Brandt nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose you are going to say that the men feel mistreated. Their sense of duty has been shamefully exploited; they’ve been disappointed in us, and distrust and bitterness are the result.’
‘Precisely,’ Kiesel said. ‘What do you think is going to be the end of it? If we can no longer rely on our experienced men, if we can no longer -’
Brandt interrupted him. ‘Enough,’ he said wearily. ‘With the situation as it is, we can’t blame them. Perhaps it is best not to talk about all this. It seems to me such conversations only make things harder for us.’ He sighed and stood up. ‘You can accompany me this afternoon. I intend to see for myself how the positions look.’
‘I’ll be here,’ Kiesel said. As he went out, he saw Brandt sit down at the table again and rest his head on his hands. The issue of the war had already been decided, Kiesel thought. They both knew it; there was no sense pretending any longer.
Late that evening the men were still working on the positions. Meyer had left his bunker a few minutes before; he was nervous and wanted to inspect the trenches and foxholes. He noted that the work was progressing well, and turned back toward his headquarters. Lost in thought, he trudged slowly along the head -high trench. Steiner would certainly be coming in tonight. Once the Russians built up a solid front line, there would hardly be any chance for the platoon to get through. Even as it was, the platoon would have to detour around the city and that would take time. Meyer looked at his watch. It was shortly before ten. He stopped walking and stood for a moment, indecisive. Then, since he felt not the slightest inclination to sleep, he swung himself up out of the trench, climbed a few yards up the slope, and sat down on the ground. There was a deep stillness all about, broken only by the clank of shovels as the men dug deeper here and there. The star -studded sky arched high above the hills, casting soft light over the landscape. For a long while Meyer sat staring into the night. Longing thoughts of home filled his mind. He lay back, clasped his hands behind his neck and closed his eyes. If only it were over soon. Since November the hopelessness of it all had been obvious. At that time Tuapse had been almost within their grasp, the Turkish frontier only a few days’ march away, and no one doubted that the war would soon be won. While now! The collapse of the front at Stalingrad and the resultant danger of encirclement for the divisions fighting in the Caucasian forests had reversed the picture. It was true that their division and a few others had escaped envelopment by withdrawing from the Caucasus into the present bridgehead. But what had been gained? At their backs was the sea, in front of them were the superior forces of a fanatical enemy who had seized and was holding the initiative. Here were a few undermanned German divisions clinging desperately to the Circassian hills and the Kuban swamps, exhausted from endless fighting, without hope, with nothing but endurance. Meyer sighed. He craned his neck to see beyond the positions. The moon was rising and it was growing lighter. The highway, a pale band, ran eastward along the edge of the forest, and Meyer suddenly became aware of how intensely he hated this country with its murderous distances and its miserable roads.
A noise in the trench roused him. There was a murmur of voices nearby. He sat up, listening, alert to danger. But it was only a sentry being relieved. He lay back again and watched with halfshut eyes as the head of a man appeared over the rim of the trench. As Meyer watched him, he felt his bitterness slowly dissolving. Perhaps I am seeing things too blackly, he told himself; perhaps we will still make it. The sentry in front of him stood motionless. He was probably watching that patch of woods where—possibly at this very moment—the advance scouts of a Russian assault division would be groping their way forward.
Somewhere beyond the hill a flare rose against the sky, flooding the ground with light for a few seconds. The man in the trench turned his head to the right. Meyer got up and went to his bunker. He opened the door, lit a candle, and sat down at the table. Later he pillowed his head on his arms. He waited for the platoon to arrive until the first dawn light trickled into the bunker.
‘Gentlemen,’ Stransky began, his voice cool and businesslike, ‘I believe there is no need of my going into the general tactical picture. The daily army communique should be keeping you up -to -date on that.’
Meyer gave a slight cough and received a stern look from the commander. Merkel clasped his hands patiently over his knees. Gausser and Schwerdtfeger stared at the floor with ill -concealed expressions of boredom.
‘The map, please,’ Stransky said. Triebig hurried to the table, took a map out of a portfolio, and pinned it to the wall. Stransky went up to it. ‘Very well,’ he said, and paused until Triebig had returned to his place. Then he continued: ‘A few words are, however, in order concerning our own particular situation. Parts of the army, withdrawing through Rostov, have been fitted into the new main line of resistance in the north, which runs’—his finger pointed to a spot on the map—‘east of Taganrog northward in the direction of Voronesh. The front seems to have become stabilized again. The Supreme Command regards the maintenance of the Kuban bridgehead as indispensable since, as you will recognize, its tactical importance for future offensives will be of the greatest importance.’ Stransky paused briefly. Meyer thought, bitterly: Where were they to get the material and the men for future offensives? The other officers were also looking sceptical. Apparently Stransky sensed their doubts, for his voice grew louder. ‘A new offensive starting from the bridgehead and moving north will shake the entire Russian southern front. Striking as it would against the rear of the Russian army, it might well decide the outcome of the war.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Merkel whispered. Schwerdtfeger nodded derisively; Gausser passed his hand over his face as if to wipe away a grin.
‘It may be assumed,’ Stransky went on, ‘that the enemy is aware of this danger and will spare no efforts to eliminate the threat to his rear. Our division’s sector runs from here north -westward as far as the inlets near Temryuk. As you see, the bridgehead resembles a bow with the Black Sea forming the bowstring. To the south, touching our right wing, are two rifle divisions; to the north an infantry division. I am afraid that a Russian attack would be directed primarily against our sector since, as you see, the marshes to the north form a natural obstacle. Moreover, do not overlook the importance of the highway which leads through our sector. Given the limited extent of the bridgehead, every square yard of ground yielded would represent a serious loss. Our present line, the Siegfried position, must be held in all circumstances.’ Stransky turned away from the map. Emphatically, he continued: ‘See to it that the positions are sound. Put maximum pressure on your men to get the work done. Every shovelful of dirt, every dugout and foxhole, offsets the danger of a break -through. Do not forget that we have only water at our backs.’
He fell silent, letting his eyes rove over the faces of the officers. They were attentive in earnest now. Meyer cleared his throat and asked: ‘Where is the ferry landing?’
Stransky turned to the map again. ‘We have two landing places. The first is near Tamanskaya, the second west of the salt marsh. Up to the present six ferries have been employed. They require about an hour for crossing the strait. So far, mines and low-flying planes have sunk two of our ferries. Moreover, it is to be expected that the Russians will be sending in submarines to stop the ferries.’
‘Nice prospect,’ Merkel exclaimed. ‘What are we going to do about that?’
‘The proper measures will be taken when the time comes,’ Stransky said stiffly.
Gausser, who had been listening with obvious uneasiness, spoke up. ‘What reserves have been provided?’
Stransky went over to the map again. ‘An assault regiment stationed west of Kanskoye is at the disposal of the division. Furthermore, in order to assure swift and smooth communications, the construction of two asphalt roads is planned. Engineering companies have already started work. Incidentally, I must not forget to mention that the construction of a large airfield north of Novorosisk was decided on today. Have you
any other questions?’
The officers crowded around the map. They began vehemently discussing the chances for the bridgehead. Meyer turned to Stransky, who had stepped somewhat to one side. ‘If the Russians should succeed in making a break-through beyond Taganrog and occupying the Perekop peninsula-’ Meyer did not continue. The company commanders exchanged significant looks, while Stransky frowned darkly. He pointed to the map again. ‘As you can see, Herr Meyer, Taganrog is some 200 miles east of Perekop. The development you suggest would take a good deal of time, which would enable the Supreme Command to make the necessary precautions.’
‘As at Stalingrad,’ Merkel put in.
Stransky whirled to face the speaker. ‘I believe, Lieutenant Merkel, that superior authorities are more competent than you to form a proper estimate of Stalingrad. A company commander’s horizon is too limited for a view of the larger problems of the struggle. In any case, in the event of such a thing, the situation would be just the same for you whether you were in the Crimea or here in the Kuban bridgehead.’ He took a step away from the group. ‘I shall expect your reports by telephone on the progress of construction work at 1700 hours. That will be all.’ He made a gesture of dismissal. The officers saluted stiffly and were shown to the door by Triebig. Outside the bunker, they separated. Meyer, accompanied by Gausser, slowly climbed up the slope. They did not speak until they reached Meyer’s headquarters. Then Gausser asked: ‘What do you think of all that?’
‘No comment needed,’ Meyer said.
Gausser grinned. They stood for a moment on the top of the steps leading down into the bunker. The sun burned fiercely. ‘I don’t like this quiet,’ Gausser said. He glanced toward the woods.
‘Neither do I,’ Meyer murmured. ‘The Russians ought to have got here long ago. And the hill makes a beautiful target for them.’
‘It sure does.’
They looked at one another, and Meyer said: ‘Let’s hope for the best.’
Gausser nodded. ‘We can use a little hope.’ He hesitated. Then he held out his hand to Meyer. ‘I’ll be off. Good-bye!’ A few steps away he turned and called back: ‘Steiner will certainly be along soon.’
Meyer smiled gratefully. When Gausser disappeared around the next bend in the trench, he sighed heavily. Where could the platoon be at this moment?
III
THE PLATOON HAD been slogging for more than four hours through the pathless woods. The thorny undergrowth ripped the men’s uniforms and scratched their hands and faces. They moved through a sultry hothouse atmosphere which made them sweat from every pore, while the repulsive odour rising from the marshy ground sickened them. To make matters worse, a cloud of almost invisible stinging mites had descended upon them. There was no defence against these. In places the ground was so mucky that they had to take big detours, losing precious time.
Krüger marched behind Schnurrbart. His face was streaming sweat; his eyes were burning as though pepper had been thrown into them. The machine-gun felt like a ton on his right shoulder. Following the example of the others, he had long ago thrown away his gas mask and steel helmet. When he stopped for a moment, as he did frequently, he could feel his legs quivering and threatening to collapse. His throat felt like a dry sponge which would not let the air pass through and which sucked every drop of fluid out of his body.
The other men were no better off. Dietz was suffering the worst. He kept his mouth wide open and reeled forward from one step to the next. The heavy boxes of ammunition hung from his arms like lead weights, dragging his feeble body down. Steiner had carried the boxes for him for a while. But Dietz was already so done in that this temporary relief did not help. He stared dully at the ground as he trudged. His mind had almost ceased functioning, and he was so exhausted that he felt little pain. Worst of all was the thirst. There was a steady roaring in his ears as though a clear mountain stream were pouring down over nearby rocks. But whenever he raised his inflamed eyes expectantly, he saw nothing but the endless tangle of underbrush and the labyrinth of trees.
He forced himself to go on for a while; then his knees suddenly gave way and he fell forward on his face, moaning. Dorn, who was close behind him, stopped in alarm. Then he tried to shout to make the others aware of what had happened. But his voice sounded like the hoarse cawing of a crow; he had to call several times before the men up front paused. When Steiner came running back, the men dropped where they were and did not stir.
‘What’s the trouble?’ Steiner asked.
Dorn shrugged helplessly. ‘He’s collapsed.’
Steiner cursed. He stooped and shook Dietz vigorously by the shoulders. ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Let’s have no nonsense. We’ve got to keep going.’
Dietz did not stir. Steiner glanced quickly around at the men. They were lying on the ground, gasping, and he realized that it would be some time before he could get them to their feet again. His face darkened. He took his canteen from his belt and poured some of the lukewarm water over the unconscious man’s temples and forehead. With his other hand he unbuttoned Dietz’s tunic. But it was some minutes before Dietz opened his eyes and looked around in bewilderment.
‘Well now,’ Steiner said, pleased. ‘You mustn't give out on us, Baby. We still have a long way to go.’
‘I’m done in,’ Dietz sighed, struggling to sit up. Steiner bit his lip. This was all they needed. They had not yet covered even half the distance, and the fellows were breaking down already.
‘You’ll have to call a rest,’ Schnurrbart said, getting up and coming over to Steiner.
‘It’s two o’clock,’ Steiner said tersely.
Schnurrbart shrugged. ‘I know, but what can’t be done can’t be.’
Reluctantly, Steiner growled, ‘All right.’ He noticed Zoll, who was lying on his stomach off to one side, his head pillowed in his arms. Steiner went over to him and asked, ‘Where are your ammunition boxes?’ The others became attentive. When Zoll still did not stir, Steiner dug the toe of his boot into his side. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘Lemme alone,’ Zoll grunted.
‘He had ’em ten minutes ago,’ Krüger said. ‘The shirker must have dumped them.’
Steiner shifted his tommy-gun to his left hand. ‘Then he’ll go back for them.’ When Zoll still did not move, Steiner stooped down quickly, gripped him by his cartridge belt and pulled him to his feet. His face twisted with fury, Zoll whirled round. Before Steiner could stop him, he snatched up his rifle and raised the barrel threateningly. ‘Keep your dirty paws off me,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘If you touch me again, bang!’
Steiner looked into the man’s maddened face with a sort of curiosity. ‘You’re too yellow,’ he declared quietly. ‘Watch?’ He dropped his tommy-gun. When Schnurrbart and Krüger started toward them, he gestured them back. They stood still and watched as Steiner stepped so close to Zoll that the barrel of the rifle was directly in front of his stomach. ‘They’ll hang you if you shoot,’ Steiner said. Quietly he reached out, grasped the rifle by the barrel and took it from Zoll’s hands. It was done so matter-of-factly that no one was surprised. A sigh arose from the men; their tense bodies sagged like a taut rope that has been slashed in two. ‘The bastard,’ Krüger muttered. They stared at Zoll, who still stood motionless, his face reflecting fear and rage and shame. Steiner picked up his tommy-gun. In the same matter-of-fact way he said: ‘We’re going on in fifteen minutes. Fetch those boxes.’ Zoll hesitated for just a second. Then he turned and went off into the brush. Krüger cursed. ‘Next chance I have I’ll let the bastard have it.’
‘I’ll take care of him,’ Steiner said. He went over to Dietz. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Coming along,’ Dietz said valiantly, forcing a weary smile. Steiner gave him a heartening nod. The others had stretched out again, and Anselm asked, ‘How far do we still have to go?’
Steiner shrugged. ‘More than half the way.’
‘We won’t make that today,’ Pasternack said.
Maag disagreed violently. ‘The
hell we won’t; man, we’ve got to.’
‘Not through these lousy woods,’ Hollerbach said gravely.
Krüger cursed again. ‘I wish we knew where we are,’ he raged. ‘God damn this bloody forest; we should have tried the road. The devil take these things!’ He slapped at a gnat that had settled on his forehead. ‘They’re driving me crazy.’
‘Crazier,’ Schnurrbart murmured while he filled his pipe.
Kern, watching him, said: ‘Smoke it up. Perhaps it’ll drive the bugs away.’
Steiner came over to them. ‘How you doing, Professor?’ he asked Dorn.
His amiable tone made Dorn look up in astonishment. He smiled. ‘I’ll manage, if it doesn’t get any worse.’
Steiner stuck a cigarette between his lips. Thumb on the match-head he said: ‘It’s bound to get worse.’
He showed no signs of tiredness. Tough as nails, Dorn thought. He asked: ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘Because when the time for getting up comes round, you’re more tired than you were,’ Steiner replied.
Schnurrbart nodded emphatically. ‘That’s true.’
‘Then why have you sat down?’ Dorn asked.
Schnurrbart puffed fiercely at his pipe and blew smoke into the centre of a huge swarm of insects. ‘I can answer that,’ he said grimly. ‘I sat down because I’m so tired now that I couldn’t be any more tired.’
Dorn smiled. ‘That coming from you!’ He knew that Schnurrbart was if anything tougher than Steiner, and recalled the forty-mile marches they had put in daily on their way to the Caucasus. In the evening, the men had often been so exhausted that they were unable to eat, although those rations were the first which had been distributed all day. Not so Schnurrbart and Krüger. As soon as they reached their quarters for the night, the two had scouted through all the houses and barns, requisitioning everything they could lay hands on. Long after the others were asleep, they would be sitting up in the kitchen, the smell of roasted chicken wafting through the peasant hut. The memory reminded Dorn of how hungry he was. He swallowed and pressed his hands against his stomach. If only I had a slice of bread he thought. But like the others, he had finished off his last chunk of bread early that morning. A fragrant slice of fresh bread such as he used to have for breakfast every morning at home. He closed his eyes, a voluptuous shiver running down his spine as he pictured the bakery on his corner, the windows heaped with piled-up loaves. Maddening.
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