by Roy Jacobsen
“But now you’re the one clinging to the flag, Markus – not Busse and Manstein.”
“What?”
“They want Peter to be a traitor if I understand you correctly!”
Markus’ jaw fell and he began to laugh nervously. But after listening to his internal dialogue about the ambivalent nature of loyalty, which had troubled the famous three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae and which has presumably been a continuing depressing theme in every single military analysis since, he suddenly began to wonder who was leading this discussion.
The Oberst got up and went into the mess, but only a few minutes later he was back, with two yellowing porcelain cups and a pot of coffee, then went on as though nothing had happened.
“I can refuse!” Markus burst out. “You can kill me, it doesn’t matter, I have no life anyway, at least then I wouldn’t be leading my own son to his death!”
He had stood up again, in a desperate attempt to keep his protest alive, partly also to test the Oberst’s patience, he now maintains, although it is more likely that he didn’t know what he was saying, nor why he was doing it. “That makes it easy for you now!” he shouted, repeating the words several times while his superior officer calmly waited for the powder to burn out and his victim was squarely put into his place by his own inadequacy.
“People like you have always have had it easy,” Oberst Busse said quietly. “You observe everything from a distance. You have more information and less fear than we who are in the midst of it. You have no responsibility and no decisions to make. But this is not a court case, Hebel, nor any judgement. Who do you think Hoth is fighting for? He’s fighting for his life and his men’s, that’s what it’s all about!”
Markus slumped onto his chair.
“Yes,” he mumbled, resigned, almost happy, at finally having got to the heart of the matter. “It’s as easy as that.”
Markus delivered the lines of this conversation with closed eyes and the gestures and voice of an agitated actor or a spirit medium from the battlefield. But as soon as the Oberst had left him the silence hit him again with full force, like after an unusually demanding performance, while he breathed in the canteen air that stank of cabbage and soot, which closed the circle around a defeated man, the “Panzerruhe”, the calm which he dubbed his own form of coma, the counterpart to Generaloberst Heinz Guderian’s “Panzerschreck”, which described the state of shock that struck the enemies of the Third Reich as soon as they heard these machines from hell.
But the problem is – as already indicated – that Markus is not necessarily a reliable eyewitness, no more reliable than Father Rampart reporting sins that any believer knows the Vatican could never have committed, not in this life at any rate, and was this high-ranking Wehrmacht officer really sitting here and asking this nonentity of a Belgian amateur inventor and radio operator to spy on another Wehrmacht officer, a general, in God’s own army, the Sixth? Believe that if you will. Isn’t it far more likely that the nonentity’s wandering mind and lack of logic are pulling the wool over his eyes, that he has a modest yet megalomaniacal wish to have a role in history, to steal a trick or two from history to prevent it from repeating its most despicable acts – the way a historian or an Enlightenment philosopher views the past? Or perhaps it is just his very normal desire to save a son without ever knowing clearly how that kind of miracle can be performed. Miracles, as we all know, take a little longer.
The rest of Markus’ stay in Novocherkassk is, however, of a far more sober character. War changes you! as he himself says, like the valiant soldier he is. Not perhaps from a Dr Jekyll to a Mr Hyde, but it is certainly Jekyll who is sent home on leave, that is certain and indisputable, home to Clervaux where all his three children are playing beneath the beeches in the farmyard, it would be dishonest of me not to admit this, and yet who is the real you in all the fragments that are floating around in your memory? Fragments moreover that have been smashed to pieces by a war – answer me that, young man!
4
On November 28 Markus sent one message after another to the cauldron, furnished with a range of unmistakable references to the “white dog” – the animal which St Bernard’s mother had seen so vividly in her dreams just before her son’s arrival on earth and which she immediately took as a sign of his sanctity – but without receiving what he had hoped for: an answer.
Reports were coming in that the Russian armies in the southern part of the encirclement had launched a new offensive on Stalingrad, using tanks, artillery, flak and “Stalin’s organs” or Katyushas, which is what they called these fearful weapons of theirs. And a little later Markus picked up a report Paulus had sent to Manstein on the 26th, in which the trapped General underlined the need for him to be “free to make his own decisions – in the worst-case scenario”, which Markus could only interpret as a wish for an opportunity and an order to break out, if not from Hitler then at least from Manstein, his immediate superior, it was nothing less than a cry from the heart.
The answer was unfortunately not very encouraging, in the eyes of Markus and presumably those of several hundred thousand other soldiers, since Manstein wrote that any attempt to break out at the present time would only drain the Sixth Army’s resources, especially their reserves of fuel, and without tanks they wouldn’t get anywhere. Any such attempt would have to wait, the Feldmarschall pronounced, until Hoth’s Fourth Panzer Army had received reinforcements and could then advance towards Paulus from the south – it could take five to ten days – but preparations for a breakout could be made.
Markus appended his ridiculous Catholic codes to this message as well – but five to ten days! – what an eternity that is on the battlefield; he knew that part of the reason for Göring’s (and Hitler’s) blind faith in the divine powers of the Luftwaffe stemmed from a dramatic event the previous winter, at Demyansk, south of Lake Ilmen, where the Luftwaffe actually managed to supply a trapped army of 120,000 men for four whole months until reinforcements in the spring broke through the “ring” and rescued their exhausted comrades. Stalingrad was, in other words, nothing new, neither in this nor in any other war; in addition, the commanding officer in the Demyansk pocket, General Karl Strecker, now serving under Paulus, was trapped for a second time. Hitler probably saw the experience factor in this ironic fate as an advantage, and Markus could well have done so too, had it not been for the fact that the difference between Demyansk and Stalingrad was somewhere in the region of 150,000 men, besides it having been an annus horribilis since then for both the Luftwaffe and the army, while the “enemy” was increasingly assuming the form of a Hydra; the relative strengths of the two armies was probably now 1:3 or 4 in the Russians’ favour; moreover Stalingrad dangled at the end of a 2,000-kilometre supply line, thin as a silk thread, far into the world Hitler called Asia. It was pure fantasy, but also the re-enactment of previous blunders: Victrices copias alium laturus in orbem, which Markus is wont to chant in a hallowed voice in conversation with his young friend Robert at around this point in the story, the slogan that Charles XII of Sweden bandied around over two hundred years ago when he launched his army against the same vast Steppes: “Ready to lead his victorious troops into a new universe”. Has anyone ever won a war? Let alone a war they started themselves and had been waging for some time. It is not at all difficult to point to losers, but show me the proof of a victor.
It was midnight, Markus could walk outside and listen to doomsday and let the cold wake him up under the same sky that covers him at home, God’s vast eye of black marble, and he felt calm inside, snow or white ash was falling and history stopped for a moment, it was resting, and he could breathe but not with a feeling of ease, as in the Ardennes forests, his lungs hurt, he grew smaller and smaller, yet was still visible to this vast eye which can lend lustre to even a grain of sand, but he cannot stay here, and once back inside Kuntnagel met him with an earthly grin and an oblique reference to new hard facts.
“You were right.”
“About what?”
/> Markus was handed a telegram, and sure enough, Richthofen had replaced Carganico with Fiebig as the Chief of Operations for the airlifts to Stalingrad.
“How do you know I said that?” he asked him suspiciously.
“Jakob told me about your speech,” Kuntnagel said. “We do discuss things here, you know. From now on we’ll come to you for new predictions and new miracles when things get tough.”
Markus forced a smile through his embarrassment and was about to make the point that the art of reading the future was based on little more than a knowledge of the past and all that was needed was an understanding of the customs and traditions ingrained in people, the woeful repetitiveness of human behaviour, which we have just discussed. And then he considered going one step further and revealing that he probably wasn’t here but situated some way into the future with all the answers, only he wasn’t happy with them and for that reason had returned to the scene of action, to witness everything with sharpened senses and – as mentioned previously, but this can hardly be repeated too often – to search out faults and weaknesses with the intention of putting an end to further recurrences; that he did this like an Enlightenment philosopher, more by leaning than conviction, or rather as a consequence of fate, that was how he lived, both ahead of and after his own time, and don’t we all do this, don’t we wade around in a turbulent sea of visions and memory, with the present as the most fragile of all the vessels sailing on it, don’t we believe that once one mistake has been made that we take care not to repeat it? Possibly, but those are the mistakes we are aware of and security resides in the familiar, in peace and calm; and events don’t replicate each other, as we know, they resemble each other, that is the straw we cling to, the small variations between each occurrence; and then Oberst Eismann called him before his thoughts could distil into some kind of clarity and sent him to the airstrip –into reality – to receive a plane from Stalingrad, an envoy from Paulus.
The ground staff had been working around the clock to keep the runway clear of snow, but it was still falling heavily and you couldn’t see a thing. They heard the drone of a plane between the blasts of wind and the marshaller wandered along the runway lights before disappearing completely into what resembled a white roar, only to come running out again at top speed in front of a taxiing Junker, guiding it in like a dog, in the snow-swept gleam from the floodlights near the makeshift hangar.
Markus drew a deep breath and braced himself, knowing full well what awaited him, the same as last time, and as usual there was no escape: the plane was carrying twenty-six wounded and a doctor, twenty-six silent gazes searching patiently for something other than the stark face of death as the doors opened down into the swirling powder snow. He could have tried to strike up a conversation with the pilot to avoid the imploring glances, but the Leutnant, a man by the name of Kemmer (which Robert, when he hears Markus recalling this, doesn’t think is genuine, but that is his affair), was not amenable to approaches or chit-chat, just stared blackly into space as they ran shoulder-to-shoulder into the Command H.Q. while the doctor went about organising transport for the wounded.
Markus wanted to leave, but Busse asked him to stay to take notes, and once again this was all about the state of supplies and provisions in Stalingrad: the Sixth Army had – according to Kemmer, who debriefed in terse Eastern Front manner – provisions and medicine for twelve days, rations had already been pared to the bone, and as for ammunition they had only 10 to 20 per cent, sufficient for one day’s fighting! While the fuel was enough to carry out only short manoeuvres and nowhere near adequate to break through the Russian lines – from Paulus’ southernmost positions to Hoth’s northernmost ones near the village of Kotelnikovo it was 120 kilometres, a bleak and naked expanse of land packed with Russian fortifications which no doubt were becoming more and more entrenched and better equipped and manned by the hour.
At this point Markus fell asleep, or he fainted, left this world, but as mentioned there was no escape, so he was woken again only a few minutes later by the sound of raised voices. Kemmer had left for the Cossacks’ quarters to get a few hours’ sleep and Manstein was complaining about the figures: How could Paulus, only four days ago – so ill-equipped – report that he wished to attempt to break out?!
Markus fell asleep again and was woken once more by the sound of voices, this time even louder, and realised that Manstein had been discussing the idea of going back to the cauldron with Kemmer the next morning to see with his own eyes how things stood, while the staff were doing their best to dissuade him; a Feldherr can’t just abandon the command of a whole Army Group and fly into an isolated battle zone, no matter how imperative this might be for his encircled army.
This argument was brusquely brushed aside, as it was an indispensable element of the Feldmarschall’s command philosophy to analyse the battlefield at first hand, it was his personal knowledge of every single tiny unit that had enabled them to taste the fruits of victory at Sebastopol, which had prepared the ground for the incredible breakthrough at Perekop and the equally miraculous storming of Kerch – to name but a few successful operations courtesy of the undersigned.
The others nodded patiently at all this, but then Busse again brought up the weather factor: the “Feldherr”, as they called him now, risked becoming trapped in the cauldron for two, three, maybe four days with no other contact with his staff than this wretched teleprinter. And at length Manstein began to waver, again and again he ran his powerful horseman’s hands over his well-groomed hair while his eyes sought support from the shadowy rafters. Chief of Staff Schulz grabbed the opportunity and volunteered, whereupon the Feldherr gave a grudging nod, and a sigh of relief went through the room.
The following hours were spent drawing up instructions for the mission. Schulz was to visit as many units as possible and get Paulus himself to assess the chances of a successful breakout, as well as establishing as propitious a time as possible, so that the operation could be coordinated with a simultaneous offensive from Hoth’s Fourth Panzer Army. The Sixth Army had to avoid “acts of desperation” at all costs, as coordination with the Fourth Panzer Army would then be lost and a catastrophe would be a reality, both for Hoth and Paulus.
Schulz would also have to find out if Paulus was in any position to wait, in light of a conversation Manstein had had with Richthofen the day before when the Head of the Fourth Air Fleet (as Markus now had confirmed) had answered with an unambiguous “no” to the question of whether he was capable of keeping Stalingrad supplied with the necessary tonnage of provisions and equipment.
Schulz would have to judge for himself, however, whether Paulus should be made aware of this unambiguous “no” from Richthofen; on the one hand, the information could make it easier for the encircled General to defy Hitler’s orders to dig in for the winter and construct “hedgehogs”, as they were called. On the other hand, the information might increase the probability of Paulus wanting to attempt the aforementioned “act of desperation” before Hoth had received enough reinforcements to attack the Russian line from the south. But Schulz would have to form his own judgement, based on his observations of the cauldron, which meant, not least, of Paulus’ heart and soul.
5
Markus had hoped to be able to have a few words with Schulz before he left for the cauldron. But everyone seemed to have forgotten about his family matters, and also his minor intelligence assignment, which of course was only fictional: this kind of thing never happens, the little man has to learn this once and for all, so now it was a question of getting it over with if he was to have any hope of keeping up with events.
Kemmer was dragged from under his blankets before daybreak, given a hot bath, a sumptuous repast and a crate of vodka before clambering in behind the controls of the Junker (which the ground crew had filled with fuel and supplies) and returning to hell with the same doctor and General Schulz – and Markus had no option but to stand on the airstrip and watch the plane fight its way through the billowing cloud cover, he stood
there until the driving snow had penetrated his clothing, frozen him stiff and woken him up once more when Fatty Beber came panting over with a dispatch from the cauldron, which in the standard jargon said that “fighting in the city continued with unabated intensity”, but it finished with the words:
“Alethe’s white dog not understood. Identify yourself!”
Markus felt a tingle in his fingertips and set off at a run. A hope. However, he realised that the telegram did not necessarily come from his son, it could have been sent by anybody, they might even have been in a slight panic if they felt that an important communication from the top brass had gone over their heads.
Markus went to see Stahlberg, and the Oberstleutnant immediately gave him permission to send a reply, on condition that it did not contain anything that could reveal Markus’ identity to anyone but his son and which also sent the boy clear instructions that his father wished to remain anonymous, to both his own and his son’s commanding officers. Should contact be established at all it would have to be in such a way that made it clear to the “informant” that he could talk “freely”.
Markus wrote one sentence:
“Identification of Alethe’s white dog: a red stripe along its back. Manstein.”
He handed it to Beber, who read it with a furrowed brow and then broke into a smile at seeing the name of the sender before disappearing into the radio room.