Unlikely Warrior

by Georg Rauch

  About midnight some soldiers came dragging heavy iron containers from which they filled our mess kits with an almost-cold stew of sorts. Half a loaf of Kommissbrot (rye bread), a finger-thick slice of sausage, and a piece of hard artificial honey completed the day’s rations.

  Russia, December 7, 1943

  Dear Mutti,

  And so it’s come to this. I have been standing in the front trench for forty-eight hours. It’s a very strange feeling to know that thousands before me have already stood in such a trench, and probably just as many will come after. Here we sit, day and night, ready to ward off the attacking Russians. Only here can one first claim to be a soldier, for he who hasn’t heard the bullets whistling isn’t yet one.

  Twenty-four hours ago I couldn’t have said I was in such a good mood. In fact I was pretty unhappy, because I have been placed here as an infantry soldier, even though I was ordered to headquarters as a telegraphist. It has struck me here that I really don’t completely understand such concepts as bravery and cowardice. For example, I can’t reconcile military courage and bravery with the drive for self-preservation that I feel so strongly here in the bottom of my trench.

  There is already a little snow. The ground is frozen and the sky cloudy. Overnight it has become bitter cold. I’m wearing no less than two pairs of long underwear, a pair of sweatpants, and my uniform pants. In addition, I have on two shirts, a military pullover, my own pullover, a stomach band, uniform jacket, overcoat, and a blanket. On my head two scarves, earmuffs, and a cap pulled down over my ears. All that and I’m still freezing! But we’ve been promised quilted suits in a few days. Your mittens are splendid. They have proven themselves wonderfully. I don’t want to take them off at all.

  I have very little left of the things I brought with me from home, but it doesn’t matter. I have the most necessary things with me, and the rest is just a great burden. I haven’t washed for almost two weeks, which isn’t exactly pleasant, but there has been no opportunity. I don’t have lice yet.

  In spite of everything, I’m actually in quite a good mood. I look at everything from a certain distance with a kind of superiority, and I really don’t know where this comes from. I only notice that it has quite a refreshing and calming effect on the others who, in part, are pretty run-down—spirits as well as nerves.

  Of course I won’t be celebrating Christmas this year. There’s no tree, no friends, no presents. I’ll just be happy if I’m not too hungry on that day. With that in mind, I’ve been saving a piece of bacon and some sugar. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not so fussy in this respect. Who knows, perhaps for all this the Christmases to come will be that much better.

  You mustn’t be surprised at my writing and spelling. It’s 7 a.m., my fingers are pretty stiff and dirty, and the trench is just as wide as I am. Besides, one’s heart does beat a little faster, after all. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again, but it could be a while, since there isn’t always a chance.

  Be well and don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me. Besides, I have faith in your religious attitude, and that simplifies things considerably. Warmest greetings to all who care about me, and tell them I’m fine. Many loving kisses from …

  Your Georg

  After nightfall on our fourth day in the trenches, a lieutenant came and announced, “The companies will be pulling back at 7:00 p.m., and a small group will remain behind as rear guard until 11:00 p.m. Both of you are detailed to this group.”

  Our task was to keep walking the trench in one direction until we met the next soldier, a distance of three to four hundred yards, and then do the same in the opposite direction. At the same time we were to fire off a shot now and then to simulate the continuing presence of the entire company.

  The withdrawal of the majority took place very quietly, and we began marking off the trench. It was quite still. I could hear only the far-off rumbling of the artillery and an occasional rifle shot.

  I worked my way toward the contact on my right, returned to the left, and then went back again. Two hours must have passed in this fashion when, as I was once more walking the trench toward my right, probably more or less absentmindedly, it suddenly occurred to me that I had walked much farther than before without meeting the other man. I stopped and debated whether to keep going or to wait until he came back in my direction. It was very dark and very still, one of those black and cloudy new-moon nights.

  As I stood there undecided, I thought I heard something—just a smattering of strange sounds. I glanced toward the dark mass that formed the slope across the way, and there, along the faint contour of the hill outlined against the night sky, I thought I detected some moving spots. The harder I strained to see, the more certain I became; those were people moving up there. Then I also saw some indistinct, even darker spots on the slope but closer to me, and again that low, unfamiliar murmuring.

  The longer I stared, the more easily I could distinguish shapes, closer and closer to me and moving silently forward. A chill ran down my spine, and the artery in my neck began to throb as I realized that one of the shapes was crouched not more than a few meters in front of me. Then more of those sounds, whispered scraps of Russian words, but behind me!

  “They’re in back of us,” I thought. “They’re already over the trench. They must have killed the other man, and that’s why I didn’t meet him.”

  At this moment I discovered what fear is. It became all too clear to me that those creatures crawling toward me through the mud in the middle of the night were there for the sole purpose of killing me. With that they became, whether I wished it or not, “the enemy.”

  I made myself as small as possible and began creeping back very slowly the way I had come, hoping just not to make a sound, just not to bump into anything, expecting at any minute that a Russian would jump down on top of me or a flare would light up the sky and I would be surrounded by shooting Russians.

  I wormed my way along the trench for an eternity. Eventually I started coming to places that seemed familiar: a bunker, a bomb crater. Finally someone growled in German, “Password?” and I gave the response with enormous relief. It was my old veteran.

  After I had described the situation in whispers, we went seeking the noncom in charge of the rear guard. Shortly afterward we were all out of the trenches and on our way to the rear, but I soon noted that the noncom seemed to be having some difficulties finding the right way. More and more often the group received the signal to halt while he studied the map with a carefully shielded flashlight. It had begun snowing and the flakes were coming down thicker and thicker. I chewed on my last piece of bread and asked myself how long it would take for us to run into our company.

  Map my father drew in an attempt to follow my whereabouts in the Ukraine.

  Soon the ground became completely white, and a dismal silence lay over everything. Then the wind began blowing. Before long a heavy blizzard was hurling the snow into our eyes, making it difficult not to lose the blurred shape of the man in front of me. Two hours had already elapsed since our flight from the trenches, and I was becoming very tired, what with all the equipment I had to carry. The pace of the group was slowing down considerably.

  Suddenly the silhouette of a house appeared through the snowstorm, and behind it, another. They were the first houses of a village. We searched them, and when they proved to be deserted, the officer ordered us to sleep inside until daybreak. Guards were posted outside, and I found a dry corner where I fell asleep immediately.

  I thought at first I must be dreaming when someone shook my arm and whispered, “Wake up, quick! The Russians are on the other side of the street. Just grab your rifle and ammunition and get out the back as quickly as possible. Leave everything else.”

  It was still snowing. The ground was soft and swallowed up our footsteps as we crept down a small depression, expecting flares and bursts of fire at any moment. After crossing a small stream that plunged us knee-deep into icy water, we disappeared among the bare fruit trees on the opposite
side.

  Two more days passed before that incompetent nincompoop of an officer finally led us back to our company. Our rations during this period consisted of cooked corn kernels.

  When we finally reached the others, no joyous reunions took place among these men who had been fighting next to each other for months. That surprised me. I still hadn’t learned how dulled soldiers become, how superficial relationships remain when the dead are constantly being replaced by new faces, these likewise destined to disappear in a short time.

  An hour after our return I was in the front lines again, once more in a trench, this time one filled with snow. But a day later my situation took a definite turn for the better.

  Russia, December 13, 1943

  Dear Mutti,

  Today I am in the happy position of writing you a letter full of satisfaction. Half an hour ago, completely filthy, lousy, and dog-tired, I climbed out of a hole in the ground that lay just 300 meters across from the Russians. They hadn’t anything better to do all afternoon than to keep trying to place a direct hit in my hole. It was pretty close a few times, but I got out with my bones intact after all.

  This evening I said farewell to the trench, and in the future I’ll be working as a telegraphist. That pleases me very much, especially since it isn’t very nice having to shoot at Russians. The last few days weren’t nice at all. But enough of that. I have no idea how the future looks for me since it hasn’t yet been determined where I will be assigned as telegraphist. For certain it will be better in many respects, as I am now a member of the regimental headquarters staff.

  I have overcome the 100 percent aversion to being here; or rather I had to overcome it.

  A merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you and Papi.

  Your Georg

  THE HARDEST THING

  I was assigned to a battalion headquarters that was situated in a village about three kilometers to the rear. Plodding through heavy snow, I arrived there on December 13. It was late, and I found a space to sleep on the floor of one of the houses.

  The next morning I tottered out, stiff-limbed and still half-asleep, to wash off my face with snow. Somebody suddenly grabbed me from behind in a big bear hug and said, “Well, who would have believed it? Rauch has managed to survive his first ten days without suffering any depreciation!”

  With that, Haas released me from his clinch and pulled my cap over my eyes.

  “Hey, where are you detailed?” I asked him, grinning.

  “Same firm, same team. Even the same hut.”

  I was very happy to see him again. The realization that he was going to be nearby seemed to make the entire situation a lot friendlier.

  Russia, December 14, 1943

  Dear Folks,

  Now I’ve become a human being again. A short time ago I arrived here at battalion headquarters, where I will be engaged as a telegraphist from now on. I like it tremendously! There are twelve of us telegraphists and phone operators living together in one hut, all very nice guys. The atmosphere is so friendly here, a relief from up front, where there is only yelling and complaining. What’s more, I have washed myself from head to toe and brushed my teeth. Yes, now the unpleasant part is all behind me. I can even hope to celebrate a halfway happy Christmas. Today, also, for the first time in a long while, I had a good laugh. That’s why I’m in a fantastic mood.

  The food is excellent, because the Headquarters Company is feeding us. Schnitzel for lunch, schnitzel for supper, and sausage for breakfast. Meat in large quantities. The cook thinks to himself, whether we eat the pigs and calves today or the Russians eat them when we move on tomorrow, it is all the same. (Of course, it is not all the same to us.)

  I feel like Adam, standing here naked, without possessions. The Russians have everything. I’ll just have to organize something. At any rate, I don’t have to worry much about the loading of my luggage when we are on the march. I feel particularly unburdened.

  Outside it’s finally becoming bitter cold. Pfirt Euch Gott [May God watch over you] and go happy into the New Year. Many loving greetings,

  Your Georg

  Russia, December 21, 1943

  Dear Mutti,

  First of all, my best regards from Russia. Nothing has changed here for the last eight days. The daily monotony: up at six, Madka puts the potato soup with chicken on the table, it becomes light. One begins the first lice hunt. In every piece of clothing, twenty to thirty lice. Then the joint gets cleaned up. One man always sits at the switchboard and makes the connections. I am already pretty good at that. Mornings there’s nothing else to do.

  At twelve-thirty we receive our warm lunch from the field kitchen and right after that they hand out the cold rations: sausage, butter, bread, and coffee. At two it starts to get dark, and you have to hurry up with another delousing or they’ll eat you alive.

  In the afternoon I blow on the harmonica or write a letter. At five or six there’s chicken again. I can hardly bear to look at another chicken since, in addition to our military rations, which are plentiful and good, each of us eats approximately one chicken per day, and they are pretty fat in this part of the world.

  Yesterday we also butchered a hundred-kilo pig. Meat, meat, and more meat. On that point we certainly can’t complain, but now and then you do miss something that tastes a little different from meat, potatoes, and bread.

  At six we usually go to bed (which consists of a pile of straw and two blankets on the floor of the hut). But I’ve become used to it. At night each of us has two hours’ duty on the switchboard, but one doesn’t mind. First of all you aren’t very sleepy, and second the lice are biting like mad. Sometimes you think you will truly go crazy, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. And so one day passes like another.

  Into the bargain, of course, one hears the eternal howling of the mortars, hits from bombs, bullets, and everything else that bangs and bursts around here. The main battle line is three kilometers away. Sometimes the Russians break through and come critically close. Then we also grab our guns and run out in counterattack to push them back. These occurrences are usually pretty bloody.

  Except for food, the supply situation is pretty bad, because we’re sitting in a pocket that the Russians close up from time to time. In these cases, we have to exert ourselves to open it up again. For that reason not much is getting in. Incoming mail has begun functioning recently. I still haven’t heard anything from you, but I also have my third field post number. This one is the final one, however.

  I have a couple of wishes that you might fulfill: three number-two pencils, some matches, four safety pins, a lighter and flint if possible, a map enlargement of the section with Alexandrovka and twenty-five kilometers west, a 1944 calendar diary, envelopes and paper, a paintbrush, and a mouth organ in C, since mine is broken or not working very well. These are all things I’m lacking.

  I got back part of my luggage, mostly underwear. That’s why today is a holiday for me—I have on clean underwear with no lice! Please write me how much mail is getting through and when you receive it.

  Many kisses from your Georg

  The twenty-first of December was Stalin’s birthday, and all day long we could hear the drunken Russians shouting and shooting off their pistols. On the twenty-second and twenty-third they shot at us all day long with mortars and succeeded in wounding and killing quite a few. Haas convinced me that it was better to go without a helmet, because the German version was so heavy and came down so far over the ears that it made hearing almost impossible. And hearing well was vital. There was that sound of a soft blip that came from the Russian positions, the discharge from the mortars that one had to learn to take seriously. Approximately twenty seconds following that sound the hit landed, and it was much better to be prepared.

  Russia, December 24, 1943

  Dear Mutti,

  Christmas in Russia, a rather strange feeling, especially when one is used to celebrating this holiday the way we do. But there is nothing to be done about that here. Nobody has t
he head for it. The Russians lie one hundred meters away, dug fast into the ground, and any minute they could come our way in great multitudes. Then there’s always uproar, shooting, wounded, dead, and afterward everyone sinks down somewhere or other and sleeps a couple of hours to recover. Who could still have the head for a Christmas celebration with presents, etc.? The soldiers are happy about the extra pack of cigarettes and bottle of schnapps that everyone gets. Some have received a package from home in time. Even just a greeting from home helps to a few peaceful thoughts.

  Yesterday I went organizing here in the village. That is to say, one goes from hut to hut, pushing open the door, gun in hand. Then you rummage through the whole house without even tossing a glance at the inhabitants who are standing around and wailing, and you take whatever is worth taking. At first I didn’t have the heart for this, but in time you learn that, too. Thus I found eggs, butter, sugar, flour, and milk with which I baked a first-rate cake. Together with a little schnapps, it was a real treat. Afterward a few loving thoughts of you and Christmas 1943 was over. Well, one time like that for a change. Otherwise I’m doing great.

  Your Georg

  As delighted as I was to get out of the trenches, and especially out of the front fighting lines, being quartered a few hundred meters farther back, in a Russian house, was a mixed pleasure.

  Very seldom did we encounter the solitary dwellings that one often sees in the Austrian countryside. The Russian houses were almost always grouped closely together in villages, each with its own vegetable garden and often a few fruit trees nearby. Usually the dwellings were uninhabited, evacuated, and at the soldiers’ disposal, but sometimes we shared the huts with very old people who hadn’t wanted or been able to evacuate, and even people with small babies.