Officer Factory. Hans Hellmut Kirst

at least two days ago. You neglected to put in the necessary report. You will report to me at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

      “Very good, General!"

      “In point of fact," said the General, “these guard regulations are utter nonsense. It's impossible to work with them. A new edition will be ready in a few days, until which time the exercise is postponed. Good evening."

      5. THE NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL

      The barracks which housed the training school lay on a long ranging hill above the River Main, which the ordnance survey maps marked as Hill 201. To some people this point was the center of the world. Down below in the flat trough of a valley lay the little town of Wildlingen, which twisted away in an endless series of narrow little streets like intestines. Everything was bathed in pale blue moonlight. A blanket of snow lay on the ground. The night was gripped by a leaden sleep.

      The war was a long way off, so far off that it had left Wildlingen-am-Main untouched. Yet hidden away here in this out-of-the-way place the future seeds of professional destruction were now being manufactured. For the time being, however, the vast machine of the training school had come to a standstill. Both the engineers and their tools were resting. For though the war itself knew no sleep, the warrior could not do without it, and for more than a few this sleep was only a prelude to Death.

      But Death on the whole kept away from training schools. Why should he bother to disturb a process which served him well enough in the end? Here he was sparing with his victims. He merely put in an appearance now and again in a purely routine sort of way as if to remind people that he was in fact everywhere. The ages of those who lay in the cemetery at Wildlingen-am-Main half-way between the town and the barracks were high for the most part, and a certain Lieutenant Barkow of twenty-two struck an almost jarring note, though even this error of taste was soon to be rectified.

      In any case the moon was quite indifferent to where it shed its light. It looked down on all things equally as it had done since the beginning of time, on lovers and corpses, on the old town and the new factories of war. Human beings might write poetry to it, stare at it or revile it as they pleased. It waxed and waned, disappeared and rose again. The sentry on guard at the barracks gates was no more than a speck of dust, the old town a writhing worm, the training school itself just a hollow nut-shell.

      But within the training school a thousand people were breathing away. A thousand people slept, a thousand digestions were at work, a thousand bloodstreams performed their sluggish tasks. Millions and millions of pores filtered the air like the cleansing units of so many gas-masks.

      No glimmer of light made its way through the blacked out panes. Behind the closed windows the sickly smell of warm bodies mingled with the odor of blankets, mattresses and floor-boards, while this and the various other smells of the night merged into a heavy, suffocating atmosphere which slowly enveloped the sleepers in the small, overcrowded rooms.

      Not everyone, however, was permitted sleep, or even sought it. For some it was forbidden.

      The cadet on guard at the gate, for instance, felt cold and tired and bored, but beyond that felt nothing. "To helm with the whole rotten business!" he muttered to himself

      He didn't quite know what he meant by this. He only knew that he had to become an officer, though he had long ago ceased to bother about why.

      He was getting through his course, in which sentry-duty was laid down as part of the curriculum. And that was that.

      “Aren’t you tired?" Elfrida Rademacher asked the girl sitting on her bed. “When I was your age I'd have been asleep for hours by now."

      “But you're only a few years older than me," said the girl. “And the later it is the more wide awake you seem to become."

      Elfrida Rademacher looked into the mirror and slowly combed her hair, watching the girl behind her as she did so.

      This girl had only been in the barracks a few days, a supplementary posting for number one kitchen, detailed for elementary duties during the hours of daylight only. For this girl, whose name was Irene Jablonski, was little more than sixteen years old and her age was of course taken into account.

      “Are you going out now?" she asked.

      “I still have something to do," said Elfrida, trying to sound non-committal.

      “I can imagine what that is," said the girl.

      “You should try not to let your imagination run away with you," said Elfrida sharply. “Then you'll sleep better."

      Irene Jablonski made a face and threw herself down on her bed. She felt grown-up now and wanted to be treated accordingly. Then she suddenly felt frightened again. It was true that she had been sleeping worse and worse lately.

      Elfrida pretended not to notice the girl, who was one of the five with whom she shared this room. A pretty, slim, fragile little creature, with large eyes and a well-developed bosom which proclaimed her maturity though she still had the face of a child.

      “Can’t I come out with you in the evening sometimes?" the girl asked.

      “No," said Elfrida firmly.

      “If you won't take me with you I'll go out with the others." She meant the other four girls they shared the room with, two of whom were employed on communications duties, one in the record office, and the other in the sick bay. They were all experienced, mature girls, carefree to the point of indifference, which was hardly surprising after two or three years in barracks. They were already asleep by now, though only two in their own beds.

      “I can do anything you can," said Irene sulkily.

      “No you can't, not for a long time," said Elfrida. “You’re much too young."

      She glanced round the room, which contained the usual sort of barrack-room furniture, though not of the lowest type, more N.C.O.s' standard than other-ranks'. There were even bedside tables, which were normally the prerogative of officers. Yet everything was standardized, even though the pattern of uniformity was slightly modified by rugs, paper flowers and ornaments, which gave the room an unmistakable atmosphere of femininity and showed that they hadn't yet given up altogether.

      “Listen, now," said Elfrida to Irene Jablonski. “It might be a good thing if you forgot all about the thing that seems to be most on your mind. You're too young for it and too vulnerable. I was just like you once. And I did just all the things you long to do in your heart of hearts. Well, it wasn't worth it, see? It's pointless."

      “But you go on doing it, don't you?"

      “Yes," said Elfrida frankly. “Because I still hope that it may prove worth it in the end."

      “But won't one always go on thinking that?"

      Elfrida nodded. She turned away, and thought to herself: without hope one's done for—where would one be without it? And softly she said to herself, “He’s different from the others, I think."

      Captain Ratshelm allowed himself no rest, and interpreted this as his sense of duty.

      He had made all his preparations for the following day's work, had written a long letter to his mother, and had then sat listening thoughtfully to the final sounds of the day which invariably preceded the sounding of lock-up--the scampering of bare feet in the corridor, the water running in the washroom and the latrine, a brief exchange of conversation, a joke or two, the hearty laughter of young men, all followed by the footsteps of the duty officer passing through the billets, brisk footsteps marked by a faint clinking sound as an iron-studded heel struck a flagstone. A few sharp orders, and then a sort of forced and artificial stillness.

      The rule was that any cadet who from then on (22.00 hours) wanted to sleep was to be left undisturbed. Undisturbed and this was an important qualification,