by Barry Sadler
"Novy Bug. We must still have people holding out there." Teacher barely nodded; it took too much effort to reply.
Langer called back to Yuri, who looked in the direction of the smoke, following Langer's pointing finger. "You've got the best eyes here, Yuri. How far?"
Yuri looked straight at the smoke then from the sides of his eyes. "Two more days the way we move now, perhaps twenty kilometers, no more."
Langer hiked his pack up a little higher, easing the straps. "All right. Let's go and take a look."
That night there would be no fires. They could hear the crumping of artillery pieces being fired; 105s and 155s. Ivan was in front of them.
That same night Langer climbed a small hillock and stood, eyes to the west, watching the flickering lights from the Russian guns, marking them in his mind. About forty-six kilometers; at their rate of march it would take them seven or eight hours to reach them and the German lines were beyond them another fifteen or so. He thought hard, trying to analyze the options.
His face was rough from an ice-crusted beard; frost spots on his cheeks gave them a higher look accenting the deep hollows of the eyes. We've got to have food. Another day and night without any and Teacher and Gus won't make it. Yuri can but he's not as civilized as they are. He could last another three or four days just by eating the leather from his boots.
He gave his head one quick jerk up and down. A decision was made. Twelve hours till dawn; if they moved now they could reach the Russian positions well before daylight. Rousting the others out he told them what was going to happen.
The Russians had food and they were going to get it tonight. Gus perked up at the idea of eating. His stomach had been trying to digest itself for the last two days and while the sounds Gus made while feeding normally were disgusting enough, the constant whining and gurgling of his gut was worse.
Indian file, as usual, they worked and labored their way through the drifts, every step taking them closer to either food or death, but either one was acceptable at this point. At least they were doing something positive, not waiting for the cold or starvation and exhaustion to take them one by one. Yuri, while able to go further than the others on an empty stomach, thought he caught a hungry look in Gus's eyes a time or two when the neanderthal had been watching him. Yuri had no doubt that before Gus succumbed to hunger he would indulge himself in a little stringy Tatar stew and there was only one Tatar in sight, HIM. He was ready to go, too.
The idea of Gus gnawing on his bones gave him a new incentive to reach the Russian lines, and he volunteered to break trail knowing he would take the best and fastest route to an alternate food source.
It wasn't difficult to locate the Russian guns; all they had to do was head toward the sounds of firing. Lying on their bellies they watched the Russian HQ, just behind the battery of four 105s. It was quiet. Ivan was careless or overconfident; they had no sentries to their rear. After all, they knew all the Germans were bottled up in Novy Bug. Yuri slid on his belly, soundlessly. He took advantage of every dip and drift to ease himself closer to the entrance of the peasant’s hut serving as a command post for the battery commander. Close behind came Langer. Gus and Teacher took the flanks to provide cover in case any more Russians showed up before they finished their business inside.
The battery was continuing to fire regularly spaced shots in sequence, first one then another on rotation, a steady, continuous, methodical order, designed to get the most out of their weapons and give each one's barrel some cooling time and thereby prolong the life of the guns. It would also serve to muffle any sounds that might come from the interior of the hut.
Yuri reached the side of the hut and crept on hands and knees to the edge of the doorway. Standing on the right he drew his butcher knife and held it low to his side, sharp edge up. Langer moved to the other side, preferring the long-bladed bayonet from a Mauser. He had honed down both sides to razor fineness. They listened to the beat of their hearts pounding like drums in their ears. A shaft of reddish gold light glowed weakly through a crack in the door. Putting his eye against it Carl tried to take in as much of the room as possible.
Three men were visible, two lying on pallets and one sitting at a Russian field desk, going over charts, probably working out the coordinates' for the morning's firing program. From his shoulder boards it seemed he was a lieutenant. Tapping at the door softly, so as not to wake the sleeping men, Langer gave a strange whisper, Tovartsch! Idisodar charoscho! The lieutenant raised his head, Shto? Langer repeated his message to come in a hurry.
Sighing, the officer raised himself heavily from his seat and took the four steps to the door. Raising the wooden latch he opened the door and stepped out, only to find a hand gripping his throat, twisting his body around, cutting off his breath. The next thing he felt was a deep burning; Yuri's butcher knife found its way unerringly into the man's heart, severing the aorta. Langer let the body down easy.
Blades held low to the front in a half crouch, they stepped inside.
They moved swiftly inside, blades ready. The source of light was from a field lantern sitting on a couple of wooden shell crates for the howitzers. Yuri moved to the side of one of the sleeping Russians. Langer picked the other, a sergeant from the markings of his shoulder boards. Langer gave a quick nod of his head and both men moved, covering the mouths of their victims as the blades struck deep.
Langer and Yuri quickly looted the hut of all they could carry that would be of any use to them, mainly food and a couple of bottles of vodka. These they stuffed into one of the Russian field packs lying on the dirt floor. They moved back out into the dark, taking the same route away from the hut.
Gus and Teacher had been lying on their bellies, waiting. The cold of the ice crust creeping up through their uniforms was starting to stiffen them, making them sluggish, and slow to respond. Langer had to call twice before Teacher answered. Grabbing him by the shoulders he pulled him to his feet as Gus slowly rose from his icy bed.
Yuri cracked one of the bottles of vodka and stuck it in Gus's paw. Two quick swallows and half the bottle was gone down Gus's gaping gap-toothed maw. Reluctantly he handed the bottle back to Yuri, who passed it over to Teacher. A couple of gulps and Teacher, too, felt some renewed strength and warmth.
There was no need to ask what had happened in the hut. The fact that they had returned spoke for itself.
Wraithlike, they moved away from the guns. Circling wide, they tried to get as much distance between themselves and the hut as possible before the Russians' bodies were discovered by their comrades. If they were lucky the Ivans would think the killers had come from Novy Bug, a reconnaissance patrol that-stumbled on the hut and now were back in their own lines.
That morning there was no breaking of the dawn, just a gradual lightening of the sky to dull grey. Another storm was coming. The four sat huddled in a snow cave, lying on their shelter halves and blankets, of which each had one. This helped to keep the cold from the floor of their makeshift shelter to a bearable level. They fed on coarse black Russian bread and goat cheese. Gus was bitching because Langer wouldn't let them finish off the last bottle of vodka. But Langer knew that a couple of drinks were okay, but too much alcohol in the system actually lowered the body temperature, even though you felt warmer for taking another drink. They needed to reserve all the body heat they could, if the storm blasting over the Ukrainian plains was to leave them alive at its end. This night the winds were fifty KPH and growing in intensity. Here, huddled together, they had to wait and let the storm use up its strength while they tried to conserve theirs.
Sleep, the great healer, was their best ally, and they used him as much as they could, letting the darkness take them for hours at a time. They woke only to repair an item of their gear, or to eat a piece of bread. They filled their canteens with snow from outside and waited for it to melt, then drank and slept some more. They only left their cave to take a leak or crap and scurried back to their burrow cursing. The storm passed, leaving a startling clearness. Th
e new snow sparkled with millions of flashing diamonds, each one a pinprick to the light-sensitive eyes of the cave dwellers. A brilliant crystal cold day, the air bit at their lungs and skin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the Ingul they crossed over what in the spring would be swift flow, now frozen solid to a depth of five feet. An eighty-ton tank could rumble over it with no fear of crashing through.
They decided not to try and break through the Russian lines to their own forces at Novy Bug. With the food they had picked up at the hut they had a better chance of making it on to their original destination at Yuzhney Bug. Twelve days of crisp clear weather and they reached the first German outposts. Staggering in they almost had their asses shot off by the machine-gun crew sitting behind an MG-42. Only Gus's string of curses which could have been heard clear to Berlin stopped the gun crew from ripping them to pieces.
Ragged, bearded, filthy caricatures of soldiers, they were hustled to the rear in an amphibious Volkswagen. They were shown into the presence of an immaculate colonel of Jagers, a man who obviously considered those beneath him fit only to do his bidding.
Langer read the martinet correctly and reported in the best military manner. "Sir, Stabsfeldwebel Carl Langer begs to report that he has reported back to German forces with three other ranks following the destruction of our tank in the battle around Nikopol three weeks ago."
Colonel von Mancken rose from behind his field desk and stepped in front of Langer, looking the man up and down in distaste. Wrinkling his nose at the odor of this disgrace to the glory of German arms, he said, "You mean you came all the way from Nikopol? I do hope you have a proper explanation or I assure you that you and those with you will most certainly face a court martial for desertion." He called for his regimental sergeant major, a huge Bavarian with a barrel chest. He had the look of a man who enjoys the power he has over others.
"Stabswachtmeister Schmitt, have these men issued new uniforms and cleaned up. You will report of their activities since they left their unit at Nikopol. You will report back to me at fifteen hundred hours with the report and these men."
Schmitt clicked his heels together. "Zum Befehl, Herr Oberst." Turning his attention to Langer he barked out as if he were on a drill field, "Achtung, about face, quick march. Eins, zwei, drei, vier," He literally tried to goose-step Langer out of the door.
Once out into the open, leaving the colonel to his delusions of grandeur in his log and sandbag HQ, he halted Langer. "Okay, knock off the tin soldier shit. You're in a lot of trouble. That prissy bastard in there will have you before a firing squad in the morning unless you have some help. Do you have anything to trade for the services I might be able to render you in the name of German soldierity? Gold, silver, jewels, opium. I'm not hard to get along with; almost anything will do that I can resell."
Teacher and the others joined Langer, who had had just about enough. He looked the sergeant major over carefully. The lack of combat badges or ribbons was obvious. This was one of those bullies who had spent the last four years in some training regiment, impressing recruits and being careful to make themselves indispensable to their commanders in order to avoid going to the front. But time had caught up with this one and he was on the front, now. It was high time he learned a reality.
Gus moved up closer to Schmitt; Yuri began to give his butcher knife a finer edge, stropping it on his boot tops, while squinting and looking up at Schmitt, grinning. His gold tooth gleamed in a dark, wizened face. Teacher merely smiled and began fondling his submachine gun. Schmitt hesitated. What was this? Why weren't they afraid of him? He was a sergeant major and outranked them. Everyone had always been afraid of him back in Germany.
Langer moved up closer to Schmitt, his face only inches away from the other's. "Listen to me. I have seen your type for years and you're a gutless piece of suet. You can get away with that bullshit back in Germany, but here on the front it's a little bit different. You mess with us and I'll twist your head off your shoulders. Do you know what it means to die? For your sake I hope so. Now get away from me and go scare some children."
The first real fear he had ever known struck him. Schmitt took a step back in shock. He had been on the front only two weeks, and there had not even been a shot fired other than an occasional sniper and that was on the lines; a place he carefully avoided. He cursed himself. His mistake was making himself too indispensable to Col. von Mancken. When the colonel received orders to the front he just had to take his faithful sergeant major with him. The pompous bastard! Blustering, he tried to fake it. "You watch your step. I'm the boss here and you heard what the colonel said. The showers are over behind supply. Get cleaned up and write out your report. I'll see you later."
Langer snorted and turned his back on him. Yuri rose from his squatting position and passed in front of Schmitt. Smiling and bobbing his head, he took out a small bulging cloth bag. He grinned as he pressed it into Schmitt's hands. "For Germanski, presento." Gold tooth gleaming he followed after the others.
Schmitt, who was used to his lessers presenting him with tokens of their esteem, mumbled to himself that the savage had more sense and manners than the others. At least he recognized his betters. "Wonder what it is?" Pulling the drawstring open, he shook the contents out into his hand and froze; his gut squirmed and he let the contents fall to lie on the snow. Ears! Human ears! A dozen or more, all from the right side. Sweat broke out on his forehead in spite of the cold. He backed away and almost ran back into the security of headquarters.
The showers were a canvas field tent with empty petrol drums set up outside filled with water. It had a stovepipe affair running from an old wood-burning stove, up through the center of the drums to heat the water. Crude, but right now it was the most luxurious innovation they had ever experienced. All except Yuri, who distrusted water in any form other than drinking, but he gave in to the demands of the others that shed his lice-infested rags and joined in.
Gus, removing his boots, let out a yelp of pure joy. "Here, fellows, look what I got." He had to peel his socks off and there exposed to daylight for the first time in days were two blackened toes on his left foot, the two small ones, black and dead; frostbite. "I got my bleeding ticket out of here, ain't they beautiful?"
Gus refused to go to the dispensary until after he washed. "There's no rush, they ain't goin' no place, for a while, that is." A supply clerk came over with clean uniforms for them after they had been deloused. The only one who wasn't infested was Langer. For some reason the little bastards didn't like the taste of him, but the others had to submit to a complete spraying and laughed as their clothes were tossed into the wood stove. They enjoyed each hissing pop that said another Russian louse was cremated. Of those they had inspected only a few had the little gray cross on them that said they were the carriers of typhus. In the early days of the war you could get a couple of marks apiece for each of them you turned in to the medics for shipment back to Germany, where they were analyzed and tested. By now there were probably more of them in the Fatherland than in Russia.
Gus joyfully presented himself to regimental hospital. An hour later the doctor took a pair of pliers and simply pulled the two blackened toes off without the benefit of any anesthetic. Taking a pair of surgical scissors he trimmed up the edges, rinsed off the foot with a little raw alcohol, sprinkled it with sulfa powder and cursed him all the time for being a slackard and a defeatist. That there was no good reason for anyone to get frostbite if they only took proper care of themselves. It was treason not to take proper maintenance of an item that was the property of the state, even a piece of obviously defective equipment as the traitorous Stabsgefreiter clearly was. Gus asked the doctor how he'd like to have his ass stuck in a snow bank for three weeks and then see how much would be left after the Stabsgefreiter, by the grace of our Holy German or Austrian Fuhrer, took a pair of his pliers to it.
After Gus proceeded to describe what he could do with his pliers to other portions of the doctor's anatomy, he was hurriedly moved
out to a hospital ward. The doctor made a note to have the man's mental condition tested. He was most certainly, at the least, a nonsocial and emotionally disturbed person who shouldn't be permitted to run around loose without professional supervision. At fifteen hundred hours Langer, Teacher and Yuri presented themselves to the sergeant major at regimental HQ. The clean uniforms and showers gave them a semblance of military appearance. The Knight's Cross around Langer's neck did more than anything else to give Schmitt a case of the jitters. You didn't get one of those for kissing babies. Taking their paybooks and papers, Schmitt knocked on the colonel's door and received permission to enter.
Returning, he told them to stand easy and wait. It would be a while; the colonel was busy. Ten minutes later a Blitzmädel left the colonel's office, looking pleased with herself. She took a look at the Knight's Cross holder and the man's rugged face and smiled, wet her lips, patted back her light brown hair done in an efficient bun, and exited after one more smile.
Schmitt knocked on the door and received permission to send Langer and the others in.
When they presented themselves, Yuri stayed slightly to the rear. He had never liked officers of any kind. Russian or German made no difference, they only meant one thing to him: trouble.
Colonel von Mancken peered at Langer and then Teacher. Pointing a manicured finger at Yuri, he inquired, "What, may I ask, is that?"
"A volunteer, sir, one who has fought well for us," he added. Von Mancken raised an eyebrow. "I did not ask for a list of his merits, Sergeant. I asked what is he?"
"A Tatar, Sir."
Von Mancken viewed the Asiatic with distaste, shaking his head. "What is the Reich coming to when it uses the likes of a patently subhuman type to fight battles that should be, won by the glorious feats of arms of Germany's Aryan youth? Indeed a sad state of affairs." He dismissed the Tatar from his mind as he would have a dog or any beast.
"Sergeant Langer, I have made some inquiries." He held Langer's and the others' paybooks and papers in front of him. A trace of envy touched him when he eyed the Knight's Cross and he promised himself to get one before much longer, and one with the oak leaves to it. It would certainly add greatly to his career.