The World as I Found It (61 page)

Ernst laughed that crazy crow of his, then said, The Russians will attack by tonight or tomorrow because their deserters say they were issued clean underwear yesterday. They swear it's a sure sign. It's the only time they get fresh skivvies. Just before a big battle.

Wittgenstein stared at him in disbelief, then burst into laughter. The situation was so black and hopeless that they needed a good joke. There'd been another artillery duel, and they'd just lost a man whose life had splashed away while they struggled to lash off his shattered legs with lengths of telephone cord.

Still laughing, Ernst said, Honest to God. That's what intelligence says. I heard it from some corporal down the way.

Trying to keep the comic momentum going, Wittgenstein said, Well, that reverses what Napoleon said. But then, looking at Ernst, Wittgenstein realized with embarrassment that Ernst, of course, would not know
what
Napoleon had said. Quickly he added, About an army fighting on its belly, I mean.

Still not sure what he meant, Ernst nodded sagely, saying, Well, we shoot from our bellies, all right.

Wittgenstein looked at him with chagrin and said delicately, Actually, what Napoleon was talking about, I think, was the soldier's need for
food
. Napoleon would have thought it unmanly for soldiers to shoot lying on their bellies as we do, let alone from trenches. Wittgenstein pulled himself back, realizing that he was waxing pedantic. Quickly, he added, But then Napoleon didn't have to contend with machine guns or barbed wire.

Ernst grinned crazily. Or Russians in clean underwear.

Wittgenstein clapped his hands together in delight, famished for Ernst's naturalness and good sense. But Ernst still didn't clap him on the shoulder.

The clean underwear proved a better barometer than expected, because later that afternoon the Russian bombardment began in earnest, with hundreds of artillery pieces — field howitzers, long-range heavy artillery and gigantic, high-arcing mortars — all firing at once, emptying the contents of whole freight cars with each salvo. Within an hour, the sheer volume of shells fired put to rest any lingering doubts that the Russians were short of shells. Everything the Russians had done wrong for the past two years they now did right, as carefully registered shells blew huge holes in the Austrian wire, destroyed buried telephone lines and silenced many of their biggest guns.

As night fell, the rocketing shells lit up the sky for a hundred miles. The Austrian lines were in chaos. Greasy, high-explosive smoke choked them and singed their nostrils. Whole men disintegrated in a bloody sleet, while those left alive lay dazed and helpless, bleeding profusely through their ears and noses. Violently, the atmosphere was contracting, expelling men from the womb of life, which didn't want them anyway; they couldn't even scream or catch their breath before the next explosion punched the air from their lungs. Men filled their pants with diarrhea and drove their fingers into their ears to drown the pile-driving concussions. Wittgenstein found buried men, hysterical men, fetal men and men reduced to jumbles of smoking rags and limbs. He saw bodies with their clothes blown off tumbling high into the air and crazed rats racing in circles. Even more unbelievable were the wounds. Men gnashed their own arms to dim the pain, begging to be killed. There were men so torn and riddled with shrapnel that nobody could believe they were alive, while others fell stone dead without a blemish, struck down as if by God.

Probably the men would have broken and run had they seen any reasonable chance of escape, but there was no chance. By midnight, order was breaking down badly, and the officers were checking their weapons for fear of mutiny. No stretcher bearers were available, no food had arrived or would arrive, their water was almost gone and their defenses were a shambles. Yet here when critical military communications were lost or destroyed, the rumors ran unchecked, streaking through the air like an electric current. It was as if they were all suffering the same dream. Anything was believed. Whole companies of Czechs were murdering their officers and marching over to the Russians. The Russians had a new gas that drove men berserk. Why, it was even rumored that Grundhardt was a spy — a captain in the Russian army.

The one thing certain about Grundhardt was that he had vanished. No one had seen him since the bombardment had begun, yet now everyone was talking about his daring escape, unable to imagine that he was more likely lying dead somewhere. Not Grundhardt, they said. He was too slick. Besides, they said, nobody that evil ever got killed. They came up with countless ingenious dodges that Grundhardt could have used to escape. That Gypsy son of a bitch! they said. How he had fooled them! They seemed to feel it an honor to have been conned and stolen blind by him and suddenly saw every stupid, willful thing he had ever done as another master stroke, all part of his vast plan.

Wittgenstein let them talk — at least these wild fantasies about Grundhardt diverted them and eased their terror. Stize, meanwhile, felt vindicated in his wisdom when Wittgenstein told him about Grundhardt's disappearance.

I told you you'd soon be rid of him, Stize was saying. But then a shell came whistling over and he dove for it, his eyes wobbling in their soot-blackened sockets as he skidded down the trench on his knees and elbows. All that night Stize had been careening around, too spooked and green — and too tipsy with shots of brandy — to distinguish near shells from passing screamers. It was almost touching, the mothering way Stize hugged his crotch as the next shell shrieked down and exploded in the reserve trenches two hundred yards behind them.

Seeing he was the only one who had dived for it, Stize scrambled up as if he had merely lost his footing, then quickly added, Anyway, he's probably been blown to bits. Well, good riddance, I say. Adopting a more casual air, the lieutenant handed Wittgenstein a few lumps of gold foil, saying, Here, then. Have some chocolates.

Wittgenstein didn't know what had gotten into him. In his own inept way, Stize was suddenly trying to act the part of an officer, braving shells to periodically check on him and the other men. At this late hour, Stize was even displaying a spirit of unexpected benevolence, handing out a small fortune in chocolates that the bandy-legged Krull carried for him in a field pack. Finding a group of muddy, miserable men in a bomb scrape, Stize would steel himself into a casual grimace as the beam of his flashlight found their hostile eyes. How are we doing? he would ask. Then before anyone could answer — or not answer — he would say, Good! Well, I'll tell you, they're getting worse than they're giving, I have that on good authority. Here, he said, reaching into his goody bag. Have some chocolates! That's the stuff! You men carry on!

In his heart, he must have known this bluff talk didn't fool anyone, but it helped calm him, his chatter growing more absurd the more frightened he became. And he was more jumpy than ever now, having heard that that essential personage Prince Primkin had been ordered to evacuate at his earliest opportunity with his four young aides. Stize was trying to be a good sport about it. Shaking his head resolutely, he told Wittgenstein:

The prince very much wanted to stay but I told him he must go. Really no choice. And do you know what the prince said to me then? He said,
Carpe diem
— that's our regimental motto, you know — and I said, By God, you go ahead, Rudolph. (I call him Rudolph, you know. No hanging on protocol for him.) Yes, there you go, old chap, I said. Never you mind about the old chocolate maker.
He'll
find his way home.

But Stize was not so sanguine when he returned a few minutes later. His gas mask had been stolen, and he had heard from the prince that three officers up the line had been shot by agitators.

Stize continued: He told me I'd better watch my back, and then — here Stize proudly pulled a small pearl-handled revolver from his pocket — he gave me this. Stize flicked on his flashlight so Wittgenstein could see it better. See his initials on the barrel? There's an inscription, too, from his father, the grand duke. Well, you can imagine how I felt. He even wanted to give me a card for some debts, but naturally I refused. Staring at the pistol, Stize was like a boy who likes to scare himself with stories of hobgoblins. God, he said. Only hope my hand doesn't shake if it should come to that. Should do the job up close, though, don't you think? Bloody fanatics. Heard some have to be shot three and four times before they go down. Always been excitable. Even giving speeches in school. Terrified me. Well! he said, slipping out his flask with a shiver. Enough of that. Have a drink. Go on — do you good. Never tell a soul. No? Well, then — Glowering as the brandy bit back. Surely, they'll tell us to fall back. I mean, they can't very well expect us to fight to the last man. Not with this bunch we have here. I'm sure they'll be sending up fresh reserves. Have to.

Wittgenstein couldn't get rid of him. Again and again, Stize returned that night, filled with spurious war lore, staff rumors and misinformation. First he had heard that the Russians positively would not attack because it was Sunday, then, on the contrary, that they were the most murderous on Sundays, when they were all sure to be raging drunk and wearing shirts specially blessed by the priests to ward off bullets.

Between the men and Stize, Wittgenstein hardly had a moment all night to speak to Ernst, who was silent and gloomy as dawn approached and the bombardment began to die down. It seemed as if there was something to say — something forgotten or unsaid in their leave-taking — but at bottom, he realized, there was nothing to say, nothing at all. He felt oddly humiliated by this, humiliated in the way he had felt once when his father had slapped him, snapping his words off in midstream. And now that life was breaking off, all he felt was silence, an abiding, humbling silence. Not a consoling silence: it was as cold and impersonal as fate, but at least it was real in the sense of being how things stood: an end to life's delusions.

By that time, most of the men were sleeping or in that general attitude, the living almost indistinguishable from the dead. Ernst, meanwhile, had taken some men to bring up crates of stick bombs and ammunition, and Wittgenstein was watching the Russian lines, when he heard someone yell,
Hold it, you yellow bastard!

Turning then, he saw, illuminated by the flashes of an automatic pistol, the blood-streaked face of an officer who was firing into the darkness. Cursing, the officer slapped another clip in his pistol, cocked it, then lurched toward a dugout and flung the door open, bellowing down, Get the hell up here, you miserable cowards. The Russians are about to attack! Do you hear me, he yelled, brandishing a stick bomb.
Out!
Out right now or I'll kill you all myself!

Shots rang out. Screaming, the officer pulled the fuse ring and flung it down, bringing pandemonium. But it didn't explode.

You, Sergeant! he yelled, running over to Wittgenstein. Give me a stick bomb —
now!

Saluting, Wittgenstein lied. I don't have one, sir.

The officer, a major, stuck a bent cigarette in his lips and struck a ghastly profile, with blood oozing down his shako cap. Then give me a light! You at least have a
match
, don't you? Looking away, the major mumbled, Goddamn idiots …

Sir, said Wittgenstein, who now could smell alcohol on the major's breath as he rummaged through his pockets for a match. I respectfully suggest that you seek medical attention. There's —

But the raging major stared into his eyes, bits of spittle on his lips as he flipped the cigarette up and down. Don't you think I know that, you goddamned bumpkin? I'll be damned if I'll take guff from some simple-assed son of a sausage maker like you. The major was working himself into another fit. God
damn
you! he roared, suddenly jamming the hot pistol barrel into Wittgenstein's neck. You've got five minutes to get these sorry bastards up on the line because when I come back I'll be bombing dugouts and shooting traitors, especially
Czech
traitors. One just shot Major Springer. I've been after the little bastard all night. They have a special whistle they use to signal the Russians. Ever hear it? Sounds like a partridge. You know what a
partridge
sounds like, don't you, straw foot? Still holding the pistol at Wittgenstein's throat, the major thoughtfully mumbled something to himself, then presented the bent cigarette in his slobbery dog's teeth, snarling, Now, light me up,
ass
hole.

The match flared. Wittgenstein was considering grabbing the madman's pistol when the major whirled around and fired. There! There he goes! Over
there
, God damn it! Are you blind, too?

The major charged off into the darkness, cursing and firing. Then, several minutes later, Stize ran toward Wittgenstein with a muddy handprint on his face.

Did you see him? Just now! This major, some lunatic, slapped me as I was coming out of the officers' dugout. Prince Primkin was right behind me with his orderly. He was just about to leave, and the man struck him, too. Knocked him down! Just raving with the blood pouring from his face. Stize patted his pockets for a cigarette, then continued. And that's not the worst. They want us to fight to the
last
man. And the Russians are certain to attack. Did you hear? They were issued fresh underwear yesterday — underwear and
vodka
, so they're all sure to be running amuck. Prince says it's a sure sign. Apparently the wretches think they can't go to heaven in dirty underwear. And watch your back. There's this whistle the Czechs are using to warn the Russians. Goes like a cuckoo or something —

Cutting him off, Wittgenstein said impatiently, Sir, it's nearing day-break. I think we ought to deploy the men.

Stize shook his head rapidly. Right! About to say the very same thing. Good. You do that. Reinforcements are coming. Prince says they're sure to call us back. Got to. Bloody suicide to stay here.

Wittgenstein pulled away from him wearily when Stize pulled the little pistol from his pocket and asked meekly, By the way, will your pistol cartridges fit this thing? Blasted thing's unloaded. Meant to catch the prince before he left.
No?
Stize wavered a moment, staring at the pistol, then said, Well, look here, then, I'll find some bullets and be
right
back. Good! Very good!