Mïller stared at his bloody arm and vaguely tried to move his fingers. His hand made no response.
‘My Hand!’ he cried, ‘My hand, it’s gone!’
‘It’s right in front of you,’ said Speindal. ‘It’s your wrist that’s shot.’
Günter pushed up the end of Mïller’s sleeve. ‘Yes, it’s your wrist, all right. That’s why you can’t move your hand, you big ninny.’
Mïller felt foolish for becoming so confused over only a slight wound. He took out a handkerchief and attempted to tie his wrist up with one hand. None of the others offered to help and Mïller did not think of asking for assistance. It simply wasn’t done.
‘Will you need to go to a casualty-clearing station?’ asked Führler.
‘I think so,’ Mïller replied. ‘I can’t move my hand at all. They will have to do something about that.’
He walked slowly down the trench, clutching his arm tightly, for it was beginning to pain him badly. A communication trench branched off a few yards down and he turned into it. The nearest clearing station was a mile back and by the time Mïller reached it he could scarcely walk from loss of blood. The surgeons took him in hand, talked of amputation, and then to Mïller’s relief, sent him down to the hospital on a lorry.
The doctor who did up Mïller’s arm was a good fellow and made a good job of it while talking with Mïller to keep his mind off the pain.
‘I’d give you some morphine, but with the blockade we have to save what we have for emergencies,’ he explained, while Mïller told him not to worry about it and chewed his lip.
‘I’m going to keep you here for a few days until you get back some of the blood you lost,’ said the doctor when the operation was concluded. ‘Then you can rejoin your platoon.’
‘My platoon?’ asked Mïller. ‘Won’t I get to go home?’
‘I’m sorry. Your wound is not serious enough to qualify you for leave. It’s not my fault; headquarters made the decision. They need every man just now.’
‘But I can’t fire a rifle.’
‘You will be able to by the time your platoon is sent to the front lines again. As I say, I can’t help it.’
This was a disappointment, for Mïller had consoled himself in looking forward to seeing his family again. Still, there were some benefits to being at hospital. This was the hospital where the aviator was laid up, and Mïller decided while he had nothing better to do to look him up.
He found him in the recovery ward, sitting up in bed and reading a newspaper. He was delighted to make Mïller’s acquaintance and seemed touchingly grateful to him for saving his life. Mïller begged him not to think of it.
‘All the same, I should like to know whom I’m indebted to,’ said the fellow.
‘My name is Walther Mïller.’
‘I’m Berthold Reinhardt. What’s your regiment?’
‘The 6th Bavarian.’
‘Really? I’ve heard much about the 6th. Seems to be a lot of fine men in it.’
‘So there are,’ said Mïller. ‘Sometimes it doesn’t seem quite right, though, for me to fight in it. I’m Austrian, you see.’
Renhard—as we will call him for old time’s sake—looked amused.
‘Well, what of that? It doesn’t matter as long as you’re fighting for the same cause. I’m American.’
‘Are you? I heard you were German.’
‘No, I became an American citizen in 1912.’
‘Then—’
‘Oh, I became an undercover agent, you see. I was escaping when you rescued me.’
‘Escaping from what?’
‘From the Americans. I’d been discovered, that’s all. Wasn’t my fault either.’
‘Then you were a turn-coat?’ asked Mïller, looking surprised.
‘Yes, you could say that, yes.’
‘Well, aren’t you ashamed of it at all?’
‘No. After all, I was German before I was American.’
‘But pulling the wool over their eyes that way—it doesn’t seem very nice, does it?’
‘How long have you been in the war?’ asked Renhard.
‘Two years.’
‘Then I should think you’d have learned by now that one does many things in war that aren’t ‘nice’.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mïller, reluctantly.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you,’ said Renhard, kindly. ‘I don’t.’
‘But where did you get an aeroplane?’ asked Mïller, changing the subject.
‘I was escaping from an aerodrome. Really, I’m a very good flyer and I wouldn’t have crashed if it hadn’t been for that storm. Gad! what a storm!’
‘It was certainly something,’ said Mïller. ‘Our trench was flooded for a week and a half.’
‘Oh well,’ said Renhard. ‘That chapter of my life is now closed. I can never be a spy over there any more—they know who I am now.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Mïller.
‘Oh, I’ll go into the army, I guess. If you’d ever like to get out of the trenches I’d be happy to recommend you for undercover work. You’ve just the face for it—no one would ever suspect you.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Mïller, ‘but—that is, I was rather of the opinion that the war would be over soon.’
For the first time Renhard looked discouraged.
‘It probably will,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I continue fighting for a dying cause.’
‘Because we have to,’ said Mïller. ‘We can’t very well give up.’
‘No, we can’t, and I wouldn’t if I could. It’s been a glorious fight, and even if we lose, I know someday Germany will rise again and conquer where she failed before. We’ll never be thoroughly defeated.’
‘But I don’t precisely want to conquer anything,’ demurred Mïller. ‘I’d rather we could simply live in peace. Don’t you?’
‘We can never have peace until the enemies of Germany are disposed of. That’s what this war is really about.’
‘I thought it was all an accident—that it was forced on us.’
‘It was. That is the work of our enemies. We were merely defending ourselves.’
‘But if we had kept it a defensive war—if we hadn’t gone into Belgium and Luxembourg—we wouldn’t have gotten the British into the war against us. Maybe we wouldn’t be in such a fix now.’
‘That was the only possible way of winning. It was necessity.’
‘I suppose so, but it’s a pity something wrong should ever be necessary.’
‘What’s that paper you keep pulling bits off of?’ asked Renhard abruptly.
‘What? Oh. It’s a picture postcard a friend gave me.’ He handed it to Renhard. ‘I don’t know why I’m always fiddling with something. I can’t seem to keep my hands still.’
‘It’s a sign of nervousness. What is that a picture of?’ he asked, squinting at it. ‘That isn’t me, is it?’
‘Oh, no. It’s just some American aviator.’
‘Good. I thought at first someone had taken a picture of me while I was knocked out.’
‘How long were you unconscious?’ asked Mïller.
‘Two weeks, so they told me
…that’s strange.’
‘What?’
‘The insignia on the ‘plane. It’s the one for our squadron. Fancy that! That must be one of my old comrades there. He doesn’t look familiar, so he must have gotten shot down before I came along.’
He frowned at the picture for a moment. ‘That’s funny it—no, it can’t be. I thought for a minute—no, maybe it is. Yes, it has to be! It’s him all right; I’m sure of it!’
‘Who?’
‘A chap I used to know.’
Renhard, who had appeared greatly excited, lapsed into silence again and looked thoughtful.
‘Was he a friend of yours?’ suggested Mïller.
‘One doesn’t have friends in my line of work, but he was a decent chap—I’ll allow that.’
Renhard studied the card for a minute in silence.
‘Yes, he was a decent chap. He had what they call ‘personal magnetism’, if you know what that is. He made everybody like him. I even liked him a little.’
‘He doesn’t look very old,’ said Mïller. ‘Not much older than—well, not very much older than I am.’
‘He was twenty.’
Renhard handed back the card.
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘I never expected to see him again. Where’d you get that?’
‘Somebody gave it to me.’ Somehow Mïller did not wish to repeat the falsehood that Führler was his friend.
‘It’s funny,’ Renhard repeated. ‘What were we talking about? Oh, yes. If you ever care to do some espionage work let me know and I’ll put in a word for you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mïller putting the postcard back into his pocket. He had the satisfied feeling one has when proven right in a surmise. He had somehow liked the figure in the photograph and it pleased him to learn that, after all, the fellow merited his interest. It was also notable that they were the same age. Mïller had planned at first to throw the card away or give it to Toffi, but now he decided to keep it. He liked it and he liked his new friend Reinhardt.
The next day Toffi, Krönermann, Günter, and Szpotzii came to visit him. They informed him that their platoon had been pulled out of the front trenches the same evening Mïller had been wounded and they were now billeted in a much quieter sector for a few weeks.
‘Then we have to go back again,’ said Toffi, pulling a wry face. ‘When are you getting out of hospital, Mïller?’
‘In a couple of days. Has our platoon lost any more men since I left?’
‘No,’ said Günter, ‘—no wait, I’m wrong. We did lose a fellow—you’ll never guess who.’
‘Who?’ asked Mïller, looking worried.
‘Bülow, the cook. Imagine that! Of all the men in our platoon, the man who is in the front lines least gets hit.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘He wasn’t, but he probably is now. He was hurt pretty bad. But we have a new koch now, and he is wonderful.’
‘He’s a Frenchman,’ said Krönermann, ‘and he makes excellent soup. I don’t know how he does it with the rations we get.’
Mïller began to look forward to rejoining his platoon.
‘What became of your sign, Toffi?’
‘I didn’t get a chance to put it up,’ said Toffi, sadly.
‘No, so he toted it along with him all the way to our new billets,’ said Günter.
‘It was the best one I’d ever done,’ explained Toffi.
‘We stuck it on an upturned barrel and use it for a table,’ said Krönermann.
‘You know, Mïller,’ said Toffi, ‘I’m getting together a singing group, if you’d like to join. It’s called the ‘Viennese Singers’.’
‘Why did you name it that?’ asked Mïller. ‘Only Führler and I are from Vienna.’
‘Yes, but that’s enough. The others can all be honorary members.’
Mïller looked at Günter and Krönermann to see what they thought of the idea. Surprisingly, they were in favour of it.
‘We’re already members,’ said Krönermann. ‘There’s nothing better to do where we’re billeted and I like music.’
‘Well, I guess I’ll join, but I’m not much of a singer.’
‘Good!’ said Toffi. ‘We already have an official audience.’
‘Who?’
‘Szpotzii!’
‘Toffi, don’t be so dumm,’ said Günter. ‘Nobody thought that was funny.’
They decided that their visit had lasted long enough and prepared to leave. Mïller plucked at Toffi’s sleeve.
‘Toffi, would you help me with something?’
‘Certainly,’ said Toffi. He had a particular regard for Mïller because he was generally nice to him and was the only person (besides Szpotzii) who never called him ‘dummkopf’. ‘What would you like me to do?’
‘I need you to write a letter to my mother. Could you write it for me, if I tell you what to say? I’d ask Günter or Krönermann, but they might laugh at it.’
Toffi felt flattered by Mïller’s confidence.
‘All right.’
This is how the letter looked when they’d finished:
Liebe Mama,
This is to let you know that I’m all right. I have only hurt my
Your loving son, Walther~
‘I wish you wouldn’t change things after I’ve already written them down,’ said Toffi, scoring through the ‘soon’.
‘Two soons so close to each other don’t sound right,’ explained Mïller. ‘Why did you cross out where I said you couldn't spell?’
‘I can't help it that I can't spell,’ said Toffi, looking hurt. ‘I didn't finish school you know.’
‘Well,’ said Mïller kindly, ‘my mother won't mind.’
