Steiner now had the courage to look at Schnurrbart’s face. From his temple a red streak ran down to his chin, where it vanished in the thick growth of beard. His face was pale, dirty, sunken-cheeked; all its familiar character had been erased. The sight of that alien face aroused a dull pain in Steiner. He could feel a choking, burning sensation rising in his throat. The noises in the bunker, the suppressed moans of the wounded men, the lowered voices of the medical personnel, the soft clinking of instruments, the curt instructions of the doctors, who worked with rolled-up shirt-sleeves, the flickering light of the candles—all of it merged into an unreal, stagy background. But close to him was this masklike, bearded face of a man who had been at his side through all these months and years.
A violent dispute caught his attention. One of the medicos was arguing with Krüger, waving his hands angrily. ‘You’ve got to clear out,’ he asserted angrily. ‘This isn’t a hospital ward.’ He turned to Steiner. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but you must realize we need the room.’
Steiner ordered the men to wait outside. They left reluctantly. ‘I’ll go as soon as you tell me what the story is,’ he said to the medico, gesturing at Schnurrbart.
‘We’ll be ready for him in a minute,’ the man said.
The doctor had approached meanwhile. He wiped his bloodstained hands with a piece of gauze, attended to a man who was lying in front of Schnurrbart, and then stopped before Steiner. ‘Wounded?’ he said curtly.
Steiner shook his head. ‘Not me. I want to know what’s wrong with this man here.’
He watched with outward calm as the doctor bent over Schnurrbart and felt the bloody welt above the right temple. Then he looked up. ‘Wasn’t the man wearing a helmet?’
‘Here it is,’ Steiner said. As he picked up the steel helmet his eyes widened. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing to a round hole on the back of the helmet. The doctor took it from his hand and examined the spot curiously. ‘Was he lucky!’ he said slowly. ‘The bullet came from behind, penetrated the metal and bounced around inside until it fell out. Incredible luck.’
‘Is it bad?’ Steiner asked.
The doctor stooped over Schnurrbart again. ‘Not a bit. Slight concussion of the brain. He’ll come to soon.’
‘And the leg?’
‘I don’t know yet. If the bone isn’t injured, he’ll be on his feet in a month.’ He turned to the next patient.
‘Well?’ Hollerbach asked outside.
Steiner waved his hand. ‘Luck. He may be back here in four weeks.’
They sighed with relief. ‘The idiot,’ Krüger cursed cheerfully. ‘I always told him to watch out for that silly head of his. Do you know that Pasternack got it?’
‘Dead?’ Steiner asked hoarsely.
‘Yes.’
Steiner bit his lip. ‘Who else?’
‘Maag,’ Krüger answered. ‘He’s on his way to the rear already. Half the platoon is knocked out. Incidentally, Meyer is looking for you. We said you would be right along.’
‘He can wait,’ Steiner growled.
Captain Stransky had put some exciting experiences behind him. Originally he had intended to await the outcome of the patrol action in his bunker. But soon he was seized by uneasiness and, accompanied by Triebig, had set out for the 2nd Company’s sector. They had reached the first foxholes when the enemy breakthrough occurred. Stransky had turned about promptly and raced back to his bunker, Triebig close at his heels. As soon as he recovered sufficiently to issue orders, he had commanded his frightened adjutant to take up positions in front of the bunker with all the men attached to the staff. Then he had placed telephone calls to the combat train and to Regiment. First Sergeant Fetscher was ordered to start marching everybody who could carry a gun to the battalion command post at once; to the worried regimental commander he gave a vivid description of the events, weaving into his report phrases about resistance to the last cartridge. Shortly afterwards, just as Sergeant Fetscher arrived with a heavily armed group of communications personnel, Lieutenant Meyer telephoned him that the positions had been retaken from the enemy and the bomb craters cleared. The result was that Fetscher and his men, cursing but visibly relieved, started back and the regimental commander received a report calculated to warm the cockles of his heart. Now Stransky sat in his bunker waiting impatiently for Meyer, whom he had ordered to bring Steiner with him. Meanwhile, he explained to his adjutant the proper way to meet any repetitions of such unfortunate incidents as he called them. ‘Everything depends on keeping calm and acting quickly and precisely,’ he was saying.
There was a knock at the door and Meyer and Steiner came in. Stransky greeted them curtly and then, turning to Steiner, asked him to describe the course of events in sequence. As Steiner spoke the three officers listened closely, and Stransky repeatedly gave vent to low exclamations of disapproval. Steiner studiously ignored them. When he had concluded his report, Stransky turned to Meyer. ‘Bad business. The penetration of the trench could have been prevented.’
‘Under normal conditions certainly,’ Meyer said. ‘But in the first place the positions were weakly held, and in the second place the men did not know what to expect, since their own men were out there in front of them. By the time they realized the men coming up the hill were Russians, it was already too late.’
‘All the same,’ Stransky retorted testily. He picked up a candle from the table and rolled it several times between his hands. Then he turned to Steiner. ‘You should have taken into consideration such a possibility,’ he said sternly. ‘A shock troop leader must count on all eventualities.’
Meyer sucked in his breath indignantly. But Steiner answered before he could intervene. ‘My assignment was to clear the bomb craters,’ he replied coolly. ‘An encounter with a hundred Russians was not expected by me or anyone else.’
‘You should have attacked the Russians right off,’ Triebig interposed. ‘If you had done so, they would never have got so far.’
Steiner threw him a contemptuous glance. ‘The reasons why I did not,’ he said, ‘are so obvious that an explanation is unnecessary.’
Stransky pounded his fist on the table. ‘I cannot agree with you,’ he said savagely. ‘In fact, it is perfectly clear that you are not up to coping with such situations.’ He turned to Meyer. ‘It would have been better after all if you had led the patrol. Apparently I overestimated your platoon leader’s abilities.’
Meyer exchanged a rapid glance with Steiner. In spite of the harsh words between himself and Steiner earlier, his sense of justice was outraged by Stransky’s attempt to fix the blame. His anger was apparent in his voice as he said: ‘I disagree, sir. As I see the situation, I would have acted precisely as Steiner did in every detail.’
Stransky regarded him without expression. ‘It grieves me to hear that,’ he retorted. ‘If you equate your qualities as a leader with the sergeant’s, that is your affair, of course, but it suggests regrettable conclusions.’
Triebig spoke up. ‘I must agree with the captain,’ he said softly. ‘Such situations call for not only a high degree of coolness, but certain traits of character. Whether Sergeant Steiner possesses them, you would know. Certainly there is reason to doubt that he does.’
There was a silence. The eyes of the officers were upon Steiner, whose face was drained of colour. Meyer stood up quickly. ‘Perhaps you are an authority on character, Herr Triebig,’ he said scornfully. He turned to Stransky: ‘Have you any further orders for me?’
Stransky, still seated, looked up at him, his light eyes holding a glint of mockery. ‘Not at the moment. You can inform me about your casualties tomorrow. I shall expect your written report at nine o’clock. You may go.’
Outside, they had gone some distance from the bunker when Steiner suddenly stopped. ‘There’s something I have still to take care of,’ he said tightly.
Meyer scrutinized him. In the darkness he could scarcely see Steiner’s face, but the tone of voice gave him concern. ‘You’ll get into a mess,’ he warned hi
m. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’
Steiner shook his head. For a moment Meyer still hesitated; then he nodded. ‘All right, see you later. Come to my bunker.’ He walked away swiftly.
Steiner waited until he had vanished in the darkness. Then he stole back quietly. He detoured around the command post, and found a good spot among the trees, where he could not be seen. There was a sentry in front of the commander’s bunker. Steiner prepared for a long wait. He thought over every detail of his plan. It was relatively simple. It would only be necessary to work up a suitable alibi. That was easy: Krüger and Hollerbach would swear to high heaven that he had been with them all during the time in question.
Minute after minute passed. Suddenly a light fell from one of the bunkers. A man came out slowly and looked around. Then he closed the door behind him, exchanged a few words with the sentry, and disappeared among the trees. Steiner stepped behind a crooked trunk and peered again. The sentry shifted his carbine to the other shoulder and began pacing back and forth. Finally he turned to the right, went over to the western edge of the orchard, and again stood motionless. He was only dimly visible now. Steiner was about to step out from behind the tree when he heard a sound. A dark shadow emerged from the trees, stood poised for a while, approached with footsteps silent as a cat’s and disappeared noiselessly into the bunker which Steiner knew belonged to Triebig. Steiner shook his head in wonder. But another ten minutes passed before Triebig appeared. He came from the commander’s bunker and went straight to his, without glancing right or left. As he descended the steps and opened the door, Steiner stretched his head forward. But to his amazement no sound of conversation broke the silence. The glimmer of light from the small window beside the door went out. What was going on here? At last curiosity overcame caution. After making sure that there was no immediate danger from the sentry, Steiner carefully approached the bunker, felt his way down the steps and paused for a moment at the door, listening, his tommy-gun tucked under his arm. Nothing stirred inside. Inch by inch he pushed the door open until he could squeeze in. Then he stepped quickly across the threshold.
He heard hasty movements; then there was silence. Slowly, he closed the door behind him, pressed his back against it and tried to make out something in the absolute darkness. He switched on his flashlight. On the low cot lay two men. It took a moment for him to recognize one of them as Triebig, who held his pistol in his hand and was staring wide-eyed into the light. The man beside Triebig he knew only by sight—a member of the battalion staff. Steiner took a step forward and placed the flashlight on the table. As he did so, he saw the clothing strewn on the floor. The silence became agonizing. He walked round the table, the Russian sub-machine-gun held like a club in his hands, and stopped in front of the bed.
‘Put that down,’ he whispered, indicating the pistol which Triebig was still clutching. Triebig did not stir. The waxen pallor of his face was suddenly washed away by a rush of blood that mounted to the roots of his hair and seemed to flow even into the whites of his eyes. He uttered an inarticulate sound and tried to pull the blanket over his naked shoulders. But Steiner’s hand flashed forward, caught a corner of the blanket and wrenched it off the bed. He tossed it behind him on the floor. ‘Stand up-’ he said to Triebig. When the lieutenant did not obey, Steiner gripped his wrist tightly, took hold of the pistol and laid it and his own gun beside the flashlight on the table. Uncertainly, Triebig stood up. The other man pressed against the wall, drawing up his legs. His childish face reflected such abysmal terror that for a moment Steiner felt sorry for him.
‘You should have barricaded the door,’ Steiner said. ‘Then you wouldn’t have been caught, you swine.’
‘What do you want?’ Triebig whispered. They were the first words he had spoken since Steiner had entered the bunker.
‘I almost forgot,’ Steiner said, smiling savagely. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’
Triebig backed away from him. Steiner followed until the man was brought to a stop by the wall and stood still, trembling. ‘I meant,’ Steiner said, ‘to beat you up for what you said over at Stransky’s bunker. The problem would have been to keep you from shouting for help. Now I’m going to give you that beating and you won’t shout.’
‘I will,’ Triebig stammered.
Steiner shook his head. ‘No you won’t,’ he declared grimly. ‘If you do, you’ll be heard, and if you are heard people will come and see what’s going on here. What do you think Stransky will say if he finds you in this state?’
Triebig moved his lips without making a sound. Suddenly he propelled himself from the wall, ran to where his clothes lay and stooped. As he reached out his hand, Steiner brought his nailed boot heavily down on his fingers. Triebig opened his mouth to scream. But only a low moan emerged. ‘So you’re keeping that in mind,’ Steiner said hotly. He lifted his foot and pulled Triebig up by the shoulder. ‘For all I care you can stick a handkerchief between your teeth. Only you’d better keep quiet. It will cost you your neck, remember.’
He struck abruptly. His clenched fist hit Triebig squarely in the face. Triebig tried to defend himself, but Steiner gave him no time. His blows followed one another mercilessly, with all his strength behind him. He pounded the man until his fists ached. Then he picked him up and tossed him on the bed. The other man pressed even closer against the wall.
‘What’s your name?’ Steiner snapped.
The man did not answer.
‘What’s your name?’ Steiner repeated sharply.
‘Keppler,’ the man whispered.
‘Are you his orderly?’
The man nodded.
‘Get up, get dressed and get out. If you tell anyone about this, you’ll be up against a court-martial yourself. Clear?’
The man nodded silently. He stepped over Triebig and got off the bed. Steiner picked up his tommy-gun. He glanced at Triebig. The fellow had passed out. It would be a while before he came to again. Without another word to Keppler, he left the bunker. Cautiously, he climbed the steps and peered about.
The figure of the sentry was outlined indistinctly in the darkness. Steiner watched him for a while. At last he was able to make out. that the man had his back turned to him. Hastily, crouching, he stole among the trees to the trench and started up the slope. It was the hour before dawn. Night still lay blackly over the land. Beyond the hill, isolated rifle shots cracked away. The light was ebbing tiredly out of the stars. Reaching his bunker, Steiner paused, wondering whether he should go to see Meyer. But the company commander must be asleep by now. Indecisively, he looked over the rim of the trench. He felt soiled.
Suddenly a glow passed over his face. He raised his head in astonishment. In the east the heavens were cracking open. The horizon became a darting sea of flames, and a few seconds later a roar like a monstrous wave surged over the positions. He jumped down the steps, kicked open the door and found half a dozen horrified faces staring at him. A candle was flickering on the table. He shut the door behind him and looked at his watch.
‘It’s just three o’clock,’ Faber said quietly.
‘Yes,’ Steiner murmured. ‘Just three.’
X
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL BRANDT was sitting on his bed, half-dressed. As he reached for his shoes, still dazed with sleep, he fiercely cursed the unreliability of the intelligence people in Krymskaya who had predicted that the Russian offensive would begin in the middle of May. If you got to the bottom of it, he thought angrily, you’d probably find they were hand in glove with the Russians and deliberately feeding us misinformation.
He had got his shoes on, but sat for a while with drooping head. Outside there was a rumble as loud as a hundred trucks passing over a cobblestoned road. Objects in the bunker vibrated; the window glass hummed and the light of the candle dipped and flickered and threatened to go out. Suddenly the telephone buzzed. Brandt picked it up and recognized Captain Kiesel’s voice. ‘It’s starting, sir.’
‘Never stopped,’ Brandt growled. ‘Come over here in five minutes
.’ He replaced the receiver and remained bent over the table for a moment. The enormous barrage had startled him out of deep sleep. He had been dreaming vividly that he was at the opera. But he could no longer remember what opera was being played. Perhaps the ‘Marriage of Figaro’, he thought, closing his eyes.
There was a knock. He quickly slipped on his tunic and turned to face the door as Kiesel, tall and energetic, stepped in. At the same moment the telephone buzzed again. As Brandt lifted the receiver, Kiesel came over to the table. ‘The general,’ Brandt murmured, winking at Kiesel and pressing the receiver tightly against his ear.
The smile vanished. He listened, nodded thoughtfully. ‘Of course, Herr General. I shall issue the appropriate orders at once.’ He dropped the telephone and turned to Kiesel. ‘Drum fire along the whole line. All available reserves have already been alerted. The general thinks this is the greatest massing of artillery the Russians have yet achieved. It really looks like the expected offensive.’ He turned the telephone crank and exchanged a few words with the operator. ‘There we have it,’ he said irritably. ‘Communications with the front are already broken.’
‘We have radio,’ Kiesel replied.
Brandt nodded. ‘They’re busy establishing connections now.’ He made a few more telephone calls. Then he went to a corner of the bunker, produced a bottle of kirschwasser, and filled two glasses. ‘You’ll make an exception of your rule today,’ he stated. ‘We have a warm day before us and are going to need a tonic.’ Kiesel nodded. They drank. Brandt set the glass down hard on the table and looked at his wrist-watch. ‘Twenty past three,’ he noted. ‘The overture will last another two hours at least. Send the other officers in to me.’
Kiesel went out and shortly afterwards returned with the rest of the staff officers. The conference lasted only an hour.
The radioed reports coming in from the battalions were increasingly disturbing. Stransky reported loud motor noises from the edge of the wooded area. Kiesel shook his head as he read the message. ‘If Stransky can hear motor noises while this barrage is going on, the tanks must be right in front of his bunker,’ he said. Shortly afterwards telephone communication with the battalions was restored and Brandt had a chance to say a few words to the commanders. He tried to reassure them by pointing out that an assault regiment was on its way up front as reinforcement. Shortly afterwards the wire was broken again. The signals officer informed Brandt that in attempts to restore the line more than half his men had fallen. Brandt ordered him to give up trying; radio communication would be good enough until the attack began, he said. The officers, with the exception of Kiesel, returned to their bunkers. Slowly, the sky grew brighter. The barrage had increased in violence and seemed to be drawing closer. Brandt raised his head, listening. Then he looked at Kiesel who was standing by the door, smoking a cigarette and looking calmly out of the window. ‘We’ll take a look at the show from outside,’ he said to him. ‘Do you feel like it?’
Cross of Iron Page 35