‘What do you want the stinking old flag for,’ Krüger remonstrated. ‘If the Russians catch on to what’s happening up here, we’ll never get back down.’
Schnurrbart sided with Krüger, urging that they find the quickest way down again. But Steiner would not listen. ‘It isn’t the flag that matters; it’s something else entirely. If you feel things are getting too hot for you, you can run for it. I’m not keeping you.’ He turned away and went through the door. ‘Damned mule,’ Schnurrbart grumbled, following him.
They found themselves again on the worn steps of a winding staircase even narrower than the other. The stairs rose steeply into a pitch dark room. Steiner sent the beam of his flashlight sweeping hastily around it. The room was windowless and circular, the floor coated with dust. In the centre was an iron ladder with wide flat rungs which led to a rectangular opening in the ceiling. At the top of the ladder Steiner encountered a wooden trap-door which yielded to the pressure of his hands. He raised it, and a moment later they stood on the roof of the tower, with the stars above them. The roof was flat, ringed by a knee-high wall. In one comer, fastened to the wall by iron clamps, the creaking flag-pole pointed toward the sky. The flag fluttered clumsily like a big, dark shadow in the fresh breeze that blew from the sea and cooled their hot faces. Quiet had settled over the city. All was still and dark. Only here and there were fires still smouldering, casting a glow into the gloomy gorges of the streets and now and then raining sparks upon the roofs. From the elevation of the tower the fires seemed altogether harmless, and the red window openings looked like lanterns. The mountains reached toward the stars, and the Milky Way blazed in a bright arc from horizon to horizon.
‘I wonder which one is ours?’ Schnurrbart said.
‘Which what?’ Steiner asked.
Schnurrbart waved his hand at the sky. ‘Which star, I mean. My mother always used to say each of us had one.’ He fell silent. Then he asked: ‘Have you still a grudge against me?’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, anything. I thought maybe about that business at the bridge, back in the woods.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Steiner said.
‘You’re just saying that,’ Schnurrbart muttered sceptically.
‘We’re not children any more,’ Steiner said curtly. ‘A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then. I’ve forgotten about it. I’ve forgotten a great deal.’
‘That’s good,’ Schnurrbart whispered. And obeying a sudden inspiration he added: ‘Anne too?’
A few seconds passed before Steiner answered: ‘No. Not her. Never.’
Schnurrbart averted his eyes. ‘What she must have meant to you.’
‘That’s enough!’ Steiner said. With both hands he pulled down the flag. The rusty rollers screeched, and he had to tug hard at the cloth before he could separate it from the wire. They folded it carefully. Then Steiner strapped it to his assault pack and returned to the trap-door.
In the lower room Krüger and Faber were waiting impatiently for them. Quietly they descended the winding staircase and reached the corridor below without encountering any Russians.
Steiner peered toward the elevator shaft at the other end of the corridor. Not a sound reached their ears. Slowly, they went down the stairs to the next floor. Here, too, they paused for a few seconds, listening hard for suspicious sounds in the darkness. Steiner was about to continue on down when Schnurrbart suddenly held him back. Muffled, but distinctly audible, the din of violent shooting reverberated in the stair-well.
‘That must be from the yard,’ Steiner breathed. ‘They’re attacking the company.’
Schnurrbart relaxed his tight grip on Steiner’s arm. ‘What do we do?’
‘We must get down. If Triebig runs for it, we’ll be stuck in this trap. Let’s go.’
Disregarding caution, they pelted down the stairs. Suddenly a sharp outcry dropped like a stone at their feet. They glimpsed the outlines of a Russian on the landing below. He stood motionless, looking up at them. Without thinking Steiner raised his tommy-gun. The staircase resounded with the cracking of the shots. The Russian tipped over. The four of them raced across his body. Simultaneously the whole corridor came to life. Doors flew open, men shouted, boots thundered over the paving blocks, and then a random salvo spattered over their heads. Ducking, they raced on down the stairs, tearing their clothes on the banisters as they rounded the turns. Behind them the racket grew more terrifying from floor to floor. Then they reached the end of the staircase. It was blocked by a door that must lead out into the yard, and Steiner desperately tugged at the latch. But the door was locked. Behind them footsteps boomed like an avalanche down the stairs. The searing beams of flashlights ate into the darkness and scraps of words in Russian shrieked in their ears. Panting for breath, they stood still, their eyes frantically searching for a way out.
Krüger saw the door first. A corner behind the stairs, a big wooden box, and beside it a narrow door. Unlocked. Beyond it more steps led into a black tunnel. As they plunged on down, the total darkness wrapped them like a blanket. Steiner switched on his flashlight. To left and right ran a long, narrow underground corridor. A few iron pipes attached to the low ceiling. Doors on both sides. And in the background impenetrable darkness. But there was no time to consider. The Russians had reached the entrance to the cellar, and Steiner turned to the right. They raced with giant strides down the narrow tube of the corridor, the cones of light from their flashlights severing the darkness. Behind them several shattering explosions boomed. Hand grenades, Steiner thought. He ducked even lower. Any moment now the Russians would be down here with their tommy-guns, and this corridor seemed to go on for ever. No branches, nothing but doors, doors, doors. Every one of those doors concealed a rat trap, and Steiner knew it. Once they were caught in one of those holes, the Russians would have no trouble smoking them out. It was hopeless. He halted in his tracks so suddenly that the others bumped into him.
‘What?’ Schnurrbart panted.
‘Shut up,’ Steiner whispered. ‘Put out your lights and keep going.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll follow you; go on, damn it.’ As the men ran on, he flung himself flat on the ground and began firing blindly into the darkness. Schnurrbart wanted to stop again. But Krüger’s fist caught him hard in the back. ‘Go on, go on!’ They continued running until, in the darkness, they slammed up against a wall.
Their hearts jumped. The corridor turned at a right angle here and led toward a patch of light against which the shadowy outlines of several men could be seen. They were standing in an open doorway, and they wore steel helmets. German steel helmets. Schnurrbart uttered a cry of disbelief. Then he rushed toward the men, shouting: ‘Sergeant Steiner here, don’t shoot. It’s us— Sergeant Steiner.’ He ran out of the darkness toward the light. With every step he took his jubilation grew; he could think of nothing but: saved, we’re saved. Already he thought he could distinguish Triebig, standing in the midst of the men and raising his hand. But Schnurrbart overlooked the motion. He saw only the familiar uniforms, and he thought of the captured flag and that Steiner was the luckiest bastard born and with him by you a fellow could fetch the stars from the sky. By God, the luckiest bastard born. Joyously, he threw up his arms. The stars, he thought, the stars from the sky. Then something fell at his feet and he staggered. But he managed to remain on his feet and tried to regain his balance. ‘Damn it all,’ he stammered, throwing his head back, uncomprehending. With abrupt horror he felt something striking his body. It was as though his chest, his abdomen, were being torn open, and fiery pain darted up to the roots of his hair. They’re mad, he thought, sinking to his knees. The rumbling stopped and he saw innumerable shimmering points plummeting towards him. The stars, he thought again. Then he suddenly heard his mother speaking to him; he knew instantly it was her voice. While he tilted forward from the waist, he laughed wildly. The stars gathered together, formed big, glowing-hot discs that became a face. He recog
nized Erika. Or was it his mother still? It’s all one, he had time to think. Then a black wall fell across his brain.
XV
CORPORAL NONNENMACHER was leader of the radio section in the signals platoon at Regiment. He was a stocky, powerful man with a ruddy face and good-natured blue eyes that regarded the world with quizzical intelligence. Sitting in his headquarters on the second floor of the regimental command post, he casually twisted the dial of the radio set. At the back of the room the men of his section were snoring. Nonnenmacher listened to them for a while. Then he fooled with the dial again. But nothing special seemed to be happening to either the first battalion or the others, and Nonnenmacher yawned mightily. He glanced at his watch. Another hour and a half, he thought. How slowly the time passed. As he idly continued to turn the dial, listening to the unchanging drone of the ether waves, he wondered what their new quarters would be like. Undoubtedly not as comfortable as these, he thought gloomily, and sighed. Russia was bearable only when you were established in a big city. Novorosisk had had some conveniences they were going to miss. He stared into the quiet flame of the lantern and sighed again, lt was a dreary business, these eternal retreats. When he thought of the imminent winter, the stark snow-covered hills whipped with icy wind, when he remembered the two thousand miles that lay between him and his home in Karlsruhe, an unnameable sadness and hopelessness came over him.
A sudden noise in his ears interrupted his broodings. Automatically he adjusted the headset over his ears and leaned forward, intent. His fingers glided skilfully over the knobs beneath the dial, and a voice shouted so loudly out of the earphones that he pulled back in alarm. As he regulated the volume, a tense expression settled upon his face. He reached hastily for paper and pencil and began copying down the words. Glancing at the pad in front of him, where the call numbers were listed, he noted that the second company was sending a message to Battalion. The contents of the despatch were dramatic enough to command attention. When the voice stopped and a few moments later a second voice repeated the words, Nonnenmacher muttered an exclamation that startled the snoring men from their bunks. Sleep-dazed, they reeled toward him. ‘What’s going on?’ one of them asked.
‘Read that,’ Nonnenmacher said, handing him the slip of paper.
'Cannot hold the factory any longer,’ the man read aloud. ‘Sergeant Steiner killed. Request orders.’ The man let the paper flutter out of his fingers. ‘That would happen just before we’re withdrawing,’ he murmured. ‘What are you going to do?’
Nonnenmacher shrugged. ‘It isn’t really any of our business. They’ll report it directly to Regiment. I suppose we might inform the commander. Then if he wants he can...’ Nonnenmacher abruptly broke off. The voice he had heard before sounded in the earphones again, a breathless, distraught voice, and Nonnen-macher’s pencil skipped across the pad as he copied down the words. Then he wrenched the headset away from his ears. ‘The Russians are attacking,’ he told the anxious group around him. ‘They’re signing off now, but asking First Battalion to stay on their frequency. Get the other set and keep check on the other battalions. I want to hear how this thing turns out.’
While the men brought another set from the back of the room, and hooked it up, Nonnenmacher again listened at the earphones. Minute after minute passed without any further messages from Second Company. He grew increasingly anxious and wondered again whether it might not be best to inform the commander. But the report must already have been telephoned in from the first battalion, he thought. He waited. At last, when more than fifteen minutes had passed, a loud whistle-tone sounded in his ears. ‘They’re switching to CW,’ he said to the men. Again Nonnenmacher picked up his pencil and waited. The call signal came: dah, dit, dit... dit, dit... dah, dah. Reception was feebler than before. ‘They must be asleep,’ one of the men said impatiently.
Nonnenmacher turned to him. ‘Were you listening in?’
The man nodded. ‘It’s loud enough. QSA 3, I’d say. David, Ida, Mike—that’s the Second. But Battalion doesn’t answer. Have they changed frequency?’
Nonnenmacher shook his head. ‘They’re coming in on the same frequency. I wonder what the hell is the matter with Battalion.’
Several more minutes passed, during which the call signal came in regularly at shorter and shorter intervals. Finally Nonnen-macher’s patience gave out. ‘I’m going to answer,’ he said. ‘Maybe 1st Battalion’s transmitter is on the blink.’ He placed his thumb and forefinger on the bug, switched the transmitter to CW and gave a continuous tone. Then his fingers flew on the bug. The men watched him with admiration. Nonnenmacher was undeniably the fastest operator in the regiment; you had to be damned good on the other side to copy him. The answer came. First the call signal and confirmation, then a succession of staccato whistling tones. Nonnenmacher nodded with satisfaction. ‘They’ve got us. We’re to wait; they’re sending AS.’
Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then the call signal came again, and after Nonnenmacher had answered, the men heard the familiar and exciting signal that preceded every urgent message.
‘KR,’ Nonnenmacher murmured, leaning forward over his pad, frowning with concentration. For a while nothing but the Morse signals could be heard. Then Nonnenmacher sat bolt upright. ‘I can’t see what’s going on here,’ he said helplessly. ‘Take a look at this.’ As he turned back to the transmitter to acknowledge, the men studied the message with equal puzzlement.
‘Take it to the commander,’ Nonnenmacher ordered. ‘Immediately.’
One of the men hurried out and raced downstairs to the commander’s room. Lieutenant-Colonel Brandt was busy stowing his personal belongings into a large canvas bag. His head whirled around in annoyance as the radio man came in. ‘What is it?’ he asked harshly.
The man clicked his heels. His voice rang like a trumpet as he said: ‘Radio message from Second Company to Regiment.’ Brandt turned around to face him. ‘Well?’
‘Second company surrounded in factory cellar, underneath tower. Lieutenant Triebig dead.’ The man hesitated. Then he added: ‘Signed by Sergeant Steiner.’
With three long strides Brandt reached the man and snatched the sheet of paper from his hand. ‘Any more messages?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man spilled out an explanation: that they had picked up the first message and had finally answered when Battalion remained silent. Brandt heard the story out before he asked: ‘Have you the text of the first message?’
‘Corporal Nonnenmacher has it.’
‘Bring it here at once,’ Brandt ordered. ‘And inform Second Company that we will come to get them out. Hurry up.’ He waited a moment until the door closed behind the man. As he went to the telephone there was a dangerous light in his eyes. ‘Get me Lieutenant Stroh,’ he barked.
When the prearranged light signal flashed at the top of the elevator shaft, Sergeant Schulz turned his head. ‘They’ve made it,’ he said to Triebig, who was standing behind him. He signalled into the shaft with his own flashlight. He then asked the lieutenant, who stood nervously fingering the strap of his tommy-gun: ‘How many men do you want to send up there?’
Triebig looked around indecisively. ‘Ten will be enough,’ he ventured. ‘The rest will stay with me. You too, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Schulz addressed the men standing nearest him. ‘Up with you, and make it snappy.’ One after the other they entered the shaft and began climbing. ‘Speed it up,’ Schulz called impatiently. He took a step forward, and craned into the shaft. The fourth man had just swung on to the ladder when a strange noise came from up above. There followed a scream that sent the other men reeling back from the doorway. Seconds later a body plummeted past their horrified faces and struck with a dull thud at the bottom of the shaft. Schulz started forward to shout to the other men on the ladder to come back, but as he opened his mouth a Russian tommy-gun began roaring up above and the other three plunged also, slamming with a hideous sound upon the iron platform of the elevator. A hissing rain of sparks from hand
grenades danced past the doorway; four or five shattering explosions reverberated in the shaft; and then there was a deadly silence.
‘We can write them off,’ Schulz said hoarsely to Triebig. ‘Them and the others with them. If we don’t instantly...’ He fell silent, for Triebig had suddenly sped off down the long hall, running in the aisle between the machines. Schulz chased after him. He caught up with him in front of the lathe on which the radio men had placed their apparatus. Triebig loudly telling them: ‘Report to battalion that we cannot hold the factory another five minutes; we must pull out at once and...’ He hesitated. ‘Report that Sergeant Steiner has been killed. Are you connected?’
‘They’re on permanent reception,’ one of the men replied. He was wearing a throat microphone, and as he spoke he slipped the headset away from his ears.
Triebig nodded, gratified. ‘Send that right away, * he ordered. ‘I’ll wait until you receive an answer.’
As the radio men bent over their apparatus, Schulz stepped up to Triebig’s side. ‘Isn’t it premature to report Steiner killed?’ he remarked.
Triebig shrugged impatiently. ‘It’s a dead certainty the Russians have already got him. Lord knows what went on up there.’
Dubious, but not minded to dispute the matter, Schulz remained silent. He watched with interest as one of the two radio men spoke into the microphone. Unthinkingly, he put his hand into his pocket to take out a crushed cigarette. Halfway through the movement he froze. Through the window a fiery rain sprayed. A deafening rattle of gunfire followed. Schulz dropped to the ground. Beside him he saw Triebig, who was shouting something. But he could not grasp the words. Innumerable darting, bluish flames were dancing in the big room. They’re shooting explosive bullets, Schulz thought. He forced himself to his knees and crawled to the windows, where the men were huddled on the floor shouting something to him. The din grew louder. Cries of pain came from the wounded men. From the direction of the corridor hand grenades burst, and as Schulz looked toward the right-hand door he saw the sentry there run back into the hall. He turned and crawled back to Triebig. ‘They’re attacking from both sides,’ he shouted in Triebig’s ear. ‘We’ve got to get out of here. We’re trapped.’
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