Waste Land to a Scream: A Gay Science

Novel 014

14. “In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule.” Nietzsche

The Western Front, Germany, on a day like any other day in 1917.

On either side of the front, there were helmets waiting for a slug to fill them with. Then with a graceless push, a man came screaming and landed on his face with a bullet in the back. A wave of flies lept and then descended grotesque all of the crawling feces and glomming every slurp of it. Crawling on every pantaloon and shirt with a smørrebrød of shit.

This was the front.

At least from the German perspective: all of the trees were cut down except scrubs. The land was barren like a desert - the intent was to gain overwhelming superiority of line of sight. Shells littered the earth with abundance with bodies festooned everywhere. The Private looked out on the dusty plain with barbed wire sneaking between the pillboxes that dotted the landscape. Everyone from every side knew that this was killing ground. For men, for dogs, for birds, and all of the entrails that had no names.

Up above the sky was black with the occasional spot of gray to ease the monotony. Overhead they heard rather than saw the biplanes which were taking pictures from far distant snapshots. It was like they were naked before God and were penitent before his wrath.

The Private smoked a cigarette, with an exhale that delighted his lips. If this was the way that he had to go then that was just fine with him. He had no beard, he was too young for that - the men of his Battalion were as young as he was: 17,16, and even younger. Then he looked out. A shot grazed his helmet. It rang through his head like a church chime: it was like the Lutheran calling to the dead.

It was a lucky break that he had not just simply died but moved around behind the wooden barrier and felt rather than saw two more bullets fly overhead. And still, he took another drag on his fag and prayed to God that he might finish. But it was always a gamble.

Then he turned up through the mud on the trench that he was on, it was the forward trench and there was nothing but naked ground between him and the French in mood silently up the trench. Then saw his Sgt.

The Private nodded.

The Sgt. merely nodded but saw that he had a scar from this morning’s reveille. Neither of them noticed any more of that because most men had scars or punctures in their line of work.

“What is your name, Private? " The sergeant had forgotten his name, but that was not unusual. Only a fortnight before, the Private had been assigned to this regiment, and there were few enough men. The private stepped up onto the boards which at least had some structure and he wiped each of them until they were moderately dirty, but he did not look at his feet. Then and only then he responded to his Sgt.:

“Koch, Ludolf Marie. I was originally assigned to a Jägers squad but was transferred here because there were few enough men.” The Private stood from side to side to the other, to keep the kind of balance to his ankles.

“The Jägers were once special, once.”

“And there not now?”

“Everyone is a soldier neither more nor less. But once upon a time, the hunters had a special gift for seeking out the weaknesses, stabbing and cracking open the French. During the battle of Verdun, they sensed the weakness and delighted in rupturing the skulls from behind.”

The Private was listening to his Sgt. with a kind of elan that could not be hidden. The younger private's face was here for any dole that could be had.

The Sgt. looked at the Private with a kind of dull amusement, seeing a face that would never happen because too much more had passed between the recruitment and the hard shelling that occurred almost every day. “It’s nothing. Go back to your post.”

The Private turned and almost slumped down because he was hoping to hear about the glory of the German Army and all of the things that it had done - they had almost conquered Paris and in the private's mind could do so again. Just one more push.

The Sgt. took out a cigarette and started to light it, but far away a Frenchman targeted the light and was about to strike his rifle, the private pushed him away, but then there was a bounce. Both of the German soldiers knew it was an artillery shell that crested down from on high. It pierced through where the Sgt. was standing. All that was left were the boots and half a leg. There was blood and viscera all over the private and his jacket was stained.

But rather than panicking, he removed his spectacles and cleaned them, looking for any other injured man. But there was none. The private glanced towards the horizon, wondering if it had been a general attack or just a random shell sent towards the front. He saw no one move. He sighed and took out another secret from the case, drawing it gently and using his other hand to light it.

The private lit it and eased back to the gravelly smoke that was the only gift that he wanted. Then the Frenchman took aim again: a crack, a rattle, a sigh. And there he lied, with a bullet through his head. Pouring out his life with gay abandon.

On the front, there was nothing new.