Читать книгу Officer Factory - Hans Hellmut Kirst - Страница 8

The barracks which housed the training school lay on a long ranging hill above the River Main, which the ordnance survey maps marked as Hill 201. To some people this point was the center of the world. Down below in the flat trough of a valley lay the little town of Wildlingen, which twisted away in an endless series of narrow little streets like intestines. Everything was bathed in pale blue moonlight. A blanket of snow lay on the ground. The night was gripped by a leaden sleep.

The war was a long way off, so far off that it had left Wildlingen-am-Main untouched. Yet hidden away here in this out-of-the-way place the future seeds of professional destruction were now being manufactured. For the time being, however, the vast machine of the training school had come to a standstill. Both the engineers and their tools were resting. For though the war itself knew no sleep, the warrior could not do without it, and for more than a few this sleep was only a prelude to Death.

But Death on the whole kept away from training schools. Why should he bother to disturb a process which served him well enough in the end? Here he was sparing with his victims. He merely put in an appearance now and again in a purely routine sort of way as if to remind people that he was in fact everywhere. The ages of those who lay in the cemetery at Wildlingen-am-Main half-way between the town and the barracks were high for the most part, and a certain Lieutenant Barkow of twenty-two struck an almost jarring note, though even this error of taste was soon to be rectified.

In any case the moon was quite indifferent to where it shed its light. It looked down on all things equally as it had done since the beginning of time, on lovers and corpses, on the old town and the new factories of war. Human beings might write poetry to it, stare at it or revile it as they pleased. It waxed and waned, disappeared and rose again. The sentry on guard at the barracks gates was no more than a speck of dust, the old town a writhing worm, the training school itself just a hollow nut-shell.

But within the training school a thousand people were breathing away. A thousand people slept, a thousand digestions were at work, a thousand bloodstreams performed their sluggish tasks. Millions and millions of pores filtered the air like the cleansing units of so many gas-masks.

No glimmer of light made its way through the blacked out panes. Behind the closed windows the sickly smell of warm bodies mingled with the odor of blankets, mattresses and floor-boards, while this and the various other smells of the night merged into a heavy, suffocating atmosphere which slowly enveloped the sleepers in the small, overcrowded rooms.

Not everyone, however, was permitted sleep, or even sought it. For some it was forbidden.

The cadet on guard at the gate, for instance, felt cold and tired and bored, but beyond that felt nothing. "To helm with the whole rotten business!" he muttered to himself

He didn't quite know what he meant by this. He only knew that he had to become an officer, though he had long ago ceased to bother about why.

He was getting through his course, in which sentry-duty was laid down as part of the curriculum. And that was that.

“Aren’t you tired?" Elfrida Rademacher asked the girl sitting on her bed. “When I was your age I'd have been asleep for hours by now."

“But you're only a few years older than me," said the girl. “And the later it is the more wide awake you seem to become."

Elfrida Rademacher looked into the mirror and slowly combed her hair, watching the girl behind her as she did so.

This girl had only been in the barracks a few days, a supplementary posting for number one kitchen, detailed for elementary duties during the hours of daylight only. For this girl, whose name was Irene Jablonski, was little more than sixteen years old and her age was of course taken into account.

“Are you going out now?" she asked.

“I still have something to do," said Elfrida, trying to sound non-committal.

“I can imagine what that is," said the girl.

“You should try not to let your imagination run away with you," said Elfrida sharply. “Then you'll sleep better."

Irene Jablonski made a face and threw herself down on her bed. She felt grown-up now and wanted to be treated accordingly. Then she suddenly felt frightened again. It was true that she had been sleeping worse and worse lately.

Elfrida pretended not to notice the girl, who was one of the five with whom she shared this room. A pretty, slim, fragile little creature, with large eyes and a well-developed bosom which proclaimed her maturity though she still had the face of a child.

“Can’t I come out with you in the evening sometimes?" the girl asked.

“No," said Elfrida firmly.

“If you won't take me with you I'll go out with the others." She meant the other four girls they shared the room with, two of whom were employed on communications duties, one in the record office, and the other in the sick bay. They were all experienced, mature girls, carefree to the point of indifference, which was hardly surprising after two or three years in barracks. They were already asleep by now, though only two in their own beds.

“I can do anything you can," said Irene sulkily.

“No you can't, not for a long time," said Elfrida. “You’re much too young."

She glanced round the room, which contained the usual sort of barrack-room furniture, though not of the lowest type, more N.C.O.s' standard than other-ranks'. There were even bedside tables, which were normally the prerogative of officers. Yet everything was standardized, even though the pattern of uniformity was slightly modified by rugs, paper flowers and ornaments, which gave the room an unmistakable atmosphere of femininity and showed that they hadn't yet given up altogether.

“Listen, now," said Elfrida to Irene Jablonski. “It might be a good thing if you forgot all about the thing that seems to be most on your mind. You're too young for it and too vulnerable. I was just like you once. And I did just all the things you long to do in your heart of hearts. Well, it wasn't worth it, see? It's pointless."

“But you go on doing it, don't you?"

“Yes," said Elfrida frankly. “Because I still hope that it may prove worth it in the end."

“But won't one always go on thinking that?"

Elfrida nodded. She turned away, and thought to herself: without hope one's done for—where would one be without it? And softly she said to herself, “He’s different from the others, I think."

Captain Ratshelm allowed himself no rest, and interpreted this as his sense of duty.

He had made all his preparations for the following day's work, had written a long letter to his mother, and had then sat listening thoughtfully to the final sounds of the day which invariably preceded the sounding of lock-up--the scampering of bare feet in the corridor, the water running in the washroom and the latrine, a brief exchange of conversation, a joke or two, the hearty laughter of young men, all followed by the footsteps of the duty officer passing through the billets, brisk footsteps marked by a faint clinking sound as an iron-studded heel struck a flagstone. A few sharp orders, and then a sort of forced and artificial stillness.

The rule was that any cadet who from then on (22.00 hours) wanted to sleep was to be left undisturbed. Undisturbed and this was an important qualification, by his companions. For of course visits from superior officers, practice alarms or special searches might disturb him at any hour of the night. Anyone who wished to work, though, could do so up to 24.00 hours, the one condition being that he wasn't to make a noise under any circumstances.

This was Ratshelm's great moment.

For the Captain had established it for himself as a principle that the cadets should know just how solicitous he was for their welfare. He applied this principle by a carefully formulated plan known only to himself, which he put into action first thing in the morning immediately after reveille, when he supervised the morning wash and early games, and again now, late in the evening.

Ratshelm strode briskly from his room, down the corridor and out through the main door of the building. He continued across the parade ground and the main thoroughfare of the camp, round an ammunition dump and up to a set of wooden barracks, where H Section enjoyed temporary accommodation. The barracks were gradually becoming too small for their purpose, and additional huts had therefore had to be built to house the most junior of the officer cadets. Those in H Section were naturally the first to suffer, though in Rats-helm's eyes there was nothing wrong with throwing them all together like this. His one cause for regret was that they were some distance away, though this also meant that more checks were required.

Ratshelm entered the narrow corridor of the barrack block and looked eagerly about him. He was disappointed by what he saw or rather failed to see. The rooms were fitted with glass windows above the doors, but in none of these was there a light. It seemed that the cadets were already asleep. This indicated that none of them was making a point of working late, though such a thing was expressly permitted by the regulations. Ratshelm shone his torch along the numbers on the doors, until he came to number 7.

The four cadets who lived here were in fact asleep, or at least showed no signs of not being asleep. One was even snoring in his bunk, while the others lay there like logs, paralyzed with exhaustion, dead to the world. Anyhow, Ratshelm's expert glance noted at once that the room was nice and tidy, and his eyes shone with appreciation. He flashed his torch across the beds, and found himself looking into a pair of eyes that stared back at him wide awake and radiant.

"Aha, Hochbauer," said Ratshelm softly, going closer, “so you're not asleep yet?"

“I’ve only just stopped working, sir," replied Hochbauer equally softly.

The Captain smiled to himself rather as an art expert smiles on finding himself before the most valuable picture in a gallery. He considered himself fortunate to be entrusted with such magnificent specimens of humanity.

“What have you been working at so late, Hochbauer?" he asked with interest, and his pleasant baritone voice was full of fatherly good-will.

“I’ve been reading Clausewitz," said the cadet.

“Admirable stuff," commented- Ratshelm with approval.

“I’m afraid, though, sir," said Hochbauer confidentially,” that there are one or two things I'm not quite clear about. It's not Clausewitz's fault, but there are just a few points I don't quite understand."

“Well, my dear Hochbauer, you can always come along and see me about them. Any time, after duty. To-morrow evening would suit me. You know where I live. I'll be only too pleased to help you. That's what we're here for!"

“Thank you, sir," said the cadet happily, and throwing out his chest he braced himself in the bed as if coming to attention. His night-shirt opened across his chest revealing his identification discs and the glistening texture of his skin.

Ratshelm nodded and left, seeming suddenly to be in a great hurry. Probably it was his sense of duty that called him.

Major-General Modersohn sat at his desk, with the harsh light of a lamp falling across his angular features. It was almost as if a wax figure were sitting there in his place. But the General was working on a file in front of him on the cover of which the words “KRAFFT, KARL, LIEUTENANT" were written in large capital letters.

Modersohn occupied two rooms in what was known as the guest house, adjoining the officers' mess. He used one of these for work and the other for sleep and in all the time he had been there had never once used either room for anything other than the purpose for which it was designed.

The General sat at his desk fully dressed. It was difficult to imagine him with his shirt open or his sleeves rolled up. Even his batman seldom caught a glimpse of Modersohn in his braces or his socks. As far as the General was concerned, soldiers were either dressed or undressed: “improperly dressed “was a term that simply had no meaning for him. Thus for him it was the most natural thing in the world that he should be sitting alone in his room in the middle of the night as impeccable in appearance as if he were on parade or on a tour of inspection.

The General's tunic, which was made of worsted and was slightly worn at the elbows, even a little shiny in places, was nevertheless immaculately clean and buttoned right up to the neck. The golden oak leaves on both sides of the collar of his tunic seemed to glow magically in the light of the lamp. The German eagle on his left breast looked worn and faded. No decorations were visible, although Modersohn possessed almost every one there was. But the General preferred to make his authority felt by his personality, rather than by getting himself up like a Christmas tree.

Yet there was a subtle difference in the General's expression now, a bleak acknowledgment of the fact that he found himself completely alone. He seemed almost lost in thought as he gazed at the documents before him.

Carefully he read through each of the personal reports of which they consisted, before comparing them together. Then he came to the conclusion that a lot of bunglers had been at work here. For according to these reports, the man who was now Lieutenant Krafft had always been quite unexceptionable, a good soldier—almost one might say a fine one—always keen and reliable. But there must be something wrong with that.

The General read the reports through again, this time systematically searching for specially revealing turns of phrase and oblique marginal references, which in due course he found. Almost imperceptibly he smiled.

For example in his report on Krafft as a corporal he found the words: ... remarkable for his obstinacy—his feeling for discipline still leaves something to be desired—determination is his strong point ... And in the report on Krafft as a lieutenant were the words: ... good at solving problems on his own —very self-willed—plenty of energy but not always put to the best uses—a first-class leader of men with the ability to render really outstanding service under a superior officer who knows his job . . . The last report written shortly before Krafft's transfer to the training school offered the following instructive comment: ... of a rather critical turn of mind an extremely useful if not altogether comfortable subordinate with a strongly developed sense of justice ...

Only a few words extracted from a superfluity of neutral meaningless formulas, cheap generalities and empty clichés. But these few words made it clear that Krafft was something out of the ordinary. He had been posted suspiciously often, and yet almost always with words of commendation. It looked as if people had praised him highly in order to be rid of him the more easily. And now he had landed here at this training school—in the domain of Major-General Modersohn, popularly known as the iceberg or the last of the Prussians.

Modersohn closed Krafft's personal file. The notebook which lay ready to hand remained empty. The General closed his, eyes for a moment as if to rest them from the harsh light of the table lamp. His face still revealed nothing of what he was thinking. But the ghost of a smile remained.

Then Modersohn rose and went into his bedroom, where there was an army bed, a chair, a cupboard, and a wash basin—but that was all.

The General unbuttoned his tunic and pulled out a wallet, which he opened. He stared at a photograph, about postcard size, which was the portrait of a young man—an officer with an angular face and large, frank, inquisitive eyes. It was a solemn face, but one which at the same time evinced a quiet determination.

When the General looked at this picture something approaching warmth came into his eyes, and the severity of his expression was replaced by a look of distant sadness.

This was a picture of Lieutenant Barkow, who had been buried the day before.

Lieutenant Krafft was also unable to sleep that night. However, it wasn't his conscience that kept him awake, but Elfrida Rademacher.

“I hope no one saw you come," said Krafft rather nervously.

“What if they did?" replied Elfrida with apparent indifference, sitting down beside him on the bed. She thought she knew what men liked—cheerfulness, brightness, and above all no fuss and bother.

“What will the other girls you live with say?"

“Just what I say about them when they don't sleep in their own beds. Nothing at all."

Krafft listened to the night, but there seemed no risk of being disturbed except by Elfrida, who now began to take off her clothes.

Krafft found the moral atmosphere prevailing in these barracks really quite remarkable. The remarkable thing was that such an atmosphere should be possible in the domain of a man like General Modersohn.

“They haven't invented a cure for it yet," said Elfrida, pulling her petticoat up over her hips. She did this as if it were the most natural thing in the world, which, Krafft reasoned, seemed to show that she'd had a certain amount of practice.

He found it difficult to make this girl out. It was true that everything had been quite simple from the beginning, completely uncomplicated, delightfully straightforward. But Krafft could sense that she wasn't quite what she pretended to be. He was always catching himself thinking about her. Well now, he said to himself, it was possible that she wasn't so much seeking pleasure for herself as wanting to do him a favor. There was a suspicion of charity about the whole thing.

“Haven’t you any misgivings?" asked Krafft.

“Why should I have?" she replied. “We like each other. That's quite enough."

“Quite enough for me certainly," said Krafft. “But what if Captain Kater finds out how you're spending your nights? After all, he's officially responsible for you and the other girls."

Elfrida began to laugh. It was a completely frank laugh and dangerously loud at that. “This fellow Kater is the last person who can afford to set himself up as a guardian of morality!"

“Have you had some sort of experience with him then?" asked Krafft, noting with astonishment that the idea made him slightly unhappy.

Elfrida paused for a moment. She straightened up slightly, before turning her dark eyes on him and saying: “I’ve been here for two years now, ever since this training school was started. I'm living here with more than forty other girls in a special separate corridor of the headquarters building—we even have our own entrance, in fact. All day we work in the stores and in the workshops. We are women civilian employees called up for military service. We come into contact with men day after day; there are a thousand of them all round us. So it's hardly surprising that from time to time we feel the need to spend our nights with them too."

“Well, all the same, I'm glad you selected me from the thousand or so others."

“I did so for a number of reasons," said Elfrida, taking off her stockings. “First because your billet and mine are in the same building, which makes matters a lot easier. Then because the two of us work in the same place, in the headquarters company, which makes it easier for us to arrange to spend our free time together. And then there's another reason, Karl, a by no means unimportant one—I like you. That doesn't necessarily mean I love you. I'm against big words like that, and anyway they've become very small in these times of ours. But I do like you very much, and that's the only reason I'm doing what I am doing. In any case Captain Kater has no place on my list which isn't all that big—and he never will have."

Almost hurriedly, Elfrida stripped off her brassiere. Krafft looked at her longingly, burning with desire and wanting to stretch out his hands and seize hold of her at once, but she pushed him away and looked at him almost sadly.

“I’m not exactly a model of virtue," she said, “I don't need to tell you that. But I don't want you to think that my being here and the ease with which everything has developed between us is all just a matter of course. There's more to it than that."

Her breath was coming in short gasps and he misinterpreted the sign. “Come on 1 " he said impatiently.

Elfrida shook her head.

“There’s more to it than just that," she repeated with a slight huskiness in her voice. “I feel something almost like fear. I know it sounds silly to say that, but from the very first I had the feeling that we only had a short time together. Don't laugh at me, Karl. I know nothing can last for long in this war. Everything comes and goes; one loves and is unfaithful, wants to forget and is forgotten. All right, one has to accept that. But it isn't just that, not this time."

“Come on," he repeated, and put his arms round her.

And so he never heard her when she said: “I’m afraid for you."

“It just goes to show," said Captain Kater, thoughtfully. “One doesn't hesitate to do one's duty, yet how is one rewarded? With misunderstanding! One finds oneself in trouble! And all because a certain person likes to think of himself as the last of the Prussians and to attach more importance to military regulations than to ordinary human qualities."

Captain Kater was sitting in the far corner of one of the rooms at the back of the officers' mess, with the soft light from a standard lamp shining full on to his moonlike face. A well-rounded bottle of red wine stood before him, while opposite sat Wirrman, the Judge-Advocate. Both looked worried, and stared morosely at the bottle of red wine, which deserved happier faces, being one of the noblest Pommards ever ripened in the sunshine of France. Kater still had a few more cases in the cellar, but he was tortured by the fear that he wouldn't have the chance to enjoy them.

For the General seemed unwilling to leave him in peace. In his own eyes, Kater was a good-hearted fellow and a successful organizer. But Modersohn seemed unable to appreciate that sort of quality. There probably wasn't another man like Modersohn in the entire Wehrmacht; and yet he of all people had to be the commanding officer of the training school at which Captain Kater had the headquarters company!

“The General seems a very self-willed man," said Wirrmann, using the formula with the utmost circumspection so that it seemed free of both provocation and reproach.

This was typical of Wirrmann's tactics. He was always very careful in his choice of words, nearly always sticking pretty close to protocol. But the underlying tone made it clear to Kater how Wirrmann was thinking.

Judge-Advocate Wirrmann, seconded to training-school inspection duty, an experienced lawyer and trustworthy servant of the Reich, a naked sword of justice with more than two dozen death-sentences to his credit, he of all people had been humiliated by Modersohn as if he were no more than some incompetent petty official. And in front of all the other officers too! Kater could hardly help seeing in Wirrmann a potential ally.

“Between ourselves," said Kater, leaning forward confidentially, the General isn't only self-willed—there's simply no telling what he'll do. Though I say so with respect, he seems utterly unappreciative of the joys of living. The finest wines, the best cigars, mean nothing to him, nor does he cheer up in the slightest at the sight of a pretty girl—"

“But you can't help noticing the interest he takes in certain young officers," interjected Wirrmann. And he smiled knowingly as he said this—a smile, as he thought, of extreme subtlety and of the greatest gentleness, as if he imagined himself to have lifted a sad corner of the truth.

Captain Kater choked, so that the wine spilled on his uniform, but he took no notice of it. He was thinking hard. The Judge-Advocate's comment had sounded harmless enough, but something about the way in which he obviously intended it to be taken put him on the alert.

Warily Kater asked: “You mean ?"

“I don't mean anything," said Wirrmann at once. “I wasn't even hinting at anything. I was merely turning over in my mind the thought that, with the exception of course of our Führer, no human being's decisions are impeccable, unless of course he should be fortunate enough to have the law to guide him. All I was really getting at was this: even generals cannot be devoid of certain human sympathies."

“And these have their dangers. Yes, you're right there." Kater nodded agreement. “Quite often to the disadvantage of decent, honorable men, sound reliable officers for example. In my own case there's the additional factor that this man Krafft is after my job as C.O. of the headquarters company. It's the only explanation of his behavior."

“Well, yes," said Wirrmann slowly. “The General isn't your friend exactly. And this Krafft seems a fairly cunning and ruthless fellow. He may even succeed in pushing you out —a key job like yours is well worth having. But if Krafft is in fact to be your successor, then it can only be with the General's approval—that is, it can only be something he himself wants to happen."

“Which isn't altogether out of the question," admitted Kater. “For what does the General know of my particular abilities? I do my duty at least as thoroughly as he. But he seems quite unable to appreciate the fact. The man has his limitations—of course I'm speaking quite confidentially between ourselves. All right—he knows a thing or two about strategy and tactics. But he hasn't grasped the simple truth, valid for thousands of years—for as long as soldiers have existed, in fact—that a soldier who is hungry and thirsty is only half a soldier."

The Judge-Advocate disapproved of the crude hints Kater was dropping, of his carelessness and lack of restraint, but he didn't hesitate to exploit the situation.

As if savoring the heavy bouquet of the wine, he said: " Things would certainly be very different—and not for you alone—if this training school had a commanding officer with whom one could collaborate more pleasantly."

Kater stared at the Judge-Advocate. Hurriedly he filled up his glass and drained it at a draught. His moon face shone with new hope. In his mind's eye he could see the crates of wine he had stocked up for the benefit both of his brother officers and of himself, and imagined himself enjoying the fruits of his industry and ability, undisturbed and free from care. And he asked: “You think that might be possible?"

“It depends," said the Judge-Advocate casually.

“On what?"

“Well," said Wirrman carefully, " I'm assuming of course that you realize that the only thing I'm interested in is the pursuit of justice."

“Of course, that's taken for granted," agreed Kater readily.

“My dear Captain Kater," said Judge-Advocate Wirrmann,

“what we need is something to go on. Just something to start with will do. The very possibility of an offence is sufficient grounds for opening a case, and once a case has been opened it usually means that the man is automatically relieved of his duties. There are two points in particular I have in mind. First: the person of whom we are speaking has never categorically indicated his enthusiasm for our political system and our Führer. This could prove of considerable significance. Secondly: the person in question shows a remarkable interest in everything connected with Lieutenant Barkow, that's to say personally connected with Lieutenant Barkow. Now why is that? What lies behind it? Have we something we can go on here? Give the matter your attention if you're seriously interested in remaining in charge of the headquarters company here!"

“Follow me, men!" whispered Cadet Weber. "No hanging back. A potential officer must be a match for every situation." Cadets Mösler and Rednitz slunk across the camp with Cadet Egon Weber threading his way through the darkness about ten to fifteen yards ahead of them. All three were keeping in the shadow of the transport sheds, avoiding the main thoroughfare of the camp and the sentries' patrols, as they headed for the Kommandantur building.

They groped their way through the night, bent double. Their pockets bulged, for they were loaded down with bottles, and one of them cupped a burning cigarette in the hollow of his hand.

“Steady, men," said Cadet Rednitz, not bothering to lower his voice particularly. “We mustn't overdo it; let's have something to keep our strength up first."

“We’ve lost too much time already," objected Mösler. “We shouldn't have bothered about Hochbauer. Why did you have to go and tell him what we were doing! You know he's against this sort of thing."

“One needs to keep in with Hochbauer," said Weber approvingly. “He’s bound to be our next section senior and he'll be twisting Captain Ratshelm round his little finger in no time."

“Man," said Mösler thoughtfully, “when that day comes we're for it."

“Hochbauer’s all right," Egon Weber insisted.

“And you, Weber, are a damned fool," said Rednitz amiably. “As you'll find out for yourself one of these days. Want a bet?"

They paused when they reached the cookhouse. Standing in the shadow of a supply shed they looked across at the Kommandantur. The moon obligingly hid itself behind a bank of clouds.

Cadet Egon Weber uncorked a bottle and took a mighty swig. Then like a good comrade he passed the bottle on, while Rednitz kept a look-out for the enemy—a patrolling sentry or an officer.

“What are we going to do if we're caught?" asked Cadet Egon Weber.

“Look silly," said Rednitz.

“And what are we going to say?"

“Anything that comes into our heads—anything but the truth, that is." Rednitz liked to turn everything that happened into a joke. Mösler on the other hand was a person who spent his time systematically in pursuit of pleasure and wasn't particularly choosy where he found it. Cadet Weber simply did everything he was called upon to do from attending church parade to visiting a brothel. All that was needed was to appeal to his sense of comradeship and his physical strength, and then there was nothing he wouldn't do. As a result he was remarkably popular with everyone and his commission was a virtual certainty.

For instance what if we run into the duty office?" asked Egon Weber.

“Then," said Rednitz, reaching for the bottle, “the best man among us confronts him and sacrifices himself for the others. I imagine that will be you, Weber, because I don't expect you'll want to let anyone else deprive you of the honor."

“All right," said Egon Weber, quite undismayed, " let's suppose that happens. Then the duty officer will want to know what I'm doing here."

“You’re sleep-walking of course, Egon."

“With a bottle?"

“But that's the whole point!" insisted Rednitz. “Without a bottle there wouldn't be anything odd about you."

“What’s all the nattering about?" said Mösler impatiently. “Why are we hanging about like this? Let's get on to the girls."

“Steady now," warned Rednitz. “If we don't think things out carefully and watch what we're doing we'll be in trouble. I'll go ahead and see how the land lies."

“You just want the best girl for yourself," said Mösler suspiciously. “That’s not playing fair."

“And anyone who doesn't play fair," said Egon Weber, Section H's champion wrestler and always spoiling for a fight,” will have me to reckon with."

Rednitz found himself powerless against such arguments. He had no alternative but to act in accordance with the principles taught him by Captain Feders: every operation once set in motion is to be carried through to the bitter end, provided no decisive alteration of strategic considerations demands a change of plan.

Alteration of strategic considerations “hardly came into it, for there wasn't an officer in sight and the sentries were all dozing in their various corners. But down in the basement of the Kommandantur sat the poor little love-sick maidens of the communications center.

The events of the night before had been all round the barracks by the late afternoon. Cadet Weber had learnt certain details from the man in charge of the sports equipment. This man had received his information from a corporal in the kitchen. He in turn was a close friend of the clerk in the orderly room, and the latter was himself a close friend of the raped corporal in person. In short, first-classes addresses, relatively accessible. To the rescue then!

“Right, come on," said Cadet Rednitz, sounding the advance.

Mösler and Egon Weber followed him excitedly, holding their bottles by their necks and swinging them like hand-grenades. They crouched low as they hopped across the concrete road of the barracks and disappeared into the Kommandantur, determined to take the communications center and the girls by storm.

When they got there, however, they found others there before them.

Captain Feders, Section H's tactics instructor, sat enveloped in thick clouds of cigarette smoke, thinking, writing and smoking, in a state of complete exhaustion. He tried to concentrate on his class's subject for the following day: transport of an infantry battalion by rail. But utterly without success. And sleep wouldn't come to him.

The night seemed to be filled with a dull roaring, as if of distant aircrafts, or trains running continuously on the other side of the hill. But he knew this was an illusion. The darkness all about him was empty save for the wreathing cigarette smoke, the bare walls of the room and the floor-boards which let in the cold. No sound reached his ears—none of the sounds of the life around him: the breathing of a thousand sleeping men, their groans and muffled heart-beats under the bed-clothes, the gurgling of water-pipes, the scraping of the sentries' boots, the panting somewhere or other of a couple of lovers. He knew that all this was there, but heard none of it.

Captain Feders, the tactics instructor, was one of the cleverest brains in the training school, the sort of man who could never help trying to tie people up in knots, and who was always being tempted into sarcasm, being a great scoffer and fond of debunking for its own sake. Whenever he sensed that he had any sort of audience he wore a permanent, cold, ironical smile on his face. But when he was alone, as now, he was a tired man with a haggard face, whose eyes showed him to be tortured and desperate.

He listened anxiously, wanting to hear something only in order to prove to himself that what his reason told him was there really existed. He drew at a cigarette—he heard that. He blew smoke out of his mouth—he heard that too. His wife lay in the bedroom. She must have been tossing about restlessly, pushing the blankets away, breathing noisily—but however hard he listened he heard nothing.

“It’s as if everything were dead," said Feders to himself” Everything seems to be decaying."

Marion, his wife, had been called up for military service like all the other women in the barracks. The previous officer in command of the training school had arranged for her posting to Wildlingen-am-Main, simply as an act of generosity. He saw to it that the couple got a small apartment in the guest house, for Frau Marion Feders knew how to exercise her charm.

The present commanding officer, Major-General Modersohn, tacitly accepted the situation. It could hardly be supposed that he would allow it to continue indefinitely. For Modersohn didn't seem to recognize such a thing as private life, and certainly not at his training school. This suited Feders, particularly in the circumstances, though he hadn't the strength to tell his wife openly.

He forced himself to concentrate. He wanted to hear her, in order to realize again—over and over again—what a desperate senseless business it all was. But he heard nothing. He got up, went over to the door that led into the bedroom, opened it and switched on the center light.

And there lay Marion, his wife, with her short, bright blonde hair. The bedclothes had slipped from her strong, sunburned shoulders, and he noted the clean sweep of her hips and the magic of her skin glistening with the sweat of sleep.

“Are you coming to bed?" she asked, blinking, and rolling over on to her back.

“No," he said.

“Why don't you?" She was so sleepy that her lips hardly moved.

“I just wanted to get a book," said Feders, picking up a book that lay on the bedside table. Then he turned his head abruptly, put out the light and left the room.

He returned to his desk and stood in front of it for a while. He put the book aside and stared at the harsh light, at the billowing clouds of smoke from a couple of dozen cigarettes, and beyond, into the darkness which seemed to lie in wait for him. And in that moment it finally became clear to him that life—his life at any rate—was rotten and useless. Hardly worth bothering to do away with.

The moon rose higher. The hard silhouette of the barracks melted in the pale frostiness of the night, until all outlines disappeared. Roofs seemed to become flatter; roads merged with patches of lawn into an indeterminate greyness, and it was as if the walls of the place simply sank into the earth. A flat uniformity seemed to absorb everything.

The thousand human beings there were now lost to the world. Hardly a man among them was not sunk deep in oblivion. Even the sentry dozed wearily. He had lost almost all sense of his surroundings by now. The utter emptiness all about him was like some infinite extension of his own state of mind. The most comfortable of all worlds to guard would have been one in which all life was extinct.

As the hours slipped by they stripped the sentry of all personality; of his vague emotions, his cautious appetites, his rare flickering of purpose, and his overwhelming despondency. He merely patrolled his beat: a mechanical being with a brain that was already asleep.

The hills above Wildlingen-am-Main on which the barracks now stood had once been covered with vineyards, where, barely two centuries ago, a wine had been bottled under the label “Wildlinger Galgenberg." A dry, fruity, full-bodied wine, so the connoisseurs said. But then times had changed for the worse, and people turned from wine to schnapps, which made them drunk more quickly.

Then, however, times had become great and heroic again, as the newspapers and radio stations never ceased to proclaim. The German people, it was said, had once again become conscious of their great and glorious traditions. And so one fine morning in the year 1934 a truck drove up on to the hills. Army officers, engineers and officials looked, nodded, and gave the word. Wildlingen was found worthy to become a garrison town, a decision which caused great joy to the citizens of Wildlingen, who liked to serve the nation, particularly when they were well paid for doing so.

Two years later the barracks was built, and soon afterwards an infantry battalion moved in, and money started rolling into the pockets of the citizens of Wildlingen. Tears came into their eyes when they beheld their valiant soldiers. And the birth-rate rose astonishingly.

When war came the infantry battalion was replaced by an infantry reserve battalion. Otherwise there was little change. The brave citizens no longer wept from emotion, but the birthrate continued to rise, for procreation and death proved themselves effective partners.

In the second year of the war the barracks above Wildlingen were transformed into Number 5 Officers' Training School, whose first commanding officer was Major-General Ritter von Trippler, later killed at the eastern front. The second commanding officer, Colonel Sänger, fell victim to a prosecution for a misappropriation of Wehrmacht property. The third commanding officer was Colonel Freiherr von Fritschler and Geierstein, who was relieved of his duties for demonstrable incompetence and given a post in the Balkans, where he was highly decorated. The fourth commanding officer was Major-General Modersohn.

Major-General Modersohn now lay quietly asleep in his bed, breathing regularly. It was almost as if he were ceremonially laid out in his coffin, for there was no situation in life in which Modersohn's attitude was not exemplary.

Wirrmann, the Judge-Advocate, was also asleep. He lay there breathing heavily as if packed between documents and covered with the dust of many court-martials. Kater, commander of the headquarters company, had fallen into a similar sort of heavy sleep. Three bottles of red wine kept all his worries at bay.

Elfrida Rademacher still lay beside Lieutenant Krafft. And their expressions made it clear that they hoped the night would never end.

Captain Ratshelm smiled in his sleep. He saw himself in his dream standing beside a pure, vigorous young wife in a meadow full of flowers, surrounded by a troop of adorable healthy children. And all of them both spouse and progeny were cadets: cadets of his training school, on his course, cadets of his company—his very own cadets!

But none of the cadets were dreaming about Captain Ratshelm, not even Hochbauer. He hardly ever dreamt. If he occasionally gave in to daydreams while awake, these were shot with reds and golds and browns, and they revolved round visions of titanic glory, of mighty achievement and renown. Every imaginable sacrifice for the great goal! In times of desperation, his beloved Führer had wielded a house-painter's brush; he too was ready for a similar sacrifice, if there was no alternative.

Cadets Mösler, Rednitz and Weber had gone to sleep in a great state of dissatisfaction. They had been deeply disappointed to find the terrain they coveted already occupied. But they hadn't given up hope. After all, the course had only just begun—a mere twenty-one days ago. Eight full weeks still lay ahead of them, and they were determined to make the best possible use of them.

Captain Feders still couldn't get to sleep. He stared at his watch: the hands crawled round with appalling slowness. He closed his eyes. And he felt how lust reached out with quivering tentacles into nothingness. And he saw only a hopeless void. All was dead. Life was a mere transition between death and death. All was rottenness.

The sentry on the gate yawned.