Forgotten Soldier (48 page)

But could I hold out much longer? I tried desperately to think of something else, but failed. My pains increased, and I broke out in gooseflesh.

Finally, my gut simply opened.

"Move over a little, fellow," I said, grimacing. "I've got terrible diarrhea, and I can't wait any more."

The truck was making a lot of noise, and no one seemed to hear me. I shoved with my elbows, and shouted louder. The fellows on either side of me moved back about four inches, but paid no further attention. I could feel myself blushing with embarrassment. I tried to undo my clothes, jostling one of my neighbors.

"What's the hurry?" he said. "You'll be able to crap when we get there."

"But I'm sick, damn it."

He muttered something and moved one of his feet, although there was really nowhere to put it. No one laughed; in fact, everybody seemed entirely indifferent to my plight. I struggled desperately with my clothes, but in the cramped space, encumbered with all my equipment, I was unable to free the lower half of my body. Finally, I realized there was nothing I could do. My bowels emptied, pouring a stream of vile liquid down my legs. No one seemed even to notice my condition, which left me in a state of indescribable misery. My stomach was knotted with pain, and I collapsed into a stupefied torpor which prevented me from appreciating the ridiculous aspects of my situation. In fact, the situation was not particularly funny. I was really seriously ill, and my head was spinning and burning with fever. This was the first attack of a chronic dysentery which has plagued me ever since.

Our journey continued for a considerable time, during which I suffered two further attacks of uncontrollable diarrhea. Although my state of filth was scarcely aggravated by these eruptions, I would gladly have exchanged ten years of my life for a chance to clean off and fall asleep in a warm bed. I was shaken by alternate fits of shivers and burning heat, and the pain in my intestines grew more and more intense.

After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at our new camp, and I was dragged from the truck for roll call. My head was swimming, but, although fainting would have guaranteed the quickest route to the infirmary, I struggled to remain conscious. Somehow, I managed to stay upright among my comrades, each preoccupied with his own fate. However, my ghastly appearance did not escape the attention of the inspecting officer, and my gasping replies to his questions interrupted the regular rhythm of roll call.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked.

"I'm sick ... I ... I . . . " I was barely able to stammer a reply, and saw him only as a blurred and shifting silhouette.

"What's bothering you?"

"My stomach . . . I have a fever ... Could I please go and wash, Herr . . ."

"Take him to the medical service as an urgent case," continued the officer, speaking to a subordinate.

The latter stepped forward and took me by the arm. Someone was actually trying to help me! I could hardly believe it.

"I've got acute diarrhea, and I have to clean off," I groaned as we tottered off.

"You'll find everything you need in the sanitary block, Kamerad."

At the infirmary, I stood in line behind some thirty other men. The pains in my abdomen tore at my entrails with an intensity which made me scream. I knew that my gut was about to pour out some more filth. I staggered from the line, trying to make my step firm, and followed the signs to the latrine. When that series of intestinal explosions was finished, I hesitated before pulling up my revolting trousers. Although I was in an incredible state of filth, I noticed that my excrement was streaked with blood. I went back to the infirmary to stand in line for another half hour.

Then my turn came. One after the other, I peeled off my nauseating rags.

"My God, what a stink," exclaimed one of the orderlies, whose outlook was probably identical with that of the motto over the gate of our training camp: EIN LAUS, DER TOD!

I looked at the long table where members of the sanitary service were sitting like judges. The only plea I could possibly make was guilty. "Dysenteric diarrhea," muttered one of the judges, obviously shocked by the shit which ran down below my knees.

"Get to the showers, you pig," the other said. "We'll look at you when you're clean."

"There's nothing I'd like better. You don't know how long I've been dreaming of a shower."

"Right over that way," said the first fellow, who was clearly anxious to be rid of me.

I threw my coat over my bony shoulders, and went across to the showers. Luckily, no one was there but a bewildered-looking boy who was scrubbing the floor.

"Any hot water in the showers?"

"Do you want hot water?" His voice was gentle and friendly.

"Do you have any?"

"Yes. Two big vats for 16th Company laundry. I could let you have some, though. The showers only run cold."

Through my fever, I saw him as another bastard who'd do a favor for cigarettes or something else.

"I don't have any cigarettes."

"That doesn't matter. I don't smoke."

I stood where I was, considerably surprised.

"Well, then, could you do it right away?"

But the fellow was already hurrying off. "Go in there," he said, pointing over his shoulder to an open cubicle. "You'll be more comfortable."

Two minutes later he was back, carrying two buckets of steaming water.

"Were you at the front?" he asked.

I looked at him, wondering what he was trying to find out. He was still smiling his foolish smile.

"Yes. And I've had enough of it, too, if you want to know. I'm sick and disgusted."

"It must be terrible ... Feldwebel Hulf says that pretty soon now he'll be sending me off to get killed."

I went on with the extraordinary relief of washing off my backside, but looked up at him with some surprise.

"There are always fellows like that, who enjoy sending other fellows out to get it in the neck. What do you do?"

"I was called up three months ago. I left Herr Feshter, and after basic training in Poland was enrolled in the Gross Deutschland."

"That's a familiar story," I thought to myself.

"Who's Herr Feshter?"

"My boss. A little strict, but nice anyway. I've worked for him since I was a kid."

"Your parents sent you out so young?"

"I don't have any parents. Herr Feshter took me straight from the orphanage. There's a lot of work on his farm."

I stared at him: someone else whose luck had been a little thin. He was still smiling. I clutched my stomach, which once again felt as if it might explode.

"What's your name?"

"Frosch. Helmut Frosch."

"Thank you, Frosch. Now I must try to get into the infirmary."

I was preparing to leave when I noticed a short, thickset figure standing in the doorway watching us. Before I could say a word, the man shouted: "Frosch!"

Frosch spun around, and ran back to the wet rag he'd left on the floor. I went out slowly, trying to pass by unnoticed. But the feldwebel in any case was concentrating on Frosch.

"Frosch! You left your work. Why?"

"I was only asking him about the war, sergeant."

"You were forbidden to talk during punishment fatigue, Frosch, except to answer my questions."

Frosch was about to reply when a sonorous whack cut him short. I looked back. The feld's hand, which had just given it to Frosch full in the face, was still raised. I took myself off as fast as I could, as a torrent of abuse poured over my unfortunate companion.

"Bastard!" I shouted silently at the feld.

At the sanitary service, the aide looked at me without enthusiasm. I understood immediately that he was one of these fastidious fellows for whom a day of filthy scarecrows like myself was less than a pleasure, especially as he received no fees to encourage civility. He fingered all my parts, poking me a little all over, and concluded his examination by sticking his finger into my mouth to check the condition of my teeth. Then he added a string of numbers and letters to a card clipped to my papers, and I was sent down the line of tables to the surgical service. Five or six fellows there checked my documents and asked me to remove some of the clothes I'd thrown over my shoulders. A brute who must have been a wild man of the woods in civilian life gave me a shot in the left pectoral muscle, and I was taken to the hospital hut, where there were beds for the officially disabled. My papers were checked once again, and then, like a miracle, I was shown to a bed-which in fact was only a simple pallet covered with gray cloth. There were no sheets or blankets, but it was nonetheless a genuine bed on a wooden frame, in a dry room protected by a roof.

I collapsed onto the bed, to relish its comforts. My head was ringing with fever, and filled with a host of half-realized impressions. I had grown so used to sleeping on the ground that the degree of well being a soft, clean mattress can induce struck me with astonishment. The room was full of cots like mine on which fellows were lying, whimpering and groaning. But I paid no more attention to them than one does to a hotel carpet which is not entirely to one's liking. I felt almost lightheaded with well-being, despite the pain which tore at my entrails. I took off some of my clothes and spread my filthy coat and ground sheet over my body instead of blankets, burying myself in them and in the sense that I had been saved. I lay like that for a long time, trying to control the cramps which knotted my guts.

After a while, two orderlies arrived, carrying a cumbersome piece of equipment. Without a word of warning, they pulled off my covers.

"Turn over, kamerad, and let us have a look at your ass. We want to clean out your gut."

Before I understood what was happening, they had administered a copious enema, and moved on to the next patient, leaving me with some five quarts of medicated liquid gurgling painfully in my distended abdomen.

I don't know anything about medicine, but an enema has always struck me as a strange treatment for someone who is suffering from excessively frequent evacuations. The fact is that two repetitions of this operation enormously increased the misery of the next day and night, which I spent tottering to and from the latrine. This was situated some distance from the infirmary, which meant fighting the strong, icy wind which blew continuously. Any benefits I might have received from this amount of time ostensibly resting in bed were thus reduced to almost nothing.

Two days later, I was pronounced cured, and sent back to my company on rubber legs. My company-the one which had been organized as an assault group-was stationed in the immediate vicinity, only five or six miles from divisional headquarters, in a tiny hamlet which had been half abandoned by the Russian civilian population. Despite my intense joy at reuniting with my friends all of whom were present, including Olensheim-my condition remained as precarious as it had been the day before I went to the infirmary.

My close friends, Hals, Lensen, and the veteran, made a special effort over me, and did everything they could to help me get well. Above all, they insisted on pouring large quantities of vodka down my throat -which, according to them, was the only reliable remedy for my complaint. However, my precipitate visits to the latrine continued despite these excellent attentions, and the sight of my bloody excrement worried even the veteran, who went with me on these trips in case I fainted. Twice, on the urging of my friends, I tried to re-enter the hospital, which was inundated with wounded from the battle of Kiev. But my papers, stating that I had been cured, presented an insuperable barrier.

I began to look like a tragic protagonist, made of some curious, white diaphanous substance, instead of flesh and blood. I no longer left the pallet which had been given to me in one of the isbas. Fortunately, a reduced service requirement allowed me to stay where I was. Several times, my friends took guard duty for me and did the other jobs which would ordinarily have been required of me. Everything was going well in the company, which was still commanded by Wesreidau. Unfortunately, we were still in a combat zone, which meant that at any minute we might be sent to some exposed position. Wesreidau knew that I would not be able to function in combat conditions as well as I knew it myself.

One evening, about a week after I'd left the infirmary, I became delirious, and was completely unaware of a fierce aerial battle which took place directly overhead.

"From some points of view, you're really the lucky one," Hals joked.

Hals even went to speak to Wesreidau about me. But, before he was able to explain himself, Wesreidau stood up and smiled.

"My boy, we'll be pulling out almost immediately. They're sending us to an occupied zone at least sixty miles farther west. We'll have a certain amount to do there, but even so it will seem like a holiday after this. Tell your sick friend to hang on for another twenty-four hours and spread the news that we're moving. We'll all be better off."

Hals clicked his heels hard enough to shatter his shins, and burst out of Wesreidau's quarters like a hurricane. He looked into every but he passed, shouting out the good news. When he reached us, he shook me from my torpor.

"You're saved, Sajer! You're saved!" he shouted. "We'll be leaving soon for a real rest." He turned to a couple of fellows who shared the hut with us. "We've got to get all the quinine we can for him. He has to hang on another twenty-four hours."

Despite my overwhelming weakness, Hals's intense joy communicated itself to me, and ran through me like a restorative balm.

"You're saved!" he said again. "And just think: with a fever like yours, they're bound to take you in a hospital-and they won't cut it off your leave either. You are a lucky dog!"

Every time I moved I felt it in my stomach, which seemed to be rapidly liquefying. Nonetheless, I began to collect my things. Everyone around me was doing the same. I put my packet of letters within easy reach. A voluminous backlog of correspondence had been kept for me by the divisional postal service. There were at least a dozen letters from Paula, which greatly eased my illness, as well as three from my parents, full of questions, anxiety, and reproaches about my long silence. There was even one from Frau Neubach. Somehow I found the strength to write everyone, although my fever undoubtedly interfered with the coherence of my messages.