Kater's suggestion that Corporal Krottenkopf, the plaintiff, had broken the regulations was as low as it was cunning, for it put Krottenkopf at a disadvantage from the start.
“I really feel like throwing the whole thing back in Kater's face!" said Lieutenant Krafft.
“Is that all you feel like doing?" said Elfrida, sidling up to him.
“Perhaps we ought to close the door!" suggested Lieutenant Krafft. He was standing very close to Elfrida.
“What’s the use?" she said with a slight huskiness in her voice. “It hasn't a lock."
“How do you know?" he asked quickly. “Have you tried it before?"
She laughed softly and snuggled up close to him as if to stop him from asking any more questions.
He put his strong arms around her and her body yielded willingly. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the C.O.'s desk, at the same time pushing the coffee cups to one side with an unfaltering hand to prevent them falling to the floor.
“No one will come in without knocking," she said. “And Kater's in the officers' mess by now."
Lieutenant Krafft looked down past her to the desk, where there was a writing-pad with a note scrawled on it: “Call RO 25/33." Presumably this meant: Call Rotunda, the land-lord of The Gay God, and get him to deliver twenty-five bottles of the '33 vintage. But Krafft closed his eyes as if to forget the letters and figures, as if to forget everything except the strength of the life within him.
They were soon panting desperately, while outside a group of cadets could be heard singing: “There is no finer country in the world." With its sturdy ground bass of tramping boots, this song made a good deal of noise, and this was helpful, for barrack walls, not being built for eternity, are usually pretty thin.
"I can't wait for to-night!" said Elfrida.
But all Karl Krafft could do was nod.
Corporal Krottenkopf, the alleged victim of the rape, was waiting for Lieutenant Krafft in the corridor. He gazed up at his superior officer with a tortured expression, and then, stooping slightly, bowed his head in shame.
Yet this Corporal Krottenkopf was no sensitive plant, no delicate youth or mother's darling. He was a man with a protuberant nose, full fleshy lips, apelike hands, and the powerful hindquarters of a stag.
“They called me up in the middle of the night," he related mournfully and with a great show of indignation. “They called me up and told me that the external exchange was out of order. I told them they could go and get—well, you know. . . . They said: Well, not down the telephone. That should have put me on my guard. But I was thinking solely of my duty, of the fact that the exchange was out of order, and of what the General might say if he wanted to telephone. It just didn't bear thinking of. It's the sort of thing that can get a man sent to the front. Well, anyway, along I went, for duty is duty, after all. No sooner had I reached the basement, though, than they set upon me. All three of them, like wild animals. They simply tore the clothes off me, boots and all. And that had them panting a bit, because my boots are damned tight—anyone who hasn't the knack has to pull like hell to get them off. But these women stopped at nothing!"
“All right, all right," said Krafft, who had no wish to go into any further details. “But why are you only coming to me now? It must have occurred to you first thing this morning that you'd been the victim of a brutal rape?"
“Yes, well," said Krottenkopf, grinning to show that he was speaking as man to man, “I’m not inhuman. I'm not a petty-minded sort of fellow, you know; never have been. I enjoy a visit to a decent brothel like the next man, and when these women set upon me like this I thought to myself: Now then you're not going to have any hard feelings about this. When someone's had more to drink than is good for them, it works on the brain and makes them randy as a rattlesnake. Right, then, I said to myself, forget all about it. It's a hard war, and casualties are inevitable in war. I'm an understanding sort of fellow, you see. The unpleasant part of the business only developed later. Now these beauties won't address me by anything but my Christian name: Waldemar they call me! And that's going too far. They've lost all sense of discipline. They spend their whole time giggling and making personal remarks and actually laughing at my orders. They call me darling! Would you believe it? They call me darling in front of the rank and file. And not just the three who were involved yesterday evening either, but all the rest of them as well! The entire communications section! And as a corporal, even as a man, I'm not prepared to stand for that."
“Right," said Lieutenant Krafft, " look into it, that is if you really insist on pressing the charge, Krottenkopf."
“I’m not insisting on anything," the corporal reassured him. “But what else am I to do? The whole barracks is laughing at me, and calling me Waldemar! . . . And my real name's Alfred! Please do something about it, Lieutenant."
“You don't think you might possibly have made a mistake?"
“You’d better ask the three harpies themselves about that. They know best, after all."
Captain Kater had retired to the officers' mess in search of strength and succor. The mess was his own undisputed territory: kitchen, cellar, and all the personnel here, were his direct responsibility in his capacity as the officer commanding the headquarters company. Apart from him, the only other person who had the right to give orders here was the General—though there was little danger of his putting in an appearance during the afternoon.
“Well, now, gentlemen," said Captain Kater briskly,” what can I offer you? Don't be shy; just tell me what you'd like. A funeral like that takes it out of you—you need something to pull you round afterwards. Personally I'd suggest an Armagnac, straight from the cask—twenty years at least in the wood."
The officers took his advice, for at least Kater knew something about drink, having spent a good deal of time in France.
Kater insisted on paying for the round. It didn't cost him much, for there weren't many officers in the mess at the time, only a handful of tactics instructors and a few company commanders. And, in addition to them, the training school's guest of the moment: a certain Wirrmann, judge-advocate by profession, temporarily seconded to the Inspector of Training Schools and posted to Wildlingen-am-Main to investigate the death of Lieutenant Barkow.
This pillar of military justice was a spry little fellow who seemed more interested in the contents of the officers'-mess cellar than anything else. Thus he and Kater got along famously, and Wirrmann found himself with a glass that was full to the brim.
"Well, gentlemen," said Kater, joining the officers,” what a funeral this afternoon! I don't know who one would prefer to find oneself up before—one's Maker or the General."
“I must say you'd make a splendid corpse," said Captain Feders cheerfully. “No question of it—the funeral would make a most happy affair. One's only got to think of all those supplies of yours that would be automatically released."
“Captain Feders," said Kater icily, " I'm surprised to find you in the mess at this time of day. Besides, you're a married man and your wife may be waiting for you."
At this, Feders seemed on the point of losing self-control altogether. All trace of humor vanished from his face. The officers eyed him warily, for everyone knew his Achilles heel though few would have risked wounding him there. Kater had acted carelessly, to say the least.
Feders began to laugh, but there was a raw, dangerous edge to the sound.
“Kater," he said, “if you're surprised to find me in the mess at this time of day, all I can say is that I'm even more surprised to find you here.