Cross of Iron

by Willi Heinrich

  Triebig jumped to his feet and ran down the aisle between the machines to the other end of the hall. He stooped in front of the elevator shaft and waited until Schulz caught up with him. Several other men joined them there. Triebig leaned over the shaft. ‘One man go down there,’ he ordered, his voice trembling. ‘Perhaps there’s a cellar door below. Go on, Sergeant.’

  Schulz hesitated. But since hand grenades were already flying in through the windows of the hall, he fished with his foot for the rung of the ladder below the door. For a few seconds he remained suspended, peering upward. Above him all remained still. Squinting, he descended the ladder until his foot encountered something soft. As he tried to feel along the wall, his hands encountered nothing and he felt a draught of cool air in his face. He kicked aside a body lying in his way, and made sure that the opening actually led into a room. Then he swarmed rapidly back up the rungs. The shaft stretched above him, a column of blackness. When he reached the main floor, the full violence of the battle struck his ears. He jumped out of the shaft and landed in front of the group of men. Triebig gripped his shoulder. ‘How is it?’

  In breathless haste he reported what he had found. The men groaned with relief. ‘Everyone down there,’ Triebig rapped out the order. ‘Is the radio section here?’ One of the radio men replied, and Triebig turned to Schulz. ‘Call the men away from the windows. They’re all to come down to the cellar.’

  ‘What about the wounded?’ Schulz asked. But Triebig was already swinging down the ladder in the shaft. Schulz bit his lips. A dirty deal, he thought. Then he shrugged. He raced across the room, which was by now saturated with dust and smoke and an insane roar. At one of the windows he found two men kneeling behind an MG, firing into the yard. He slammed the first man on the back and shouted: ‘Into the shaft, into the shaft and down to the cellar.’ Then he rushed on, to the next window and the next.

  But then he recoiled. In the fore part of the hall great shadows poured through the windows, l jumped over the lathes, landed on the floor and scattered with phantom movements in all directions. For a second Schulz stood rigid. They’re here, he thought. The Russians are here. Then he whirled around and sped blindly back between the machines, stumbled over a body, felt two hands clutching at his coat, heard a gruesome, despairing bellow, and with a jerk pulled free. The wounded, flashed through his mind. But there was no time for him to take any other path. They lay side by side, filling the narrow aisle between the machines. His boots dug deep into the lushly soft carpet of their writhing bodies. He tripped over outstretched arms, until at length his foot caught somewhere; he plunged full length on his face, and several hands held him fast. He saw a face in front of his, a mouth stammering something. Gasping for air, he raised his tommy-gun and struck out blindly with it. He got to his feet again, was pushed from behind and thrown forward. ‘Kill him,’ a voice roared, and many others took up the cry: ‘Kill him, kill him.’ He defended himself like a wild beast, and when he realized that he was making no progress he pulled the trigger and fired until his magazine was empty. The shouts died away into groans and whimpers and helpless sobbing; the hands fell away from his torn uniform. Free, he took three huge leaps, reached the firm pavement of the flooring, dashed with aching lungs toward the shaft, while behind him a single voice continued to shout, each word striking him like a blow: ‘Yellow, bastard, traitor.’ He dropped the tommy-gun and pressed his hands to his ears as he continued to run. But the shouting went on. When he got to the shaft he was shaking so violently that he could scarcely stay on his feet. He saw a knot of men struggling in front of the door, pushing each other back from the shaft, behaving like madmen. For a moment he halted and stared with bloodshot eyes at the scene. Then he gathered himself and crashed with all his weight against the living wall that blocked his way, and carried it down with him into the shaft. He fell about fifteen feet, landed on a clump of intertwined bodies, instantly rolled away from them, leaped to his feet and pelted on. The shouting behind him sounded more muted. He rushed down a narrow corridor toward a glimmer of light until he noticed a door on his right, and heard a harsh voice. A few seconds later he came face to face with Triebig, who stood in the middle of a room. As he recognized Schulz, Triebig slowly lowered his raised tommy-gun. There were about fifteen men in the room. Some were holding flashlights. Blinded, Schulz closed his eyes. Then he remembered the Russians and shouted: ‘Keep going; they’re coming; the Russians are coming, Lieutenant.’

  Triebig jerked around, shouting orders. The men stormed toward the back of the room where, Schulz now noticed, another door opened out. As he followed he suddenly realized that other members of the company would be coming. He stood still and looked back.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Triebig screamed impatiently. Schulz silently pointed to the opposite entrance as two more men came running toward them. One of them shouted: ‘Hold it there.’ He collided with Triebig, who violently pushed him back. ‘What are you yelling for?’ Triebig asked loudly. ‘What’s the matter?’

  The man recognized the lieutenant and snapped to attention. ‘More of the fellows are coming, sir,’ he panted, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder.

  ‘Have you seen Russians?’ Triebig asked.

  ‘And how!’ the man burst out. ‘They must be in the shaft by now and. . .’

  ‘Why didn’t you say that right away?’ Triebig cursed. He sprang to the door. ‘In with you,’ he shouted. ‘Come on, we can’t lose another second.’ He shoved the men violently inside. The door was made of solid sheet steel and had two big bolts that could be shut from inside. As Triebig slammed and locked the door behind him, fists thudded against the steel from the other side and several voices roared: ‘Open up, open up!’

  ‘For God’s sake open that door,’ Schulz stammered. The men on the other side now seemed to be kicking against it with their nailed boots. Triebig did not open it. As Schulz tried to force past him, Triebig placed both hands on his chest and pushed him away. ‘Keep your hands off, you goddamned idiot!’ he screamed.

  ‘But you can’t...’ Schulz whispered.

  ‘Shut up!’ Triebig commanded, glaring at him. ‘I know what I’m doing. Better they than the whole lot of us.’ He stepped away from the door and he and Schulz ran after the others. The corridor turned at a right angle and terminated, about a dozen paces farther on, in a large room that was piled right to the ceiling with boxes. They flashed their lights over every corner of the room and discovered a second door. Schulz turned to the lieutenant. ‘We have to keep our rear open,’ he panted. ‘If we set up an MG at the corner there, nobody can get through the door and we can take our time about looking around.’

  Triebig agreed. He ordered the radio men to set up their apparatus. Meanwhile he had the men drag four of the heavy boxes, which were filled with machine parts, over to the right angle where they were stacked on top of one another. ‘No bullet will go through that, I tell you,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘You’re as safe behind those boxes as in a tank.’ He waited until the MG crew had taken up positions behind the improvised barricade, and peered hard in the direction of the door. But not a sound could be heard. Presumably the locked-out men had run back into the corridor—God knew where it led to. Perhaps they had run straight into the hands of the Russians. He felt an enormous uneasiness as he thought of the way Triebig had left them to their fate. Bad enough about that business with the wounded....

  Shame and horror welled up within him as he remembered. Suddenly it also occurred to him that he no longer had a gun. He cursed himself for having failed to take one from one of the dead men in the shaft. But who in such a situation would be likely to think that far ahead? Weaponless, he felt naked. He decided to ask round among the men; perhaps one of them would be carrying an extra gun. As he turned toward the storeroom, where the men had sat down on the crates and were smoking, he tried to figure out what part of the factory they were now under. Beneath the tower, he decided.

  Triebig was standing beside the radio men,
impatiently watching as they fussed with their set. As Schulz came in they were setting up the long rod antenna. ‘I hope we’ll have some kind of reception here,’ one of them remarked. ‘Not a window anywhere in this damned cellar—I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you need a window?’ Triebig asked anxiously.

  The man nodded. ‘You do with these sets. They’re not much good except in the open. We’ll see.’ He turned the dial. ‘Not a whisper,’ he complained. ‘I’d better try CW right away.’ As the radio man reached for the bug, Schulz went round among the men until he found one who had a pistol in addition to his carbine. ‘I’ll give it back to you later,’ he assured the man, examining the weapon.

  The soldier waved his hand generously. ‘What the hell. You don’t seriously think we’ll ever get out of this tomb, do you?’

  Schulz shrugged. He went over to Triebig who was still standing beside the radio man, shifting his weight tensely from one leg to the other. ‘That’s just a waste of time,’ he said. ‘I’d suggest we first see where the corridor over there goes. We have to know what we’re up against.’

  Triebig nodded, but did not stir. When the men looked questioningly at him, some of them with their mouths twisted in an expression of mockery, Triebig pulled himself together. ‘Take a few men with you,’ he said to Schulz. ‘If you discover anything special, send a man back to me.’

  The sergeant shook his head firmly. ‘It will be better if you come along,’ he declared in a loud voice. ‘It may prove necessary to make a decision that I couldn’t take upon myself as long as there’s a company commander around.’ There was undisguised mutiny in his voice. The men had all stood up, and as he looked at their hostile faces Triebig realized how serious his mistake was. He dared not risk angering them any further. Perhaps his life would depend on every one of them in the course of the next hour. Suppressing his impulse toward rage, he said: ‘If you are afraid, Sergeant, I’ll go with you.’

  ‘It isn’t a question of being afraid,’ Schulz said bitingly. ‘The men here can tell you exactly who is afraid and who isn’t.’ He looked around. Seeing the agreement in all their faces, he grinned spitefully. ‘We have eyes in our heads, Lieutenant, good eyes: we know what’s been going on here.’

  Triebig felt that he was losing control of his temper, in spite of his resolve. To avoid bringing the quarrel to a head, he turned without a word and went out through the door. Some ten yards down, the corridor suddenly turned at an angle and ran on. Triebig paused and checked the direction by his compass. Then he turned to Schulz, who was moving the beam of his flashlight up and down the corridor. ‘Leave one man here,’ he ordered curtly. ‘In case we have to come back quickly.’

  Schulz nodded. ‘I don’t understand why the building has no cellar windows,’ he said. ‘If we could find a window we could try getting out.’

  ‘If there are they’ll be barred,’ Triebig said. ‘We can check that later. But right now we must know where the corridor goes.’ They continued on until they reached a door that led into a chamber in which was a large array of machinery, boilers and enormous pipes that disappeared into the high ceiling. ‘Heating plant,’ Schulz declared with the air of an engineer. He flashed his light around. They began searching the room. Toward the rear they came upon a pile of coke reaching to the ceiling. There was an opening in the wall which proved to be the entrance to the coal cellar.

  ‘Now it’s getting romantic,’ Schulz muttered. Triebig watched him climb over the coke and disappear through the opening. ‘Be careful,’ he called out, and was about to follow. A sudden noise stopped him in his tracks. He turned his head and saw several men run across the cellar and stop in front of a door he had not noticed earlier. The noise grew louder; now he heard the chatter of a tommy-gun. He jumped off the pile of coke to the floor and ran after the men. They were gathered in front of a dark corridor. Before he could order them to switch off their flashlights, a voice rang out in front of them. Triebig staggered back as from a blow. ‘Sergeant Steiner here, don’t shoot. It’s us—Sergeant Steiner.’ Incredulous and aghast, he saw a man come running toward them out of the darkness, arms upraised, while behind him the roar of the tommy-gun continued with undiminished insistence. Triebig’s thoughts were in turmoil. No more than the outlines of the approaching man’s body could be seen as yet, but Triebig took it for granted that it was Steiner. Steiner whose death he had already reported to Battalion; Steiner who had climbed up to the factory tower and was now appearing in the cellar like a ghost; Steiner whom he hated more than anyone he had ever before encountered in his life; and Steiner who stood between him and the future that Stransky had promised: Biarritz, Arcachon, Mont de Mersan, Paris, Montmartre.... And Triebig forgot where he was. He forgot the men of his company who stood on both sides of him, breathless and incredulous; and he forgot himself. By the time he raised the tommy-gun and pulled the trigger, the man had approached within ten paces of them. Triebig saw him stumble, sink to his knees and tumble forward on his face. Then he felt hands dragging his arms down, heard voices clamouring in his ears, received a punch in the waist that took his breath away. Someone roared at him: ‘That was one of our men!’

  Triebig did not answer. He watched with a strange feeling in his chest as the men ran toward the soldier on the ground, and he swallowed. This was the first human being he had ever shot. The first, he thought. Then a wild sensation of triumph rose up within him, staggering him by its very force and distorting his face to a horrible grinning mask. Behind him he suddenly heard the voice of Schulz, and at the same time Triebig became aware that the hammering of the Russian tommy-gun had stopped. The sergeant pressed close to him. ‘What happened?’ he asked. Triebig shrugged and remained silent. Vacantly, he watched three more figures appear out of the darkness of the corridor and move toward the group who were still occupied with the man he had shot. He saw them stop, bend over the body, and his heart abruptly began to pound so hard that he clutched at his chest with both hands. Schulz, eyeing him from one side, now pushed past him and went over to the others.

  Then he noticed Steiner kneeling beside the man on the ground. He had unbuttoned the other’s shirt and was looking down at him, lips compressed. Steiner raised his head and asked Krüger: ‘How did this happen?’ He spoke in so low a voice that it was barely possible to understand him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Krüger murmured dully. ‘When we turned the corner, he went on running toward the light. I wanted to run after him, but Faber held me back. And then...’ He hunched his shoulders and stood helplessly among the men.

  ‘And then?’ Steiner demanded.

  But Krüger did not reply. Faber spoke for him. ‘And then someone fired. We dropped to the floor until the firing stopped.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’ he said, ‘They couldn’t help seeing it was us.’

  Steiner nodded. He suddenly saw with great clarity what must have happened. For a long while he looked down into Schnurrbart’s face, which was crumbling into shapelessness like ruined masonry. Then he slowly straightened up. ‘Who fired?’ he asked. He was certain he knew the answer. The men remained silent, but their glances all flew in one direction. Steiner raised his flashlight. The beam struck a bloodless face, picked out a pair of nervous eyes, and every sound in the cellar ceased abruptly. ‘Take a couple of men,’ Steiner said to Krüger. ‘You must hold the corner; the Russians will be along in a moment.’ Then he stalked toward the lieutenant. The men followed him as if they had slivers of glass in their shoes. ‘Why did you shoot?’ Steiner asked. He stood in front of Triebig, fixing those evasive, flickering eyes. Triebig made no reply. When Steiner repeated the question, he blinked to escape the probing of the flashlight. ‘Shut up!’ he barked.

  Steiner could feel the skin of his face tautening and his eyes smarting. Grief knotted his throat like a noose; he panted for breath as he said: ‘You damned swine.’ At that moment several tommy-guns began roaring down at the corner of the corridor, where Krüger and the other men lay. The shooting boomed lik
e cannon fire in the confined space. The men came to life. They tried to get past Steiner, toward the rear, but he blocked their way. ‘Stay here!’ he shouted. As he raised his gun and aimed it at them, they pressed themselves against the wall in terror.

  ‘Stay here!’ Steiner repeated. He saw Triebig on the point of running. A leap brought him to the lieutenant’s side, and he held him fast. Triebig fought. He dropped his gun and struck out at Steiner with his fists. Taken by surprise, Steiner staggered back for a second. His flashlight hampered him. He thrust it into his pocket. In the darkness the men ran past him, although he again shouted to them to remain. Triebig flailed away at him like a madman. He was breathing so hard that in spite of the roar of gunfire Steiner could hear each gasp, and he had difficulty fending off the man’s blind swings. At last he lost patience. He raised the barrel of his gun in both hands and struck brutally, once, twice, thrice. When he pulled the flashlight out of his pocket, he saw Triebig lying on the floor. The skin had opened up from his right eye to his chin, and blood was pouring into his mouth, which he had opened to scream. Steiner gave him no time. He gripped the other’s tunic and pulled him to his feet. ‘Come on!’ he said. Disregarding the man’s outcry, he pushed him along in front of him toward the corner just as Krüger and the others retreated toward him. ‘They’re coming,’ Krüger shouted. He stopped and looked at the screaming lieutenant, from whose shattered nose blood spurted. ‘What’s the idea?’ he asked in horror. Steiner shoved him aside. ‘Get back!’ he said. Simultaneously he gave the lieutenant a violent shove forward. Krüger tried to catch his arm. With a movement almost playful in its agility Steiner ducked under his hands and thrust the barrel of the tommy-gun into his stomach with so much force that Krüger lost his balance and fell. As he straightened up, face working with pain, he saw Steiner driving the lieutenant on toward the Russians. ‘He’s mad,’ one of the men cried; he had come from the corner, and was watching the scene, too shocked to do anything. They shouted at Steiner, but he paid no attention. He kept pushing Triebig ahead of him like a ball. When the lieutenant attempted to resist, he slammed the barrel of the tommy-gun into his back. He kicked Triebig alternately in the legs, in the buttocks, in the back, repeating over and over: ‘Keep going, keep going.’ They came within ten feet of the corner. Rifle fire was still clattering into the walls, tearing down the plaster. Ricochets whistled around their ears. Then there was a crashing explosion in front of them.