Officer Factory

The girl snuggles up to me; I feel her body through the cloth of my suit. All I can see is the gleam in her eyes, but I feel her breath on my face and the moistness of her lips, and my hands slide down her back, brushing the boards of the fence against which I'm pushing her. A wave of passion comes over me, and I no longer know what I am doing. Then I have a great feeling of exhaustion and hear a voice asking me: “What’s your name?"

“It was two hundred hundredweight of potatoes," I tell the accountant in the estate office. But he doesn't look at me and simply repeats: "It was one hundred hundredweight. Do you follow me?" “No, I don't," I say. “We delivered two hundred hundredweight." “But only a hundred are being entered up," says the accountant. “And we enter up what I say. Is that clear? Perhaps you've heard something about the crisis in agriculture, Krafft? It may have occurred to you to wonder how we keep our heads above water? And here you are wanting to let the State—a State like this, I ask you!—wanting to let the State swallow up all our hard-earned cash! It's suicide. Put it down, then: one hundred hundredweight! Enter that up." “Enter it up yourself," I tell him, pushing the books towards him,” and kindly keep that crisis-in-agriculture stuff to yourself in future!" “Krafft," the accountant then says, “I’m afraid you're not really cut out for this profession. You can't take orders from people. You don't co-operate." “I’m not going to make any false entries," I say. “Look here," says the accountant, “are you trying to accuse me of fraud? Just look here, will you—what's written down here? What have I written? Two hundred! There you are, you see. I only wanted to test you. And of course I'm not going to stand for it if you're going to start suspecting me and accusing me of dishonesty. You're not a person one can work with. I'll have to draw my own conclusions!"

One evening my uncle says to my father: “Your son Karl doesn't seem to have understood the signs of the times. He goes to church too little and makes no preparations for a family. As a result he's beginning to get ideas into his head. He'd better be sent into the army. They'll soon knock some sense into him there."

I began my military service in 1937. When my two years were up I was made a corporal and released, only to be called up again shortly afterwards in the summer of 1939. I was with the colors at the outbreak of war, promoted sergeant after the Polish campaign, and commissioned as a second lieutenant after the campaign in France. During the campaign in Russia I was given command of a company, was promoted lieutenant, and then at the beginning of January 1944 was posted to the officers' training school. I hold the following decorations: Iron Cross First Class, Iron Cross Second Class, the Close-Combat Clasp in silver, and the Wound Badge in black.

Corporal Reinshagen, who's in charge of my training as a recruit, has many fine qualities and is a born soldier. He's a fine upstanding fellow, full of drive and possessed of an iron will, but not exactly a pillar of the Church. Thus for example he knows all the relevant military regulations backwards, but no others. However, I also take care to be well informed on various aspects of military regulations, particularly those sections dealing with the treatment of subordinates and their right to lodge complaints. Sometimes I quote these at him and he doesn't like it. One day I turn my knowledge to practical advantage, and hand him a comprehensive and carefully worded complaint. About himself! To be passed on to higher authority. At first he simply bellows at me. Then he grows noticeably milder, and even displays certain friendliness. “You can't do this to me," he says disarmingly. “All you've got to do is to behave decently," I reply. And he promises that he will.

Girls in the few hours we're allowed off duty—mostly picked up in the bar called The Anglers' Rest: servant girls, shop girls, typists. A dance or two, a drink or two, a short walk to the near-by park, and then and there quick but basic satisfaction. Back again for another dance or two, the whole experience washed down with beer. And then back to barracks, until next Saturday evening.

Then Eva-Maria. An official's daughter. Picked her up in the cinema—some film or other with a broad-shouldered woman with a lion's mane of hair and a deep male voice growling love songs. A diversion urgently required—fortunately Eva-Maria is sitting beside me. She takes me home—a clean, well-kept home, a decent place. Her parents are away. Wonderful carefree hours. A strangely intoxicating sense of happiness. And as I make my way back late, very late, to barracks, I feel an overwhelming desire to sing at the top of my voice. I'm so happy! But the night has no sequel, not for me at any rate. “Don’t let's get sentimental," she says. “But I love you!" I cry. And it's the first time in my life I've ever said such a thing. “That’s what the others say, too," declares Eva-Maria. Then she goes off with one of the others.

I stand at night in the street of our little garrison town and listen into the darkness. And I raise my eyes to where a soft light shines behind a curtained window. When I close my eyes I see her before me, I see everything she does and everything that happens to her: I see her smile, radiant with happiness and, pleasure and at the same time dread. I see her quivering mouth tortured with desire, see her breasts as she covers them with her hands, see the rounded curves of her body. And I close my eyes, and now it is myself who am with her in that one night I spent with her.

And I say to myself: “I’ll never again tell a woman I love her. Never."

Then comes the war. A man ducks down in front of me behind the rim of a well, all cramped as if doubled up with pain. His hair sticks out from under his cap. He's frightened and his body and clothes are covered in filth. I get him in my sights at a range of about sixty yards and raise the barrel of my rifle towards his temples where he has an unruly tuft of hair. Slowly I curl the forefinger of my right hand round the trigger, but I can't bring myself to shoot. I can't do it. The man behind the rim of the well shoots, though. And a fellow beside me shudders, stares for a second into nothingness, then blood spurts from between his eyes and collapses.

“Here’s an extra loaf for you," Sergeant Taschenmacher tells me. “I don't want it," I answer. Sergeant Taschenmacher has pinched two dozen loaves from the ration truck for his own private consumption. “Come on," he says amiably, and he can be very amiable when he wants, “don’t be a wet, go ahead and pocket the loaf, it may come in handy. You can even get yourself a real virgin with it if you feel like it—I'll throw in a suitable address for nothing. You see how generous I am!" “Sorry," I say. Now he's much less amiable. “Look here," he says, "are you out of your mind? What is it you want? Two loaves? Well, all right then." “No," I say. “Well, three loaves, then," he says angrily, "and that's my final offer." “I insist that the two dozen loaves go where they belong," I reply. “And that's my final offer. If they don't I'll report the matter." Cursing, Sergeant Taschenmacher loads the two dozen loaves up on to the truck again all by himself.

The child wants to come to me; it raises a hand and opens its little mouth. But the officer chases both mother and child away. Then he sets light to the farm, theoretically to give a better field of fire. The smoke billows softly, nauseating, towards me, wreathing itself in foul, thick, yellow and green waves about my face. And I stand there motionless, trying not to breathe and listening to the choking sobs of the woman and the gasping of the child. But I neither move nor breathe. “You have to kill to prevent yourself being killed," says the officer. “That’s the law of war; you can't get away from it."

“Please go and see my wife," one of my comrades asks me. “Take her this parcel; I've saved a few rations. Give her my love and tell her I think about her all the time." And then I find myself sitting beside this wife of his. I've got a lot to tell her and she's very happy as we sit there having a drink together. I make a move to go, but she won't let me. “It’s so nice here," she says. It's warm in the room and getting warmer all the time and she says: “Make yourself at home; it's so nice together here." Well, fine, so I take off my tunic. But why does she then have to take off her blouse and stockings? Ah well, it is warm, and it's very nice being together, as she says, and besides she has utter confidence in me. I like this and we have some more drinks. She comes closer and suddenly says: “Do you always take so long or have you just forgotten how to do it? Or is it that you just don't like me?" “That’s it," I say, “I don't like you." And I hit her in her beautiful, stupid, wanton face.

“You’re an officer now," says my C.O.,” and I hope you'll prove worthy of your commission, Second Lieutenant Krafft." “I’ll try to, sir," I answer.

A hundred and twenty men are delivered into my hands, entrusted to my care. I march with them, sleep with them, and share my food with them. We also share our cigarettes, perform our natural functions together, and kill together, shoulder to shoulder, day and night, month after month. Some of them leave me to be replaced at once by others—quite a few die. Some die accidentally, others as a result of an order, others because they no longer want to live. Death is with us all the time. But it always passes me by. Am I being spared, and if so, for what?

“You’re a lieutenant now, Krafft," says my commanding officer,” and I hope you'll prove worthy of your promotion." I hear him say this but I make no answer. What does it mean: to be “worthy "?

Home again, or rather what's called home, for the once-enchanting little town is now barely recognizable. A hydroelectric works has sprung up apparently overnight, with huge pipes and boilers covering an area of several square kilometers, and there are lots of little houses for the engineers, wooden barracks for the workers and office employees, and houseboats on the Oder, old barges, floating barns for the slave-laborers and others. From time to time some of these can be seen in the distance dangling from a gallows on deck —hanged for sabotage, espionage or various other things. Police and security units are interspersed among them. Finally there are twelve anti-aircraft batteries in the vicinity. But worst of all are the bombs. In exactly thirty-five minutes one night my little home town ceases to exist, and my parents are dead.

Looking back down the years there seems just an endless series of battles and corpses and copulation, murder and sex. In Poland, in a western suburb of Warsaw: a half-charred, stinking house, and in it a woman called Anja—two days. In France, in Paris: some hotel or other in Montmartre near which I found Raymonde—four nights in six weeks. Russia, Jasnaja, Poljana, near Tula, where Tolstoy lived: in the museum there, a girl whose name I never knew—twenty minutes. And all for food, or for schnapps, or for passes of one sort or another. Almost always followed by remorse and disgust with oneself. Never once anything like real love, even when the girls were German, as for instance on some night train journey, or on a truck transporting members of the Women's Auxiliary Corps, or in an operating tent while the doctor slept off his drunkenness.

But then comes a girl who disturbs me profoundly, a girl whom it's a pleasure to be with and into whose eyes I can even look afterwards. She has a wonderful, redeeming sort of laugh which banishes all remorse or disgust. I find myself emotionally involved, or at least become aware of a deep need in which lust is strangely unimportant. The whole thing is rather worrying, after all that's happened down the years, and the most frightening thing of all is that I sometimes feel tempted to say what I've determined never to say again: "I love you!" But I won't ever say it again, not even for her. This girl's name is Elfrida Rademacher.

4. AN EXERCISE POSTPONED

“Gentlemen," said Major Frey to the assembled officers, “I have to inform you that the General intends to work out a tactical exercise at the conclusion of dinner this evening."

“All alone?" asked Captain Feders immediately, with an amiable grin.

The Major amended his statement with certain sharpness. “The General with the rest of his officers!"

Frey didn't like being interrupted by subordinates, particularly when they put him right. This fellow Captain Feders sometimes behaved as if he were the only person who knew anything about soldiering. Still, one had to show him a certain indulgence. In the first place Captain Feders was unquestionably the finest tactics instructor in the school, and secondly he had a very sharp tongue. Finally there was the extremely painful matter of his wife. All in all it was better to avoid a clash with him, for Feders was a dangerous man.

Or at least Feders had a dangerous way of putting apparently disarming questions. He always wanted to know everything, including whether the person he was asking really knew anything at all.

“Has the object of the exercise been announced yet, sir?" “No," said the latter.

“Do we know how long it's likely to last?"

“No, we don't," said Major Frey crossly. With two completely innocent-sounding questions Feders had demonstrated to the rest of the officers that the Major was little more than an office boy as far as General Modersohn was concerned.

“Right, then," said Feders. “Let’s all go back to school again. One thing's certain at least: the chances of a good night's rest are just about nil. Once the General starts this exercise he won't stop until quite a number of heads have rolled. Well all I can say, gentlemen, is enjoy your dinner!"

The officers assembled in the mess ante-room looked thoroughly gloomy. There were more than forty of them in all, including the two course commanders, the company commanders, the tactics instructors, the section officers and the administrative group of planners and organizers. The General's lightning decisions seemed to hang over them like menacing storm-clouds.

Knight's Crosses were flashing all over the place. Not a chest in sight that didn't boast an Iron Cross at least. Close-combat clasps, anti-tank badges, campaign ribbons, war service and long service medals—such things were a matter of course. The German Cross in Gold was nothing out of the ordinary. And the faces above this brilliant splendor were mostly serious and grimly professional, marked by certain uneasiness, sometimes even anxiety, about the eyes, though seldom indifference. -

“Gentlemen," said Captain Feders, “I suggest we start. After all, the General always begins his meal punctually regardless of whether everyone's there or not."

“Not very funny, Captain Feders," said Major Frey, commanding officer of Number 2 Course, sternly. None of the other officers seemed to think it funny either. Even in the bright electric light their faces looked black.

The most silent group of all was that in the immediate vicinity of the dining-room door, where the victims of the evening's placement were standing. This placement was worked out in the most intricate detail before every meal by the A.D.C., in collaboration with a corporal who had been a schoolmaster in civilian life. The principle was that every officer should take his place at the commanding officer's table in strict rotation. It was an honor which no one was spared. Only occasionally did the General choose his own dining companions, and then always to the considerable disquiet of those concerned. This was exactly what had happened now.

Captain Kater felt a weakness at the knees and queasiness in his stomach, for the place on the General's left had been reserved for him. One glance at the rest of the placement made the special significance of this clear. Judge-Advocate Wirrmann was seated on the General's right, while another place was reserved for Lieutenant Krafft immediately opposite.

“Well, gentlemen," said Captain Feders, going up to the victims with a show of interest, “what’s it feel like to be on the menu this evening?"

“I’m pretty tough," said Lieutenant Krafft. “Quite a mouthful for anyone, I think."

Feders looked Captain Kater up and down with some hostility. “I must say if I were the General I'd prefer a nice streaky slice of wild boar myself."

“However, you're not the General," muttered Kater angrily. “You’re simply a tactics instructor here, and a married man, what's more."

“But what's all the fuss about, gentlemen?" pleaded Judge-Advocate Wirrmann. “Anyone would think this placement was an affair of state."

“It’s a rather special situation here," said Feders. “You must know that one glance from our General may easily be the first step on the road to a state funeral. You're up against serious competition here, Wirrmann. You merely apply the law. The General makes it."

“Not for me, he doesn't," said Wirrmann, permitting himself a slightly condescending smile.

At a signal from the mess senior sergeant the orderlies appeared with the soup, and carried it past the officers into the dining-room.

This was a sure sign that the various scouts posted along the route had spotted the General's approach. The few people who had managed to engage in conversation fell silent. The officers fell in, the junior ones automatically stepping to the rear while the more senior prepared to confront the General.

“Gentlemen, the General!" cried Major Frey. It was a superfluous announcement. The gentlemen were already standing rigidly to attention as if turned to concrete by their sense of discipline.

Major-General Modersohn approached with measured strides, accompanied by his A.D.C., to whom no one seemed to pay the slightest attention. The officers had eyes only for their General, who came to a halt exactly one pace inside the threshold and surveyed the assembled company. It was as if he were thinking of counting them and registering them individually. Only then did he bring his hand up to the peak of his cap and say: “Good evening, gentlemen."

"Good evening, sir!" the officers replied in chorus.

The General nodded, not so much acknowledging the greeting as ratifying it. For the voices had been nicely in harmony, and adequate in volume. “At ease, please," he said, and the officers complied immediately. Or at least they relaxed sufficiently to push the left foot slightly forward and to one side. But no one dared to speak.

Major-General Modersohn now took off his cap, and unbuttoned and removed his greatcoat, handing first one and then the other to an orderly standing stiffly at his side. The General utterly refused to allow himself to be helped in any mundane activity of this sort.

The officers followed their General's every movement with the keenest interest, and watched him take a sheet of paper from his cuff, unfold it and read it. It seemed almost as if he were taking in one of those telegrams which start wars. Finally the General looked up and said: “The subject for to-night's tactical exercise will be a major outbreak of fire in the barracks."

And with that, consternation really set in. This was a subject full of all sorts of hidden surprises—the more experienced officers realized that at once. If it had been a question of organizing a raiding party, maneuvering companies into position, or if necessary even bringing up whole divisions, they could have managed it. But a major outbreak of fire in barracks had no place in the training curriculum at all, nor had they ever had the slightest practical experience in this field.

“Well, I hope you've all made your wills, gentlemen?" said Feders delightedly, under his breath. "Because I'm afraid this major outbreak of fire in the barracks is going to cook quite a number of people's geese for them."

The mess sergeant appeared, a sort of head waiter with military training. Behind him two orderlies opened the swing doors leading into the dining-room, whereupon the sergeant stepped up to the General much as if he were approaching royalty. He came to a halt, thrust out his chest, laid his fingers down the seams of his trousers, and said: “I beg to inform the General that the soup is on the table!"

Modersohn nodded briefly with that touch of affability he always reserved for his lower-ranking subordinates. The forty-six officers made way for him at once and he strode through them into the dining-room. Those who had been commanded to sit at his table followed closely at his heels, while the others poured in behind them. And still no one dared to say a word.

This dining-room was not without a certain Germanic splendor, having a slightly worn lime-green carpet, and walls paneled in an imitation oak veneer appropriately decorated with a pattern of oak leaves. In the middle of the room hung a sort of brass chandelier with ceramic candles; while round the walls were portraits of so-called war leaders and statesmen of recent German history—all in imposing proportions befitting the subjects. At the upper end of the room, at least three times the size, hung a portrait of the Führer in oils.

“As usual, gentlemen, quite informal," announced Major Frey quietly. For the General always left trivial matters of organization to his immediate subordinates.

The officers dispersed, informally as usual, to their various tables, with the company commanders and a sprinkling of tactics instructors positioned close to the General. After them came the section officers, followed by the rest: three accountants, or rather quartermasters, two doctors, an engineer officer from the transport section, and a civilian specially attached.

Major Frey said: “I beg to report to the General that the officers are all present for dinner."

Major-General Modersohn nodded almost imperceptibly and sat down. His forty-six officers did the same. The General grasped his spoon. The forty-six officers did likewise. The General drove his spoon into the soup. The rest of the company followed his example.

They ate in silence at first, a silence punctuated only by occasional sucking noises. For the General neither said a word himself nor gave anyone else permission to speak. Every now and again he would throw a searching glance at his officers, noting that none of them seemed particularly to relish their food—a fact which could not be attributed solely to the thin insipidness of the potato soup. The officers were desperately trying to prepare themselves for the tactical exercise to follow—the major outbreak of fire in barracks. And the effort 'rather took their appetites away.

Only when the second course, a dish of beef with haricots verts, arrived did the General turn to Judge-Advocate Wirrmann and, speaking with a slight drawl, say: “So you wish to undertake a second case in my command even before completing the first?"

Wirrmann felt relieved at thus being asked to speak at last. He perked up at once and said: “My investigations into the causes of Lieutenant Barkow's death remain of course my chief concern, General. As for this matter of rape

“This alleged matter of rape," Lieutenant Krafft corrected him, in discreet but unmistakable tones.

The General eyed the Lieutenant shrewdly for a moment, before going on with his dinner. Clearly he wasn't going to allow anything to escape him.

The Judge-Advocate continued hurriedly: "'All right then, this alleged rape. But as far as that's concerned, I have simply wished to make my expert knowledge available—an offer which Captain Kater seemed delighted to accept but which Lieutenant Krafft seems to view with disfavor."