by Gert Ledig
Eight minutes past eight. The Russian Colonel nervously ran his ruler across the map spread out on the table.
‘Unfortunately!’ His Adjutant raised his shoulders inquiringly. He said: ‘After the third tank, the carpet across the swamp broke up. The infantry is stuck. That was the end.’ He pointed to a black-ringed number on the map: ‘Zostchenko’s battalion is in a fix!’
A draught picked up the map. The door had opened.
‘How high are the losses?’ The Colonel turned to look out of the window. A girl was standing on the street, with her hair blowing in the wind.
‘So far,’ said the Adjutant, ‘we have no information.’ He listened. The General’s voice was heard from next door.
‘Who is that person again?’ The Colonel pointed out of the window at the girl.
‘What person?’ The Adjutant purposely looked past the girl.
Reproachfully the Colonel said: ‘I mean who she goes with!’
‘That’s Zostchenko’s girl!’
The Colonel nodded: ‘All I know is, a dressing-station has called in extra help.’
‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’
The Corporal pushed the detonator into the bomb. It was quiet in their hole. He could hear the detonator grate against the metal wall of the bomb. He couldn’t make out the hand or the numbers on his watch. The luminescence of the phosphorus was all used up.
‘What are you doing?’ asked a voice in the dark. ‘We don’t want to pay with our lives for your initiative.’
‘Every one is free to do what he wants,’ replied the Corporal. ‘For instance, I am now going to blow up a Russian tank!’
The voice said: ‘There are two of them. Then the other one will blow us . . .’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ Once again, the scrape of the detonator against the metal.
‘You’re not going to!’ said the voice, trembling.
The Corporal replied coolly: ‘I’ve spent an hour thinking about it!’ Avoiding any sound, he pulled up his legs, and shoved his back slowly up against the wall. The bomb was heavy.
There was movement opposite him. A hand reached for his arm. He hit it, hard. Two hands reached for his shoulders. He pulled up his knee, and lashed out with it. A groan of pain. Bad breath stank in his face. Already, he was propelling himself towards the way out. Held the bomb in his right hand, tried to pull himself up out of the hole with his left. Only now did he realize that his joints were stiff, and he had almost no strength in them. And the daylight was dazzling him too.
‘You’re crazy! Stay here!’ shouted the desperate voice behind him.
Already his head was protruding out of the hole. And then someone grabbed his feet. An iron pincer held them. He had to free himself. Five steps in front of him loomed the clay-encrusted front of the tank. A monstrous track, screw-heads, welded seams. He fought hard. Tried to lift the bomb out of the hole, to roll it in the direction of the tank. The hands gripped him like a vice. His strength ebbed. ‘Let me go,’ he whimpered. The bomb pressed against his chest, so that he couldn’t breathe. A little lid opened in the wall of the tank. A tube, like the spout of a watering can, pointed at his head. With the last of his strength, he pulled the safety catch.
At that moment, an oily fluid dripped out of the tube of the flame-thrower. A little spark flashed up. Suddenly an inferno squirted in his face. His head burned like tinder. The bomb began to glow. A mighty explosion: there was no more Corporal. A wave of pressure hissed into the hole. Air pushed against earth walls, against concrete, little spurts of flame raced in the direction of the remaining bombs. In no time, paper, uniforms, flesh were carbonized. The ignited explosive lifted the concrete lump, launched the skeleton of the mast into the air.
The Lieutenant in the tank heard the foreign voice once more. Then his turret began to spin with him inside it. The steel hull burst asunder. He didn’t hear the voice make its last announcement: ‘Ten minutes past eight.’
Somewhere, far behind the Front, a hand threw a switch. Little lamps went out. Wires cooled. From the East, new signals went on their complicated journeys.
8
Three movements saved the lives of the Captain and the wounded man in the shelter. Not for good, but certainly for some time. The Captain didn’t have time to think about whether he was doing the right thing or not. He acted out of instinct. He picked up a stone, wrapped his dirty but still somewhat white handkerchief round it, and tossed it at the feet of the Red Army man who had suddenly materialized at the shelter entrance.
The lives of the two men at that moment depended purely on chance. A man who has covered three hundred yards of open ground through machine-gun fire and amid exploding hand-grenades, and then run through a labyrinth of unfamiliar trenches, and finished up standing in front of an enemy dugout with a grenade in his hand primed to go off in three seconds, is more in the nature of a machine. He might not see a white handkerchief wrapped around a stone. Or he might see it and think nothing of it. He might be in a sort of blood-lust. Or again, he might immediately realize what it means and still throw his grenade into the dugout, because he doesn’t know what else to do with it. It was pure chance that the Russian threw his grenade over the rim of the trench. And everything that followed from that was, likewise, pure chance. In particular the fact that the Captain now found himself sitting as a prisoner in his own dugout.
The Captain didn’t know how long it had been. His watch had disappeared along with various other items. It had to be hours. His nervousness had abated. He even felt a kind of calm. The critical point seemed to have passed. From experience he knew that prisoners are mostly shot during initial confusion. At least in his company, that was how it was. And these Russian soldiers didn’t seem that different from his own men. Just different uniforms and other face-shapes. Apart from that, they were equally filthy, equally over-strained, and equally obedient. He was unable to ascertain who was commanding them, but there was a purpose in what they were doing. They searched his dugout, distributed what bread they found, checked their weapons, made room for the wounded men that others carried in, and tended to the wounded man from his company as if he was one of their own. He was almost in awe of their discipline. They were in the middle of a battle, and still they were at pains not to show it. He almost envied the wounded man, on whom they lavished more attention than they did on himself. He lay on the pallet between two Russians, with a rolled-up coat for a pillow, and covered with a canvas groundsheet. His arm was properly bandaged. They had got hold of some chocolate from somewhere, and brought some to their comrades, and gave the German a little bit as well. Tallow candles were burning everywhere, that they had brought with them. They smelled quite strongly, but every last corner of the dugout was lit up.
And yet – he had a feeling of something not quite right. There was still shooting in the trench, even though the artillery was quiet. A machine gun was clattering away. Further to the front, hand-grenades were going off. Nor were they taking any steps to remove himself or his comrade. That unsettled him. He was already quite reconciled to his destiny. In his imagination, he could see a barrack camp, barbed wire, and, for the first time in months, peace and quiet. No explosions, no shell craters, no orders, no responsibility. Thinking about it soothed him. He might have to wait a long time to be free, but even now he decided not to let himself get impatient. He could always learn the language, and study something interesting. He remembered lectures he had given to his secondary school pupils about the diverse peoples of the East. He began to engage with peaceful subjects once more. Already, he was far removed from his immediate situation.
‘Hello,’ a low voice said next to him. He turned in alarm, and found himself looking into an unfamiliar face. It struck him that the voice had spoken in German. They must have that just like we do, there’s always someone who knows one or two words.
‘Lieutenant Trupikov.’ And the Russian bowed.
The Captain was so astonished, he instinctively stood.
‘Please don
’t trouble yourself,’ said the other with consummate politeness. He gestured towards a bench behind the rickety table made of ammunition crates. The Captain sat down in some confusion.
‘Our battalion had the honour of storming your position. Unfortunately not wholly successfully. As you must have realized yourself.’ The Russian took a tallow candle that was perched on a bayonet driven into the wall, and set it down on the table. He had strikingly fine and well-manicured hands. ‘Cigarette?’ He pulled out a cigarette case, flicked it open, and extended it across the table.
‘Thank you.’
With two fingers, the Captain plucked out a cigarette. There was a German dog tag in the case. He shrank when he saw it.
‘From one of your men,’ the Russian said. And continued smoothly. ‘I would like some information from you.’ He paused. ‘Of course, you don’t need to reply if you’d rather not.’ He smiled, and looked into the Captain’s face.
The Captain hesitated. A minute ago, he would have been ready to give any information required of him. He was a prisoner, and his first thoughts were for himself. To a Sergeant, he would have capitulated. But now? He was confused by this Lieutenant. Now, he had better fight on, with different weapons. His personal dignity was at stake.
‘I am in your hands,’ he said, with as much calm as he could muster.
‘This isn’t to be an interrogation. Just a private question really.’ The Russian fixed the decorations on the Captain’s chest. ‘Why do your men put up such desperate resistance?’
‘But surely they’re not resisting any more,’ replied the Captain. The way the Russian was looking at him irritated him.
‘They are.’ The Lieutenant smiled. ‘They’re fighting like fiends. In the fighting trench, there’s a troop of them that are surrounded but they still won’t surrender. I should like to know why!’
So that’s why there’s still shooting going on, thought the Captain. ‘Which is the sector in question?’ he asked. He wondered which it might be.
‘Hard to describe,’ said the Russian. He reached into a canvas bag on the bench next to him, and pulled out a pencil and paper. The smile about his lips disappeared. ‘If this is the position . . .’ He scrawled a line across the page, ‘. . . and this is the sap to your dugout, then it would be round about here . . .’ He indicated a point along the line.
‘Between the saps, then?’ asked the Captain.
‘Oh, there’s another sap then!’ The Russian drew a third line.
‘And there’s a connecting piece there,’ said the Captain, ‘and a deep dugout.’
‘Hm.’ The Russian looked up quickly. ‘So that’s where there’s a troop from your company, refusing to give up.’
‘Is their position hopeless?’ The Captain stared abstractedly at the sketch.
‘Yes. We’re already established west of the hill. I’m pretty certain your men must realize that. But they’re continuing to fight. I find it baffling.’ Trupikov thought of the two tanks that only fifteen minutes ago had been blown up, along with the lump of concrete, and the bones of the pylon. He knew that the heights were once again no man’s land. Before long, a German machine gun would open up there.
‘My company consists of simple folk. Any leadership will avail itself of . . . propaganda methods. Do you understand? It’s not easy for the men.’ The Captain avoided looking at his captor. He stared instead into the candle flame.
‘You mean – they’re afraid of being taken prisoner?’
‘Yes. It’s possible they take an unduly pessimistic view of their prospects.’
‘I understand.’ The Lieutenant smiled. ‘Among us, they say the Germans eat a lot of sauerkraut. When I went to Germany, I was curious. But I can set your mind at rest. You don’t eat any more sauerkraut than we do.’
‘You know Germany?’ asked the Captain in surprise.
‘I play the violin. I studied there.’
‘Ah – so that’s why!’ And the Captain glanced at the well cared-for hands of the Russian.
‘Will you excuse me a moment.’ As Trupikov got to his feet, he asked: ‘You don’t know any Russian, do you?’
‘No.’
The Lieutenant went outside, and issued some orders in Russian. The Captain noted to his chagrin that he had taken the sketch of the German position with him. He felt abandoned and forsaken. More unsettling than the inadequate connection with God was the sudden absence of a superior authority.
‘I always felt very much at home in Germany,’ said the Lieutenant, as though seeking to re-establish the cosy atmosphere by the mere fact of his return. But his face looked curiously tense: ‘This will interest you. It seems a single man came out of the swamp, ran straight through my lines, and joined the little group of men surrounded in the trench.’
‘Must have lost his way.’ The Captain shook his head.
‘He came from the rear – or from the front,’ the Russian went on. ‘Whichever way you want to put it. He vanished before my men could . . .’ He corrected himself: ‘Before my men could do anything to prevent him.’
‘Soldiers are apt to get a little disorientated,’ said the Captain. He thought: Here we are, two colleagues, teaching the same subject.
‘True,’ said the Lieutenant, ‘but what shall I do if your soldiers refuse to surrender? I feel the prickings of conscience. That’s what you say, isn’t it?’
‘Why?’ The Captain thought about military academy: a cool exchange of ideas in front of the sandbox.
‘We can’t allow ourselves to be held up by them for ever,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘If they don’t come to their senses . . .’
‘Then what will you do?’ A Captain testing the resolve of his Lieutenants in front of the sandbox.
Trupikov swiftly countered: ‘I hoped you would have a suggestion for me.’
‘Me?’ The Captain felt imprisoned all over again.
‘You could explain the situation to your soldiers. After all, lives are at stake.’ Trupikov looked the Captain solemnly in the eye.
The Captain lowered his eye and looked off into the tiny flame of the candle. ‘How – how would you view that?’
‘I give you my word as an officer – if I was in your position, that’s what I would do.’
‘And what’s your plan?’
‘Very simple. We move you within shouting distance of your soldiers. You call on them to surrender and tell them I guarantee they will have honourable treatment.’
‘I am an officer,’ said the Captain. ‘But – I’ll do it.’ He stood up.
‘In case you misunderstand,’ said the Lieutenant politely, and drew his pistol. They went outside.
The Captain was dazzled by the daylight. It was early morning. The trench looked devastated. They trod on corpses. The Captain saw what the artillery bombardment had done to his position. An earthquake had passed over the trenches, and only the deep dugout had survived it.
‘Bend down,’ ordered the Lieutenant.
He bent down. A bullet puffed up earth from the edge of the parapet. He was surrounded by Red Army men, all staring at him. When the trench straightened, he caught a view of the hill: a great bald place, shimmering in the sun. There were little clouds of smoke hanging over the earth. Perhaps some of his own trench mortars, trying to cut off the Russian breakthrough. They curved forward. The Red Army soldiers were carrying back a wounded comrade. They were sweating, and smelled of musk. The way up to the fighting trench had never seemed so long to the Captain. The pistol which Trupikov kept pointed at his back protected him from the aggression of the others. They reached the remains of the tank. The jagged hole punched in its side was like the mouth of a shark grinning at him. And here, there had been a direct hit. The trench widened out to a roundabout. In the middle lay a German soldier, slumped forward, his hands over his head. The Captain bent down over him. He saw the ragged scorched hole in his neck where he’d been shot.
The Lieutenant angrily ordered him: ‘Keep moving!’
They reached the f
iring-trench. Shredded bodies in German uniforms. Dried puddles of blood. A disfigured face, without any body. The ravaged machine-gun emplacement. The machine gun was gone. More Red Army guards. They reached the furthest point where they had protection from German fire. Beside them was a Russian machine gun, loosing off sudden bursts along the trench. Behind a low earthwork, squeezed together, four Russians staring ahead.
‘Here!’ said Trupikov, and threw himself on the ground. ‘Here we’re in hand-grenade range!’
The alarmed Captain sank down beside him.
‘Go on. Begin,’ said Trupikov. He spat. A bullet fizzed over his head.
‘Hello, comrades!’ shouted the Captain.
‘Louder,’ said Trupikov.
The Captain cupped his hands round his mouth: ‘Comrades!!’
A stalk with a dark head came whirling through the air, and splashed into a puddle in front of them. The next instant came the bark of an explosion.
‘Your men are suspicious of you,’ said Trupikov.
The Captain called out: ‘This is your company commander speaking to you! Can you hear me?’ A hail of machine-gun bullets kicked earth in his face. ‘Please, be sensible!’ He shouted out excitably: ‘It’s me, Captain Waldmüller!’
Finally there was quiet. A hate-filled voice called out: ‘It’s all a trick, Comrade Ivan! We know you!’ The Captain tried to identify the angry voice. It didn’t sound familiar to him. ‘Is that you, Lutz?’ he asked.
‘He’s dead! I expect you found his paybook!’
‘No, it’s me! Waldmüller!’ He shouted in despair: ‘Please believe me!’
There was silence for thirty seconds. They seemed to be consulting.
Then a voice called out: ‘What’s our CO called?!’
‘Major Schnitzer!’
‘And the Runner?!’
It was still the same voice which he couldn’t identify. ‘Braun!’ he called.
‘And what do you want from us?’
‘I’m a captive. I’ve been put in the picture.’ The Captain lifted his head. ‘Your resistance is futile. If you don’t surrender . . .’ He looked in Lieutenant Trupikov’s direction. Trupikov nodded. ‘You’ve nothing to be afraid of. You’ll be well treated!’
