Borders

by Roy Jacobsen

  3

  After two months at the front – his training presumably complete – Léon was withdrawn from the lines without warning and assigned to the 2nd Panzergrenadier Regiment, part of the 2nd Panzer Division. Not long after his transfer, 2nd Panzers, which had escaped from France without a single tank to its name, was incorporated into General Hasso von Manteuffel’s Fifth Panzer Army and – this too without any explanation – then loaded onto a night train north, it seemed – to Poland? Well, after three days on the move, with a lot of stops in the middle of nowhere and only at night, the train pulled into a dilapidated station with a rusty, illegible nameplate, then it was off into the dark; there was troop assembly and then a half-hour march through flat, wooded terrain before they arrived at the village of Mötsch, and the village of Mötsch was in Rhineland, there is no doubt about that, not far from Bitburg. A low buzz of voices ran through the lines, for this was surely the definitive confirmation of an Allied landing, the Fifth Panzers was to be given the task of reinforcing Westwall, the front against France, Luxembourg, Belgium…

  They slept on the floor of a schoolroom and had no contact with the civilian population, they received their provisions as usual and did some drill, but spent most of the time playing cards and waiting. Meanwhile Léon resurrected his desertion plans, he had become strong, but it was the dream of home which suddenly struck him with full force, the peaceful life, and especially Agnes’s body, white as marble, which on some nights took his breath away, soon he would he be getting up early and going over to one of the local houses and saying in German that he needed some clothes, because he intended to ditch his uniform and make off; but he is on his own and “non est bonum esse hominem solum”, he has known this all his life, and he prays a lot and thinks about Agnes, unless it is her thinking about him, for he is haunted by these images, time is going backwards, why did they waste it back then, circling around each other like moths around a glowing cowshed lamp, or lying quietly in their separate rooms and allowing their lives to go in their different directions, Dear Agnes, now it is far too quiet here, if things carry on like this I’ll go crazy, if I have to be away from you then I have to be fighting, in the lines, there are other things to think about then, in fact nothing goes through your head at all out there.

  Then the Regimentskommandeur issued new marching orders, to Metternich, which didn’t mean much to Léon, but he heard that this too would involve manning a defensive line along Westwall. But in Metternich another week of inactivity ensued, in another schoolroom, until late on the evening of December 15, Alert Level 1 was raised at the very moment Léon, lying wrapped in woollen blankets, decided that the time for desertion was nigh, Dear Agnes, I’m coming now, alone or not, actually I’m not alone anymore, there are a few Luxembourgers here, I just haven’t had an opportunity to talk to them, but it is good to have them here…

  They struck camp and marched west to Arzfeld, where the regiment took up positions of readiness in a dense spruce forest, but Léon noticed that there was straw on the roads, to muffle the rattle of the tank tracks and that the Luftwaffe was flying low sorties in a north–south direction, presumably to drown the same sound, and now smokeless coal was being handed out for them to cook with, so he couldn’t sleep and lay listening to a conversation between an officer and the first gunner in the M.G. Kompanie section of his regiment, Jochen Berl, a madman from eastern Prussia who saw Hitler as his great liberator and now thought it would be hazardous to send Luxembourgers, Lorrainians and Alsatians to the front line, whereas his superior officer brusquely dismissed this as nonsense, claiming he knew Luxembourgers from Slovakia and was convinced they would do their very best here too.

  It was only then that Léon realised he was on the point of invading his own country, the country that the Americans had freed a couple of months ago from the German yoke, an event which for obvious reasons he was unable to celebrate then, and he couldn’t do it now either, for different reasons, which perhaps were also obvious, what does he know, he doesn’t know anything anymore, and the irrevocable order was given well before dawn, as well as a detailed plan of advance, the Regimentskommandeur had barely uttered the last word of the order when the heavens were filled with lightning and light and awesome thunder, the like of which Léon had never seen or heard before, Lord God above and Dearest Agnes, it is as bright as day and the earth is shaking.

  But then Léon’s company was held in reserve, and at three or four in the morning of Sunday, December 17 he was clinging – as an assistant L.M.G. gunner – to a Panther tank racing at top speed over the straw-covered, muddy and by now churned-up, country road, with six other soldiers. In the sea of fog on the left he saw the road sign to Daleiden pass by, not only did he have to invade his own country he would have to do it via Dasburg, en route to Roder and Clervaux. They were already in the valley, crossing the Our on a makeshift bridge and continuing up into the Luxembourg Ardennes, and Léon told his “friend” Berl all about it, how he used to pick blueberries and enjoy the view on school trips or under the peaceful auspices of the Scout movement, he had to say that, he felt.

  “Stick close to me,” the First Gunner said with a short laugh. “And close your eyes.”

  The crews were ordered out of the tanks and into a wood, where they were given a short briefing and led on foot towards Marburg. They met a column of American prisoners of war, who were being marched back into Germany, passed two artillery posts and walked straight into some American crossfire, had to peel off and seek refuge at the double in nearby scrubland. Helmets, gas masks and battered weapons were scattered across the ground, Léon saw several dead soldiers, all German, shot in the head, and that stupid tremor set in again, Dear Agnes, I don’t know what is causing it, but I am not afraid, you can have no idea how cold I am, it is not my war even though it is my life…

  The Kompanieführer called them to a halt and detailed the attack position for the surprise afternoon assault on the village of Munshausen, which was only a couple of kilometres from Léon’s Dorscheid. In the morning hours there had been two attempts to take it, first using tanks and then with tanks and infantry, now the 2nd Panzers had to finish the job.

  But that was the last thing the Kompanieführer said, for a moment later he handed over the command to a Stabsfeldwebel and withdrew to the artillery post they had just passed. Berl wouldn’t answer Léon’s persistent questioning about what this meant – had there been an argument between a senior Unteroffizier, who was now setting an example, and the Kompanieführer about how the assault should be carried out? – but Léon heard the First Gunner mumble about the new commander – “That man’s an idiot” – before repeating with a wry smile: “Stick close to me, boy, and close your eyes.”

  A reconnaissance patrol which had been sent ahead earlier in the day reported back that the Americans were leaving the village, heading north-west, towards Clervaux. Only minutes later the new commander gave the order to attack.

  Léon had a last look around, “I’m cold,” slung two cartridge belts around his neck, grabbed an ammo box in each hand and ran bent over through an ocean of swaying gorse, on the heels of Berl, a Lorrainian and a sobbing sixteen-year-old from Berlin, whom Léon with his great war experience had had to console with reassurances like “It’ll be fine”, “Soon be over” …until they reached a low hill barely a kilometre from the village, where Berl surveyed the scene through his binoculars, but there were no vehicles in sight; there was no life, not even smoke from the chimneys, a low, freezing mist hung over the countryside, and the silence was as deafening as it can only be in the Ardennes.

  New orders to advance, in battle formation, to a ditch close to the most northerly farm, but at that moment artillery began to shell the village, frozen earth, wooden splinters, slate chips and something Léon vaguely recognised as the remnants of a domestic animal rained down on him, he saw from Berl’s grimaces that the gunner was cursing and observed from the corner of his eye the commander’s desperate rush towards the communica
tion equipment. “That’s our artillery! The idiot has sent us into our own fire!” But before the clouds of dust had settled the orders to advance were repeated, into the village, where Léon – in the farmyard among the first ruined buildings – caught sight of an American soldier sitting on some hay, as helpless as a stray lamb, without a helmet or boots, poking the ground with a stick. The commander approached warily and shoved the gun barrel into his shoulder.

  “Where are your comrades?” Léon heard.

  “In the cellar,” the American answered, nodding apathetically to the closest house before switching to broken German: “Nicht schiessen. Nicht schiessen!”

  “What do they think we are?” the commander grinned, looking around with a triumphant expression, then grabbed the man by the shoulder and dragged him backwards while signalling to the rest of the unit to withdraw.

  Berl and the young Berliner took up position behind a bullet-pocked oak to the north of the closest ruins while Léon and the Lorrainian lay on the ground twenty metres ahead, with a clear view of the cart track to the village centre, where he could make out a water pump and the turret of a Sherman tank protruding between two houses.

  He crawled over the top of a collapsed wall, and down into a mud-filled ditch to join Berl. To the right he saw the commander behind a cart, with his ear to a field telephone again, but immediately he began to gesticulate wildly, and Léon saw two Americans come round the corner with rifles over their shoulders and their hands in their pockets chatting and in a different world from this one. He saw Berl mount the M.G. on the tripod and attempted to shout to him: “The sights! They’re set to a thousand metres!” but his voice didn’t carry and the tracers flew over the heads of the Americans, who crouched down and disappeared among the houses just as the second round of shelling rained down over the village and a deafening barrage filled the space between the German positions, Léon heard a hollow cry and was sprayed with hot, thick liquid, then he heard the yells, from Berl and the commander.

  “Léon! Ammo! Ammo! Léon, where are you?! Léon!”

  Léon was going nowhere, he was clawing the ground to get deeper, but the commander came and hauled him away, but no more than a couple of metres before they had to throw themselves down again.

  “Stick with the gunner! That’s an order!”

  But Léon didn’t leave this spot either – I can’t get away, Agnes, that’s the truth, the earth is shaking, and it’s terrible, but I can hear Berl, and I won’t die, I know, I am immortal, so now I’m getting up, I run across the open ground with the boxes and throw myself over the splintered tree trunk, Berl grins, but at that moment a salvo hits the foot of the tripod and I feel a jerk in my left knee, then I see what remains of the lad from Berlin, and that Berl is injured too, blood is streaming down his leg, Agnes, his right arm is dead, but he doesn’t notice and he fumbles open the ammo box, I see him cursing, I can’t hear a thing, you see, now he is loading and shooting wildly at everything in sight, this is just ridiculous…

  “That’s where they are!” he says suddenly like a fool, because the Americans have barricaded themselves in the loft of the nearest house and Berl quickly raises the barrel and sends all he has into the smouldering roof, I can feel the pain now, Agnes, and the nausea – “Léon, you idiot.” “Yes, yes, I’m here,” Léon does what he is told, I always do what I’m told, my hands feed his gun, but now the enemy in the loft has been wiped out, or it has been evacuated, just some strange screams, and on the ground between the commander’s position and the demolished house there are two G.I.s writhing in agony.

  “Berl!” I shout, and point, but he tells me to shut up, and to the right I notice there is something going on between the commander and an American position behind the two closest piles of rubble, some kind of negotiation, so it seems, at any rate the terrified American we found on the hay in the heap of ruins stands up, puts his arms in the air and moves towards his wounded comrades, not a shot is fired, and drags them, one by one, back to the German position while Berl signals to the commander that we are wounded, a medic appears as the American eases the last man over the pile of earth, but then they open fire again and he has to run for cover.

  There are more negotiations, but the shelling continues, and lasts, you have no idea how long it lasts, Agnes, but you don’t notice, because now the American prisoner gets up again and waves a white rag in the hail of bullets and charges towards us at top speed, obviously having been threatened by our commander, and screams something we don’t understand, but we realise that he has orders to take us back to the commander’s position.

  “No chance,” Berl decides, and the American puts on a horrified expression, apparently our commander has threatened to execute his wounded comrades if he doesn’t return with us, I tell Berl, but I am just brushed aside.

  “I’m not risking my life for those bastards! And you’re not, either!”

  The American becomes hysterical and collapses, and I continue to feed the gun, there is a steady flow now, Agnes, so I don’t think it is an artery, it is running down his wrist and making the grip slippery, but it is worse with his leg which is bent at an impossible angle to the ground, I think he is dead, but he is alive, he had been on the Eastern Front for more than two years, and now he is looking straight at me:

  “Do you speak English?” Berl yells at me.

  “Bit…” I say, but of course I can’t speak any English, I simply don’t know what I am saying.

  “Tell the idiot to fetch medical equipment, morphine, bandages – anything, just send him!”

  I do the best I can, but the American starts sobbing again and I can’t bear to see it, so I shout:

  “We’re sending him to his death!’

  But Berl yells back:

  “Fine by me.”

  And now he has run out of ammo, but he takes the gun from his belt and jabs it in the American’s face:

  “Go! Or I’ll kill you. Bei Gott, das schwöre ich. I’ll kill you.”

  The American sniffles like a child, and when I look at him I see how stupid he looks as he gets up and runs to the commander’s position, the fool, and Berl gesticulates and is answered, and then the American is back, with a first-aid box in one hand and a rucksack in the other, he is walking more slowly this time, but again he makes it, and I hear Berl say:

  “It’s obvious who the Lord is protecting.”

  “All of us,” I say with a smile, at which he asks:

  “What do you mean?”

  I can’t answer that, so he says: “Don’t get clever with me, you Scheiss Letzebürger, I know what you’re thinking!”

  I take the box from the American and bandage Berl’s leg, but as I straighten it, blood surges over my hands, it is an artery, Agnes, it is his life, but at least I manage to get my belt off and tighten it round his thigh, and he shouts “Jesus, I’m dying!”, and I say “No, no …you’re not,” but, Agnes, now I see the Sherman – which has been stationary between the houses for the whole battle – turn into the road and rotate the turret and head straight for us, so I take a deep breath and I see a flash of flame and throw myself to the ground even though I am already lying; but the shell passes above my head and hits a tree trunk behind me, I have to laugh as the tree hits the ground, it is snowing, snow and splinters, but now it is quiet, you can’t imagine how quiet it is.

  “Léon!”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  I was there, and I saw the commander and my comrades leave their positions and race towards the ruins, two didn’t make it, then it was really quiet, the Sherman turned its back on us and slowly trundled out of the village towards Drauffelt, and Berl ground his teeth so loudly that I could hear it, and he was fumbling with a morphine syringe which I had to take from him by force.

  “Are they retreating?”

  He didn’t hear.

  “I survived Hünersdorff,” he said to the sky. “And then there’s this hell here as well!” I drove the syringe into his thigh, and he said: “Give me another,�
�� so I gave him another, and said: “They’re retreating. It’s all over now, Berl. You’re going to pull through. Nobody’s going to die.” “What are you talking about, you idiot? We’re all going to die…”

  A few shots rang out from the village, but the artillery was quiet, and then I saw that Berl had drawn his revolver again and was pointing it at the back of the American, who had been sitting for the last half an hour with his head in his hands rocking backwards and forwards like a sleeping dove, but I must have turned as the shot was fired, I have to admit I did nothing to stop it, what should I have done, I wasn’t at Munshausen, I rubbed my face against the tree trunk, and when I opened my eyes again the place was crawling with medics, Berl was lying on a stretcher covered with a blanket and being given something to drink, two men were also examining my leg, there can’t have been much wrong though because they turned with a contemptuous snort and went away while the others finished treating Berl. I heard them say that someone would see to us before they too left, and I thought it was over, it was dark and biting cold, Berl regained consciousness and said: “I’m alive.” I didn’t answer, I’m sure of that, the pains in my leg were unbearable and my teeth were chattering, but he said: “I’m hungry. I need something to eat. The rucksack, Léon…” So I crawled over and fetched it, rifle ammunition, half a loaf and a bottle of brandy, I heard Berl laugh and took a swig myself, but he drank the rest, and I remember that when I awoke he was looking at me through red-rimmed, feverish eyes.