Friedr and Wim 1916 - 1927

By Teresa van der Kraan

For those long years on the Western Front, they had known only war. They carried it with them even now, as they marched home with holes in their boots, broken, defeated. The only thing keeping Friedrich upright, placing one foot in front of the other, was his best friend's presence by his side. While Wilhelm still cared for him, still needed him, he could never forget the promise they had made: together, or not at all.
Friedrich had never wanted to be a soldier. He had questioned it every time he raised his Mauser on the front line. Now, he could not comprehend a world without it. All that he saw was trivial, indifferent, empty. Wilhelm had longed to wear the uniform, to share the promised glory, to build a greater Germany. He returned to a broken nation, a nation without its soul. He would do anything to rebuild it.
The echoes of the Great War lingered in Germany long after the guns had fallen silent. Spanning the years 1916-1927, 'Friedr and Wim' explores two young men's experience of war on the Western Front, and the social, economic and, above all, personal impacts upon German and individual consciousness that followed. Throughout, the power of friendship remains an anchor in the storm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teresa van der Kraan
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005814748

Teresa van der Kraan

Teresa van der Kraan was born in Australia to European parents, and has been interested in writing fiction since a very young age. She has been involved since age 14 in local writing initiatives and centres in her home town of Armidale, NSW. As of 2014, Teresa undertook university study at the University of New England (UNE), graduating in 2018 with a Bachelors Degree majoring in International History. She completed her Honours degree in 2019, on the subject of veterans in Weimar Germany, and as of 2020 has begun writing her PhD thesis on German and Austrian fascism. In her free time, Teresa is a horror movie addict, and loves to spend time with friends and her cats.

Book preview

Who helped inspire my love of history

And who always read to the end.

1914

From the outcrop of a hill overlooking the street, two teenaged boys cast their eyes upon the largest procession of soldiers they had ever seen. The drumming of thousands of feet filled the cloudless afternoon with a sound like falling rain, like a storm. It seemed that every eligible man in Frankfurt had been called up that day.

Along the distant street the men marched, identical in their field grey uniforms and soldiers’ Picklehaubes. They had already passed the city centre, but the bayonets on their shoulders, the imperial flags rippling at intervals between them, did not sag or falter.

Friedrich, aged fifteen and the elder boy by several months, rested his arms over his school satchel as he lay prostrate, gazing down at the mobilisation that his best friend, Wilhelm, had so desperately wanted to see. They had rushed there on their bicycles the moment class was finished, and were still winded from the ride.

"Es ist wirklich passiert, Friedrich muttered, arching his eyebrows. I was convinced something at the last second would stop it… I thought it was all sabre-rattling."

Beside him, the fourteen-year-old Wilhelm was rocking back and forth on his knees with excitement.

I am so glad we did not miss seeing this! he exclaimed, also in German, his voice higher than Friedrich’s, still a boy’s. "Siehst du, Friedr! They are off to make the French and English sorry for pushing us about! I wish we could go with them!" His voice sagged with undisguised yearning.

Below, paperboys were running along the outskirts of the procession, yelling out the news in hoarse voices: armies around the world were preparing to mobilize. Women in long dresses decorated the soldiers with flowers, handing bouquets to the men on the edges, or throwing loose flowers over the procession. Several soldiers had flowers woven around their bayonets. Men still dressed in civilian clothes passed boxes of cigarettes and chocolate to their uniformed countrymen, shouting that they would welcome them home by Christmas.

They should let us enlist, don’t you think? Wilhelm went on eagerly. Just give me a Mauser; I will fight as hard as any of them!

It is the army’s loss, really, said Friedrich. Wilhelm laughed boisterously, and Friedrich smiled in spite of himself.

He turned over onto his back, gazing up at a pale blue sky, finding it more agreeable than the sight below, which so captivated Wilhelm. Though he would not admit it, Friedrich was already weary of all the clamour about the war. They had endured hours of it in class only that day, their teacher, Herr Hoss, waxing lyrical about the Fatherland and the noble duty their elders were undertaking. He told them that they too were part of Deutschland’s great Eisenjungend; men little older than they were, would push bravely through to victory. Yet Friedrich felt little desire to be honoured like those men. If he really thought on it, it bothered him that he could not really even understand why it was happening. The reasons he had been given in class simply did not seem adequate to explain it.

With his gaze he chased the floaters in his eyes, white dots and translucent snakes darting across the bright sky. He looked forward to going home to his father Erich and their farm, where only the animals and the wheat fields demanded his attention.

Friedrich was a handsome boy, with dark, chestnut-brown hair, pale, angular features and brown eyes with a reflective, sometimes distant quality. Wilhelm had a rounder face, steely blonde hair; a dimple upon his chin, and on either cheek when he smiled.

Would you enlist if you were of age? Wilhelm pursued.

Friedrich hesitated. I have not really thought about it. I would probably just wait for the call. He sat up, and picked up his satchel. I don’t like the idea of going to war, he said at last.

Wilhelm laughed. "I knew you would say that! But everyone knows a Frenchman can’t fight to save his ass. They are still crying from the last war! They will probably surrender on the first day. –You know, I heard there is a new howitzer that fires shells about ten thousand metres! I would love to see that in action; they won’t know what hit them! —I wish I could enlist! he moaned again, beating his school shoes against the turf. But you would have to come with me, Friedr. I would not go without you."

Then it is a good thing it will be over before we are of age, Friedrich said, getting to his feet. Come on, Wim. Papa will have dinner in the oven by now. Want to join us? Or are your parents expecting you home?

I do not give a damn what Gerhard expects, said Wilhelm, scrambling to gather his things.

They hitched their satchels onto their backs, and sprinted back down the slope to collect their bicycles, which they had thrown haphazardly down at the base of the hill.

Race you to the train-tracks! cried Friedrich; and they set off side-by-side, pedalling furiously, bent low over the handlebars.

Chapter One

January, 1916

On one of Friedrich’s boots, a lace had come loose. It flapped to and fro as he ran, tips heavy with mud. In one awful moment, it caught beneath the sole of his opposing shoe, sticking to the mud already caked there—and with a lurching sensation in his stomach, he fell.

A shell hole, deeper than he was tall, rushed upward to meet him. Friedrich threw forth his arms to break his fall, losing his grip on his rifle as he did so; his knee collided painfully with its wooden handle in the base of the pit. Mud enveloped him up to the elbows, drops of filthy water flecking the gas mask around his neck.

Friedrich struggled to free himself, fighting the pull of the earth. When his arms slid from the mire, he overbalanced, collapsing onto his back. He dug his heels into the yielding soil, propelling his body backward until he was pressed against the soft wall of the hole. He pressed a hand to his mask, pushing it against his sweaty face, struggling to pull it over his head. If phosgene gas were to seep down into the hole, Friedrich would have no choice but to attempt to climb out, and risk a swifter death by gunshot.

With his free arm, he seized his fallen Mauser, holding it against him like a frightened child. He shifted it lower to make sure that the bayonet was not protruding above the ground. His breath came in short, rasping snorts behind his mask; he was shivering from head to toe, yet at the same time sweating profusely.

Artillery shook the earth, whistling over him; Friedrich winced and cowered against the wall as shrapnel rained down, clinking against his helmet. A few dirt clods fell from the lip of the hole, landing near his feet.

Above, men were yelling, though whether they were comrades or enemies, Friedrich could no longer tell. No word of any language could he distinguish over the shrill ringing in his ears.

Glancing upward, he could see nothing but a stretch of pale, cloudless sky; no landmark by which he might orientate himself. In the time it would take to locate the sanctity of German lines, he would almost certainly be shot—if not by the French, then by his own comrades, who would have little way of distinguishing him from a hostile soldier if they saw him clamouring from the pit with his gun in hand, unrecognizable in his suit of grey mud.

A pink worm twisted in the soil by his foot, writhing back and forth as if in agony. Above, a machine gun erupted—a series of hard, sharp shots, rat-tat-tat.

Beads of sweat slid down the back of Friedrich’s neck. Already he was losing all feeling in his legs. A tightness stole into his chest at the thought of Wilhelm, who had been by his side seconds before. Friedrich knew that he would have no chance of locating him again until the barrage had ceased. If he were to find him struck down in no-man’s-land, dead at only sixteen, Friedrich knew, with no shadow of doubt in his heart, that he would die too. He would shoot himself to join Wilhelm in a place without war.

It seemed impossible that he and Wilhelm had travelled Europe together with Friedrich’s father, almost penniless but totally carefree, for several months during the spring of 1913. It seemed impossible that he had once eaten fine food, been driving in an automobile, been to the theatre. It seemed impossible that two years ago, he had watched soldiers march to war, feeling safe in the knowledge that his youth, his father’s love, some governmental or divine initiative would always protect him. Everything before seemed so distant now, it was as if the memories were not his at all.

Friedrich clenched his eyes shut, and felt sweat trickle down the sides of his face. He remained where he was, even as the earth shook beneath him, and loose dirt rained over him.

The minutes stretched into hours; the lonely patch of sky faded from blue to purple, and from purple to black. The Front became silent, eerily so, yet Friedrich’s ears did not stop ringing from the barrage. Still he did not dare remove himself from the shell hole, lest enemy snipers lurked out of sight beyond it.

As night fell, cold stole deeper into him, penetrating his bruised, aching body. The mud began to dry upon his uniform, stiffening the fabric. He lost all feeling in his fingers and toes; his teeth chattered beneath his mask. The world seemed to become dimmer, calmer, less egregious. Friedrich welcomed it.

His rifle slid deeper into the hole as his grasp slackened; his head slumped back against the soft wall. His friends had been by his side… Wilhelm, Liebermann, Iskowitz… where were they now? Had they made it back to the trenches?

He saw them in his mind, crisp in their new soldiers’ uniforms, on the train on the way to France, almost a year ago. After months of training, it was Friedrich and Wilhelm’s first journey into the war, and Wilhelm —whose uniform had not quite fitted him, his helmet too big for his head— could not wait to replace the drudgery of training with real service to his country.

They had formed friendships in their spartan train carriage, as they clattered through the countryside on the way to the Western Front. There was Liebermann, who had taught them to play Schafkopf with a deck of cards; Brandt, who talked excitedly about the new weapons they would use; Iskowitz, the eldest in their group, who had shown Friedrich a photograph of his daughter; and Schmidt, who had seldom looked up from his book, but had provided them with their first packages of cigarettes.

They had been filled with the determination, confidence and enthusiasm of very young men. In Friedrich’s mind, there had loomed a vague dread, but he could not remember truly being frightened—perhaps because he had not known then what it really meant to be frightened.

Friedrich began to stir only when he heard distant shouting in German. For an instant, he was totally out of sorts, truly believing that he was elsewhere… he could even hear Wilhelm’s voice… but it was different now, a man’s voice, the joy gone.

A moment later, the pain came back to him in its entirety, his limbs searing, so stiff that he could barely move them at all. A fresh cramp erupted in his neck as he lifted his head from its pillow of mire. The calling soldiers were drifting away.

Finding new strength in his desperation, Friedrich forced himself into a kneeling position, his knees sinking into the cold mud. Shifting his gas mask, he attempted to call out to the men, but his voice escaped as no more than a soundless croak.

Friedrich pulled the mask back over his face, and forced his numb hands to grasp the barrel of his rifle, dropping it several times before he established a firm hold. The tail end he waved in the air, beating it against the side of the hole, as vigorously as he was able.

For a moment he waited, terrified that his actions would provoke an onslaught of bullets from one or both sides. The searching voices were silent for a moment; then Friedrich heard one of them exclaim: "Da drüben!"

Footfalls hastened towards him. An instant later, two young men appeared over the rim of the shell hole, both armed with Mausers, their gas masks hanging around their necks.

Relief flooded into Friedrich at the sight of Wilhelm and Liebermann. Wilhelm’s face was pale and sweaty, his grey eyes narrowed beneath his helmet as he squinted down into the pit, trying to identify the filthy soldier.

Liebermann —a tall, thin youth of twenty, with gangling limbs and a shock of curling red hair— slowly lowered his gun, his sharp eyes discerning what Wilhelm’s could not.

Friedrich let his mask fall around his neck, revealing his tired countenance, the only part of him not smeared with soil, his eyes shining and alive.

Wilhelm’s expression slackened into relief. "Friedr. Danke Gott. Danke Gott!"

"Alles gut, Adler? said Liebermann. We thought you were done for!"

No doubt… you– you are disappointed you won’t be inheriting my boots, Friedrich panted, as Wilhelm and Liebermann hoisted him out of the pit.

Wilhelm uttered a loud, hearty laugh. He drew Friedrich into a tight embrace, beating his hands against his back, provoking fresh stings from his aching limbs.

You are alright, eh? he asked, withdrawing from the hug to inspect Friedrich at arm’s length, his face pinched with concern.

Nothing that a good drink won’t cure, my friend, Friedrich replied.

Too bad we don’t have any, muttered Liebermann.

Chuckling, Wilhelm hoisted Friedrich’s arm over his own shoulder, and helped him to walk, while Liebermann relieved him of his rifle. Friedrich’s steps gradually became steadier as the feeling returned to his legs; and soon he was able to walk unaided.

Liebermann was hoping to inherit Schmidt’s boots, Wilhelm went on conversationally. He had the nicest boots in our entire company– but ironically, his leg has been blown off at the thigh, and we have been unable to find it! He laughed again, albeit in a harsher manner than before.

Friedrich looked towards Liebermann, feeling rather light-headed; Liebermann did not meet his gaze.

Schmidt is dead? Friedrich asked in numb surprise, his voice hoarse. He had never been exceptionally close to Schmidt, but what little talk they had exchanged had always been friendly.

"Nein. He is off to the field hospital, Liebermann said softly. …But I think he is a goner. You learn to tell these things. We are almost never wrong these days."

"…Ja, murmured Friedrich, nodding slowly. But I hope this is an exception."

The three of them continued over the dark ground with careful steps, avoiding pits, depressions, and any stretch of unbroken turf that might harbour an undetonated mine.

They are also out there, picking up their wounded, Liebermann soon informed Friedrich. With any luck, we will actually get some sleep tonight.

That would be a welcome change, Friedrich muttered, throwing a compulsive glance over his shoulder towards the French line.

—But you must laugh! Wilhelm exclaimed suddenly, startling them both. You– must– laugh!

About what? Friedrich asked.

Schmidt of course! Luckless bastard! His leg was blown off, and it w-went s-sailing through the air— Wilhelm made a broad, sweeping motion with his arm, gasping with laughter; —and his boot along with it! Just a worthless piece of meat with a good boot on it– but we cannot find it anywhere! He shook his head, and guffawed with rasping snorts. Soldiers are disposable, but a good pair of boots? That is hard to come by!

Forgive me for not laughing, Wim, Friedrich said with a sigh. If Schmidt is unfortunate enough to wake up in hospital, the loss of his leg will be the last thing he knows before he dies.

"Ja, gut, said Wilhelm, impatiently waving a hand, the amusement now gone from him, as suddenly as it had come. Then he would have done better to take a bullet in the head from one of us. At least that way he would be spared the humiliation of being killed by those French devils."

To them, we are the devils. We are on their land, after all. Friedrich shook his head, feeling the dried mud cracking over his neck. It is all so confusing. I have never understood exactly why we are fighting in the first place.

We are fighting to protect the German Empire, Wilhelm said firmly, for what felt like the umpteenth time; and because France resents us for previous war efforts. It is no fault of ours!

With a shrug, Liebermann interposed: My father said it all happened because of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand.

That is an over-simplification, said Wilhelm. Your father must be a fool. Things were bad even before that. Do you not follow the news? The Balkan Wars. And those Serbian agitators! I can tell you exactly how we came to be here!

I had enough lectures at the gymnasium; the one thing I like about the war is I don’t have to hear any more, Liebermann said idly.

Well, the Empire reacted as it should have, Wilhelm said indignantly. War was inevitable!

Or perhaps Austria-Hungary and the Kaiser are just belligerent, Friedrich said dispassionately.

You are being perverse for the sake of it, Friedr, Wilhelm said irritably. Do not let Schröder hear you speak that way; he will have you court-martialled. I for one would rather be shot dead in the war, than stand by and watch everything go to rack and ruin, and France gain world power!

You are sounding more like your father every day, Friedrich said wearily.

Do not talk to me about that drunkard, grumbled Wilhelm, who had had no contact with his father, Gerhard Krüller, since they had left Germany. He says he is a proud nationalist, yet I do not see him out here on the Front defending the Fatherland!

Liebermann chuckled. That is always the way.

It seems none are more dedicated to the war than those who do not leave their doorsteps, agreed Friedrich, smiling wryly.

He slates me as a coward, threatens to disown me, Wilhelm went on, ignoring them both; pretends that he has more honour than I do, but he cannot aim a gun to save his life. What a charlatan! He spat on the ground.

Friedrich and Liebermann did not speak, not wishing to further inflame Wilhelm. Falling silent, the three of them continued onward, until they reached the German line. They passed down into the trenches, where their comrades were already assembled, a few of them nursing superficial wounds; the gravely injured had already been transported from the front line.

As nobody seemed to have any clear idea as to when they would be moved back to the barracks, Friedrich had no choice but to resign himself to weathering another night in the reinforced, underground tunnel.

Brandt supplied him with fresh water in a canteen, while Iskowitz handed him his rations of soup and bread; the rest of them had already had their supper. Friedrich ate and drank like a starving man, cleaning his bowl within minutes and draining the canteen almost in one, surprised by how dehydrated he had become in a few hours.

Afterwards, he sat in a circle with Wilhelm, Liebermann and Iskowitz, weariness stinging him behind the eyes as he watched Wilhelm take out his pocketknife, and begin to pick dirt from beneath his fingernails with the shortest blade.

Iskowitz —a stocky man of thirty-two with a thick black moustache— removed a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, and began to roll a cigarette, while Liebermann produced his set of playing cards. They were frayed and dirty now, yet never failed to inspire Liebermann to the same enthusiasm as when Friedrich had first met him. At intervals, the soldiers scratched themselves almost without realising, as lice, always ubiquitous in the trenches, irritated their skin.

Who’s up for a game? Liebermann asked.

What is the point? snorted Wilhelm. Half your cards are missing.

He is no fun, Friedrich said with a smile, scratching his sides. I will play you, Liebermann.

Good man, Adler, Liebermann said with approval, shuffling the cards. But we must have something at stake, to make things interesting… He cast about thoughtfully; then his face brightened. How about the winner gets Iskowitz’s cigarette?

–Do I get a say in this? asked Iskowitz, glancing up from his employment, as the other men laughed.

Nope, Liebermann said simply. He tapped the cards lengthways across his palm to straighten the stack.

You’d be daft to take that bet, boys, interposed Brandt, slumped against the wall beside them. We all know Liebermann wins nine out of ten games.

Brandt was a dark-haired youth of twenty-five, already sporting the shadow of a beard, despite having shaved only that morning.

Well, I am bored, grunted Iskowitz. Here— he dropped the rolled cigarette into the centre of the circle.

I am in too, said Wilhelm, returning his knife to his pocket, and rubbing his hands together in eager anticipation. He removed his helmet, revealing his steely-blonde hair, parted to one side. His skin was noticeably cleaner above the line marked by the rim of his helmet.

As Liebermann dealt the cards between the four of them, Brandt and several of the others —including Weißmann, who was a corporal; Brenner, who worked in the canteen; and Pohl, who alone amongst the company had been Friedrich and Wilhelm’s classmate in school— came to watch.

Weißmann, a thin young man with an earnest face and dark hair, caught Friedrich’s eye and gave a small smile, acknowledging his life. Pohl offered no more than a curt nod. Friedrich took this as a sign, however remote, that Pohl was glad to see him alive. Pohl was a stout young man with blonde hair and a dour face. Wilhelm had bullied him periodically in the gymnasium, once pulling down Pohl’s trousers in front of their classmates. Through association, Pohl had never behaved too kindly towards Friedrich.

Brandt helped himself to a mug of ersatz coffee from the paltry canteen that had been set up further down the trench to keep the soldiers fed. Liebermann, Wilhelm, Iskowitz and Friedrich lifted their cards, each holding his hand out of sight of the other three.

Brandt stood over them with a lock of dark-brown hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, sipping his coffee. You should raise the stakes further, he suggested with a grin, and make it so that the loser must run naked across the French line.

This was met by an outpouring of raucous laughter.

That would scare them all to death! cried Liebermann.

"Ja, ja, ja!! roared Wilhelm, slapping his thighs; if I lose, I will run over there and show them what a real man looks like!" He grasped the front of his trousers, between his legs. Iskowitz snorted, shaking his head.

They would appreciate a good laugh, no doubt, Friedrich remarked archly. If they die in hysterics, we will win the war.

The men all howled with amusement, Wilhelm placing his arm around Friedrich and shaking him, appearing totally merry for the first time in Friedrich’s recent memory.

Friedrich soon found himself grinning and laughing with the rest of them. He did not want to think of anything beyond that moment, beyond those earthen walls, their temporary sanctuary.

The game itself lasted for perhaps an hour. Brandt bobbed around the players all the while, glancing at their cards, and pulling indicative faces over each man’s shoulder for their competitors to interpret.

Liebermann won in the end, and smoked the proposed cigarette with satisfaction and aplomb. Wilhelm threw down his cards in disapprobation, accusing Brandt of assisting Liebermann in his victory.

Shortly afterwards, the company commander, Sergeant Schröder, called them all to order, and announced that he had just received communication from the barracks; apparently, they were to be transported early in the morning, for a few days’ relief from the trenches.

Relieved, the soldiers settled down for the remainder of the night, dimming their oil lamps, Weißmann distributing thin grey blankets amongst the others. Friedrich removed his jacket, turning it inside-out, then folding it over several times, so that it could function as a makeshift pillow.

Prior to joining the army, Friedrich had been a light sleeper, easily roused by any noise, however slight. Much to his surprise, he was now usually able to slumber undisturbed even with a man snoring loudly less than a metre away.

Most nights, some soldiers would wake and talk in whispers to their neighbours. Others would masturbate, attempting to muffle their quickening breath. Others would cry with muted sobs, well into the morning hours. Many got up during the course of the night, to relieve themselves in the latrines outside. Some of them talked in their sleep; some awoke with cries of horror.

Friedrich had witnessed all of it, done it all himself; and none of it affected him any more. He had ceased to have any real concept of privacy, perhaps even of decency. The trenches created their own rules. There was rarely an inch of room to spare, and he would sleep wedged between Wilhelm and Liebermann, finding comfort in the familiar contours of their bodies. The thought of ever having an entire room to himself, as he had had at home, seemed alien to him now.

He was on the verge of sleep, when Wilhelm spoke beside him. Friedr, are you awake?

…Mhn, grunted Friedrich, forcing his eyes open; there was just enough light for him to discern Wilhelm’s face. He was sitting beside him with his arms around his knees; Friedrich was struck anew by how very young he was.

Without preamble, Wilhelm whispered: If I had found you dead today, I would have put a bullet in my head. He nodded swiftly, his jaw clenched. Yes– I would have.

…Do not talk that way, Wim, mumbled Friedrich, his voice hoarse. He hesitated for a moment, then added in dull resignation: But I am the same. You are the only reason I am still here. There is nothing else… that means enough…

"You must believe in the war, breathed Wilhelm, but his voice trembled. He drew a long, rasping breath, rubbing his brow with one hand. Very quietly, he continued: I believe in it, but I am not strong enough… on my own."

Friedrich stared at him, as Brandt’s snores punctured the silence between them. He wanted to speak, to comfort him; but no words came.

Eventually, Wilhelm lowered himself onto the ground beside his friend, using his own jacket for a pillow; Friedrich provided him with a portion of blanket, and then placed his arms around him, holding him as he would hold a child, a brother, a lover.

Wilhelm grasped Friedrich’s hand in both of his own, and held it tightly. Friedrich lay awake, not wanting to think of the past again, yet unable to bring himself to imagine any kind of future.

Only when Wilhelm’s grip had slackened, and his breathing had become deep and steady, did Friedrich finally permit himself to lapse into unconsciousness—blissful and dreamless. He awoke a few hours later, to tremors in the earth and the sounds of fresh artillery on the Front.

Chapter Two

Returning from the Front later that day, Schröder’s company contained approximately two-thirds of its original complement. An abandoned factory several kilometres from the front line had been transformed into temporary barracks to house the infantry division. Few remarks were made about the newly empty beds in the barracks; soon enough, they would be occupied by fresh soldiers.

After the men had changed into clean fatigues, Friedrich suggested to Wilhelm and Liebermann that, when they had time to spare, they ought to visit Schmidt in the field hospital.

They made the journey in the late afternoon. Their morale was higher than it had been in the trenches; Friedrich found that he was able to ignore, quite comfortably, the distant sounds of bombardment still audible from the front line.

What I miss the most, Wilhelm said as they walked, is good food. If I could, I would eat food enough for an entire army. None of this slop they give us here; real food. Good roast, and strong drink. Fine sausage and fresh bread. And strudel. He lit a cigarette that he had rolled earlier, and shook the flame from the match. Mountains of strudel!

You are a simple man, Friedrich said with a smile, easily satisfied with the best of everything.

Wilhelm enjoyed this, and laughed long and hard. He permitted both Friedrich and Liebermann to take a drag from his cigarette.

–And what about you, eh Liebermann? he then asked, as Liebermann handed the cigarette back to him. What do you miss?

Women, Liebermann said simply.

…Women, Friedrich repeated, in a tone of feigned contemplation. If only such mythical creatures really existed.

Wilhelm and Liebermann chuckled. Their merriment subsided as they drew nearer to the field hospital. It was in its usual state of feverish activity, medics hastening between the rows of beds, as the cries of anguishing soldiers filled the air. At the entrance, the three young men were met by a flustered nurse: a middle-aged woman with a lined, serious face, her dark blonde hair gathered back into a tight bun beneath her cap.

Friedrich recalled that this particular nurse, Magda, had treated him once before, when he had sustained a gash to his calf, several months ago. He smiled at her now, but the sight of him generated no sign of recognition in her. He was faceless to her, one of thousands of transient patients, his wounds not shocking enough to create any lasting impression.

Can I help you lads? she asked.

We were wondering– is Schmidt here? Friedrich inquired in a low voice.

Schmidt? Magda repeated distractedly. You have to be more specific, dear. We have had a lot of Schmidts.

Friedrich hesitated; only then did he realise that he did not know Schmidt’s forename. He glanced at Liebermann, but Liebermann merely shook his head with his eyebrows raised and his underlip jutting out.

Ulrich, Wilhelm interjected, gazing at the nurse over Friedrich’s shoulder. His name is Ulrich. He is in our company—infantry. He would have come in yesterday. His leg was blown off.

Ah, yes… Magda cast her eyes downward. I am sorry, boys. I am very sorry. If only you had come an hour earlier… Without elaboration, she turned to resume her duties, jerking her head to her left in so doing, as if she wished to direct their attention to the nearest bed.

Friedrich, Wilhelm and Liebermann leant forth, peering inside the tent.

The soldier in question had already been covered by a white sheet, so that the rest of the men would not have to look at him. His form was easily distinguishable beneath, lying stiff on the mattress. A vibrant patch of blood blossomed over the fabric, tendrils of scarlet sluggishly encroaching over the stretch of empty asymmetry where there ought to have been a leg.

"Scheiße," muttered Wilhelm, turning away. He took a final drag on his cigarette, and extinguished the stub on the turf beneath his boot.

Alright, Krüller? Liebermann asked gently.

"Jawohl, said Wilhelm, exhaling smoke, his eyes narrowing as he gazed towards the westering sun. Nothing I have not seen before."

Well, I am not alright, muttered Friedrich. He placed a hand upon Wilhelm’s shoulder. He was a good man.

Wilhelm gave a stiff nod.

Moving slowly, the three of them began their walk back to the barracks, their shadows lengthening over the worn grass in front of them.

After a minute or two of silence, Wilhelm said in agitation: We should not have come here. It is bad for morale.

…Do you think— Liebermann cleared his throat; —do you think he woke up at all… you know– before the end?

Who the hell knows? grunted Wilhelm. It does not matter anyway.

Friedrich drew a shaking breath. I was afraid to ask, he murmured. I want to believe he did not wake up.

**

They found Iskowitz and Brandt sitting at one of the tables outside the barracks. Like many of the other soldiers, they had removed their shirts, and were burning lice from the seams with matches, frowning and squinting at the delicate work.

Brandt glanced upward as Friedrich, Wilhelm and Liebermann approached.

You lads better not have been chasing French women without me, he said.

Nothing that exciting. Friedrich settled on the bench opposite, with Wilhelm and Liebermann on either side. The three of them tugged off their jackets and undershirts, and joined in the familiar ritual.

What do you say we head down to that town tonight and kick up our heels? Brandt went on. Weißmann says there’s a place down there where the local girls are happy to keep the German army in the fighting spirit, if you know what I mean.

Liebermann grinned. Count me in.

Me too, said Friedrich, without thought.

Wilhelm frowned with disapproval. What do you want with a French woman? There are many good German girls waiting at home.

I can think of a few things I would like to do with a French woman, Krüller, Brandt snickered, lighting a cigarette and dropping the spent match onto the ground. Or a German woman. I am not choosey! But the French women are closer. He hunched his shoulders in a noncommittal way, grinning at the others.

You have all been here too long, Wilhelm grumbled. You have been corrupted by the French way.

Brandt and Liebermann laughed at this, though Friedrich knew that their blasé attitudes were a source of genuine irritation to Wilhelm.

Come on, Wim, Friedrich cajoled, we do not need to be serious all the time. We need something to take our minds off things.

I do not consider morals to coincide only with service hours, Wilhelm said rigidly. War is more than what goes on between the lines. It is not a job to be forgotten once we are off-duty.

You need to have a bit of fun, Krüller, said Liebermann. Otherwise, what’s the point?

I keep forgetting how young you boys are, said Brandt, pointing the glowing butt of his cigarette at Wilhelm and Friedrich. We need to get them blooded, don’t you think Liebermann?

I have had dozens of girls at home! Wilhelm said indignantly. Friedrich glanced down at his boots, not wanting his grin to be too obvious. Do not ridicule me just because I have standards, unlike the rest of you louts!

Well… I have not been as successful as Private Krüller, said Friedrich, his amused tone earning him a glower from Wilhelm; Brandt and Liebermann burst into laughter. In fact, I feel like I have barely even seen a woman, much less been with one. I am a blank slate waiting to be corrupted.

"Ausgezeichnet! said Brandt with a look of exaggerated, devilish glee. You coming too, Iskowitz?"

I’ll join you for a beer, but I have my wife at home, Iskowitz replied unconcernedly, a cigarette waggling between his lips.

As it should be, grumbled Wilhelm, now feigning utmost concentration on his uniform, his face pink. Iskowitz is the only one of you with any decency.

Were you at the field hospital? Iskowitz then inquired, changing the subject.

…Yes, Friedrich replied, his smile fading. We had been hoping to visit Schmidt.

Iskowitz glanced at him, abandoning his pretence of nonchalance, his bushy black eyebrows raised in inquiry. Friedrich simply shook his head.

Pity, Iskowitz said gruffly, returning to his work. I liked Schmidt.

Poor bastard, sighed Brandt. "I did not know. Scheiße. I am sorry. He extended a hand towards Wilhelm. Here. I’ll finish your uniform for a cigarette, Krüller."

Wilhelm passed his shirt to him, pacified. Make sure you do a good job. I do not want more of the little shits hatching before tomorrow.

"Jawhol, Sergeant!" barked Brandt, in mockery of the address they regularly gave to their commanding officer.

Wilhelm began to apportion the remainder of his tobacco into rolling papers to distribute amongst the others, while Brandt worked on his shirt.

You think Schmidt would mind if I took that pocket-watch he used to have? Brandt asked. I always liked that thing.

If they found it, you can bet they will send it home to his mama, said Liebermann.

That will not be much consolation, Friedrich remarked humourlessly.

Besides, Schmidt always thought you were an idiot, Brandt, Wilhelm added. If he had time for any words on his deathbed, he would have said— he assumed a weak, strangled voice: ‘I leave nothing to Brandt!’

Brandt laughed, but as soon as his amusement had subsided, he looked graver than before. Poor bastard, he said again. I will miss him. Hm. Never thought I would say that.

I barely thought of him at all, until I knew he had been injured, muttered Friedrich.

There is no use in that, said Wilhelm shortly, though he spoke in a gentler tone than before. Friedrich looked at him, and as their eyes met, he saw, if only for an instant, his own anxiety mirrored in Wilhelm’s eyes; the knowledge that it could just as easily have been either of them lying beneath that sheet in the field hospital. A sudden dread rose in him, but he forced it away, refocusing his attention upon his uniform.

May he rest in peace, sniffed Iskowitz. We will raise a toast to him tonight.

The other soldiers muttered in agreement. They remained in silence for a while, each of them pinching and burning lice, enjoying the sensation of the sunlight upon their bare skin. When it began to grow dark, they pulled on their shirts and followed the rest of the soldiers to the canteen to receive their dinner rations. By the time they had finished eating, new lice were hatching in the seams of their clothing.

**

It seemed that plenty of other men in Schröder’s company had entertained the same idea as Brandt, and by nightfall the nearest town was inundated with hundreds of high-spirited German soldiers, celebrating their relief from the front line. In the end, Wilhelm had deigned to accompany them; it seemed that his disapproval did not extend to boycotting French beer.

Friedrich had not been sure what kind of reception to expect, but the locals proved more than willing to accept their custom. The nearest pub was doing such good business that every table was occupied, and the bartender was handing drinks through the window to men queuing outside.

As soon as they each had a beer in hand, Friedrich, Wilhelm, Liebermann, Brandt and Iskowitz sat down on the ground, and raised a toast to their fallen comrade, clinking their bottles together in the centre of their circle.

"Schmidt; Schmidt," they all mumbled; and they drank.

So infectious was the general cheer, that they could not remain serious for long, even if they had wanted. Wilhelm and Brandt raced one another to see who could drink the most the fastest; Brandt won, but only narrowly, as Wilhelm emerged coughing and hiccupping, beer foaming at his mouth. Brandt smiled in a fatherly kind of way, patting him upon the back to help him clear his throat.

Good beer, Iskowitz muttered appreciatively. Take your time to savour it.

Why? There is more where this came from! cried Wilhelm, wiping his mouth on his arm. I want to get drunk as a dog!

So, where are the girls, Brandt? Liebermann asked presently. We do not want to get there only to find all the good-looking ones are taken.

Good point. I’ll find out, said Brandt, draining the last of his beer and getting to his feet.

He had them all in hysterics when he tried to glean information from the bartender. He kept repeating "Filles!" in his terrible French and pointing at his crotch. Finally, Iskowitz took pity on him and addressed the man in eloquent French, apologising for his friend and assuring him that not all Germans were so ill-mannered.

Friedrich, Liebermann and Wilhelm were still wiping tears of mirth from their eyes when Iskowitz walked back over to repeat the directions he had received. Despite Brandt’s attempts to persuade him, Iskowitz declined to join them, stating that he would remain at the pub until Schröder’s curfew.

Wilhelm accompanied them with reluctant curiosity, still complaining loudly about the ‘French way.’ Brandt and Liebermann no doubt mistook this for an unadmitted intention on Wilhelm’s part to be with a woman, but Friedrich knew that Wilhelm’s commitment to the German Reich, so long instilled in him by his father, could not be so easily compromised.

The bar in question turned out to be a two-story establishment at the end of a muddy little lane. Several chickens were scratching and dusting their feathers in the pokey front yard. The sounds of lively piano music and laughter reached the young men as they drew nearer; they pushed open the door to reveal a series of mismatched tables, almost all of which were occupied by their comrades, drinking beer and whistling at a group of scantily-clad, shirtless women on a small wooden stage, with their ruffled skirts hitched up in a can-can.

See anything you like, Krüller? Brandt asked with a grin, jogging Wilhelm’s arm.

I just want a beer, Wilhelm grumbled, the colour rising in his face.

They settled at a free table in the corner, while Wilhelm went to order more drinks from the bar. The neighbouring table was occupied by Brenner, Weißmann and Pohl.

Weißmann raised his glass to Brandt, grinning. You have found the place alright then? he called over the music.

We expected better of you, Corporal! Brandt called back, grinning. Weißmann merely smiled, and gave a noncommittal shrug.

I can feel my fighting spirit returning, Friedrich said to Liebermann, who gave a shout of appreciative laughter, nodding vigorously. More women, wearing little more than the dancers, wended their way between the tables with platters of drinks, tolerating with good grace the soldiers’ shouts, jeers and pinching hands.

You must be sick of French baguettes, Brandt said to the woman who brought the beer that Wilhelm had ordered for them. Want to try some German sausage?

She smiled, pouted and thumbed her finger at him; the boys fell into laughter, stamping their boots on the floorboards.

I like her! yelled Brandt. "Here’s a tip, Krüller: if she’s got attitude, she knows how