Cross of Iron

by Willi Heinrich

  Kiesel smiled. ‘Even if I did not feel like it I wouldn’t admit it. In ninety-nine out of a hundred cases our courage is nothing more than an expression of common politeness or sense of duty.’

  ‘And in the remaining case?’ Brandt asked.

  Kiesel opened the door up a crack and flipped the cigarette out. ‘An expression of our insanity,’ he replied tersely.

  It was already light enough for them to have a good view of the steep slope. The dull grey of the sky was shot through with silvery threads, and the stars were fading rapidly. Beyond the hill the artillery fire rumbled on undiminished. An inferno, Kiesel thought as they plodded up the slope. When they reached the brow of the hill, they both stood still at one impulse. Toward the east, as far as the eye could reach, a volcano was raging. The horizon had been transformed into a writhing dragon that lunged, stretched and twisted its giant length, spewing yellow flame over the land, puffing fiery clouds, never pausing for a moment. Between the blue-black hills there still hung pockets of darkness into which torrents of sparks were showered. The knife-edged ridges of the hills stood out distinctly against the burning sky. Far to the west the moon stared down like the half-shut eye of a cyclops. Brandt gripped Kiesel by the shoulder and their eyes met.

  They walked on a short distance to a trench which had been dug a few days earlier at the commander’s order. It was intended for observation and provided with a number of solidly built dugouts with broad look-out slits. In one of the dugouts they found Lieutenant Spannagel, the forward observer of the 2nd Artillery Battalion. He had a radio section with him, and was visibly delighted by the unexpected visitors. Since he also had a telephone connected to the regimental switchboard, Brandt informed the communications platoon of his whereabouts and ordered all messages and telephone calls for him to be switched to the forward observation post. Then he questioned Spannagel about the situation. The lieutenant said that the guns were ready to fire, radio communications were intact, and the supply of ammunition should be adequate to hold the Russians.

  Brandt then turned to the artillery officer’s telescope and studied the opposite hillside. Meanwhile Kiesel talked in low tones with Spannagel. In spite of his sanguine words, the thin-faced, likeable young lieutenant seemed nervous. He kept shifting his weight restlessly from one leg to the other. ‘If I had only half the stuff the Russians are throwing away over there, I’d make things hot for them,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you said you had enough ammunition,’ Kiesel remonstrated.

  ‘Oh, I do, I do, but I’ll need it when the attack starts. As long as the Ivans are hiding in the woods there's not much sense wasting my shells. The battalion has let me have 500 rounds. You have no idea how fast they use up.’

  ‘True enough. How many guns would you estimate they have on the other side?’

  Spannagel shrugged. ‘Hard to say. I’ve been with the battalion since the start of the Russian campaign, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Just listen to it. You’d have to go back to the First World War to find a parallel for this kind of squandering of material.’

  ‘Which goes to show how seriously the Russians are taking us,’ Kiesel commented. ‘They seem to know they’re facing the crack divisions of the southern front.’

  ‘Not much consolation in that. I just wonder what’s left of our front lines.’

  Kiesel gave a worried nod. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s been going on for two hours already. Before long their bombers will come.’

  ‘And then their tanks. They couldn’t ask for better terrain.’

  Brandt turned to them. ‘The fire seems to be concentrating primarily on 121.4. I don’t think the Russians are going to attack along the road. They’ll try to take the hill. If they succeed in that, our tank barrier on the highway will be worthless and they’ll pay us a visit from the rear.’

  ‘They must not take the hill,’ Kiesel said gravely. ‘If they do, we’re done for.’

  They stepped over to Brandt’s side and followed his gaze out across the landscape. With the sky’s dull grey taking on more and more colour, the frightful glare on the horizon waned under the cold light of the new day. Slowly the light moved from the east over the hills, almost imperceptibly drawing the gentle lines of the terrain out of the dusk. The greyish-black cloud of dust hovering above the churned-up hills became more and more visible, and a huge banner of smoke blocked all vision to the more distant east.

  Kiesel suddenly raised his head and listened. At first there was only a delicate humming that set the air in the dugout vibrating; then the sound swelled to a drone that seemed to fill the whole of the sky above their heads. Their faces paled. ‘The second phase,’ Brandt declared coolly. ‘Planes.’

  The shrilling of the telephone made them all jerk around. Spannagel picked up the receiver and said a few words. Then he turned to Brandt. ‘The general, sir.’

  Brandt took the telephone from him, and his body involuntarily stiffened. ‘Herr General?’

  ‘How do things look out your way, Brandt?’ The voice sounded thin, remote, as though coming from a distant planet.

  ‘Unchanged,’ Brandt replied. ‘Violent artillery fire on the trenches. I’m afraid the casualties will be high.’

  Outside a penetrating howl approached a crescendo. Out of the corners of his eyes Brandt saw Kiesel and Spannagel press their bodies against the walls of the dugout. The radio section men were lying flat on the floor. He pressed the receiver to his ear. ‘Herr General-’

  The voice at the other end sounded concerned. ‘What’s the matter? Brandt, what-’

  The dugout began to sway. A deafening crash drowned every other sound. With his free hand Brandt clung to a prop and stared at the ceiling of the dugout. The buzzing in the receiver stopped. Dark smoke poured through the look-out slit. He heard Kiesel shouting something. Sand trickled between cracks in the plank ceiling, and the doorless opening vanished in white smoke. Brandt coughed. He had let the receiver drop; now his legs sagged and he slid to the ground, with his back against the wall, gasping for air. A few minutes went by. The crash and roar of explosions gradually slackened, moved off into the distance, and the air slowly cleared. Brandt stood up and stared at Kiesel who was still standing near the entrance, his hand covering his eyes. Spannagel was sitting on the floor at his feet.

  Kiesel took his hand from his eyes, wiped the tears from under them and blinked vigorously. When their glances met, he nodded. ‘The third phase,’ he said loudly. ‘The barrage is rolling over the communications zone now.’

  As if on command they stepped over to the look-out slit and peered out. The sound of motors hung in the air. Scattered heavy detonations indicated that the bombardment was not yet over. The officers stared at the white pall of fog that was spreading over the entire landscape. Kiesel recalled reaching the peak of a mountain several years ago, to find himself standing high above a solid bank of clouds. He felt the commander’s hand grip his arm. ‘Smoke,’ Brandt exclaimed. ‘They’ve fired smoke shells.’ He took two strides to the field telephone and turned the crank. But the line was dead. He started toward the door and bumped against a man who was just coming in. The man clicked his heels and gasped: ‘They’re attacking now, sir. Radio message from the 2nd Battalion: tanks approaching; request artillery.’

  Brandt turned his head in the ensuing silence. The radiomen were already at their apparatus, headsets over their ears, looking at Spannagel, whose nervousness had entirely disappeared. He was standing beside Kiesel at the telescope. Now he straightened up. His voice sounded calm, sure, distinct as he said: ‘Firing command.’

  ‘Firing command,’ one of the radiomen repeated in a monotone. Spannagel leaned forward over the telescope again. ‘Entire battalion: fire!’

  The attack took place on a thirty-mile front, with the main blow directed against the positions west of Krymskaya. Little ground was gained, although the Germans estimated that between twenty and thirty Russian assault divisions were employed. The spearhead was formed by seve
ral tank brigades which rolled over the smashed trenches under cover of the smokescreen and in spite of the vigorous German barrage reached the peak of Hill 121.4. The army communique that day reported a grand Russian offensive against the Kuban bridgehead, with an expenditure of material comparable to the battles of the First World War. Local penetrations, the communique went on to say, had been sealed off and thrown back by counter-attacks and the offensive had been halted by the concentrated fire of the German defenders.

  That morning, however, a few minutes after the Russian barrage had rolled back to the rear areas, to the men on Hill 121.4 it scarcely seemed that there was any serious resistance to the surging tide of Russian infantry. The survivors of the artillery barrage rushed in wild flight down the battered trenches and tried to reach the battalion command post. Those who got through were assembled by Triebig for the defence of the command post. Steiner’s men stayed at their positions, wondering how long these posts, already as good as lost, would go unscathed. They had sat in dull apathy through the three-hour barrage, smoking countless cigarettes and scarcely exchanging a word with one another.

  The moment everything abruptly fell silent outside, and even the drone of airplane motors faded in the distance, Steiner had picked up his sub-machine-gun, slid the strap of his steel helmet under his chin, and climbed up into the trench, followed by Faber, Kern and the others. White swaths of smoke blotted out everything; the men had to grope their way to the next MG emplacement. Now they were standing around the loophole, staring in perplexity into the impenetrable smoke that covered the terrain. Steiner slung the tommy-gun over his shoulder. ‘I’ll look for Meyer,’ he said. ‘Set up the MG; it’s going to start soon.’

  Faber hunched and dropped his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid you won’t find anyone. Where do we meet if things go wrong?’

  ‘Battalion command post,’ Steiner replied. ‘But not until you’ve used up all your ammunition.’ He lingered for a moment watching the woodsman place a belt in the machine-gun. Kern crouched down on the ground, his face twitching. His nerves seemed about gone. Besides Kern and Faber there were three other men in the dugout. They seemed somewhat calmer, although they had come with the latest batch of replacements. A bit rough for a starter, Steiner thought, regarding them with pity. It suddenly occurred to him that Schnurrbart was no longer here. Lucky he was out of this. But Hollerbach and Krüger must.... Concerned, he did not finished the thought. Quickly he climbed into the trench and took a look round, listening. You could not see ten feet in front of you. Isolated rifle shots sounded feebly from all directions. And the noise of motors could again be heard. He could not be sure whether the sounds came from the air, or from the slope of the hill below. For a few seconds he stood motionless, wondering which way to go. Since Hollerbach’s bunker was on the way to the battalion command post, Krüger must be somewhere to the left, near the company command post. The noise of the motors was growing louder and he realized that he had little time for reflection. He decided to look for Krüger first; that way he might be able to contact Meyer at once. Crouching, he began hurrying down the trench. Here and there the sides had collapsed, and in many spots huge craters blocked the way. The rifle-pits he passed by were unmanned. His uneasiness increased. Suddenly he came across a man lying in his path. The head was separated from the body and had lodged among clumps of earth a few paces farther on. The mouth was opened for screaming, as if the head wanted to shout to him to come back. Steiner closed his eyes and stepped over it. A head, he thought, just a head. He felt his whole body trembling.

  The trench made a sharp turn to the left. The company command post ought to be beyond the next turning. Involuntarily, he speeded his steps. Then he stopped abruptly. Before him yawned an enormous crater made by a bomb. Out of the black earth protruded splintered bits of beams and wood siding; the smoke had sunk thickly into the pit, forming a pool of whiteness at the bottom. Steiner dug his fingers into the hard earth of the trench wall. His legs felt oddly numb, lifeless. The company command post, he thought. Lieutenant Meyer. For a few seconds he stood unable to move. Then he detoured around the crater, stumbled into the continuation of the trench, and felt his way slowly forward. The smoke was even denser here; it clung viscously to the ground. He passed another roofed emplacement and glanced in. He did so without intention, without hope. Then he stood still in astonishment. He saw a back, a broad, uncannily familiar back. His mouth opened to call, could not produce a sound. But when the back moved, he crawled into the hole and laid a hand on that familiar shadow. The man turned round and he found himself staring into Krüger’s face. They looked at one another in silence. Then Krüger turned his face to the loophole. ‘They’re coming now,’ he said. His voice was strange, low and toneless.

  ‘Tanks,’ Steiner whispered. He stepped to the other side of the heavy machine-gun and looked through the slot. The sound of the motors had risen to a horrible drone that filled the air and inexorably drew nearer. The steely clank of the treads was clearly audible. Visibility was gradually improving. The smokescreen was sliding down the hill, so that it was possible to see a few yards of the precipitous slope. Further down, however, it lay like thick soup, lazily drifting eastward toward the sun which was just beginning to rise.

  ‘If they have infantry with them,’ Steiner said, ‘we won’t get out of here.’

  Krüger nodded. His set, mask-like face did not change.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Steiner asked.

  ‘I don’t know. When the bombs started falling they were in the bunker.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘I was right here.’

  ‘Through the whole barrage?’ Steiner exclaimed.

  Krüger nodded. ‘We were waiting for you,’ he explained, speaking slowly and with effort. ‘Me and Hollerbach. When you didn’t get here by half-past two Hollerbach left and I’—he shrugged—‘I didn’t feel like sleeping. So I relieved the infant who was at the MG here, and then it started. I couldn’t get out any more so I just sat, and later the bombs fell and the bunkers blew sky high and-’ He fell silent.

  ‘It was horrible,’ Steiner said.

  Krüger turned his head slowly. ‘What was horrible was that I sat here for four hours all alone. There’s nothing worse than being alone. I know that now.’

  They listened to the roar of the motors. The sound was so near by now that they wondered why they could not see the tanks, although they were peering fixedly through the loophole. Krüger was standing, legs spread wide apart, behind the machine-gun.

  ‘That’s something I’ve known for quite a while,’ Steiner said. ‘We learn it sooner or later, and the sooner we get used to the idea, the better off we are. There’s no sense fooling ourselves.’ He placed his tommy-gun beside the MG, continuing to stare through the loophole.

  He raised his head to listen. A roar passed overhead, swelled and dimmed as it plunged into the swaths of smoke below them. ‘Our barrage,’ Krüger commented at the top of his voice. They watched as a black cloud surged up down below, smothering the noise of the tanks. They should have started sooner, Steiner thought. Why did they wait so long, those idiots. With a kind of mad satisfaction he watched as out of the turbulent cauldron below a long barrel appeared and a tank with churning tracks and steel-plated sides rolled up the slope, a dozen Russian infantrymen clinging to its broad back. T. 34, he thought—always these damned T. 34’s. Apathetically he watched Krüger swing the MG around and begin to fire. The men on the tank tumbled off like so many stones and rolled down the steep slope, where they were swallowed up by the boiling smoke. The tank continued on and vanished from sight. It had not fired a shot. But behind it another appeared, and behind that one still others. Krüger pulled the MG off its pedestal and shouted: ‘Let’s go.’

  Steiner barely nodded. A terrible numbness was creeping over him; he could not stir. ‘Come on,’ Krüger cried. At the same time the tanks opened fire. The sharp crack of their cannon was louder than the barrage; the explosions resounded menac
ingly up the slope. The hammering of several dozen machine-guns was suddenly interrupted by many voices bellowing: ‘Oorraaaay.’ Krüger and Steiner crouched down on the floor and stared at the entrance to the dugout. The Russians must already be in the trench. The German barrage moved back, pounded for a few seconds on the trenches, and then rolled on up the hill. They’ve given us up, Steiner thought. ‘We won’t get through now,’ he said. His words were drowned out in the din. ‘Too late,’ Krüger bellowed in his ear. Steiner nodded again. Emotionlessly he looked at the white lines in Krüger’s blackened face. He ought to wash, he thought, he ought to wash up right away. Becoming aware of the absurdity of the thought, he grinned. At that moment he saw a shadow in the trench, and from a sitting position fired several rounds. The shadow disappeared. Steiner imagined the Russians’ next actions. Now the hand grenades would come, several explosive blocks tied together. There was nothing to do but shut your eyes and wait until you were blown to smithereens. Holding their breath, they stared into the trench, the upper half of which was already flooded with dawnlight. Waiting in wearied resignation for the end, Steiner thought of Gertrud. Perhaps the supply column would bring a letter from her tonight. It would be returned to the sender as undeliverable, and Fetscher would note on it in red pencil: ‘Fallen for Greater Germany’—as he had done with innumerable letters before. The meeting in Gursuf would remain an episode on the margin of the war.