The company settled in for the night; there was activity everywhere—tents were being set up and lined with straw. Racks were built for weapons, cooking pots, and other equipment; positions were prepared and sentries posted.
Over the entire chaotic scene, the southern sun was shining, warm and intense. It browned the bare upper bodies and made sweat break out from every pore. It lit up the company commander’s stern smile and cast a conciliatory glow over the staff sergeant’s sour face, and everyone seemed to think life was wonderful.
A messenger came with an order: “Grenadier Sørensen to the platoon leader!”
It is unpleasant to be interrupted in a piece of work, especially when one is comfortably engaged in eating a series of delicious, rosy peaches, while a comrade is giving an interesting lecture on partisan activity and at the same time demonstrating how incredibly easy and simple it is to put an end to this nuisance.
Well, an order is an order, and I made my way to Lieutenant B…’s quarters.
“Grenadier Sørensen reports as ordered!”
B… was sitting astride in the middle of the room with a large bottle of wine in front of him,
“Alright, Marius, sit down and have a glass.”
The wine was excellent, and we were both thirsty.
“Alright, Marius, sit down and have a glass.”
The wine was excellent, and we were both thirsty.
“Listen, Marius,” he began, “you’ve served in my old branch of the service, the hussars—do you have any good stories from that time?”
“It should be possible, Lieutenant.”
“Can you cook?”
“Under favourable circumstances I can make fried potatoes and fried eggs.”
“It’s probably some bloody dog food you’re knocking together, but it doesn’t matter—you’re taken on as my messenger, we’ll drink to that.”
As the wine disappeared down the bottle, the mood at the table rose, and B… developed much life wisdom for me. Again and again he declared—and each time with a heavy fist blow on the table:
“A day on which one has not been drunk is a wasted day—mark my words, Marius!”
It must be said to B…’s credit that he tried diligently to live according to his own theories, but it should also be noted that he never appeared intoxicated on duty.
“Snots for oneself and beard for oneself,” was another of his mottoes.
Lieutenant B… was a sympathetic young man, a brisk and courageous soldier with a practical approach to things. His learning and knowledge as an old cavalry officer he later demonstrated in the excellent way he led several expeditions into the partisan area.
B… had a well-developed sense of humour; he loved hearing a good story and told his own with great wit.
He did not like the Germans and was the kind of man who would tell them his opinion, something that came easily to him since he mastered the language perfectly.
The important and always superior Oberscharführer Otto was not held in high esteem by the men. It was a real delight for us when he had to stand to attention before Lieutenant B…, while receiving a dressing-down according to all the rules of the art.
When Oberscharführer Otto, grinding his teeth and seething with anger, had returned to his platoon, B… would often come strolling up to me, proud:
“Well Marius, were you satisfied with that treatment he got? Those fellows must understand that we have come down here to do them a service, not to stand with our hats in our hands and receive acts of grace.”
The day came to an end and the sun sank behind the dark forested ridges of the partisan mountains; people, livestock, and soldiers prepared for the night.
From the surrounding fields the farmers came with their carts and horses; women and children drove the cattle home from the meadows, and the soldiers stretched barbed-wire belts across the country roads, and the sentry posts were doubled.