by Iain Gale
The man nodded and carefully, Samwell examined the wound he had caused. He had hit the man directly between the shoulderblades and it looked as if the bullet was still in there. He could also see that it had stopped bleeding and he knew that was probably not good. There was little he could do. Samwell gave the man his haversack as a pillow and he thanked him to the point of embarrassment.
He tried to restart their conversation and asked in his best German, ‘Are you married?’ The Austrian fumbled inside his tunic pocket and produced a family photograph. Samwell studied it. His wife, his Hausfrau looked typically Austrian with plaited blonde hair, a big smile and an ample bosom. There were three children in the picture, a girl of twelve, a boy of ten dressed in the local costume of lederhosen and a girl of three, perhaps four. Samwell spoke as he handed the photograph back: ‘They’re lovely. Your wife is beautiful and your children look very well.’ He decided to keep their banter going, thinking it would divert both of them from their situation. ‘What did you do before the war?’
The man smiled and began to speak very fast in an Austrian dialect that Samwell found hard to understand as the ‘ch’s became softened and words ran together. Every so often he stopped for breath and as he did so his face contorted showing that he was in some pain. Samwell did his best to make out the words. He was a cotton worker from Linz, aged thirty-seven, he had been called up a year ago for home defence duties. Then a month ago, with no warning he had been sent out to Benghazi with some much younger Austrians. He told Samwell that it had surely been a mistake. Of course, no one would listen to him. He had only come up to the front yesterday and had been with the machine-gunners just since the afternoon. He said that he’d never fired a machine-gun before in his life.
Samwell listened, fascinated and made a mental note to get the information to HQ as soon as they got to a hospital. Elderly Austrian draftees in the front line? That really was news. The thought of hospital filled him with hope and then despair. A wave of panic swept over him that he might so easily be killed here before he was evacuated. He prayed that it would not happen and diverted his mind back to the Austrian.
‘Do you ski?’
‘Yes. Very well. Since I was a child.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘Near Salzburg, a place called Oberglau. It’s very nice, very remote.’
‘I ski in Scotland when I can. I’ve skied in the French Alps. Before all this.’ Samwell desperately sought other topics. ‘I’ve been to Linz. Once. We spent one night there on our honeymoon while we were motoring to Vienna. I thought it a little dull. Do forgive me for saying so.’
The man did not seem to understand and Samwell presumed that his German was not after all that good. He was just trying to think of another subject when he realized that the man had fallen asleep. Thank God, he thought and suddenly felt very tired himself.
His dreams were filled with horror. He was at home but being hit on the thigh by someone unseen. His hands were tied. And then he was in the desert on a route march and he had fallen out to take a piss. He tried to run to catch up with the company but his legs were as heavy as lead. He became terrified of being alone and then a huge scorpion appeared on his thigh, stabbing it with its poisoned tail. He had a raging thirst and an empty water bottle and then he was back in Stirling in the family bathroom and his wife was running a cold bath. He tried to drink but the water fell through his hands. He asked his wife for a cup but she laughed and said they were for the children. And then he woke up.
The sun was beating down and it was deathly quiet. He was covered in sweat and his mouth was so dry that he was unable to move his tongue. He reached for his water bottle and realized it was in his haversack under the Austrian’s head. The man appeared to be sleeping, but Samwell had a sudden horror that he might have died. He looked at him closely, at his pale, drawn skin. He felt his pulse. A weak beat. Suddenly the man stirred and spoke in his half-sleep: ‘Wann kommt der Arzt?’ Samwell spoke close to his ear: ‘Bald, bald,’ and he went back to sleep. Slowly Samwell eased the haversack from beneath the man’s head and replaced it with his brown army pullover. He opened the haversack and remembered that he had left his reserve bottle in his dugout. The small issue bottle was only half-full. He opened it and drank slowly, relishing the water and using some to wash out his dry mouth. He was careful to spit it back into the bottle.
The silence was strange and Samwell, curious to know the situation, raised himself to the edge of the trench and looked around. Thirty yards away in another trench he could see the tops of two helmets. They looked British and taking a chance he called out. One of the men got up and doubled over. ‘Baynes, thank God. What the devil’s going on? Where is everyone? And where’s the MO and Battalion HQ?’
‘I don’t know, sir. We’re all split up here. Been sittin’ here all night. Haven’t seen HQ. I’ll try and find the MO. Would you like some water?’
He handed Samwell his water bottle.
‘Thanks, Baynes. I left my reserve in the dugout.’
‘No worries, sir. I’ll away and fetch it once I’ve seen Major Mackay. You take care, sir.’
A few minutes later he was back. He climbed down into the trench and gave Samwell a tin of cold German coffee. ‘Here, sir, you drink this. I’ve got your bottle too. Seems that Major Mackay’s trying to get through to the CO. We’re cut off, sir, and Jerry’s got round behind us. The major’s called in an artillery shot to break up Jerry forty yards to the west. But it’s going to be damn close shooting. You’d better get your head down, sir.’
There was a sudden crack, a rifle shot, and a bullet pinged off the side of the trench. ‘Sniper. Baynes, you’d better make a run for it.’
Baynes jumped from the trench and with bullets singing around him in the sand made it back to his own hole and jumped in. He was not a second too soon, for mortar shells began to fall across the position. Damn, thought Samwell, they’ve obviously seen that we’re here. The next few minutes made it fairly plain that the enemy also believed his trench to be the HQ. Mortar bombs began to rain in. Three times he was covered in sand and then a redhot shard of metal landed on his chest. He brushed it away with his map case before it could do any damage and watched it smoking in a corner of the trench. At that moment the Austrian woke up. Disorientated, he raised his head and hauled himself up to the edge of the trench. Another mortar round came in and Samwell was momentarily dazed by the explosion. At first he thought that the entire trench had been blown in. He raised his head and saw that the bomb had created a huge crater about five yards away. Then he saw the Austrian. He was sitting in the bottom of the trench at the end closest to the crater, staring in disbelief at what remained of his left hand, a mangled, bloody stump of flesh and sinew and bone. Samwell felt his gorge rising. Quickly, he tore at his shirt and made a makeshift bandage with which he bound up the mutilated mess. The Austrian murmured a word of thanks and shut his eyes. He could hardly breathe. Samwell was overcome with a strange, almost irrational concern for this anonymous man, for he realized that he didn’t even know his name. But then he thought of all they had spoken of. Of his wife and children, skiing, a love for life and he began to realize how stupid, how simply idiotic this war, any war was. How could it be, he thought, that he should shoot me, then I should shoot him and then we should become friends and then he is maimed by his own people? Why, he wondered, were they at war anyway? What was it all for?
And then he remembered the massacres in Poland, France and Belgium, the innocent civilians mowed down by the Nazis, Hitler’s brutal regime and his lust for world domination and he shook his head. Yes, it was a necessary evil. If only war could stop all that, then war must be just.
The man moved: ‘Wann kommt der Arzt?’
‘Bald,’ said Samwell and the man replied, almost with annoyance: ‘Oh bald, bald, immer bald.’
Of course Samwell knew that they were cut off from all help. That there was no MO who was on his way. That his friend would soon be dead and that he too
might not survive. His thigh was throbbing and the pain had become much worse. He saw something sticking out of his haversack, a copy of News Review sent by his wife. He pulled it out and tried to read an article about Tommy Handley, but could not concentrate. Reaching in again he found the photograph of Klara and the children standing in front of the house. It all seemed like another world. An unreal, magical, heavenly world removed from this place of filth and death. An image came into his mind of his dream; of the bath. God, he felt thirsty. He reached for the water bottle and began to drink and just then the Austrian opened his eyes. ‘Wasser, Wasser, bitte.’
Samwell paused for a moment and pondered. Why should he give this man his precious water? He was dying anyway and that was a waste. Besides, he was an enemy, the man who’d tried to kill him. Nevertheless something made him hold the bottle to the man’s mouth and let him drink. A quarter of the bottle? That was enough. A bullet whizzed past his ear. The damn sniper had found them again and then more shells came crashing in. But this time they were fired from the British lines. Samwell put his head down and pushed the Austrian too, down into the safety of the trench. A figure came running across the sand and Samwell recognized him as the subaltern with whom he had argued over the position. He shouted to him and the boy rushed across and peered down into the trench, smiling.
‘Samwell, good heavens. How’s the leg? Lucky it wasn’t further round, eh? I’m off to bring in the carriers. They’re lost.’ And with that he rushed off. Seconds later Samwell heard a series of grenade explosions from the direction in which he had run and instantly regretted their argument.
Mortar shells continued to fall and then there was a new sound, the sharp crack of tank cannon. Samwell peered out to see a squadron of Shermans advancing directly towards his trench and those around it. From his position they looked as tall as houses. He shouted: ‘Stop! Stop!’
But of course it was pointless. A tank rumbled across the far side of his trench and as he watched he saw another push in the sides of a neighbouring foxhole in which half a dozen British and German wounded had been sheltering. It buried them completely. Samwell turned away and sank down inside his trench. This was madness. There was the noise of an engine and dragging himself back up he saw an armoured car approaching with a British officer sticking out of the turret. He shouted: ‘Over here!’ and the man turned and saw him. He leapt from the vehicle and doubled over to the trench. ‘I say. What the devil are you doing here? Who are you?’
‘Seventh Argylls. We’ve a lot of wounded. Who are you?’
‘Yeomanry. You’ve landed up in a tank battle, old chap. I should keep your head down if I were you. Tell you what, I’ll report your position and try to get you out.’ He raced back to the armoured car and within seconds was gone. Samwell wondered whether he would ever see him again, and if he would keep his promise.
He looked across at the Austrian and noticed blood seeping out of his mouth. He glanced at his watch. It was shortly before 6 p.m.
He awoke two hours later to find the trench full of people. There was Major Mackay and an MO, but not their own. Samwell held out his arm and the doctor injected him with an ampule of morphine. Samwell motioned to the Austrian: ‘You might like to give some to him.’ The doctor complied and the Austrian smiled.
It was long after dark when they came for them. The Austrian was still alive, as far as Samwell could tell. He found himself in the front of a 15cwt truck and as they drove across the bumpy ground he began to wish that he was back in the trench. After a few minutes they stopped and Samwell felt himself being lifted on to a stretcher. He was aware that he was in an ambulance now, wrapped in blankets. A young man leant over him and spoke softly and Samwell was surprised to hear an American accent: ‘OK, old chap. You’re goin’ to be OK now. You’re going home.’
TWENTY-THREE
11.00 p.m. Point 115 Ringler
Ringler watched as Corporal Fiedler gently pushed the explosive charge down the barrel of the gun while the rest of them tied Kater to the outside of the assault gun carriage to move him. He went to look at Lukas’s wound but the man was smiling. ‘It’s only a flesh wound, Lieutenant. Nothing serious.’
Ringler turned to Fiedler: ‘All right. Light the fuse. Now with me, all of you, let’s go. And don’t make a sound.’
It must have been midnight, he thought. Soon, if he wasn’t already, Tommy would know they were up to something and would come after them. He looked at his watch. It seemed to have stopped at ten o’clock. He tapped it. Nothing.
They moved off and within ten minutes were at the spot behind the dunes to which he had told his car to return to pick them up. He prayed that it would come soon. The night was split for a moment by the crack of the explosion as the charge left in the gun barrel went off. What did it matter now, he thought, if the British came? They could do nothing. He doubted whether any of the men had the stomach for a fight. He looked around him at the surviving men of the company, thirty of them. Close beside them lay the bodies of the dead they had recovered: Bauer, Hancke and poor Monier. How long ago it now seemed that the two of them had been walking back from the colonel’s party talking of his family and Ringler’s projected trip to the Rhineland. There was no point in planning such things, anything, at this time. The future meant nothing. All that any of them had was the present and to find the best way to get through the moment. The future, if there was one for any of them, would come soon enough. He began to worry about the car. Where was it? Had they been forgotten? Had it gone over a mine? He heard the noise of an engine and nudged Fiedler awake from semiconsciousness.
‘Hear that?’
Fiedler nodded. It was an engine. But whose? Were the British advancing on them? He couldn’t tell from which direction it was coming. For a moment he was sure that it was the British. But then he saw his car, driving towards them through the minefield. It stopped a few metres away and Ringler hobbled across to meet it. His driver got out and Ringler saw that he was shaking. ‘Klaus? Are you all right?’
‘Lieutenant, I can’t drive back. Not through that. Through the mines. I just can’t do it, sir.’
The man sat down on the edge of the seat and buried his head in his hands. Ringler said nothing. There was little point. He was beyond orders. It was clear that his nerves were shot to pieces. Ringler turned to Fiedler: ‘Get the men to carry the corpses and strap them to the back of the car as best you can.’ He put his hand on the driver’s shoulder. ‘All right, Klaus. Move over. I’ll take the wheel.’
Ringler climbed into the car as the last body was secured to the back, its feet protruding from underneath a piece of tarpaulin with which all three had been covered. Ringler looked down at the sand as something caught his eye. It was the shadow of Bauer’s feet in the moonlight. Fiedler was sitting beside him now and the driver stood on the running board alongside. He started up the engine and began to drive into the minefield, slowly. For no particular reason, he thought, what difference would it make if they hit a mine fast or slow? Thank God, the moon was out now. In its light he was able to see the fresh tracks in front of him created by the assault gun as it had gone on before them. Slowly, slowly he drove on. Seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes like hours. He panicked, thought that he might have lost the path, then saw the tracks and was able to breathe again. The other two men said nothing. There was a jolt from the back. Ringler stopped and looked round, afraid that one of the corpses might have fallen off. But they were all still there, six feet pointing upwards. He hit a patch of roughed-up sand and the wheels began to sink. Quickly he changed gear and managed to get a grip before driving on. As he did so he began to smell burning oil. The clutch. He prayed that it would hold out and not leave them alone in the minefield.
He was sweating hard now, trying to concentrate on keeping to the path but deflected by the thought of the dead men in the back. Something kept making him turn round to stare at the feet. He thought at one moment that he saw one move. Was he dead? Were they alive? Impossible. The desert see
med as cold as the moon. The smell of the burning oil invaded his senses and the grinding of the wheels began to jar on his brain. How long had he been driving, expecting at any moment to be blown to eternity? He had no idea. He knew that it was only eight kilometres across the minefield. How long could that take? He glimpsed something up ahead. Movement, a vehicle, men.
He turned to Fiedler. ‘What’s that?’
The sergeant peered into the night: ‘I don’t know, sir. Can’t see. Wait. I see men. Vehicles.’
The driver spoke: ‘It’s the company, sir. We’re through.’
Ringler slammed his foot hard on the brake and his hands dropped from the steering wheel. His forearms felt like lead weights, his head incredibly heavy, his senses clouded. He pulled himself out of the seat and dropped to the ground taking deep breaths, trying to speak. No words came. He tried again and again. Getting up he began to walk around the car. He tried to call to Fiedler but found he couldn’t shout. Only a feeble cawing came from his throat. He thumped at his chest, but still no sound. Giving up, Ringler looked around. There was no sign of the assault gun. Merely thirty of his men in various states of exhaustion and with a number of wounds still needing attention. He sat down on the hard, cold sand and looked around. He saw the three covered corpses in the car and Fiedler in the front seat fast asleep. There was the sound of approaching vehicles and out of the early morning light came three jeeps. They pulled up just short of the half-track and he looked on amazed as three smart, clean and rested drivers got out. Three officers. Two of them he did not know, were they replacements? But there was Werner Adler, looking as neat as he had at the colonel’s party. He went up to Ringler, smiling and clapped him on the back. ‘Well, old boy, you’ve had a bit of a time of it.’
