Officer Factory. Hans Hellmut Kirst

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      The forty cadets of H Section stayed where they were, unable as yet to avail themselves of the privileges of officers. It was not for them to take their cue from the General and wander about as they pleased. They needed a direct order to be able to do such a thing, and this of course was not forthcoming.

      So they just went on standing there, at ease, three deep, rifles by their sides, steel helmets on their heads—forty incredibly young, smooth faces, some of them with the eyes of experienced old men and hardly a man among them more than twenty. These were the youngest of the whole course.

      “Where the hell do the officers get the drink?" said Cadet Hochbauer to his neighbor. “There hasn't been an issue of schnapps for a week."

      “Perhaps they're just very economical with it," suggested Cadet Mösler with a grin. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. If I needed anything to make me want to become an officer, I'd find this flask a most convincing incentive."

      “But it's downright dishonest," said Cadet Hochbauer severely. “It shouldn't be allowed. Something ought to be done about it."

      “Why not just blow up the lot?" suggested Cadet Rednitz. “Then there'd be a mass funeral, and at least that way we wouldn't have to keep on running backwards and forwards to the cemetery."

      “Shut up," said Cadet Hochbauer roughly. “Keep your lousy remarks to yourself, or you'll have me to reckon with."

      “Don’t get excited," said Cadet Rednitz. "I sized you up long ago."

      “Silence, please!" said Cadet Weber. “I’m in mourning here, and I'd like a little respect for the fact!"

      Gradually the excitement among the cadets began to subside. They looked round cautiously: the General was a long way off, and the officers were still stamping their feet up and down to keep warm. Meanwhile Captain Kater's flask was empty. Captain Feders was still keeping the company entertained with his witticisms. The presence of the coffin seemed quite forgotten.

      But one of the officers was Captain Ratshelm, a valiant and tireless father to the cadets, and commander of Number 6 Company, of which Section H formed part. And Ratshelm, though standing on the other side of the grave, continued to cast frank and friendly glances in their direction.

      Captain Ratshelm eyed his cadets with real fatherly affection. True, they had begun to raise their voices rather, but in that he chose to see a sign of their soldierly qualities. They had come here to accompany their section officer, Lieutenant Barkow, on his last journey, and he was delighted to note that they were not behaving like a bunch of women, but almost like real soldiers for whom death was the most matter-of-fact thing in the world—an ever-present travelling companion, the truest of all comrades as it were. And though it wasn't quite fitting to laugh in his face, certain composure in his presence was thoroughly desirable. Or so Ratshelm thought.

      “At the front," said Cadet Weber, spitting vigorously, “we barely needed five minutes for a burial—apart from digging the grave, that is. But here, back home, you have to knock up a huge great box. I've nothing against it, mind you, except that if it's going to be done with all the trappings, then you might as well do the thing really properly and include an afternoon off, which is something I could use. I've got myself a nice little girl lined up down in the town—Annemarie’s her name. I've told her I'll marry her when I'm a General." There were further signs of restlessness among the cadets at this. But most of them simply stood there half asleep, moving their frozen toes about energetically inside their boots. To stamp their feet for warmth would have been going too far, but there was nothing wrong with rubbing their hands together, and someone in the rear rank had even gone so far as to stick his deep into his greatcoat pockets.

      Only the front rank, exposed as it was to the full glare of publicity, was unable to do anything but maintain the correct at-ease position. Some actually managed to give the impression that they were staring sorrowfully at the coffin. But in fact they were doing no more than noting the details of the construction—the imitation oak (pine presumably), the shoddy metal fittings, the drab paint and the crudely made feet. And for the umpteenth time they read the inscriptions on the wreath ribbons, most of which were red and bore a swastika. The inscriptions were printed in gilt or jet-black lettering: