Outside Verdun by Zweig Arnold; Rintoul Fiona;

Author:Zweig, Arnold; Rintoul, Fiona;
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Freight Books

CHAPTER THREE

‘Write!’

THINGS NOW TOOK on the hyper-reality of a fantasy, the solid outlines and soft, fluid forms. Unrest was in the air when two small groups of sinners were lined up outside Acting Lieutenant Graßnick’s hut after lunch. On the left was Sergeant Kropp with his closely cropped hair and Private Bertin, whose platoon leader, Sergeant Schwerdtlein, was planted next to him in case a character witness should be required. On the right was Sergeant Böhne, whose friend Näglein had pulled the prank of reporting two shirkers from his platoon. The deaf carpenter Karsch and little Vehse the upholsterer had sloped off into a dugout when fetching ammunition to avoid exploding shells and hadn’t rejoined their comrades until the march back. It was the second time Karsch had done this. He had an incurable fear of those wild iron birds that ripped into men’s bowels with a deafening crash. Böhne moved restlessly from one foot to the other, twirled his moustache and fumed inwardly at Näglein, who had thrown his weight around by making a report rather than letting him, Böhne, deal with the matter.

There were rumblings on the horizon all around the camp. But the disturbances were no longer coming from German guns – enemy explosions had taken their place. Something was up – nobody suspected what. It would have been a wise moment to remember the old proverb that eating stimulates the appetite. The French were thinking of replying to the Kaiser’s peace offer with the spears of their bayonets. As they were much better off in terms of ammunition and relative troop numbers than eight weeks previously, they fully expected to reach their goal – a line running from Pepper ridge through Chambrettes-Ferme to Bezonaux, that short front right across the Meuse heights, whose advantages certain gentlemen in Pierrepont belonging to the German General Staff would learn to appreciate. The attack rolled forward slowly; when it peaked the men in the barracks and among the ammunition dumps might notice something. Until then, profound peace reigned.

It must have been 2.30pm when Lieutenant Graßnick appeared in the door of his well-appointed hut, which was protected by a grey waterproof tarpaulin. Bertin studied him calmly, the warm fur waistcoat under his open tunic, which the deft company tailor Krawietz had turned out for him for next to nothing, the fashionably cut britches, the high-peaked cap, the monocle set in his fat, red face. A sideways glance and a little contented smirk revealed that ‘Panje of Vranje’ was pleased to hear that Bertin was in trouble. In the doorway the broad chest and massive legs of the company commander’s bulldog also appeared, a solemn, tan-coloured beast with a white bib, which was hated because it consumed as much meat as two men, and which for that reason was never allowed to take a walk by itself in case it disappeared into a cooking pot. The acting lieutenant was in a sunny moody. Everyone knew that he was going on leave the day after next and staying away over New Year.

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