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:

M.Moneth@auris-verlag.de

Author:

Hans Helmut Kirst

Editorial:

Marius Moneth

Layout:

Marius Moneth

Lector:

Lea Rebecca Kawaletz

Cover:

Marius Moneth

CONDITIONS OF SALE :

This book is sold subject to the condition that

it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed an the subsequent purchaser. This work is copyright protected. All rights, including translation, reprinting and copying of the book or any parts of it are reserved.

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?"

“Not much," said Krafft amiably.

“But what the hell are we doing here, then?" cried Kater in desperation.

“Well, my dear fellow," said Captain Feders, “you have, as always, a number of alternatives open to you! For example you can extend the break. Or you can postpone the funeral. Or you can find a substitute for the padre. Or you can tell the General that you have nothing to tell him. On the other hand, you can quite simply drop dead, and thus be rid of all your troubles."

Kater looked about him savagely like a wild boar at bay. The officers regarded him with considerable interest; after what had happened here at the cemetery, he no longer seemed such a formidable figure. Lieutenant Krafft, it seemed to them, had maneuvered Kater into a position from which he would find it difficult to emerge unscathed. Presumably Krafft was after his job. After all, this was the way things usually worked; one man profited from another's mistakes.

But an expectant hush suddenly settled over the mourners. For Major-General Modersohn had turned back towards the funeral party, letting his shark's eyes sweep over them until complete silence reigned. Then he stared straight at Captain Kater.

“Break over!" cried the latter immediately.

The General nodded almost imperceptibly. The officers fell in again and the cadets froze in their positions. Otherwise at first nothing else happened at all.

A silence which was not indeed without a certain solemnity now settled over the funeral party. Only Captain Kater could be heard, breathing heavily beside Lieutenant Krafft.

“For God's sake, then!" said the General.

Kater started with dismay. The ceremony was his responsibility but he couldn't think what should be done with it. Feeling increasingly inclined to hand the solution of this problem over to Krafft, he turned on him a look at once peremptory and imploring. “Carry on then, Krafft!" he whispered, and as if to give further emphasis to the order, for there could be no doubt that this was what it was, he pushed Krafft to the fore.

Once again Krafft almost stumbled into the open grave. But he pulled himself up just in time, and said to the cadets stationed beside the coffin: “Let him down!"

The cadets immediately obeyed. The coffin rattled down into the grave, and frozen earth fell on top of it, while those present followed this utterly unexpected turn of events with mixed feelings.

“We will now join in silent prayer," proposed Lieutenant Krafft. Fortunately this rather vague formula had the suggestion of an order about it. And the mourners seemed to adapt themselves to the proposal at once. They lowered their heads, stared at the ground, and tried to maintain suitably solemn expressions.

Hardly any of the officers thought for a moment about Lieutenant Barkow lying in the now almost invisible coffin, for few of them had ever seen much of him. Lieutenant Barkow, like many of the instructors, had only been at the school a fortnight. He had been an erect, rather aloof figure, with an expressionless youthful face, fishy eyes, and a mouth that was always tight shut. An officer of the sort you find in picture books: the faithful youth of Germany—resolute, prepared for anything. Even for this. What could be more logical?

One of the cadets muttered: “He asked for it anyway." From a distance at any rate, it sounded almost like a prayer. “Amen," said Lieutenant Krafft loudly.

“Dismiss!" said Major-General Modersohn.

This order of the General's caught everyone completely by surprise. It was like a pistol shot fired at point-blank range. The mourners looked up, some rather put-out, others genuinely disturbed. The order was not without its resemblance to an unexpected kick in the pants. Moreover it was issued to people who were ostensibly saying their prayers.

Only slowly did the utterly unheard-of nature of the order begin to dawn on the more experienced members of the funeral party—it was an order directed against the ceremony itself. For the earth had not been thrown in, the wreaths had not been laid, and the volley had not been fired over the grave. The procedure which had been so carefully planned and rehearsed four times had been abruptly broken off at a single word.

A word, however, to which there was no gainsaying.

"The officers are dismissed." As second-in-command, the officer in command of Number 1 Course gave the order without delay. It was a good chance to display initiative. It would not escape the General's attention, for initiative was something to which he attached particular importance. “Cadets will return to their billets. Further duty as per time-table."

The funeral party broke up almost at once. The officers moved off in ones and twos towards the entrance to the cemetery. Captain Ratshelm immediately took over command of his company.

Captain Kater stood there for a few seconds rooted to the spot. Then he moved off in the wake of Lieutenant Krafft for whom he was planning a massive rebuke. For how was Kater to continue to exist in this training school if he couldn't find a scapegoat? He had never failed to find one before.

Major-General Modersohn alone remained behind.

The General took a few paces forward and stared into the grave. He saw the dark brown wooden planks on to which the earth had fallen. All round him lay dirty, trampled snow. Somebody's heel had ground a scarlet wreath ribbon into the slush. It lay there encrusted with mud.

The hard, inscrutable face of the General gave nothing away. His lips were set in a thin, straight line. And his eyes were closed, or so it seemed. As if he wanted no one to see what he was thinking.

As the officers and cadets marched down into the valley towards their barracks they looked back from the great bend in the road and saw their commanding officer still standing in the cemetery in the distance — a clear, slim silhouette, menacing against the ice-cold, snow-blue sky, as if frozen in his unapproachability.

“There’s going to be a damned cold wind blowing in the next few days," said Captain Feders. “Because, I don't care what anyone says, there's something odd about this whole business. The General isn't the sort of man to mind about ordinary, everyday stupidity. If he shows he's angry, then it means that some really gigantic row is brewing. But what, exactly? Well, we'll be finding out all too soon."

2. A MATTER OF RAPE

“My dear Lieutenant Krafft," said Captain Kater, who was making his way through the barracks with his company officer towards the headquarters building, “a training school is a highly complex organization. And compared with our General the Sybil herself was little more than a slick fortune-teller."

“That’s why I can't understand how you of all people got here," said Lieutenant Krafft frankly.

“I didn't choose this post," said Captain Kater with a somewhat weary smile,” but since I'm here, this is where I intend to stay. Do you follow me? I wouldn't like you to build any false hopes in that respect. For that would make things too unpleasant for you and too exacting for me. If you're wise, then you'll try to get along with me."

“What else can one do?" said Lieutenant Krafft cheerfully. “I’m neither clever nor hard-working. I have no ambitions and I'm all for a quiet life."

“A bit of a one for the girls too, I dare say," the Captain suggested with a wink. He mistrusted Krafft, as he mistrusted everybody on principle. People were always trying to get things out of him. The General wanted discipline and a knowledge of the regulations, the officers wanted bottles of schnapps and extra rations, and this fellow Krafft, it seemed, wanted his job. It was difficult to hold younger, inexperienced officers back when they saw a chance of treading on their superiors' heels. And the officers of the military training school were an elite who were not only burning to make a career for themselves but also had it in them to do so. However, there were always girls.

“We shouldn't exaggerate," said Krafft. “'Girls' is going too far. One's quite enough for me. Every now and again."

“You will find me quite human about that," the Captain assured him. “And I always say: every man to his own tastes. But let's get one thing straight: I am in command of the headquarters company and you're allotted to me as company officer. We're clear about that, aren't we?"

Together they walked through the orderly room of the head-quarters company with Captain Kater leading, as was only right and proper. The clerks, a corporal and two lance-corporals, rose to their feet. The one member of the female staff, however, remained seated, and in a most provocative manner too. Kater pretended to take no notice of her.

Yet it did not escape him that this attractive girl—a certain Elfrida Rademacher—had eyes for no one but Lieutenant Krafft. She smiled at him with such direct intimacy that he and she might have been the only two people in the world. Kater looked away.

“A cup of coffee?" asked Elfrida. She said this in the direction of Captain Kater, but winked at the Lieutenant or she did so. Krafft winked back. Slowly the icy cold of the cemetery began to thaw from his limbs.

“Yes, fine, make some coffee," said Kater generously. “Put some cognac in mine, please."

In this way Captain Kater demonstrated his individuality of taste. He never let slip an opportunity of reminding his associates of his individualism—at least in respect of his choice of drinks.

“I’m badly in need of a cognac," he continued, collapsing noisily into the chair at his desk. He motioned Lieutenant Krafft to a chair beside him. “After that farce at the cemetery I need something to fortify me. Though I say so with the utmost respect, the General's becoming a bit of a nightmare. What is it he wants? If we were to make as much of a fuss as this over everyone who got killed we'd hardly be able to get on with the war. And without cognac, life would be utterly impossible."

“Yes," said Elfrida brightly, " the war gets harder and harder every day." She spread a cloth out on top of the desk and brought in two cups of coffee. “The best thing will be if I just put the bottle of brandy down as it is."

“What do you mean by that, exactly?" asked Kater, suspicious as ever. The eagerness with which Elfrida made the suggestion led him to fear the worst. “Has something else gone wrong?"

“Trebly wrong, you might say," said Elfrida frankly, arranging the glasses and beaming across at the Lieutenant.

The Captain managed to overlook this. His seat creaked beneath him. The air reeked of old cigarette smoke, and the foul smell of soap and water and rotten floor-boards was all about him. Somewhat nervously he adjusted his stomach and folded his fat little fingers over it. Then for the first time he looked straight at Elfrida Rademacher, his excellent, multi-purpose secretary, with an expression of weary exasperation.

This girl Elfrida Rademacher was certainly not uninteresting to look at, though she was a little full in the figure and her dress bulged prominently in a number of places. She was a little like a horse, though perhaps with a rather cow like temperament. In any case there was a full-blooded rustic quality about her, suggestive of haystacks and rustling woods —all things, admittedly, to which Captain Kater attached little importance, for he was a pretty cold fish. He was, alas, no longer in his first youth, though this sometimes lent him a spurious air of virtue.

“Out with it, then, Fräulein Rademacher," he said, lighting a cigar—an especially mild Havana. “You know I'm a very understanding sort of person."

“Well, you'll need to be, this time," Elfrida assured him, winking at Krafft again, and running her tongue quickly over her lips.

“Come on, Fräulein Rademacher," said Captain Kater impatiently, “fire away."

And quite casually, if she were talking about the most natural thing in the world, she said: “Someone was raped last night."

Captain Kater winced. Even Lieutenant Krafft pricked up his ears, though he had long ago resolved never to be surprised by anything that this war for the glory of Greater Germany might have in store for him.

“It’s disgraceful!" cried Captain Kater. “Utterly disgraceful the way these cadets behave!"

“It wasn't one of the cadets," Elfrida Rademacher informed him amiably.

“Not someone from Headquarters Company, I hope?" asked the Captain, even more perturbed. Rape committed by one of the cadets would have been just tolerable, inasmuch as these were not directly under his command. Presumably the girl would concern him, for all civilian employees were his responsibility.

But if the incident should turn out to involve a member of the headquarters company, it would be disastrous. In fact it might seal his fate altogether. Coning on top of the events at the cemetery it might even get him a posting to the front.

Kater therefore glanced straight at Krafft, automatically preparing to implicate him in his troubles. The situation was grave indeed. First a man of God who sprained his ankle at the crucial moment; then a defender of the Fatherland who was foolish enough to be caught in the act of rape!

“What’s the name of the fellow who's done this to me?" he demanded.

“Corporal Krottenkopf. He's the one who was raped," announced Elfrida Rademacher, smiling with genuine pleasure.

“I’m always hearing about this Corporal Krottenkopf!" cried Kater desperately. “But really it's absurd! It's just not possible."

“It’s the truth," said Elfrida. She was obviously thoroughly enjoying herself. “The rape of Corporal Krottenkopf took place sometime in the early hours of this morning between one and three a.m. In the basement of the headquarters building too, in the communications center, by three of the signal girls on duty there."

“But it simply can't be true!" cried Captain Kater. “What do you say, Lieutenant Krafft?"

“I’m trying to envisage it from a practical point of view, Sir," declared Krafft, shaking his large bucolic head in amazement. “But I'm afraid my imagination doesn't seem to run to it."

“Disgusting!" cried Kater, meaning not so much the incident itself as its possible consequences. “What was this Krottenkopf fellow doing at night in the communications center anyway, even though he is the signals corporal? And how is it that three of these women were all in the communications center at the same time? There are never more than two on duty at once at night. And why did they have to pick on Krottenkopf? Aren't there enough cadets in the barracks who would be only too glad to satisfy their demands? Quite apart from which, why did it have to happen in duty hours!"

Captain Kater refilled his glass to the brim, and his hands were trembling so much that the cognac spilled on to a document on his desk, forming a tiny aromatic lake there. But Kater couldn't have cared less about the document or the lake of cognac. All he could think of was this appalling affair of the rape and the complications it was likely to lead to. He knocked back his glass, but its contents might have been water. There was nothing he would have liked better than to get drunk on the spot. But he had to take a decision first, and it had to be the best possible one in the circumstances. In other words it had to be a decision which would save him work and worry, and enable him to shift the responsibility from himself on to someone else's shoulders.

“Krafft," he said, “I hand the investigation of this affair over to you. The whole thing seems to me utterly incredible, but we've got to try and get to the bottom of it. I hope you follow me. I simply cannot believe that anything like this could possibly take place in my headquarters company. Biologically speaking its improbable enough, but militarily it's unthinkable. It must be a mistake."

Having said which, Kater prepared to leave, confident that officially he hadn't put a foot wrong so far. He had taken the requisite steps for an occasion of this sort, handing the matter on to someone else and seeing that it was properly investigated. If mistakes were made now, the responsibility would no longer be his. And if Krafft were by any chance to come a cropper in the process, so much the better.

Yet before Kater finally left he turned to Krafft and said: “There’s one point you oughtn't to overlook, my dear fellow—and that's this: why does Krottenkopf wait until this afternoon, before reporting this filthy business? Regulations say he should have done so first thing this morning at the latest. What does the fellow think he's doing? Who does he think he's dealing with? See that he's severely reprimanded! A man who breaks regulations like this is always a suspect."

Krafft felt a certain respect for Kater as he watched him go. He was certainly a cunning creature—though there was really nothing so surprising about this, for how otherwise would he have managed to hold his job at the training school?

Kater's suggestion that Corporal Krottenkopf, the plaintiff, had broken the regulations was as low as it was cunning, for it put Krottenkopf at a disadvantage from the start.

“I really feel like throwing the whole thing back in Kater's face!" said Lieutenant Krafft.

“Is that all you feel like doing?" said Elfrida, sidling up to him.

“Perhaps we ought to close the door!" suggested Lieutenant Krafft. He was standing very close to Elfrida.

“What’s the use?" she said with a slight huskiness in her voice. “It hasn't a lock."

“How do you know?" he asked quickly. “Have you tried it before?"

She laughed softly and snuggled up close to him as if to stop him from asking any more questions.

He put his strong arms around her and her body yielded willingly. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the C.O.'s desk, at the same time pushing the coffee cups to one side with an unfaltering hand to prevent them falling to the floor.

“No one will come in without knocking," she said. “And Kater's in the officers' mess by now."

Lieutenant Krafft looked down past her to the desk, where there was a writing-pad with a note scrawled on it: “Call RO 25/33." Presumably this meant: Call Rotunda, the land-lord of The Gay God, and get him to deliver twenty-five bottles of the '33 vintage. But Krafft closed his eyes as if to forget the letters and figures, as if to forget everything except the strength of the life within him.

They were soon panting desperately, while outside a group of cadets could be heard singing: “There is no finer country in the world." With its sturdy ground bass of tramping boots, this song made a good deal of noise, and this was helpful, for barrack walls, not being built for eternity, are usually pretty thin.

"I can't wait for to-night!" said Elfrida.

But all Karl Krafft could do was nod.

Corporal Krottenkopf, the alleged victim of the rape, was waiting for Lieutenant Krafft in the corridor. He gazed up at his superior officer with a tortured expression, and then, stooping slightly, bowed his head in shame.

Yet this Corporal Krottenkopf was no sensitive plant, no delicate youth or mother's darling. He was a man with a protuberant nose, full fleshy lips, apelike hands, and the powerful hindquarters of a stag.

“They called me up in the middle of the night," he related mournfully and with a great show of indignation. “They called me up and told me that the external exchange was out of order. I told them they could go and get—well, you know. . . . They said: Well, not down the telephone. That should have put me on my guard. But I was thinking solely of my duty, of the fact that the exchange was out of order, and of what the General might say if he wanted to telephone. It just didn't bear thinking of. It's the sort of thing that can get a man sent to the front. Well, anyway, along I went, for duty is duty, after all. No sooner had I reached the basement, though, than they set upon me. All three of them, like wild animals. They simply tore the clothes off me, boots and all. And that had them panting a bit, because my boots are damned tight—anyone who hasn't the knack has to pull like hell to get them off. But these women stopped at nothing!"

“All right, all right," said Krafft, who had no wish to go into any further details. “But why are you only coming to me now? It must have occurred to you first thing this morning that you'd been the victim of a brutal rape?"

“Yes, well," said Krottenkopf, grinning to show that he was speaking as man to man, “I’m not inhuman. I'm not a petty-minded sort of fellow, you know; never have been. I enjoy a visit to a decent brothel like the next man, and when these women set upon me like this I thought to myself: Now then you're not going to have any hard feelings about this. When someone's had more to drink than is good for them, it works on the brain and makes them randy as a rattlesnake. Right, then, I said to myself, forget all about it. It's a hard war, and casualties are inevitable in war. I'm an understanding sort of fellow, you see. The unpleasant part of the business only developed later. Now these beauties won't address me by anything but my Christian name: Waldemar they call me! And that's going too far. They've lost all sense of discipline. They spend their whole time giggling and making personal remarks and actually laughing at my orders. They call me darling! Would you believe it? They call me darling in front of the rank and file. And not just the three who were involved yesterday evening either, but all the rest of them as well! The entire communications section! And as a corporal, even as a man, I'm not prepared to stand for that."

“Right," said Lieutenant Krafft, " look into it, that is if you really insist on pressing the charge, Krottenkopf."

“I’m not insisting on anything," the corporal reassured him. “But what else am I to do? The whole barracks is laughing at me, and calling me Waldemar! . . . And my real name's Alfred! Please do something about it, Lieutenant."

“You don't think you might possibly have made a mistake?"

“You’d better ask the three harpies themselves about that. They know best, after all."

Captain Kater had retired to the officers' mess in search of strength and succor. The mess was his own undisputed territory: kitchen, cellar, and all the personnel here, were his direct responsibility in his capacity as the officer commanding the headquarters company. Apart from him, the only other person who had the right to give orders here was the General—though there was little danger of his putting in an appearance during the afternoon.

“Well, now, gentlemen," said Captain Kater briskly,” what can I offer you? Don't be shy; just tell me what you'd like. A funeral like that takes it out of you—you need something to pull you round afterwards. Personally I'd suggest an Armagnac, straight from the cask—twenty years at least in the wood."

The officers took his advice, for at least Kater knew something about drink, having spent a good deal of time in France.

Kater insisted on paying for the round. It didn't cost him much, for there weren't many officers in the mess at the time, only a handful of tactics instructors and a few company commanders. And, in addition to them, the training school's guest of the moment: a certain Wirrmann, judge-advocate by profession, temporarily seconded to the Inspector of Training Schools and posted to Wildlingen-am-Main to investigate the death of Lieutenant Barkow.

This pillar of military justice was a spry little fellow who seemed more interested in the contents of the officers'-mess cellar than anything else. Thus he and Kater got along famously, and Wirrmann found himself with a glass that was full to the brim.

"Well, gentlemen," said Kater, joining the officers,” what a funeral this afternoon! I don't know who one would prefer to find oneself up before—one's Maker or the General."

“I must say you'd make a splendid corpse," said Captain Feders cheerfully. “No question of it—the funeral would make a most happy affair. One's only got to think of all those supplies of yours that would be automatically released."

“Captain Feders," said Kater icily, " I'm surprised to find you in the mess at this time of day. Besides, you're a married man and your wife may be waiting for you."

At this, Feders seemed on the point of losing self-control altogether. All trace of humor vanished from his face. The officers eyed him warily, for everyone knew his Achilles heel though few would have risked wounding him there. Kater had acted carelessly, to say the least.

Feders began to laugh, but there was a raw, dangerous edge to the sound.

“Kater," he said, “if you're surprised to find me in the mess at this time of day, all I can say is that I'm even more surprised to find you here. Normally you should be in that pig-sty of yours by now, trying to keep some sort of order there, to put it mildly. But presumably you've delegated the job to someone else—this fellow Krafft, I suppose. He's got a broad back certainly, so broad in fact, Kater, that he could quite easily carry you off altogether if he felt like it. This fellow Krafft's no fool, I should say, and if I were in your shoes, Kater, I wouldn't be feeling too happy at the moment."

This remark went home all right, and the Captain rose to his feet. “What an irrepressible fellow you are, Feders!" he said condescendingly in an attempt to laugh, but it didn't sound very convincing. Kater left, saying that he wanted to go and inspect some stores that were arriving.

No sooner had Captain Kater arrived in the officers'-mess kitchen and taken a shot of something to boost his morale with, than Judge-Advocate Wirrmann appeared on the scene.

"Anything worrying you, my dear Herr Kater?" he asked sympathetically.

"Nothing important," Kater assured him.

"Then," said Wirrmann, “you should find it all the easier to confide in someone who is well disposed towards you. You can rest assured, my dear fellow, that if it's justice you're after you've come to the right address."

“Now, ladies," said Lieutenant Krafft, beginning his interrogation, " I'd like you to try and forget both that I'm a man and that I'm an officer."

“That won't be easy," said one of the three girls.

“Do your best, all the same," Krafft advised them. “Imagine I'm a sort of neuter, a personification of the law, if you like. You can talk to me freely, without any false modesty."

“We don't have such a thing anyway," said another of the girls.

Lieutenant Krafft now found himself at what might be called the scene of the crime, that's to say in the communications center in the basement of the H.Q. building. Chairs stood in front of a row of switchboards, above which were circuit diagrams with the inevitable poster, “Beware! The enemy is listening!" There was a table in one corner on which stood coffee cups, a jug and an electric kettle. The latter was officially forbidden throughout the barracks, but since it was Captain Kater and not General Modersohn who was responsible for the ban, no one paid any attention to it. In another corner stood a camp bed—the corpus delicate, so to speak—a shabby, battered, rusty iron bedstead, with a mattress and some blankets on it.

Krafft confronted the three girls behind the switchboards. Their figures were well-developed and their faces pretty and innocent-looking. Their honest, friendly eyes regarded him with curiosity. Though the eldest of these girls was barely more than twenty, they were neither particularly embarrassed nor excited, seeming to have no sense of guilt at all.

“What can you have been thinking of, ladies?" asked Lieutenant Krafft warily.

“Absolutely nothing," said one of the girls, which sounded convincing enough.

“Right," said Krafft. “I admit the business demands no particularly strenuous intellectual effort, but some sort of thought-process is unavoidable. For example: why exactly did you have to pick on Corporal Krottenkopf?"

“Oh, anyone would have done," said one of the girls, managing to smile at Krafft, ”and this Krottenkopf just happened to be handy."

Lieutenant Krafft found he had to sit down. The whole affair seemed to him either fearfully complex or else amazingly simple, which sometimes amounted to the same thing.

“At any rate," said Krafft finally, “you did lay hands on him, didn't you?"

The girls looked at each other. They seemed to have come to a pretty careful agreement about what they were to say. Krafft couldn't really take objection to this. He had no particular wish to start a major judicial process. So he simply smiled encouragement at the astonishing creatures.

" It's true," said one of them, a pretty little thing, with a wide baby smile and frank honest eyes, and a sort of roguishness about her reminiscent of her grandmother's era in the First World War, " it's true we took his clothes off, but we then meant simply to throw him out as a sort of demonstration. The trouble was he wouldn't budge."

“You mean," said Krafft in amazement, “this was simply a sort of demonstration!"

“Exactly!" said the unbelievably innocent-looking girl. “Because it's time something was done about the situation in these barracks. There are nearly a thousand cadets and fifty girls here, and no one's allowed to take any notice of us at all. Wherever you go there's supervision and closed doors and we're surrounded by sentries. All we're asking for is a certain amount of social life. We just don't want to vegetate! But human beings mean nothing to this General, he doesn't take the slightest notice of us. And all this had to be said! That was why we picked on Krottenkopf—not because we wanted to start anything with him but because we wanted to draw attention to the situation. Now do you understand?"

Lieutenant Krafft was beginning to see the funny side of all this, though he was determined to tread warily.

“Listen a moment," he said, “I want to tell you a story. When I was a boy and still lived in the country, some of our geese one day waddled across some relatively clean washing put out to dry by our neighbor, who immediately lodged a complaint. Now there were a number of possibilities. First, the geese themselves were wicked. Secondly, they had been deliberately driven over the washing. Or thirdly, they had simply strayed there. The last explanation was the simplest and the best and it wasn't difficult to make it sound plausible. After all, wicked geese or geese that had been maliciously inspired could lead to all sorts of trouble. Trouble of the sort that geese don't usually survive. Now is the moral clear? Or do I have to make myself still clearer?"

The girls eyed Krafft carefully, and then exchanged glances among themselves. Finally the innocent-looking one, who was probably the sharpest of the three, said: " You mean we should simply say it was some sort of mistake?"

" Well, not a mistake exactly," advised Krafft, " but you might perhaps have been playing a trivial if daring practical joke, an innocent sort of tease to get your own back on your tyrant Krottenkopf. Only unfortunately the tease rather got out of hand in a way you couldn't have foreseen. In this way you shift the blame from yourselves without actually putting it on to anyone else. If it was a sort of joke, well, perhaps a few long faces will be pulled about it, but no one's going to lose his head. If, however, it were a serious matter, if there were any question of assault, or something as perverted as rape—then good night, sweet ladies! That could end in jail. Which in certain circumstances can be even more unpleasant than life in barracks."

“How nice you are," said one of the girls gratefully, while the others nodded vigorously. They realized at once that they were lucky to have been allowed to jump back from the fire into the frying pan. “One could really get along with someone like you."

“Maybe," said Lieutenant Krafft. “But don't get it into your heads to pursue the matter further next time you find yourselves bored with night duty and in search of a little diversion."

When Lieutenant Krafft got back to his desk in the headquarters company he found someone waiting for him. This was a slight little figure of a man with the quick agile movements of a squirrel, a pointed nose and the darting eyes of some bird of prey.

“Allow me to introduce myself," the little man said. “My name's Wirrmann—Judge-Advocate. I am interested in the Krottenkopf case."

“Who told you about that?" asked Krafft cautiously.

“Your superior officer Captain Kater," explained the little man quietly but firmly. “Besides, it's all over the mess by now, and being discussed in a rather unsavory manner, which is hardly surprising. All the more reason for getting it dealt with and out of the way as quickly as possible. Your superior officer at any rate sought my advice and I was prepared to give him my fullest support. The case interests me, from both the legal and the human point of view. Perhaps you will let me know how your inquiries have been getting on."

Krafft had had just a little more human interest than he could take in such a short space of time, and now felt the urge to be human himself. Furthermore he found this man Wirrmann unsympathetic, and even though there was this squirrel-like quality about him, the man's sanctimonious courtroom voice jarred on his nerves. Krafft therefore turned on him straight out and said: “I don't regard you as having any authority to act in this case, Herr Judge-Advocate."

“My dear fellow," said the latter, and his eyes narrowed, “whether or not I have any authority to act in this case is hardly for you to determine. Apart from which I am acting with the consent of your superior officer."

“Captain Kater hasn't told me of this—neither verbally nor in writing. And until he does so I must act according to my own judgment. Which means that I'm working on this case alone until I receive further instructions—perhaps from Major-General Modersohn himself."

“Then you shall certainly have them, my dear fellow," replied Wirrmann promptly. And his voice now sounded like a rusty scythe being whisked experimentally through the air. “That is, if you insist."

Krafft looked at the wiry little man with a certain amount of apprehension. Not even the threat of Major-General Modersohn, the terror of Wildlingen, seemed to make much impression on him. These court-martial fellows were gluttons for punishment.

“Well what about it?" urged Wirrmann. “Are you going to let me in on your inquiries voluntarily, or do I have to bring the General into it?"

“Bring anyone you like into it!" said Krafft, losing his temper. “The Commander-in-Chief of the Wehrmacht, for all I care."

“Let’s start with the General," said the Judge-Advocate quietly, whipping round suddenly like a weathercock in a powerful gust of wind, and vanishing from the scene.

“I suppose I can pack my bags now," said Lieutenant Krafft to Elfrida Rademacher. “My brief stay at the training school seems to be over."

“Did someone see us?" asked Elfrida anxiously.

“If that were all," said Lieutenant Krafft, " at least it would be something worth being slung out for."

“In any case I could always say I tried to rape you. That seems the latest dodge."

“Too true," said Krafft. “A dodge, what's more, that's going to give the General a nasty shock."

“Nothing’s capable of giving him a nasty shock," declared Elfrida emphatically. “He wouldn't turn a hair whatever happened. On one of his rounds recently he went into a room where a couple was making love. And what did he do? He walked straight through the room without batting an eyelid."

“He didn't say a word?"

“Not a word. It wasn't necessary. He recognized them both at a glance."

“And had them slung out?"

“Made them get married."

“Even worse," said Krafft apprehensively.

“They’re said to be very happy," said Elfrida, looking out of the window with a smile.

By this stage in his career, Lieutenant Krafft himself was incapable of being shaken. Yet his quarrel with the Judge-Advocate could have only one result if it went against him, namely expulsion in the direction of the eastern front, though just at the moment, any direction would be a welcome relief from the circus in which he found himself. The General could roar at him to his heart's content. The Lieutenant had already been roared at quite a bit without suffering anything worse than a slight strain on the eardrums.

After just half an hour, most of which he spent smoking in the lavatory, Krafft received the anticipated summons to the General. Surprisingly enough, Modersohn didn't insist on the Lieutenant reporting to him in the usual way in full dress uniform. The Major-General merely wished to speak to Krafft on the telephone, and it was to be a telephone conversation of bewildering brevity.

“I understand," said Modersohn without further ado,” that you have refused to allow Judge-Advocate Wirrmann to take part in an investigation you're engaged on."

“Yes, General."

“Why?"

“Because I didn't think the Judge-Advocate had the authority to act in this particular case, General."

“Good," said Modersohn. And that was all, for the present at least.

3. GAMES FOR H SECTION

The youthful voices of the cadets rang through the gymnasium, where a powerful smell of male sweat hung in the air. Captain Ratshelm, the officer commanding Number 6 Company, was personally supervising the three sections under his command, as he always did when they were down for sports or games. Dressed in shorts and a sleeveless shirt he cavorted happily about among his cadets, lending them encouragement and, in so far as he could, setting them an example. For he had a slight tendency to corpulence, and the rosy pinkness of his skin stood out in contrast to the brown sinewy torsos of the cadets.

H Section was the one he was particularly interested in. For it had been bereaved by the sudden death of Lieutenant Barkow and was thus temporarily without a section officer. Until the General appointed a successor to the dead man the company commander voluntarily took on the job himself.

Ratshelm was always happy when he could get into slightly closer contact with his young cadets, being particularly fond of a game of handball, in which he would hop around, grabbing the ball for himself and barging one of his young comrades out of the way in order to get a better shot at the goal. With their damp glistening torsos rubbing against him and the sharp animal tang of their sweat in his nostrils, he felt his heart full of strength and joy and a deep sense of comradeship. And this was particularly true whenever his eyes lit upon Cadet Hochbauer.

“A lovely pass!" he shouted across at him. “More like that one!"

“This fellow Hochbauer's in training all right," said Cadet Mösler knowingly. “For a creep up the C.O.'s arse."

Cadet Mösler had a reputation as a wit. The advantage of this was that almost everything he said was taken as a joke, which saved him a good deal of trouble one way and another.

“Hochbauer’ll have to look out, though," said his neighbor Cadet Rednitz thoughtfully. “There’s plenty of competition."

“Yes, you have to make certain sacrifices to become an officer," declared Mösler, not forgetting to grin inanely.

They were standing rather out of the limelight, right at the back of the field. Mösler was a wiry little fellow with darting eyes which spent most of their time on the look-out for anything in skirts, while Rednitz was a medium-sized, slim figure who however moved like a bear and was almost always smiling about something, though hardly ever laughing. He had already learned not to do that.

“Scandalous we don't have women training to be officers," said Mösler. “I’d be only too willing to play games with them!"

“Bad enough with some of us carrying on like women," said Rednitz. “Or do you want to sleep your way into a commission?"

“It depends on whom with," said Mösler, grinning. “I wouldn't mind a comely young major of thirty or so. It wouldn't be the worst sacrifice one could make for one's Fatherland."

“Half time!" cried Captain Ratshelm. “Change sides!"

The two teams changed sides, and Mösler and Rednitz promptly found their way to the rear again. They had no objection to leaving the main part of the field to the keener sportsmen.

Though Mösler and Rednitz were both only twenty-one, they had already acquired a certain amount of military experience, having developed a sixth sense which told them when their superior officer's eye was upon them. They instinctively positioned themselves where the danger of being spotted was light. Captain Ratshelm was now out in front of them, pleasantly distracted from his supervisory duties by the game and his sporting companions, and Mösler and Rednitz found his back a comforting sight. Now and again they would make a perfunctory move in one direction or another, even occasionally actually pursuing the ball. But this was only because the cold January air left them little option. They had no wish to work up an unnecessary sweat, but they had no wish to freeze either.

“Hochbauer’ll get his commission all right," said Mösler.

“Could become a general," agreed Rednitz, “if the war lasts long enough and he finds enough superior officers to fall for him."

“Coming over, sir!" cried Cadet Hochbauer, in clear, ringing tones. “Into the center!"

“Right!" cried Captain Ratshelm. Skipping forward with what he imagined was remarkable elegance he caught the ball and sent it hurtling into his opponents' half of the field, where for some reason or other one of the cadets dodged aside and the ball went into goal.

Yet another point scored. The Captain's team was well ahead, as was only to be expected. Once again Ratshelm felt that his own remarkable versatility had been overwhelmingly demonstrated.

“They can't beat us now!" cried Hochbauer happily.

“Our opponents are putting up a great fight, though! All honor to them!"

This man of honor, Captain Ratshelm, a professional soldier and an officer out of deep conviction, was utterly dedicated to the training company under his command. He had three sections under him in all, G, H and I, each of which had on its strength forty cadets, one section officer and one tactics instructor. It was Ratshelm's gift to be able to unite in his own person all those qualities required to produce the officers of the future. There was no field in which he was not an expert; he was planner, instructor, educator, all rolled into one, and above all a true comrade-in-arms. Although himself only a few years older than his cadets, he felt like a father to them, and the love which he so devotedly bore them was a father's too; or so at least he convinced himself.

“Well done, Hochbauer!" he cried, puffing slightly as he scored yet another goal. “A lovely pass!"

“You were beautifully placed again, sir!" replied Hochbauer, his eyes shining with admiration.

It would never have occurred to Captain Ratshelm to feel flattered, it was enough for him that he was appreciated. True he had a fatherly love to bestow, but in return he looked for nothing but respect, and he never had the slightest fear that the depth of his affection might in any way constitute a threat to discipline.

Just then the ball hit him full on the side of the head. He swayed slightly, and for a moment it looked as if his legs were going to buckle under him. However, though his head was throbbing fiercely he managed a sporting smile in the best officer tradition.

“Sorry sir," called out Cadet Weber from the other side of the field. “I didn't mean it to be so hard."

“Foul!” cried Cadet Hochbauer, springing to the Captain's defense at once.

Cadet Weber (Christian name: Egon) was a broad, burly fellow, as solid as a well-made piece of furniture. Panting heavily he now pushed his way forward, laboring somewhat with a sense of insult, for he too had his ambitions as a sportsman.

“How would you know what was foul," he said to Hochbauer, “since you don't know what's fair?"

For a moment it seemed as if Hochbauer was going to spring at him. But then he looked across at the Captain, who, though still nursing his head, was not prevented from doing what he conceived to be his duty as a sportsman.

“Weber," said Captain Ratshelm severely, ”no arguing while the game's in progress. You're sent off!"

“Greetings, fellow sportsmen," said Cadet Weber, trotting over to Rednitz and Mösler. “Have you heard? I've been sent off. Not a bad trick for getting a spell of rest, eh? I'm going to patent it."

“I’m afraid," said Cadet Mösler, “that if your friend Hochbauer has to choose between you and the Captain there's little doubt where his choice will lie."

“Who cares?" said Weber indulgently. “The main thing is I managed to catch Ratshelm a crack on the head—all in the spirit of the game of course—and I've earned myself a breather as a result."

“All the same," Rednitz reminded him, “Hochbauer did say it was a foul."

“He’s right too," said Weber, quite unabashed. “I have no hesitation in playing foul in that sort of game, but I'm not going to admit it to those bastards."

This was typical of Cadet Weber (Christian name: Egon), whose imperturbability and disarming frankness allied to a bulldog-like temperament made him the least vulnerable of men. With such a remarkably thick skin he could count himself a useful soldier.

“What about a go with the medicine ball?" he suggested.

Mösler and Rednitz agreed—medicine ball was easily the best way of avoiding trouble; it kept one warm without requiring any effort, rather like the friendly sort of games that children play.

The three cadets retired from the game of handball altogether, without anyone noticing them. Ratshelm was still in the thick of things, playing with great abandon and setting an example which he felt sure everyone else would follow. He didn't exactly suffer from a sense of inferiority.

“Heard the latest?" Cadet Weber asked.

“What’s that?" asked Rednitz with a smile. “Apart from the fact that your friend Hochbauer thinks you don't play fair."

“Oh hell," rejoined Weber good-naturedly,” I know you can't stand Hochbauer, but I can't think why!"

“You know quite well why," put in Rednitz.

“My dear fellow," said Weber calmly,” my sole purpose here is to survive the course, not to go around awarding people marks for character. As far as I'm concerned, anyone here can be as pure or sink as low as he likes—all I care about is becoming an officer. To hell with everything else!"

Rednitz smiled. He picked up a medicine ball and threw it across to Mösler. Their evasive action was already under way.

“Well," asked Mösler, “what’s new on the Rialto?"

“Something pretty big!" Weber assured him. Rednitz looked at him curiously, and he added: “Or so it seems to me. It looks as if the women have got out of hand!"

“That’s nothing new," said Mösler speaking as an expert,” but which particular women do you mean?"

“Those here in the barracks!“ said Weber. “It’s said they're rushing about naked all over the place."

“Only in the showers, surely," said Rednitz. “Where else?"

"You may well ask! “Said Weber.” In the basement of staff headquarters—in the communications center, I'm told. Rows of them. Three at least, if not five. No one's safe, they say. Further information later. Makes you think, though, doesn't it, fellows?"

“Man!" said Cadet Mösler with something like solemnity. “This seems to demand a maximum effort on our part. I suggest the formation of a raiding party for to-night!"

“Carry on without me, fellows!" Captain Ratshelm called out to his cadets.

“We’ll manage," Cadet Hochbauer assured him. “Thanks to you, sir, we can't lose." And several of the cadets nodded enthusiastically.

Captain Ratshelm had scored enough points. His companions had the right to score too, and he wasn't the man to spoil their fun. Besides, he was feeling rather tired. He was panting hard and had a slight stitch in his right side—life at the front, it seemed, had taken its toll on him. He withdrew to the rear—not far enough to disturb Cadets Mösler, Weber and Rednitz, but far enough away to be able to watch Cadet Hochbauer.

In Ratshelm's eyes Cadet Hochbauer was the very model of what an officer should be. He already possessed an outstanding personality, and his mind was alert and precise. He had plenty of energy and endurance, and was both keen, resourceful and respectful. In short, this fellow Hochbauer was endowed with all the qualities of a born leader of men. The inevitable callousness of youth would fine down in time, and his idealism, which was rather lacking in sophistication at the moment, would learn to make the unavoidable compromises.

Ratshelm paused to look across at the two other sections, G and I, where a familiar sight met his eyes. Lieutenant Webermann was circling his flock of cadets with the tireless energy of a sheepdog; Lieutenant Dietrich on the other hand had so positioned himself that he could take in all his cadets at a glance. They used different methods but achieved the same result, keeping their cadets on the move without setting any particular example themselves. This was why they were wearing thick track suits, whereas Ratshelm, stripped for action, was a true sportsman and a fitting companion for the cadets.

Thinking along these lines, Captain Ratshelm suddenly noticed that it was extremely cold in the gym. He was even shivering himself, so he decided to order a run round the hall.

He beckoned the section senior over to him and said: “Kramer—in five minutes we'll bring the games to an end and finish with a general run."

"Hear that?" said Cadet Mösler to his friends Rednitz and Weber. “They’re off on the Idiot's Handicap in five minutes. They can leave us out, though, eh?"

This went without saying. A run round the hall wasn't for old soldiers like them. This wretchedly taxing marathon trot was part of the Captain's basic routine, the principal item in his act, in fact. Captain Ratshelm stood in the center of the ring, while they all trotted round him for at least fifteen minutes on end.

To avoid this, Cadets Mösler, Weber and Rednitz went up to Kramer, the cadet who at present held the post of section senior, and Mösler said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: " Kramer, we'll see to the equipment—all right?"

“What, again?" demanded Kramer irritably. “All three of you? You three always want the cushy jobs! I won't stand for it indefinitely, you know; people will start asking questions."

“If that's all they start asking questions about," said Rednitz amiably,” you can count yourself lucky."

“Are you threatening me?" asked Kramer indignantly. He was head sergeant and wanted to be shown a certain amount of respect. If people only asked him for this sort of thing politely, he was almost certain to agree pleasantly enough. But the behavior of these three cadets was beginning to look very much like blackmail. “You look out!" he muttered. “These hints of yours will land you in trouble. You can't prove anything—Lieutenant Barkow died a completely natural death."

“It depends on how you look at it," said Weber. “Death is always the most natural thing in the world, one way or another."

“We’ll have a talk about it some time," announced Mösler with a grin. “To-day we just want to spare you any unpleasantness—and we're the only people who can. For if we don't look after the sports equipment you can be sure you'll be down a medicine ball."

Kramer was quite smart enough to realize what was being hinted at here. The three of them had obviously managed to hide a medicine ball away in such a way that only they could find it again. If he wanted to save himself a lot of trouble and embarrassment he had no alternative but to give in to them. He muttered an obscenity under his breath before giving the order: “Mösler, Weber and Rednitz are to see to the equipment."

Which meant that for these three the games period had ended before it had begun. It would have taken an inexperienced recruit less than ten minutes to collect and return the sports equipment, but since these were old soldiers, a good half-hour would be required. And by that time the circus performance would be over.

“Friends!” said Cadet Weber. “We must now discuss our plan of campaign—we've lots of time for it. I must say I can't get the idea of those women out of my head. I take it as a personal affront to my virility that these wretched little girls should be running around so pathetically dissatisfied."

“Let me have your attention a moment, fellows!" said Captain Ratshelm after looking at his watch. “We’ve just got time to sharpen up our wits a little, in accordance with the principle Mens sana in corpore sano, you know. You all understand what that means?"

There was hardly anyone who didn't understand what that meant. It meant that before his last great closing number, before the last communal exertion of the day, Captain Ratshelm intended to indulge in a little theoretical work. Noncommissioned officers might be content to know how a thing was done, but officers needed to know why it was done. It was to this end therefore that Captain Ratshelm collected his cadets around him in a semicircle and asked searchingly: “Why actually do we play games?"

“I often ask myself that!" whispered a cadet at the back.

Captain Ratshelm ignored this, chiefly because it never occurred to him that anyone would have dared to whisper in his presence. He gazed straight into the keen, eager faces of the cadets. For one of the slogans of the training school, laid down by the course commanders, stated that there were no questions to which an officer did not have an answer.

Ratshelm looked at Hochbauer with a momentary tingle of pleasure at the cadet's fine, upstanding appearance. His fine blue eyes, betraying both confidence and humility, radiated his respect for his commanding officer. Siegfried must have had something of the same look when his glance rested on Kriemhilde. And Hochbauer thrust his powerful, manly chin slightly forward, a gesture equivalent to the raised hand of the eager schoolboy denoting that he was burning to be asked.

“Well, Hochbauer?" asked the Captain. A shiver ran down the cadet's spine as he sprang to attention in exemplary fashion, looked his superior officer straight in the eye, and spoke out: “Games steel the body, sir, but a healthy body contains a healthy mind as well. Games make one versatile, and versatility is one of the finest qualities in the German character."

It was as if the answer had been turned out by a machine —curt, crisp and precise. In short, beyond reproach. Ratshelm was very pleased. He nodded and said: “Good, Hochbauer."

Hochbauer seemed to swell with pride and happiness, though his face remained admirably self-controlled. He stayed as rigid as ever, with the merest flicker of a smile playing about his lips. But his eyes radiated warmth. He bared his teeth slightly, almost imperceptibly. They too were splendid and he would have made an admirable toothpaste advertisement: Healthy teeth denote a healthy mind—officers prefer Blendol.

But Ratshelm continued his theoretical instruction with the question: " Are games an officer's concern?"

“Only in so far as his subordinates have to play them," whispered the cadet at the back.

But a cadet in front gave the required answer: "An officer is concerned with everything that promotes military efficiency, instills discipline and maintains and indeed develops a high standard of general fitness. Games are an excellent way of improving military discipline. A good officer organizes games and takes part in them himself; he has to set an example in everything."

Ratshelm decided that that would do. The excellent answers were fully up to the standard of the earlier performance. He had every reason to be content with this section of his and could only hope and pray that the successor of the late Lieutenant Barkow would prove worthy of them. Such first-rate human material deserved the greatest possible care.

Captain Ratshelm now gave orders for the run round the gym to begin, planning that it should last about twenty minutes. To guarantee a good steady pace he put Hochbauer in front, and, to prevent any weakening in the center, made Kramer, the section senior, bring up the rear. Off they trotted in this formation.

Letting his glance wander up from the cadets' legs to their faces, Ratshelm was surprised to find the correct expression of enthusiasm missing. In vain he searched for that fine eager glow of manly zest which should have distinguished the officers of the future, particularly those whose privilege it was to grow to their full stature under his tutelage.

But perhaps the sudden death of Lieutenant Barkow had depressed the cadets. It might have been, too, that the regrettably incomplete funeral ceremony of the early afternoon had made an unfavorable impression on them. Then there was the unpleasantness of the investigation being conducted by Judge-Advocate Wirrmann into the Barkow affair —an unavoidable procedure, perhaps, but one well calculated to bewilder them.

Thinking along these lines, Ratshelm found the situation deeply moving. Young men who had been selected to be officers, he told himself, needed to be shown the importance of esprit de corps in the circle to which they aspired. So, acting on a spontaneous impulse, he once again gathered H Section about him.

The cadets showed an extraordinary willingness to respond to their commanding officer's summons, which provided a welcome break in the exhausting marathon. Most of them were curious too: for they had soon discovered that Captain Ratshelm was utterly unpredictable. The man also had a way of talking as if reading out of some military textbook, which certainly had its funny side.

“Right. Now, just give me your attention, all of you," said Ratshelm impressively, the very picture of an officer determined to give his men a thorough grounding in their subject. “To-day we've buried our section officer, Lieutenant Barkow. He was a good man. Now we all have to die in the end, and a good soldier must be prepared to do so at any moment—officer or not, of course. So far so good. But we soldiers don't only have to fight and die; we also have a paper war to fight. And this has its points, even though I won't discuss them in further detail just at the moment. Anyhow, it's a necessary part of things that when a man dies there should sometimes be an investigation. But an investigation of this sort is a pure matter of form. Do you follow me? There's nothing more to it than that. Certain things just don't happen among officers. Understood? And just to make myself completely plain to the blockheads, Lieutenant Barkow died a natural death, a soldier's death, one might say. It was an accident, and that's all there is to it. Anyone who thinks otherwise hasn't yet understood the meaning of being an officer, and he'll find he has me to reckon with! About turn! Double march!"

INTERMEDIATE REPORT NO. 1:

The Curriculum Vitae of Lieutenant Karl Krafft, or

The problems of respectability

My name is Karl Krafft. I was born on 8th November 1916, at Pohlitz, in Stettin, Pomerania, son of a post office inspector called Joseph Krafft and his wife Margaret, whose maiden name was Panzer. I spent my childhood in the town of my birth.

The sky is dark, as it almost always is, and it rains a lot. I have grey eyes and the mirror I see them in has lost its sheen. The houses in the street are a muddy grey, the same color as my father's face. When I kiss my mother my hands wander across her forehead; and her hair is stiff and dry, grey as old silver, almost as grey as lead.

When it rains, dull grey, milky grey water runs through the streets. We run bare-foot and the water comes up to our ankles. Our hands scoop sand and earth from the garden and mud from the street and we knead it together and compress it into a dough-like mass, build dams with it. And the water rises, forms a pool, spreads and overflows the pavement, threatening to invade the cellars. People curse us, and we laugh; then we trample down the dams and run off until we can no longer see or hear the people cursing us.

Once again water is flowing. And this time it's the river at the edge of the town, called the Oder. The waters rush past sucking and churning up the earth and the sand, driving them before it, as we stare into the swirling current. We fold up huge banknotes on our knees. These banknotes have lots of zeros on them and we fold them into paper boats. They float and bob giddily about on top of the water, turn drunkenly round and round, bump into each other—but the important thing is they float. This paper money makes wonderful boats.

“All the money's any use for is to wipe your arse on!" says a man, who's my uncle. “No," says my father,” that isn't true!" “Everything printed or written, all paper in short," says my uncle,” is only fit to wipe your arse on." “You shouldn't say that!" cries my father indignantly, “at least not in front of the children."

Father doesn't talk much. Mother hardly talks at all. It's always very quiet with us in the little house. only when there's discussion of what my father calls " higher things " does he get at all excited—talk about the Fatherland for example, or the postal service. " When many men love and honor a thing," says my father, ”then you can be certain that it's worthy of love and honor—you mark my words, my son." And then my father is suddenly standing to attention in the middle of our little garden, for the head of the post office, Herr Giebelmeier, is passing by. “Very fine, Krafft," Herr Giebelmeier shouts at my father. “Really very fine—your flowers are like so many soldiers standing there. They make a brave show. Carry on, Krafft!"

“We’re going to paint this little house of ours," says my father after thinking for a long time. “We want to make a brave show of it!" And so my father buys whitewash and lime and two paint-brushes—the smaller one for me. And we begin painting it blue—bright blue, the color of the sky. And then once again the head of the post office, Herr Giebelmeier, comes past and says “What on earth are you doing there, Krafft? What's all this about?" “I’m smartening the place up a bit, sir," says my father, standing to attention. “But you can't do that," says Giebelmeier firmly,” that sort of thing's much too ostentatious; it's too garish, man. If only you'd chosen post-office yellow, I might have come round to it—but sky blue! It positively screams at you! Anyway, all I can say is: it's certainly not right for any official of mine."

“Very good, sir," says my father, and when Giebelmeier has gone my father says to me: “He was an officer of the reserve, you see." “I don't see," I say. “What’s the connection between an officer of the reserve and house painting?" “Later," says my father, “you’ll understand that too." And our house stayed grey.

In 1922 I began going to the primary school in my home town. My marks were always indifferent, but I steadily made my way up through the eight forms.

My books are tattered and well-thumbed. They are covered in smudges because my hands are sweaty and not always clean. They're full of penciled scribbles: underlinings, marks, words written in, drawings, little men sometimes, and once even a woman, as I had seen her drawn on the lavatory wall in the railway station, with thighs apart and mountainous breasts. Every time I see this picture I feel ashamed because it's such a bad drawing.

One of our teachers called Grabowski catches sight of this picture. We always call him “Stick” because he seems inseparable from the cane he carries.” Look at that—the little swine!" says Stick delightedly, waving his cane about in front of my face. “A dirty little swine, eh?" “I copied that," I tell him. “You can see it on the lavatory wall in the station." “Listen to him," says Stick. “So you've been looking at filthy drawings in the lavatory, eh?" “Well, yes," I say,” you can't really help it." “Now, my lad," says Stick, “I’m going to show you what you can help and what you can't. Bend over. Bottom in the air. Trousers tight. Right." And then he beats me with the cane, until he's panting for breath. “Right," he says,” that'll teach you, you little stinker!" And I think to myself : Yes, that'll teach me—I'll never let him catch me with a drawing like that again.

“Always be obedient," says my father. “Obedient to the Almighty and to the authorities. Then you'll have a clear conscience and your future will be assured." But the new authorities deprived him of his living because he's been obedient to the old authorities.

“You must learn to love," says my mother. “To love nature and animals and men too. Then you'll always be happy and cheerful." But when my father falls on hard times she cries a lot. Her way of loving sometimes makes me sad. From then on she is never happy or cheerful again, even when my father is given the chance of obeying the new authorities —though this makes him very proud.

The faces of the teachers all seem the same to me because their mouths all go up and down in the same sort of way. The words all sound very smooth and polished and all get written down at one time or another. Their hands, too, all seem the same; their fingers are mostly curled round a piece of chalk, a fountain-pen, a ruler or a cane. Only one of them is different. His name is Schenkenfeind. He knows a lot of poetry by heart and I learn everything he recites. And some more besides. I don't find this particularly difficult and Schenkenfeind is liberal with his praise. I even learn a poem about the Battle of Leuthen which has fifty-two verses. And Schenkenfeind says “A fine poem!" And I believe him because he seems so sure about it. He actually wrote the poem himself.

There's a schoolmistress called Scharf who comes and sits beside me on the bench. She is soft and warm and her limbs seem made of rubber and I am overwhelmed by a desire to seize hold of these limbs to find out whether they're really made of rubber or not. But I don't—because she's close to me and I can smell her. I move away from her, feeling sick. “It’s stuffy in here," I say, “there’s a nasty smell." She gets up abruptly and never looks at me again. This suits me fine because I don't like her at all.

Some days later I catch sight of her one evening in the park, while I'm trying to trap glowworms. But this woman Scharf is lying on a bench in the dark with the teacher called Schenkenfeind, the man who writes such vast long moving poems. But the things he's saying now sound very different. He is saying the sort of things that Meerkatz the man who drives the beer dray says to his mare. Anyway I no longer want to learn from him anymore.

“Man must learn if he is to hold his place in life," says this fellow Schenkenfeind. “I don't want to learn," I tell him. “No," says the teacher, " you'd rather go sniffing round the place, creeping about the park and spying on the lovers there —I saw you! You have nasty dirty thoughts, but I'll soon drive them out of you. As a punishment you'll write out ten times the beautiful poem 'on Eternal Constancy.' And what's more you'll go and apologize to your teacher Fräulein Scharf at once." But I don't go and apologize.

When I left my primary school in 1930 I went first to a commercial school in Stettin. After that I worked in the estate office of the big Varsen estate at Pöhlitz, where I was mainly concerned with the pay-roll and the issuing of supplies.

The old woman who lives in one of the attics above us passes me on the stairs, goes on down, and then suddenly stops. She stops, and collapses as if her legs had snapped like matchsticks. She lies there without moving, like a bundle of rags. Slowly I go up to her, stand in front of her, bend over her and kneel down and look at her. Her eyes are yellow and staring; her thin mouth, with its dry, cracked lips embedded in a web of wrinkles, is twisted open and a thread of saliva runs down on to the dirty floor. She is no longer breathing. I put my hand over her shriveled breast at the place where the heart should be, but it is no longer beating.

Giebelmeier, the head of the post office, gives Father a dressing down in front of everyone in the middle of the post office, because of some express letter which hasn't arrived quickly enough. Quite by chance I happen to be standing there behind a pillar. And Giebelmeier roars and gesticulates and goes purple in the face. But Father never says a word; he simply stands there, small, hunched and trembling. Rigidly at attention. He looks up rather shiftily at Giebelmeier, who stands stiffly and proudly in front of him, roaring his head off. Because of some express letter or other. And Father remains silent, abject.

That evening Father sits there silent as ever, and asks for a beer, which he drinks in silence. He asks for another beer. And then another. “Karl," my father then says to me, “a real man must have pride, a sense of honor. Honor is the all-important thing. One must always defend one's honor." “Oh, yes," I say,” but sometimes one has to remain silent and accept abuse for the sake of a quiet life." “Never," says my father indignantly. “Never, do you hear? Take me, for example, my son. To-day in the post office I had a row with the head, this fellow Giebelmeier. He started shouting at me! But he came out of it badly. I told him off. Gave him a regular trouncing!" “Well done, Father," I say, and leave the room, because I feel ashamed for him.

I hold my friend Heinz's hand, which is cold as ice. I raise his head and turn it round slightly and see the rent in the skull and the watery blood and brains running out, all yellow and grey. Gently, I lay my friend's head back again and my hands are sticky with blood. And then I look at the weapon on the ground, a .98 rifle, the end of the bullet filed off. He hadn't wanted to live. What has to happen to make a man not want to live like that, I wonder. And I can't get rid of the thought.

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."

“Not without reason either," said Lieutenant Krafft, quite unperturbed. “For the facts are still obscure, and nothing has yet been proved."

“Excuse me, please," put in Wirrmann. “Since you're not a lawyer, you're hardly in a position to judge that.

“Maybe," said Krafft stubbornly,” but I've been put in charge of this case, and I am therefore dealing with it as I think right."

“As you think fit," corrected the General, without looking up from his plate, and concentrating wholly, it seemed, on the potato before him

This unexpected remark struck his table companions temporarily dumb. Captain Kater choked on a mouthful of beef. Wirrmann subjected the General's remark to the closest possible scrutiny, trying to decide what to make of it. Krafft was merely astonished at the sharpness of Modersohn's hearing—the General, it seemed, was alive to every nuance.

Finally Wirrmann said: " A case of this sort, General, requires expert opinion even more than the usual routine sort of affair. I therefore consider it my duty to lend Captain Kater my assistance. You see, it's quite different from some everyday offence such as refusing to obey an order, or theft from a comrade, or desertion—the most trivial details can be of decisive legal importance in a case of this kind. According to the relevant paragraph of the Ministry Code there are three fundamental requirements for rape: the complete act itself, the use of force, and the absence of consent. Take one point for example, the importance of which most laymen would overlook: the underclothes. The question here is who removed them? How much resistance was offered? Were there in fact any underclothes at all?—and if not, from what point in the proceedings?"

“Herr Wirrmann," said the General without raising his voice, but with extreme asperity, “we’re eating our dinner."

The Judge-Advocate's mouth shut tight. His lips, which were thin enough, in any case, now became no more than a slit in his face. He blushed to the roots, feeling like a schoolboy humiliated in front of the whole class, an experience which hadn't come his way since he'd been in the sixth form. The other officers were discreetly enjoying the situation.

The General calmly went on with his dinner. Lieutenant Krafft put his knife and fork together, and for the first time examined Modersohn more closely. He saw a long, angular skull, as rough as a piece of pumice stone, though the features were clear and distinct. The few lines in his face ran very deep down from his nostrils past his mouth to his chin. His eyes were a steely grey, and he had a high forehead with close-cropped white hair. Krafft was tempted to think of some noble but unpredictable Prussian stallion.

“Gentlemen, we shall now retire," said the General, getting up from his seat.

“The tactical training exercise," announced the A.D.C. fussily, “will take place in this room in fifteen minutes' time."

“Well, Judge-Advocate," asked Captain Feders amiably, "did you enjoy your dinner?"

“A little too strongly spiced for my taste," said Wirrmann, laughing as if he had a sense of humor. But his laugh sounded anything but genuine, for he was a man who took himself desperately seriously.

Most of the officers had withdrawn to the lobby to get out of the General's field of fire, and they now took advantage of the break to smoke a quick cigarette. At the same time they tried to ferret out information about the projected exercise, chiefly quizzing Captain Feders.

“Gentlemen," said Feders defensively, " I'm utterly in the dark about this myself. How should I know what's meant to happen if a major fire breaks out in the barracks? Until I've had further details of the scheme, I shan't be able to think of how to cope with it. I may be tactics instructor in a training school, but I'm not exactly a clairvoyant yet."

The officers' restlessness increased and they enveloped themselves in thicker and thicker clouds of smoke. Through the open doorway of the dining-room they could see the orderlies transforming the place into a sort of classroom with a blackboard at the rear and two map-stands beside it, and the General's table in front, like a headmaster's desk. The officers' tables and chairs were arranged like school benches.

“Well anyway," said Judge-Advocate Wirrmann, “I’m glad to be spared this."

“And I expect you'd be gladder still," said Feders, “if you had permission to put these three strapping girls under your microscope."

“Captain Feders," Wirrman rebuked him, “as far as I'm concerned this is a purely professional matter and the fact that it happens to involve three females of doubtful repute is of complete indifference to me."

“I don't quite see how you can separate the one side of it from the other."

“I am a lawyer, Captain, after all!"

“Exactly!" said Feders gaily. “If you were a doctor, or a psychiatrist, or even a gynecologist, I'd say fine, this is his job, this is the sort of thing he's used to. But when a lawyer whose only experience so far is with old sweats comes along and starts peering under three young girls' skirts—then my dear sir, I can hardly help laughing up my sleeve."

“You’re letting your imagination run away with you," replied Wirrmann. He would have liked to add that the General was too. But he held his tongue. He bore these insults with dignity, though he wasn't going to forget them. He knew this type of officer inside out. Consciously or unconsciously, a man like Modersohn encouraged all sorts of subversive ideas. On principle he, Wirrmann, had to regard such people with the utmost suspicion. “You lack confidence in the responsible machinery of the State," he said before he left.

As he watched him go Captain Feders said: “You have to hand it to him—he's no fool. And that could mean trouble."

“Officers are requested to take their places for the exercise," cried the A.D.C.

The officers didn't wait to be told a second time. They quickly stubbed out their cigarettes, brought their conversations to a close, and went into the dining-room, which had been turned into a classroom for the officer elite. They took their places and eyed the General expectantly.

Major-General Modersohn sat at his table working like a headmaster at his desk, quite undisturbed by the entrance of the officers. He was looking through the documents which the A.D.C. had collected for him, and there was a writing-pad beside him on which he was making notes.

The A.D.C. now made the further announcement that Major Frey, commanding officer of Number 2 Course, would be in charge of the exercise.

This marked down the first victim of the evening. Others would follow later. For a tactical exercise of this sort had a dual purpose: first, to work out in theory some situation that might arise in practice, but secondly to permit special tasks to be allotted to as many of those present as possible. Once this was done the business of fighting a major fire could be worked out step by step. Each participant had to describe both concisely and comprehensively exactly what he would do in the emergency, or alternatively cause to be done, if for instance he had charge of a party detailed to prevent the fire from spreading, or one of the brigades themselves—or simply of a supply store. And thus it would go on throughout the entire night, if Modersohn felt like it.

Captain Feders, that experienced tactics instructor, found his companions waiting on his every word. “The man who'll really catch it is the one who has to play duty officer," he told them.

“Duty officer," read the A.D.C. from the pad on which the General had been making his notes, “Lieutenant Krafft."

Krafft only just managed to suppress an oath. He was an old enough hand to realize that he'd got the most thankless task of the whole exercise. The General had obviously had his eye on him, and the thought worried Krafft.

“May I have a copy of the guard regulations?" he asked.

The General nodded, and the A.D.C. had the guard regulations handed to Lieutenant Krafft. The officers regarded with interest the man who seemed likely to be the scapegoat of the evening—though without sentimentality, for someone had to be the victim and this time it just happened to be this fellow Krafft. One could hardly hope to interrupt a general's dinnertime conversation and get away with it.

The A.D.C. had now finished reading out the list of those participating in the exercise, and no one, it seemed, had been forgotten. Everyone had been allotted a role of one sort or another or at least the supervision of some role. The officers found themselves sweating with anxiety. The traps were set, but who, apart from Krafft, would fall into them?

The A.D.C. announced the opening situation: “A major fire is presumed to have broken out in the region of Number Four Company. Origin unknown. Scale so far unknown. Day: Sunday. Time: zero one thirty-eight hours. The exercise begins."

Captain Feders grinned happily, for he had spotted the pitfalls at once. “Number Four Company," he whispered to his companions,” is almost bang in the middle of the barracks—what a marvelous chance for a fire to spread! What's more we're caught in the sacred silence of a Sunday morning with almost everyone still away on late pass. What possibilities! There'll be some smoke here all right, I can sniff it already."

“If you please, Major Frey," said the A.D.C. at a glance from Major-General Modersohn, " the exercise has begun."

“Alarm!" cried Major Frey in slightly strained tones, and they were away. All Frey had to do now was to find someone to carry the game on. “Number Four Company area is on fire, then. What is Number Four Company going to do?"

“I pass on the alarm," said the officer in charge of the company. “I, in my turn, alarm the duty officer."

All eyes now turned towards Lieutenant Krafft, who leant back in his chair. He was determined not to let himself be stampeded. He wasn't going to be the lamb led to the slaughter by sheer weight of numbers. “Are these guard regulations to be regarded as authoritative?" he asked.

“Of course," said Major Frey at once. “They’re the official regulations."

“Does that mean that I have to obey these regulations?" continued Krafft stubbornly.

“But of course, man!" cried Frey with some sharpness. He felt most indignant. “Regulations are there to be obeyed. Every order has the authority of law, and a written order is the law itself."

Krafft made it clear from his expression that he regarded the Major's pronouncements as the last word in stupidity. The officers sensed a sensational development. With a mixture of hope and alarm they looked from Krafft to Major Frey and from the latter to Major-General Modersohn. The General observed placidly: " The guard regulations are to be regarded as authoritative, Lieutenant Krafft."

“Then, general, this exercise has no foundation in reality at all," said the Lieutenant. To those present it seemed little short of an attempt at suicide. “Because these guard regulations just don't make sense." The heavy silence which now fell across the room seemed to be waiting for a flash of lightning to shatter it. Even the happy grin on Captain Feders's face partially froze. Then Captain Kater gave an indignant snort. The evening had reached another climax.

With remarkable softness the General said: “Would you explain that a little further, please, Lieutenant Krafft?"

Krafft nodded rather wearily. He had shown the courage of a lion so far, but it now threatened to desert him as suddenly as it had come. He began to have a panicky feeling that he had gone too far.

“Well?" asked the General with devastating politeness. “I’m listening."

“General," said Lieutenant Krafft finally,” these guard regulations are not only imprecise in certain respects but on a number of vital points they actually contradict each other. For example the order in which the fire hydrants are to be used is given as numbers one, two, three, and four, but this is senseless, considering the actual position of these hydrants. If the duty officer were to go by these regulations, he'd have to waste an enormous amount of valuable time rushing backwards and forwards all over the place. Because there's only one possible sequence for the effective use of the fire hydrants, which is: four, one, three, two."

“Anything else, Lieutenant Krafft?" asked the General, still very softly. Krafft brought forward four further points to demonstrate the defects of the guard regulations: inadequate alarm system, incorrect inventory of fire extinguishers, wrongly stored explosives, and a shortage of picks, spades and axes in the guardroom equipment. “If the duty officer were in fact to go by these guard regulations the entire barracks would be burned down before there was a chance of getting a single hose into play."

“Let me see, please," said the General.

The guard regulations were handed to Modersohn, who turned over the pages and skimmed through the relevant sections. His face remained a mask, as imperturbable and detached as at dinner. All eyes were turned towards him and the General accepted this as if exposed simply to the rays of the sun.

Then he raised his head, looked at Krafft and asked: “When did the defects in these guard regulations first strike you, Lieutenant Krafft?"

“Three days ago, sir," said Krafft. “When I was duty officer."

“In that case," said Major-General Modersohn, “I should have known about this at least two days ago. You neglected to put in the necessary report. You will report to me at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

“Very good, General!"

“In point of fact," said the General, “these guard regulations are utter nonsense. It's impossible to work with them. A new edition will be ready in a few days, until which time the exercise is postponed. Good evening."

5. THE NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL

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.

6. A SECTION OFFICER REQUIRED

“I was told to report to the General at ten,” said Lieutenant Krafft to the girl who looked up to see what he wanted.

“Then I must ask you to wait until that time, Lieutenant.”

Krafft looked pointedly at his watch. It was five minutes to ten. He drew attention to the fact and even tapped his wristwatch.

“Quite correct,” said the girl with friendly aloofness. “You’re five minutes early.”

The name of the girl he was speaking to was Sybille Bachner. She worked in the General's ante-room under Bieringer, the A.D.C., who however wasn't there just then, being busy probably checking the bread ration for his commanding officer. Anyhow, Sybille Bachner seemed determined to apply the General's principles, and simply left Krafft standing there.

Krafft promptly sat down in the A.D.C.'s chair. He crossed his legs and eyed Sybille Bachner with interest.

After a while he said: “So you're the General's principal assistant, so to speak. You'll notice I choose my words with care.”

“I’m employed here as secretary, Lieutenant, and that's the full extent of my duties or obligations. Anything else you'd like to know?”

There was a certain tolerance about Sybille Bachner's smile. She seemed quite used to being eyed like this and having to submit to questions.

“How long have you been in this outfit actually, Fräulein Bachner?” inquired Krafft.

“Longer than the General,” said Sybille, giving him a cool, impersonal smile. “Isn’t that what you want to know, Lieutenant? The General neither brought me with him nor applied for me to be posted here. He simply took me over.”

“In every respect?”

“My duties weren't limited in any way.”

Sybille Bachner said this quite ingenuously, straightening a stack of paper on the little typing table beside her as she did so. She seemed anxious to get on with her work, which gave Krafft plenty of opportunity to observe her more closely.

This girl Sybille Bachner occupied a rather special position among the women in the barracks, for she worked in a proximity to the commanding officer that made discretion imperative. A room of her own was intended to help her preserve this quality but unlike most of the other women's rooms this did not lie in a separate corridor of the headquarters building but in the so-called guest house. Not so far away from where the General himself lived.

This prompted a good deal of speculation. With anyone else the inference would have been obvious. But with Modersohn things were different. Few people found themselves able to imagine that a general like him could be beset by ordinary human weaknesses, and those that did were influenced primarily by Sybille Bachner's looks, which seemed to make absolutely any sort of weakness understandable. For she was a dark, Latin type of beauty of about twenty-five, and her skin was soft and the color of apricots and her large eyes were black as night. Silky hair framed her face like a shawl, a face dominated by slightly prominent cheek-bones and a soft, sensual mouth.

Krafft stopped eyeing the Bachner girl as soon as it became clear that she was interested only in work. Secretaries in important posts in ante-rooms were usually only interested in work, and he hadn't noticed a single gesture of hers, or heard one word, which suggested that she wished to be treated as someone who had the commanding officer's ear. She was neither ostentatiously formal nor absurdly refined. And in any case for him she represented simply a brief encounter soon to be forgotten, for he felt sure that before many minutes were up, his short stay at the training school would be over.

“It’s ten o'clock, Lieutenant Krafft,” said Sybille Bachner pleasantly. “Go in, please.”

“Just like that?” asked Krafft in astonishment. For the Bachner girl had neither left the room nor made a telephone call. Neither had any little bell been rung, nor message been given to her. She had simply looked at the clock.

“It’s ten o'clock,” said Sybille Bachner, and her smile broadened slightly. “The General thinks punctuality very important and keeps to his daily schedule exactly. Go in please, Lieutenant, don't bother to knock.”

Sybille Bachner was left alone in the General's ante-room, looking at the walls, which were hung with nothing but training schedules. Documents, files, regulations lay all over the place—on the A.D.C.'s table, on her own table, on shelves, on the window-sills and even on the floor. She was literally surrounded by work. She pulled open one of the drawers. In it lay a mirror in which she looked at herself thoughtfully. She felt depressed by what she saw. She was gradually growing old, wasting her life here among papers and the rattle of typewriter keys, stuck in one of the culs-de-sac of the war.

She heard footsteps approaching and hurriedly closed her drawer again: The A.D.C. came in. Her looking-glass face vanished and she shifted a bundle of papers in front of her.

“Well,” asked Lieutenant Bieringer, the A.D.C., “is this fellow Krafft with the General?”

Sybille Bachner nodded. “He was only five minutes early,” she said, “and didn't seem particularly overawed. On the contrary, he was even rather fresh.”

This was really a compliment. Most people seemed to regard the ante-room as the antechamber to hell, and those who gathered here were either anxious and nervous or absurdly stiff. They usually arrived at least ten minutes early in order to make sure of being punctual. Krafft, then, at least was not one of this servile minority.

“Fresh, did you say, Fräulein Bachner? Do you like him?”

“I found the man extremely sure of himself.”

“Not a bad start,” said Bieringer.

“I wasn't thinking of starting anything,” said Sybille Bachner abruptly.

“But why not?” suggested Bieringer. “You know what a high opinion I have of you, Fräulein Bachner, and my wife loves you like a sister. We're worried about you, though. You work too hard and are alone too much. Don't you think it might be good for you to allow yourself a little relaxation?”

Sybille Bachner looked the A.D.C. straight in the eye. Bieringer's smooth, rather pale face wasn't much to write home about. He looked rather like someone who was hoping to be a teacher, and was certainly not what could be called a soldierly type. But he was a man with a sixth sense for everything that concerned the General, taking the place for him of a calculating machine and a whole bundle of notebooks and thus preserving him from a vast amount of unnecessary work.

“Herr Bieringer,” said Sybille Bachner, “I’m completely satisfied with my job here. I find no need of any relaxation.”

The A.D.C. pretended to be very busy with a file of documents.

“Well,” he said slowly and with certain wariness, “that is only as it should be. After all, the General is wholly dedicated to his work too. And he has no need of any relaxation either.”

“Kindly keep any unnecessary remarks of that sort to yourself, Herr Bieringer,” said Sybille Bachner indignantly.

“By all means,” said the A.D.C., “by all means that is in so far as they are unnecessary. Believe me, my dear Fräulein Bachner, I've known the General for a long time now; since long before you knew him. You can be quite sure of one thing: he neither has any private life nor ever will have any. And if you're clever you'll find yourself someone who will distract you in time from any false hopes you may be entertaining—someone like this fellow Lieutenant Krafft, for example. Always provided, of course, that this fellow Krafft stays with us. But that's for the General to decide.”

“Lieutenant Krafft, sir, reporting as ordered.”

Major-General Modersohn was sitting behind his desk, which was placed exactly opposite the door. The seven yards or so between him and the door was covered by a plain green hair-cord runner. In front of the desk stood a single hard chair.

The General was busy making extracts from a document and didn't seem to want to interrupt his work. He merely said without looking up: “Come in, please, Lieutenant Krafft. Sit down.”

Krafft obeyed. Modersohn seemed to be making quite a fuss of him. All he had expected was two or three annihilating sentences, a curt and brutal ejection in the unmistakable language of a pure-bred Prussian.

But the General seemed to be taking his time.

“Lieutenant Krafft,” began Modersohn, looking straight at his visitor for the first time, quite impersonally yet with the intensive scrutiny of someone who is a complete master of his subject. “Have you any idea why you were posted to this training school?”

“No, General,” said the Lieutenant truthfully enough. “Do you think your ability had anything to do with it?” “I don't suppose so, General.”

“You don't suppose so?” drawled Modersohn. He never liked this expression. An officer didn't “suppose “anything—he “knew,” he “assumed,” he “held it as his opinion.” “Well?”

“I assume, General, that my ability was not the decisive factor in my posting.”

“What was, then?”

“An officer was due to be posted from my unit and the choice fell on me.”

“There was no reason for this?”

“I don't know the reason, General.”

Lieutenant Krafft didn't feel entirely at ease. He had come prepared for a severe dressing down from the General, not for an interrogation. So he tried to fall back on the traditional technique of the old soldier and acted dumb, answering everything as shortly as possible, and appearing to agree with his superior officer at every opportunity. This was a technique which usually saved considerable time and trouble. Not with Modersohn, however.

The General pulled towards him a writing-pad that lay on his desk. “Have you seen your personal file, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“No, General,” said Krafft in some astonishment but also truthfully enough. Modersohn was slightly taken aback by this. (Not that anyone would have realized the fact. His hand, which was on the point of thrusting the writing-pad away, merely stopped for a second.) For the General knew the form. Personal files were theoretically “Secret,” but there were always ways and means of getting a look at them if only one were determined and smart enough. And this fellow Krafft was smart, the General could see that. So there was only one conclusion to be drawn, namely that he had had no wish to take a look; his personal file was a matter of indifference to him. Presumably he knew from experience how haphazardly these accumulations of paper were compiled.

“Why do you think you were made an officer of the headquarters company in this training school and not an officer among the cadets?”

This was a question that Krafft had often asked himself. He had been posted here nominally to train cadets, but had immediately found himself stuck with Captain Kater and all the other canteen heroes. Why this should be so he had absolutely no idea.

“I assume that there was just one officer too many for the course, General, and that one had to be transferred to the headquarters company, that it was just a coincidence that it happened to be me.”

“There are no coincidences of that sort in my command, Lieutenant Krafft.”

Krafft should of course have known this. But since the General seemed to be asking for frank answers to his questions, the Lieutenant didn't hesitate to give them to him after his fashion.

“Well, General,” he said, “I assume that I'm regarded as an awkward sort of fellow, and there's even a certain amount of truth in that. Wherever I go, I find myself posted again almost at once. I'm gradually getting used to the fact.”

The General was not impressed. “Lieutenant Krafft,” he said, “I gather from your personal file that certain differences arose between you and your former regimental commander, Colonel Holzapfel. I wonder if you would be so good as to enlighten me further about this.”

“General,” Krafft replied almost light-heartedly, “I had occasion to lay certain information against Colonel Holzapfel regarding misappropriation of ration supplies. The Colonel used to move about with his own baggage train, and not only thought it proper to withhold rations from the front-line troops but also deprived them of military vehicles in order to transport his spoils to the rear. The Colonel was court-martialled, severely reprimanded, and posted elsewhere. It was his successor who transferred me to the training school.”

“You had no misgivings, Lieutenant Krafft, about laying information against a superior officer?”

“No, General. For it was not a superior officer against whom I was laying information but a swindler.”

The General did not indicate what he thought of this answer. Without further introduction he suddenly asked: “Have you concluded your investigations into this alleged rape of the day before yesterday?”

“Yes, General.”

“With what results?”

“A summary of evidence on a charge of rape would not be justified by the facts. The three girls maintain, plausibly enough, that at first they merely intended to play a joke. They couldn't foresee that it would get out of hand. Moreover, three empty bottles were found on the scene of the alleged crime. Corporal Krottenkopf admits to having drunk one of these all by himself in the course of the proceedings. A detail which effectually rules out rape. The whole affair should be dealt with on a disciplinary level.”

“All those involved in the incident will be posted within twenty-four hours,” said the General, as if talking of the weather. “All in opposite directions—each at least two hundred miles away from the training school. Inform Captain Kater of this. I shall expect to hear that the order has been carried out tomorrow morning.”

“Very good, General,” gulped the Lieutenant.

“Furthermore, Lieutenant Krafft, you will in the course of to-day relinquish your duties as officer of the headquarters company to Captain Kater, and take charge of Section H for Heinrich. I myself will announce your appointment as section officer at noon to-day. You will commence your new duties first thing to-morrow morning.”

“Very good, Herr General,” said the Lieutenant, quite unable to hide his astonishment.

Major-General Modersohn had lowered his eyes, a fact which Krafft registered with relief. The General made a few notes on a pad and pushed it away to his right. Then he reached for a new pad and began to make notes on that too.

Krafft now began to feel himself wholly superfluous. After this scare he felt badly in need of a brandy. What's more, Captain Kater would be only too glad to stand him a whole bottle, for one consequence of the order the General had just issued was that the commander of the headquarters company seemed temporarily to have escaped his threatened posting.

But still Lieutenant Krafft did not receive his dismissal.

The General completed his notes, and looked at a file which had been lying in front of him the whole time. He opened it with a certain 'solemnity, and eyed Lieutenant Krafft keenly.

“Lieutenant Krafft,” said the General, “you know that the last officer in charge of Section H for Heinrich was Lieutenant Barkow?”

“Yes, sir,” said Krafft.

“And you know that Lieutenant Barkow met his death accidentally in the course of pioneer training?”

Yes, sir.”

“Do you also know how this accident occurred?” No, General.”

Modersohn drew himself up and leaned back very stiffly in his chair. He placed his hands and his forearms flat on his desk and his fingertips touched the thin red file in front of him.

“What happened was this. At fourteen hundred hours on the twenty-sixth of January Lieutenant Barkow was down for pioneer work with Section H for Heinrich at the sound-locator post. A ten-pound charge was due to be exploded. Lieutenant Barkow was unable to reach cover before the charge was detonated. He was almost completely torn to shreds. What do you make of that, Lieutenant Krafft?”

“I hardly knew Lieutenant Barkow, General.”

I knew him better,” said the General with a slight huskiness in his voice. “He was an excellent officer, dedicated to his work, and, in spite of his youth, an extremely sensible man. He was an expert on all types of equipment, and particularly on explosives. He had already carried out a number of complicated bridge demolitions on the eastern front.”

“In that case, General, I don't understand how this accident could have happened.”

“It wasn't an accident,” said the General. “It was murder.” With a quiet gesture of finality the General had played his trump card.

“Murder, General?”

There seemed no place for such a word in the sober atmosphere of that room. It didn't go with the General's face. It simply didn't belong here.

“I wish it hadn't been necessary to use such a word,” said the General. “You’re the second person I've used it to. The only other person who knows what I think is Judge-Advocate Wirrmann. I had the Inspector of Training Units second him here to carry out a full investigation.”

“And does the Judge-Advocate agree with your theory, General? Does he think it's murder, too?”

“No,” said the General. “But that doesn't alter the fact that it was. Cold-blooded murder. I know this indirectly from Lieutenant Barkow himself, because before his death he was dropping unmistakable hints which I dismissed at the time as utterly impossible. But all his conjectures have been borne out by the facts. Right, then, you will concern yourself with this affair, Lieutenant Krafft. I will put all the relevant documents at your disposal, and you will examine all the evidence. You will be able to discuss anything you like with me. And of course I don't need to emphasize that the whole matter is entirely confidential.”

“Why are you telling me this, General?”

“So that you can search for and find the murderer,” said Modersohn. “He can only be in Section H for Heinrich, that's to say in your own section, Lieutenant Krafft. And I shall expect you to complete your task successfully. You can count on my support. That is all for to-day.”

INTERMEDIATE REPORT NO. 2:

The Curriculum Vitae of Captain Eric Feders, or

Patterns of accident

Born on 17th July 1915 in Aalen, Württemberg. My father was Constantine Feders, a Protestant pastor. My mother was Eva Maria Feders and her maiden name was Knotek. I grew up in Aalen.

The first thing I can remember clearly is a pair of folded hands, and a voice that always seems to be intoning. The words of this voice are full of beauty and meaning. This is my father: dark clothes, snow-white linen, a solemn, dignified face. A strong smell of tobacco comes off him making me feel slightly sick. But then, on Sundays, the smell of sour wine as well. A full, rich laugh when I am touched and looked at.

Organ sounds all about me—triumphant, tempestuous, rumbling ominously. A continuous assault on my eardrums. Finally a muffled, high-pitched whistle, a stifling yell, a rasping rattle. Father holds me up against the air valves of the organ. “Splendid!" he cries. “Isn’t that splendid!" And I cry too, wildly, desperately, continuously. “A pity," says my father with disappointment. “He isn't musical."'

Mother is like a shadow, very soft, very quiet, very gentle, even when she cries. But Mother only cries when she thinks she is quite alone. And she is rarely alone, because I am there most of the time, behind the curtains, in the corner' by the cupboard, under the sofa. And then I come out and ask, " Why are you crying, Mother?" and she says, “But, my boy, I'm not crying." Then I go to my father and ask, “Why is Mother crying?" and my father says: “But my boy, Mother isn't crying! Are you crying, Mother?" “Of course not," she says. And I say, “Why do people tell lies here?" And then my father beats me, because I have broken the Fourth Commandment. There isn't a commandment which says thou shalt not lay hands on children.

The son of Hörnle the manufacturer always wants to play with me because he's not allowed to play at home in the factory. At Hörnle's place they roll and cut sheet metal, and every now and again, a finger and a hand get chopped off as well. In church, of course, nothing like this can happen. Besides there's no one to keep an eye on us here except when a service is in progress. But Hörnle always wants to climb up into places, preferably into the tower where the bells are and where he likes hanging out of the little belfry windows—first with one foot, then with both, and finally with his whole body. “You do the same," Hörnle says to me. “If you don't you're a coward!" “I don't know whether I'm a coward or not," I say,” I only know I'm not an idiot." And this is true. Because Hörnle loses his balance and breaks every bone in his body.

“How could such a thing happen?" cries my father. “Why didn't you watch out?" “Why should I watch out?" I ask, “I wasn't hanging out of the window myself." “My God!" says my father, “what sort of a son have I brought into the world?" And I ask myself the same question.

In 1921 I went to the primary school in Aalen and in 1925 to the secondary school, where I finally matriculated in 1934, one year late. Apart from getting a year behind in this way there was nothing exceptional about my schooldays.

In the church jumping competition I manage eight feet six. This is in fact a local record, but then along comes a fellow from Göppingen who's staying here for the summer holidays and does a whole two inches higher—though only after a good deal of training. These church jumps are performed on the end of the bell ropes. You pull at the rope and let yourself swing up with it. The person who pulls hardest reaches the greatest height and incidentally produces the finest peal. Bets are laid too, and my friends almost always win. “You little blasphemers!" my father shouts at us, when he discovers why his bells are always ringing so merrily.

Schnorr, an assistant master at the secondary school, is a frequent visitor to our house. “He’s a highly educated man," my father tells me,” and you must show him respect. Besides, he's a friend of mine, and later when you go on to secondary school he'll be your teacher. So see you treat him with respect!" But I can't stand this man Schnorr. He keeps on asking me questions like how much does nineteen times eighteen mate, or how do you spell engineer, and what was the date of the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest. And every time I see him he has more questions for me. I try to keep out of his way as soon as he shows up.

Almost worse than this fellow Schnorr is a girl of the neighborhood called Marion Michalski. This girl Marion pesters me wherever I go. She will never believe what I say about anything and even doubts my church jumping record.

The worst part about it is that Marion is three years younger than me and is really just a little child. But she won't leave me alone. She has pigtails and a silly laugh and always thinks she knows better. But there are some things in her favor: she's the daughter of the burgomaster for instance and he can give orders to the police, which can be a great advantage.

When I go on to secondary school this man Schnorr is my form master. Which is bad. For now I can no longer keep out of the way when he shows up, and he keeps on asking and asking and asking questions. But soon I learn always to give him some sort of answer, even if, according to Schnorr, it isn't always the right one. “That son of yours isn't much of a scholar," Schnorr tells my father. This worries my father very much and he starts drinking heavily; and Schnorr is worried too and drinks even more heavily than my father. Then a glassy look comes into his eyes, his speech thickens, he dribbles and slobbers and slips off his chair. “He’s not feeling well," says my father heavily. “Take him home." And I take my sledge because there's snow outside. We load Schnorr on to the sledge and I drive off into the park, where I put him down beside the war memorial. In my view it's the business of the police to take him on from there.

From that day on Schnorr asks me many fewer questions than before. Sometimes he acts as if I weren't in his class at all. But he doesn't keep this up for long. I notice he pays more and more attention to my written work. Just before I'm due to be moved up to the upper second, he finds seven mistakes, underlines them in red, and writes at the end: “Poor." And this puts paid to my chances of a move. But I find some red ink and underline two more mistakes—where there aren't any of course—and then go up to Schnorr and say: " Excuse me, sir. There are nine mistakes marked here, but I've only made seven." Schnorr says: "Impossible," counts them up again, blushes almost as red as the ink, and then says: “You’re quite right. It's wrong. I'm sorry." And then he crosses out the two extra marks. “Excuse me, sir,". I continue. " If I got ' poor' for nine mistakes then surely I must get a better mark now that I've only got seven, or isn't that right?" And of course I do get a better mark and I'm moved up after all.

The church becomes our stronghold. I've had extra keys made for every lock in it at the verger's expense. I caught him one day trying to pinch the Communion wine, since when I've been able to do what I like with him. And we squat there on the carpet talking of God and the world and of life, particularly the latter, and drinking a great deal. Until this bitch Marion Michalski comes and forces her company on us. What is it she wants anyway?

“This man Ley is a filthy pig," I say in front of the whole class. So Schnorr can't overlook the remark but has to go to the headmaster about it. The headmaster runs to the local education authority. A commission is set up to investigate the matter. But I say: “There’s absolutely no doubt about it, this fellow Ley is a filthy pig." “Remember now, Feders, you're talking about one of the leaders of the Reich!" shouts the school inspector. “I’m talking about a filthy pig," I say. “Because this man Ley pissed out of a car as it was passing a whole group of Hitler Youth, who had to jump aside to avoid getting wet. I saw it with my own eyes!" “One doesn't say things like that," declared the inspector decisively. “No true German boy would believe such a thing!" This is the year in which I am not moved up, ostensibly because I'm weak in history.

The best thing about Schnorr is undoubtedly his wife. She always smiles when she sees me, and her smile grows warmer and warmer each year. When I'm in the upper first, she's particularly friendly. “You’ve grown into a fine young man," she says when I bring the exercise books to the Schnorrs' apartment. “Let’s see if you've any muscles." “Quite a lot," I say. “All over." And she feels them for herself. She has plenty of time for this because Schnorr is teaching that afternoon. Her voice grows husky and her eyes grow large. She seems to lose her balance for a moment and I catch her and lay her on the couch. “Stay with me," she says. And I do because she shows me everything I want to see and teaches me a lot of things I know nothing about as yet. Then she says: “What are you thinking about?" “About the written work for the matriculation," I answer. “Can’t you find out what the questions are going to be?" “I’d do anything for you," she says. And she does it.

“Shame on you!" says Marion Michalski indignantly. “How can you do such a thing! And with her of all people! Shame on you 1 I never want to see you again. Never! "

“You make me ashamed of you," said my father. “It can't go on like this. You need to have some order and discipline knocked into you. You must go into the army."

In 1935 I volunteered for the Wehrmacht, with the intention of becoming an officer. After the usual two years' basic training I passed out top from the Military Academy in Potsdam and in 1938 was promoted second lieutenant.

It's all quite simple: I have useful muscles, a strong heart, and my lungs would outdo a pair of bellows. I can run faster, jump further, march longer than most men. Nothing tires me.

It's all quite easy, so long as one remembers one simple basic principle: stupidity is trumps, the stupid represent the norm. The most primitive oaf of a ranker has to be able to understand what's going on—everyone else has to adjust their point of view to him. Even in his sleep the soldier must be able to shoot effectively or do whatever else is demanded of him—then everything's fine. For a convoy always proceeds at the speed of its slowest vehicle. An army is as good as its most half-witted private. This has to be understood if life is to be tolerable. You have to appreciate this standard if you are to achieve a corresponding sense of superiority. Soldiering is based on the lowest common denominator—its highest peak is represented by a slick mediocrity.

Practically speaking, that is all you need to know. The soldiers among whom I find myself remind me of a patient herd of cattle—useful material for the slaughterhouse of war. The non-commissioned officers above me who bellow and nag, bluster and bully, are simply, either by inclination or instinct, the leaders of the herd. The officers I'll be mixing with, who spend their time organizing, planning, supervising —they're simply the designers, the engineers, the switch controllers for large concentrations of human machinery. Ah, my friends, a man who has grasped all this isn't going to be impressed by anything.

But it's only the Wehrmacht which functions along clear, simple, predictable lines like this, not life itself. That's a complicated business even if it doesn't always seem so. An example of its complexity is provided by Marion Michalski. She's there when I get home. She follows me around even if I don't want her to. She bothers me whenever she can. “What is it you want from me?" I ask her. "I want anything you want," says Marion. And she says this as we're walking through the park on the way to the cinema. There's a full moon above us. I can see her face very clearly in all its details—her eyes, staring at me, her lips slightly parted, and the whole framed by her long loose hair which reaches below her shoulders. And then there's the smell of chestnuts in bloom, and growing stronger and stronger, the scent of Marion's skin as she comes closer and sidles up to me. "I want anything you want," she repeats. And I say: "I want to make love to you, here, on the grass." “Then do," she says. “It’s time you did!"

Everything would be easy, child's play; one could cope with everything with one hand tied behind one's back, if it weren't for this girl Marion. One's military duties—barely more than a primitive way of enjoying oneself. Preparing to become an officer—ridiculously easy, kindergarten stuff. The various exertions on the barrack square, on maneuvers, on the ranges—all child's play to Feders. Even as a corporal I know more than any lieutenant. And the girls of the garrison towns of Stuttgart, Tübingen and Göppingen are nice and pretty and uncomplicated. It's positively touching, the trouble they take. “Show me what you can do," I say. And they say: “What’s the matter with you? Who are you trying to forget?" And I say: "I've already forgotten whoever I wanted to forget."

But it isn't true. I can't forget. However hard they try, no one comes up to Marion. With Marion everything's always so easy. Nothing is ever awkward or goes wrong. I come to her and there she is. I want to make love to her and she's ready for me.

Then I am promoted second lieutenant. When I come home Marion is waiting at the station. She comes up and stands in front of me and looks at me. “Marion," I say,” will you marry me?" “Yes, you idiot," she says, " I've always wanted to, Even as a child I wanted to."

I married Marion Michalski in the spring of 1939. At the beginning of the war I was given a company and after the campaign in France was promoted first lieutenant. After being wounded in January 1943 I was made a captain and was posted to No. 5 Officers' Training School. Decorations: Knight's Cross, etc.

Death appears on the scene, physical hardships increase, everything grows more and more unpleasant, but otherwise war brings little change. The methods remain the same. That's the mistake. Because no war follows the same pattern as the previous one. I get my company across the bridge over the Marne. I rally the remnants of two other companies whose officers have been killed. I secure the hill on the far side of the river. “Withdraw all forces immediately," radios the divisional commander. I radio back: "A withdrawal is tactically senseless and could only be carried out with heavy casualties." "I order you to withdraw your troops at once on pain of court martial," radios the General. And I radio back: “Strong radio interference, staying put." The next day the divisional commander is in a towering rage. Every other word is "court martial." The day after that I'm awarded the Knight's Cross. “You haven't deserved it!" says the General. “But I've got it all the same," I reply.

My leave with Marion, my wife, is one long ecstasy. We only have one room, and we hardly ever leave it. We lie in bed together far into the morning and get back again in the early afternoon. The fourteen days race by. “I’ll always love you," I say. And Marion says: “I’ll never forget what it's like to be with you—it's wonderful." “But when I'm gone, Marion?" “I’ll never forget what it's like!"

The M.O. stands in front of my bed and asks: “Well, and how are we today, Captain?" “What’s the matter with me?" I ask him. “Please tell me quite honestly—what is the matter with me?" “Well," says the M.O., “at any rate you're lucky. You'll get over your wound, it could have been much worse." “Please don't keep anything from me, Doctor; I want to know the truth." “It’s quite simple," says the other finally. “In a few weeks' time everything will be more or less normal for you—you'll be able to skip about like a two-year-old, except for one small detail. But believe me, my dear fellow; it's a loss which becomes more and more tolerable with the years.

7. THE MAJOR'S WIFE IS INDIGNANT

“Everyone here toes the line sooner or later, Lieutenant Krafft,” said Captain Feders. “Either from cowardice, discernment or plain adaptability.”

He and his newly appointed section officer were making their way together out of barracks and down the hill towards Wildlingen.

“I’m not much of a games player, I'm afraid, Captain. I've never been very good at toeing the line.”

“But you'll learn,” said Captain Feders with conviction.

Major Frey, the officer commanding Number 2 Course, had issued invitations to a “modest little dinner for a small circle of friends.” Now it's true that his dinners were always modest, but the point here was the “small circle of friends.” For Frey had a wife, and she had ambitions as a hostess, though what exactly these were remained obscure.

“She must have read about an officer's social obligations in some novel or other,” said Captain Feders. “But she must also have overlooked the fact that that particular piece of trash was written in the days of the Kaiser.”

“I don't find anything very remarkable about that, Captain. The Kaiser's days are after all half-way to modern times. When I was at the front I had a regimental commander who behaved like Attila, King of the Huns.”

This man Lieutenant Krafft began to interest Captain Feders. He seemed a decent, solid sort of fellow. But the question one couldn't help asking oneself at once was: How long would he manage to survive at the training school? Feders felt sure that the first stick was about to be broken over Krafft's back this very evening. He knew the Major's wife only too well.

“My dear Krafft,” said Captain Feders with a certain amusement. “What is the heat of battle compared with the hatching of social intrigues at home? In battle a man's life is snuffed out like a candle, and that's that. But here one is roasted over a slow wood fire to a beautiful golden brown. With kind words considerately lavished on one into the bargain.”

“And is everyone a potential victim for these primitive rites? Is no one safe?”

“Really, my dear Krafft,” said Captain Feders flippantly,” you must try not to confuse your terms. There's nothing primitive about this, it's a question of tradition.”

“Sometimes the same thing, isn't it, Captain?”

“Of course, my dear fellow, it can be. Tradition is, among other things, the finest excuse in the world for the lazy-minded, a blank cheque for those half-wits who conceal their own incompetence under the dead weight of all that's been handed down to them. But you shouldn't underestimate these people, above all in terms of numbers. Quite a lot of our educational methods date back to Frederick the Great. Clausewitz is regarded as a modern author and Schlieffen as a model of genius. And if the worst comes to the worst, even the experiences of the last war will come into their own—the war, that is, in which they say we weren't beaten, but which we indisputably lost. As for a great part of our accepted social conventions, they go back to the turn of the century!”

They kept in step as they walked along. The barracks lay behind them in the pale light of evening: a broad, bulky shadow dominating the horizon. The houses of the town looked tiny by contrast, like formations of coral that had attached themselves to a rock. The fact that the town had been there several centuries before the barracks was no longer evident. Mountains of cement had desecrated the landscape, and the modern concrete piles of a number of business houses and blocks of flats were beginning to destroy the lovable old face of Wildlingen-am-Main.

“Tell me, my dear Krafft, you're quite a dab at the hand kiss, I expect?” said Captain Feders.

“Is this a military training school or a dancing academy?” asked Krafft.

“You are naïve, my dear fellow,” said Feders with a smile. “You don't seem to realize why Major Frey, our officer commanding Number Two Course, has invited you.”

“Well, not to give any pleasure to me, I'm sure of that. But perhaps he merely wanted to fulfill his social obligations.”

“Hell!” said Feders. “The man just wants to put you through your paces, that's all.”

“And for this purpose he introduces me to his wife?”

“Exactly. He wants, among other things, to test your manners as an officer. Because in the Major's view it is only officers with impeccable manners who are fit to instruct officers of the future. But it's the Major's wife who has the last word. Which is why, my dear fellow, a full-blown formal hand kiss will be not only an act of politeness but also a first convincing proof of your social capabilities.”

“Quite funny that,” said Lieutenant Krafft cautiously.

“You’ll be finding plenty of other things to amuse you here before you're through, you can be sure of that. Officially the hand-kissing is quite optional, but in Major Frey's eyes it is a natural obligation. Particularly where the Major's wife is concerned—she was a von Bendler-Trebitz, you know. Right, then—the charming lady will extend her tiny hand towards you. You grasp it, but without exercising undue pressure. Then you bend over it, Krafft, and for God's sake, and the Major's, doesn’t make the mistake of drawing this charming tiny hand towards you as if you owned it, this would be looked upon as little short of an attempt at rape. You bend over it then and keep yourself at a distance of at least three feet from the lady. You then click your heels and without pursing the lips or even wetting them, sketch out a hand kiss. Somewhere between a quarter and an eighth of an inch is regarded as the correct distance. Now have you got that, my dear fellow try it out today? For sooner or later you'll have to teach it to your cadets in the etiquette class, it’s all part of the curriculum, you know.”

“I’m afraid you're right,” said Lieutenant Krafft. “We’ll be having a lot of fun together.”

“I never cease to admire you, Felicitas,” said Major Frey to his wife. “It’s really fabulous the way you manage to arrange everything,”

Frau Frey lowered her eyes modestly. “Oh, it's really nothing,” she demurred.

This was true—it really wasn't very much. The table was laid, the wine stood ready, all just as usual, and, as usual, none of these preparations were the work of Frau Frey, but of her niece, as the Major knew perfectly well.

This niece, a poor relation who looked like one and on whom Frau Frey had graciously taken pity, worked in the Frey household as a servant. She was a capable, willing, undemanding sort of girl, and although Frau Frey didn't actually pay her any wages she hoped to find a husband for her, an officer, in due course.

“What sort of man is this Lieutenant Krafft?” asked the Major's wife.

Frey didn't quite know the answer to this, though this didn't prevent him from telling her. Average,” he said. “Possibly a little above the average. We'll manage to make something of him. Sooner or later everyone comes to heel.”

“Married?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“I’ll take a closer look at him,” said Frau Felicitas.

The Major nodded meekly. He knew what that meant. She would take a closer look at this fellow Krafft to see if he would do for their niece, Barbara Bendler-Trebitz.

“Barbara!” cried Frau Felicitas peremptorily, and their niece appeared at once.

She had a round, friendly, innocent moon face with shy eyes. “Here I am,” she said agreeably in a soft chirpy voice.

“For goodness' sake, take that apron off before the gentlemen arrive. You should take more trouble with your appearance, child. Wear a white apron. And try and move gracefully.”

“Yes, of course,” said Barbara, and disappeared.

The Major watched her go with a sad shake of his head, which wasn't intended as any reproach to his wife. This would have been unthinkable, for he had nothing but gratitude and respect for her. She came from a really high-class family and was the owner of a sizeable property in Silesia, which was being run at the moment by an impoverished relative who was exempt from war service.

Frey had in fact a great deal to thank his wife for. For instance it was positively touching the way she helped him in his career. No commanding officer could have had a more devoted wife. And then again, there was the loving care with which she had furnished this house: Wildlingen-am-Main, Marktplatz 7. An old, elegant, romantic building in the Franconian style, solid and sound, and yet at the same time cozy and with a charm all its own, it might have been built specially for Felicitas Frey, née Blender-Trebitz.

“This girl Barbara,” the Major ventured to remark. “She’s a nice girl, but remarkably uncommunicative, don't you find?” “She’ll make a good wife and mother.”

“Oh yes, of course, of course,” admitted the Major. “But she ought to dress with a little more style. I mean her figure really isn't bad at all—quite the contrary, in fact.”

“Archibald,” said the Major's wife, “you don't mean to say you've been eyeing the girl?”

“Not intentionally of course,” the Major reassured her. “But after all she is running around under my nose all day long. Besides, I'm thinking of her future too, and if I'm to be quite frank, I think Captain Ratshelm would be preferable to Lieutenant Krafft.”

“Don’t you worry your head about that,” said Felicitas Frey. “This is a woman's business. If Krafft turns out to be a man of the world with really decent manners, why shouldn't we bring him into our own little inner circle?”

“I’m afraid, though, that this fellow Krafft isn't really a man of particularly fine feelings. He's more Captain Feders's type.”

“That wouldn't do,” said the Major's wife. “And if that's so, then obviously you can't have the two together in the same section, the one as tactics instructor and the other as section officer. Anyway Captain Feders hasn't got anything to give himself airs about with his wife leading that sort of life. It's disgraceful, really disgraceful. You can't have that sort of thing in an officers' training school. But we'll have to discuss that later. We mustn't try and take on too much at once. First of all I'll take a good look at this man Krafft.”

“Welcome, welcome to my humble hearth!” cried Major Frey. “So glad you could come. Come in, gentlemen. Take your coats off. Make yourselves at home.”

The Major was wearing a simple field tunic, which both conveyed an impression of sterling worth and at the same time demonstrated the extent to which he felt at ease. His Knight's Cross with oak leaves flashed brilliantly even in the lighting of the hall, and his face was beaming with good-will.

Feders and Krafft took off their things and Krafft was introduced to the Major's niece. He shook a hot, damp hand and, smiling pleasantly, looked into a face paralyzed with embarrassment. Feders made a jovial remark or two and the girl ran off giggling.

“Captain Ratshelm was just ahead of you, gentlemen, so that now the party is complete. Do come in. My wife is most anxious to get to know you, my dear Krafft.”

“The feeling is mutual,” declared Feders, noticing with delight that at this the Major looked slightly annoyed and Lieutenant Krafft extremely embarrassed. An amusing evening seemed to lie ahead.

The Major piloted the two gentlemen into the drawing-room, where Captain Ratshelm stood gesticulating animatedly to the Major's charming wife Felicitas Frey née Blender-Trebitz.

“Right, in you go!” whispered Feders, pushing Krafft forward.

The Major's wife smiled graciously at Lieutenant Krafft and immediately held out her hand expectantly, a stately, elegant figure, standing beneath some sort of ancestral portrait. She had a face like a sheep's and the bold curve of her fleshy nose was something which was impossible to overlook. Her eyes gleamed with the weary majesty of some mountain eagle. Her skin was faded, but a lot of make-up had lent it a dull, silky gloss which gave the impression of extending over her entire body and certainly was in evidence on her hands, one of which, having been so briskly extended towards him, was now seized by Lieutenant Krafft. He gave it a relatively gentle squeeze and even shook it slightly. His bow seemed to him quite adequate. An icy glint came into her eagle eyes.

But Lieutenant Krafft merely said: “Good evening, Frau Frey.”

“Splendid,” said Feders with enthusiasm. “Quite the real thing!”

“ Our friend, Lieutenant Krafft,” said the Major, trying to act the man of the world, “ will have to find his feet here of course, but I don't think that'll be too difficult for him, with the spirit prevailing under my command. Aren't I right, my dear Ratshelm?”

“Yes indeed, Major,” confirmed Ratshelm instantly as one might have expected. “We’re very proud that we can teach the young cadets here a good deal more than the mere basic principles of their trade. We make it our endeavor to grasp and mould the entire personality. Krafft will soon get the hang of this.”

“Anyhow,” said the Major with friendly condescension, “I want to welcome Lieutenant Krafft most sincerely to our ranks, as a fellow fighter for our great and good cause under what one might call our training school slogan: Officers First and Foremost!”

“What can I offer you, gentlemen?” asked the gracious lady of the house, who had turned slightly pale but had lost none of her air of majesty. “Would you care perhaps for a small glass of port?”

Captain Ratshelm thanked her humbly, signifying that this would be most acceptable. Captain Feders announced enthusiastically that the charming lady's offer was an extraordinarily happy idea. Krafft merely managed to nod.

And Major Frey remarked: “A true German mistrusts everything foreign, unless of course it's something to drink!”

Captain Ratshelm laughed heartily at his course commander's witticism.

The dinner was, as they had been told, a modest one. Lieutenant Krafft had the honor of sitting next to the lady of the house. That was not altogether a pleasure, though, for while the other guests were able to devote themselves to their platefuls of sausage and share such butter as was available among themselves; Lieutenant Krafft found himself subjected to a barrage of questions.

“Are you married, Lieutenant?”

“No, Frau Frey.”

“I should say, from your age, you really should be by now. You must be almost thirty, aren't you? Here we always say that a family tie does an awful lot for a man's moral standing, and if it's up to an officer to set an example, how much more must this apply to those who train officers! Now tell me, are you engaged? Do you by any chance carry a picture of your fiancée on you? I always, think that's such a nice thing to do. I'd love to see it, if you have one.”

“I’m afraid I'll have to disappoint you there, Frau Frey,” said Krafft evasively, not hesitating to shelter from all this curiosity behind what he regarded as a white lie, “I was indeed once as good as engaged, and the girl came from an excellent family. But the tie was brutally sundered by the war.”

Captain Feders choked and spluttered and Captain Ratshelm regarded him with disapproval. But the Major just went on eating. Since his wife was paying no attention to him he had no need to conform to her dietary regulations.

“The young lady died, then,” declared the Major's wife. It was obviously difficult for her to imagine anything but death sundering such a tie.

Lieutenant Krafft choked on his slice of bread, which under the penetrating glance of his hostess he had dared only to spread with the thinnest layer of butter. As he choked his Head went forward, and she accepted this as tacit confirmation of her assumption. He felt certain that she would express her sympathy for him. As indeed she did. But she went further than that, for after all she was more than just a woman, she was the wife of a senior officer, and known to the cadets as “the Commanderess.” So to her conventional expression of sympathy Frau Frey added the following remark: “It must be very sad for you of course, but this mustn't make you despondent or prone to that numb state of helplessness which I believe is usual among vulgar people and ordinary rankers in their distress. However, so long as you remain one of my husband's officers and colleagues I shall of course take you under my wing.”

“I’m most obliged to you, Frau Frey,” said Lieutenant Krafft warily.

“Every week I hold a social gathering at which those officers who are still bachelors can meet the young unmarried ladies of good family of Wildlingen. You must come to them in future, Lieutenant.”

“Oh that's really too much, Frau Frey,” said the Lieutenant, overwhelmed. No woman had ever tried to assert such a vigorous and possessive hold over him before. This was more than mere friendly sympathy; it was social welfare positively being thrust down his throat. The Lieutenant swallowed the so-called pudding which followed the “cold plate,” a tart of some sort or other, and as he did so he looked irritated across at Captain Feders, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Lieutenant Krafft leant forward slightly; spread his legs apart under the table rather like a Japanese wrestler searching for a hold. As he did so his right foot struck the table leg. That's to say Krafft thought it was the table leg. But shortly afterwards he became aware of a certain warmth and then a yielding quality, whereupon he drew back sharply. It was not the table leg at all but the leg of the gracious lady herself with which he had come into contact.

Frau Felicitas never flinched. Her self-control was astonishing. She merely lifted her fine sheep's nose slightly, as if smelling a bad smell.

“So sorry, so sorry,” said Krafft in embarrassment.

“I think,” said Felicitas Frey loftily,” that it's now time for the gentlemen to have their smoke.

“A good soldier,” the Major assured everybody,” is never off duty. Which is why, gentlemen, you will hardly be surprised if I take this opportunity to talk a certain amount of shop.”

“No indeed, that doesn't surprise us at all, Major,” Feders assured him.

The gentlemen were sitting in venerable leather armchairs which creaked painfully every time anyone moved. Beneath their feet was a carpet lavishly adorned with a pattern of roses. They were surrounded by plush and excessively heavy and ornately carved dark brown furniture—no mistaking this for anything but a smoking-room.

As a pure matter of form the Major held out to the officers an ornate silver-plated rosewood box well stocked with cigars. Captain Ratshelm and Captain Feders, both of whom knew the form here, declined with thanks and asked permission to smoke their own cigarettes. Only Krafft grabbed mechanically at the box. To make matters worse, once there he seized on one of the Major's show-piece cigars. The Major managed to keep his hospitable smile intact. He merely frowned slightly at the same time. Yet as Krafft bit off the tip of the cigar with his teeth and spat it thoughtlessly out on to the carpet, the Major shuddered. Not for the sake of the carpet, but because such a degree of contempt for good manners hurt his finer feelings.

“I’m so sorry,” said Lieutenant Krafft, “but sometimes I find I completely forget the difference between a drawing-room and a fox-hole.”

“When I was at the front,” said Captain Ratshelm, “I had a C.O. who always used a snow-white napkin at meals even in the front line itself. Whatever happened he never ceased to be a man of culture.”

“When he dies a hero's death he won't exactly smell of eau de Cologne,” said Feders.

“Gentlemen,” said Major Frey, “I find that there are certain things which can't be joked about. In particular those things that are what one might call sacred to us.” And he fingered his Knight's Cross with oak leaves as if to reassure himself (a) that it was still there, (b) that it was straight and clearly visible, and (c) that it could therefore be admired.

“Let us never forget, gentlemen that the high moral purpose which is one of the fundamental tenets of soldiering should be with us at all times, for once a soldier always a soldier. And an officer of our stamp is the soldier par excellence, but to get down to business. On my course, my dear Krafft, there are three companies of three sections each, and each section has one tactics instructor and one section officer. And I may say that my officers are among the finest in the entire Wehrmacht. You are now about to take your place among them, since to-morrow morning you will be taking charge of Section H for Heinrich. And I venture to suggest that it is one of the finest sections of the whole company. Aren't I right, Captain Ratshelm? As company commander you must be in the best position to judge.”

“Oh yes, that's so, Major. I'd even say it's the finest section we've had for a long time. There are a number of first-class men in it on whom I pin great hopes. As tactics instructor, wouldn't you agree with me, Feders?”

“Oh, completely,” said the Captain. “Section H for Heinrich consists of a lot of stupid, arrogant, underhand oafs. They're lazy, greedy, cheeky, stupid, mad for women and decorations. When I'm teaching them they can't tell the difference between a hand-grenade and a field kitchen, a machine-gun and a ration pack, orderlies and orders. They're interested primarily in food, and only secondarily in ammunition. And their faith in a certain former Corporal seems more important to them than any proper appraisal of a given situation.”

The Major smiled. And Captain Ratshelm tried to do the same. Lieutenant Krafft was merely astonished. Captain Feders's utterly uninhibited statements bordered on high treason. Krafft sucked pleasurably at his cigar.

“Our beloved Captain Feders,” said the Major with a curt laugh, though his eyes were like pinpoints and his smile frozen as his voice grew sharper and sharper, “Our beloved Captain Feders is very fond of using bitter words and cutting expressions, and in fact has quite a reputation for them. But all of us who know him well realize how he means these things to be taken. He likes to pile on the irony, so to speak, rather as Blücher and Wrangel used to do. He has, however, sufficient tact to confine such remarks to a most intimate circle, which is really a sort of proof of his confidence in us. His prodigious capabilities as a tactics instructor help us to be indulgent to- wards him. If I've understood you correctly, Captain Feders, what you mean is this. The cadets of Section H, whose tactics instructor you are, are still deficient in a number of soldierly qualities and riddled with human weakness.

They're badly in need of some first-class tactical training, which after all is the point of an officers' training school. Their faith in our Führer is gratifyingly pronounced—an indispensable prerequisite indeed for their careers as officers—yet this cannot be regarded as enough in itself. Isn't that so, Captain Feders —isn't that what you meant by your remarks?”

“Yes, Major, exactly,” said Feders impassively.

The Major smiled indulgently. He could hardly help admiring himself He was more than just a soldier; he was a diplomat as well. He might well be on the threshold of a great career. His work at the training school would be an excellent first step towards it. “Well, my dear Krafft, how were you thinking of handling your cadets?”

“Strictly, but fairly,” said Krafft, unable to think of any other platitude just at that moment.

“What methods of instruction were you thinking of employing?”

“Whatever methods are currently in use here and you consider correct, Major.”

The Major nodded. The last part of Krafft's answer was particularly gratifying. The fellow was adaptable or at least was prepared to be, which was always the essential prerequisite for good, fruitful co-operation. But what the Major liked to think of as his restless spirit of inquiry wouldn't leave him alone. “Which method do you prefer, Krafft?” he asked. “Skillful persuasion, instruction by example, or drilling things into people by force?”

“Whichever seems suitable in any given instance, Major.”

Again the Major nodded. This time he wasn't exactly displeased by Krafft's answer, but he wasn't particularly happy about it either. The fellow was suspiciously evasive and simply wouldn't allow himself to be pinned down. The Major would have to be careful. The existence of one Captain Feders among his officers was unsettling enough. Two such people in one and the same section spelt trouble.

However, the Major was spared further speculation, because at that moment his wife, Frau Felicitas, poked her by no means insignificant sheep's nose into the room, smiled, and said quite brazenly: “What a pity you gentlemen have to leave so soon! But of course you have a heavy day tomorrow.”

“Archibald,” said the Major's wife, “I don't like this man at all.”

“I can't say I'm exactly enthusiastic about him either, Felicitas dear,” agreed Frey with alacrity. “But unfortunately I can't always choose the people I work with. And the fellow has been positively forced on me.”

The Major suppressed a yawn and tried to look interested. -He usually took notice of her advice, though it wasn't always possible for him to follow it. But one thing was clear: Felicitas was remarkably good at sizing up how useful and valuable a subordinate was going to be. The quality was inbred in her, so to speak, for several of her ancestors had been generals, important landowners and ministers of state.

“The man has no manners, Archibald. He doesn't know how to kiss one's hand, and he has no conversation. He eats untidily, scatters ash all over the place, and never once addressed me as ' ma'am '.”

“Most regrettable,” said the Major.

“Not that I overestimate the value of social conventions, Archibald. But you know my view: people with properly trained minds have good manners as well. This man Krafft may well be very capable, but then so are a lot of artisans. A true officer needs to be more than just capable. In short, Archibald, I have considerable misgivings.”

“So have I, Felicitas, my dear! But what am Ito do?”

“You could talk to the General; it's still not too late. To-morrow, though, when this man takes over the section, it could be too late.”

The Major lowered himself heavily into an armchair. The telephone stood just beside him. He had a problem to wrestle with now. He certainly wanted to protect himself from harm and also not to disappoint his wife. But it wasn't so easy to get the General to change his mind, for he always required absolutely conclusive arguments.

“Did you notice how he looked me up and down, Archibald?” the Major's wife now asked with a shudder of indignation.

“He looked you up and down?”

“Almost as if I were one of those terrible women. I felt utterly ashamed. A positively animal look, Archibald. I regard him as quite shameless and utterly degenerate.”

“But my dear Felicitas,” said the Major in some confusion, “he probably only wanted to flirt with you a bit. You should laugh at that and take it as a compliment—an unfortunate compliment perhaps, but at least the right idea was there. He simply tried to make eyes at his commanding officer's wife, in order, in his rather clumsy way, to get you to like him.”

The Major took one look at his wife and felt sure that he was right. Her qualities were unmistakably more of a spiritual nature. But then he began to have slight doubts. Not everyone, he told himself, was made like himself, with his sense of duty, his moral irreproachability. He had known how to sublimate his instincts in action. But even among his own officers there might easily be people who were inclined to go astray. He had even read of a singular addiction in some young people for older women, and there was nothing he would put beyond Krafft.

“He looked at me as if he wanted to undress me!” insisted his wife with a great show of indignation.

The Major shook his head sadly. “You must be mistaken, Felicitas,” he went so far as to say.

“I don't make mistakes about that sort of thing,” she insisted. “And if all that isn't enough for you, then I won't keep the rest from you: the man tried to molest me in an unbecoming manner under the table.”

“Inconceivable!” said the Major. “An unfortunate accident, perhaps.”

“It can't all be accident!” cried Frau Felicitas bitterly. Then she walked over to the door, opened it, and called: “Barbara!”

Barbara, the girl who was both niece and maid, appeared at once. A shabby apron was tied round her, for her day's duties were by no means over. She blinked and looked past the Major at Felicitas. She waited.

“Barbara,” said Felicitas imperiously, “what was the matter when you were helping the officers into their overcoats just now? You let out a shriek and then giggled like an idiot. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all,” said Barbara, blushing.

“Aha!“ cried Frau Felicitas. “Lieutenant Krafft was standing just beside you. Did this man pinch you by any chance? And if he did, where?”

“It was nothing,” Barbara insisted. “Really nothing.” She looked down.

“That’ll do,” said Felicitas Frey. “You can go back to your work now.”

Barbara left with visible relief. The Major watched her go, thoughtfully. She did indeed have a remarkably fine figure. And Krafft had noticed the fact on the very first evening, the depraved fellow.

“Well?” asked Felicitas insistently. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it? It may be too late by to-morrow.”

Major Frey nodded gloomily. Then with an air of determination he picked up the telephone and had he put through to the barracks. When after a slight delay the switchboard at the training school answered, he gave his name and rank. Then, clearing his throat, he asked to be put through to the General.

“Modersohn,” said a clear, quiet voice almost at once.

“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you at such a late hour, General . . .”

“Don’t waste time explaining,” said the General. “Get to the point.”

“General, on mature reflection I have decided to request you most earnestly to countermand your appointment of Lieutenant Krafft to be section officer of my Number Six Company.”

“Request refused,” said the General, and hung up.

“What always fascinates me,” said Captain Ratshelm, “is the elegance and sophistication one finds in Major Frey's house.”

“And what fascinates me,” said Feders, “is the colossal narrow-mindedness that prevails there.”

They were walking up the hill towards the barracks, a picture of harmony, it might have been thought. In the center walked Captain Ratshelm, to his right Captain Feders, to his left Lieutenant Krafft—men engaged in the training of officers, striding easily along, in amiable conversation.

It was a bright, clear night and the snow crunched beneath their feet. Everything around them seemed mildly enchanted—the sharp outlines of the trees, the houses like dolls' houses, a sky full of twinkling stars. A typical German winter's night, thought Ratshelm. Then he turned to Feders again and said cordially: “You’ve got it all wrong, Feders my dear fellow. Our Major and his worthy wife are cherishing eternal values. They are upholding all those things that it is so essential to preserve—home, dignity, social intercourse.”

“Nonsensical sham, nauseating twaddle, an eye on the main chance!“ declared Feders. “These people are living in a mad world of their own, and of course they're not the only ones.”

“Excuse me, Feders,” said Captain Ratshelm indulgently but in a mild tone of rebuke, “you’re talking about your own Major, you know.”

“I’m talking about a state of mind that I call narrow-mindedness,” said Feders stubbornly. “It’s a widespread defect, like short sight. No one with it sees further than his own limited horizon.”

“My dear Feders,” said Ratshelm, trying to calm him down, “we should strive to live our lives in a spirit of loyalty, humility and unselfishness.”

“Tripe ! “ cried Feders abruptly. “What we should do is keep our eyes and ears open and see this world as it really is, with all the muck that's in it, and all the blood. What matters is to be able to see beyond the horizon. Over there behind Hill Two Hundred and One lies Berlin, and a few thousand human beings die there almost every night, torn to shreds, suffocated, burning and bleeding to death. A few hundred miles further on is the eastern front. While we're busy kissing hands and grinning inanely, thousands of men are dying there, crushed by tanks and burned by flame-throwers—and here we are entertaining ourselves with polished social conventions.”

“You’re a bitter man, Captain Feders,” said Ratshelm. “I can understand why.”

“If you're going to harp on my marriage, then I'll really go to town on you.”

“I shall take care not to do that, Feders,” Ratshelm hastened to reassure him. “I merely wanted to try and explain my point of view. But sometimes, you know, you really are a difficult person to get along with.”

“Only sometimes, unfortunately,” said Feders. “Most of the time I am paralyzed by weakness, fatigue and disgust. Above all I am quite unlike our friend Krafft here, who seems able to walk in his sleep. Or do you have a melancholy streak in you?”

“A streak of something or other,” said the Lieutenant, “but I'm afraid it doesn't run very deep. Do you remember that girl Barbara—how she laughed!”

“So she did!” said Feders, suddenly recovering his spirits. “I’d almost forgotten about it. The little thing squealed like some kitchen slut who's had her bottom pinched.”

“I don't understand,” said Ratshelm in bewilderment. “I imagine you two gentlemen are talking about Fräulein Barbara Bendler-Trebitz, Frau Frey's niece. She laughed, certainly, but what's so special about that?”

“The point is why she laughed,” declared Feders. “She laughed because our friend Krafft did in fact pinch her bottom.”

With a sense of outrage Ratshelm said: “How could you do such a thing, Lieutenant Krafft? I find that downright vulgar. And in that house, too!”

“Well,” said Krafft, “maybe you do, but the little girl enjoyed it! In that house too. Quite instructive, really. Or don't you think so?”

“` Request refused,' was all the General said. Nothing else.”

Major Frey, man of the world and hero of many battles, sat there shattered. A curt rejection of this sort from the General could have quite unforeseeable consequences. The General had always been a difficult man to approach, yet he, Frey, had never before known him quite so hard and uncompromising.

“I’m afraid,” muttered the Major, “that I've just made a mistake that's going to be almost impossible to put right. And it's all the fault of this Lieutenant Krafft!”

“I had a feeling,” said his wife, with undertones of triumph in her voice, “that this man's appearance was going to lead to little good.”

“Maybe,” said the Major uneasily, racking his brains for some way out of the situation, “but at all events it would have been better if you hadn't interfered!”

“But you know my reasons for doing so,” she said in astonishment. “And you've accepted them up to now.”

“Perhaps I shouldn't have,” said the Major suddenly. Yet he quickly saw that it was pointless. He avoided his wife's eyes, for he felt that she had let him down badly.

His glance wandered restlessly over the rose-patterned carpet. He just hadn't been sufficiently on the alert. He should have taken her idiosyncrasies into account more. She was inordinately sensitive about certain things. She could talk for hours on end about illness, wounds and death, but the simplest physical contact was sometimes enough to bring her to the verge of unreason. There was nobility about her, of course, unmistakable nobility; the Major was in no doubt of that. But on the delicate subject of sex, what she liked was tenderness, the shimmer of romance, chivalrous devotion, soft music and the willing attendance of courtiers. She was deeply sensitive. And honorable too, uncommonly honorable. But she was utterly lacking in all sense of reality. Damn it, officers weren't a bunch of minnesingers—certainly not this fellow Krafft who was responsible for the mess he was in now.

“Felicitas,” said the Major, “I think you shouldn't overdo your role as a paragon of virtue, not when grim realities are at stake. My God, do try and realize that a training school like this isn't a hot-house for sensitive plants!”

Felicitas looked at her husband as if he were some workman who had forced his way into her house. She raised her great sheep's nose majestically into the air and declared: “That is no way to speak to me, Archibald.”

“Oh, really!” said the Major, who still hadn't recovered from the shock of Modersohn's two words. “If you hadn't come out with these idiotic sexual complexes of yours, I would never have incurred the General's rebuke.”

“I pity you,” she said, “and find it lamentable that you should try to shift the blame for your own ineptness on to me.” The sheep's nose rose still higher into the air, looked ever more majestic, then described a hundred-and-eighty degree turn and was borne out of the room, a convincing picture of indignant pride. A door slammed and the Major was alone.

This Lieutenant Krafft, thought the Major bitterly, is not only endangering my marriage but has brought the General down on top of me as well. To hell with this man Krafft!

8. THE CADETS MAKE A MISTAKE

“Hand-grenades ready for the new man!” cried one of the cadets brightly. “Out with bayonets and pen nibs—it's a matter of life and death! Idiots and suicides to the fore— soldiers take cover!” The speaker looked round for applause, but no one laughed. This was no time for trying to be funny. A new section officer marked a new chapter in training, perhaps even a new start altogether. And this was nothing to joke about.

The cadets of H Section were entering classroom thirteen in ones and twos. They took their places, unpacked their brief-cases, and laid their notebooks out in front of them. All this was done surely and mechanically, as when a knob is turned in a factory, or a lever's position changed at the ring of a bell.

Up to this moment in the day everything had gone like clockwork—reveille, early games, washing, breakfast, cleaning out of rooms, marching to class. But now the complications set in. Unforeseen developments might lie ahead. No one could be sure of what would happen. A wrong answer could result in a bad mark; every false move might prejudice one's chances of a commission.

“Listen here!” cried Cadet Kramer, the section senior. “This new man's name is Krafft, Lieutenant Krafft.” He had learned the name from one of the course commander's clerks. “Anyone know him?”

No one knew him the cadets had had their work cut out getting to know their former section officer, their tactics instructor, their course commander, and all the other people who had a say in whether or not they were to become officers. No other officers interested them.

“In one hour at the latest,” said Cadet Hochbauer with an air of superiority, “we shall know exactly how to behave. Until then it's best to reserve judgment. And don't let anyone try and suck up to him too soon!”

This was to be taken as not just a hint but a warning. The cadets round Hochbauer nodded. What was more; there was some sense in the injunction, since it was never advisable to put too much faith in a superior officer whose business was to put them through their paces for several weeks on end.

On this particular morning, therefore, the cadets of H Section were unusually quiet. They slipped uneasily into their places and looked nervously across the bare room towards the instructor's desk and the blackboard.

At the middle desk in the front row sat Cadet Hochbauer, and beside him the section senior. The two conversed together under their breath. Hochbauer gave Kramer advice, and Kramer nodded agreement. Cadets Rednitz and Mösler naturally sat right at the back of the room. Of all those present they were easily the calmest, for they had invested practically nothing in this course to date, either physically or spiritually, and as a result had nothing to lose.

“What are we getting so excited about, children?” asked Rednitz jovially. “It’s quite possible that the new man will be completely accommodating. It's possible too that he'll have limitations, or be blessed with more than his share of stubbornness. In any case the man's an officer, so we must be prepared for anything.”

“We’re going to wait and see,” said Cadet Hochbauer in a tone of rebuke. “It would be a mistake to jump to conclusions, don't you think, Kramer?”

“A great mistake,” said the section senior.

“But what if the new man's like Lieutenant Barkow?” inquired Mösler.

“Then,” said Rednitz, “we’ll again have to put our trust in God, our Cadet Hochbauer, and the effectiveness of a fast-burning fuse.”

Hochbauer jumped to his feet and drew himself up to his full height. The cadets in the front row backed away and formed a ring of spectators. An uneasy silence settled over the room, broken only by the shuffling of feet.

Hochbauer walked down the center gangway to the back of the room, followed by Kramer, the section senior. Two other cadets, Amfortas and Andreas, joined the procession, though more to cover the rear than for any other purpose. The room was poorly heated, but the temperature seemed to have risen appreciably.

“Now what's all this melodrama so early in the morning!” cried Mösler, looking round for some way of escape.

Rednitz had also risen. He looked rather pale but managed to convey a certain air of light-heartedness nevertheless. He waited until Hochbauer was standing in front of him and then made an effort to broaden his friendly smile. He wasn't afraid, being too well acquainted with the freakish twists of fate at the front to have any fear of this posturing youth. And although he was about the same age as Hochbauer, he felt himself almost an old man by contrast.

“Rednitz,” said Hochbauer in an unmistakably menacing tone, “I don't like your nasty insinuations.”

“You don't need to listen to them!”

“I regard my honor as at stake over this,” said Hochbauer.

“If nothing else,” said Rednitz. Cadet Rednitz looked round at the flat, pallid faces of his companions, and found little support there. But he was grateful for Mösler's hand on his arm, and noticed that the bull-like Weber, Egon, was maneuvering into position, though less out of loyalty than at the prospect of a fight for its own sake. The net effect, however, was likely to be the same.

“You will apologies to Hochbauer,” Kramer ordered Rednitz, and Amfortas and Andreas nodded energetically. “This has gone beyond a joke.”

“I think we both agree on that,” said Rednitz. “The problem is to convince Hochbauer.”

The cadets watched the dispute with rising misgiving, sensing unnecessary complications. Things were difficult enough as it was, on the course, without having dissensions in their own ranks which were just a dangerous waste of time.

The majority of the cadets respected Kramer as their section senior. He had spent a good deal of time as a corporal and thus had the necessary experience for the job without being clever enough to rule by intrigue. He was in fact a relatively decent fellow, a real plodder, and they could hardly have found anyone better.

But the cadets also tolerated Hochbauer as deputy section senior, having quickly realized that he was one of the ambitious ones of this world. There was no way of stopping him or placating him except by letting him have his own way. That he also happened to be a powerful athlete and an expert in ideology were additional reasons for letting him have his head.

These, then, were the basic considerations in the minds of the cadets. The line of least resistance was their chief concern: and life simply had to be taken as it came. This was why the provocative attitude of Rednitz and Mösler seemed nothing short of irresponsible. The instinct for self-preservation alone demanded that such outsiders should receive no support.

“I’m waiting,” said Hochbauer, looking at Rednitz as if he were some sort of louse.

“As far as I'm concerned,” said Rednitz, “you can wait there till the cows come home.”

“I’ll give you five seconds,” said Cadet Hochbauer. “After that my patience will be exhausted.”

“Be reasonable, Rednitz I” implored Kramer. “After all we're all comrades here, all in the same boat. Apologize and it'll all be forgotten.”

“Out of my way, Kramer!” cried Hochbauer firmly. “One has to talk plain German with people like this!”

Kramer still wanted to act the peacemaker, but Hochbauer pushed his way forward, followed by his bodyguard Amfortas and Andreas. Then everyone stopped where they were and listened.

“Look out! He's coming!” cried a hoarse, excited voice.

This was Cadet Böhmke; a poetically inclined individual who in consequence found himself allotted every sort of dreary special duty. This time he had been posted as look-out.

“Look out!” he repeated.

“Attention!” cried Kramer with relief. “To your places, men!”

Captain Ratshelm walked into the classroom followed by Lieutenant Krafft. Cadet Kramer reported: “Section H for Heinrich—forty men all present and correct, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Ratshelm. “At ease please!” “Stand at ease!” cried Kramer.

The cadets pushed their left feet forward and sideways and waited. Each knew perfectly well that the order Captain Ratshelm had just issued was an imperfect one. But he could afford to do that sort of thing: he wasn't on the course.

He corrected himself: “You may sit down.”

“Be seated!” cried Kramer.

The cadets sat down very correctly, with their hands on the desk in front of them in the prescribed manner for the presence of officers. They now began to cast a wary eye on Lieutenant Krafft, without, however, for one moment forgetting to give the impression that their whole attention was riveted on Captain Ratshelm, the senior officer present.

Captain Ratshelm now addressed them with gusto. “Gentlemen, I have the honor to introduce to you your new section officer, Lieutenant Krafft. I know you'll give him your full respect and confidence.”

Ratshelm looked about him with a challenging air of optimism, concluding with the words: “Lieutenant Krafft, I hereby hand over to you your section and wish you every success.”

The cadets watched the ceremony with mixed feelings, noting the exchange of handshakes between the two officers, the radiant look on Ratshelm's face and the tough smile on Krafft's. Then Ratshelm strutted from the room, leaving H Section alone with its new section officer.

The cadets couldn't make much of him at first. Outwardly he bore a certain resemblance to a bull. His face wore a serious expression, and his glance seemed to sweep over them indifferently. He seemed to have no particular quality that one could pick on, which rather increased their uneasiness. They had no idea yet who it was they had to deal with. And yet everything seemed possible, including of course the worst.

Lieutenant Krafft saw forty faces staring up at him, forty vague, colorless, identical faces in which he found it quite impossible to make out the details. Somewhere in the back row he thought he discovered a pair of friendly eyes for a moment, but couldn't find them again when he looked for them. Instead he saw passive indifference, watchful reserve, and cautious mistrust.

“Right, gentlemen,” said the Lieutenant. “We must get to know each other. I am your new section officer, Lieutenant Krafft, born in 1916, at Stettin, to be precise, where my father was an official of the post office. I worked on a large agricultural estate as farm foreman and as accountant in the estate office, and was then called up in the Wehrmacht. And that's about all. Now it's your turn. Let's begin with the section senior.”

This increased the cadets' misgivings considerably. They began to feel they were being victimized, for they had expected their section officer to start straight in on the lesson, in which case the Lieutenant would have had to hold the floor and they would have been able to take their time sizing him up. Instead of which, here was this Lieutenant Krafft demanding from them solo performances which could only have one object, namely to bring each one of them in turn under scrutiny. And what, after that, would they know of their new section officer? Nothing. That he wouldn't have gathered anything very much about them either didn't seem to occur to them.

Meanwhile the section senior had risen to his feet and in his hoarse, slightly rasping voice, obviously accustomed to giving orders, announced curtly: “Kramer, Otto, cadet. Born 1920 in Nuremberg. Father, fitter in a photographic works. Regular enlistment. Corporal.”

“Any further interests, Kramer? Particular aptitudes? Hobbies?”

“None,” declared Kramer honestly, and sat down, feeling rather pleased with himself. He was a simple soldier and nothing more, and it seemed to him important to have made that clear. He was sure he'd made a good job of things. He always was, until someone of higher rank pointed out the contrary. But this happened rarely enough.

Krafft's glance switched from the boorish face of Cadet Kramer to that of the man beside him. He saw a youth whose clear-cut winning features had a certain nobility about them, and he said encouragingly: “Right, then, next please.”

Cadet Hochbauer rose to his full imposing height and said: “Cadet Hochbauer, Lieutenant. Christian name: Heinz. Born 1923 in Rosenheim. My father is in charge of the political training school at Pronthausen, holder of the Pour le Write. After matriculating I volunteered for the front. Special interests: history and philosophy.”

Hochbauer said this all very much as a matter of course, without attaching any particular importance to it almost in an offhand way, in fact. But he watched Lieutenant Krafft carefully to see if his words had made any impression, and seemed to detect that they had. The Lieutenant's eyes rested thoughtfully for a while on Cadet Hochbauer.

“Next please,” said Krafft.

“Cadet Weber, Egon, born in 1922. My father was a master baker in Werdau which is where I was born, but my father is no longer alive, he had a heart attack at work in 1933 just after being nominated master tradesman of the district—he's been a Party member from 1927 or '26. I learnt bakery too—we've got a number of different branches—and my hobby is motor racing.”

Figures, names, dates, particulars of places and professions, clues, explanations, statements of fact—all these political, human, military details, formed a confused buzzing sound in the room, which seemed completely to bemuse Krafft. By the sixth place-name he had already forgotten the first. By the ninth surname he could no longer remember the third or fourth. He stared at the desert of faces in front of him—bony, flat, round, long, and podgy. He listened to one voice after another—honest, rough, sharp, gentle, rasping voices—and they all merged into this one indeterminate buzz.

Krafft noted the amount of wood there was in the room, taking in the paneled wall, the beams of the ceiling and the floor-board—wood everywhere, worn, scratched, battered, from yellowish-brown to brownish-black. The smell of pinewood, turpentine and dirty water was all about him.

Krafft realized that this method of his was neither bringing him any closer to his section nor enabling him to gain any particularly penetrating insight into them. The hour crawled by with lamentable results. He looked at his wrist-watch and longed for the time to be up.

The Lieutenant's increasing sense of misgiving automatically transmitted itself to his section. The cadets too longed for the end of this hour that had brought them so much boredom and confusion. Disgruntled looks came over their faces as they began to shift restlessly about in their seats. Some who had already said their piece relapsed into sullen brooding. One even yawned—a long drawn-out yawn that was distinctly audible. But the new section officer seemed not to notice this, which the cadets took as another bad sign.

Only two more of them, thought Lieutenant Krafft, and then it'll be over. And automatically he said: “Right, next please.”

Cadet Rednitz now rose to his feet, smiled pleasantly, and declared: “I must beg the Lieutenant to excuse me, but I'm afraid I'm not in a position to give him the extensive information he requires.”

Krafft gazed at Rednitz with some interest. The cadets stopped wriggling about in their seats and also turned and looked at Rednitz, thereby turning their backs on their section officer—an unusual sign of disrespect, which the Lieutenant appeared not to notice. This made Kramer, the section senior, particularly indignant. He began to fear for the preservation of discipline. Discipline was his responsibility, and provided he had the support of his superior officer it was perfectly possible to maintain it in the requisite manner. But if this Krafft were going to let the cadets turn their backs on him, it would only be a matter of time before they were talking in the ranks or sleeping in class. Lieutenant Krafft on the other hand regarded Cadet Rednitz's behavior as a welcome diversion. His spirits recovered slightly, and he asked in some amusement: “Perhaps, Cadet, you would be so good as to explain just why you can't give me this information?”

“It’s like this,” said Rednitz pleasantly. “Unlike my fellow cadets here I'm afraid I can't produce an official father, and so I can't say what his profession was.”

“Presumably what you mean, Rednitz, is that you are illegitimate?”

“Yes, Lieutenant—exactly.”

“Well,” said Krafft cheerfully, “such things happen from time to time. And it doesn't seem altogether a bad thing—especially when one realizes that official fathers are by no means always the best. I hope, though, that this minor- deficiency won't prevent you from giving me at least a few other particulars.”

Rednitz beamed. He liked the Lieutenant. But there was another reason for his undisguised pleasure. He could see Hochbauer's angry face glowering at him, and this alone made it worth the little extra trouble.

“I was born in 1922,” declared Rednitz, “in Dortmund. My mother was a housemaid to the director of a big firm, though it would be unwise to draw any particular conclusions from that. I went to the primary school, spent a year at technical school, and another year at higher technical school. In 1940 I was called up into the Wehrmacht. Special interests: philosophy and history.”

Lieutenant Krafft smiled. Hochbauer looked black. He regarded Rednitz's statement that his special interests were also history and philosophy as a personal insult. Some of the cadets grinned, but only because their section officer had smiled, thus giving them something to go on.

But Cadet Kramer got to his feet and in his capacity as section senior said: “May I draw the Lieutenant's attention to the fact that time is up?”

Krafft nodded, trying to conceal his relief. He did up his belt, put on his cap, and made for the exit.

“Attention!” roared Kramer.

The cadets jumped to their feet rather less briskly than at the beginning of the period, and came to attention with a certain sluggishness. The Lieutenant saluted the room briefly and went out.

“Impossible,” muttered Cadet Kramer. “If he goes on like this the whole section will go to pieces.”

The cadets looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing with relief. The prevailing mood was excellent, and more than a few of them now found themselves facing the remainder of the course with a certain equanimity. “Well, Mösler,” asked his friend Rednitz, “what do you make of him?”

“Yes,” said Mösler thoughtfully, “what do I make of him? He's not unsympathetic—but that's not much to go on. My grandmother's quite sympathetic too.”

“Fellow sportsmen,” said Cadet Weber, Egon, pushing his way closer, “this much is certain: he seems an energetic sort of type, and yet acts like a sheep. Now, what is one to make of that?”

Böhmke, poet and thinker, merely shook his head a number of times. All in all he would have found it difficult to give any very clear opinion of Krafft, and indeed no one asked him for one.

Kramer, the section senior, made an entry in the class log, sensing complications ahead. This fellow Krafft hadn't even signed the book confirming the subject and duration of the class. Kramer saw that they were in for a period of reorganization and indiscipline.

But in the group round Hochbauer joy reigned supreme. Amfortas and Andreas even went so far as to convey utter contempt when the new section officer's name came up. “A complete nonentity, eh, Hochbauer?”

The latter nodded vigorously. “We’ll soon have him where we want him. He'll either be eating out of our hands within a week or be fit for nothing but a pension.”

9. A JUDGE-ADVOCATE SPEAKS OUT AGAINST HIS WILL

“Fräulein Bachner,” said Lieutenant Bieringer, the General's A.D.C., “we’ve known each other quite a time now, I think?”

Sybille Bachner looked up from her work. Bieringer pretended to be preoccupied with the notes he was putting in order. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“What could be wrong here?” cried the A.D.C., with an expansive gesture. “But I'm worried about your private life again.”

“I haven't any. You know that!”

“Exactly!” said the A.D.C. “No one can live by work alone.”

“Except the General.”

“Fräulein Bachner,” said Lieutenant Bieringer, “the General is married to the army. He's not a normal man at all—he's a soldier. And you're a woman, not just a secretary.”

Sybille Bachner smiled, but there was a serious look in her eyes. She sat up straight and pushed her chair back. Then she asked outright: “What are you getting at this time?”

“Well,” said Bieringer rather hastily, “I was wondering what you might be doing this evening, for instance.”

“Are you offering to take me out?”

“You know I'm a married man,” said the A.D.C.

It seemed to Bieringer only right to point this out occasionally. For though he and his wife lived together in barracks, in the guest house, few people knew her. She was expecting a child, and never appeared at an official function. She hadn't once been into the staff headquarters building where her husband worked, and had never once telephoned him during working hours. She simply might not have existed. And it was not least on account of this very strict reserve that Bieringer loved her dearly, though only after working hours, of course.

“All right then,” said Sybille pleasantly, “I’m doing nothing this evening, but why do you want to know?”

“You could go to the cinema,” said Bieringer. “There’s a comedy of some sort on there, people even say it's quite funny. Or perhaps you could go for a walk. I know at least forty officers who'd be delighted to escort you.”

“What’s all this about?” said Sybille resentfully. “I just haven't arranged anything. Anyway the General may need me—he's got a whole pile of work to deal with.”

“The General only needs you if you're not otherwise engaged. I'm to make that explicitly clear to you.”

“Good,” said Sybille Bachner, “you’ve made that clear. Now what?”

Bieringer shook his head, and this gesture could have been interpreted in a number of different ways. He cleaned his spectacles carefully, looking at Sybille as he did so with his gentle watery eyes, and said finally: “So you're prepared to work overtime again?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” said Sybille briskly.

Bieringer felt a certain misgiving about this keenness of hers. For Sybille Bachner was said to have had something of a past. Between her and the previous commanding officer there had been something more than a mere working relationship.

But then Major-General Modersohn had been made commanding officer of Number 5 Officers' Training School, and Bieringer had confidently assumed that Bachner's days in staff headquarters were numbered. But it wasn't long before an unexpected development took place: Sybille Bachner proved herself a first-class worker. And she didn't seem to make the slightest effort to extend her influence beyond the General's ante-room. The General therefore tolerated her and said nothing, though the A.D.C. remained on the alert.

“The General would like a talk with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann at nineteen hundred hours. Also with Lieutenant Krafft. Also at nineteen hundred hours.”

“Both together?” asked Sybille in astonishment.

Lieutenant Bieringer took care not to look at her, for he could not have helped conveying a certain reproach. His order had been clear enough; any expression of private opinion was unnecessary. He was the best possible A.D.C. the General could have had.

Sybille Bachner dropped her eyes. Her long, silky hair hung down each side of her face like a curtain. She reminded Bieringer of some tender portrait by Renoir in which the streaming tresses caught by the rays of the sun told of a voluptuous indolence. Bieringer found this combination of thoughts rather unsettling. For he was on duty, after all, and a happily married man and expectant father into the bargain.

“I rather think, Fräulein Bachner,” he said cautiously, “that you should try and get yourself a slightly more severe hair style.”

“Has the General been complaining about my hair?” she asked with a flicker of hope.

Bieringer looked at her reproachfully, pityingly. “Fräulein Bachner,” he said, “you’re not a soldier—why should the General show any interest in your hair?”

“Order and cleanliness,” declared Captain Kater, “are what I set store by. And in that I'm second to none.”

Captain Kater was inspecting number one kitchen in his capacity as commander of the headquarters company. All kitchens in the barracks area came under his jurisdiction.

Parschulske, the kitchen corporal, accompanied him on his round, respectful and attentive. His conscience was never wholly clear, and his fingers were in almost every pie. Astonishingly enough he was as thin as a rake.

“I’ve taken the liberty of laying the table as usual, sir, so that you can check the rations and sample the quality of the food.”

Kater nodded. He went into the store-room, prodded one or two sacks and satisfied himself as to the contents. Then he pulled open a drawer or two—and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, for he had caught a glimpse of something pink hidden in the semolina.

Captain Kater pushed his hand deep into the semolina and felt about in it. And there he found three lengths of sausage. Three large, fat, juicy lengths of sausage, each weighing about six pounds.

Kater said nothing for the time being. He removed his hand, let his eyes sweep over Parschulske, the kitchen corporal, who was standing stiffly to attention by his side, and moved on into the kitchen, where the table was already laid.

Here he sat down and examined the food in front of him: cold roast beef, fat sausages, creamy portions of cheese. All this was there to be sampled for quality, taste, freshness, general condition, and whatever else served as an excuse. Kater cut himself a slice or two here and there. It was his principle never to act precipitately. There were always considerable advantages in keeping people guessing, and he was, he thought, a master of such tactics. He had left the kitchen corporal completely in the dark as to whether or not the pilfered sausages had been spotted—as to whether or not they would have to be accounted for.

For the time being, the wretched Parschulske didn't know where he stood, and felt distinctly uncomfortable. He therefore rounded on the cook for stealing the rations.

But the cook wasn't going to lie down under that: he immediately laid the blame on the various kitchen assistants. “What if a few sausages have been whipped?” he said. “It could have been anybody, or is there a label on them saying who took them?”

“But in the last resort,” said the kitchen corporal, “it’s my responsibility!”

“Doesn’t worry, Captain Kater will allow an extra helping or two to confuse his memory?”

But Captain Kater just thoughtfully ate on. He was still trying to decide what he ought to do about the sausages. A short note to the General, perhaps. In this way he would be able to demonstrate both correctness of approach and a certain skill in detection. But there were also advantages in putting the kitchen corporal under an obligation to him.

And while Captain Kater thus turned over various possibilities in his mind he let his glance sweep across the kitchen —over kettles and coppers and tables to the female kitchen personnel. Strapping, buxom girls, most of them. They might have been specially fattened for the job. Not his type. One of them caught his attention, though, a new girl who looked at him with large inquiring eyes. Presumably, thought Kater, it's a surprise for her to find her superior officer here.

Affably he beckoned her over, still holding his knife in his right hand. The girl hurried across at once. Obviously there was nothing she had wanted more than to be noticed. This delighted Kater.

“Name?” asked the Captain, affecting a sympathetic, paternal expression.

“Irene,” she said. “Irene Jablonski.”

“Stationed here in barracks?” asked Kater, observing with increasing interest the splendid curve of her bosom. This feature was all the more remarkable, since in every other way her figure could be described as neat.

“Yes, sir, in barracks,” said Irene looking at him hopefully. “I’m in a room with a number of other girls, but none of them works in the kitchen.”

“How’s your stenography?” asked Kater. “Can you type? Know shorthand?”

“I can learn anything,” Irene assured him, beaming at him as if he had been her rescuer. “I learn very quickly—really. I can be taught anything. Really anything.”

“Well,” said Kater, “we’ll see.”

Lieutenant Bieringer, the A.D.C., hung up and stared thoughtfully in front of him for a few seconds. Then he said: “The General wants you, Fräulein Bachner.”

“I’ll go right in,” said Sybille.

Bieringer did not look up at her. There really was something suspiciously keen about her. She was a good worker and he didn't want to lose her, but he would most certainly lose her if she were to try and break through the barrier of reserve with which the General surrounded himself He adjusted his spectacles, picked up a bundle of papers and left the room. The A.D.C. was on his way to the routine weekly conference with the course commanders, at which the training plans for the following week were settled.

Sybille Bachner, however, went into the General's room without knocking, in the usual way. She saw Modersohn sitting at his desk exactly as she had seen him sitting there every day of the week for the last six months—in the identical position and the identical uniform, practically motionless.

“ Fräulein Bachner,” said the General, “ I'd like you to take a shorthand note of my conversation with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann and Lieutenant Krafft, and to type it out immediately afterwards. No carbon—no one else to see it.”

“Very good, General,” said Sybille. She stood there waiting, a picture of devotion.

“That is all, Fräulein Bachner,” said the General, bending over his desk again.

Sybille's eyes shone darkly. She turned to leave, but hesitated for a moment at the door, then stopped and said: “General, I don't expect you'll have time for dinner this evening, shall I get something for you?”

Slowly the General raised his head, with a cool lack of surprise. He stared at Sybille as if seeing her now for the first time. And with a flicker of a smile he said: “No, thank you.”

“Not even a cup of coffee, General?”

“Thank you, no,” said Modersohn. And the flicker of a smile quite suddenly disappeared. “If I need anything like that, Fräulein Bachner, I will inform you at the time.”

And with that, this semi-private conversation—the first in six months—was quite clearly at an end. The General was already at work once again surrounded by that wall of reserve, like a wall of bullet-proof glass, which so unnerved his colleagues.

Sybille withdrew, neither perplexed nor surprised. She had grown used to Modersohn's idiosyncrasies over the course of time.

There had been much she had had to get used to. The General's predecessor here had been a jovial, condescending sort of man of the world, who knew what he wanted and got it—a boisterous, benevolent despot, an uninhibited, demanding character with whom she had finally been on intimate terms.

With the advent of Modersohn everything had changed overnight. The officers of his entourage froze in the icy atmosphere with which he surrounded himself, and either kept out of his way or crawled round him like eager watchdogs.

In this way Sybille Bachner got to know each of them pretty well, and saw all her illusions scattered like balloons in a storm.

“May I break in on this idyll?” asked a remarkably friendly voice from the door.

It was Captain Kater. He smiled through the half-open doorway—warily, benevolently, confidentially. For Sybille Bachner was alone in the room, a fortunate coincidence which enabled him to demonstrate what a jovial, good-hearted fellow he was.

“It always gives me pleasure to see you,” he declared, extending a hand towards her. This too was something he only did when no one else was present.

“What can I do for you?” asked Sybille Bachner with some reserve.

“Your very existence makes all other needs superfluous,” Kater assured her exuberantly. He had worked out this phrase some time before. This Bachner girl was important, she had to be flattered.

“Is there any information I can give you, Captain? I'm afraid Lieutenant Bieringer isn't here at the moment. But if you have a message for him, I can take it for you.”

“I have a problem, my dear Fräulein Bachner, which may in the end prove somewhat complicated—I wouldn't like to say yet.”

“You wish to speak to the General, Captain? I don't think that's possible just now.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Captain Kater with visible relief.

This was probably the best solution, for the time being. It saved him from having to make a decision. It was in fact a development on which he'd been reckoning.

“If it's something particularly urgent ... “

“No, no, not at all!” the Captain hastened to reassure her. “I really can't say that. It will be enough, my dear Fräulein Bachner, if you could simply confirm if necessary that I have been here.”

Sybille Bachner saw at once what was up: the Captain wished to cover himself a familiar situation. Types like Kater were always wanting to cover themselves—by little memos, by pushing responsibility on to others, or by pretending that they had made every effort to deal with some matter, though alas in vain.

“I’ve an uncommonly high regard for you,” Kater assured her, winking confidentially. “It’s a real pleasure to work with you. And I'm certain the General knows how to appreciate you.”

This was a clumsy piece of insinuation. For what Kater meant was that after all the General was a man too. But Captain Kater—so his wink conveyed—was a gentleman and knew how to keep his mouth shut so long as it seemed politic or profitable to do so.

“Captain,” said Sybille Bachner coolly, “I shouldn't like to think I've given you occasion for the slightest misunderstanding.”

“But of course not!” cried Kater with an expansive gesture. “Quite the contrary! There's no question of any misunderstanding.”

“May I once again assure you,” said Sybille Bachner, “that I am not in a position either to take any decision or to influence one. My job here is simply that of secretary.”

“You’re made of sterling stuff!“ cried Kater with enthusiasm. “You must stay like that. Don't you think we ought to be friends? And if there's any little wish you should have, no matter how private—come to me.” And in the next breath he added: “What did you say the General was doing?”

“He’s expecting Herr Wirrmann and Herr Krafft,” explained Sybille, caught off her guard. The next moment she was appalled by what she had revealed.

Delighted with his cunning, Kater said quickly: “Well, if you should want someone you can really trust—don't hesitate to come to me. You can rely on Kater, you know.”

“You’re keeping me from my work, Captain,” she said coldly.

Kater didn't take offence. He drew a little closer and smiled at her. “I knew a girl once,” he said, “a fine girl she was, all you could ask for. And she had an affair with a lieutenant colonel—a really splendid fellow, one must concede that. The two of them got married later. They had no alternative. There had been too many witnesses, you see. There's not much one can do about that.”

“How awful! “ said Sybille Bachner indignantly.

“You can't really go wrong if you're clever about it. I know a thing or two. And if you should need any advice, my dear young lady, you always know where to find me.”

“Herr Judge-Advocate Wirrmann,” said Major-General Modersohn, “I should like a report please on the progress of your investigation into the death of Lieutenant Barkow.”

The General stood with Judge-Advocate Wirrmann and Lieutenant Krafft before him. At the back of the room at a little table of her own sat Sybille Bachner with a shorthand notebook in front of her.

Wirrmann began evasively: “Might I be allowed,” He said, “to draw the General's attention to the fact that I consider it inadvisable just now to make such a report in the presence of a third party?”

“I note your point,” said the General. “Would you kindly begin your report?”

Sybille Bachner took down every word in shorthand, including all the various flowery turns of phrase. As far as possible she kept her eyes on the three men before her as she worked: the upright figure of the General, the court-martial expert, wily and tense, and Krafft, relaxed almost to the point of slovenliness. For Krafft imagined himself unobserved, and felt superfluous there, though he was wrong on both counts. Sybille Bachner saw that the General was noting every one of the Lieutenant's reactions carefully.

“As far as any investigations into the matter are concerned, General,” Wirrmann began, choosing his words carefully, “I’m inclined to think they can be regarded as closed. Apart from the preliminary summary of evidence against person or persons unknown, drawn up by yourself, General, I had the following relevant material at my disposal: a sketch map and three photographs; a store inventory; the doctor's postmortem; three affidavits from experts, including those of two officers who had concluded their pioneering training and had had practical experience of explosives at the front. In addition, nine personal statements, two of which came from officers on the teaching staff of the training school, the remaining seven from cadets who can be regarded as eyewitnesses.”

“I’m familiar with the documents in the case,” said the General. “What interests me is the result of your investigations, Judge-Advocate.”

Wirrmann nodded. It was plain from his expression that he felt offended. Once again the General had obviously intended to humiliate him.

“Well, General,” he said, “ after an exhaustive study of all the available documents, and after a thorough examination of all doubtful and -debatable points, or points that were from my own point of view obscure, I have come to the following conclusions. Lieutenant Barkow died a violent death. It was caused by the selection of a fuse for the charge which was not only a fast-burning one but of insufficient length. The only real point to be decided was how this fast-burning fuse, of insufficient length, in fact came to be employed. Now here a number of alternatives present themselves. First: a fuse of insufficient length was selected through inadequate expert knowledge. This alternative is excluded because Lieutenant Barkow was an officer of considerable experience in this field. Secondly: the correct and properly selected length of fuse was replaced by another which detonated the charge prematurely. In this case the only possibility is that one of the cadets was responsible. By the very nature of things, however, this too, it seems, can be excluded or at least regarded as extremely improbable. For the cadets' statements all tally. Moreover there seems no indication of what must always be the decisive factors in such cases: motive and opportunity. From which, thirdly, the final and only logical conclusion that presents itself is that it was an error, a mistake, an accident, which caused Lieutenant Barkow's death. Ergo: his death was accidental.”

“If you really believe that,” said the General sharply, “you’re incompetent. But if you only pretend to believe that, then I must regard you as a liar.”

Sybille Bachner looked up from her note-taking in amazement. Never before had she heard Major-General Modersohn use such strong words, so deliberately designed to cause pain. Even his most extreme and devastating disapproval had always been expressed with relative restraint. Sybille Bachner took a deep breath. Her hand trembled slightly—but she went on writing, as she had been told to.

Lieutenant Krafft, however, sat up with a start, and began to listen intently. He looked from Modersohn to Wirrmann with secret delight. And gradually it began to dawn on him that what he was watching was an extraordinarily thrilling and potentially dangerous drama. It was as if he were honored with a special seat in a box.

The Judge-Advocate blushed as red as a beetroot. His composure was astonishing. An expression of deep distress appeared on his face, to be replaced by one of bitter reproach. What he seemed to want to convey was that he had been lamentably misunderstood. More than that: he felt as if he had been treated as a mere insignificant subordinate.

“General,” said Wirrmann in a choked voice, “may I be allowed once again to draw your attention to the fact that I consider it hazardous to make this report in the presence of a third party. Particularly with respect to the points which it now seems cannot avoid being discussed.”

“I repeat: I take note of your suggestion, but I do not accept it. Kindly come to the point.”

“The General really doesn't wish to rest satisfied with my conclusion? Even when I assure him that it represents the best and indeed the only acceptable solution in the circumstances?”

“Even then not.”

The Judge-Advocate mopped his brow with a large red-and-white-striped handkerchief. The General stood there immobile as ever. Krafft now leant forward slightly, and Sybille Bachner hastily grabbed another pencil—her first one had broken.

“Naturally,” said Wirrmann ponderously, “it is possible to draw other conclusions from the documents before us than those which have led me to the final assessment of my investigation. In fact, as the General may have presumed or indeed known, there is a motive of a sort, which could exclude the possibility of an accident or at least render it doubtful. Yet I dare not examine this motive, General—or rather it would involve more than mere daring to do so, it would be a fatal mistake!”

“And why, Judge-Advocate?”

“General, I'm not quite clear what was the exact nature of your relationship with the deceased Lieutenant Barkow ...' “I was his commanding officer—that suffices.”

“Very good, General—whether that suffices or not is of course not for me to decide. But if the General should compel me to look for a possible motive, then this might be found in the abundant and indisputable proof that Lieutenant Barkow repeatedly made subversive remarks about the war effort, and that he used expressions hostile to the Führer and Supreme Commander of the Wehrmacht which could be categorized as high treason. These, General, are crimes which inevitably incur the death penalty. It could be said that this violent death of his saved him from one more shameful.”

“So that's it,” said the General almost inaudibly.

Then Major-General Modersohn slowly turned round, went over to the window, parted the blackout curtains, and flung the windows wide. It was a clear blue ice-cold night outside —moonless and starless. The darkness glowed strangely. It was almost as if this little square of artificial light were the only window viewing the whole world—a world which froze in icy rejection of all things human. The people in the room shuddered at the cold draught of air.

After a while the General swung round and faced his visitors. His complexion seemed to have turned a shade paler. But this could have been explained by the eerie light reflected from the snow which poured in _through the wide-open windows.

“Thank you for your remarks, Judge-Advocate,” said the General. “I note the fact that you regard your investigations as closed. Your duty in my command is thereby concluded. You will report back to the headquarters of the Inspector of Training first thing to-morrow morning. I hope you have a pleasant journey, Judge-Advocate.”

Wirrmann stood up. He saluted and left the room. Both pride and satisfaction were evident in his gait. He felt confident now that victory was his. Casualties had been heavy, but victory was his! And he felt sure that next time he would not only beat this dangerous opponent but destroy him altogether.

“Fräulein Bachner,” said the General after Wirrmann had gone, “please hand me your shorthand note.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.