The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Read online

  “Yessir.”

  “Report back in half an hour, please.”

  “Yessir,” said the second lieutenant.

  Feinhals and Finck were the first in line, and the second lieutenant tapped them on the chest, saying, “Come along,” then turned on his heel and marched off. They had to hurry to keep up with him. The little sergeant snatched up his suitcase, Feinhals helped him, and they hurried off as fast as they could behind the little second lieutenant. Beyond the house they turned to the right into a narrow lane that seemed to lead out into the country between hedges and meadows. Ahead of them all was quiet, but behind them that tank was still firing regularly into the village, and the small battery, the last one they had driven past, was still firing to the right, roughly in the direction in which they were heading.

  Feinhals suddenly dropped to the ground and shouted to the others, “Watch out!” There was a tinkle as they let go of the suitcase, and the second lieutenant up front also dropped to the ground. From up ahead, from the direction in which they had been marching, grenade launchers were firing into the village, they were firing in rapid succession now, there seemed to be a great many of them; splinters whizzed through the air, smacked against house walls, bigger fragments droned past them not far away.

  “Get up,” shouted the second lieutenant. “Carry on.”

  “Hold it!” cried Feinhals. He had heard that brittle clack again, a delicate, almost cheerful sound, and he was scared. There was a great crash as the grenade struck Finck’s suitcase—the lid of the suitcase flew off with a fierce hiss and hit a tree twenty yards away, broken glass tore through the air like a swarm of demented birds, Feinhals could feel the wine splashing onto the back of his neck. He ducked in alarm: he hadn’t heard these being fired, but there was an explosion ahead of them, on the field above a low earth bank. A haystack standing out black against the reddish background fell apart and started to smolder; it began to glow in the middle like tinder, then blazed up as it burst into flames.

  The second lieutenant came crawling back down the hollow. “What the hell’s going on here?” he whispered to Feinhals.

  “He had wine in the suitcase,” whispered Feinhals. “Hey there,” he called softly across to Finck—a dark lump lying crouched beside the suitcase. Nothing stirred. “Hell,” said the second lieutenant under his breath, “surely he’s not …”

  Feinhals crawled the two paces over to Finck, bumped his head against Finck’s foot, propped himself up on his elbows, and pulled himself closer. The light from the burning haystack did not reach this hollow, it was dark in this shallow depression while the field at the side of the lane was already bathed in reddish light. “Hey there,” said Feinhals quietly. He smelled the strong sweet fumes from a wine puddle, drew back his hands because he had thrust them into broken glass, and, beginning with the shoes, groped carefully up the man’s legs, surprised to find how short this sergeant was; his legs were short, his body skinny. “Hey there,” he called softly, “hey there, pal,” but Finck did not answer. The second lieutenant had crawled over and said, “What’s up?” Feinhals groped farther along until he touched blood—that wasn’t wine—he drew back his hand and said quietly, “I think he’s dead. A big wound in the back, soaked with blood; d’you have a flashlight?”

  “Perhaps we could …”

  “Or lift him up there onto the field …”

  “Wine,” said the second lieutenant, “a suitcase full of wine … What did he want that for?”

  “For a commissariat, I think.”

  Finck was not heavy. They carried him, walking doubled up, across the path, rolled him over the grass bank until he was lying flat, dark and flat in the light. His back was black with blood. Feinhals turned him over carefully—he saw the face for the first time; it was frail, very frail, thin, still slightly damp with sweat, the thick black hair clinging to the forehead.

  “My God,” said Feinhals.

  “What is it?”

  “He got one right in the chest. A splinter as big as your fist.”

  “In the chest?”

  “That’s right—he must have been kneeling over his suitcase.”

  “Contrary to regulations,” said the second lieutenant, but his own joke seemed to turn sour on him. “Get his paybook and identity tag …”

  Feinhals carefully unbuttoned the blood-soaked tunic, felt for the neck until his fingers closed on a bloodied piece of metal. He found the paybook right away too; it was in the left-hand breast pocket and seemed clean.

  “Hell,” the second lieutenant said behind him, “the suitcase is heavy—it still is.” He had dragged it across the path and was also pulling Finck’s rifle along by its strap. “Did you get the things?”

  “Yes,” said Feinhals.

  “Let’s get out of here.” The second lieutenant dragged the suitcase along by one corner until the hollow came to an end and the ground was flat again, then he whispered to Feinhals, “Get behind that wall on the left,” and crawled ahead. “Push the suitcase after me.” Feinhals pushed the suitcase after him and crawled slowly up the little rise. Behind the wall, which ran at right angles to their path, they could stand upright, and now they looked at each other. The glow from the burning haystack was bright enough for them to see one another distinctly, and they stared at each other for a moment. “What’s your name?” asked the officer.

  “Feinhals.”

  “Mine’s Brecht,” said the second lieutenant. He smiled awkwardly. “I must admit I’ve got a hell of a thirst.” He bent down over the suitcase, drew it onto the strip of thick grass, and carefully tipped out the contents. There was a gentle clinking and burbling. “Look at that,” he said, picking up a small, undamaged bottle. “Tokay.” The label was smeared with blood and wet with wine. Feinhals watched the officer carefully push aside the broken glass—five or six bottles seemed to be still intact. Brecht got out his pocketknife and opened one. He drank. “Marvelous,” he said as he put down the bottle. “Want some?”

  “Thanks,” said Feinhals. He took the bottle and drank a mouthful; he found it too sweet, handed the bottle back, and repeated, “Thanks.”

  The grenade launchers were firing again into the village, farther away now, and suddenly a machine gun fired quite close in front of them. “Thank God,” said Brecht. “I was beginning to think those had gone too.”

  He finished the bottle and let it roll down into the hollow. “We have to get past this wall on the left.”

  The haystack was in full blaze now, but at the very bottom only a glow was left. Sparks showered.

  “You look pretty sensible,” said the officer.

  Feinhals was silent.

  “What I mean is,” said Brecht as he started to open the second bottle, “what I mean is, sensible enough to know that this war’s a load of shit.”

  Feinhals was silent.

  “By that I mean,” went on Brecht, “that when you win a war it isn’t a load of shit, and this war—so it seems to me—is a very, very bad war.”

  “Yes,” said Feinhals. “It’s a very, very bad war.” The heavy firing of the machine gun at such close quarters was getting on his nerves.

  “Where’s the machine gun?” he asked quietly.

  “Over there, where this wall comes to an end—it’s a farm—we’re in front of it now—the machine gun’s behind it …”

  The machine gun fired a few more short sharp rounds, then stopped. Next a Russian machine gun fired, then they heard rifle shots, and again the German and Russian machine guns fired together. And suddenly there was silence.

  “Shit,” said Brecht.

  The haystack began to collapse, the flames were no longer beating so high, there was a gentle crackling, and darkness fell lower. The second lieutenant held out a bottle to Feinhals. Feinhals shook his head. “No, thanks, it’s too sweet for me,” he said.

  “Have you been with the infantry long?” asked Brecht.

  “Yes,” said Feinhals, “four years.”

  “My God,
” said Brecht. “The stupid thing is that I don’t know much about the infantry—practically speaking, that is, and I’d be a fool to say I did. I’ve had two years’ training as a night fighter—just finished it—and my training cost the government a few nice single-family homes, all so that I can get blown to pieces in the infantry and lay down my life to get to Valhalla. What a load of shit, eh?” He took another drink. Feinhals was silent.

  “What does one do, actually, when the enemy is superior?” the second lieutenant persevered. “Two days ago we were fifteen miles away, and we kept hearing we weren’t going to budge. But we did budge. I know the rules too well. The rules say: The German soldier does not yield, he would rather be killed—something like that, but I’m not blind and I’m not deaf. I ask you,” he said solemnly, “what do we do?”

  “Clear out, I guess,” said Feinhals.

  “Great,” said the second lieutenant. “Clear out. Great—clear out.” He laughed softly. “There’s something missing in our fine Prussian regulations: there’s no provision for retreat in our training, that’s why we have to be so smart when we do retreat. I believe our regulations are the only ones that say nothing about retreat, only ‘delaying tactics,’ and these jokers aren’t going to let themselves be delayed any longer. Let’s go,” he said. He stuffed two bottles into his pockets. “Off to this lovely war again. My God,” he added, “the poor bugger lugged that wine all the way here—the poor bugger …”

  Feinhals followed slowly. As they turned the corner of the wall, they heard men running toward them. The footsteps were clearly audible, close now. The second lieutenant jumped back behind the wall, tucked his machine pistol under his arm, and whispered to Feinhals: “Here’s your chance to earn eighteen pfennigs’ worth of tin for your chest.” But Feinhals noticed he was trembling. “Hell,” whispered the second lieutenant, “this is serious, this is war.”

  The footsteps came closer, the men were no longer running.

  “Don’t worry,” said Feinhals quietly, “those aren’t Russians.”

  Brecht was silent.

  “I wonder why they were running—and making all that racket …”

  Brecht was silent.

  “They’re your men,” said Feinhals. The footsteps sounded quite close now.

  Although they could tell from the silhouettes that the men wearing steel helmets and rounding the corner were Germans, the second lieutenant called softly, “Halt, password.” The men were startled; Feinhals saw them hesitate and flinch. “Shit,” said one of them. “The password’s shit.”

  “Tannenberg,” said another voice.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” said Brecht. “Get in behind that wall. One of you stand at the corner and listen.”

  Feinhals was surprised to see how many there were. He tried to count them in the dark, there seemed to be six or seven. They sat down on the grassy strip. “That’s wine,” said the second lieutenant; he groped for the bottles and passed them across. “Split it up between you.”

  “Prinz,” he said, “Corporal Prinz, what’s going on?”

  Prinz was the one standing at the corner. Feinhals saw his medals glinting in the dark as he turned.

  “Lieutenant,” said Prinz, “this is just nonsense. They’ve already overtaken us left and right, and surely you’re not trying to tell me that here of all places, right next to this dirty farm, here of all places where our machine gun happens to be standing, the front is supposed to be held. Lieutenant, the front is several hundred miles wide and has been slipping for quite a while now—and I don’t believe these hundred and fifty yards have been destined to produce a Knight’s Cross—it’s time we cleared out; if we don’t we’ll be caught in the middle, and not a soul’s going to give a damn …”

  “The front’s got to be held somewhere. Are you all there?”

  “Yes,” said Prinz, “we’re all here—and I don’t think a front can be held by convalescents and men just back from sick leave. Incidentally, young Genzki’s been wounded—he got a bullet through his arm. Genzki,” he called softly, “where are you?”

  A slight figure detached itself from the wall.

  “All right,” said the second lieutenant, “you can go back. Feinhals, you go with him, the first-aid post is right where your bus stopped. Report to the old man that I’ve moved the machine gun back thirty yards—and bring some bazookas back with you. Send another man along with them, Prinz.”

  “Wecke,” said Prinz, “you go. Did you come with the furniture van too?” he asked Feinhals.

  “Yes.”

  “So did we.”

  “Go on,” said the second lieutenant, “get a move on; hand in the paybook to the old man …”

  “Someone killed?” asked Prinz.

  “Yes,” said the second lieutenant impatiently. “Go on, get a move on.”

  Feinhals walked slowly to the village with the two men. Now several tanks were firing into it from the south and east. Ahead of them, where the main road entered the village to the left, they heard deafening explosions, men yelling, and they stood still for a moment and exchanged glances.

  “Great,” said the short fellow with the wounded arm.

  They hurried on, but when they emerged from the hollow a voice called, “Password?”

  “Tannenberg,” they growled.

  “Brecht? Combat unit Brecht?”

  “Yes,” called Feinhals.

  “Go back! Everyone back into the village; assemble on the main road!”

  “Run back to the others,” Wecke told Feinhals. “You go.”

  Feinhals ran down the hollow, up the other side, and called from halfway up, “Hey, Lieutenant Brecht!”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve all got to go back—back to the village—and assemble on the main road.”

  They all walked slowly back together.

  The red furniture van had almost filled up again. Feinhals slowly climbed the ramp, sat down just inside, leaned back, and tried to sleep. The deafening explosions seemed somewhat ridiculous to him now that he could hear it was German tanks trying to keep the road open. They were banging away much too much, there was altogether more banging in this war than necessary, but no doubt it was all part of this war. Everyone was in now except for a major handing out decorations and the few men to whom he was handing them. A corporal, a sergeant, and three privates were standing facing the little gray-haired major, who, his head bare, was hurriedly presenting the crosses and documents. From time to time he would call, “First Lieutenant Greck—First Lieutenant Greck!” Finally he shouted, “Brecht, where’s Lieutenant Brecht?” From the depths of the van Brecht called, “Here, sir!” moved slowly forward, touched his hand to his cap, and, standing on the ramp, reported, “Second Lieutenant Brecht, Major.”

  “Where’s your company commander?” asked the major. Although not furious, the major did look annoyed. The soldiers he had decorated walked slowly up the ramp and squeezed past Brecht into the van.

  The major stood all by himself on the village street holding an Iron Cross First Class, and Brecht, his face expressing complete blankness, said, “No idea, Major. A few minutes ago Lieutenant Greck ordered me to lead the company to the assembly point, he had to,” Brecht stopped and wavered, “Lieutenant Greck was suffering from severe indigestion …”

  “Greck!” shouted the major in the direction of the village. “Greck!” He turned away, shaking his head, and said to Brecht: “Your company fought very well indeed—but we have to get out …”

  A second German tank banged away from the street in front of them toward the right, and the small battery behind seemed to have veered round; it was firing in the same direction as the tanks. In the village many houses were burning now—and the church, which stood in the center of the village and was taller than any of the houses, was filled with a ruddy glow. The motor of the furniture van began to throb. The major stood irresolutely at the roadside and shouted to the van driver, “Get started.”

  Feinhals
opened the paybook and read, “Finck, Gustav, sergeant; civilian occupation: innkeeper; place of residence: Heidesheim …”

  Heidesheim, thought Feinhals, with a shock. Heidesheim was two miles from his home, and he knew the inn with the sign, painted brown, FINCK’S WINESHOP & HOTEL, ESTAB. 1710. He had often driven past but never gone in—then the door was slammed in his face, and the red furniture van drove off.

  Again and again Greck tried to stand up and run to the end of the village where they were waiting for him, but he couldn’t. As soon as he straightened himself, a griping pain like a corkscrew in his stomach forced him to double up, and he felt the urge to defecate—he was squatting beside the low wall surrounding the cesspool, his stool came in driblets, barely a tablespoonful at a time, while the pressure in his racked abdomen was enormous; he could not sit properly, the only bearable position was squatting, completely doubled up, and getting some slight relief when the stool left his bowels in small quantities—at such moments his hopes would rise, hopes that the cramps might be over, but they were only over for that moment. This griping pain was so paralyzing that he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t even have crawled slowly; the only way he could have propelled himself would have been to tip forward and drag himself painfully along by his hands, but even then he wouldn’t have got there in time. It was another three hundred yards to the departure point, and now and again through the noise of the firing he would hear Major Krenz calling his name—but by this time he hardly cared: he had stomach cramps, intense, violent stomach cramps. He held on to the wall, his naked bottom shivering, and in his bowels that grinding pain would form and re-form, like some slowly accumulating explosive that surely must be devastating in effect but, when it did come, was always minimal, kept accumulating, kept promising to bring final release while never releasing more than a tiny morsel of stool …

  Tears ran down his face; he no longer thought of anything connected with the war, although all around him shells were bursting and he could distinctly hear the trucks driving away from the village. Even the tanks withdrew onto the highway and moved off, firing, toward the town; he could hear it all, very graphically, and in his mind’s eye he had a clear picture of the village being surrounded. But the pain in his stomach was bigger, closer, more important, monstrous. He thought about this pain that wouldn’t let up, that paralyzed him—and in a frenzied, grinning procession, all the doctors he had ever consulted for his agonizing condition passed in front of him, headed by his repulsive father. They surrounded him, those useless creatures who had never had the guts to tell him straight out that his illness was due simply to constant malnutrition in his youth.