“I’ve got a hell of a pain in the gut.”
“And this is a hell of a time to crap.”
Suddenly, I realized what was the matter with me. My stomach was churning with increasing violence and threatened to explode. I certainly couldn’t stop a military convoy because my guts were about to turn inside out. I had to laugh at my predicament despite my shivers and cramps and salivating mouth. But I also had to try to think of a solution. The convoy was now in the middle of a forest, where there was no reason to stop. And, even if we came to a camp, I couldn’t just leave my group the moment we arrived, without any apparent motive. If I did that, they might even shoot me as a deserter.
But could I hold out much longer? I tried desperately to think of something else, but failed. My pains increased, and I broke out in gooseflesh.
Finally, my gut simply opened.
“Move over a little, fellow,” I said, grimacing. “I’ve got terrible diarrhea, and I can’t wait any more.”
The truck was making a lot of noise, and no one seemed to hear me. I shoved with my elbows, and shouted louder. The fellows on either side of me moved back about four inches, but paid no further attention. I could feel myself blushing with embarrassment. I tried to undo my clothes, jostling one of my neighbors.
“What’s the hurry?” he said. “You’ll be able to crap when we get there.”
“But I’m sick, damn it.”
He muttered something and moved one of his feet, although there was really nowhere to put it. No one laughed; in fact, everybody seemed entirely indifferent to my plight. I struggled desperately with my clothes, but in the cramped space, encumbered with all my equipment, I was unable to free the lower half of my body. Finally, I realized there was nothing I could do. My bowels emptied, pouring a stream of vile liquid down my legs. No one seemed even to notice my condition, which left me in a state of indescribable misery. My stomach was knotted with pain, and I collapsed into a stupefied torpor which prevented me from appreciating the ridiculous aspects of my situation. In fact, the situation was not particularly funny. I was really seriously ill, and my head was spinning and burning with fever. This was the first attack of a chronic dysentery which has plagued me ever since.
Our journey continued for a considerable time, during which I suffered two further attacks of uncontrollable diarrhea. Although my state of filth was scarcely aggravated by these eruptions, I would gladly have exchanged ten years of my life for a chance to clean off and fall asleep in a warm bed. I was shaken by alternate fits of shivers and burning heat, and the pain in my intestines grew more and more intense.
After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at our new camp, and I was dragged from the truck for roll call. My head was swimming, but, although fainting would have guaranteed the quickest route to the infirmary, I struggled to remain conscious. Somehow, I managed to stay upright among my comrades, each preoccupied with his own fate. However, my ghastly appearance did not escape the attention of the inspecting officer, and my gasping replies to his questions interrupted the regular rhythm of roll call.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“I’m sick… I… I…” I was barely able to stammer a reply, and saw him only as a blurred and shifting silhouette.
“What’s bothering you?”
“My stomach… I have a fever… Could I please go and wash, Herr…”
“Take him to the medical service as an urgent case,” continued the officer, speaking to a subordinate.
The latter stepped forward and took me by the arm. Someone was actually trying to help me! I could hardly believe it.
“I’ve got acute diarrhea, and I have to clean off,” I groaned as we tottered off.
“You’ll find everything you need in the sanitary block, Kamerad.”
At the infirmary, I stood in line behind some thirty other men. The pains in my abdomen tore at my entrails with an intensity which made me scream. I knew that my gut was about to pour out some more filth. I staggered from the line, trying to make my step firm, and followed the signs to the latrine. When that series of intestinal explosions was finished, I hesitated before pulling up my revolting trousers. Although I was in an incredible state of filth, I noticed that my excrement was streaked with blood. I went back to the infirmary to stand in line for another half hour.
Then my turn came. One after the other, I peeled off my nauseating rags.
“My God, what a stink,” exclaimed one of the orderlies, whose outlook was probably identical with that of the motto over the gate of our training camp: EIN LAUS, DER TOD!
I looked at the long table where members of the sanitary service were sitting like judges. The only plea I could possibly make was guilty. “Dysenteric diarrhea,” muttered one of the judges, obviously shocked by the shit which ran down below my knees.
“Get to the showers, you pig,” the other said. “We’ll look at you when you’re clean.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better. You don’t know how long I’ve been dreaming of a shower.”
“Right over that way,” said the first fellow, who was clearly anxious to be rid of me.
I threw my coat over my bony shoulders, and went across to the showers. Luckily, no one was there but a bewildered-looking boy who was scrubbing the floor.
“Any hot water in the showers?”
“Do you want hot water?” His voice was gentle and friendly.
“Do you have any?”
“Yes. Two big vats for 16th Company laundry. I could let you have some, though. The showers only run cold.”
Through my fever, I saw him as another bastard who’d do a favor for cigarettes or something else.
“I don’t have any cigarettes.”
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t smoke.”
I stood where I was, considerably surprised.
“Well, then, could you do it right away?”
But the fellow was already hurrying off. “Go in there,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to an open cubicle. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
Two minutes later he was back, carrying two buckets of steaming water.
“Were you at the front?” he asked.
I looked at him, wondering what he was trying to find out. He was still smiling his foolish smile.
“Yes. And I’ve had enough of it, too, if you want to know. I’m sick and disgusted.”
“It must be terrible… Feldwebel Hulf says that pretty soon now he’ll be sending me off to get killed.”
I went on with the extraordinary relief of washing off my backside, but looked up at him with some surprise.
“There are always fellows like that, who enjoy sending other fellows out to get it in the neck. What do you do?”
“I was called up three months ago. I left Herr Feshter, and after basic training in Poland was enrolled in the Gross Deutschland.”
“That’s a familiar story,” I thought to myself.
“Who’s Herr Feshter?”
“My boss. A little strict, but nice anyway. I’ve worked for him since I was a kid.”
“Your parents sent you out so young?”
“I don’t have any parents. Herr Feshter took me straight from the orphanage. There’s a lot of work on his farm.”
I stared at him: someone else whose luck had been a little thin. He was still smiling. I clutched my stomach, which once again felt as if it might explode.
“What’s your name?”
“Frösch. Helmut Frösch.”
“Thank you, Frösch. Now I must try to get into the infirmary.”
I was preparing to leave when I noticed a short, thickset figure standing in the doorway watching us. Before I could say a word, the man shouted: “Frösch!”
Frösch spun around, and ran back to the wet rag he’d left on the floor. I went out slowly, trying to pass by unnoticed. But the feldwebel in any case was concentrating on Frösch.