The Constant Soldier

by William Ryan

  Brandt saw the pale break in the canopy up ahead that marked the spot that they were sure to halt in and decided to take his opportunity, stepping off the path and finding himself a bush. He saw the others form a shadowed circle and the splashes of orange as more cigarettes were lit. Or maybe the same ones, saved from the last stop. No one had missed him.

  He reached down to open his trousers and just at the moment when he put his hand on the top button, someone placed the barrel of a gun alongside his ear.

  ‘Stay still and silent and you might see the morning yet.’

  Brandt wasn’t completely certain he’d heard the words, so quietly were they whispered, but the gun was real enough. The man spoke in Polish – the accent was local. What was more, he thought he recognized the voice.

  Brandt stayed still. He stayed silent. He concentrated solely on making sure he took his next breath, and then the one after that. The one thought he managed was to be grateful he hadn’t opened his trousers before the gun was put to his ear. He wouldn’t like to be found like that. Someone would laugh – they always did. It was a way of releasing the tension – like shaking a dead man’s hand for luck. He’d like his death to be more dignified. He didn’t know how long he stood like that, in limbo – it was hard to keep track of things with a bullet only a dozen centimetres from the inside of your head.

  When the shooting started it was almost a relief. It was like a sudden tempest that tore through the forest, ripping bark and branches from the trees. The air around him filled with the whip-crack of flying bullets – and dull thuds when they embedded themselves into wood and flesh. Someone threw a grenade and he saw bodies lifted like rag dolls in the flash of light. The cold barrel resting against his cheek didn’t budge. He heard Jäger shouting but he knew it was too late. The return fire from the clearing dwindled. Eventually, it ceased.

  And then there was silence – the only sound the ringing in his ears. Every part of his body was sending him a message to run from the place. His vision was streaked and blotted with the starbursts and flame lines of the brief battle. He’d stopped breathing, he realized, and was forced to risk a shallow breath, as much to check that he was still alive as to keep it that way. He inhaled the bitter taste of cordite that filled the air around him.

  Now that it was over, he replayed it in his mind. The others had followed the narrow track down to the clearing and they’d stopped. They’d lit their cigarettes, making them visible to their ambushers. The men in the trees had either heard them coming or been waiting for them – this was the third time they had come this way, which had been foolish. The Order Police and the SS, he wouldn’t miss, but Ernst deserved better.

  A calm voice – accented Polish, a Russian, he was sure of it – called out from over to his left: ‘Anyone hurt? Speak up.’ When there was no answer, the Russian spoke again: ‘The big one was mine and so are his boots – the others I don’t care about.’

  He heard the sound of low laughter from all around. He knew what it meant – relief that you were alive while others were dead. Part of him wanted to laugh as well.

  ‘All right, then. Let’s be careful about this.’

  The killers moved down through the trees, reliving the excitement as they did so. Some were serious men, others inexperienced. None of them was British. He wondered if they knew they’d killed a nice fellow called Ernst, whom no one had a bad word to say about.

  Hubert would, he thought. But Hubert didn’t join the others, he stayed with Brandt. His pistol still resting against Brandt’s cheek.

  Men moved through the clearing, and he could see the flicker of torchlight as they checked the bodies. He saw a thickset man busy himself removing Ernst’s boots – first the left one, then the right – and then he heard Ernst’s weak voice, distorted with pain. It was cut off by the wet rasp of a blade cutting through flesh. Brandt closed his eyes and wished he could shut his ears.

  Then there was a muttered conversation and the sound of the partisans moving off.

  ‘Isn’t it time you gave up being a soldier, Paul Brandt?’ Hubert’s words were not much more than a breath in his ear. Brandt had no answer to that.

  ‘Wait till we’re long gone before you move. If the others see you, there’s nothing I can do. Not here.’

  Brandt said nothing.

  Hubert hesitated as he moved past him, no more than a hint of a shadow as he passed in the darkness. He turned and leaned in close.

  ‘Monika has the things you asked for. I did it for the women in the hut, not for you. Just so that’s clear. And I spared your life tonight for Monika. No other reason than that.’

  59

  BRANDT FOUND himself standing alone in the darkness. The cold was creeping into his bones, deep into his body. The only noise was his own oh so tentative breathing. Eventually, the clouds that had been obscuring the moon allowed it to shine through for a moment, revealing the clearing below in its milky light and the tangle of bodies that filled it.

  And then a drop fell onto the snow at his feet, then another. Blood. He pulled off his glove with his teeth and felt where the scarf he’d wrapped around his head was now torn and wet. Feeling inside it, he found his right ear had been nicked by a bullet. A few centimetres to the side and he’d have been killed.

  It was painful now that he noticed it. He moved the scarf around a bit, tried to pull it tighter, and decided it would do as a bandage for the moment. He was alive, wasn’t he? He pushed at the ear and it told him he was. It didn’t seem possible. He should be dead. But the dead don’t bleed and they didn’t make this low keening sound. A sound he shouldn’t be making. He stopped it by putting his hand over his mouth, biting into his palm.

  The shock and the cold seemed to make his mind work more slowly than usual. He didn’t know how long he had been standing there – it could have been a minute, or an hour. Finally, he found himself taking a step forward, beginning to make his way down to the clearing, placing each foot with care. He’d forgotten how exhausting being terrified was.

  He arrived in the clearing just as the moon broke through the cloud cover once again. It looked as though the contents of a clothes shop had been strewn around it – the partisans had gone through the men’s packs and pockets and stripped them of anything that might be of use to them, discarding whatever wasn’t. The men’s corpses – collapsed shapes on the snow, shadowed by the pale light – were almost indistinguishable from the garments and objects that surrounded them, except in size. He moved around the clearing, bending down to feel for a hand – slipping a finger inside a glove, if it hadn’t been stolen, and checking for a pulse. The partisans had done the same thing, of course, with a different intent. He found himself gripping cold soft dead flesh time after time.

  ‘Is anyone alive?’ he whispered.

  Someone moved. He was sure of it.

  ‘Can anyone hear me?’ he whispered.

  ‘Brandt?’

  He recognized the voice, even in a whisper.

  ‘Peichl?’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  Peichl sat up, looking around the clearing at the others, inhaling so loudly and suddenly Brandt thought he might be about to vomit.

  ‘Thank Christ. Thank Christ. Thank Christ. I thought that was it. I thought I was gone.’ He patted himself as he spoke. ‘Not even a scratch. Not even a scratch.’

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘Brandt? Peichl?’

  Another voice. Weaker. Jäger.

  ‘Herr Hauptsturmführer?’

  ‘Over here.’

  Peichl didn’t seem to have heard Jäger. Brandt could hear Peichl patting his body down, looking for a wound.

  ‘Not a scratch. Thank Christ.’

  ‘Check the bodies over there,’ Brandt said. ‘Maybe they missed someone else.’

  Peichl, still muttering his relief, walked to the far side of the clearing. Brandt knelt down beside Jäger. The SS man was making a strange noise, like a pot just coming to the
boil.

  ‘I’m finished,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll turn you on your side. We’ll get help.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s no point. Is it just you and Peichl?’

  ‘I think so. Peichl’s checking.’

  ‘It was my fault. I was careless. A waste.’

  There was silence between them for a moment – and Brandt leant down to offer him his hand. Jäger took it and pulled him down, whispering to him.

  ‘Have you still got your weapon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you need to shoot him.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Kill Peichl. He suspects you. He spoke to me at one of the rest stops. He says you are planning to get the women prisoners out – that you have a key to the bunker. You can’t let him live.’

  Brandt said nothing. On the other side of the clearing he heard Peichl turn a body over.

  ‘You have no choice, Brandt.’

  Jäger’s whisper was edged by pain. Brandt remembered the snarling rage of Peichl when he’d beaten the women. He remembered the murder of the Jewish prisoner on his first day working in the hut.

  ‘They’re all dead,’ Peichl said in a low voice, walking back over.

  ‘Hauptsturmführer Jäger is alive. He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Can he walk?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Peichl said.

  ‘I’ll go for help,’ Brandt said, undoing the flap of his holster. ‘I know the area best. You stay with Jäger.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘We should both go,’ Peichl said, and Brandt could hear the fear in his voice. He didn’t want to be left alone in the forest with partisans close by.

  ‘Peichl,’ Jäger whispered.

  ‘Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

  ‘Come closer.’

  Brandt found that he was shaking, but it wasn’t from fear. Peichl leant down over Jäger. Brandt moved to one side. He couldn’t see Peichl’s face but it was probably just as well. He slipped the gun from the holster, millimetre by millimetre.

  ‘Will you stay with me?’ Jäger asked.

  ‘It’s best if we get help, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’

  Brandt took a step forward. Another step. He lifted the pistol.

  ‘Stand away from Hauptmann Jäger, Peichl,’ Brandt said.

  ‘What is it, Brandt?’ Peichl said, standing and stepping towards him.

  Brandt shot him in the chest – the muzzle flash lighting Peichl’s face orange. There was a sly smile on the SS man’s face in the instant it was visible, and Brandt saw that his hands were bunched into fists.

  There was silence. The sudden gunshot hadn’t startled any birds or dislodged more snow. There was no echo. The only reaction was, after a moment or two, an involuntary sigh that Brandt knew came from himself.

  He took two steps forward to where Peichl lay, another broken body in a clearing that was full of them, and pushed at it with his foot. Dead, heavy flesh. He leant down and placed the barrel of the gun against the side of Peichl’s head, shooting him once more for good measure. Before he’d pressed the trigger he’d been uncertain – but now that he’d killed the man, he had no regrets about it at all. He’d killed men before and for less good reason.

  ‘He deserved it,’ Jäger said.

  Brandt said nothing. He listened to Jäger struggle for each breath, to the quiet of the forest. It was peaceful now and snow began to fall. Little frozen splashes on his skin. They might have been refreshing if he weren’t already cold.

  ‘I’ll get help.’

  ‘It will be too late, Brandt. I’m not going to last long. I don’t want to die here on my own.’

  ‘I’ll wait with you, then.’

  60

  JÄGER WAS RIGHT. He didn’t last long. Brandt held the SS man’s hand and listened to the blood bubbling in Jäger’s throat each time he breathed. Jäger gave a slight cough when he finally passed, his hand going limp in Brandt’s grip.

  Brandt stood up, his body stiff, and whispered a prayer for the dead – not that any of them except poor Ernst deserved it. Certainly not Jäger. He was shivering with cold now and very tired. He was almost grateful for the injury to his ear – the pain from its chafing against his helmet’s chinstrap was keeping him alert. He started walking, hoping it would warm him up, but by the time he made his way back along the path to the open fields, the snow was coming down thick and fast – the wind picking up so that it swirled around him. It was close to a blizzard now and there were no lights to be seen. Soon he realized he had no idea where he was. Still, if he kept heading downhill he should, with luck, reach the reservoir – and when he reached the reservoir, he’d have reached the road to the village. If he reached the road, then there was a good chance someone would find him – it wasn’t even that late – dark as it was. There would still be people travelling, even in this weather.

  After a certain point, he realized that the world around him had become less tangible. His legs appeared to know where they were going but he wasn’t sure how. In his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Peichl’s face lit by the muzzle flash, the sly, malevolent expression. He wondered where Peichl had come from – what he’d done before the war. What decisions had led him to the clearing and his appointment with Brandt’s bullet?

  Every now and then he had to climb over a fence or a wall, but where or when he couldn’t be sure. Then he found himself on an endless flat field, which in a moment of clarity he realized must be the reservoir. Beyond it, through the snow, he could see a flickering light. He climbed towards it, clambering over still more fences and walls that blocked his path. He was exhausted now and he hoped the light was real. It seemed to come in and out of focus, sometimes disappearing from sight altogether. And then, to his surprise, he was standing in front of the hut’s main gate, swaying as a searchlight was pointed at him. Falling forward.

  When his helmet hit the metal gatepost, it sounded like a hammer hitting a cracked bell.

  61

  AT FIRST IT wasn’t clear what was happening. The klaxon was going off outside and one of the female auxiliaries was screaming that the Russians were attacking. Neumann shouted at her to be quiet.

  ‘It’s the search party, that’s all.’

  Neumann had almost given up on them, thinking that once it became dark and began to snow, they would find somewhere to hole up until the morning. All the same, when he went outside to greet them, he carried his pistol.

  He had to hold his free hand over his eyes to see anything at all. Within metres his uniform was covered in a crust of wind-driven snow. He made his way down the lane that led to the main gatehouse, feeling the cold numbing his fingers. One of the guards loomed out of the white so suddenly he almost walked into him.

  ‘It’s Brandt, Herr Obersturmführer. We found him by the gate.’

  Two others followed, carrying the unconscious steward between them.

  ‘Get him inside – and turn off the damned klaxon.’

  The guard ran toward the gatehouse – and a welcome silence soon followed.

  They carried him through to the sitting room, where Neumann had them lay the unconscious man on a chaise longue close to the fire. The burning wood crackled and spat as they tried to make him comfortable.

  ‘He needs a doctor,’ Weber said. The mayor was wearing his Volkssturm uniform, his hand resting inside his open holster, his expression startled.

  Neumann looked at him for a moment, confused, before remembering he’d come to ask if the Volkssturm could use the hut as their base once the imminent civilian evacuation began. The snow had stopped him leaving. He had a point about the doctor.

  ‘Fräulein Beck?’ Neumann said over his shoulder, ‘See if you can get through to Doctor Münch in the village.’

  There was no response. He turned to find Anna Beck swaying from side to side, transfixed by the blood that covered Brandt’s face and coat.

  ‘Fräulein Beck?’ he r
epeated in a sharper tone, and she shook her head twice, as if to revive herself.

  ‘I’ll see to it. Excuse me.’

  She turned and walked quickly towards the telephone room.

  ‘You men get back to your posts. Keep your eyes peeled.’

  The two guards who had brought Brandt in stood to attention and saluted. They looked reluctant to leave.

  ‘The others?’ One of them began, and Neumann remembered the four guards who had accompanied the patrol.

  ‘As soon as I hear anything I’ll let you know. For the moment, we need to be alert. Walk the perimeter – use the searchlight.’

  When they’d left, Neumann reached down to feel Brandt’s cheek. It was like ice, but the unconscious man moved away from his touch.

  ‘Well, he’s alive.’

  ‘But where are the others?’ Weber asked. ‘The rest of the patrol.’

  The other telephonist, Werth, came into the room carrying blankets – at least someone had kept their head.

  ‘I called the police station,’ she said. ‘They’ve had reports of gunfire in the hills, a couple of hours ago.’

  Some sort of battle then, Neumann decided – perhaps Brandt had become separated in the confusion. He tried to take the man’s helmet off but dried blood had stuck the strap and lining to a scarf that was wound around his head – and the steward moaned as he tried to detach it. He had better luck with the greatcoat – opening the buttons and then, with Weber’s help, managing to get it off. He could find no wound apart from the one to his head. He leant down to listen to Brandt’s breathing – it was ragged. He put the blankets over him and they pushed the chair closer to the fire’s warmth.

  ‘Call the Order Police Headquarters. Find out if they’ve heard anything from Hauptmann Weiss or his men.’