Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (8 page)

“What’s good?” asks the lieutenant.

“Everything good! You and your brother good,” she says in her broken German. She can’t mean me when she says “your brother,” can she? I’m ashamed. My master is annoyed. I expect he doesn’t want to be my brother. Thoughts of the gypsy swirl in my head for a long time. But I don’t get any wiser. Nonsense. How is a gypsy woman going to be able to see into the future, anyway? Not even the village preacher can do that, and he’s bound to be much nearer to God than any beautiful gypsy woman. And the thing about the brothers gave her away. A count and his servant. It makes me blush with shame.

At daybreak, our sodden regiment reaches the bank of the river that goes by Niemen or Memel. Even though there are several pontoons, the regiments are backed up. And it’s still raining on the freezing troops. I wish the sun would come out and burn off the rain clouds.

“Napoleon’s already crossed over,” someone says.

“He’s just now declared war on the Russians.”

“Why now?”

“Because that’s how it’s done. Those are the rules. Napoleon knows what’s right.”

“So the war’s beginning now.”

“And it hasn’t yet?”

“Those are the rules.”

“I wonder what the Russians make of it?”

“Ha, if only we knew. Maybe they don’t make anything of it.”

“No blood has been shed yet.”

“I wonder if the czar will capitulate?”

“If he has any sense, he will.”

“Let’s hope he does,” say some.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t!” say others. “That would be a pity. After all, we haven’t come all this way for nothing. Moscow is said to be an incredibly wealthy city, stuffed with extraordinary treasures. You want to take something home with you, when all’s said and done.”

“What are we waiting for, then? We just charge across, wipe the Russians out, crush them flat. In an hour, it’s all over. Then we move on to Moscow, and fill our boots.”

The regiments get into line.

Long boards are rolled up to the river. With their help, the sappers are going to build bridges. Preassembled parts of bridges are trundled along on ox carts. They just need to be slotted together. Let’s hope they don’t break under the weight of the guns and horses.

A lot of cavalry regiments have already crossed over. “They’re forming a bridgehead,” the lieutenant tells anyone who wants to hear. Then the cannons creak along after, and the infantry.

“Quick, before the Russians come!”

Midday is sultry. A hot sun comes out and chases away the rain clouds. More showers follow. The uniforms are sticking to our skin. Breathing is difficult. There’s too much moisture in the air. In this weather, a man and his horse could both of them molder away. The last scraps of bread rot.

What’s keeping the Russians? Napoleons army churns into Russia and no one opposes us.

No battle.

And no Russians.

The following days remain unpleasantly wet, and the
Grande Armée
is starving.

I manage to get hold of a piece of dry, unmoldy bread. I share it with my lieutenant. Otherwise I think I’d lose him. His stomach growls so loudly, I can hear it several horse-lengths away. He can’t beg or steal. He doesn’t know how. For his whole life, he’s been given everything. And because no one gives him anything now, he has nothing. The supply column is somewhere in the hinterland. It can’t keep pace with Napoleon’s furious forced marches. From daybreak to nightfall, he is driving us after the Russians.

We bivouac in half-ripe cornfields. Right in the middle of them. That way the riders are at least lying on green stalks and not on bare dirt. The outlying buildings are useless, their roofs have been stripped off, the straw burned or spoiled. The horses eat grass or unripe grain.
Only green stuff, that’s all there is. The only change is scraps of wood, birch twigs, or a rotting straw roof Unless they get hay or oats soon, they’ll grind their teeth down on the green fodder. The first kidney ailments are already killing off riding horses and draft animals.

Very warm, and then, scorching-hot days follow. The army is shrouded in clouds of sand. On top of hunger, there is thirst, too. Thirst is much worse. The few wells along the roads are poisoned. In our desperation we drink dirty water from pools and ponds. Trenches are dug in the swampland to collect water. We scoop it up, or just drop our faces into the trenches and drink. The swamp water is brown and lukewarm, and full of wriggly red worms. The more fearful men strain it into their mouths through scraps of canvas.

Every cavalry regiment is issued sickles and scythes. We mow everything down, everything that can be mown and fed to men or horses. We get through a lot. Whatever isn’t used up is left to dry or rot. What a waste.

And in spite of that, we are starving. The unripe grain is worthless. It doesn’t make flour, and there’s no bread without flour. Or anything else. Officers turn a blind eye when their men take off in small groups to steal and plunder. The alternative is to make them starve. The devil take military order.

The men are getting weaker. Every day, the regiments dwindle. Soldiers lie down by the side of the road, or just
keel over and die. The thirst! It forces you to drink, no matter if the dirty puddles have corpses or dead horses in them.

It gets hotter still. The dry air trembles over the vast Russian plain. Next to the main roads are dusty corpses. Without lance punctures or saber wounds. Fallen from sheer exhaustion.

Our regiment is riding along in the middle of the army. Everything around is trampled down, cropped bare, burned. Too many men and horses have been this way ahead of us. The regiments at the rear will find nothing at all, beyond the remains of men and animals.

And now, on top of everything, we get the Russians. They sense our weakness. Red-clad Cossacks pick us off from the side.

They are feared like demons. Lying flush to their horses, they gallop up, hack at our feeble troops, and chase away.

My lieutenant is sitting upright in the saddle again. He’s forgotten about his thirst for a few moments. Trembling with fear, I press my lance against my hip, but the Cossacks are already off.

The cannons are brought forward. We take aim at the enemy. But they ride like the devil, jagging now here, now there. Hardly anyone is hit. It’s like chucking stones at sparrows.

During another Cossack attack, I see him again: Sergeant Krauter. He’s fighting grimly, yanking the heavy seven-pound howitzers this way and that with his cannoneers, ramming their muzzles, and firing ball after ball at the Russians.

My lieutenant leaves his platoon and rides up onto a little hill. Maybe he wants a better
view
of the enemy or just a chance to see what’s going on. Or he’s looking for a chance to intervene in the scrap, and he’s looking around for stray Russians. I stick to his side, because I don’t want to leave him, and anyway, that’s my place as his servant.

We stand there on top of that hill like a couple of statues, the lieutenant and I. It’s not very clever of us.

The sergeant must have seen us. He forgets his
cannons and the enemy, and for a while fixes us with a stare, and then it happens. Krauter shouts something to his gunners. They heave and jerk at the seven-pounder, and point it toward me and the lieutenant.

Has Krauter lost his mind? He’s not about to fire at us, is he? Even now, he’s filling the cannon’s mouth with its death-bringing innards. The sergeant shouts and orders. The howitzer is aimed directly at us.

I think he means it.

Without any respect, I tug at the reins of the lieutenant’s horse and yank it down into the nearest hollow. The lieutenant is furious at the incredible disrespect shown him by me, his servant — he’s just drawing breath to tear me off a strip — when he hears the ball hit nearby and he sees the earth fly up and then the huge hole in the hillside where we were just standing together a moment ago.

The lieutenant didn’t notice what the sergeant was doing. He just says to me: “You did well there! We could have been in trouble.” And: “Those Russians have good aim.” But I can tell from his eyes that my lieutenant feels something a little more than simple gratitude to me, he just can’t talk about it. After all, a count can’t get all familiar with his servant and talk a lot of rot.

I’m going to have to be careful around Sergeant Krauter from now on. He is so crazed with hatred, he is
capable of anything. Even of using his pretty seven-pound brass howitzer to commit murder.

Two days later, I make a further alarming discovery. No matter how big the army is, there are still truly strange coincidences.

There he is again, the murderous sergeant. But that’s not all. He’s just overtaking a foot-weary infantry regiment with his howitzer and its team. They are fellow Wurttemburgers. Suddenly, the sergeant stops. An infantryman steps out of the line. The two men know each other, and they have a little chat. I am alarmed. One of them is certainly my mortal enemy, Sergeant Krauter. And, unless my eyes deceive me — and it is quite a distance away — the other is Hanselmann, the cobbler’s son from my native village. Now, what have those two got to discuss? Is it a conspiracy against me, or have I started seeing things already?

Blasted war.

My lieutenants caught one. It doesn’t look good at all. It isn’t an enemy bullet. Nor a whack with a saber or a jab with a lance. No. The war is rampaging in his innards. Overnight, he’s come down with something. Some treacherous disease is messing him up inside. He’s slumped in the saddle like an old man on his last legs. His face puffs up and looks greenish yellow, like the yolk of a bad egg. Every so often, he slithers off the back of his horse and drags himself tottering behind a bush. If there is one. What’s responsible for his creeping malady is the green stuff we eat and the water from lakes, ponds, creeks, and swamps. He can’t take it. The swill rumbles and dins in him so loud that you can hear him feet away, front and back. If the trouble in his belly goes on, he’s going to explode.

There are a lot of soldiers in the same boat. Napoleons
Grand Armée
is not committing any acts of heroism just at the moment. It’s too busy stinking up the edges of Russia’s main thoroughfares. At least half the troops are squatting down by the side of the road at any given time.

But my lieutenant’s even worse off than that. He’s so feeble he can’t even squat down properly. Is there any way I can help him? If he’s so full of poison? I feel sad and apprehensive. I watch fearfully as, slowly but surely, my master is leaving this life. It would really be such a pity for him.

I am baffled. What should I do? Probably, all my lieutenant needs is bread and meat and clean water. It’s the filth he has to eat and drink that is destroying him. I don’t think there’s anything else wrong with him. If he doesn’t get anything decent to eat soon, his belly will sour on him, and he’ll end up too feeble to drag himself behind a bush to die.

He needs help, fast. Before it’s too late. I turn over all sorts of possibilities in my head and can’t come up with anything. Stealing? Yes, even stealing. But where can I steal anything from? If only I knew where to find some food. There must be tens of thousands looking for the same for themselves. That’s why the tracks of the
Grand Armée are
barren, nothing but desert. The salvation of my lieutenant is perfectly straightforward. I can clearly envision
it. Just a decent portion of dinner. A few big chunks of
meat,
or a doorstop of bread two inches thick, with a quarter of an inch of butter spread on it. Maybe a spoonful of honey to top it off. Served with a billycan of milk, warm from the cow. Followed by a shot of hundred-and-twenty-proof slivovitz to scratch out his belly. All of it good and fresh, and without any mold or red worms. That’s all it would take. Feed him like that, and my lieutenant would get better in two shakes. The poor boy. He’s in real trouble. I really feel sorry for him. He’s so completely helpless, and he stinks to high heaven. It takes all my strength to heave him up into the saddle.

Something needs to happen, and quick. Otherwise I won’t have my lieutenant anymore.

There is a surgeon with the regiment. He’s under special orders to reattach parts of soldiers or to cut off other parts if he can’t fix them up.

I consider: If the surgeon can stitch up and snip off arms and legs, then he probably can take care of the young lieutenant’s illness as well. I’m sure he has made a thorough study of people’s insides and will know how to quell a mutinous belly.

I ride up to the head of the regiment without too much ceremony, and against all protocol ask the colonel’s adjutant for help for my lieutenant. After all, it’s a life-or-death situation. The adjutant listens to me and summons
the regimental surgeon. Who is an elderly, plodding gentleman, but pretty well preserved and healthy looking. I expect he gets given enough to eat. He comes back with me and looks at the lieutenant for a little while. “A count, is he?” he asks. No other questions. That’s all he does. Other than making a face. I start to get a tickling feeling in my head. The man just makes a face and then spouts all sorts of silly nonsense. It is impossible to overlook the fact that the lieutenant is halfway to soldiers’ heaven, says the surgeon, quite unmoved, and that he doesn’t smell very aristocratic, but really more like a corpse. He, the regimental surgeon, is unable to do much for him, because half the army is suffering in the same way from diarrhea, or a bad case of the runs, as it’s also known.

“And so?” I venture to ask him hopefully. “Then the lieutenant doesn’t need anything beyond a square meal and clean water. Then he’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”

“I’m afraid that’s right,” says the regimental surgeon. “I have nothing to eat myself. No one has anything to eat. There’s nothing to be done about that at the moment. Either the count will survive this spell of weakness, or not. Of course, it would be a pity to lose the young man. But then again, we are at war, and war always comes at a price.”

And then, to top it all off, he makes me responsible
for his well-being and orders a course of treatment, including, if need be, a ride in a carriage or cart back to Vilnius, so that the lieutenant can be put on a sound diet and nursed back to health — unless, as was all too probable, he happened to have perished in the meantime. “Let’s not delude ourselves about that,” the regimental surgeon concludes. “The regiments diarrhea victims are dropping like flies.”