by Gert Ledig
There was a jeep in the clearing. Only now did he notice the tracks on the forest floor. Why didn’t I see them before, he wondered. Three MPs were leaning against it, smoking. Their steel helmets were lying in the grass. They looked up as he approached – a Lieutenant, a Sergeant, and an NCO.
‘Well, Meyer, you demon, who have you come up with this time?’ laughed the Lieutenant.
‘Bit of a strange case, this one. Might be worth taking a bit of time over him.’ The way the Corporal was speaking, it was as though there was no difference in rank between them. At least the Lieutenant’s an approachable fellow, thought the Sergeant. He pulled himself together, to make a good impression. Stood up straight. Saluted.
‘Lieutenant, beg to . . .’
‘Ssh. Only speak when you’re spoken to’s how we do things here,’ the Lieutenant said good-humouredly.
From behind, the Corporal reached into the Sergeant’s inside pocket, pulled out his paybook, and handed it to the Lieutenant, who slowly began to leaf through it. ‘Claims to have left his position at midnight. Confirms that the Russian bombardment had already begun. On his way to the supply column at Emga,’ said the Corporal. He stressed ‘midnight’.
‘Why not just admit you’ve done a bunk,’ said the Lieutenant equably.
‘Lieutenant . . .’
‘Yes or no. No stories.’ A confusing manner he had.
‘No, Lieutenant.’
‘What were you doing for your company?’ The Lieutenant straightened a creased page in the paybook.
‘Platoon commander!’ The Sergeant thought: Why did I write in all the details of what I was doing, and even get the Captain to confirm the dates?
‘And so your commanding officer decides to send you back to supply in the middle of the bombardment, just before the onset of an enemy attack?’
The Sergeant chewed on his lip.
‘It’s my feeling,’ the Lieutenant turned to the NCO, ‘that we’ve got a live one here.’
The Corporal nodded: ‘There’s no reason for them all to be reservists.’
‘Bad business,’ the NCO threw in, obscurely.
The Sergeant felt sick.
‘Well, let’s be off then.’ The Lieutenant stood up. ‘Take him to Emga.’
‘Yes, sir!’ A hand took the Sergeant by the sleeve, and pulled him gently to the jeep. The Corporal got in behind the wheel.
‘I want you back immediately!’
‘Yes, sir!’
They rolled out of the clearing, and got on the road to Emga.
‘Won’t be so bad,’ said the NCO, sitting next to him, and passed him a cigarette. So that the match didn’t go out, the Corporal took his foot off the accelerator. The Sergeant pulled hard on his cigarette. ‘You might be lucky,’ said the NCO. The Corporal accelerated again. Funny, thought the Sergeant, they’re making it sound as though I could be put away for this business. He looked at the speedometer. The needle was flickering around the 50 mark. A couple of times they stopped for vehicles coming the other way. The Sergeant received curious glances.
Emga. The road widened. Blockhouses. Up on a hill, a church without a roof. A building on fire, to the right. The jeep clattered over a rail crossing. Behind a steaming locomotive, a carriage with the windows whited out, and a large red cross painted on the middle of it. Banners and signposts with various tactical instructions rammed into the ground. In the middle of the road, a fountaining explosion. Because of the noise of the engine, the Sergeant had failed to hear the gurgling approach of the shell. He ducked. On the left, a long low barrack hut. The divisional emblem stuck over the door, skew-whiff. Soldiers carrying sets of files, loading them on to lorries. Behind the low wooden fence, swaddled forms on stretchers. The jeep stopped outside a tall barn. Plaster peeling off the outside. An MP standing outside.
‘Come on, get a move on!’ said the NCO, leaping out of the jeep. ‘Otherwise the Russian guns will get us!’ He waited impatiently for the Sergeant. The door was so low they had to stoop. Inside, it was pretty dark. There was a cold draught. The Sergeant couldn’t see any windows in the barn, only a little light came in through chinks in the walls. With practised movements, an NCO with a bulldog’s face took his pistol and belt off him. He didn’t have time to resist. Nor would there have been any point. Sit tight. Talk to them later. He was given a piece of card with a number on it. His name was entered in a worn ledger. Then the NCO pushed him up a staircase. Above them was a wire cage with a door in it. The NCO unlocked a padlock, let the Sergeant step inside, and clattered down the stairs. The Sergeant saw empty paper sacks. GERMAN PORTLAND CEMENT. All round damp brick walls. Three soldiers were sitting on wooden stumps, playing cards. Not cards, bits torn out of the paper sacks. Their uniforms dusty with cement. Overhead, beams and struts, and the undersides of red rooftiles. Feeble light came in through one or two chinks.
‘The last trump!’ The men paid no attention to his arrival. One of them spat on the floor. The Sergeant saw on his shoulder the traces of a removed Corporal’s insignia. ‘Maybe he can tell us what’s going on! Hey, what time are the Russians coming?’
The Sergeant didn’t answer.
‘Shy?’ They put together their bits of paper. Their laughter sounded edgy. ‘Which commandment did you break? The eighth?’
‘Save it,’ said the Sergeant. Only now did he notice another figure squatting by the wall.
‘Would the Sergeant be kind enough to let us know when the Russians are expected in Emga?’ twitted the ex-Corporal. ‘It’s damned important for us.’
‘And maybe for him as well,’ said another.
A shell went up in the village. They listened. The Sergeant tried to work out which way the Front was. He couldn’t do it. The soldiers went on taunting him:
‘We’re not good enough for him. A Sergeant finds it very hard to adjust.’
The Sergeant ignored them. He forced himself to be indifferent, contemplated the crumpled figure by the wall. He was boiling inside. It was just a misunderstanding. After all he’d gone back with the agreement of the Captain, had reported to the Major, and was on his way to Emga, where else was there to go anyway! Just a misunderstanding. Another crash outside. Dirt and splinters rattled on the roof, plaster dust sprinkled down. Damnit, he thought, one can land here any second, and we’re sitting ducks. Just on account of a misunderstanding. He wanted to talk to an officer right away. Only he needed to think about what he was going to say first. And with this banter going on, he was unable to think straight.
‘The gentleman can’t have any information. Must have come from the back area. Else he’d speak to us.’
‘Shut up!’ the Sergeant suddenly screamed.
They fell silent. Only for a moment or two. Then their laughter burst in his face. The Corporal was bent double, as though he had cramp. Behind it, though, was something disconcerting, fear and hatred. Abruptly, he stopped. A twisted red face looked up at the Sergeant:
‘You bastards brutalized us whenever you could. But not in here, OK?’ The veins in his temples stood out. Like a beast of prey, he approached the Sergeant. ‘I’m not going to make it out of this rotten hole in my lifetime, and I don’t care either. But I’ve had enough, and I’m not going to take any more shit from you or anyone!’ His voice cracked. The Sergeant flinched. The Corporal edged him back, step by step. A scar gleamed on his forehead. The Sergeant groped his way along the wall. The scarred forehead got closer and closer.
‘Help! NCO!’ shouted the Sergeant.
The Corporal’s fist smashed into his face. He staggered. From his throat came a gurgling sound. A second blow. He didn’t dare raise his hands. He sagged along the wall. Shut his eyes. As though through a veil, came a sudden voice: ‘Haven’t you had enough yet?’ A whooshing sound. The Sergeant tried to get his eyes to open. The MP was standing in the cell, whipping the man. Blow upon blow. Blindly whipping him about the head and shoulders. ‘Stupid motherfucker!’ The Corporal crumpled. The remaining prisoners pressed back into corners. The
Sergeant felt satisfaction, and worked his boot into the Corporal’s testicles. The MP spun round.
‘Hey!’ The NCO raised his whip.
The Sergeant jerked back. ‘He punched me.’ He felt a minuscule advantage as he sensed that the NCO didn’t want to strike him.
‘Shut up. You’re all the same.’
‘You’ll be sorry you said that,’ hissed the Sergeant. He bit his tongue. But the other looked at him in puzzlement. So that’s the way to talk to him, thought the Sergeant. He ordered: ‘Open the door! At once!’
‘What?’ said the NCO.
‘I said open the door!’
Outside, an explosion hit very close to the barn. Plaster leaped out of the walls. A surge of air seemed to lift the roof. For an instant it was as bright as day. Rooftiles came clattering down.
By this time the Sergeant had calmed down, the MP had already stumbled down the stairs. A feeling of disagreeable sobriety remained in his wake. Spots of sun lit the floor, which was sprinkled with cement and scraps of tiles. The two prisoners got up, and dragged the Corporal into the shadows. They were like ruffled vultures, hunkering in a ruin after a failed expedition. Furious looks flew after the Sergeant.
The Sergeant was looking round anxiously. He stopped and looked at the man, who, during the altercation, had not moved. He was leaning against the wall, little more than a boy, terribly young. The uniform drooped off his narrow shoulders. Two bony hands, and a head that seemed much too heavy for the body. Under greasy hair, two shining, deep-set eyes. Awkwardly, the Sergeant seated himself at his side, in the lee of the wall. The cool, and the dimmed light, both calmed him.
‘Are you not well?’ he asked in such a quiet voice that the soldier barely understood the question.
The boy faintly shook his head. His eyes were directed at a particular spot, a white splotch of plaster on the opposite wall.
‘How long have you been here?’ the Sergeant asked softly.
‘I don’t know!’
‘Surely you must know!’
Silence again. Then: ‘They take me with them wherever they go. It’s been a long time already.’
The Sergeant was startled. He had never seen such eyes. The dullness of a blind man lay in them. And yet they moved, took in his shoulder tabs.
‘You’re a Sergeant . . .’
‘Yes. Have you received your sentence?’ Maybe he might hear something that came in handy.
‘Not yet,’ said the boy.
‘But you’re waiting to hear?’
‘Yes.’ The boy looked dully, eyes front. The other three were watching them.
‘And what did you do?’
‘I hid.’
The Sergeant whispered: ‘Hid?’
‘We were to storm the Russian trenches, and I hid. On account of my mother.’
The Sergeant was disappointed. Fear would have been another matter. ‘Your mother?’ he asked, indifferently.
‘She’s alone, and I’m all she has in the world. Can you understand that?’
The Sergeant looked at the scrawny body, the bony fingers, the yellow skin pulled across the cheekbones. Suddenly he said: ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll never see your mother again!’
‘That’s all in God’s hands,’ the boy replied quietly.
‘What God do you mean?’
‘That one.’ He pointed to the floor. He meant the MP.
‘He’s not a god!’ The Sergeant pulled a face.
‘We’re all in his hands!’ The boy’s eyes started to flutter. The Sergeant felt a bit peculiar. He moved away.
‘Idiot!’ someone said on the other side.
‘You’ll see!’ The boy’s voice rang through the barn. The Sergeant shuddered.
‘Have you got the time?’ one of the three men asked.
Almost gratefully, the Sergeant replied: ‘Eight.’
‘So the day’s just beginning then.’
7
‘Achtung! Achtung! Calling all men. Between 0801 and 0810, we will transmit the time in clear,’ a voice said in a forest, way behind the Front, into the microphone of a short-wave radio. The signals ran through spools and tubes and coils, clambered up a pole on a copper wire, and passed into the ether via an antenna. ‘Achtung! Achtung! Calling all . . .’
‘The army’s broadcasting the time,’ said an officer in the radio car of the divisional command. ‘Tune to receive! Interrupt all messages!’ The radio operators threw switches, twiddled knobs: synchronize watches. They passed on the incoming voice on whatever frequency they were on.
‘. . . the time in clear,’ heard the radio man in Podrova. He glanced down at his watch. They’ll be transmitting that for the next nine minutes, he thought. Better if they listened to me. To what I’ve got to say:
. . . location podrova eastern exit road – lost contact with unit – enemy trench mortar fire on podrova – withdrawal to road – disorderly – elements of infantry, artillery, ack-ack – no weapons, no vehicles, no officers – no intact units – leaderless troops of men – wounded officer describes russian pincer movement on hill 308 – hill presumably still in our hands – end of message.
Instead of which the voice in his receiver said ‘one minute past eight’ and kept the wavelength occupied.
‘Two minutes past eight,’ heard the wireless operator at the five-way crossroads. He didn’t have time to check his watch. Nor did he interrupt his transmission. Every radio operative within a radius of four kilometres heard his report, along with the time:
‘This is saturn – waiting vainly for promised arrival of reserve battalion – in front of us russian tanks – not possible to tell numbers – defence collapsed – enemy breakthrough on a wide front to the north of own position – resistance of own troops in hollow – on hill 308 two enemy tanks no infantry – further resistance here impossible owing lack of ammunition – dynamiting radio – end of report! end! end!’
‘Three minutes past eight,’ he still heard. Then his radio exploded into the air like a champagne cork.
The Major wiped the mud off his watch. Four minutes past eight. So he’d been in the swamp for an hour. Up to his knees in water, and twice in it up to his chest. Lost a boot. His pistol clogged with mud. Compass broken. Both shoulder tabs torn off by branches. He looked like a wild animal. On, on, he thought. His hands were bleeding. Already he could hear the machine gun. Maybe three hundred yards more, and he would be with them . . .
The Lieutenant in one of the Russian tanks on the hill was twiddling with his radio: ‘Five minutes past eight,’ a German voice said in his headphones. He didn’t know any German. He watched the Siberians through the vision slits. They had rolled up part of the German trench, and now they were caught in a trap. There were thirty Germans in a defensive hedgehog at the foot of the hill, and they controlled the entire stretch. On the other side of the swamp, other Russian tanks were wheeling around. Each time the infantry came out from behind them they were caught in German machine-gun fire and mown down. He looked at his watch. The situation was getting unbearable. Three hours up on the hill already. His munitions cases were empty. Why didn’t the carriers come and lay down a new carpet? His own artillery was shelling the heights. The splinters were pinging against his steel walls. He couldn’t even climb out. For the past hour, he’d been parked next to the pylon with his engine off. He couldn’t stick around here for ever. The hole under the concrete pediment had the look of an entrance. There was a battered tin can on the lip. All that kept him from climbing out and having a look was the mortar fire from his own side.
‘Six minutes past eight,’ came the German voice in his headphones, which he didn’t understand.
Six minutes past eight, the NCO established. Cautiously he pushed his head over the earthworks. The sun was reflected in the puddles in front of the trench; behind the shot-up barbed wire were the silhouettes of Russian tanks. Brown cadavers all over the shop. Contorted limbs pointing up at the sky. A shot whistled by from his own trench. It splashed back from the tank tur
ret. Crazy bastard, he thought, the guy’s trying to shoot through the observation-slit.
‘Forget it!’ he shouted back along the trench. ‘Otherwise they’ll let us have it!’
The Runner came out from his niche and propped himself against the opposite trench-wall. He waved his fist in the air: ‘What are they waiting for?’ Right and left of the pylon sat the two tanks, and didn’t budge.
‘The anti-tank squad is fucked!’
‘Yes, or they’ve fucked off!’ The Runner spat into the trench. ‘The bastards have fucked off out of it!’
There was some movement behind the tanks on the edge of the swamp. The NCO peered across.
‘We ought to roll up the sap as far as the officers’ dugout, then we’d have some air!’
The NCO didn’t reply. A Red Army man leaped out from behind one tank, and scurried to the next.
‘They’ve given up on us!’ The Runner looked up into the sky. ‘They won’t even send us any air support!’
The Russian soldier over by the tanks ran past the shredded wire-entanglements. The enamel mess kit flashed against his hip. He waved his arms.
‘I just had to get out of the wounded shelter,’ explained the Runner. ‘They were driving me nuts!’
Over by the wire, at the last of the tanks, the Russian suddenly stopped and ran back.
‘Maybe it’s best . . .’ the Runner finished after a short pause, ‘we just surrender?’
‘Maybe?’ The NCO glanced at him. ‘If we knew what would happen to us . . .’ There was a sudden surge behind the tanks. ‘They’re coming!’ he yelled. The Runner leaped back into his hole. The two machine guns left and right started clattering away.
The NCO thought: they’re attacking every half-hour. Involuntarily he looked down at his watch: it was seven minutes past eight.