soldiers. Head, back, and belly are bleeding.

My head is reeling. I can’t see anything. It’s as though I’m in a thick fog. The deserter is coming closer. I can hear his whistling breath. Did he just look at me reproachfully? He flings himself farther, under the lashing leather. He’s made it! No, at the last moment he stumbles. The man next to the end put out a foot and tripped him. But he picks himself up and reaches the end of the alley. And so wins back his own life.

The young baby face doesn’t get as far as me. He’s left
on the floor halfway down. The last of them makes it about three-fourths of the way. He’s stopped moving. Even so, his comrades continue to thrash him.

So two of them are done for. Beaten to death by their comrades. That’s why they don’t rate a Christian burial. Holes are dug for them among the suicides, against the cemetery wall. They’re put in the ground in the middle of the night. Without any drums or ceremony. That’s what everybody tells each other later on, in the collection depot. It’s no great loss. Soldiers aren’t worth much, and deserters aren’t worth anything. It’s wrong that one of them came out of it alive. Doesn’t usually happen. Deserters deserve to die, simple as that. What sort of army would that be, if soldiers were just allowed to clear off any time they felt like it? How would kings and emperors fight their wars?

So in the end, I’d rather stay where I am, with the soldiers. If desertion carries such grim consequences. Maybe I’ll try it some other time. When things look more promising. Or maybe there’ll be a miracle, and Sergeant Krauter will be told by the Almighty to bite the dust. So that I can get some peace and quiet.

But for the time being, he continues to bully me.

My sky blue uniform will never be clean again.

“Private Bayh is a disgrace!” the sergeant yells any chance he gets. “It appears he must wallow around in the mud like a sow.”

And I can’t get the smell of horse dung off my hands.

Then all at once, everything seems to take a turn to the better. Maybe fortune has an occasional attack of vertigo, or just a fit of hiccups.

On one particularly stinking day, I march past a
young lieutenant just as he’s crossing the barracks yard. Because a lieutenant doesn’t give ground to a private, he only barely scrapes past me. It’s not my fault that he barely scrapes past me, because I’ve just been ordered by Sergeant Krauter to march smack through the biggest puddle in the yard. So it’s no wonder that the white pants of the lieutenant catch several streaks of dirt. He looks down at them and becomes enraged.

“Hey!” he yells. “What do you think you are doing, soldier?”

But I am under orders from the sergeant, so I can’t pay any special attention to the officer. I carry on marching through the big puddle. After all, I never had any orders to stop.

The sergeant sees what happened, and he tries to make himself scarce. But the lieutenant, who is steaming mad by now, grabs him by the lapels and makes him stand to attention.

“What do you think you’re playing at, getting that fellow to spray me with dirt? Do you have any idea who’s talking to you, man?”