by Barry Sadler
Langer stuck the butt between his lips. Taking a deep drag he held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, enjoying the biting of the fumes.
"I don't know. More than likely Ivan has taken Krivoy Rog. It might be better if we headed northwest to where the railway crosses the Bug. If anything is still holding, it will be there at Pervomaysk. It's a long way, though, old friend."
Teacher nodded. "No further than we have already come. What's another two hundred kilometers? It means nothing, we die here or we die there. What is the difference? We have to all be somewhere, and one place is as good as another for the likes of us."
Gus set booby traps on all the hatches of the sitting Tiger. The first Ivan that peeked in should set off the remaining shells.
Each loaded up and selected what he thought would be of the most use to him on the trek. They had enough food for three days if they used their iron rations; after that it would be whatever they could come across, and that might be damned thin.
Langer ordered Gus to take the turret machine gun and distributed ten of the fifty-round belt drums among the others. Gus grumbled as usual, but he knew the choice was right; next to Langer he was the strongest. Without comment they gave Manny's gear to Yuri. He picked what would be needed; the rest would be left in the tank.
"Okay, Yuri take the lead and break ground for us. We'll switch off every fifteen minutes on the point. Move out!"
Yuri, Teacher, Gus, with Langer bringing up the drag, moved deeper into the trees, each following in the steps of the other.
Overhead the eagles of the war flew high, aloof in the clean crisp air of the sky. They flew far above the insects below, killing from the heights, never seeing the faces of their victims and seldom those of their own dead. The engines droned, who they were didn't matter, the men sweating their way through the crusty snow were alone, for now.
With the dark silence, came only the whispering of the wind, as it skimmed over the trees. Night, the kind that comes only to the cold lands, dark yet luminous. The trees, giant silent sentinels, unconcerned with the ambitions of man. Only the labored breathing of those beneath their branches disturbed the primeval serenity of this winter picture.
Before midnight, Langer called a halt. They had put enough distance between them and their stranded tank to feel safe enough to make camp. Doubling up, each joined his shelter half to that of another, strung them up between trees and piled snow up on the side to help keep the warmth in and the wind out. Gus was with Yuri, and Teacher and Langer shared the other. Inside the small havens they laid tree branches from the firs and pines to keep them off the snow floor, pulled themselves inside, and buttoned up the entrance. There would be no sentries tonight. They were too tired, far from the battle lines, and deep in the woods; it would be highly unlikely that any Russian patrol would find this one small spot before dawn.
Teacher pulled his knees up to his chest, putting his gloved hands under his armpits, hugging himself to get any extra iota of warmth. It was completely black inside; only the feel of Langer's body next to him and the man's breathing told of another presence.
"Carl, what the hell are you?"
Langer shifted, paused, and replied in a low, gentle voice that Teacher had seldom heard, "A man, nothing more. Perhaps even less."
A deep sighing exhalation told Teacher that Langer was asleep. And that was all the answer he was going to get. Nothing more, maybe less, what kind of damned answer is that? He, too, used the soldier's trick of taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Before the exhalation was completed he was asleep, the dull sleep of bone-weary fatigue that takes the soul and pulls one down into the darkness that heals.
Morning came with a light breeze whipping the flaps of the shelter halves gently, making soft flopping noises. The men crawled out of the shelters like winter bears shaking their bodies and heads to get rid of the sleep still hanging on them. One small smokeless fire for their rations and ersatz coffee. Gus complained it tasted like camel piss, and Langer thanked him for the information, saying that he had always wondered what camel piss tasted like, and now thanks to Gus's previous experiences, he knew.
Three days through the forest. Stumbling, cold, dragging, days before they reached the other side. Not once had they seen a sign of man or any large animals. Not the track of a single deer; only the small prints of squirrels and rabbits marked the purity of the winter covering. In three days they covered twenty kilometers. Only a hundred and seventy-five to go.... on empty stomachs.
Two more days found them in a great open plain with no shelter other than what they could make from their own gear. Before noon of the following day they saw waves of bombers at about 15,000 heading west. Fifteen minutes later they saw them coming back. Barely visible in the distance was a black haze rising....
"Novy Bug. We must still have people holding out there." Teacher barely nodded; it took too much effort to reply.
Langer called back to Yuri, who looked in the direction of the smoke, following Langer's pointing finger. "You've got the best eyes here, Yuri. How far?"
Yuri looked straight at the smoke then from the sides of his eyes. "Two more days the way we move now, perhaps twenty kilometers, no more."
Langer hiked his pack up a little higher, easing the straps. "All right. Let's go and take a look."
That night there would be no fires. They could hear the crumping of artillery pieces being fired; l05s and 155s. Ivan was in front of them.
That same night Langer climbed a small hillock and stood, eyes to the west, watching the flickering lights from the Russian guns, marking them in his mind. About forty-six kilometers; at their rate of march it would take them seven or eight hours to reach them and the German lines were beyond them another fifteen or so. He thought hard, trying to analyze the options.
His face was rough from an ice-crusted beard; frost spots on his cheeks gave them a higher look accenting the deep hollows of the eyes. We've got to have food. Another day and night without any and Teacher and Gus won't make it. Yuri can but he's not as civilized as they are. He could last another three or four days just by eating the leather from his boots.
He gave his head one quick jerk up and down. A decision was made. Twelve hours till dawn; if they moved now they could reach the Russian positions well before daylight. Rousting the others out he told them what was going to happen.
The Russians had food and they were going to get it tonight. Gus perked up at the idea of eating. His stomach had been trying to digest itself for the last two days and while the sounds Gus made while feeding normally were disgusting enough, the constant whining and gurgling of his gut was worse.
Indian file, as usual, they worked and labored their way through the drifts, every step taking them closer to either food or death, but either one was acceptable at this point. At least they were doing something positive, not waiting for the cold or starvation and exhaustion to take them one by one. Yuri, while able to go further than the others on an empty stomach, thought he caught a hungry look in Gus's eyes a time or two when the neanderthal had been watching him. Yuri had no doubt that before Gus succumbed to hunger he would indulge himself in a little stringy Tatar stew and there was only one Tatar in sight, HIM. He was ready to go, too.
The idea of Gus gnawing on his bones gave him a new incentive to reach the Russian lines, and he volunteered to break trail knowing he would take the best and fastest route to an alternate food source.
It wasn't difficult to locate the Russian guns; all they had to do was head toward the sounds of firing. Lying on their bellies they watched the Russian HQ, just behind the battery of four 105s. It was quiet. Ivan was careless or overconfident; they had no sentries to their rear. After all, they knew all the Germans were bottled up in Novy Bug. Yuri slid on his belly, soundlessly. He took advantage of every dip and drift to ease himself closer to the entrance of the peasants hut serving as a command post for the battery commander. Close behind came Langer. Gus and Teacher took the flanks to provide cover in case any
more Russians showed up before they finished their business inside.
The battery was continuing to fire regularly spaced shots in sequence, first one then another on rotation, a steady, continuous, methodical order, designed to get the most out of their weapons and give each one's barrel some cooling time and thereby prolong the life of the guns. It would also serve to muffle any sounds that might come from the interior of the hut.
Yuri reached the side of the hut and crept on hands and knees to the edge of the doorway. Standing on the right he drew his butcher knife and held it low to his side, sharp edge up. Langer moved to the other side, preferring the long-bladed bayonet from a Mauser. He had honed down both sides to razor fineness. They listened to the beat of their hearts pounding like drums in their ears. A shaft of reddish gold light glowed weakly through a crack in the door. Putting his eye against it Carl tried to take in as much of the room as possible.
Three men were visible, two lying on pallets and one sitting at a Russian field desk, going over charts, probably working out the coordinates for the morning's firing program. From his shoulder boards it seemed he was a lieutenant. Tapping at the door softly, so as not to wake the sleeping men, Langer gave a strange whisper, Tovarisch! Idi-sodar charoscho! The lieutenant raised his head, Shto? Langer repeated his message to come in a hurry.
Sighing, the officer raised himself heavily from his seat and took the four steps to the door. Raising the wooden latch he opened the door and stepped out, only to find a hand gripping his throat, twisting his body around, cutting off his breath. The next thing he felt was a deep burning; Yuri's butcher knife found its way unerringly into the man's heart, severing the aorta. Langer let the body down easy.
Blades held low to the front in a half crouch, they stepped inside.
They moved swiftly inside, blades ready. The source of light was from a field lantern sitting on a couple of wooden shell crates for the howitzers. Yuri moved to the side of one of the sleeping Russians. Langer picked the other, a sergeant from the markings of his shoulder boards. Langer gave a quick nod of his head and both men moved, covering the mouths of their victims as the blades struck deep.
Langer and Yuri quickly looted the hut of all they could carry that would be of any use to them, mainly food and a couple of bottles of vodka. These they stuffed into one of the Russian field packs lying on the dirt floor. They moved back out into the dark, taking the same route away from the hut.
Gus and Teacher had been lying on their bellies, waiting. The cold of the ice crust creeping up through their uniforms was starting to stiffen them, making them sluggish, and slow to respond. Langer had to call twice before Teacher answered. Grabbing him by the shoulders he pulled him to his feet as Gus slowly rose from his icy bed.
Yuri cracked one of the bottles of vodka and stuck it in Gus's paw. Two quick swallows and half the bottle was gone down Gus's gaping gap-toothed maw. Reluctantly he handed the bottle back to Yuri, who passed it over to Teacher. A couple of gulps and Teacher, too, felt some renewed strength and warmth.
There was no need to ask what had happened in the hut. The fact that they had returned spoke for itself.
Wraithlike, they moved away from the guns. Circling wide, they tried to get as much distance between themselves and the hut as possible before the Russians' bodies were discovered by their comrades. If they were lucky the Ivans would think the killers had come from Novy Bug, a reconnaissance patrol that stumbled on the hut and now were back in their own lines.
That morning there was no breaking of the dawn, just a gradual lightening of the sky to dull grey. Another storm was coming. The four sat huddled in a snow cave, lying on their shelter halves and blankets, of which each had one. This helped to keep the cold from the floor of their makeshift shelter to a bearable level. They fed on coarse black Russian bread and goat cheese. Gus was bitching because Langer wouldn't let them finish off the last bottle of vodka. But Langer knew that a couple of drinks were okay, but too much alcohol in the system actually lowered the body temperature, even though you felt warmer for taking another drink. They needed to reserve all the body heat they could, if the storm blasting over the Ukrainian plains was to leave them alive at its end. This night the winds were fifty KPH and growing in intensity. Here, huddled together, they had to wait and let the storm use up its strength while they tried to conserve theirs.
Sleep, the great healer, was their best ally, and they used him as much as they could, letting the darkness take them for hours at a time. They woke Only to repair an item of their gear, or to eat a piece of bread. They filled their canteens with snow from outside and waited for it to melt, then drank and slept some more. They only left their cave to take a leak or crap and scurried back to their burrow cursing. The storm passed, leaving a startling clearness. The new snow sparkled with millions of flashing diamonds, each one a pinprick to the light-sensitive eyes of the cave dwellers. A brilliant crystal cold day, the air bit at their lungs and skin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the Ingul they crossed over what in the spring would be swift flow, now frozen solid to a depth of five feet. An eighty-ton tank could rumble over it with no fear of crashing through.
They decided not to try and break through the Russian lines to their own forces at Novy Bug. With the food they had picked up at the hut they had a better chance of making it on to their original destination at Yuzhney Bug. Twelve days of crisp clear weather and they reached the first German outposts. Staggering in they almost had their asses shot off by the machine-gun crew sitting behind an MG-42. Only Gus's string of curses which could have been heard clear to Berlin stopped the gun crew from ripping them to pieces.
Ragged, bearded, filthy caricatures of soldiers, they were hustled to the rear in an amphibious Volkswagen. They were shown into the presence of
an immaculate colonel of Jagers, a man who obviously considered those beneath him fit only to do his bidding.
Langer read the martinet correctly and reported in the best military manner. "Sir, Stabsfeldwebel Carl Langer begs to report that he has reported back to German forces with three other ranks following the destruction of our tank in the battle around Nikopol three weeks ago."
Colonel von Mancken rose from behind his field desk and stepped in front of Langer, looking the man up and down in distaste. Wrinkling his nose at the odor of this disgrace to the glory of German arms, he said, "You mean you came all the way from Nikopol? I do hope you have a proper explanation or I assure you that you and those with you will most certainly face a court martial for desertion." He called for his regimental sergeant major, a huge Bavarian with a barrel chest. He had the look of a man who enjoys the power he has over others.
"Stabswachtmeister Schmitt, have these men issued new uniforms and cleaned up. You will report of their activities since they left their unit at Nikopol. You will report back to me at fifteen hundred hours with the report and these men."
Schmitt clicked his heels together. "Zum Befehl, Herr Oberst." Turning his attention to Langer he barked out as if he were on a drill field, "Achtung, about face, quick march. Eins, zwei, drei, vier," He literally tried to goose-step Langer out of the door.
Once out into the open, leaving the colonel to his delusions of grandeur in his log and sandbag HQ, he halted Langer. "Okay, knock off the tin soldier shit. You're in a lot of trouble. That prissy bastard in there will have you before a firing squad in the morning unless you have some help. Do you have anything to trade for the services I might be able to render you in the name of German soldierity? Gold, silver, jewels, opium. I'm not hard to get along with; almost anything will do that I can resell."
Teacher and the others joined Langer, who had had just about enough. He looked the sergeant major over carefully. The lack of combat badges or ribbons was obvious. This was one of those bullies who had spent the last four years in some training regiment, impressing recruits and being careful to make themselves indispensable to their commanders in order to avoid going to the front. But time had caught up w
ith this one and he was on the front, now. It was high time he learned a reality.
Gus moved up closer to Schmitt; Yuri began to give his butcher knife a finer edge, stropping it on his boot tops, while squinting and looking up at Schmitt, grinning. His gold tooth gleamed in a dark, wizened face. Teacher merely smiled and began fondling his submachine gun. Schmitt hesitated. What was this? Why weren't they afraid of him? He was a sergeant major and outranked them. Everyone had always been afraid of him back in Germany.
Langer moved up closer to Schmitt, his face only inches away from the other's. "Listen to me. I have seen your type for years and you're a gutless piece of suet. You can get away with that bullshit back in Germany, but here on the front it's a little bit different. You mess with us and I'll twist your head off your shoulders. Do you know what it means to die? For your sake I hope so. Now get away from me and go scare some children."
The first real fear he had ever known struck him. Schmitt took a step back in shock. He had been on the front only two weeks, and there had not even been a shot fired other than an occasional sniper and that was on the lines, a place he carefully avoided. He cursed himself. His mistake was making himself too indispensable to Col. von Mancken. When the colonel received orders to the front he just had to take his faithful sergeant major with him. The pompous bastard! Blustering, he tried to fake it. "You watch your step. I'm the boss here and you heard what the colonel said. The showers are over behind supply. Get cleaned up and write out your report. I'll see you later."