by Barry Sadler
Langer snorted and turned his back on him. Yuri rose from his squatting position and passed in front of Schmitt. Smiling and bobbing his head, he took out a small bulging cloth bag. He grinned as he pressed it into Schmitt's hands. "For Germanski, presento." Gold tooth gleaming he followed after the others.
Schmitt, who was used to his lessers presenting him with tokens of their esteem, mumbled to himself that the savage had more sense and manners than the others. At least he recognized his betters. "Wonder what it is?" Pulling the drawstring open, he shook the contents out into his hand and froze; his gut squirmed and he let the contents fall to lie on the snow. Ears! Human ears! A dozen or more, all from the right side. Sweat broke out on his forehead in spite of the cold. He backed away and almost ran back into the security of headquarters.
The showers were a canvas field tent with empty petrol drums set up outside filled with water. It had a stovepipe affair running from an old wood-burning stove, up through the center of the drums to heat the water. Crude, but right now it was the most luxurious innovation they had ever experienced. All except Yuri, who distrusted water in any form other than drinking, but he gave in to the demands of the others that shed his lice-infested rags and joined in.
Gus, removing his boots, let out a yelp of pure joy. "Here, fellows, look what I got." He had to peel his socks off and there exposed to daylight for the first time in days were two blackened toes on his left foot, the two small ones, black and dead; frostbite. "I got my bleeding ticket out of here, ain't they beautiful?"
Gus refused to go to the dispensary until after he washed. "There's no rush, they ain't goin' no place, for a while, that is." A supply clerk came over with clean uniforms for them after they had been de-loused. The only one who wasn't infested was Langer. For some reason the little bastards didn't like the taste of him, but the others had to submit to a complete spraying and laughed as their clothes were tossed into the wood stove. They enjoyed each hissing pop that said another Russian louse was cremated. Of those they had inspected only a few had the little gray cross on them that said they were the carriers of typhus. In the early days of the war you could get a couple of marks apiece for each of them you turned in to the medics for shipment back to Germany, where they were analyzed and tested. By now there were probably more of them in the Fatherland than in Russia.
Gus joyfully presented himself to regimental hospital. An hour later the doctor took a pair of pliers and simply pulled the two blackened toes off without the benefit of any anesthetic. Taking a pair of surgical scissors he trimmed up the edges, rinsed off the foot with a little raw alcohol, sprinkled it with sulfa powder and cursed him all the time for being a slackard and a defeatist. That there was no good reason for anyone to get frostbite if they only took proper care of themselves. It was treason not to take proper maintenance of an item that was the property of the state, even a piece of obviously defective equipment as the traitorous Stabsgefreiter clearly was. Gus asked the doctor how he'd like to have his ass stuck in a snow bank for three weeks and then see how much would be left after the Stabsgefreiter, by the grace of our Holy German or Austrian Führer, took a pair of his pliers to it.
After Gus proceeded to describe what he could do with his pliers to other portions of the doctor's anatomy, he was hurriedly moved out to a hospital ward. The doctor made a note to have the man's mental condition tested. He was most certainly, at the least, a nonsocial and emotionally disturbed person who shouldn't be permitted to run around loose without professional supervision. At fifteen hundred hours Langer, Teacher and Yuri presented themselves to the sergeant major at regimental HQ. The clean uniforms and showers gave them a semblance of military appearance. The Knight's Cross around Langer's neck did more than anything else to give Schmitt a case of the jitters. You didn't get one of those for kissing babies. Taking their paybooks and papers, Schmitt knocked on the colonel's door and received permission to enter.
Returning, he told them to stand easy and wait. It would be a while; the colonel was busy. Ten minutes later a Blitzmädel left the colonel's office, looking pleased with herself. She took a look at the Knight's Cross holder and the man's rugged face and smiled, wet her lips, patted back her light brown hair done in an efficient bun, and exited after one more smile.
Schmitt knocked on the door and received permission to send Langer and the others in.
When they presented themselves, Yuri stayed slightly to the rear. He had never liked officers of any kind. Russian or German made no difference, they only meant one thing to him: trouble.
Colonel von Mancken peered at Langer and then Teacher. Pointing a manicured finger at Yuri, he inquired, "What, may I ask, is that?"
"A volunteer, sir, one who has fought well for us," he added. Von Mancken raised an eyebrow. "I did not ask for a list of his merits. Sergeant. I asked what is he?"
"A Tatar, Sir."
Von Mancken viewed the Asiatic with distaste, shaking his head. "What is the Reich coming to when it uses the likes of a patently subhuman type to fight battles that should be won by the glorious feats of arms of Germany's Aryan youth? Indeed a sad state of affairs." He dismissed the Tatar from his mind as he would have a dog or any beast.
"Sergeant Langer, I have made some inquiries." He held Langer's and the others' paybooks and papers in front of him. A trace of envy touched him when he eyed the Knight's Cross and he promised himself to get one before much longer, and one with the oak leaves to it. It would certainly add greatly to his career.
"I have communicated with the commander of your former division and he referred me to the headquarters of Field Marshal von Manstein, who it appears awarded your decoration. It is his desire that you and your companions be given transport to a rest area. That includes your savage also."
The colonel omitted the fact that he had been informed by the field marshal's aide de camp that the Herr Field Marshal did not like for anyone to cast doubts on the valor of anyone he had personally decorated, especially when such a person had been not in combat himself. It would most certainly not be pleasing to the Herr Field Marshal and could have unhappy results for anyone so shortsighted as to commit such an offense. Did the Herr Colonel understand? Or was he addressing a major? Ranks changed so rapidly at the front it was often quite difficult to keep track of all the demotions, they happened so rapidly.
Von Mancken returned his attention to the men in front of him. He was careful to keep control; one must not give vent to displays of emotion in front of the enlisted men. "It will take a few days for orders to be prepared. Until that time you will have no duties here; just don't start any trouble. Schmitt will see to your quarter assignments. You're dismissed."
Langer and Teacher clicked heels, saluted and left followed by a scowling Yuri. The Tatar could smell the envy and hate in the colonel. Well, maybe he would have to start a new collection of ears.
For Langer and his men, the next days were ones like they had not known for years. All the food they could eat and more. Gus ate like a barbarian king. His threats against the medical orderlies' private parts kept them in a state of constant fear and attendance. He gorged on sausage and cabbage, swilling it down with huge amounts of whatever was to be had, from Czech beer to medical alcohol cut with water and flavored with just a touch of iodine. He swore it tasted exactly like good Scotch whiskey.
Every time Yuri saw Stabswachtmeister Schmitt he would just smile and tug at his ear lobe. Schmitt kept as much space between himself and the little brown man from the steppes as possible.
The New Year was celebrated by a small party. The Blitzmädel decided to try the scar-faced tanker on for size. When they left the privacy of the storeroom they had used for their meeting, she could barely walk. Never had she experienced anything like that night. The Panzerman had put her through movements that she had only seen in school when they had studied the art of India. And she had snuck a forbidden look at a copy of the Kama Sutra one of her classmates had ordered from a pornography house in Bremen. The sergeant could ha
ve, in her opinion, written the damned thing.
Gus had managed to acquire enough chits for a visit to a field whorehouse a few kilometers to the rear by cheating the orderlies at cards, dice or anything else he could force them into betting on. The fact that they knew he was cheating was of no consequence. He wouldn't take no for an answer and when he, as he said, had to gently shake one of them, a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound supply sergeant, the rest decided it would be wiser not to irritate the madman any more than necessary. The supply sergeant was now in traction.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Yuri never got his wish to begin a new ear collection. Langer received his transit orders and they were moved out to a training regiment at Vilnyus in Lithuania. Two days after they arrived, Hitler relieved von Manstein of command of the sector they had just left and replaced him with Field Marshal Model, the one they called The Fireman. The wiry, thin-faced field marshal was known for his brilliance in handling crisis situations, and had time and again foiled Russian plans to annihilate German forces they had bottled up. Model was a master of fighting withdrawals, stretching the pursuing enemy out to the limits of supply and knowing just when to turn and fight.
For the most part German forces tried to straighten their lines and set up barriers to slow down the Russian winter offensive. Leningrad finally had to be evacuated after three years of siege.
The Russians still managed to advance to the Bug and Dniester rivers despite brilliant counterattacks by Manstein. The trapped 1st Panzer Army at Tarnopol managed to fight its way out almost intact with the aid of the Luftwaffe, which air dropped all of its supplies. The old reliable Junker 52 workhorse tri-motor was the back bone of a massive air resupply. Langer and Teacher spent the remainder of the winter trying to cram as much training as they could onto the replacements being sent up. It was woefully short many times. The boys they sent up had less than ten days' familiarization with their weapons. Gus was disappointed in his hopes to be sent back and discharged. Instead he was returned to Langer in May, busted down to private. Ivan had a habit of treating prisoners according to their rank; the higher you were, the worse they gave you. A private could always claim he was forced into the war and was really a Communist at heart.
The spring campaigns opened when the ground was firm enough to handle the weight of the armored vehicles. Langer wasn't worried about going up to the front. He knew that the front would soon come to them. It was just a matter of time. In the meantime, he did the best he could to teach the replacements how to survive, not that it did much good. Already, most of the replacements were no more than seventeen, but the Russians, too, were showing some of the strain of replacing troops. They had lost millions and were now fleshing out their ranks with boys of fifteen and old men of sixty. Anyone capable of carrying a weapon was called into service. There was no medical excuse that could save one from the army, unless he was an amputee or cripple.
On 6 March, Colonel von Mancken did his best to win the Knight's Cross and was promptly ground into jelly by the tracks of one of the new JS-I (Joseph Stalin) heavy tanks. Stabswachmeister Schmitt managed to steal the colonel's car and drive fifteen kilometers to the rear, where he tried to bribe a couple of hard-nosed members of the field gendarmerie, who promptly hung him by the neck from a telegraph pole and divided up his bribe among themselves anyway.
By mid-April the Russians had advanced to striking range of the frontier of Poland and were facing the Carpathian mountains to the south. The Crimea had fallen, the 17th Army fought without support until it could hold out no longer. Some units were rescued in a German version of Dunkirk but not all. Thousands of horses were driven off the cliffs to drown in the Black Sea, the German defenders' last act. Destroy anything that might be of use to the Russians. By the end of July Langer's prediction that the front would come to them came true. They were pushed out of Vilnyus to form a hedgehog northwest of the city, surrounded and cut off.
Yuri motioned to Gus to come and take a look. Gus raised his head up far enough to get a good look at a T-34 sitting just a block away beside a burned-out bakery on the outskirts of Vilnyus. The crew was taking a break to enjoy their lunch. They had already strung up, and were butchering a pig for their lunch.
Gus whispered to Langer, who was talking to Teacher. "Hey Sarge, chow time. There's only four of them."
Langer took a look, not at the pig, but the tank. "You're right, Gus, and there's our way out of here."
Gus looked at the sitting T-34 and smiled. "I'll make you a deal. You get the tank and I'll get the pig"
"Good enough, but let's keep it quiet; no shooting unless we have to. Let's not let their cousins know we're here if we can help it. Teacher, you take the Mauser and cover us. Yuri, you come at them from around the rear of the bakery and wait until Gus and I move before you hit them. Gus and I will handle the three with the pig. You take out the one by the tank. Got it?" Yuri grinned his sparkling gold smile.
"All right, then let's be at it."
Gus took his entrenching tool from its case. He had, as usual, honed the edge down fine enough to cut silk with. Yuri had his butcher knife and Langer the long M-98 bayonet. They didn't have much doubt that they would be able to get close enough to use their blades. The Ivans were totally involved with gutting the pig and building a cook fire.
Bellies to the ground, they slid out through the brush and grass slithering like snakes. Before Vilnyus had fallen they had been issued new uniforms and the summer camouflage of light and dark brown splinter patterns blended beautifully with the cover they used.
They moved slowly, the smell of the grass in their nostrils. The heat of the sun beat down their backs and small rivers of sweat ran down the hollow of their spines.
Teacher watched from the cellar window. It seemed to take forever for them to cover the short distance to the bakery wall. Langer raised his head for a quick look.
One of the Ivans was showing off to the others, making swipes with a saber through the air, obviously showing them how it was done when he was still in the mounted calvary. Langer focused on him. That could be dangerous. The swordsman wore the collar tabs of a major. He looked to be about thirty-five. Lean, with high Slavic cheekbones and deep-set eyes that were always in a shadow. He moved through some quick ghost parrying-and-lunging techniques to the delight of his comrades, and with a whirling sweep severed the head from the pig.
Langer grunted mentally. Not bad. It's hard to cut through a neck like that, especially one as thick as a pig's. You have to hit at just the right spot between the vertebra or you can't do it. But it still takes a lot of strength just to cut through the muscle. The Order of Suvarov and the badge of a Hero of the Soviet Union were easily visible.
They reached the wall, their hearts pounding but with the calmness that comes before action. Yuri moved around the building, keeping close to the wall. He had until the time it took him to count his fingers and toes twice slowly, then Langer and Gus would move.
Gus pointed out one of the Ivans. A big man almost as large as himself, bending over slicing up the pig's hindquarters. Whispering, "That's my meat."
Langer nodded he'd take out the major first, and then the little Armenian-looking one by the tank would go to whoever was closest. Yuri would get the one closest to him, a youngster who looked more German than Russian, probably from the Caucasus.
It was time. Langer touched Gus on the shoulder and nodded, took a deep breath, and moved straight at the major. Gus followed, his entrenching tool held like a barbarian axe from the days of the Vikings.
Gus lurched out in front of Langer, the entrenching tool above his head, aiming to slice through the neck of the big Russian who was involved in pulling the intestines out of the slaughtered pig. He was almost on him when his feet hit a slick pile of pig guts, and he went ass over end in a heap under the knife of the big Slav.
Langer rushed in behind before the Slav could react and slice up the new piece of bacon lying helpless at his feet. He yelled, the Slav turned, a slightly sur
prised look on his face; what had happened hadn't really registered. The look of blankness stayed there until Langer's bayonet made a whisshing sound and gave the big man another mouth, gaping and spouting.
Yuri came out at the same time, his butcher knife held low; he raced at half crouch up to the young boy, and whipped him around by the shoulder, aiming for the gut. The youngster twisted as Yuri struck, and the blade slid between the ribs on his left side. The point of the knife reached the heart, but the spasms of muscles, combined with the natural adhesion of the rib cage, made it impossible for Yuri to draw the blade back out. He set a foot on the youngster's head to hold him and began frantically to twist the blade, trying to break it free, only to feel it snap at the handle. Spinning around, he had just enough time to see the look of pleasure on the Cossack's face, before the saber half-severed his head from the body at the neck. Another flick of the wrist and the saber flashed again; the head fell to the ground before the body knew it was dead. Yuri's head fell to rest beside the tracks of the T-34, the face looking up, eyes open, the mouth wide in his familiar gold-toothed smile.