The Stalin Front

by Gert Ledig

  ‘We’d better take a vote,’ said the NCO. He was panting. In him too, the Major identified his own face. ‘We must let them vote, Major. No one will follow an order any more. Surrender or break-out. Last chance.’ The Major bit into the palm of his hand. The skin felt bumpy. The mosquito poison burned like fire.

  The Major took evasive action: ‘You’re in charge here.’

  ‘OK,’ said the NCO. ‘Break-out or surrender?’ He held his pistol in his hand, directed at the Major. As if he wanted to use it to get the right answer out of all of them.

  The Major bit down on his finger. He asked: ‘Do you think we could manage to break out?’ Blood oozed out of the blisters on his fingertips. He bit harder.

  ‘Yes,’ said the NCO. ‘Shit on God if we don’t.’

  The Major shook the blood off his hand: ‘Majority decision?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That wasn’t an order.’

  ‘Was.’ The NCO rammed the mouth of the pistol into the wall of the trench. The opening was full of earth. If he fired it now, the thing would explode in his hand. ‘Answer!’ he suddenly screamed at the Major. ‘Surrender or break-out?’

  ‘I don’t count.’ Through a gap in the parapet by the shelter, the Major saw the wounded Russian officer lying. They had just thrown him out. He couldn’t see the man’s face. But he saw one of his hands scraping at the earth.

  ‘You’ve got to decide,’ the NCO pressed him. ‘You first. I’ve got no time to lose. We’re shooting off the last of our ammunition.’ The Major didn’t open his mouth. ‘I need you to vote,’ the NCO yelled at him.

  No time, no ammunition. Break-out or suicide. Surrender or suicide. Either way worked. The Major bit into the palms of his hands again. An airburst shell blew up above them. ‘I’m afraid I must abstain,’ said the Major. The wounded Russian rolled off his place. He couldn’t see his hand any more. There was no prison for him.

  ‘Goddamnit, Major!’ said the NCO. ‘Break-out or surrender?’

  ‘Can’t I get it into your head that I can’t participate in the decision!’

  The NCO examined his plugged pistol muzzle. He banged it clear against his left elbow. The earth trickled over the Major’s bare feet. It was as though he’d touched him. ‘I demand an answer!’

  ‘All right, if you must – surrender!’ The Major’s teeth dug into his palms again. The pain from the bite this time cut through his whole body. He could no longer feel the burning of the mosquito stings. His bare soles felt icy. The NCO looked at him: his own face looked at him. But with a hate-filled expression. He had a sense of how the NCO would see him: no epaulettes, barefooted, with the rip in his tunic, grimed hands, and bloodied welts along his wrists and neck.

  ‘Coward!’ The NCO turned away.

  The word didn’t upset the Major. If it wasn’t that he’d lately kissed his life goodbye, he would have felt proud. He began to think how to go about it. He didn’t have a pistol. What if he took a wire, and stuck the rifle in his mouth? The Russians stopped shooting in the saps. It was almost quiet. The NCO was talking to the nearest sentry.

  ‘Break-out or prison camp?’

  ‘What did the Major choose?’ asked the sentry.

  ‘Break-out.’

  ‘OK. Break-out it is then,’ said the man.

  That’s not true, I didn’t, the Major wanted to call out. He couldn’t make a sound. The NCO’s steel helmet moved on. The Major looked for a wire or a bit of string. He found a gun sling. As he loaded his rifle, he thought about how quiet the Russians were being at the former company office. Maybe they’d shot off all their ammunition as well. Maybe he should have voted for break-out. The idea that he might kill himself just before a decisive turn in events gave him pause. His hand shook as he looped the sling round the trigger guard. He permitted himself no distraction. All that mattered was that he was dead right away. The bullet was to go through the roof of his mouth into the brain. He would feel nothing. He propped the rifle between his legs. Checked whether he could use his big toe to pull the trigger. As he looked at his feet, it crossed his mind that he would leave an extremely unappetizing corpse. A smashed skull and a filthy body. As well that no one would see him. As an officer, incidentally, he was entitled to a coffin. But in fact he’d be lucky if they dug him a hole. Comforting that he wouldn’t leave anyone behind, wife or child. He wanted to do it in such a way that he fell face down. All he had to do was lean forward slightly. The mouth of the rifle under his chin looked at him like a dead eye. Suddenly the sound of voices came from the foxhole. He heard his name mentioned. ‘If he hadn’t come, they’d still be alive now.’ He wondered what it was they held against him. ‘When the Captain called on us to surrender, there were more of us. He’s got five lives on his conscience.’ Then the NCO’s voice again. A quarrel, evidently. The voices grew louder. ‘Equal rights for all! You can’t ignore me!’ The NCO made some reply he couldn’t hear. ‘Well, shoot me then, shoot me, why don’t you!’ the voice screamed again. The NCO: ‘Do you think I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you?’ The other: ‘Surrender – whatever the Major says!’

  A gunshot whined through the trench. Five plus one make six, thought the Major. The muzzle between his legs stared up at him. He should have stayed in Podrova. He remembered the telephone conversation with Divisional HQ. His command: counter-attack towards the log-road. That was only yesterday, wasn’t it? Thirty replacements he had ordered to this position. And the dead driver he’d lost in the Podrova cemetery. Sum total from a single day, on his account. And how many days like that did he have to look back on? He leaned forward over the muzzle, mouth wide open. The cold metal brushed his gums. His toe groped for the trigger. Would he feel something after all?

  ‘Major!’

  He jumped, pushed the rifle against the trench wall in confusion. The NCO was standing in front of him.

  ‘All unanimously in favour of break-out!’

  The Major gazed at his bare feet. The NCO saw the gun, took in the sling wrapped round the trigger . . .

  Lieutenant Trupikov entered the shelter. The German Captain was sitting behind the makeshift table, with his hands on it.

  ‘Still no signs of a surrender, Lieutenant?’

  He tried to put on a concerned expression. Not a syllable about the air attack.

  ‘No! They’re not surrendering!’ Another one of those animals, thought the Lieutenant. Here in his cage he behaves like a human being, but put a rifle in his hands and he’ll start shooting corpses. What’s he doing here? The wolf with his sheep’s face. Aren’t there enough hills in his own country? I’ve even seen them myself, green trees, streams, trim villages. No rubbish or muck on their roads. Ears of corn stand upright in the fields like soldiers. But they want to take our marshy forests off us, our dried-out steppes, a few wooden huts . . . The Lieutenant became incoherent with rage, adrift on a flood of misunderstandings. He would shoot this German. That was the obvious solution. A shot in the neck. He wouldn’t have to see his face any more. With the head bent, it’s not possible to miss the spine. No chance of hearing a cry of pain from the victim. Even before death, the nervous connections to the vocal cords are broken. An ideal type of execution. He looked at his victim. Very short neck, he finally concluded. Curious, the ways in which one can assess someone’s neck. Only the German’s high shirt-collar bothered him. Maybe he could get him to take off the tunic first. But no: he had to shoot him outside. He would have to take account of the tunic. Then what if the pistol failed? He could give the command to the Sergeant. He sent him a piercing look. Why couldn’t the man read minds! Suddenly he ordered: ‘In half an hour we’re going to overrun the German position! Signal for the attack will be a red flare. Every platoon to take its own wounded forward. I want all units informed!’

  ‘Signal for the attack: red flare. Take the wounded with us,’ repeated the Sergeant.

  The Lieutenant gestured towards the German. Surely to God that was clear enough. But the Sergeant ran out. The opportunit
y had passed. ‘Let’s try again.’ The Lieutenant made an effort to speak distinctly.

  ‘What?’ asked the German.

  ‘In half an hour it’ll all be over!’

  ‘What will?’ the German asked again.

  Then we’ll leap at each other’s throats, thought the Lieutenant. He said: ‘Our tanks will smoke them out with flame-throwers. Come on, after all these are your men we’re talking about.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it some more,’ replied the German. ‘It’s wrong for me to do it.’ He was speaking slowly and distinctly, the way you speak to a dog if you’re not sure whether it’ll bite you or be harmless.

  ‘Why not?’ All he wanted was to get the German outside, with his back to him, and his neck within reach. His refusal upset his plan.

  ‘Why not? You did it before!’

  The German shook his head: ‘Do you know who they’ve got with them?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Their commander!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The single soldier who made his way through your lines is my Major!’

  The Lieutenant felt a surge of interest in this opponent whom he would see in half an hour. So they’ve got a few of that sort as well, he thought. A commander who will join his frontline forces during a battle. ‘What difference does that make?’ he asked crossly. His time was ticking by. Things were coming to a head.

  ‘He warned me,’ said the Captain. ‘He’ll call me to account later.’

  So he’s just scared, concluded the Lieutenant with relief. He’s scared of his commander. He stared fixedly into the candle flame.

  A pit in the woods. Gloomy vegetation, dwarf firs. Pallid twilight behind the treetops. In front of the pit, the prisoners. One next to another. Eyes on the prepared grave. Not a word from their lips, not a word from the group of Red Guards. ‘Kneel down!’ ordered the Commissar in German. The prisoners pretended not to understand him. Click of a pistol safety catch. One prisoner grinds his teeth together. A crunching, as if his jaw were splintering. A clump of earth eases itself off the wall of the grave, and falls down. Finally, the Commissar goes from one prisoner to the next. Does it with a certainty as if he’d never done anything else. The echo of every shot breaks up in the treetops. The prisoners fall forwards. By the time the last of them falls into the deep, it’s night. Just one last dying glimmer of light in the sky. No. It was tempting, but repugnant. And time trickled by. Only a few more minutes, and then at least he wouldn’t have to endure any more waiting.

  Red Guards carried stretchers into the shelter. The soft groans of the wounded rose from their pallets. Weapons were loaded. The Siberians looped sacks full of hand-grenades round their necks. The shelter, with its smell of carbolic, dirt, and thickening tallow, did all it could to seem homely. He felt a sensation of leave-taking. Taking leave of security. Taking leave of life. With every stretcher they carried out, the apprehension and fear increased. Man after man stepped out into the passage. Hesitantly, with the small, faint hope that it would be the man next to him who would cop it, and not him.

  ‘I’ll keep it short,’ said Lieutenant Trupikov. ‘The situation . . .’ He didn’t know how to go on. ‘For some time we’ve been cut off . . . A violent break-out . . . our only option. I want you to come with us!’

  The Captain looked at him uncomprehendingly. It took a long time for him to understand: ‘That’s not possible! You said . . . your word of honour!’ He was stunned, suddenly cheated of his vision of serenity. Of little barrack huts surrounded by barbed wire . . . no shells . . . no fear of death . . . calm. It was all gone. ‘Leave me here,’ he begged. ‘There’s no point. Please understand my position . . .’ His stammering seemed to bounce back off the other’s stony features. ‘I could look after your wounded . . . Sure I could, sure I could . . .’ He was talking like a child that hadn’t yet learned to lie.

  All the while, the shelter was emptying. As if they understood they were now superfluous, the candle flames started to drown in little puddles of tallow. One wick after another hissed out in grease. Only one was still burning, to light him the way to death. On one pallet there was still a bundle of humanity. His breathing was ticking like a clock, but he didn’t move. He was forgotten. Like the rickety table, the empty conserve tins, a scrap of bread, the smeared jam, shreds of paper and unusable arms.

  ‘Come on!’ ordered the Lieutenant.

  The Captain stood up behind the table. ‘What about him?’ he asked, pointing to the bundle.

  The Lieutenant didn’t answer. They went out into the passage, the Lieutenant keeping close behind his captive. They pushed aside the oilcloth in the entryway, and emerged into the trench. The bright sun blinded them like a lightning flash.

  ‘Stoi!’ ordered the Lieutenant. The Captain froze. He felt the muzzle of a pistol against his back. He turned round in terror: a bottle-shaped explosive lay in the hand of the Lieutenant. The Russian was fiddling around with a string.

  ‘No!’ screamed the German in dismay.

  The Lieutenant looked up, a little surprised, the live hand-grenade in his hand. ‘You mustn’t do that!’ the voice yelled in his ear. He stared perplexedly at his hand, and threw the grenade over the parapet where it went off. He had been going to throw it in the shelter. All right, then. He didn’t want to be an animal. ‘Stay here!’ said the Lieutenant. He pointed to the shelter. ‘March, in there. Dawai! Dawai!’ he yelled, and, almost relieved, walked off along the trench. They moved away from one another, two points on an endless grey plane. The Russian with the short hard stride of a firing squad, bound for an execution.

  A red flare rose into the sky over the Russian-held saps. Green steel helmets and brown forms spilled out of the trenches. The NCO jerked the whistle to his lips. Noise on both sides. Whistling rifle shots.

  ‘Let them come nearer!’ shouted the NCO. The firing ceased. Only a Russian machine gun was still hammering through no man’s land. Then it too fell silent. The Major laid his rifle on the parapet, the NCO shoved his last magazine into his pistol. They leaned side by side against the earth wall.

  At the head of the Russians ran an officer. With arms upraised, as though to show his men the way. Behind him stumbled stretcher-bearers with a stretcher. They came closer. Still no shot from the trench. Worried by the strange silence, they fell back a little behind the officer. Took a sudden right turn. The officer ran on. His men veered off into no man’s land.

  ‘They’re not obeying him!’ yelled the NCO.

  The wave of the enemy turned into a long column, picking their way over the open ground. Ahead ran the riflemen with their guns, stooped, faces down towards the trench. The machine-gun crew were dragging a tripod with them. And at the end the stretchers. The stretcher-bearers stumbled and fell, picked themselves up again. Their loads swayed. Only the officer charged on ahead. Without a look back.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ ordered the Major. ‘Don’t shoot!’ the order went along the line. They watched the men running across the top, and the officer running at their head. He emerged with ever greater clarity, while the others turned into blurred brown shapes in the distance. They could make out the steel helmet, then the grey revolver barrel, and finally the contorted face. He was running towards the foxhole. Two engineers scurried to the place where he would enter their line. He loomed up above the parapet. Gigantic. A broad chest. An unfamiliar being, as from another world. He leaped down into the trench with extended arms. Dull thumps of gunstocks. A gurgle. Then silence. The ghostly queue of men in the distance for a while longer. They melted away among the craters. The NCO and the Major looked at each other.

  ‘Do you understand that?’

  ‘A miracle,’ said the Major. They couldn’t believe their eyes.

  ‘We can make it back!’ the NCO finally managed to blurt out. ‘We can make it back!’ He seized the Major’s hand, and shook it. Laughing, they patted each other on the back. Their grey faces, their dulled eyes, came to life. They slurred their speech like drunks. The rifle w
ith the sling looped around the trigger-guard slipped down from the parapet. Behind them, in the trench, voices began to sound. A tear trickled down the Major’s cheek, like a brook through barren earth. Filthy figures pressed up to them, surrounded the Major. A cigarette was passed from hand to hand. Bodies were still littered around, and their uniforms still stank of dead bodies. But they seemed to have forgotten that there were still tanks behind the barbed wire. That it was a long way back to what was now the Front. The warren of saps, the path through the brush. The ravaged hill. The marshy forest in the hollow. And somewhere in the impenetrable thickets lurked the enemy . . .

  The Major thought about the way back. He walked along the trench. Only realized now where he was. Took it in. A moment ago, in the grip of fear, the trench had been nothing but a rip in the earth. A narrow gulch full of shit, blood and bodies. With the empty saps behind them, clarity returned to him. He took in details. Not just vague outlines. A heap of used cartridges. The clay balls from the rip-cords on grenades, as white as mothballs. The shattered tripod of a machine gun. The cloven steel helmet. A human foot detached from a leg, naked and waxy, like an exhibit in a pedicurist’s window. A step further, dangling over the parapet, a head. Curved eyebrows, like a Mongol’s carnival mask. The used air-canister from a flame-thrower. At the bend in the line, the stiff arm you had to push aside that came down behind you again like a turnstile. The supple, bouncy ground. The silent stepping over bodies that were only a thin layer of earth away. The curled-up bit of telephone wire. The dead man spread-eagled against the trench, as though crucified. Only the mosquitoes the Major couldn’t see any more. Their blueish swarms teetered in the air like veils, stepped off the trench with him, as if he were carrion, there to feed them. And then the wounded. They came crawling up out of the foxhole. Stammering words. Oozing bandages. Lightless eyes. Imploring gestures. He had to guarantee them that he wouldn’t leave them behind. That he would have stretchers made for them. He saw the badly wounded Russian Captain, and he knew he couldn’t tell them the truth. That even the healthy ones would be unlikely to reach their own lines alive. That if things got hot, the bearers would have to dump the stretchers in the swamp. He awakened hopes he knew he couldn’t fulfil. He lied. Maybe out of compassion, maybe out of cowardice . . .