by Tom Zola
The wounded were grouped together and moved the moment they were ready for relocation to make room for all the freshly wounded the fierce battle for Sicily produced on a daily basis.
Berning was to be transported next week to finally arrive in his recovery company, but who knew if this would happen, now that the Axis powers had officially given up Sicily and started their retreat. The invasion of the Italian mainland was only a matter of time, which was why the German and Italian medical service units did not know what to do next. Where would the Allies land? Where should they take all those wounded? How quickly could a transfer happen?
The whole Polistena region was in chaos these days, and Berning's only consolation was that his wounds healed superbly. Still, he had to stay hundreds of kilometers from home in a tent crowded with moaning, stinking, and dying people. He prayed he wouldn't catch any infection here. He now had no chance of recovery leave, because his time in the AH Sanatorium was considered as such.
Here in Polistena, however, Berning had learned something interesting about Lieutenant Donner, namely that the old SS officer had not experienced a single battle in his soldier days, and his lung injury was caused by a car accident during a furlough. Two comrades apparently knew the guy from before, and small as the world was, they now lay in the same tent as Berning with burns and splinter wounds. The two vented their spleens quite a lot about the lieutenant. Donner didn't seem to have enjoyed a good reputation in his old SS unit anyway.
Velikiye Luki, Soviet Union, August 21st, 1943
Now Berning had passed his homeland twice, on the way to Italy and then, at the beginning of August, on his way to the heart of the German Reich, where his assigned recovery company was stationed. From there, less than two weeks later, he had already been set on march towards Russia again.
He had not been able to make a stop at home. Now it was already one year ago that he had been in Podersdorf am See for the last time; that he had seen Lake Neusiedl. It had been a year since he last had been with Gretel ... sometimes Berning also had to think of Sieglinde. He hadn't seen her since Messina. He still wondered how strange this girl had behaved.
Now then, Army Group North, he pondered while he climbed down the stairs at the train car and touched the platform of the station with his boots. In fact, he liked the Eastern Front better than Italy at the moment. In the east at least everything stood still, while in the so-called Italian boot, the Axis defenders now banked on an Allied invasion of the mainland every day.
Even at the Velikiye Luki sector, everything was quiet. At the beginning of the year, 8,000 encircled members of the Wehrmacht had threatened to perish in the city, but the then-Commander of the Army Group, Field Marshal Rommel, had reacted wisely and rescued the encircled men with a mixture of escape attempt and relief attack from outside the pocket. In February, he also had managed to push the Russians back behind the city. Since then, the front line had stood still in this sector.
Together with Berning, hundreds of comrades had arrived in Velikiye Luki. Returners from vacation or sick bay, and even two complete companies of the Field Replacement Troop colored the platforms field grey. Men from the gendarmerie, thanks to the metal signs hanging on chains around their necks, also known as watch dogs, roamed the station grounds, demanding pay books, marching orders, and holiday tickets. There were enough soldiers who tried to get away illegally, and even some who decorated their breasts with medals without justification. The few civilians dressed in simple clothes remained reserved and squeezed around the German soldiers.
Many of the soldiers had arrived directly with carabiners – they were no longer taken from them as it had been done at the beginning of the war, so that they were directly able to defend themselves in case of a partisan attack on a train ride. Berning, however, was unarmed; his company had to get a weapon for him. But first he had to find his unit. A dull feeling in his stomach accompanied him as he visited the station commandant's office to ask for his company. Deep down inside, he blatantly wished that Pappendorf had fallen or at least been posted in the meantime. He really did not know how long he would endure his harassments – just now, after months without the sergeant ... pardon, master sergeant ... he carried the terrible fear in himself that he could no longer bear this man's loathing and rage at all. With anger, with fear, with hatred in his belly, he continued the search for his company.
*
Berning pushed open the door to a narrow farmhouse located in the east of the city – about three kilometers behind the main battle line. He met Master Sergeant Pappendorf in his dressed-up uniform as if he was about to go to a military parade in a small room. Hege was also present. Pappendorf fished documents out of a wooden box, browsed them briefly, and then placed them on a pile that was carried by the machine gunner who had been promoted to lance corporal lately. As Hege saw Berning, he showed his brown teeth, which looked like being covered with a thick layer of oil.
Then Pappendorf also turned to the newcomer. The master sergeant looked at Berning with the expression that almost always adorned his face: he pinched his lips into a slender line, his eyes narrowed into tiny slits.
Berning immediately felt the urge to go for his platoon commander's jugular. He gritted his teeth against each other and sensed the deep hatred that had grown inside him for some time now. It was Pappendorf's fault that he had to be bored beyond belief in Sicily instead of visiting his home, his family, and Gretel. Because of Pappendorf, Berning had been directly involved in the battle for the island, in which he almost had gone west. Pappendorf was about to destroy Berning's whole life. The sergeant boiled inside.
But he didn't let his thoughts show. Instead, he went into a position of attention and reported back to the master sergeant in accordance with the regulations.
"Well," said Pappendorf and grinned gloatingly, "the vacationer has finally returned."
Bern, Switzerland, September 8th, 1943
Taylor stood at the window of his small apartment in Bern and stared out into the blue sky. The sun shone brightly and made the facades and roofs of Bern's city center gleam. Fine powder clouds were moving over the firmament, which stretched like a floating sea over the city. Laughter from young people reached Thomas' ear. Children were playing in the streets. Entangled couples enjoyed the afternoon sun, spending their money on ice cream and cool drinks. In the distance, the tram was tinkling.
But Thomas wasn't looking for exuberance today. With a stare, he lost himself in the distance. He didn't take any part in what was going on out there. Thoughts – bad thoughts – drove him around. He feared for the Reich. He wasn't sure if the war was still to be won. Inwardly he begged for a little fortune of war for his nation in these difficult times.
The Allies had already been unable to be repelled from Sicily, and now they had landed on the Italian mainland. It was heard that they had already established several beachheads there. Salerno, Taranto, Bari – all in enemy hands. Once again the Wehrmacht and the Italian troops had failed to reject the British and US landing forces at the beaches, to throw them back into the sea. But that would have been the only way to overcome the incredible material and personnel superiority of the Western powers – after all, the concentrated economies of the United States, England, and the Commonwealth stood against those of Germany and its mostly small allies. That was like half the world against more or less two and a half nations. The economic performance, the mere population numbers, and the military equipment of half the world against the Axis powers. As long as it could be managed to defend the beaches and kept the coasts free of enemies, victory was accomplishable. But not in the hinterland – not far from the coast, where man would stand against man and tank against tank. And the enemy simply had more men and more tanks.
Slowly Thomas shook his head. One would now have to withdraw formations from the East in order to strengthen the Italian theater. Then Ivan would soon breakthrough in some sector of the Eastern Front, and Axis divisions would be dragged back from west to east to plug the ho
les in the front line there. The Allies would finally find the next weak point and for example invade Norway or Greece. Again, formations would have to be withdrawn from the East to help out at these theaters of war. A vicious circle. Thomas believed in the qualitative superiority of the German military, but in this war, which became more and more a conflict of the whole damn world against the German Reich, every quality aspect was threatened to be washed away by the sheer mass of the enemy.
Thomas sensed a dull feeling in his stomach. He was desperately searching in his mind for a way how his country could benefit the most from his capabilities. In any case, he was no longer sure whether the best place for him was here in Switzerland. However, he did not want to leave either – not leaving her. That was another difficult conflict he had with himself.
Behind him the lock of the door clicked, and the door was pushed open the next moment. Luise stormed into the room, beaming with joy. "750 kilometers!" she moaned and fell round Thomas' neck. "750 kilometers!" She almost cried. Thomas grabbed her shoulders. Finally, Luise calmed down. Her gaze caught him. A blonde strand fell into her face, which Thomas carefully stroked behind her ear. Luise smiled broadly. Her big eyes, blue and wide as the ocean, focused on him. Her full lips, brimming with red lipstick, seemed to whisper an invitation. Luise made Thomas smile himself, although he didn't feel like it at all. A pleasant tingling sensation penetrated his stomach, and he couldn't take his eyes off her.
"750 kilometers," she whispered once more.
"What do you mean?"
"I measured it on the map. Only 750 kilometers lie between the Allied troops in Italy and the Swiss border. We can breathe a sigh of relief soon, Aaron. OUR people can breathe a sigh of relief!" Slowly she leaned forward. Thomas stared at her, unable to move. She bent further forward, the curves of her blouse bumping against Thomas' arms.
"I want you, Aaron," she whispered in his ear. "Now!"
Then she let go of him and bit her lower lip boldly. Slowly, she stepped backwards and sat down on the bed. Her big eyes did not leave Thomas. He was still standing there rooted to the ground, just staring at her. Luise spread her legs and grinned. At that moment, Thomas was struck by two thoughts: First of all, I must undress immediately. Second: Balkan, my ass!
Podersdorf am See, German Reich, September 16th, 1943
The old wooden door opened and Sergeant Franz Berning entered his family home in his uniform and with his rifle in his hands. He looked into the visage of his incredibly old father. Berning got scared. His old man reminded him of a mummy: the face had collapsed and was torn apart by endless wrinkles. The hair was long and grey and tousled. Age marks covered the thin old hands. Scratched, dry skin adorned the face. The over-indebted postal office clerk Gustav Berning looked like 70, but he was not yet 60.
Franz Berning had made it home after all, but he would have gladly renounced the reason for his short leave.
"Grüss Gott, my boy," a weak voice trembled from the deep, sad mouth of the father to the outside. The Burgenland dialect was unmistakable.
Franz's eyes became glassy. He could hardly bear the sight of his father.
Only last year, when they had last seen each other, he had been such a proud and strong man. That was before Mother became ill ... "I'm so sorry ..." Franz whispered and stepped into the narrow hallway. He put the rifle on the ground, then tore his field cap off his head. "I am so sorry, Father," he whispered once more and fell into his old man's arms. He was too late – one day too late. Mother's funeral was yesterday.
"It's all right, boy," breathed the father and stroked his son's pigtail. "You can't help it."
Then they both cried.
Franz could have really done it. He had received the news in time and had been granted special leave immediately. But then partisan attacks against rails delayed his journey by two days.
Franz cried loudly and intensely, the father rather quietly. He had already shed many tears, while Franz had always remained strong until now – after all, he had always been surrounded by other soldiers before whom he did not want to expose his feelings. But now he couldn't hold it back. Big tears rolled down his cheeks. He hadn't been able to say goodbye. That was the hardest thing for him to bear. The last time he left home in the direction of the Eastern Front, that was in summer '42, he hadn't known that he would never see his mother again. Of course, she had cried when they had said goodbye to each other, just as most mothers cry when their children go to war. But at that time nobody knew what was growing in her body – spreading inevitably. His parents had kept her bad condition secret until the very end. Franz had only learned about it from the news of her death. Now he looked at her last letter in a different light. Reading it again nearly destroyed him.
Both father and son were still in each other's arms for a few minutes before slowly separating from each other. The father, whose face was swollen and red, looked at his uniformed son from head to toe. "You look fine," he remarked, then invited Franz into the parlor.
*
They sat at the small dining table and drank tea, which his father had put on. While outside there was a strong breeze blowing against the windows and late summer was overwhelmingly suppressed by uncomfortable temperatures, in the small kitchen, the slightly pungent smell of black tea unfolded. Franz shared some miniscule stories from the front without going into any detail or really talking about the fighting against men, about him trying to kill them before they could kill him. But he didn't have to hide anything either. Gustav Berning had fought against the Italians in the Great War and knew what war was like. The father, on the other hand, gossiped a little about news from the village. So Franz learned that his two cousins were well. One served in Greece, the other in Norway – lucky bastards! Franz had no siblings and the family was quite small, so the father would be all alone as soon as Franz left again.
"When do you have to go again?" the old man asked at the same time.
"On Sunday."
Father nodded.
"Then don't sit here with me, boy," he suddenly said. A little life actually returned to his old face; it was flashing in his eyes. Franz looked up questioningly.
"Off to Gretel you go! She's waiting for you, you know."
"Honestly, she doesn't even know I'm here." Berning got an odd feeling he could not describe. "I am gonna stay only a few days. Farewell on Sunday would break her heart."
A touch of anger, or at least a lack of understanding, rose into his father's visage as he rose threateningly. Franz didn't even understand why.
"Boy, don't be stupid!" the old man insisted. "You should live every minute you can!"
"What do you mean?"
"There's a pretty girl waiting for you, Franz! Honestly, boy, on Sunday you're going back to the front. And we both know the war! Maybe you won't come back. You have to be so honest with yourself. So get what you can get."
Franz stared at his father with his mouth open. They had never talked so "openly" about women's stories before.
"Your mother told me to tell you something else," Gustav Berning continued.
"Yes?"
"I shall ..." now the father looked a little embarrassed to the floor, hemming and hawing, " ... have the man talk with you."
Franz had a sense of foreboding. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable and leaned back in his chair insecurely. Father, however, did not say another word, but reached into the drawer of a commode, took out two paper sachets, and threw them onto the table. "Only intended for the German Wehrmacht. To be disposed immediately after use," was written on it. Franz didn't know what to make of it. Of course he knew the contents of these sachets and of course they had already been distributed in his unit, not to mention that he himself had used some of them in summer ‘42. The question, however, was where Father had gotten Wehrmacht material from. Gustav, though, immediately continued talking, for this conversation seemed as unpleasant to him as it was to his son. Franz would like to be somewhere else right now.
"Well, the man talk," the
old man cleared his throat and sat down. "Boy, listen, do whatever you think is right, I don't give a damn. But use these," he pointed to the sachets, "or marry her. If you ever father an illegitimate child, then I swear to you by the Lord, I'll get the belt out again and beat you black and blue! I'm not too old to give you a beating yet."
Both stared at each other. Franz waited for a sign of relaxation from his father, but he seemed to mean every word he had said. After minutes of silence, Father leaned back in his chair, grabbed his cup, and drank a sip of black tea.
"Now put those things in your pocket, Franz," Father finally ordered and pointed to the condoms. Franz immediately did as he was told. For a few more seconds, they both remained silent.
"Go, boy," the father finally told his son, "for Sunday will come quicker than you like."
Franz nodded and rose.
"I'll just go change."
"No, you don't. Believe me, boy. Stay in uniform. It's better." Father grinned, then Franz nodded, turned around, and left the room. "Don't worry! You'll definitely see me again before I leave," he called back. The old man's face was flooded with grief and joy at the same time.
*
That same night, Franz and Gretel climbed the hayloft of her parents' barn, where it was bitterly cold. Only Berning's flashlight cut through the darkness with a garish glow – he didn't want to light candles in a wooden hayloft covered with straw. The low hanging roof creaked and groaned under the wind, which whistled at the barn. There were strong gusts outside. A shutter kept clapping against the house wall somewhere.
Franz and Gretel lay close together in the straw, wrapped in thick horse blankets. They stroked each other and drank Sturm, which at this time of the year was almost overripe. It tasted unbelievably sweet. All the same, the alcohol took full effect. In the glow of the lamp, Gretel looked very attractive. Light and shadow played in her soft face and with her little nose. Her blonde hair shimmered.