Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (11 page)

Good.

We’re unable to enter Smolensk. The town is turned to ashes. A wooden town burns easily. Only the remnants of copper roofs lie scrolled up next to the ruins. We ride through the outskirts of Smolensk, heading toward Moscow now. Barefoot infantrymen are sitting by the roadside. Fellow Wurttemburgers, to go by the uniforms. The lieutenant stops and questions a lieutenant of these ragged troops. He doesn’t exactly look like a hero, and he doesn’t know much, either, but he is able to tell us that it’s mid-August, give or take a day or two, and that Napoleon is rushing toward Moscow like a madman to catch up with the Russian army. He needs to defeat it and force the czar to sue for peace. With a sigh, the other lieutenant adds: “Napoleon has to make peace, and fast! Otherwise we’re all done for.”

The passage of the
Grand Armée
is clearly marked. Impossible to mistake, and ghastly. Thank God the road dust obscures a lot of the misery from sight. I need to be careful I don’t lose my lieutenant in the dirt and smoke. He’s in a tearing rush. Going faster and faster. What is it that makes him hurry like a madman — and to his possible doom, what’s more? He’d be better off to try and avoid the fight and be pleased he’s been spared, so far.

Two days later, we catch up with the remains of the army. We even find our own regiment, after a little searching. It’s a pretty sorry sight, consisting of a small group of men and a handful of horses. Ripped and ragged like a bunch of highwaymen. “Fought too bravely,” moans the platoon commander. “And all for nothing!” He rides up close to the lieutenant, and whispers in his ear: “You know, we should be fighting against Napoleon, and not against the Russians.” My lieutenant looks about him in alarm. Hopefully, no one else heard. Apparently, Napoleon has spies everywhere.

It’s not much farther to Moscow now.

There, the Russians will once again have to give battle, say the regimental officers. Definitely! They can’t allow their capital city to fall into Napoleon’s hands. It’s sacred to them.

“The campaign will be decided at the gates of Moscow. We will be victorious, and be richly rewarded for the sacrifices and privations we’ve had to endure,” the
officers and men all hope. “Moscow is immeasurably rich, and we will take some of its treasures back home with us.”

It turns into a pleasant evening. Our platoon is bivouacked next to the smoking beams of a farmhouse. I dig up our treasures. We bake the rest of our flour and share the warm flatbread and the rest of our biscuits with nine reasonably fit comrades. We wash them down with wine, of which there’s one mugful per man. And suddenly, its magical powers creep into us and, for one fleeting moment, conjure up visions of a happy and livable future.

Then I am torn out of my happy reverie with a jolt. A cold shiver runs down my spine. Sergeant Krauter is standing behind my lieutenant, staring as if hypnotized at the little wine barrel. I think I must be seeing things. I wipe my sleeve across my eyes and scatter the camp-fire smoke. No, there’s no sergeant. I must have been deceived. But it takes a while for the shock to melt away. To the devil with him, I say to myself. I’m not about to have waking nightmares about that rogue. I drink down the last of my wine and wash away the Krauter ghost.

My lieutenant is surplus to requirements. He has no more men left to command. His platoon consists of two horses, himself and me. It doesn’t take much imagination to appreciate that the only reason we’re still alive is because the lieutenant’s belly gripes ensured that we missed the battle at Smolensk.

The regimental commander comes by in person to take a look at the lieutenant. The two of them are well acquainted. In fact, it turns out one of them is the uncle, and the other is the nephew. The wellborn colonel is reasonably pleased with his nephew’s state of health. Even so, he pulls a face, and scolds him in French and German, of which I only understand the German. “Thunder and lightning!” he snorts. Had his nephew taken leave of his senses when he ignored the order to report to the
hospital in Vilnius and get himself cured? And had he instead taken off after the army, to meet his death with it? Then he wrinkles up his nose, sniffs at his nephew, and barks in disgust: “Thunder and lightning! It’s high time my nephew changed back into being a respectably scented lieutenant, got rid of his filthy gear, and cleaned himself up.”

In less elegant language, I am instructed to put the lieutenant and his tunic into militarily acceptable shape. After all, it is the foremost duty of an officers servant not to let his master run around in such foul condition.

We go looking for a suitable lake. The first is too close to the highway. Too many filthy foot soldiers and whole cavalry regiments, including horses, have already availed themselves of it. The water looks like it, and it stinks horribly. This lake wouldn’t exactly get us clean, so we look farther afield. And because the war is just now in a phase of relative calm, the colonel has left us a whole day to that end. So we have plenty of time to do our laundry, and we don’t need to stop at the first puddle we see.

The second and third lakes don’t impress us, either. In the second there are bodies of men and horses floating about, looking none too healthy. The third smells bad, and its shores are muddy. Whereas what I’m looking for is a clean spot for my laundry, with fine sand. After
all, I need something to scour the clothes with. The fourth lake is a long way from the highway, and accordingly clean, with a sandy shore. And it has the great advantage of being deserted. Just a dozen or so cranes promenading along the shore.

Just to be safe, we observe the lake and surroundings from a distance. No Cossacks or Bashkirs or other people. No suspicious movements in the adjoining forest, either. So we have the lake to ourselves, and I can wash uniforms in peace.

Somewhere in the distance there’s a whump of artillery. I wonder if another battle is in progress? Never mind. It’s so far away that it doesn’t concern us, and we don’t need to think about it. But the faraway noise rapidly comes nearer. It seems to be from due east. Maybe not too far from Moscow. With all this banging, it has to be quite a big show. Probably it’s another battle after all. Definitely. All those gunpowder explosions and masses of rifle shots. We can even hear the signal trumpets when the wind is from that quarter, and the drumbeats calling on regiments to fire.

The lieutenant wants me to make haste. Because of the battle in the distance. He doesn’t want to miss out on another important battle. Not again.

“First we have to wash. Ourselves and our clothes. Those are orders from His Excellency the colonel in person.”

“But let’s be quick about it.”

Of course I have to wash both uniforms. A lieutenant isn’t a washerwoman. That’s what he has his servant for, which is me. Only now do I see how much dirt has found room on and in his uniform. Even the very fine lake sand can’t seem to dislodge it. It’s by no means an easy task. I’d much rather muck out ten stables than have to scrub a pair of white cavalry lieutenant’s pants. Without benefit of soap or cauldron or any of what you would normally require for a sound wash. Well, the dirt won’t go. Soak, therefore. I dunk the uniform in the shallow water, and place a large stone on top of it. The dirt will surely have to dissolve and leave the fabric. You’d think. It doesn’t, though. More sand treatment. But only up to a point. Because it looks as though the material is being rubbed away, and only the dirt survives intact. Such filthy, stained trousers really are a disgrace.

The distant rumbling is getting louder all the time, crashing and banging like some heavy thunderstorm. There seems to be something going on. And we, Lieutenant Count Lammersdorf and I, his servant, are once more not at the scene of the action.

Thank God! Although of course I don’t say so.

“That must be Moscow over there,” reflects the lieutenant.

“You could be right about that.”

The summer is pretty done up. In Russia it’s not like
it is at home, anyway. The sun pushes itself through the last few days of it. Unenthusiastically, or even under protest. It’s certainly not prepared to shed any warmth. Unless it makes a bit of an effort, it’s not going to get our uniforms dry. I drape our pants across a bush in the sunshine. From time to time, a light, warmish wind blows by. What applies to our trousers applies to ourselves, too. We, too, need to lie and soak for a long time. The water is still tolerably warm. It’s stored up some of the warmth of July and August. It’s warmer in the water than it is outside, in the keen east wind. The skin takes a while to soften and start to resemble skin again. Konrad Klara can swim. He tells me it’s something he learned to do in the noble fishponds at home. I too, am able to keep my head above water, so we have a high old time splashing and jumping about like little children. Konrad Klara quite forgets himself and forgets the battle too. He whoops and splutters, and I forget about the battle myself. There’s a small island in the middle of the lake. Of course, we decide we have to swim to it. It turns out to be farther away than we thought. We come ashore panting, and then look back to the bank.

“It’s a damned long way! Doesn’t it look small.”

“It was fun, though, even if it was tiring.”

“Yes, it was fun all right! I’ve never swum this far in my life.”

“Hold on a minute. Are you sure you’re looking at the right bit of the bank?”

“Yes, quite sure.”

“I don’t believe you! Then our horses ought to be standing tethered to those trees. But they’re not there.”

With bad premonitions, we strike out for the bank.

The horses are gone.

“Did you tie them up somewhere else?”

“No! I’m sure it was here. Look, you can still see the hoofprints in the sand.”

“And the uniforms that you put out to dry on the juniper bush?”

“Gone as well!”

“Everything gone!”

“Our money too!”

Never in all my life have I had so much money as now. Only yesterday the paymaster caught up with us and gave us our back pay for six months. I got ten Albert thalers. At home, I could have bought an orchard or a meadow with that, and a couple of sheep, and, if prices were low, then a couple of cows as well. The lieutenant is even worse off than I am. He had a fortune with him. Over a thousand gulden. That’s a heck of a lot!

We run around the shore like two madmen.

Everything gone. Everything.

We have nothing at all. We’re standing there buck naked.

“Someone must have robbed us!”

“Cossacks or Bashkirs?”

“I don’t think so. The Cossacks would have waited for us and drowned us in the lake. A sneaky theft like that just isn’t their way of doing things.”

“But who was it, then?”

“Maybe some local farmers, or bandits.”

“Bloody war, having to run around stark naked!”

We hurriedly hide ourselves in some bushes, and watch the edge of the forest. In case Cossacks are around. Or Bashkirs, for that matter.

The plain is deserted. Nothing to be seen. But someone must have been there and picked up our horses and the uniforms with them.

And I took so much trouble with the laundry. Maybe the thieves would have left the lieutenant’s trousers if they’d still been all filthy.

I swear horribly.

The many cannons are still booming away in the direction in which apparently Moscow lies.

“My beautiful Arab horses,” whimpers Konrad Klara.

“How will we get back to the regiment?”

“It was half a day’s ride. Without horses, without clothes, barefoot. Impossible! We’ll never get back to the regiment.”

I could weep.

Konrad Klara does.

A weeping lieutenant. I wonder what the king of Wurttemburg would say to that? Or even Napoleon himself?

We wait till it’s almost dark. The great plain is deserted. Most likely the robbers took their departure through the forest and rode off beyond. Hopefully. Or else they’re still in the forest. Hopefully not. We couldn’t put up any sort of resistance. Just with our bare hands. Our weapons are gone too.

“No one around. No Cossacks. No Bashkirs.” We have to make the most of the gathering darkness. So that we remain unseen by Cossacks, Bashkirs, or any other people, for that matter. Naked as we are, we have every cause to feel shame. Even though we’re not to blame.

Barefoot and hungry, we set off on our way. It’s gotten damnably cold. Now the sun’s gone, there’s an icy wind out of the east.

“Straight from Siberia,” says Konrad Klara. “I expect it’s already blowing over ice fields there.”

“Siberia!” I exclaim. “Do you mean there’s yet another country beyond Russia?”

“Bound to be,” trembles Konrad. “And others beyond that, too.”

“All the things you know!” I envy Konrad Klara.

Konrad Klara is shaking with cold. In spite of the falling darkness, I can see that he’s all covered with goose pimples. His teeth are rattling and chattering.

I’m not too good myself. I could use a thick fur coat, like the estate manager’s wife had in Schonbronn. And warm socks and shoes and all those other things that keep a body warm. But we have nothing. Nothing whatever. Not even a handkerchief between us. Konrad Klara needs a lesson from me in how to blow your nose without one of those little kerchiefs. It’s an important lesson, because our noses are starting to dribble in the cold. The stable boys at home always snot themselves like that, and the common soldiers do the same. They all of them blow their noses with their fingers. Has he never seen it done before, Konrad Klara?

“Adam Neve,” he says. “I’m really cold.”

“I am, too. Russia is a cold country. Even though summer can hardly be over. We’ll have to run to warm up.”

But Konrad Klara can’t keep it up for very long. He
gets slower and slower, and starts to lag behind. His recent illness is still in his bones. His breath comes short and whistling.

I don’t like it. A farmhand from Morbach had that whistling in his lung once. He was very quickly suffocated by it. Or at any rate, he died from it. Konrad Klara’s panting and wheezing sounds a lot like that.