‘But the entrance fee isn’t cheap,’ nodded the rather fat Mettner.
‘Not as dear as yours,’ replied Bertin briskly.
Lieutenant Mettner looked at him. ‘That remains to be seen,’ he said carefully. ‘What’s your line of work?’
‘Lawyer,’ replied Bertin.
‘Don’t be so modest,’ broke in Kroysing. ‘He also writes books.’
‘Good,’ continued Mettner. ‘In me you may admire a mathematician, pupil of Max Klein, Göttingen, and not a bad one either. We have plenty of free time now, and so I tried to solve a cubic equation recently to pass the time. Do you know that I don’t understand them any more. I hardly know what a logarithm is. That’s how far I’ve sunk.’
The others laughed. But Mettner continued undeterred. ‘Consider this, young man: you will probably have sunk even lower than us, and so you’ll have to start again from the beginning. We’re out of practice, our minds are dulled, our judgement is gone and our professional know-how has evaporated. And we’ll have to relearn what civilisation means. Believe me, it’s going to be quite a task. Or do you think you’ll still have respect for human life after everything that’s gone on here? Won’t you just reach for your pistol if your landlord doesn’t want to fix your shutters? I know I’ll at least want to. And when the postman rings in the morning, I know I’ll secretly want to open the door and chuck my water jug in his ugly mug. That’s how I, Hermann Mettner, feel – born in Magdeburg and not the least bit bloodthirsty. But you, my dear legal friend, have spent the last 20 months standing to attention and saying ‘Yessir’ even if the man in front of you is an absolute baffoon. You’ll definitely go to the dogs. Let’s assume the worse that happens is that you’re still in that tunic at the end of the war. When you’re released, you’ll be used to obeying. No matter what you’re asked to do, you won’t complain, and if people ask nice and politely, you’ll melt like butter. You’re sure to find people who’ll save you the trouble of making your own decisions. And once the lovely business of making money starts again, in an office or wherever, one fine day you’ll realise you lost whatever scraps of personality you had in the war and you’ll remember a certain Mettner, who only gave his right arm, and there’ll be much wailing and gnashing of teeth – or worse.’
‘How! I have spoken,’ joked Kroysing, quoting Karl Mays. ‘My dear Mettner, you’re an intelligent man, and we’re sure to hear more from you as the days get longer. And it’s brilliant that you’re trying to put my good friend Bertin off being in the rank and file. But don’t be offended if I take issue with you on certain points, for I’m a military man through and through now, and if I don’t stay in the sappers I’ll do something in the air force. This gentleman here has no right to think about himself and his personality. For now, he should think about Germany. Comrades of his and ours are being killed every day, and sometimes it’s necessary and sometimes it isn’t. If a man is courageous, devoted to duty and able to lead, then God damn it he belongs in His Imperial Majesty’s most prestigious Officer Corps until the peace bells ring out. As to what happens to him afterwards, Germany will take care of that; our country will do things properly. And now, goodnight, gentlemen, and please close your ears for a bit. I have some private matters to discuss with Bertin.’
Flachsbauer and Mettner turned to the wall. Lieutenant Mettner had long since given up trying to influence Kroysing, who was older than him but still such a boy, and he knew that his friend Flachsbauer always agreed with the person who’d spoken last – in this case the old warhorse. Just don’t rush things, he thought, as he snuggled down in his blankets. It was spite on Kroysing’s part, if not something worse, to want to get that bright, left-leaning dreamer with his jam-jar glasses into an officer’s tunic. But they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Now it was time for sleep. A man always saw things more clearly after a good sleep.
Bertin stared at Mettner’s back. Waking up with that wound must have been like coming round after a drinking bout; he’d have liked to know more about him. He’d been thinking about his Kroysing novel and felt uneasy about it, unsure whether it was good or bad. Perhaps it was bad – and he couldn’t see it. For his two years as a soldier had taken their toll, eroding his education and character… What would become of him? He was suddenly overcome with fear. Don’t think about it, an inner voice cried. Save your soul! If you start to think about it, you won’t do your job properly tomorrow. You’ll drop a dud and blow yourself up. You only have one duty: to stay alive. Eat lots of soup like that one, listen to Lieutenant Mettner and stay true to yourself… Montmédy? Ah yes, Kroysing was asking if there was any news from there. Bertin ran his hand through his hair. He hadn’t heard anything for weeks. The papers Kroysing had sent him via Süßmann had certainly been forwarded and would be there now. But since Judge Advocate Mertens’ fatal accident…
‘It’s always the wrong ones who get it,’ growled Kroysing, lying back, his nose casting a sharp shadow on the barracks wall. ‘Why couldn’t that bloody aerial bomb have blown the heroic Niggl through the roof? No, it had be a decent man and one of the most indispensable.’
Bertin nodded and said nothing. Something made him want to tell Kroysing the wild hunter the truth about that indispensable man’s death, but he let it go out of respect for the deceased. He’d heard nothing further, he lied.
‘Well, I have,’ said Kroysing. ‘His sergeant came to see me, Herr Porisch from Berlin. A queer fish, but well-meaning, no doubt about that. First of all, he made it clear that Herr Merten’s successor would not want to open the dead file. Then he gave me a piece of advice.’
Bertin had instinctively put his pipe in his mouth and was sucking on it. He saw Porisch’s pale, puffy face, brash Sergeant Fürth – Pelican – the billet at Romagne with the crossed sabres. Poor Christoph Kroysing’s affairs were in disarray, and that couldn’t be allowed to go on.
‘Porisch is clever,’ he said.
‘So he is,’ growled Kroysing. ‘He suggested I make a complaint against Niggl to the judge advocate of the Western Group Command, whose jurisdiction we fall under here, Lychow Division, German Field Post and so on – I’ve got it written down. He said I should address it to Judge Advocate Dr Posnanski, confidentially in the first instance, outline the case briefly, cite you as a witness and ask for a meeting between the three of us to discuss the matter, so that I don’t get a reputation as a troublemaker with my unit if the evidence doesn’t conform to the rather exacting standards of the military judiciary.’
Bertin said that seemed like a very sensible suggestion to him. ‘I think so too,’ continued Kroysing, ‘but before I pursue it, my young friend, I must warn you that it could create unpleasantness for you. An ordinary ASC private who picks a fight with a battalion commander is letting himself in for it. I didn’t have your postal address and besides I had to deal with my leg and I learnt patience in the Prussian army. But now that you’re here, I must ask you: are you in?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Bertin without hesitation. ‘I’ll never go back on the promise I made to your brother. And now I must go if you don’t mind. My comrade Pahl is over there in ward 3.’
Kroysing reached out his hand. ‘You’re making off before I can say thank you. Fair enough – I know how it is. I’ll send the letter tomorrow. Where can I find you?’
Bertin, who’d already stood up, described his barracks under the hill near the goods siding at Vilosnes-East – very close on the map, but a good 20-minute climb on the ground. He told him his duties were always finished by dark. ‘And what happens,’ he asked, buttoning up his tunic, ‘if it’s not possible to pursue Herr Niggl in law?’