Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (6 page)

There’s still no war, though. Russia is so far away, it seems incredible that we could walk there. Perhaps the country doesn’t really exist, and the whole army is just tramping about on some cooked-up whim of Napoleon’s.

The army crawls into the Thuringian Forest. That marks the end of paradise. There is no more wine.
Instead, there’s snow again, and an icy north wind that blows through our uniforms. Apparently, there are now difficulties with our supplies. The baggage column can’t keep up with us. Already, with Russia and our foes still so far away. An old sergeant, who has already fought both with and against Napoleon, blasphemes, “What’s it going to be like when we’re in enemy country, in the endless plains of Russia?”

We have our first experience of hunger. A few men still have supplies.

I don’t. And I continue to stumble and trudge along behind the seven-pound howitzer. My toenails have turned blue. I can barely walk. My bloody stumps of toes rub themselves raw with every step. Perhaps it’ll help if I stuff some old leaves in my boots. No, that doesn’t seem to make any difference. I need new boots. Desperately. Before my feet go to pot, and the rest of me along with them.

I start to keep an eye out on the various carts that are accompanying us. Before long, I figure out which one carries what. An army of this size has to drag all sorts of things with it. Including shoes and boots. I make a report and show my toes. “If we issued you new boots, now, where would that get us? And besides, there aren’t any!” exclaims Sergeant Krauter. And because he’s my immediate superior, and I have no one else to report to, I continue to trudge along in these deadly boots.

I am left with no alternative but to perpetrate a grave sin. At night, I steal. It’s not especially difficult. No one’s sleeping in the shoe cart. No one catches me. After all, I’m supposed to be the one apprehending any thieves. It’s to my own advantage that I’m set to watch over myself. Cautiously, I creep into the cart and help myself to a pair of well-made boots that fit. Here’s the odd thing — I don’t feel at all guilty. Even though I’ve robbed His Very Highness, the king.

So that my new footwear won’t draw too much attention to itself, I rub and scratch the new leather and smear dirt onto the boots till they look run-down and awful. Like my old ones. Now I can keep up with the column. My toes and heels calm down, the bleeding stops, and they’re on the way to being cured by the time the horse artillery leaves the kingdom of Saxony behind. My two big toenails start to work loose. Later on, past Smolensk, they both drop off. But I’m young, so it’s no great matter. Under the purplish scales of the old nails, healthy new ones are already starting to grow.

No one notices that I’ve got these brand-new boots in place of my old ones. For a while, I continue to hobble like a cripple behind the shiny howitzer, just so Sergeant Krauter doesn’t get any stupid ideas.

In April, the Wurttemburg regiments are in the Leipzig area. There are no enemy Russians here, either. The enemy’s still at least a thousand miles off, so says Sergeant Krauter. Maybe he’s right, too, because a sergeant is bound to know more about maps and terrain than an ordinary transport soldier. If I hem and haw about it all in my mind, I don’t really know what to think. Why doesn’t Napoleon find himself an enemy who’s a little closer at hand? But they say he’s already used them all up.

In any case, there’s still no sign of a real war. Except for the terrible Krauter. It’s just as well, too, as far as the Wurttemburg army is concerned, because we have our hands full with our own problems. Food and fodder are becoming scarce.

Fortune and misfortune are still in the balance with me.

One evening, my former lieutenant comes galloping along on his lovely Arab steed, into the little Saxon village where the gleaming seven-pound howitzers and horses and Krauter and a few transport soldiers and I are bivouacked. His other horse is cantering at his side. He is in a towering rage.

The cause is the two noble servants sent by his father. The ones who caused me to tumble from heaven straight into the clutches of Sergeant Krauter only weeks ago. Now they help me get out of my pickle. Not directly, because the two of them probably don’t know who I am, and they’re miles away in any case. Gone. A clean pair of heels. They seem to have had enough of this war and don’t want to accompany Napoleon to Russia. Somewhere in the area of Leipzig, they left their noble master in the lurch, most shamefully. A right pair of dogs.

So the lieutenant wants me back. Just like that.

The captain of the cannoneers is produced. Then he and Sergeant Krauter are hissing and trembling with fury. They protest so noisily, with hands and feet, that the lieutenant count stands his Arab menacingly on its hind legs. But never mind what fuss the two of them try to make, none of it’s the least use. Because the lieutenant has in his hand a piece of paper issued by the colonel, allowing him to take the soldier Georg Bayh just like that, without further ado. As his servant. After all, a lieutenant count can’t very well go to war without a servant,
especially a war that’s supposed to take place as far away as Russia seems to be.

Half an hour later, I’m mounted on the second of the splendid Arabs, riding away with my old and new master under the astonished glances of the cannoneers. It’s nothing to do with me, because naturally no one asks me for my preference. Where would that get us anyway, if a common soldier had to be asked whether he’s in agreement with an order or not?

So I’m able to escape Sergeant Krauter for a second time. I hope for good! Of course, I’m very happy to obey. In fact, I’m so delighted that I feel like flinging myself around the neck of my lieutenant. But I look completely unmoved, just like a good soldier should.

Straight afterward, another extraordinary thing happens. A farmer’s wife secretly slips me a hunk of bread with roast meat. Me. Not my master. How good people can be, after all! At least, some of them.

I wonder if I should share it with my lieutenant. Why should I? On the one hand, he got me out of the clutches of the sergeant, but on the other hand, the farmer’s wife meant her gift for me. So I eat it all by myself. But I don’t feel happy doing it. I’m sure my lieutenant is hungry, and I feel selfish and greedy.

Now I’m charged with currycombing the noble horses again and finding fodder for them. I try to provide
for myself and for His Grace, the lieutenant, as well. At the moment, there’s no cook for the officers. Either he’s stuck in the dust, miles back with his kitchen equipment, or else he’s hightailed it, taken his supplies with him, and sold them off.

Finding food isn’t an easy matter. There’s nothing to be had far and wide, and the many regiments eat the country bare like a million-strong rat pack. There isn’t even anything to be had with money. Often, stealing is the only thing left to do. After all, I have to keep my lieutenant and me alive.

Every week, I wash his dirty pants and socks. My own as well. But separately. It wouldn’t do to have my things and His Grace’s muddled up while laundering them. Probably on account of the different qualities of dirt. My pants need to dry overnight. In the morning, when I creep out of the hay, I pull them on. I have only the one pair.

The many regiments are making slow progress at the moment. More are joining us all the time. From every side. My lieutenant tells another lieutenant that not in all the history of the world have there been so many soldiers assembled in one place. But then there has never been another Napoleon, either.

So here we have half a million men making their way to Russia, and — as if it were the main street of the
village at home — I walk slap-bang into someone I know. Our cavalry is just passing an infantry regiment on the banks of the Elbe. People call out here and there. I know the accent. So these must be Wurttemburgers. I’m pleased to see them. The poor foot sloggers are shuffling along apathetically in completely done-in boots. I feel so lucky to have landed with the mounted Jagers. There are worse things than being saddle sore.

“Hey, you!” calls one of the foot sloggers. “Aren’t you our mayor’s farmhand?”

I’m startled, and ask my lieutenant for permission to hang back a little, because there’s someone from my village among the infantry. I wouldn’t mind stopping and having a chat with him.

I walk alongside the foot soldiers for a good long while, leading my horse by the reins. The soldier is Hanselmann, the son of the village cobbler, and he’s got plenty of news for me. There’s another fellow in the regiment who hails from the same village, and he’s just back from a visit there. Everything in the village is fine. My farmer has taken on a new farmhand. So he doesn’t seem to be counting on my return anymore. The farmer’s wife is on her deathbed. Sad for her!
Ach
, life is hard. I hear more news. Nothing particular, but the little village weighs heavy on my soul afterward.

The lieutenant has stopped treating me like a snot
nose. Somewhere he seems to have noticed that I can think a little bit. I get a new uniform again. The old one never recovered from Sergeant Krauter’s efforts. My wellborn master obtains everything he wants, so of course that includes a fresh uniform for me, as his servant. There’s only one thing he can’t seem to get, and that’s enough food for his horses, himself, and me. The world around us seems to have been eaten bare. Only hunger is so plentiful that it hurts.

It’s something like the middle of April. One evening, the regiment emerges onto a wide plain. In the distance, we make out a large town on a big river. “Frankfurt and the Oder,” says my lieutenant. Not to me, of course, but to the squadron leader, who’s riding along at his side. This Frankfurt place seems incredibly far from home. I wonder if we’ll ever make it back? I hope Napoleon knows his way around.

The infantry marches into town with fifes and drums. We can hear the stamp of thousands of boots on the paving stones. The cavalry regiments, as ever, are told to take a roundabout route through the outlying villages. Because of the many horses, which would stink up the city in no time.

It’s a lovely spring with beautiful meadows and fresh-looking green forests. In the farm orchards and on the roadsides there is the snow white of sloe and cherry
blossoms. The occasional pear tree even tries to bloom. The grass is full of masses of bright yellow dandelions. Our column rides across the country nine or ten hours a day. The weather is perfect. I have stopped thinking about my sore feet. They are healing well and hurt less and less. Instead, I have trouble with my behind. But that’s getting accustomed to whole days in the saddle. Perhaps it’s turning into leather too. Not my pants, though; they are getting thinner. The lieutenant has more trouble with his bottom. Apparently, his noble skin is finer and more delicate. At the end of hours of riding, he has to stand up in the stirrups for relief. In the evening he slinks into the stable for me to pull off his boots and also to rub some salve that the regimental doctor has prescribed into his wellborn bottom.

Blossom time is over, and the meadows have been mown. The air is full of the smell of new hay. The horses can eat to their hearts’ content. There is nothing else, anyway. Only hay and water. In the long run, it’s not good for them. There are no oats. Too many riders have already passed through in front of us. They and their horses have eaten up everything. In a few days, the hay will run out as well.

And the army is getting bigger all the time. Who ever saw so many soldiers? From the west, one regiment after another moves into line, Westphalians and Italians, Austrians, Bavarians, Portuguese, and more and more French. I am astonished by the number of Frenchmen. And boys, too. Poles come up from the south. They are especially colorful. They are also the only ones who
seem to know what they are fighting for. They want to reclaim their country from the Russians. And what are the Wurttemburgers fighting for? For their greedy guts of a king? He’s fat enough already, if you ask me.

Damn it all, I think. What is this gigantic army going to live off? So many horses and men. Enough to graze the whole country down to stubble. It can’t go well. Eventually, they’ll end up eating one another.

Where are the forage wagons with oats and hay and biscuits? From what we hear, they’re miles back, sinking into the deep sand of the Polish roads. Another lieutenant tells my lieutenant count that the infantry regiments are making less and less progress. Their boots are useless, cheap rubbish that goes to pieces in no time. The king of Wurttemburg has the answer, smirks the other lieutenant. He has sent out fifty four-axled wagons, carrying ten thousand pairs of boots for his soldiers. And biscuits. From Stuttgart. The lieutenant whispers behind his hand, “And what if it’s true? Even if it’s true, the wagons will never get here. They’re bound to bog down somewhere on the way, get looted, and have their contents flogged off!”

My conscience weighs on me. I stole boots, too, back then. I feel them burning on my feet. No, I convince myself, it wasn’t theft, it was necessity. After all, this is war. Other laws apply.

In a little town in Poland, there’s a huge procession.
With priests and banners and crowds and flowers. Someone says it’s a Catholic-Popish celebration called Corpus Christi. They have something like that in Upper Wurttemburg, too. Some of the Bavarians and Austrians accompany the procession a ways. So we have Papists among us, too.

Today, the regiment requisitions for the first time. That’s what people do in war. They just take the food and the fodder they need for themselves and their horses from the local people. Of course it’s not theft as such, because it’s war, and the people it’s taken from are given a receipt for it. For that reason it’s not called stealing, but requisitioning. The squadron leader says mockingly to the lieutenant that he wouldn’t mind if the receipts were a bit bigger. Then at least people would have something to wipe their arses with.

My lieutenant has been put in charge of a forage unit. He has to requisition in a certain area. Cattle and sheep, as many as possible. And anything the horses will eat. Forage and food for three weeks. For the entire regiment. The unit is given three days. Then they have to be back. With food for the men and horses, of course. Otherwise, the regiment will starve. So the forage detail rides off into the Polish countryside on this Popish holiday, from place to place, and from farm to farm. But we don’t find anything. The farmers and their animals have fled into the forests.