Men of Snow

by John R Burns

  Franz took his men across the road in single file, down a ditch and along the edge of a line of trees that lead to the first buildings of the village.

  He ducked into a crouch, fully conscious of what he was doing. His awareness was a part of the excitement he felt.

  As they came to the first fence around some kind of small holding he held up his hand to stop the line. He had never felt so physically and mentally alert, totally focused. These were his moments. He was defined by them.

  He could hear his breaths and the shuffling of his men, could hear a few hens and a goat bleating somewhere. He could smell the grass and a pile of wood chippings near a shed that was leaning to one side, shafts of light coming through the gaps between its rough slats of wood.

  Franz glanced at his watch as more planes droned through the blue sky directly above them. The sun was making him sweat. Momentarily he wondered about Steiner, how they had come to be in the same action.

  Behind the shed he could see part of the village street and an upper window of a house that had a white sheet hanging out of it.

  His legs were beginning to ache in their bent position. For an instant he was unsure as to whether they should stay where they were and wait.

  Sturmann, his corporal, joined him.

  ‘Sir, a few of us could go round the farmhouse and see what there is.’

  Franz tilted his head to look at this twenty three year old soldier, half his face shadowed under his helmet.

  ‘Carefully then, no charging in, just very slowly. This place is too quiet.’

  He watched Sturmann and three others as they went along beside the fence and then disappeared around the end of the shed, their bodies all leaning slightly to one side.

  A few seconds later came the first gun fire.

  Franz and the rest of his men squeezed through the wooden fence and in a crouched run crossed the area of rough grass, down the side of the farm house to the corner of the only street.

  The firing had stopped and again he could hear the hens, a distant plane, the buzzing of insects, could feel the sweat trickling down his face and his feet already heating up in his thick socks and boots.

  The street was heavily rutted between a few low built houses that had their shutters closed except for the one upstairs window with the sheet hanging out.

  With quick hand signals he had his unit divide and start down both sides of the street. Then at his command they started kicking open doors and firing a quick burst into each house before moving to the next.

  It was then he noticed Sturmann and the three others laid out near the last building at the end of the street.

  He signalled for his men to stop and keep low.

  He could see the blood of the fallen men pooling over the dry baked mud of the road. Sturmann had his mouth slightly open with his teeth sticking out. It appeared he had been shot several times in the chest.

  A whistle blew as the unit from the other side of the village came under fire.

  ‘Keep moving forward!’ Franz called, ‘Forward but steady.’

  As they came to the last corner the bullets started whining around them.

  ‘Take cover! Cover!’ was his next command before he shouldered in a door, half falling into what was a small kitchen.

  It was dark and smelling of animals and burnt fat. He pushed over a table to get to the window, smashing through the shutters and glass.

  Suddenly he was alone as outside the firing became intense from both sides of the street. An explosion ripped a louder sound, its reverberations creating a fall of dust from the kitchen’s old beams.

  He tasted it in his dry mouth, smelt the mixture of old cooking and animal dung, felt the machine gun shake as he fired off a burst through the shattered window.

  He noticed two of his men rush out from one of the houses across the street and immediately come under fire that had them scrambling back inside.

  ‘Bloody hell Franz,’ came the sudden voice.

  He knew before he turned who it was.

  ‘What the hell is happening here?’ Steiner asked in a loud, wavering voice.

  His uniform was ripped and blood was dribbling along a cut over his right eye.

  Franz put down his machine gun and turned back to the tiny kitchen window.

  Steiner had come through the door that led into the rest of the house. He seemed even taller, having to bend under the low roof.

  Franz glanced back at him. There were sounds of more gunfire. The smashed up kitchen suddenly felt cold, then the shouts of a German soldier came from out in the street. It was difficult to know whether he was giving commands or was in terrible pain, the words came out so fast.

  Steiner moved a step closer, his feet crunching over broken glass. Standing there, slightly stooped, he watched Franz take his officer’s pistol out of its holster and then turned towards him.

  ‘Franz?’ was Steiner’s surprised question, his eyes focused on the gun before it released three bullets in quick succession.

  The first bullet exploded Steiner’s head, the other two ripping through his chest. When Steiner fell to the ground, crashing against the legs of the upturned table, his face was just a pulp of blood and flesh that suddenly seemed to have no eyes or mouth.

  For a moment Franz was motionless watching the way Steiner’s head seemed to be melting and congealing at the same time.

  MEN OF SNOW

  PART TWO

  __________________________________________________________________________________

  CHAPTER 5

  Franz and his three friends from the village watched the huge rock as in a slow tearing movement it tilted forward. The rock was so big Franz had calculated it was the size of his front room. Mikel, one of his friends, started shouting as the smooth end of the rock disappeared.

  The four of them were standing on a narrow ridge as the rock clattered down the first scree slope before it suddenly turned over and started gathering speed.

  To Franz it was this new, unknown force, this massive rock clattering and thudding its way down the steep valley side. It was better than anything he had expected.

  Within a few seconds it had already reached the tree line, crashing its way through the tall pines, snapping whole trees aside like a huge fist smashing its way down.

  It was a brutal, unstoppable thing, quieter now it had rolled further away from them, but all the time gaining speed. It kept endlessly turning over from end to end, bits of it flying off into the air as the massive rock came out of the trees and headed towards one of the barns where winter hay was stored.

  None of them said a thing while they watched the stone and wood built barn explode as the rock made impact with a grating thud, smashing straight through, the barn devastated as though a bomb had made a direct hit.

  And then the rock rolled out of sight at it went over the next ridge.

  By the time they got back to the village the fear had begun. Franz was terrified that ultimately his father would find out what had happened and who was responsible. The villagers were already talking about the rock that had not only destroyed the barn, some good pine trees, but had smashed through four fences, had ripped up part of the main road before burying itself into the side of the hill that sheltered one of the orchards that grew alongside the only route into the village. Thankfully for Franz the general opinion was that the recent bad weather had loosened the rock from its cliff face, another reminder of the dangers coming from above the village.

  It was the next day when Franz plucked up enough courage to go and find where the huge rock had finished up. Its trail of devastation had cut a path across the meadows, through the fences, leaving the surface of the village road gouged away where it had crossed. The half-buried rock had its surface scarred and cut showing new colours of stone. It seemed nobody suspected. The wise ones of the village were sure it had broken away from the mountain side. But Franz was still scared that eventually it would come out. One of the others he was sure would not be able to keep thei
r mouths shut, even though he had told them repeatedly not to say a thing. He had no faith in their being able to keep it to themselves. For weeks afterwards the anxiety remained, checking on his father’s expression whenever he saw him, doubting, worrying, waiting for the worst to happen.

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------

  He closed the door of Chantelle’s apartment. The stairs echoed to his boots. Inside his head the same sound battered away.

  Going towards the main double doors he momentarily imagined the apartment he had just left, the colours all crimson and gold, afternoon candles, vivid paintings, Chantelle’s vibrant clothes laid out over her armchair and Japanese screens

  Out on the street he took in deeper breaths. Paris was going through one of its quiet pauses between the black market surge in the morning and the offerings of the night.

  It was the city that was threatening the resolve of the German troops. More than anybody else in the world the French were cleverer at the game, undermining all purpose, all reasons for being there.

  Chantelle was the same. She gave him everything he wanted.

  ‘Tell me it’s enough. Tell me Franz. Tell me it’s enough,’ she often said to him.

  There were no longer any bodies floating down the Seine, only huge tree branches turning in the faster currents.

  A few couples were strolling arm in arm, the German soldier, the French mademoiselle.

  ‘Why can’t we ever go out?’ was Chantelle’s question.

  He wanted to believe what she said. It was always his response, this doubt, this lack of trust.

  Some of the pavement cafes were busier. A convoy of troop carriers drove past and huge swastika flags wafted from every major building.

  The city had seduced them all. Paris the greatest promise of Europe had turned out to be true and all he could do was watch his men succumb to it, sucked in, all of them.

  ‘You like it Franz. You know you do. Stop trying to pretend you don’t,’ Uptmann, a fellow officer, had cajoled.

  ‘So, what are you smiling about?’ he asked sergeant Fieldorf when he came into the office.

  ‘We have another splendid idea from our general.’

  Franz placed his cap on its hook, smoothed back his hair and started unbuttoning his light coat.

  ‘Such as?’

  Fieldorf waited for him to sit down before answering.

  ‘Another trip to a hospital, this time the hospital de Guerre.’

  ‘For us?’

  ‘Officers of the regiment.’

  Franz thought for a moment and then said, ‘It’s a good idea, might remind some people there’s still a war being fought.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘You don’t agree sergeant?’

  ‘I’m not sure sir that everybody would think that.’

  ‘I’m damned sure they won’t. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘Four o clock tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘The rest have been told sir.’

  ‘As an order?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Good. That’s better, none of this voluntary rubbish.’

  Fieldorf clicked his heels as he saluted before leaving.

  There was nobody else in the office.

  ‘You take it all too fucking seriously Brucker. Relax for God’s sake. This might be our last chance to do that for a long time.’

  Uptmann would always challenge, knowing that Franz was the last to fall. He could hear their usual remarks, especially after a few drinks, the nightly session some of them managed in the hotel before they went on the nightly prowl.

  ‘What’s the fucking point taking this fucking place if we can’t use it, abuse it, get every fucking thing we can. You defeat the enemy, then you fuck their women, willing or not. It’s called power Franz. It’s a very simple concept. You understand that. I’ve seen you in action, remember. If anybody believes in power it’s our dear Oberleutenant. So come of your fucking high horse.’

  At least Uptmann understood the game, but even he had lost all control.

  Franz took the list out of his desk drawer. Only Proustain was still left on it. The others had become too predictable, too scared so that he had lost all interest in them. It always happened. Their fear destroyed the impression they had first created. Sometimes it could happen quickly, sometimes it might take weeks, but they always succumbed to their terrors in the end. They had all been eliminated. Proustain in his baroque apartment was the only one he visited now. The old man was cleverer than the rest. He had managed to use his fear to stimulate his intellect in a different way, something that Franz still found of interest.

  He looked up and put the list back as Uptmann came into the office.

  ‘So, our Franz is working,’ were his first words.

  ‘Why don’t you ask where everybody else is?’

  ‘Because I know where they are.’

  ‘Following your example.’

  Uptmann exaggeratedly shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Of course.’

  ‘As long as everybody is ready tomorrow for the regiment’s four o clock visit.’

  ‘For the sake of our general.’

  Franz looked at him, ‘They are our wounded.’

  ‘And they are being looked after by French nuns. My God, it’s a fantasy, just to get a prod under all those bloody habits of theirs. I’d like to fucking make that a habit, absolutely.’

  The provocation was at the usual level. Sarcasm became a twisted trail that often Franz never bothered to follow. It was tedious and Uptmann, especially when he was drunk, made it too easy.

  ‘We are conquerors Franz. You always keep forgetting that, conquerors. Mind you I know it wasn’t that difficult against the fucking Frogs. Their men are just like their women. They roll over very easily. But you think it’s a conspiracy. You think uncle Joe has been paying them all along. Get them stuck in the sex pit of Paris and they’ll never be the same. Is that it?’

  ‘Might be.’

  Uptmann laughed, ‘You see. I knew it. I don’t think you even trust yourself.’

  Later as he came down the stairs the rest of the building was full of the noise of the business of occupation. At least some people had no option. Everyone here was in sharp pressed uniform.

  ‘We set an example Brucker. We show the French why we were the victors. In everything we do I want them to understand how organised, how efficient, how dominant this army is. Paris is our headquarters and we use it as such. Do I make myself clear? I don’t mean to you Brucker. I know you understand. It’s certain others of our staff who are my concern. They act like tarts looking for tarts. This is even more important now the news from the Eastern front continually deteriorates. We don’t want anybody to think we are losing our grip. I want it squeezed tighter. I want roundups on a regular basis, anybody and everybody. I want the citizens of this city to shit themselves every time they hear us coming.’

  ‘Heil Hitler. Heil Hitler,’ came from the guards and a sergeant entering the building as Franz came out onto the street.

  Paris was a shape in his mind when he had things to plan. At other times it was a huge hole in which the army of occupation was disappearing. The city was the real enemy. Its culture could destroy more than all the weapons they had faced. It had waited and then enclosed them, wrapped its warm arms around every soldier, giving all it had. When expectations had been realised the demand was for more and Paris could give more. He hated this city because there were no tactics by which it could be defeated. The longer they were here the more incapable of real action his men had become. He knew Russia was waiting. He understood its inevitability.

  ‘We’re here for the duration. We’re good at what we do. And the French, well so many of them can’t wait to help us. They’d betray their own mothers if they thought that would buy them more time. They are patriots of a way of life, not a country. They couldn’t care less about France so long as they can live as the French.’

 
; The boulevards smelt warm and relaxed. More troop carriers rattled past. More couples strolled along as though there was no war. Paris had resisted for a few days and then had quite readily capitulated and in the next breath had continued as before. The cafes, the clubs, the restaurants were all thriving. Every officer he knew had at least one mistress.

  ‘You want to keep me just for yourself. Go on, tell me you do. That’s what they all want. It makes everything so much easier, especially for a busy, important officer like yourself,’ Chantelle had said and for once he had listened.

  Every evening the receptionist would be waiting for him.

  ‘Your key Herr Brucker,’ he would say, holding it ready.

  ‘What if I said no Jean?’

  ‘Then I would put it back on its hook,’ was his sharp answer.

  ‘You should be a German.’

  ‘You say that all the time.’

  ‘So it must be true.’

  ‘A compliment I take with great thanks.’

  He looked at Jean with his short black hair and slightly tanned face.

  ‘I should hope so,’ was his last comment before he took the lift to the fourth floor.

  In his suite he opened the windows fully and stepped out onto the balcony. The city’s shadowed outlines were like pieces of jigsaw in the sky. He often wished the Fuhrer had let the whole place be bombed flat. But even he seemed to have been captivated by its reputation.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and Steinhof stepped in.

  He offered up a bottle of brandy and smiled.

  ‘So you are here Brucker and not with your lady.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘It is when all you do is criticise everybody else.’

  ‘That sounds like you’ve had a good drink already.’

  ‘The truth doesn’t depend on fucking brandy.’

  ‘The truth?’

  Steinhof was tall and thin to the extent his uniform always looked too large and his boots too big. He occupied the room next to Franz’s.