Officer Factory

Hans Hellmut Kirst

Officer Factory

a Novel

Kommunikations- und Verlagsgesellschaft mbH

ISBN 978-3-942932-09-7

IMPRESSUM:

Copyright:

©2011 AURIS Kommunikations- und Verlagsgesellschaft mbH, Düsseldorf, Germany

Internet:

http://www.auris-verlag.de

E-Mail:

[e-mail]

Author:

Hans Helmut Kirst

Editorial:

Marius Moneth

Layout:

Marius Moneth

Lector:

Lea Rebecca Kawaletz

Cover:

Marius Moneth

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ISBN 978-3-942932-09-7

1. A LIEUTENANT IS BURIED

With greatcoat flapping, Lieutenant Krafft hurried across the graveyard like some startled bird of ill omen. The mourners eyed him with interest, sensing the possibility of a diversion from the otherwise interminable boredom of the funeral ceremony.

“Let me through, please!" muttered Lieutenant Krafft discreetly. Skillfully he wormed his way between the group of officers and the open grave. “Let me through, please!"

Nods greeted Krafft's request, though no one made room for him, possibly in the hope that he would fall into the grave. That at least would have been a step in the right direction. For nothing, except perhaps an endless church parade, makes hardened soldiers more restless than a long funeral, and at least at a church parade it's possible to sit down with a roof over one's head.

“What’s the hurry?" asked Captain Feders with interest. “Have we managed to produce another corpse?"

“Not yet," said Lieutenant Krafft, pushing past him. “As far as I know."

“At this rate," observed Captain Feders unconcernedly to all within earshot, " we'll soon be able to pack up as a training school and set up as undertakers—a limited liability company, of course."

Although even here Captain Feders didn't seem to care what he said, he kept his voice low. For the General wasn't far off.

Major-General Modersohn stood at the head of the open grave, a tall, erect figure with clearly defined features. He stood there utterly motionless.

Modersohn was the sort of man who seemed not to notice what was going on around him. He never even glanced at the bustling figure of Lieutenant Krafft, and showed no reaction at all to Captain Feder's remarks. He stood there as though posing for a sculptor. Indeed all who knew him cherished the thought that they would someday see him as a statue.

Major-General Modersohn was always the center of any gathering he attended, and wherever he was, all color seemed drained from the surroundings and words rendered meaningless. Heaven and earth were reduced to the status of a backcloth. The coffin at his feet, poised on boards over the open grave, was now little more than a stage prop. The group of officers to his right, the bunch of cadets to his left, the aide-de-camp and the course commander two paces to his rear—all were reduced to more or less decorative marginal figures: a mere framework for a successful portrait of the General painted in cool, firm colors without a touch of garishness or ostentation. The General was the spirit of Prussia personified — or so at least a lot of people thought.

He was a past master in the art of commanding people's respect, appearing to be altogether above all ordinary human feeling. The weather, for instance, was a matter of supreme indifference to him, his uniform, however, never was. And even if the ice-cold wind which swept across the graveyard had started blowing solid blocks of ice, he would not have put up the collar of his greatcoat. As for putting his hands in his pockets, it was unthinkable.

He set a permanent example to his officers, who were left with no alternative but to follow it. They stood there now freezing miserably, for it was very cold and this ceremony seemed to be dragging itself out to an inordinate length.

Yet the more restlessly, the more hopefully the gathering eyed him, the more stiff and unapproachable did the General seem to become.

“Unless I'm very much mistaken," whispered Captain Feders to those beside him, “the old man's hatching up something really frightful. He's shut up like an oyster—the only question now is: who's going to force him open?"

As Lieutenant Krafft continued to make his way forward to the group in front, the officers' interest quickened visibly and they began to nudge each other surreptitiously. Their hope was that the Lieutenant would eventually find himself confronting the General, with all the inevitable dramatic consequences that would entail.

But Lieutenant Krafft was wise enough to avoid offending a statue. He had found that it was almost always more prudent to stick to the regulation way of doing things, so he now turned to Captain Kater, who was in command of the headquarters company, and said: " If you please, sir, the army chaplain is delayed—he's sprained his ankle. The M.O. is with him now."

This announcement upset Kater considerably. It seemed to him extremely painful that he should be forced to become the bearer of an unpleasant piece of news by his company officer in this way—before all the assembled officers too! For Kater knew his General. He knew that probably without ever saying a word he would give him a cold, penetrating look tantamount to a devastating reprimand. For a ceremony was in progress here, planned down to its minutest detail and brooking neither interruption nor delay. Lieutenant Krafft, or the stumbling chaplain, whichever way you liked to look at it, had landed Kater in an embarrassing situation. In an effort to gain time, he was foolish enough to ask: “How can the man have sprained his ankle?"

“Probably tight again!" said Captain Ratshelm, seething with righteous indignation.

The A.D.C. cleared his throat warningly. And though Major-General Modersohn continued to stand there without batting an eyelid, the dashing Captain Ratshelm sensed that he'd been reprimanded. He had meant well enough, but had expressed himself incorrectly. After all, he was at an officers' training school. The welfare and instruction of future officers had been entrusted to him, and it was one of his duties to express even undeniable truths with immaculate care.

So with some courage and therefore slightly excessive volume, he declared: “When I said ' tight,' I should of course have said drunk."

“The chaplain can't even have been drunk," said Captain Feders, the tactics instructor, whose mind worked very fast although not always in the pleasantest way. “It only requires the most elementary logic to see that. He is in fact almost always drunk, and so far no harm has ever befallen him. He might say his guardian angel sees to that. If, as now appears, he has sprained his ankle, then it may be presumed that he is not tight, or if you prefer drunk, and is therefore having to do without the assistance of his guardian angel—and his ankle has given in under the strain."

General Modersohn now turned his head. The process was a slow, menacing one, like a gun-barrel feeling its way towards its target. His eyes remained expressionless. The officers evaded his glance and stared with a show of solemnity at the grave. Only Feders looked inquiringly at his General, with a barely perceptible smile on his lips.

The A.D.C. kept his eyes and mouth shut tight, feeling that a storm was about to break over his head. It would probably not amount to more than a word from the General, but it would be violent enough to sweep the graveyard clear. Astonishingly the word remained unspoken. And this stimulated the A.D.C. to still further thought. Slowly he came to the conclusion that the chaplain's particular denomination must have something to do with it—presumably the Major-General was of a different faith. That is, if he had one at all.

Suddenly with a slow circling motion the General raised his left arm and looked at his watch. Then he lowered his arm again.

And this relatively meager gesture conveyed a terrifying rebuke.

There was now no alternative for Captain Kater but to push his way forward to the General. He was followed by every pair of eyes in the place. Both the officers and cadets were counting themselves lucky they weren't in his shoes. For Kater was responsible for the smooth running of the ceremony—and the ceremony wasn't running smoothly at all, which in the General's eyes constituted a devastating reflection of his abilities.

Kater summoned up all his courage, praying that he would manage to pass on the message without his voice quavering or trembling or breaking unexpectedly into a falsetto. For he knew from experience that what mattered most was to deliver a message in clear, ringing tones and without a trace of hesitation. The rest then usually took care of itself.

Anyway Captain Kater, the officer commanding the headquarters company, was merely telling the General something he already knew, for after all he wasn't deaf. In fact his ears were reputed to have all the sensitivity of sound-locators.

Major-General Modersohn took the message calmly enough, immobile as a lonely rock at the bottom of a valley. But then came the moment Kater had been dreading. The General pushed back the peak of his cap with a brusque gesture, and said briefly: “Take the necessary steps."

The officers grinned broadly. The cadets craned forward eagerly. But Captain Kater seemed to break out into a cold sweat. It was his job to see that the necessary steps were taken without delay, but what were they? He knew that there were at least half a dozen possible courses of action open to him, but at least five would prove to be the wrong ones—in the General's eyes at least, which was what counted.

Lieutenant Krafft couldn't help feeling certain sympathy for Kater. This was because he still didn't know the Captain well enough, since he had only arrived at the training school two weeks before. But Krafft was a shrewd fellow and was picking things up very quickly. The most important thing was to abide by regulations and carry out orders—it was the only way to show the requisite briskness and decision. Whether the regulations made sense or not, or whether there was any point in the orders, was of secondary importance.

It was in that spirit that Captain Kater now promptly issued an order. “Ten minutes break!" he roared.

This of course was a hair-raising piece of stupidity, a real Kater idea. The officers were barely able to conceal their delight, always glad to see others make a bad mistake because it bolstered their own self-confidence. Even the cadets shook their heads, while the valiant Captain Ratshelm simply muttered indignantly: “Idiot!"

The General, however, turned away and seemed to gaze with utter indifference at the sky. He didn't say a word. But he thus gave his sanction to Kater's order all the same. Why he did so was his own secret, though there were at least two possible explanations. The first was that the General didn't want to give Kater a dressing down in front of the cadets, who were his subordinates. The second was that the General respected the sanctity of the place in which they found themselves. The relevant army regulations were very specific about this.

The main thing was that orders were orders, and therefore in many people's eyes sacred.

At any rate, there it was: a break! A ten-minute break!

Major-General Modersohn turned away and walked a few paces in the direction of a small rise. His A.D.C. and the two course commanders followed him very respectfully at a short distance. And since the General didn't speak, neither of them spoke either.

The General surveyed the horizon as if trying to devise a plan of battle. He knew every inch of the landscape here. The River Main wound between gentle hills covered with vineyards, and, down below, the town of Wildlingen looked as if it had been built out of a box of bricks. Towering above it all was Hill 201 with Number 5 Officers' Training School perched on the top. The cemetery lay rather to one side but was within easy reach, exactly fifteen minutes' march from the barracks, which was convenient for the return journey too.

“A nice bit of ground," said the General.

“Really very nice," Major Frey, commander of Number 2 Course, assured him hurriedly. “And an astonishing amount of room in it too, General. In this respect I don't think we need anticipate any difficulties, unless we're subjected to air raids. But even then we'll manage somehow."

The General had been referring to the landscape. The Major had meant the cemetery. Now they both fell silent. This saved them further misunderstandings.

The officers had acted on their own initiative and had broken ranks on a signal from Captain Feders. He left the ranks and withdrew to the rear—to stretch his legs, as he put it. He disappeared behind a yew hedge.

The officers began wandering about in groups. No one could take exception to that, for the only thing that mattered was to follow the General's example. If he stretched his legs, then they might too.

“Lieutenant Krafft," said Captain Kater resentfully, " how could you do such a thing to me?"

“What do you mean?" asked Krafft, quite unperturbed. “I didn't sprain my ankle, did I? I'm not responsible for this ceremony, am I?"

“In a certain sense yes," said Kater angrily. “For as an officer of the headquarters company you're my immediate subordinate, and any responsibility that I have you share with me."

“Certainly," said Krafft, “but there's a small point you've overlooked. I agree I'm responsible to you, but then you're responsible to the General. And rather you than me!"

“It’s fantastic!" growled Captain Kater. “How could they ever have sent a man like you to an officers' training school!"

“Oh well!" said Krafft cheerfully. “You’re here, after all!"

Captain Kater gulped. He only had to make a mistake and even junior officers started checking him. But he'd show them. With a quick look at the General, he positioned himself by way of cover behind a tree, then pulled a flask out of his pocket, opened it and took a drink to give himself courage. He didn't offer the flask to Krafft.

But just as he was putting it back into his pocket he suddenly found himself surrounded by a small group of officers headed by the inevitable Captain Feders. They, it seemed, were in need of warmth too.

“Now come on, Kater, try and show a little friendly spirit," said Feders, with a grin. “Hand that flask of yours round. It shouldn't really set you back much—with those vast supplies you've got."

“I would like to remind you that we're in a cemetery," replied Kater with dignity.

Feders said: “We can't help it if the General suddenly takes it into his head to hold a slap-up funeral just as if it were peace-time. After all, this is war. Heaven knows how many times I've eaten with the dead. So pass your flask over, you old hypocrite! You're responsible for this break; you might at least make it as pleasant as possible."

The forty cadets of H Section stayed where they were, unable as yet to avail themselves of the privileges of officers. It was not for them to take their cue from the General and wander about as they pleased. They needed a direct order to be able to do such a thing, and this of course was not forthcoming.

So they just went on standing there, at ease, three deep, rifles by their sides, steel helmets on their heads—forty incredibly young, smooth faces, some of them with the eyes of experienced old men and hardly a man among them more than twenty. These were the youngest of the whole course.

“Where the hell do the officers get the drink?" said Cadet Hochbauer to his neighbor. “There hasn't been an issue of schnapps for a week."

“Perhaps they're just very economical with it," suggested Cadet Mösler with a grin. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. If I needed anything to make me want to become an officer, I'd find this flask a most convincing incentive."

“But it's downright dishonest," said Cadet Hochbauer severely. “It shouldn't be allowed. Something ought to be done about it."

“Why not just blow up the lot?" suggested Cadet Rednitz. “Then there'd be a mass funeral, and at least that way we wouldn't have to keep on running backwards and forwards to the cemetery."

“Shut up," said Cadet Hochbauer roughly. “Keep your lousy remarks to yourself, or you'll have me to reckon with."

“Don’t get excited," said Cadet Rednitz. "I sized you up long ago."

“Silence, please!" said Cadet Weber. “I’m in mourning here, and I'd like a little respect for the fact!"

Gradually the excitement among the cadets began to subside. They looked round cautiously: the General was a long way off, and the officers were still stamping their feet up and down to keep warm. Meanwhile Captain Kater's flask was empty. Captain Feders was still keeping the company entertained with his witticisms. The presence of the coffin seemed quite forgotten.

But one of the officers was Captain Ratshelm, a valiant and tireless father to the cadets, and commander of Number 6 Company, of which Section H formed part. And Ratshelm, though standing on the other side of the grave, continued to cast frank and friendly glances in their direction.

Captain Ratshelm eyed his cadets with real fatherly affection. True, they had begun to raise their voices rather, but in that he chose to see a sign of their soldierly qualities. They had come here to accompany their section officer, Lieutenant Barkow, on his last journey, and he was delighted to note that they were not behaving like a bunch of women, but almost like real soldiers for whom death was the most matter-of-fact thing in the world—an ever-present travelling companion, the truest of all comrades as it were. And though it wasn't quite fitting to laugh in his face, certain composure in his presence was thoroughly desirable. Or so Ratshelm thought.

“At the front," said Cadet Weber, spitting vigorously, “we barely needed five minutes for a burial—apart from digging the grave, that is. But here, back home, you have to knock up a huge great box. I've nothing against it, mind you, except that if it's going to be done with all the trappings, then you might as well do the thing really properly and include an afternoon off, which is something I could use. I've got myself a nice little girl lined up down in the town—Annemarie’s her name. I've told her I'll marry her when I'm a General." There were further signs of restlessness among the cadets at this. But most of them simply stood there half asleep, moving their frozen toes about energetically inside their boots. To stamp their feet for warmth would have been going too far, but there was nothing wrong with rubbing their hands together, and someone in the rear rank had even gone so far as to stick his deep into his greatcoat pockets.

Only the front rank, exposed as it was to the full glare of publicity, was unable to do anything but maintain the correct at-ease position. Some actually managed to give the impression that they were staring sorrowfully at the coffin. But in fact they were doing no more than noting the details of the construction—the imitation oak (pine presumably), the shoddy metal fittings, the drab paint and the crudely made feet. And for the umpteenth time they read the inscriptions on the wreath ribbons, most of which were red and bore a swastika. The inscriptions were printed in gilt or jet-black lettering:

To our beloved Comrade-in-arms Barkow—Rest in Peace —The Officers of Number 5 Officers' Training School.

An unforgettable instructor—with respect from his grateful pupils.

“God knows what sort of section officer we'll get now," said one of the cadets, gazing thoughtfully out across the confused landscape of crosses, headstones, mounds and bushes which made up the cemetery.

“Ah, what the hell!" said another harshly. “We’ve put paid to Lieutenant Barkow and we'll put paid to anyone else who comes along. The main thing is for us all to stick together—we can do what we like, then!"

“There’s nothing I wouldn't put beyond these fellows," declared Captain Feders, the extremely knowledgeable and perceptive tactics instructor, to the world at large. “I wouldn't put it beyond them to blow their own section officer sky high. Lieutenant Barkow wasn't a fool, and he wasn't tired of life. What's more, he knew that equipment inside out. It was only his pupils he doesn't seem to have known, and perhaps that was where he made his mistake. I warned him several times. But there's no hope for that type of obstinate idealist—they understand nothing of life as it really is."

“He was a first-rate officer," protested Captain Ratshelm energetically.

“Exactly!" said Feders, kicking laconically at a stone. It rolled into the open grave.

Ratshelm was unfavorably impressed. “You don't seem to have much reverence," he said.

"I hate the vulgarity of this whole official-funeral business," said Feders. “And all this endless petty lying over the body of a dead man makes me sick. But at the same time I keep asking myself: what's in the General's mind? He's up to something or other, but what is it?"

“I’m no general," said Ratshelm.

“You’ll soon be one, though," said Feders aggressively. “The rottener the times, the easier it is to get promoted. Just look at this bunch of officers—they do everything they're told. All with the fine precision of machines, whether in the mess, the classroom or at the cemetery. Utterly reliable—that's the only thing to be said for them. You can rely on imbeciles too, in a way."

“You’ve been drinking, Feders," said Captain Ratshelm.

“Yes, I have, which is why I'm so mild and agreeable. Even the sight of Captain Kater engenders friendly feelings in me to-day."

Captain Kater was walking restlessly up and down among the tombstones like a cat on hot bricks. He was trying to think how he could get on top of the situation. He felt almost inclined to appeal to heaven, and indeed to that very department which concerned itself with the affairs of the padre's particular faith. But he soon abandoned all hope that the Lord Himself would set His servant's ankle to rights in time.

He kept gazing longingly at the entrance to the cemetery. Finally he asked Lieutenant Krafft: “Do you think there's any chance of the padre turning up in time?"