There was indeed a lot to tell, said Bertin, and he began with Captain Niggl’s advancement and the great fame he’d acquired.
‘The Iron Cross, first class!’ shrieked Kroysing. ‘That cowardly swine! That shuddering pile of dirt!’ And he burst into a fit of laughter, then nearly coughed his eyes out from choking.
Someone yanked open the door, and a forehead and a couple of strands of blonde hair appeared. In a pleasant Rhenish accent a voice said: ‘Boys, keep the noise down, would you? The boss will have a fit.’
‘Sister Kläre,’ cried Kroysing. ‘Stay here! Listen to this!’
The nurse waved a hand and said, ‘Maybe later.’
Kroysing sat in bed, pale and wild-eyed. ‘I’ll be hanged if I’m going to put my dog tag back on after this,’ he said. And he described to his two room mates, battle-hardened front-line soldiers like himself, how he had ensnared the ASC captain at Douaumont – a man who’d have done a bunk if he could have and would never have gone near the front of his own free will.
The two lieutenants jeered at his fury. ‘You’re so provincial,’ said Lieutenant Mettner equably. ‘I always suspected as much. Instead of being upset because some squit is getting a medal, you should be amazed you managed an Iron Cross.’ Kroysing’s caustic reply was that he wasn’t yet as philosophical as that but would no doubt learn to be in due course.
Bertin sat on the edge of the bed, silent and gaunt. With a smile he told them what had happened when Lieutenant von Roggstroh made a recommendation on his behalf. Kroysing was only half listening. ‘So that thing is to be promoted to major as well?’ he asked wearily. ‘And there’s nothing we can do about it? Just wait!’ And he clenched his fist. ‘And you, my dear chap, have only got what you deserved. Why are you still hanging around with those lousy ASC men? When will you realise that His Majesty’s sappers need new blood, leadership material, officers? Aren’t you ashamed to stick at that job, sir, as if your being in the ASC was God’s will rather than a temporary measure? No, I’ve no sympathy for you, my dear chap. You could be out of it in five minutes. All you have to do is apply to my esteemed regiment, formerly battalion, in Brandenburg an der Havel, and I’ll take care of the rest. Then you’ll have a lovely spell near Berlin first of all, which, if I’m not mistaken, will please your young wife. You’ll get a nice new tunic and leave as a sergeant. After all, you’ve already been at the front for 12 months.’
‘Fifteen,’ corrected Bertin. ‘If you include the Lille forts.’
‘And the next time we see each other, you’ll be wearing a sword knot like your friend Süßmann… Sergeant Major Bertin, soon Lieutenant Bertin. Have some sense, man! Take stock!’
Bertin listened to him talking, and what the wounded man said now seemed sensible, compelling even. What was he doing among slaves? Wasn’t there a better way to rediscover his humanity? Naturally, Lenore would give up her apartment and join him in Brandenburg for weeks or months, unless she used her father’s influence to get him into a Potsdam regiment… For a few sparkling moments he plunged into such dreams: what a heavenly escape from this endless, unmitigated torment…
Kroysing saw his words had made an impression. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ he cried. ‘Say yes.’
Lieutenant Flachsbauer, in bed by the same wall, watched Bertin’s expression eagerly, entranced by this show, which that old devil Kroysing had pulled out of his sleeve.
‘My dear sir,’ countered Lieutenant Mettner from the bed opposite, ‘don’t let him talk you into anything. Wait until you’ve seen our bandages being changed before you make up your mind.’ And he stretched out the misshapen, bandaged stump of his arm to Bertin with a melancholy smile.
‘Mettner!’ cried Kroysing. ‘Is that what you call camaraderie? Alienating a recruit already three-quarters won over! I wouldn’t have thought you capable of such a thing. It’s unforgivable.’
‘Nonsense,’ countered Mettner phlegmatically. ‘Forgivable or not – if you’re going to play the recruiting sergeant, you should at least offer your victim something to put in his stomach. Or do I misunderstand our candidate’s wishes?’
Bertin conceded with a smile that he was absolutely famished and could certainly go some hospital food. And while, half jokingly, he described the tinned soup called ‘crown prince soup’ that was dished out to the men day after day, Lieutenant Mettner left the room – now just one man among others in his blue and white striped hospital pyjamas.
‘He’s the only one of us who can walk,’ said Kroysing by way of excuse.
Flachsbauer observed with some amusement the contrast between Kroysing’s self-confident gestures and imperious bearing and the humble demeanour of the gaunt ASC man he wanted to seduce into playing the officer.
The one-armed man reappeared at the door with a white bowl and rapped with his foot. Bertin opened it, thanked him and started eating. The soup was made from poor quality beef provided by an elderly war cow past her best when slaughtered; the chewy morsels of her flesh sort of swam in the broth – the delicious broth. And the bright yellow noodles were war-time fare. Not much egg had been used in their manufacture, and their yellow hue came from a colouring agent, probably saffron. But this concoction, liberally seasoned with salt, parsley and leeks, constituted a meal the likes of which Private Bertin had not tasted since his wedding leave and it brought tears to his eyes – tears of shame at the happiness that flooded him, at the humiliation and indignity of being as moved now by beef soup as he once had been by music or poetry, and because he felt he could be a different man if he always ate like this. He sat head bowed, the soup bowl on his knees, his face in shadow, silently spooning the soup into his mouth, and each of the three men watching him noticed how much he was enjoying it and that his dark brown hair, greying at the temples, was going on top. But no one guessed what was going through his mind, or if they did they didn’t show it.
‘I knew,’ said Bertin, laying his spoon down in the bowl and looking up, ‘that I had found the Island of the Blessed here.’