by Roxi Harms
The gas mask drill earlier in the day had darn near killed him though. By the time he'd reached the top of the hill wearing that stupid mask, with his rucksack jammed full of rocks, his lungs had been burning so badly from the lack of oxygen that he'd almost passed out. The next day they would be doing the drill again. He looked around. Most of the recruits were already sleeping. Four-thirty came early. Quickly, he unscrewed the filter from his gas mask, then pulled a wooden match out of his pocket, keeping an eye on the door. Breaking off a little piece, he shoved it carefully into the threads and screwed the filter back over top of it. He quickly looked at it from every angle. You couldn't tell. Tucking his mask under his bed, he stretched out. A moment later, he was asleep.
As he reached the top of the hill the next morning, Adam congratulated himself. He'd made it up the hill easily. He stumbled a bit to feign fatigue, and leaned over, pretending to catch his breath.
"Baumann, is there something wrong with your mask?" Adam froze. The officer was striding over to him.
Adam pulled off his mask. "No, sir!" he responded quickly.
"Then why is the lens fogged up? Give it to me." As the officer grabbed the mask, Adam looked around. Everyone else's mask was clear. His stomach rose into his throat as the officer unscrewed the filter. The bit of matchstick fell to the ground in plain sight.
"Are you trying to be a smart-ass, Baumann? Do you think you know better than me? Do you think you don't need to know how to survive with a gas mask?"
"No, sir, I don't think that," Adam said briskly, looking the commander in the eye.
"How did this bit of wood get into the threads of your mask then Baumann?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Get down on the ground this minute, Baumann, and give me a hundred. The other men will be having a well-deserved rest while you entertain us with your feeble push-ups. And after that you will put this mask on and you will run down this hill and back up, then down again and up again while we wait right here."
A week later they shipped out.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
WWII Eastern Front, Late 1944
The company they joined was stationed at a tent camp in the western part of the Ukraine. Their new commander gave them a speech about being ready to lay their lives down for the Führer and the future of the Aryan race. Then he assigned them to a rotating night watch. A week into it, none of the new recruits had been sent to the front to fight. No one knew what was happening. The bunkhouse crackled with tension as they rehashed the rumours they'd heard. Some were saying that the Russians were retreating, scared off by the arrival of additional troops. Others thought the enemy was lying low waiting for reinforcements. Adam had also heard that they were waiting for reinforcements themselves and then they'd be launching a surprise attack on the Russians. The commander didn't seem to have much information either, ignoring them or giving only vague answers when they asked.
Night watch was four hours at a time. Nervously, Adam patrolled back and forth well out in front of the camp as the commander had instructed, watching for activity to the east. The moon was bright. A couple more days and it would be full, and although Adam didn't know it, by then everything would be very different.
But for tonight, the bright moonlight on the space between the German and Russian lines that they called "no man's land" showed a barren, strangely serene landscape. The noises that were drifting to him across the expanse as he stared out towards the Russian side sounded almost
like a party. Gripping the guard rifle, Adam wondered what they were celebrating.
The next instant he froze. There was something out there. He peered into the darkness. Maybe he'd imagined it. No, there it was again, a dark shadow moving towards him. Holding his breath, he squinted harder, trying to make out what it was. It wasn't moving very quickly. Was it a man? Several men? Frozen to the spot, Adam watched as the dark shape came closer. His mind was racing. Should he shoot? Maybe he should call for his superior. What the hell should he do? He should take cover. Darting behind a tree, he fumbled with his rifle, checking that it was ready to fire, and then peered out through the branches to where the shadow was still moving towards him. As he clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands on his rifle, the shadow got closer until Adam was pretty sure it was just one man.
He's looking for the guard, thought Adam, his heart pounding in his ears. He'll kill me and then they'll start a surprise attack!
"Nemetskiy."
Adam jumped as the Russian word reached his ears. The guy was closer than he'd thought.
"Nemetskiy," the Russian called softly again.
Adam had heard that word before. It was Russian for "German." He closed his eyes for a second, trying to swallow the bile that was rising up his throat. He was going to have to shoot first. Raising his rifle to aim, he tried to steady his shaking hands as he peered down the barrel of the gun. But something wasn't right. The Russian wasn't carrying a weapon. Maybe he wanted to surrender! Adam had heard of that happening. Sometimes they would sneak over at night to surrender rather than be gunned down in the daily fighting. Or to avoid starvation in their own camp. If he wanted to surrender, Adam would have to capture him and take him to his superior. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from behind the tree, and clumsily pointed his rifle at the Russian.
"Stop!" Adam commanded. Horrified at the nervous croak that came from his lips, he cleared his throat, stood tall, and tried again. "Stop!"
Only a few metres away now, the Russian stopped and stood there swaying like a sapling on a breezy day. Adam could see his face clearly. This guy wasn't much older than him! Then the gaunt face broke into a boyish smile, revealing a couple of missing teeth. The stream of Russian words that followed was incomprehensible to Adam. Why was he smiling like that?
Adam summoned his courage and barked, "Are you here to surrender?" in the deepest voice he could muster.
The Russian laughed and waved at Adam. "Hallo, Nemetskiy! Cigarettes? Cigarettes pozhaluysta?" Now the guy was making smoking motions. Then he pointed to a bottle Adam hadn't noticed in his other hand. "Cigarettes pozhaluysta?" he repeated.
Not sure what else to do, Adam fumbled in his pocket and awkwardly threw his packet of smokes to the Russian, trying to keep his rifle aimed with his other hand. He'd only just learned to smoke a few weeks ago.
"Spasibo comrade!" the soldier said in a happy voice as he bent to pick up the package, nearly toppling forward. As he regained his balance, he stood up and lifted his prize above his head. "Cigarettes!" he cheered and smiled widely at Adam again. Stooping, he gently tossed his bottle towards Adam's feet. "Vodka!"
Incredulous, Adam watched as the drunken soldier spun on his heel and did a little jig as he headed back to his outfit waving the cigarettes and singing quietly in a slurred voice. The sound blended into the hooting and bursts of laughter coming from the distance across the field.
Adam exhaled. What should he do now? He'd given cigarettes to an enemy soldier and then let him escape. Was that punishable? Adam looked around behind him nervously. There was no movement in the
direction of his own camp. Nothing. Shivering violently under the dampness of his cooling sweat, he picked up the bottle, unscrewed the lid and sniffed it, then shuddered involuntarily. Tipping it up, he swallowed once, twice, three times. As the fire travelled down his throat and began to warm his insides, he recapped the bottle and set it down beside the tree. Had he known what was coming, he might have sat down and tried harder to enjoy it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
"UP, NOW!"
Adam jumped to his feet, looking around desperately in the semi-darkness, his mind jarred by the screaming of the officer near the foot of his bunk.
"We got 15 minutes of dark left! They're launching an attack and I guarantee they're not going to wait until full daylight! MEN! Get your gear and get to the front and dig in!"
The bunkhouse was in chaos. Adam fumbled with the clip on the handle of his spade. His fingers weren't cooperating.
Finally he got it clipped on, then threw his gas mask strap over his head and around one shoulder, picked up his machine gun and the bag with the tripod and extra barrel, and ran for the door. A cook stood at the door, shoving something at the soldiers running past. Adam grabbed one and stuffed it in his pocket.
Joining the line of dark forms jogging up the gentle slope towards the front line, Adam shook his head, still waking up, and adjusted the load he was carrying. The moon had set. It was darker than it had been when he'd finished his watch a few hours ago. Everything was covered in white frost. At the top of the slope, the commander and a couple of officers were rushing around calling out orders in hushed voices. Adam dropped his gear where the officer pointed, a few metres to the right of the gunner he'd been following, and unclipped his spade. Cold sweat ran down his back as he worked frantically to make an indent in the ground, alternately scraping and trying to push his shovel into the frozen earth to scoop out the dirt. Every second or two he glanced forward anxiously, towards the Russian line. He couldn't see any movement. Glancing sideways, he tried to see if the other holes were growing any faster than his. A minute or two later, a group of ammo carriers came running up from behind, fanning out to deliver boxes of bullets to each gunner. The ammo boxes were heavy, and the guys assigned to run ammo had to be strong enough to carry two at once and run like hell.
When his hole was big enough, Adam threw down his spade and lay flat, catching his breath. He could hear the hushed voice of the commander telling them to ready their weapons, and the muffled banging of ammo box lids. He fumbled to screw the tripod onto his gun, and clumsily fed the end of the ammo strip into the carriage. Then he lay still again, staring through the sight on the barrel of his gun, heart hammering in his chest.
"Here they come!" the commander called out quietly. Sure enough, the line out in front of them that had looked deserted a few moments earlier, was alive with movement. Adam strained to hear the next command. "Take aim, but don't fire until you hear the command. We need to let them get close so we can kill as many of the bastards as possible. And don't forget to change your barrel after every other round, or you'll lose accuracy."
Shaking with terror, Adam stared through the first hint of grey light as hordes of Russian soldiers surged towards them, holding rifles aimed clumsily towards the German line as they ran. Second by second they got closer. Finally, when he thought he couldn't wait any longer without being seen, the commander barked out the order to fire. Adam pulled the trigger and held it in, moving his gun left and right. Still running, the Russians began to shoot. Then they were falling, all up and down the line, falling. Behind them, the wall of bodies kept coming. The air stank of gunpowder. Adam kept shooting.
At some point, he became aware of the bombardment of noise all around him. The staccato of machine gunfire punctuated by rifle fire, almost drowning out the tortured screams of the wounded. Every now and then, there was enough space in the noise to make out the lower pitched moans of the dying. It came from every direction. He'd changed his barrel so many times. How long had he been shooting?
The onslaught continued for most of the day, each new surge of Russian soldiers coming at them minutes after the last. At some point in the afternoon, the intensity began to lessen. Adam dug in his pocket for the rations he'd shoved there that morning and swallowed a few bites. As the sun approached the horizon, the fighting became sporadic, and by the time full darkness fell, the field was eerily quiet. Adam watched as guys crawled out of their holes and crept back to camp. Shaking with cold and shock, he joined them.
Back in camp, he counted for a while as stretchers and bodies draped in canvas tarps were loaded into trucks. Then he stopped counting, went to his bunk, and lay down with his gun.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
From that day on, time was a confused blur of terror and exhaustion. Adam's eardrums rang at night, tortured by the constant explosions and hammering of gunfire. His eyes burned from lack of sleep and staring down the barrel of his gun. When he was given a few hours to rest, he slept like the dead. When he was awake, he followed orders. When to return to the front line, when to fire, when to stop firing, when to dig a new hole, when to return to camp. The most important thing was to stay covered, and hence alive. A close second was to stay warm, or at least avoid freezing to death.
Every day or two they moved, usually backward. Sometimes they retreated on foot at a run, other times they loaded hastily into tanks with truck tires on the front, called half-tracks, where at least they were safe from light artillery fire. When there was time, a camp was hastily set up in a new location. But as winter set in, the pace of their retreat increased, and if they didn't find a deserted building to hole up in, their foxholes were their only shelter.
Nighttime in the foxhole was the worst, when darkness fed his fear. Curled up in a ball, his musty-smelling blanket wrapped tightly around him, Adam shook with cold, terror, and in his darkest hours, silent sobs. His brief snatches of sleep were blissful relief when they brought dreams of home and his mom or Franz and Tony. Other times he thrashed himself awake in a cold sweat, heart racing, willing his growing nightmares to fade.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Things had been quiet for two whole nights and the day in between, almost like the Russians hadn't followed them when they'd run this time. Without the noise of combat, Adam had slept deeply, curled in the fetal position in his hole. Before dawn, new orders came down the line, hole to hole. At daybreak they would be advancing to the northeast, reclaiming some ground. As the horizon turned from black to grey, Adam watched the white plumes of his breath against the sky for a while, then pulled out his harmonica. The notes, even as quiet as they were, helped to lessen his desperation for a few minutes. Advancing. Reclaiming ground. Who were they trying to kid? The result was the same every time. Try to advance and get pushed back even further, leaving more dead behind.
After loading their bedrolls onto the trucks and eating a little can of some kind of gelatinous meat, they crept forward through a sparse stand of bare trees. Adam peered around nervously. The fighting had obviously been heavy here, and he tried not to look at the stiff corpses on the ground around him. Most were face up, knocked backward by the impact of the shots that had killed them. Some stared skyward with open eyes intact, faces frozen by winter and death. Others were mangled by bullets they had taken to the face and chest. Limbs and torn bodies marked the spots where grenades had found their targets.
Suddenly the rattle of machine gun fire shattered the quiet. Adam threw himself to the ground, landing hard on his gas mask canister. The breath driven from his lungs, he rolled onto his side and fumbled for his spade, gasping desperately for air while he scraped at the frozen ground. Goddammit all to hell! Adam thought, filled with rage. They hadn't been advancing more than half an hour.
The German riflemen positioned at regular intervals behind the line began a counter attack to distract the Russians while the gunners dug in. Rolling into position in the pitiful indent he'd made, Adam flung his tripod and machine gun into position and opened fire. Not far in front of him, Russians were pouring out of some kind of trench and swarming towards them. Gunners up and down the German line had given up digging and begun firing into the oncoming horde. Bullets ripped into the bodies, knocking them backwards or spinning them sideways as they fell. What the hell? thought Adam as he watched the swarm in front of him. Some of those bastards were waving handguns. Fools. They'd never make it close enough to get a decent shot at a German with a handgun. Suddenly, an explosion deafened him. A dozen or more Russians flew through the air like rag dolls directly in front of him. In a matter of seconds, the gap was filled with more enemy soldiers running forward over top of their mangled comrades. From the corner of his eye, he saw another explosion of bodies at the far-right end of the Russian line. The roar of the grenade came a split second later.
Adam stared at the enemy soldier running directly towards him through the chaos and let off the trigger of his machine gun. Th
e soldier was empty handed. A moment later, the Russian jerked violently backwards, eyes wide with surprise as machine gun fire tore up his chest and belly. Someone else had got him. Adam swallowed hard, watching the spot where the unarmed soldier had fallen, until a series of bullets struck the frozen ground beside him, peppering his helmet and shoulders with frozen mud and rocks. Refocusing on the swarm running towards the German line, Adam put his finger back on the trigger.
"Where's Schubert?" Adam yelled at the ammo carrier who slid in beside him a while later. Schubert had been running ammo for this section for the last several days.
"Over there," the guy motioned with his head. "Dead."
He heard the scream of the artillery shell, but before he could move, he was thrown sideways by the force of the explosion, and the world disappeared.
Adam's right ear was deaf as he lay on his left side, struggling to open his eyes and take a breath while debris rained down on him. He'd felt the heat of the hot metal on his face. Scrambling desperately back into position, he squinted and scanned the area to his right. He could see at least three motionless bodies and a couple who were writhing and screaming in agony. One or more guys who had taken a direct hit lay in pieces, torn apart by the grenade. Where the hell had it come from? Keeping his head as low as he could, he scanned frantically, his eyes darting across the torn up earth. How did a grenade launcher get that close? As he continued to search desperately, he knew they would be racing to reload.
"There!" screamed Adam, pointing wildly to a pair of Russians crouched in a crater slightly north of his position, scrambling to reload the weapon. Hoping at least one or two others had seen them, Adam looked down the barrel of his gun and began to fire. An instant later both of the Russians fell backwards. Adam let out his breath. With any luck, at least one shot had hit their weapon and damaged it too.