by Gert Ledig
He gave instructions for departure calmly and thoughtfully. The order of march. The distribution of the remaining ammunition. It wouldn’t have made sense to leave these dispositions to the NCO. When they moved out, the sun was like a red disc behind the skeleton of the steel mast. The Major went first. He pulled the corpses aside that had blocked off the saps, and only took in the earthen walls of the trenches. At a wrecked machine-gun nest, they swung to the rear. That dead Russian must mark the spot from where the Captain had addressed them. The Major didn’t expect to see him alive any more.
And even when he did see him, propped against the busted tank, pale, motionless, his first thought was that he was dead, and so he walked past him in silence. So many dead men of his acquaintance had looked at him. The Captain was resting in the shade, the Major was dazzled by the sun; it’s not nice to look at a dead man. The Major wasn’t thinking of punishment or guilt, nor even of what he would do if the Captain was still alive. He only felt sympathy. He thought of the climb ahead of him, the way through the swamp, the pressing feeling of responsibility. His bare feet trembled with fatigue. Thirst tormented him. And a sharp pain in his lung.
The NCO, who was walking directly behind the Major, stared at the Captain as at a miracle. He had been watching the Major. A faint movement on the part of the Captain had caught his attention. He saw who it was. Was startled, baffled, too excited to be able to speak, and so, mechanically, he did what the Major before him had also done. He passed him in silence.
The Captain let the rest of his company file past. A grey column, longer than he had hoped. Familiar faces, etched with hunger and pain. He smiled at them all. He felt like embracing every one of them. His joy on seeing them again was perfectly genuine. He was happy. Stood up straight. Pushed his steel helmet back out of his face. His eyes beamed at them till the last man passed. Not one of them had looked at him. Not a word of recognition. Not a gesture. Even from the bearers, who filed past with the wounded. He felt as though he’d been buried alive.
He had to sit down, and perched on the shot-up caterpillar belt of the tank. His hands were shaking. He had no sensation in his feet. He looked up with vacant eyes. In the evening sun, everything looked blueish red. The steel plates against which he rested. The trench with its walls. The bushes in front of the hill. The men slowly getting smaller as they went away. The cratered hollow. With difficulty, he stood up. Cautiously moved his feet. Inched his way forward. Looked for support from the edges of the saps. Tumbled past the opening to his shelter, regardless. He had forgotten there was still a fellow lying there. He was an outcast. He didn’t care about the corpses he stepped over any more either. He didn’t understand he was walking over his position for the last time. He walked through silence, till the gurgle of a man pressed against his ear. The gurgle came from a disfigured face. The face went with a blood-covered uniform of a Russian Captain. It took pain to convert these scattered impressions into a single picture.
‘Woda,’ begged Zostchenko. He sensed there was someone nearby. The Captain looked at him in confusion. ‘Water,’ he had heard him say. He didn’t have so much as a canteen on him.
‘Woda,’ begged the hand of the Russian, with a tired gesture. The Captain reached for the hand. He had to overcome some repugnance to do so. Two outcasts. Two dying men, comforting one another. Absent-mindedly, he stroked the battered hand.
‘Sonia,’ whispered Zostchenko.
That too the Captain thought he somehow understood. What the spume-flecked lips said next escaped him. If you see the icon, give it poison. Always carry the poison with you. You can never tell when you might see the cat. It struck the Captain almost as a reproach, the fact that he couldn’t understand any of it. ‘A cigarette,’ he thought. They hadn’t left him so much as a cigarette. No, there was nothing he could do for the man any more. The gurgling ended. He was not yet dead, and yet already he smelled of corruption. The mosquitoes settled greedily on his lips. The Captain spread his handkerchief over the face.
He staggered onwards, and already had forgotten the man. And the saps that gave him shelter. The path that would have taken him to a destination. Branches slapped him in the face. Mosquitoes supped at his brow. Indifferently, he trotted through the brush. There was something ticking in his ear. He ignored it. In front of him was the lunar landscape climbing to the heights. A blueish surface, spotted with dark round hollows. Further up, there were figures walking. Some had frames they were carrying. His men, perhaps. He didn’t care. The ticking was louder now. The figures flew to the horizon like little dots. Some seemed to leap into a void. The sky took on the colour of blood. The earth was a deep blue. The Captain left the protection of the shrubbery. Next to him, a little stream started up, and stones clattered down the hill. He reeled as he planted one foot in front of the other. What have I done, he asked himself. No thoughts, just fragments of questions broke through his foggy groping forward. A single notion kept coming back: justice. He wouldn’t have been able to express what he meant by it.
There was a bit of wire on his path. He stumbled over it, and fell. When he lay on the ground, he had a different perspective on the heights. The light was reflected in wavy valleys. The shell craters formed picturesque volcanoes. There were mild slopes and little crevices. As far as he could see, he saw nothing comforting. The trickle of a little puddle was like a lake to him. The quest for justice led to understanding. There are different perspectives, he said to himself. As he picked himself up, he repeated this thought to himself. It sounded like a theorem or principle. He dimly remembered that it was quite old already. In his slothfulness, he had not made any use of it, ever. He ought to try to understand everything. Memories occurred to him. There was much he had neglected.
He got up, and ran on. Those of the living dots that hadn’t come to an abrupt stop, had now reached the edge of the height. He and some whistling iron shards were the only moving things on the terrain.
An abandoned stretcher lay across his path. It tempted him to sit down on it. To wait and see what would happen. Whether one of the splinters would finally catch up with him. But he saw dried blood on the carrying straps, and he’d had enough of blood. It was better if the bullet caught him from behind. His back was a good target.
He walked ever more slowly. He wanted to have done with fear. Now that he knew enough, he no longer needed to run for his life. A few more years, an extra day – it hardly mattered, either way.
Finally, the bullet came. It didn’t hurt. Just a tap on his back. The heights, the shot-up pylon, the red of the evening sky all sank into darkness. He plunged into a crater, face down. Water trickled into his mouth. His last thought was: Is this justice?
14
When the Runner started up out of his sleep, it was night already. The dressing-station seemed deserted. Only from one tent was there the sound of foreign words and drunken laughter. He was cold. His bare feet were frozen. The coat, which stank of disinfectant, only covered his top half. Far in the distance, flares were playing about in the sky. He felt abandoned, and wanted to get up. When he heard tapping steps, he pulled the coat over his face. The steps came closer. Someone stopped next to him. He held his breath. Straight away, he felt the pain at the back of his head come back. There was a burning in his chest. He was afraid. A hand fingered his coat, and peeled it back.
‘Zostchenko?’ whispered a woman’s voice. It sounded like a sob.
He held his breath, and tried not to make a sound. The sobbing went away. Crazy woman, he thought. Up in the sky, the flares beckoned. Since no one was guarding him, he stood up. With difficulty and pain. The foreign sounds in the tent told him what to do. He wanted to go back. Back where they spoke his language. He tottered rather than walked. With every step, spikes drilled into his knees. His breath pounded. He had to take his time. In the blackness, the railway embankment whose course he followed was his only guide. It was like a black wall. His bare foot banged into metal. He jumped, and then remembered the cannon that had to be positioned
hereabouts. The danger of being discovered caused him to forget his pain. He wondered whether he should throw away his coat. If he fell into their hands wearing the coat, he was done for. But he didn’t have his tunic any more, and it was cold. Perhaps in the Russian coat they wouldn’t spot him for an enemy immediately. He had to consider all the possibilities.
The sky began to pale. Now he had to redouble his caution. When he recognized the guns, he felt some relief: at least he was going the right way. He heard footsteps. Once, he saw a little light as well. He crawled along the ground, and had the feeling he would never reach the end of the position. The row of guns was going on for ever. His worry made him foolish. He stood up and ran. Even though he had the salty taste of sweat on his lips, he felt cold shudders of panic across his back. He had felt the same way when he’d had to take messages across the swamp at night.
‘Stoi!’
The sentry’s call struck him like a blow. His feet stuck to the earth. With a jerk, he moved off. He conquered every obstacle. Shrubbery, barbed wire, a pile of ammunition. He cursed the pallor of the sky and waited for the bullets that must surely come. When he noticed that he had no more strength, he gave himself up to his fate. Mechanically he pitched one foot in front of the other. He walked very slowly. But everything behind him remained quiet, no one was coming after him. At last, he dared to stop and rest. With panting breath, he hunkered down on the ground. His hands trembled. Then a fresh shock: the play of the flares was stopped. Lost, then; hopelessly, irredeemably lost. Suddenly he giggled like a child. He’d forgotten about the embankment. In the lee of the slope, it wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t see the flares. He crawled stubbornly up it. When he saw the flickering lightnings again, he calmed down. It was like the promise of home after a stormy sea-crossing. With relief, he slithered back down the slope. The wounds on his legs had opened up again. Blood dripped caressingly on his feet. He didn’t take the time to see to them. He had the feeling he could hear a stream. Suspiciously, leaking in all directions, he ran on. The water sounds grew louder. A river must cross this path. He wanted to be certain. But then he realized it was no water-rushing, but the stifled murmuring of many men. He listened. He wanted to yell out: German voices! But straight away his suspicion was alerted again. He could be mistaken. Another word he understood! He crept on, doubled over. A bush blocked his view. He pushed the branches aside: a sluggishly moving crowd of men. Tired, swaying figures, talking in his language. He felt miserable. Prisoners. Living dead, disappearing into the darkness.
He decided to stop playing the hunted animal, and bring a bit of method into his escape. First of all, he had to get hold of a weapon. He climbed back up the steep slope. The place where they had thrown him down must be somewhere around here. Also the shelter where they interrogated him couldn’t be far. If he managed to surprise a sentry . . .
‘Kto a kto!’
The Runner recalled a shout he had once heard. ‘Si! Ajo!’ he called back. His coat and the dark made him safe.
‘Ajo!’ the sentry’s voice came back like an echo.
The sentry stood directly above him on the slope. Instinctively, his hands groped upwards, grabbed two ankles and pulled, hard. The body above him fell. He sprang aside, not wanting to roll down the slope with the Russian. All he cared about was the weapon. He got up the little promontory where the sentry had stood, and felt all over the ground. There was no hurry in his movements. He had time. He was certain he would find a rifle here. And he found it. He thought, now I have the gun, and the sentry is at my mercy. If I kill him now, it’s murder, because the gun is already in my possession. If I didn’t have it yet, it would be self-defence. As he inspected the rifle, the sentry came crawling back up the slope. Silently, oddly enough. Presumably, he had failed to understand. In the darkness, the Runner could see no more than an unclear shadow approaching him. He took aim. It would be a lesson to him. He shot past him. The Russian started yelling out loud. Let him shout . . .
The Runner turned: the hollow lay before him like a dark carpet. Lightnings flashed across it. Red and white lights lit up and went out, and changed places. They reminded him of station platforms at night. He felt as if he were on a railway overpass, facing the forest of signals. The yelling sentry recalled him to reality. They’re not going to get me, thought the Runner.
He looked back over to the sector where the flares were going up. He noticed that there was part of it that always remained dark. A gap in the system of signal lights. As if part of the line were out of commission. That was the part he made for. Dropping from the ridge into a wilderness of brush. The ground gave way under his feet. He pattered across a thick carpet. A sign that he was nearing the swamp. Among the shrubbery, he thought he recognized the outline of a ruined hut. Then another, squatter, outline. Suddenly he knew what they were: tanks. He had stumbled into an outpost. There must be a sentry standing somewhere in the darkness. A tingling feeling of unease warned him. Cautiously he approached one of the monsters, to wait in its shelter for the sentry to betray his presence by a sound. Leaning against the chill metal, he heard the deep breathing of a sleeping man, coming from inside the colossus. A flap must have been left open. Strange that he could wait here so calmly, his hand on the steel of a weapon whose apparition had always thrown him into panic. He had the feeling he had better do something to the sleeping monster. Like a child out for revenge, he stuffed some earth into the exhaust pipe. He was too enfeebled to do anything worse. In spite of that, he felt great satisfaction.
In the dim light of a flare, he had his first view of the height from the enemy’s point of view. A great formation of earth, leaning menacingly over them. He understood how they could have fought over it so desperately. It wouldn’t be long till he reached the front line. Craters gaped in the ground. There was a sweetish corpse smell in the air. His feet sank into the mire. He remembered the coat, and tossed it in a puddle. A few steps further, and he was in the wire entanglements. No sound. His own position was abandoned, the trench, the sap-labyrinth, the machine-gun nests. He clutched his rifle to his chest, and crept forward. Finally, the trench. With the feeling of liberation, he leaped into it. The only men lying around were dead. He was too exhausted to check whether the NCO was among them. He had the feeling he might have suffered in vain – fear, flight, humiliation, wounds, more flight. If the NCO had escaped with his life, he could have saved himself the trouble . . .
He took the coat off a dead man, the tunic and the boots. Tricked out in a complete suit of dead men’s clothes, he reeled on his way. To where he guessed the front line was presently.
15
The local Commandant of Emga turned down the flame on his oil lamp and angled the mirror at the empty chair in front of his table. Then he turned to his orderly:
‘Bring in the Cavalry officer.’
He looked at the empty chair in the lamplight. Could be an electric chair, he thought. In that case, it would be better to have the victim sitting facing the wall. So that he couldn’t see when he pushed the button. He looked down at the list he had on his desk. A spelling mistake leaped to his eye. Because it was in his own hand, he felt ashamed. Hurriedly, he corrected it. If somebody had happened to read that! He squashed a mosquito between his fingers, and sweated.
He had not failed. That pleased him. Commandant in Emga, during a battle. Excitement, anxiety, and a little fear. Well, that would pass. He was growing older, but his ambition was always young. Once the war had been won, he would contrive some way of embellishing the thing. He could hear himself saying: In the space of four hours, the Russians had overrun our Divisional Command. There was no Front. Incredible confusion. Then the order reaches me from High Command to hold the retreat . . . The details didn’t really matter. He would leave out the thing about the jeep commandeered for him, waiting outside. With his dirty handkerchief, he mopped the sweat off his brow. Just then, he looked like a gnome.
When the Captain walked in and sat down on the chair, the Major went straight to
the point: ‘What’s happening with the Sergeant?’
The Captain reflected for a moment: ‘Nothing!’ Even though he wasn’t well acquainted with the local Commandant, he had a feeling this discussion wasn’t going to go well.
‘I don’t think you’ve quite understood. I gave you an order. When do you intend to carry it out?’
‘Never!’ Alarmed by his own boldness, the Captain added: ‘There is no legally binding judgement in the case!’
A feeble justification. The Major ignored the ‘Never!’ He said: ‘It’s a confused case. The legal officer was a nincompoop. The pair of us are responsible for turning it round!’
‘Excuse me, Sir, I don’t understand!’ The lamplight shone in the Captain’s eyes. A moth fluttered round the cylinder.
The Commandant embarked on a lengthy explanation: ‘The army wanted to make an example. Everything hung in the balance. The intention was to send a dramatic warning to the men. We might face similar confusion tomorrow. It’s possible the legal officer hadn’t been properly briefed. He was sent to Emga to carry out an execution. Didn’t seem to matter whom he took. Only not a common or garden private. Whom was I to choose? You?’
The Captain felt himself turn red. ‘So you chose the Sergeant, and you gave his name to High Command. High Command, in turn, announced that the Sergeant has been shot. And in the meantime, the legal officer condemns the wrong man. The Sergeant is still alive. It’s a tragedy without a body!’
‘Our duty is to supply the body!’ The Captain slid his chair a little to one side. The light from the lamp was getting to be unbearable. Each time the moth bashed its wings against the cylinder, there was a little metallic jingle. ‘But that’s crazy!’ he said.