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Global Conflict

Page 16

by Tom Zola


  Nurse Sieglinde, a brunette, cheerful, full-bodied woman of less than 25 years, pushed Sergeant Berning in his wheelchair into the small parlor that was to serve him as lodging for the next few weeks. The metallic clanging of the work done outside on the construction sites quietly penetrated the room. Berning had the feeling that this sanatorium had been opened too hastily.

  The parlor was furnished according to the latest standards. The bed looked very inviting, with two bulging cushions and a blanket in bright white. There was also a dresser and a desk with a table lamp. Through a small window, the sun shone brightly into the room. Next to the bed was a small cupboard, and on the opposite side was a locker for Berning's uniform, which he had been wearing since he was dismissed from the field hospital. The wounded badge in black decorated his left breast pocket since he had not registered the one wound he got in the battle of Kursk.

  Sieglinde gently pushed the wounded sergeant next to the bed and then lifted his knapsack and pannier onto the desk. Berning's arm and shoulder were still wrapped in plaster. When he arrived at the sanatorium, he had already seen other comrades wearing a Stuka.

  Sieglinde smiled softly and said, "Once again, welcome to the Adolf Hitler Sanatorium at the Villa Romana del Casale in Sicily." She said this as if she had memorized the very sentence. "For meals, please come to the dining tent over by the villa complex. The path is signposted. Please excuse the fact that there are still some things taking place in tents. Not all the buildings have been completed yet." Sieglinde beamed cheerfully. "In good weather like today, by the way, we dine outside in the large portico of the villa. The meal times are in the morning from 7 to 10 o'clock, at noon from 11:30 o'clock to 13:30 o'clock and in the evening from 17 o'clock to 19 o'clock. If you need help – no matter what ..." Sieglinde leaned forward and looked at him mischievously. He noticed that her breasts were tight under her dress, "... then just ring." She pointed to an electric switch that could be reached from the bed and meanwhile took the opportunity to move one step closer to Berning. Her knee touched his calf. Sieglinde smelled like violets.

  "The switch is directly connected to the nurses’ station on this floor. Most of the time I'm here. So, just ring when the shoe pinches, all right?" She straightened up and smiled at him as her hands stroked a crease out of her skirt. "Please remember that the head of our sanatorium, Dr. Medical Brigadier General Link, will be briefing all new arrivals in the ground floor classroom tomorrow morning. It is scheduled at 09:30. Everything else, such as use of the library or other leisure facilities as well as your individual therapy plan, you will receive tomorrow after the briefing. Otherwise, I wish you a pleasant stay with us. By the way, if you want something cool to drink, you'll find water at four degrees in your refrigerator." Sieglinde pointed with her filigree fingers to the small cupboard next to the dresser.

  Berning raised an eyebrow. "A refrigerator?" he asked puzzledly.

  "Yeah, right. " Once again a broad smile conjured itself into her soft face. She seemed proud to be able to offer patients such a luxury.

  "A safety note on the refrigerator, though," she added meekly. "Should you ever notice that there is an unpleasant smell in your room or that liquid is leaking out of the cupboard, please leave the room immediately and inform the staff. Now I don't want to get on your nerves, Herr Unteroffizier." She had pronounced his rank very softly and sweetly. Respect and esteem resonated in her voice. Berning didn't know how to handle it.

  "By the way, in the locker you'll find something comfortable to wear for yourself. Fold your uniform and simply hand it over to me, then you will receive everything freshly washed and patched back tomorrow. Now I give it a bone with the teachings. I'll let you arrive first," she laughed embarrassedly and looked at him, but she received no reaction from Berning.

  "I'm Sieglinde, by the way."

  "Mhm."

  For a moment, she silently examined him with her big beady eyes. A brown strand fell in her face. She seemed to be waiting for another reaction from Berning, but it didn't come. Sieglinde finally smiled again – a little pinched this time – then opened the window and disappeared from the room. The noise of the construction works now reached Berning's ear unattenuated. Italian and German voices blended in each other.

  Berning sighed.

  Slowly, he got up from his wheelchair and hobbled to the window with a pain-distorted face.

  Outside, the excavation site with its ruins of the old thermal bath ruled the view. Only flat, demolished stone walls and the hints of stone stoves were left of the former bathing complex.

  Behind it was the actual Villa Romana del Casale, in the glimmering light of the burning midday sun, and in places excellently preserved site from ancient Rome. Sandstone walls rose there. Some buildings even had a stone roof. The smell of dust and diesel was in the air. Berning wondered how to recover with all the racket from the ongoing construction works. Once again he sighed deeply and leaned against the windowsill with a downcast look.

  What am I supposed to do here in Sicily? crossed his mind. What am I supposed to do anywhere other than at home in Burgenland? All I want is to go home!

  South of Tula, Soviet Union, June 22nd, 1943

  From the Wehrmacht's point of view, the offensive progressed extremely satisfactory.

  Already in the first days of the attack, German units broke through the Russian defensive fire in all sites of attack. In some places, the enemy had not offered resistance at all. The Luftwaffe had also landed an absolute stroke of luck when Stuka dive bombers accidentally wiped out General Reyter and his entire staff during an air raid on the second day of the offensive. Reyter was the commander-in-chief of the Bryansk Front. The severely-battered Soviet armies in the area, which had had a tough time trying to breach into German lines just a few weeks ago, had nothing left to oppose the Wehrmacht's attack. The 27th Soviet Army had practically ceased to exist. The leftovers of the Russian 3rd Army showed signs of disintegration and fled every which way. Some had absconded behind the River Don, while 122 Red Army soldiers had been shot as a measure of preserving discipline on behalf of the army command just outside of Tula. As a result of all of these events, the Bryansk Front was close to collapse.

  Kampfgruppe Hoth had breached deep into the enemy front, and the Russians could not stuff the breach with forces from the north either, because there they were overrun by Hausser's panzers at the same time – and the latter also had the Panzer Corps Grossdeutschland in reserve. From the south, a relief attack by Soviet forces was likewise impossible. There the 6th German Army pressed against the Russian entrenchments at the River Don to bind the enemy. The decisive battle of Tula was imminent. Hoth's combat formation had advanced up to the southern foothills off the city. Hausser's troops had reached the River Oka. German pioneers were currently working on transitions across the water, after the Russians had blown up all bridges during their retreat. Tula itself was stuck between the gripping jaws of this German pincer movement.

  Madness, Engelmann pondered, who had moved away from the rest of the company for a moment of silence and privacy. Von Manstein, that daredevil, has truly tracked down a gap in the enemy front line and is now pushing into it by every trick in the book.

  It was night. The crickets chirped their happy songs. In the distance, a soldier sneezed.

  A sense of deep satisfaction overcame Engelmann. Within weeks, Ivan had bled to death at the central Eastern Front. And now the Wehrmacht had come dangerously close to Moscow again. Engelmann suddenly had the feeling that this war could have a good ending after all – a good end for the Reich, for his family, for him. There was a spirit of optimism in him again. He therefore decided to write a letter to Elly at the next opportunity. How he wanted to share his mood with her! But he also knew about the volatility of his inner feelings. A local defeat, an unsuccessful attack, or other baleful news, and Engelmann would immediately believe again that the war was already lost. On the other hand, he could not switch off his emotions and was therefore again and again
alternatingly animated by anxiety and confidence.

  The lieutenant was among some tall beeches on the edge of the company's area of responsibility. The panzers were congregated under tree canopies and the men tried to get a snatch of sleep. Tomorrow morning, the regiment would continue its attack. They just could not allow the attack momentum to dry up. Engelmann felt the crushing tiredness that weighed on his head like a concrete block.

  He sighed, then urinated. His urine stank and was a dark yellow – he did not drink enough, but when was a soldier supposed to drink during action? Also the Wehrmacht struggled to provide its front troops with enough water. But Engelmann had not only secluded himself from the others to pee; he also wanted to address a short word to the Lord. As long as enemy bombers flew into the Reich, he felt more comfortable in all his powerlessness when he at least asked for protection for his family. In his mind, he set forth his intercessions when suddenly a branch cracked behind him. Engelmann swung around, scared. Captain Stollwerk revealed himself, the tall officer standing in a shadowy position in the darkness. A glowing cigarette hung in the corner of his mouth, while somewhere far away Münster's voice asked a comrade how much more he would earn as a staff sergeant.

  "Well, Josef?" Stollwerk said in a low voice. "Will you have a quick talk with your god before you hit the hay?"

  Engelmann nodded. He felt the mockery in Stollwerk's voice, and he did not give himself false hopes of what his fellow officer might think of believers like him – even though the two officers got along splendidly in all other respects.

  "I ask for protection for my family," Engelmann explained in a thin voice. Stollwerk stepped into the glinting moonlight and offered the lieutenant a cigarette. He refused without a word. Both stared into the darkness for a moment, while muffled gunfire filled the background noise for a short moment.

  "What do you believe in, Arno?" Engelmann resumed the dialogue after minutes of silence.

  "I believe in the superiority of our people. I believe in the final victory."

  Engelmann nodded mutely and looked down.

  "And I believe that the weakness revealed by our current government will be fatal one day," Stollwerk continued.

  "What weakness?"

  "Did you know that von Witzleben has held secret peace negotiations with the enemy by this Preussen boy?" Stollwerk said. His eyes seemed sharp and polished, like a predator ready to strike down its prey.

  "No."

  "That means our own Chancellor no longer believes in final victory. What a message to the men!" The captain scornfully threw his cigarette to the ground and stepped on out.

  "Or he just wants to end the suffering."

  "Pah! Josef! Did you know that von Witzleben allowed Jews to do military service again?"

  "What difference does it make? What's the big deal?"

  "What's the big deal, you ask? You want those sneaky, fake people to fight for us? I can only hope for your sake that you never get one of these Jewish rats by your side when things get dicey. Before you know it, the Jew has rammed his knife into your back and then defects."

  Engelmann grunted. He didn't know what to say about it.

  "The Jew is like a tumor in the German racial corpus," he was told by Stollwerk, "as long as we do not remove it, it will impair the development possibilities of our race. Such supposedly humanistic decisions could ultimately cost us the final victory! I fear von Witzleben inevitably drives our beloved Germany into ruin."

  "That's some gross nonsense, Arno."

  But Stollwerk gave Engelmann a look that gave the lieutenant clarity about his attitude.

  "Are you satisfied with the government of von Witzleben?" Stollwerk asked.

  Engelmann thought for a moment. Was he satisfied? Prisoners of war, Jews, purges ... some things were no longer as they used to be. But what could he know about it, he was just a tiny man in a gigantic system. Engelmann had to think of gruesome rumors that he otherwise preferred to put to one side; he had to think of gruesome tales about things the SS may have done in those camps. He could hardly have imagined it. Yes, the Wehrmacht waged a war here in the East – had already waged it before von Witzleben's Chancellorship. Engelmann had also witnessed cruelties since 1940, carried out by German soldiers. But even if such acts violated martial law, were they really war crimes? Or is it just an expression of the spiral of violence that continues forever, turning ordinary men into murderous animals? Just because wise men had set up laws of humanity thousands of miles away from the battlefield did not mean that such laws could last in a fight for life and death. Certainly, Engelmann in his area of authority would prevent any unsoldierly and dishonorable action, but many things happened in the heat of the moment.

  "I can't complain," he finally replied. Dozens of trains of thought were spinning in his head.

  Stollwerk just nodded and looked down. The following minutes were marked by the silence of both men and the quiet rumbling of guns and artillery in the distance. Lastly Stollwerk tapped his forehead, wished him a good night, and took his leave. He disappeared into the darkness he came from just minutes ago. Engelmann reflected for a moment about what his comrade had tried to achieve with this conversation, but then he shrugged his shoulders and made his way back to his crew.

  Southwest of Piazza Armerina, Italy, June 24th, 1943

  Berning sat on a provisional wooden stand by the provisionally furnished sports field, after having had a meal provisionally cobbled together in the provisional mess hall's kitchen. He leaned on a crutch, wearing the comfortable, light-blue sportswear of the sanatorium. Admittedly, this so-called refrigerator had impressed him at first, but since then his mood had gone steeply downhill. Everything in this place was of a provisional nature. The whole sanatorium was one vast makeshift building. The construction machines were rattling all the time, and the builders worked late into the night at the sports facility, the sauna area, the swimming bath, and the future mess hall. In the evening, Berning lay in his bed and couldn't sleep, because the din from the construction sites and his thoughts kept him from it. When he fell asleep at last, he dreamt again and again of that one dolorous crime he had committed against his comrade – his friend – Rudi. He would carry that guilt around with him for the rest of his life.

  And during the day? During the day he was bored to death and threatened to die in the stuffy and dusty heat of Sicily. What was expected of him? That he ran a big lap around Piazza Armerina with the running group? That he listened day in, day out to the archaeologist's boring lectures on the villa? That he should play football with his wounds like all halfway-healthy patients did? Or maybe he should read? Twelve hours a day? Berning already got scabies when he thought about grabbing a book. He hated those things.

  He just wanted to go home. There was nothing for him here in Sicily. No family, no Gretel. Here there was only the eternal heat, the boredom, the superfluous movement therapy seminars and the "Avantis," who annoyed Berning with their much too-fast macaroni language. Italian workers were roaming the entire site – and just at that moment, a handful of Germans were playing football against an equal number of Italians on the provisional sports field before his eyes, where stakes rammed into the ground served as provisional goals. The Italian army was also entitled to some places in this sanatorium.

  Berning turned a letter between his fingers he had received this morning. It was from his mother. Berning rarely received mail, but from time to time Gretel wrote. His mother's letter only reinforced the homesickness in his heart. She had written him exuberantly how proud she was of him, and that she would like to see him again.

  Somehow it was funny – otherwise she never wrote; and if she did, she bestowed him just a few lines in which she expounded the gossip from his home village. But this very letter he just had received literally dripped with declarations of love. His mother's lines had an undertone begging him to make himself strong once again for home leave. She seemed to miss her son – her boys, as she always said – very much indeed. All the mother'
s pain, caused by sons who had been snatched from home by the war, became clear in her letter. His mother's lines made Berning's lips tremble.

  How dare the Wehrmacht, how dare Pappendorf and Krüger to make a lovable, friendly woman so unhappy? How did all the old men in the governments presumed they would have the right to take away the children of this time? Grief and rage were increasingly blending in Berning's chest.

  Meanwhile, he watched the hustle and bustle on the sports field with a tired gaze. The sweating men shouted at each other when they wanted to have the ball, or shot clumsily in the direction of the opposing goal. Some were limping; most were clearly not at the peak of their performance curve. Somewhat offside, at the other end of the stand, German soldiers squatted together. One played quite mediocre on his harmonica the song "Lili Marleen" while the others, puffing cigarettes and pipes, exchanged rumors.

 

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