The Constant Soldier

by William Ryan

  ‘Camp?’ she asked.

  ‘Camp,’ she answered.

  She was surprised to be folded in the woman’s arms, the earthy ripe smell of her filling her nostrils, their cheeks were pushed tight together and the tanker’s tears made Agneta’s skin wet. But still Agneta felt numb – as if the tears and the embrace and the joy were being experienced by someone else.

  She pushed the woman away as politely as she could and stood back.

  ‘Polya,’ the woman said, pointing at her chest. ‘Polya.’

  ‘Agneta,’ she said and pointed at herself.

  Over the woman’s shoulder she caught sight of the tall man who had come into the shed where they’d been hiding. He was standing beside Paul Brandt’s sister, who met her gaze and nodded. Agneta smiled at the Russian woman and walked towards Brandt’s sister – who walked towards her in turn.

  92

  BRANDT STOOD looking down at Neumann. The SS man’s body was lying on the floor behind the desk. One of the window panes behind the chair he’d fallen from was broken and blood had spattered the intact glass around the hole the bullet had left. Neumann’s dog lay across his master’s corpse, whimpering. Brandt picked up the open bottle of brandy and took a swig, the alcohol raw enough to scrape his mind clear for a moment. Another problem. Another corpse. The dead bodies were piling up at the hut and he wondered when it would end.

  ‘I heard a gunshot.’

  The mayor, wearing a wrinkled collarless shirt – his trousers suspended from braces that accentuated his gut and cut into his shoulder fat, stood in the doorway. His unwashed, sleepy hair sloped to the right, turbulent and stiff. A pistol hung from one hand, while the other rubbed the hangover from his eyes.

  ‘Neumann shot himself.’

  ‘Neumann?’

  Brandt offered him the bottle of brandy but the mayor shook his head. Brandt glanced out of the window. Soldiers and civilians were moving quickly across the dam now and, as he watched, a cart that had become stuck was heaved over the side onto the ice, horse and all – leaving only a ragged hole to mark where it had fallen.

  ‘The Russians are in the town. Which must mean they will be coming up this side of the valley soon. If they aren’t already. I’ve told the boys to be ready in five minutes.’

  ‘I give the orders here,’ the mayor said, his eyes still fixed on Neumann’s lifeless body.

  ‘The Ukrainian guards showed up an hour ago,’ Brandt said, deciding on a different tack.

  ‘They did? Where?’

  ‘Outside the front gate. Dead. Whoever killed them smashed their teeth then cut their throats.’

  ‘My God.’ The mayor’s mouth, Brandt was pleased to see, hung open. His teeth uneven and, so far, intact.

  ‘They were carrying gold fillings and teeth – from the camp. We found them scattered over the bodies.’

  ‘God in Heaven,’ the mayor whispered.

  ‘We have orders, Herr Zugführer. Retreat across the dam. Join Oberst Wenke’s force.’

  The mayor said nothing in response.

  ‘Or stay here and have your teeth broken in and your throat slit. I’m taking the boys across in five minutes.’

  Brandt pushed past the mayor, who offered him no resistance.

  93

  ‘HERR BRANDT?’ A breathless voice was calling for him outside. Wessel. He’d sent him down to the dam with orders to alert them to any change in the army’s plans. And to keep him out of the way.

  ‘In here,’ he called out, and the boy duly appeared framed in the kitchen’s doorway.

  ‘They’re going to blow it up,’ he said, as if Christmas had unexpectedly come around for a second time.

  ‘Who says and when?’

  ‘The army Leutnant.’ Wessel paused for breath; he must have run the whole way.

  ‘Half an hour; quicker if the Russians come.’

  ‘We leave in two minutes. Go and get your pack.’

  Wessel hesitated, as if about to ask a question.

  ‘Immediately, Wessel. This isn’t an exercise.’

  Wessel ran out, shouting to the others. Brandt put his own rucksack on and followed him. As he crossed the yard he passed the Ukrainians lying in a row beside the barn, covered with tarpaulin. There wasn’t time to do anything more for them. He took the key to the bunker from his pocket and inserted in the lock. It needed all his strength to turn it but eventually the bunker door squealed open. Brandt swallowed and stepped in. Frightened faces surrounded him. He nodded to Hubert.

  ‘The Russians will be here soon – the dam will be blown in half an hour. If you want to avoid them, best to be on the other side. Or you can stay here, if you want,’ he said to the men. ‘The door’s open. Wait until we’ve gone.’

  Hubert looked at him blankly. Brandt reached inside his pocket and handed him Jäger’s pistol.

  ‘Weber may still be around. Shoot first if he comes in. Look after Monika and tell Agneta I mean to have that cup of coffee with her when all of this is over.’

  Outside, he pushed the door so it would seem as though it were closed, then trotted towards the front gate. The boys were gathered with their packs and weapons. Brandt counted them – one missing. Wessel.

  He turned to see Wessel sprinting towards them.

  ‘Right, gentlemen. We are ordered to the other side of the dam. We’ll see Zugführer Weber there, no doubt.’

  He saw Wessel’s sly glance towards the bunker, his mouth half open. He caught his gaze and held it.

  ‘Wessel.’

  ‘Herr Brandt?’

  ‘There will be plenty of Russians to kill today. But not if you’re on this side of the reservoir.’

  94

  SHE COULDN’T see the path ahead of them, it was so steep, but Lapshin’s feet on her shoulder pushed her, and the tank, forward. At one stage, Galechka’s nose dropped with a lurch and Polya had to brace with her legs to stop herself tumbling onto the levers. The tank slid down the frozen soil and loose snow until her tracks bit and Polya managed to slow the descent – pulling at the levers, this way and that – avoiding the larger trees when she could, rolling them down when she couldn’t. Still upright, still moving.

  The path hadn’t been designed for a column of tanks, that was for certain – it was little more than a narrow track – and Galechka’s progress was winding and sporadic. At times Polya had to turn Galechka through forty-five degrees, the tank’s tracks spinning sideways on the slope and Polya imagining the tank rolling sideways through the forest, the turret crushing flat as her momentum grew. Lapshin was sitting in the turret. He would die, almost certainly, as would the partisans and scouts that clung to the tank’s sides.

  ‘I’d rather charge a battery of 88s than come down here again.’ Avdeyev’s voice sounded tinny and distant in her helmet’s headphones, although he was leaning across to help her with the levers and his shoulder rested against hers.

  ‘We’re close, Comrades – and we’ll catch the fascists napping when we get there. Mark my words.’

  Even with Avdeyev’s help, Polya could feel every sinew in her arms and shoulders burning. She could smell her own fear.

  ‘The worst is over,’ Lapshin’s voice reassured them.

  She hoped so – and remembering the warmth of Lapshin’s rough fingers wrapped around hers gave her strength. She imagined what his stubble would feel like under her lips. The pain in her shoulders receded – her arms no longer trembled with the strain.

  And he was right, the path was no longer as steep and had even widened. She nudged Avdeyev and he went back to his machine gun. There was a clearing ahead. A crucifix stood to its right, the bearded Christ covered by a snow-capped wooden roof. He looked straight at her, his eyes full of pity.

  No Germans to be seen.

  ‘Straight through, Polya. Let’s pick up some speed now. The guide says it’s only a hundred metres further, then hard left and fast, fast, fast along the road. Keep your eyes peeled, gunners.’

  She could hear the scouts and th
e Poles repositioning themselves on the tank’s hull above her – they must have been tucked in behind the turret on the descent, being whipped and torn at by the trees and bushes. It sounded as though they were stamping their feet with approval at Galechka’s achievement. Polya felt happiness swelling her like a balloon. She would float up to the roof, if she wasn’t careful.

  And up ahead she could see the white expanse of the valley’s floor.

  And the frozen reservoir.

  95

  BRANDT HADN’T run like this since before his injury, and it was hard. He was holding the boys back. They ducked as planes flew overhead, but the Soviets were intent on whatever was happening further down the valley and didn’t bother them.

  Brandt looked ahead to the dam. It was only a few hundred metres away – people, like them, were running towards it, except for one soldier who was walking backwards towards the far side, carrying a drum of wire which he played out. The detonation cable. It wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘Brandt. Stop.’

  He turned to see the mayor running after them, a pistol in his hand – wearing that ridiculous uniform. It turned out Weber was a faster runner than he was. The mayor would catch him. Brandt stopped and the boys slid to a halt around him. Confused. In the moment of silence, he heard them. He couldn’t see the T34s, but he knew they were there. The memory of that noise, their crunching, clattering tracks and the deep roar of their diesel engines, had woken him up more than once in the middle of the night, his sheets twisted and damp with sweat, his heart racing.

  ‘Tanks. Run to the dam, all of you. As quick as you can.’

  The boys hesitated for an instant.

  ‘If you’re still here in two seconds, I’ll shoot you myself.’

  They ran. A tumble of grey helmets and greatcoats sprinting towards safety.

  ‘Tell them the Russians are right behind you,’ he called after them, then turned to face the mayor.

  Weber slowed, lifting his pistol to aim at him. His chest was heaving – his grey eyes bleary with dull anger.

  ‘Brandt,’ he said, and paused to take another breath. Behind the mayor, Brandt saw the familiar shape of a T34 come down out of the forest, turning towards them – accelerating. Soldiers clinging to its side, seeing the two Germans on the road ahead and pointing their weapons. Brandt dived into the trees at the side of the road as bullets cracked above his head. He lay perfectly still where he fell, his face in the snow.

  Cannon fire now. From the German side. Explosions all around him. The tank had been hit, the only soldiers that clung to its side now were dead. He pushed himself to his feet, saw the mayor lying motionless in the road and ran for his life towards the dam.

  96

  ‘COME ON, come on.’

  He could hear the soldiers shouting encouragement. The first of the boys were on the dam, their heads and shoulders bobbing above the parapet as they ran towards the other side. Behind him there was a burst of machine-gun fire and the sound of more tanks breaking their way through the forest. He didn’t stop running. He was past the Volkssturm’s homemade pillbox now and the snow-filled tank traps, and onto the dam itself, his nailed boots rattling on the concrete walkway. Alongside him others were running but his vision had tunnelled so that all he could see was the army officer, his eyes willing him on. Behind him the Russian tanks were louder than ever. He heard the boom of a cannon – saw the shell send up a geyser of snow and ice out on the reservoir – and then the ripping noise of machine guns and the pitter-patter of the bullets as they impacted. But he was nearly there now. Another few metres. The flash and roar of cannons and machine guns on the German side of the dam – bullets and shells whistling and cracking past him from every direction.

  And then he was flying, accelerating towards the cluster of soldiers waiting in the woods, his gaze meeting that of a round-eyed soldier, his hands on the depressed plunger of a black detonator – a huge force pushing Brandt through the air until he landed on the snow, the breath knocked out of him, dazed by the blast.

  They’d blown the dam.

  But he was on the other side. He was alive.

  97

  SHE WAS LYING in a ditch – her tank helmet forward over her eyes. She pushed it back, taking stock of her surroundings. How she had managed to get out of the tank, she didn’t know. She looked along the road to where Galechka stood, smoke pouring from her open hatches and turret. Lapshin. Lapshin had dragged her out.

  ‘Is everyone all right?’ Lapshin asked, shouting because there was so much noise.

  Polya lifted her hand, which was all she could do. She couldn’t speak.

  ‘Polya?’

  Lapshin crawled along the ditch towards her on his elbows. She could see a dead man hanging from a branch above her, his clothes on fire, swaying as if being pushed by a breeze. She thought it might be the guide.

  ‘I don’t think I can walk,’ she managed to say. Her foot was angled strangely, although it didn’t hurt. Lapshin’s left cheek was red and blistered and he’d lost most of the hair on his head – but he was alive. He checked her over, opening her tunic, looking for a wound. She could hear swearing close by and glanced over to see Avdeyev putting a tourniquet on Vitsin’s mangled leg.

  ‘She’s going to go at any moment,’ Avdeyev said. ‘We need to move back.’

  At first Polya thought he must be talking about her. She was conscious now that there were other men lying along the shallow ditch, their blood staining the snow that filled it red. The scouts that had been on top of the tank – some dead, some alive. She felt something hit her face, small and sharp. A splinter from where bullets were hitting the trees around them. The burning corpse was knocked off his branch by one and fell onto the snow a few metres away.

  ‘Let’s take Polya first. Quick now.’

  She felt Avdeyev take her under her shoulders and Lapshin took her legs, smiling down at her reassuringly. They stumbled and slipped their way up into the forest until they found a fallen tree. They placed her gently behind it, the solid trunk protecting her. It seemed far quieter in here. She looked around for them but she was on her own.

  She waited. She wondered what would happen if they couldn’t come back. What if they were killed? What would she do then?

  But here they were. Vitsin and his mangled leg swaying between them. Other men were coming up through the trees now – she recognized a man from one of the other tanks and an infantry sergeant.

  ‘We’re safe here,’ Lapshin said.

  And then the explosion came, the force blowing through the forest like a storm.

  ‘I’m afraid Galechka is gone,’ Lapshin said. ‘Don’t take it hard, Little Polya.’

  ‘Poor Galechka,’ she said, feeling dazed. She had built Galechka, driven her and named her. For her mother. ‘She always did her best for me. And when they took her away from me, she set me on a path to you.’

  Lapshin squeezed her shoulder gently.

  ‘We’ll get you another one. Although, who knows, maybe we’ve done enough. Maybe they’ll let us spend some time in hospital. And maybe, by the time we get out, it will all be over and we can all go home.’

  Polya smiled – amused that Lapshin thought she’d been talking about the tank.

  98

  FISCHER AND MÜLLER ran forward to pick him up, dragging him with them into the trees. He was conscious of bullets whipping around them but they made it – the boys pulling him until they came to a stop behind a pile of logs, collapsing into the snow.

  At first he thought the roaring in his ears must have been caused by the explosion – but then he realized it was the dam. He peeked over the logs and saw water pouring out of a wide crack in its curved wall and watched the concrete crumble away from the flow, ever larger boulders being pushed out by ever more water.

  With a tremendous crash, half of the dam’s rim collapsed forward, a wall of water and ice cascading after it. The noise was incredible. On the other side of the valley he saw the T34s retreating – anti-tank sh
ells exploding around them. Bodies were scattered in the snow on the road and in the fields. He couldn’t tell whether they were Russian or German.

  Brandt stood – conscious that the Leutnant was shouting something to him, a smile on his face. But even though the officer was standing no more than a matter of centimetres away from him – he could hear nothing. The noise was like the end of the world.

  He imagined the water surging down through the valley, along the river’s course – until it reached the camp. He imagined the water cleansing the valley of the last five years, stripping the earth back to the rock beneath.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said – but no one could hear him. He had to push the boys into movement.

  There was a flash of orange as a tank went up in flames on the other side of the dam. He pushed the youngsters up the slope, deeper into the forest. Away from the bullets and the shells and mess they left behind them. After a hundred metres or so he gathered the boys together, counted them off and checked them over. All accounted for. All in one piece.

  The sound of the battle receded as they walked up through the trees.

  99

  THE WAITER saw him coming across the square, the folded sleeve of his jacket carried like a shield against the military traffic that sped along the Ringstrasse. It was quiet in the cafe – Tuesdays were always quiet. In fact, the only thing of note that ever happened on a Tuesday was the arrival, so punctually you could set your watch by him, of the one-armed man.

  At a quarter to four he would sit down at the same table in the back room – the waiter made sure it was free, it was the least he could do. The waiter would let him look at the coffee list on the table for a minute or two and then approach. They had a routine now – after six months of this.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ the waiter said.

  ‘Any message for me?’

  ‘None, I’m sorry.’