by Leo Kessler
But it was Butcher who found what had caused the smell which had first attracted his attention. Thrusting aside the dead driver of one of the tractors, his body ripped open from chin to abdomen, the frozen viscera, a dull red-grey, swollen out of the tremendous hole in the corpse’s stomach like a gigantic sea-anemone, sniffing eagerly all the time, he discovered what he sought. A huge pile of blutwurst, that had swelled up and burst in the tremendous heat generated by the bombs which had destroyed the little convoy, and which was still bubbling with the last of the warmth, spreading its delightful odour throughout the shattered wagon the tractor had been towing.
Greedily, all discipline forgotten now, the starving men dipped their dirty frozen paws into the gooey red-black mess and swallowed it with cries of delight, their eyes gleaming with sudden animation, as if they were in that state of mind when one might as well laugh as cry.
Schulze’s mood was too sombre to be attracted by the thought of food, although he was as famished as the rest. It was thus buried in his gloomy thoughts, his gaze fixed on a group of young soldiers, faces set waxeningly in looks of eternal fear, that Matz approached him with his suggestion. ‘Schulzi, I’ve been thinking.’
‘Don’t,’ Schulze answered, without turning, still wondering why teenage German lads like the ones opposite had to die out here in this goddam nameless piece of Russia. For what? ‘Yer know it ain’t good for you.’
Matz punched him in the upper arm. ‘Knock it off, pisspot,’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve got an idea for getting us out of this mess. I’m stinking sick of hoofing it on my two legs.’
‘One in your case, remember, you little peg-legged cripple.’ Schulze turned suddenly. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, animation in his eyes abruptly.
‘A way of getting out of here without walking.’
‘How?’ Schulze was very alert now.
‘Those tractors – there ‘s three of them.’
‘Piss up my sleeve, I know that!’ Schulze exploded. ‘I can count up to ten, you know.’
‘Yeah, as long as yer’ve got yer two paws to do it with. But listen. They’re beat up, of course I know that. But those tractors are tougher than the halftracks. They’re made to stand up to a lot worse treatment. If with a bit of luck—’
‘Cannibalize ’em?’ Schulze cut in excitedly.
‘Yes.’
‘Little man,’ Schulze roared in delight, ‘as soon as I get my divorce, I’ll marry you. Come on, let’s have a look at the ugly shits.’
‘No, first let’s check the fuel situation. What’s the good of trying to get them moving again, if there’s no diesel for them. Come on.’
Five minutes later, still ignored by the others, stuffing themselves with black-red goo, or lighting the stubs of cigarettes they had taken from the corpses and puffing out the first blue streams of smoke, choking and coughing as they savoured their first cigarettes for nearly a week, they knew they had enough diesel. Unlike the gasoline which one of the halftracks had been transporting, it had not been ignited by the fires caused by the Russian bombs. There were at least two hundred litres of it left.
Schulze pushed back his fur cap and whistled softly. ‘Holy strawsack, Matzi, with that amount of fuel, I could get the lot of us back to the knocking shops in Saint Pauli!’
‘Sure you could, Schulzi, if everything depended on just how big yer cake-hole was. But it don’t depend on that. Now everything depends on whether we can build those three cripples back up into one half-ways driveable vehicle!’
‘How right you are!’ Schulze cupped his hands round his mouth and bellowed with all his strength. ‘All right, you shitty asparagus Tarzans, come on down from the trees now! We’ve got work to do.’ His face broke into a tremendous grin. ‘Lads, we’ve got the wheels again!’
‘WHEELS!’ the cry went from mouth to mouth. ‘WHEELS... WHEELS...’ echoing up and out of that valley of death, on and on, seeming to go on for ever. ‘WHEELS...’
SEVEN
That night the Wotan troopers broke all rules of security. Trying to ignore the ghastly tableau of dead bodies sprawled everywhere in the little valley, they lit great fires, both to illuminate the scene and to fight off the terrible cold.
While the sentries posted on the heights in the trees kept an anxious watch, being changed every hour — for it was vital they kept fully alert, since the fires would certainly attract the attention of anyone out there in that snowy waste — the rest of the Wotan troopers laboured at their task. Even the Butcher, who was notoriously lazy, and the fat unhealthy Gauleiter worked willingly, for all of them knew that this might be their only chance of escaping from Soviet captivity or worse.
Matz established which of the three tractors still had an intact engine. The one he found, however, had a badly split track which lay behind it in the drifting snow like a severed limb. After an hour of drawing it together they found the track was several links too short — they had disappeared in the explosion which had smashed the track!
Matz cursed furiously and then ordering his sweating gang to follow him, he stamped over to the nearest tractor, which had both tracks intact.
In spite of the fires, the link pins which held the individual parts in place were frozen and no dint of hammering at them would loosen them. Matz ordered a gasoline fire built beneath the links he wished to free.
Hastily a group of Wotan troopers plunged their bayonets into the earth below the snow, which had been slightly de-frozen under its warmer blanket, filled a holed tin with the damp earth. The last of the gasoline drained from the tank of one of the shattered halftracks was poured into the earth and quickly stirred in with a bayonet.
‘Stand back!’ Matz ordered.
He struck a match and flung it into the porridge-like goo. A whoosh and immediately the mixture started to burn fiercely, despite the dampness of the earth, with a bright blue flame that Schulze told himself worriedly, could be seen kilometres away.
Anxiously, ears straining, they stood in absolute silence, listening to the flames crackle up about the upper links of the track which they were trying to free. Then they heard the sound they had been waiting for so longingly. The drip-drip of melting ice!
Matz sprang into action. He grabbed the hammer and chisel from the young soldier who held them for him. Levelling the chisel against the pin, he struck home hard with the first blow. The pin parted and smoothly the track slid over the bogies to fall softly into the snow to the rear of the tractor. They had done it!
An apprehensive and worried Schulze looked at the green glowing dial of his wristwatch. In an hour or so it would be dawn, and he didn’t doubt that if there were Popov patrols anywhere in the area, they would soon be about. Leaving Matz and his excited troopers to carry the heavy track across to the tractor they were trying so desperately to repair, he stumped through the deep snow up to the wood on the ridge line.
‘Anything doing?’ he asked the soldier posted there, shivering audibly, his head buried deep into his upturned collar.
‘Nothing, I can make out, Sarge. All I know, it’s shitting cold! I think me waterworks is frozen up for good.’
Schulze smiled wearily. ‘Well, from what I hear of the Cossacks, you’ll never need them agen if they catch yer. Singing treble, yer’ll be.’
‘Don’t even say things like that, Sarge,’ the sentry protested.
‘All right, keep yer eyes skinned. Here.’ He took off his NCO’s whistle. ‘Two blasts on that, if you see anything. Three if they’re coming our way.’ He paused and then said deliberately. ‘FOUR if they’re doing all of that and they’re the enemy, run like hell. Klar?’
‘Klar!’
By six that morning, Matz and his crew had completed fitting the other track. Wasting no time, Matz, a bundle of energy now, as the winter sky started to flush the first ugly pre-dawn white, wiped his greasy hands and slipped into the tractor’s cab. Whispering what might have been a prayer, he turned the built-in ignition gear and swung it completely to the right, pumping the a
ccelerator as he did so. Nothing, save a flat miserable click!
There was a low groan of disappointment from the others clustering around the door, their faces hollowed out to anxious death’s heads in the ruddy flames cast by the fires.
Carefully Matz turned the key off. Counting off one minute soundlessly, he tried. Again that same flat disappointing click.
‘Great crap on the Christmas Tree!’ Matz cried in exasperation and smashed his fist against the panel furiously.
‘The shitting battery is dead!’
‘Change it, Matzi,’ someone suggested.
‘Ner,’ Schulze answered for the one-legged Corporal. ‘They’ll be in the same shitting position too.’
‘Fire!’ Matz exclaimed. Put the fire under the engine.’
‘Ow, kiss my arse, Matzi, that could be dangerous,’ Schulze exclaimed.
‘Could be more dangerous if the shitting Popovs catch us here with our knickers down, Schulzi. Come on, you wet-tails, let’s have a bit of movement there!’
Hastily a couple of the troopers doubled over to where the gasoline fire still flickered at the other tractor. With some difficulty they thrust it under the engine of the tractor and waited, while Matz counted off the minutes aloud, determined not to be panicked into trying too soon, but knowing now that time was running out. The sky was getting clearer all the time. It promised to be a fine clear day and to the east the horizon was already flushing a faint white-yellow indicating that they would soon have the winter sun.
Matz could wait no longer. Saying another silent prayer he turned the key. His heart jumped. There was a very faint glimmer from the control light and for one fleeting instant he thought he heard the motor catch. Then the light went out and the motor remained as obstinately immobile as before.
‘Scheisse, es ist doch zum Kotzen!’ Matz bellowed. ‘What kind of piggery is this!’ Beside himself with rage, he slammed his foot against the inside of the cab.
‘What are we going to do now?’ the Golden Pheasant quavered, his fat jowls trembling with fear. ‘I couldn’t walk another step this day. I—’
‘Hold yer wind!’ Schulze cut him off brutally. ‘A fella can’t even think with you running off at the lip like that.’ He pointed to the slope to their rear. ‘Matzi, what do you think? Do you think we could get this shitting crate up there?’
Matz sucked his yellow teeth and eyed the slope which ran steeply for some fifty metres before it reached the ridge line. ‘Might,’ he answered hesitantly. ‘The shit’s nearly two tons and that snow’s deep. ‘
‘I’ve checked out the slope on the other side,’ Schulze said. ‘I’d guess it goes down at – say – eighteen percent. It’s a very steep gradient. Do you think this tin-can of yours might start on that?’
‘How long’s the gradient, Schulzi?’
‘Perhaps a couple of hundred metres.’
Matz thought for a moment. ‘Might. With a lot of prayer.’
‘Then start learning to pray, yer little crippled heathen, cos we ‘re gonna have a bash! ‘
Schulze’s suggestion gave new heart to the Wotan troopers. Even the fat Golden Pheasant offered to take one of the shovels which Schulze was handing out to the men who would clear the ascent of snow, while the rest would take over the clearly back-breaking job of pushing the heavy tractor up the hill.
‘All right,’ Schulze cried when everyone was in position, the snow-shovellers already five metres ahead of the stalled tractor. ‘Let’s go!’
The pushers took the strain. The bogies gave a rusty squeak. Nothing happened.
‘Get the lead outa yer tails!’ Schulze cried. ‘Heave!’ He thrust his full weight behind the right-hand bogie and pushed. Again the rusty creak. But this time the tractor started to move.
‘Keep it moving!’ Schulze roared, the veins standing out like thick dull-purple strings at his temples. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let go now!’
Thus the torture commenced. While the snow-shovelling team scooped and dug to the front, their breath coming in harsh hectic gasps, the rest of the Wotan men toiled up that murderous incline, their temples hammering madly under the strain as if the heads themselves might explode at any moment. The minutes passed with slow agonizing leadenness. The sweat streamed from the men. Cursing furiously, their muscles burning with the effort, they fought the hill, as if it were a live thing, digging in their heels when the tractor threatened to slide backwards, gasping harshly like ancient asthmatics, forcing the metal monster upwards, knowing to achieve the summit was the most important thing in their whole lives.
The trees started to loom up ever clearer. Schulze redoubled his efforts, willing the men to make the top. The snow-shovellers finished their task. In spite of their own exhaustion, their limbs trembling almost uncontrollably with the back-breaking effort, they dropped their spades and stumbled down the hillside to the others.
‘That’s the style!’ Matz cried, for he was the only one who still had any breath to spare, ‘Come on. Now we’ll fuck the cow! Come on Wotan, we’re gonna to do... Come on....’
The assistance of the new men did the trick. The men exerted the last of their rapidly dwindling strength. Cursing and panting furiously, slipping to their knees and rising again, ignoring the cruel cuts and gashes made by the metal, so cold that it ripped the flesh from their bodies as if it were red-hot, they heaved and heaved until finally they reached the top, falling immediately into the snow, all strength gone.
Schulze crouched on his knees, arms wrapped around his ribs, his heart thumping crazily, fighting to control his crazy breathing, and saw them through a mist of shimmering white air, trying to speak, but unable to do so.
After what seemed an age, he staggered to his feet and peered down at them as they lay prostrate there in the snow, chests heaving frantically like a bunch of stranded seals. ‘Get... get up...’ he croaked, ‘on yer feet.’
There were feeble protests, but one after another the exhausted Wotan men staggered to their feet, swaying from side to side dangerously, as if they were very drunk.
‘Haul ass,’ Schulze ordered. ‘Come on... move it! We ain’t got all the time in...’
He stopped suddenly as the whistle shrilled from the other side of the valley. An icy finger of fear traced its way down the centre of his spine, as he counted the blasts, while all around him the Wotan troopers froze, their weariness completely forgotten now, hearts beating furiously in fearful anticipation.
‘One... two...’
A loud echoing pause. Schulze mopped his soaked brow.
‘Three...
‘Holy Mother of God,’ the Bavarian breathed, breaking the tense silence.
‘Four times...’
Schulze sprang into action. Now there was no use attempting to conceal their presence here. He raised his schmeisser and fired a burst into the sky, waving his arms for the sentries to abandon their posts.
Matz slipped behind the wheel of the tractor. ‘All aboard,’ he cried, but there was no joy in his voice.
They needed no urging. Swiftly they clambered on, swamping the vehicle with their numbers, grabbing hold of stanchions and wooden sides to secure some sort of hold for the steep descent to come.
Schulze crouched there in the snow, machine pistol at the ready, while behind him Matz and the rest rocked the heavy tractor back and forth trying to get it moving.
Now the guards were running wildly down the opposite slope, trailing a wake of white behind them, panic evident in their every movement.
‘She’s ready to roll, Schulzi!’ Matz bellowed. ‘Yer’d better get aboard!’
On the skyline the first horseman appeared. Then another... And another....
Schulze saw their sabres flash a bright silver in the pale yellow ball of the ascending sun. He grunted and pressed his trigger. The machine pistol chattered at his hip. White and red tracer curved across the valley, above the heads of the running men.
One of the Cossacks raised himself in the saddle and waved his sabre. Behind Sc
hulze the tractor groaned alarmingly as it swayed up and down like a see-saw, the snow creaking noisily beneath its weight. The Cossacks started to race down the slope, half upright in their saddles, tugging hard at their bits to prevent their mounts from falling, great wakes of flying snow coming from their skidding back legs. The sentries flew. Here and there a man flung away his weapon in panic. Schulze fired again. A Cossack sailed over the flying mane of his horse and smashed down. The bay galloped riderless with the rest. A Cossack blade flashed. The last of the running Wotan troopers screamed as the sabre cut his skull in half. He went down, arms and legs flailing in a crazy gigantic snowball.
‘We ‘re going now, Schulzi!’ Matz screamed as the first sentry reached the wildly swaying tractor, teetering on the brow of the hill, but with its blunt nose inclining ever deeper. In an instant it would be gone. Schulze pushed the frantically gasping man aboard. And the next. He fired a last burst just as the final man reached the tractor and was hauled aboard by a half-score of willing hands. A moment later he had swung himself aboard and the tractor was beginning to rumble down the steep descent, gathering speed with every instant.
Madly Matz swung the wheel from left to right, trying to dodge the rock outcrop which protruded above the snow. Behind them, the Cossacks swept out in an inverted V, each arm trying to outflank the tractor slithering down the slope, the steppe riders bent low over the flying manes of their galloping mounts, reins now clasped between their teeth, as they freed their hands so that they could pull their carbines from the side-buckets of leather and commence firing at the escapees.
At another time Schulze might well have been thrilled by this brilliant display of fearless horsemanship, but now their lives were at stake.
‘Matz,’ he cried above the racket, ‘for God’s damn sake, let out the clutch and try it! They’re gaining on us!’
Matz shook his head, not turning, not able to speak, knowing that if he failed in the next sixty seconds, it would mean the end.
