Innocent Soldier (9780545355698) (7 page)

Eventually, we do encounter some people: old women and small children. They stand around looking terrified. Too many soldiers had already been there before us, the old women say. The soldiers took everything and left them to starve.

“Who cares!” hisses the lieutenant. “It’s every man for himself, and besides, our regiment is part of the
Grande Armée,
which is to conquer Russia, and we can’t do that without food.”

Then the foraging troop catches the last chicken, looks through the woodshed, and finds a little sack of corn.

I look my lieutenant in the eye, and then I see that it’s not easy for him to take the last bit of food away from these poor people.

What was this Napoleon thinking of? Every farrier knows that a horse needs to eat so-and-so much, and people need so-and-so much. Napoleon should have done his sums ahead of time, and then he would have understood what his
Grande Armée
could be expected to get through.

For hours, the forage troop rides tired and depressed through loose birch woods. The last rays of the sun touch the trunks and make them gleam. Lying amongst them are patches of sour grass and black swamp holes. Nothing but crippled little birch trees with stunted bilberries among their roots and long-withered heather
tufts. Since early afternoon, the platoon hasn’t encountered a single living soul. The world seems to be coming to an end here. The barrenness oppresses us. What are we doing here? There’s nothing useful for us in this place. No hay, not a speck of corn, no eggs, no goats, let alone any oxen or milk cows. From time to time a rabbit bounds over the dry ground from one burrow to another. That would be a tasty morsel. Perhaps one mouthful. But the little animal is just taunting us. It won’t let us catch it. It peeps out at us cheekily from its burrow, and if anyone makes a move toward it, it’s gone. The detail doesn’t have time to lie in wait for it or to dig up its underground tunnels.

I am tormented by a daydream or some sort of devilish notion. Each time I look around, I see a rider following us at a certain distance. That by itself wouldn’t matter so much. But the pursuer has the features and the outline of Sergeant Krauter. Even though I know I can’t recognize anyone for sure at such a distance, I am unable to shake off my anxiety.

I hope the lieutenant finds his way out of the swamp again.

By and by, the platoon could use somewhere to spend the night. But there isn’t anywhere. For over an hour now, we’ve been on a narrow path winding over swampy ground. One pace to either side, and the swamp will swallow up man and horse.

We are a sorry column — supposed to bring back food and fodder for an entire regiment, and we’re suffering from hunger ourselves. The path is getting ever narrower. Left and right of us, we hear the squelch and gurgle of swamp holes. Woe to anyone who steps in one of those! He won’t need burying. Of course, it starts to get dark, as on every other day, and, as if to make matters worse, a mist rises. The path disappears in the murk. No sign of a farm anywhere. No light and no sound. We feel out the narrow path and sway across the swampy land. Suddenly, it’s night through and through. The mist turns into a thick, impenetrable fog. No starlight can make its way through that soup. The lieutenant orders us to halt. Before someone makes a misstep and is gone for good.

Who has a torch? Or anything else flammable that we can use to light our way? Who thinks of such things ahead of time? The horses are getting restless. They can sense perdition half a step away. There is no possibility of resting or lying down. There is no place to sit or lie anywhere.

We must wait for morning. Thank God the nights are short at this time of year and not too cold.

The riders of the platoon are drawn up in a long line along the narrow path. Behind me, I hear someone snoring. The horses are cropping the thin, sour plants on the wayside. That’s all there is. The lieutenant is tired as well. He’s slumped over the neck of his noble Arab and keeps slipping off. I hold his horse on a long tether and take up
a position directly behind the lieutenant. So that he doesn’t fall off the path. Otherwise, he might sink in the bog. And if I happened to drop off as well, I wouldn’t be able to pull him out. That means I have to stay awake. That’s not too hard for me, because I feel this terrible grinding and churning in my belly. Even though there’s nothing to grind. I’ve got nothing in there but some pond water. But maybe I failed to notice a few tadpoles and they’re now swimming around. Anyway, I need to go, urgently. More urgently by the second. Of course, I can’t very well squat down next to my lieutenant count. That wouldn’t be right at all. On account of the respect I bear him, and the possible smell. So I crawl off a ways on all fours. Not in the swamp, please! I feel left and right with my hands. One side is dry. Still dry. Good! More dry! That way, I don’t need to do it directly on the path, where everyone would see it in the morning when we rode on. Further to the right. Dry. No more ponds. I stand up and feel my way forward. Suddenly, the fog disappears. I’ve reached the edge of the swamp.

Happily, I wake the lieutenant. I am so relieved I grab him crudely by the arm and pull him out of his sleep.

“Hey, Your Nobleness!” I yell, against all the rules. “Wake up! The world is just a few yards that way.”

For the first time, the lieutenant count touches me. He briefly lays his hand on my shoulder.

That same night, the forage troupe is riding across
endless pastures, among calves and sheep. They must have corn and oats and everything the regiment so badly needs. The lieutenant is already building castles in the air. We can take half the sheep and calves. If every rider manages to drive ten animals ahead of him, the regiment will have nothing to worry about.

A clear early summer morning dawns over this paradise. In front of us is a large farmstead with all the trimmings, a noble manor house complete with barns and cow sheds and simple abodes for the farmhands and the maids.

The lieutenant laughs, he really does. Not just a tight grimace on either side of his mouth, but around his eyes and all over his face. For the first time I see that a young count can respond as naturally and wholeheartedly as, say, a stable boy.

Something jabs me in the back. Not literally, more in my imagination. There’s a rider far in the distance, almost on the morning horizon. Even though it’s totally impossible, I think I can make out Sergeant Krauter. That man is driving me crazy.

Dogs rush out to greet us. A powerful voice calls them back. The lieutenant and his second-in-command, a Jager sergeant, are invited into the house. The sergeant comes back out immediately. He orders me to go in there with him. I’m placed between the master of the house
and an astonishing straw-gold blond girl at the breakfast table. The splendor! The posh people and the number of dishes! I’m so overcome with embarrassment, I hardly dare help myself to anything. I’m ashamed of how dirty I am and my lack of table manners. I’m ashamed for everything and for me.

The lieutenant explains that three places have been set for visitors, and he simply thought of his servant. Who is partly responsible for the fact that they are now able to eat and in such dignified circumstances. The lieutenant encourages me to help myself, and says that if my hunger is as great as his is, I shouldn’t hold back.

The blond girl lays a couple of tidbits on a snow white plate. There’s something wrong here. Why for me, of all people? An ordinary officer’s valet. She doesn’t even turn up her nose, and I’m sure I must stink like a fresh dung heap, or at any rate, like any ordinary stablehand. Can’t she smell me? She must. I feel incredibly embarrassed. I have no idea how to approach this fine breakfast among these fine people. In the sixteen and a half years of my life, I have never encountered anything like this before. The lieutenant chews with bulging cheeks. I suppose I’d better start eating. I keep looking over at my lieutenant and the others, and at the girl. I don’t need to look at the sergeant. He doesn’t know any better than I do. He looks just as sheepish and curious to see how
the others are managing. Before long, I see how they use the fine china dishes, and the elegant eating irons. I’m back in heaven. Right at the top. White bread and butter and eggs, and things I’m completely unfamiliar with. But it all tastes heavenly, and I’m glad to be able to make its acquaintance. How good the girl smells. Not like me. Our host and the lieutenant converse largely in French. That’s just as well for me, because I don’t know any, so I don’t have to speak at all.

It’s late morning when we take our leave of this hospitable place. I feel so sorry that these nice people, instead of getting our thanks, are having their animals taken away from them. The lieutenant is more sad about it than pleased. I like that about him. Apparently, the young count has a few regular feelings after all.

Two wagons loaded with oats and corn, fifty cows and fifty sheep, and all sorts of other supplies are requisitioned by our forage troop.

The blond girl gives the lieutenant her hand to say good-bye, and then me. Me longer. Was that a bolt of lightning that went through our two hands? I could have died. That’s how lovely it felt. I am ashamed and feel happy. The lovely creature didn’t despise me, even with my low birth and in my filthy condition. I will never forget that girl’s eyes. They looked at me especially fondly. Me, just me.

War is marvelous.

The troop rides off, driving the animals ahead of us, on a way that skirts around the swamp, and back to the regiment.

The colonel promises medals to the lieutenant and the sergeant to reward them for their success.

The days come and go, suddenly it’s summer. With hot days, but very cold nights. With hunger and thirst. The requisitioned booty doesn’t last us long.

The troops have all come together. Now, thanks be to God, the
Grande Armée
is all there. When the Russian czar sees so many soldiers, he will be terrified and surrender immediately.

Russia is supposed to be somewhere ahead.

So it really exists — I wasn’t sure. Incredible, how big the world is. Bigger than the eye can see, the mass of riders and foot soldiers is advancing on the frontier. With musicians and drummers to set the pace. So much noise! The Russians must be fouling themselves in their panic.

I only hope the Russians don’t realize how Napoleon’s giant army is starving. Apparently, the baggage train has lost touch completely. The forage wagons
are creeping along somewhere, several days back. But out of reach. Or perhaps they don’t exist anymore, and they’re just a story to give the soldiers heart.

The troops are looting.

Every house and every barn near and far is gone over. Whatever’s not nailed down is dragged off by the thieves and housebreakers. The soldiers don’t care. They belong to the biggest army in the world. Who is going to stop them? Anything they’re not given, they take by force. They stick their heads into storehouses, granaries, larders, up chimney flues, they open the cow sheds, pull the carts out of the lean-tos, load them up with supplies, span a pair of stolen oxen in front, and drive the beasts away.

The local people are stripped of everything they own.

According to the rule book, looting is a serious offense. Punishable even by death, in certain circumstances. In the interests of morale. By that token, half the army should be stood against the wall. And of course that’s not going to happen. But the generals need a deterrent, before they go on to give the order for the next wave of looting themselves. And so they pick out two or three men who injured themselves in the course of trying to commit suicide. They won’t be missed, and perhaps it’s even doing them a favor. But first, they have to dig their own graves.

Up ahead is a very big river. Called the Niemen,
according to one person. Someone else says, no, it’s the Memel. On the other side is Russia. Finally. The squadron commander rides past my lieutenant and mutters out of the side of his mouth: “Well, here’s Russia. Let’s hope we don’t get lost in that colossus.” With a very serious expression, he adds: “Russia’s much too big for us. This time, Napoleon’s bitten off more than he can chew. We should never have tangled with it.”

I would like to ask my lieutenant how big this Russia really is. It may be even bigger than the Holy Land. Even though the whole of the Bible happened there. But you don’t ask a lieutenant count questions just because you feel like it. Maybe I’ll ask a common soldier sometime, if I think of it.

The riders are unsettled.

“He’s supposed to be there.”

“Who?”

“Well, who do you think? Napoleon, of course! The greatest commander of all time leading the greatest army of all time.”

“One day, we’ll be able to boast to our grandchildren that we were with him.”

My wellborn lieutenant is trembling with expectation.

“There’s a battle ahead of us,” he says to himself. “On the other side is the czar with his soldiers. He’ll have to turn and fight.”

Nothing happens. Neither the czar nor his army are on the other side. I can’t see a sausage.

“The Russians have no backbone. They’re scared of us. Who in their right mind would take on Napoleon, anyway?”

More and more regiments draw up. With music and drums. The whole plain is black with them. Night falls, and it’s an amazing spectacle. As far as I can see, the glow of campfires. Cornets toot commands. Orderlies ride back and forth. The smell of wet wood and charred meat hangs over the site. It’s a restless night. Only a few old veterans are able to ignore the excitement. They lie down like old peasants, and sleep in twos and threes.

It doesn’t get dark. How can it — with all those fires?

A violent storm breaks. Lightning wriggles over the biggest army in the world. A cloudburst drenches man and beast.

Some say that’s a good omen, others say it’s bad.

The great battle is hanging over us all.

Gypsy women slink about the camp. They claim to be able to read the future in the palms of the men’s hands.

I don’t want to know what mine is. The lieutenant has his predicted from the lines on his palm. Then it’s my turn. The lieutenant orders me. The beautiful gypsy looks at my dirty hand a long time. Then she looks alternately at me and the lieutenant, and says “Good!” several times.