The Crest

by Jerena Tobiasen

  “Have you a glass of brandy for a weary soldier, Mama?”

  Emma caught his deflection. “Yes, of course. Come into the study.” She led the way.

  “You two”—she turned to Gerda and Arthur—“go tell Cook that we’ll have another mouth for dinner. A very hungry mouth, from the looks of it.” She eyed Paul to determine how much more food would be required, knowing supplies were not plentiful.

  Paul closed the study door, muffling the boisterous noise racing to the kitchen. He turned to Emma.

  Once again, she stood with hands on hips. “I’m waiting.”

  “I know that look, Mama. No point putting it off. I was shot.”

  “When? What happened?”

  “Well.” He poured himself a glass of brandy, and held up the decanter, inviting his mother to take a glass.

  “Yes, please,” she answered. “It’s not every day your eldest child gets shot! I need something to soften this news.”

  He passed a glass of the amber relief to his mother and continued. “As to when …” he said, turning his gaze from the Spanish painting of Mars to face his mother, “the end of March.”

  He rolled the brandy around the glass, airing it, then took a sip.

  “Shall we sit?” Emma said, lowering herself onto the settee and sinking into the worn cushion. She waited patiently, as if knowing that Paul was deliberately delaying the telling of his news.

  He shrugged, sipped, and continued again. “We were ordered to Norway on a reconnaissance mission. At one point, we were pinned down and took some fire. Actually, it was a bit of luck for the other side. One of the shots hit a stone wall behind us. Debris ricocheted. Caught me in the shoulder; did a bit of damage to the bone. Passed through my arm. Broke a bone here, too.” He massaged his arm where the ache persisted.

  “I bet I’ll be the only soldier in the entire war to disclose that I was shot by a stone wall!” he said, stifling a snort, hoping he had minimized her fussing. “More brandy?” he asked, up-ending his glass and pouring another.

  “In March, you say. Why didn’t you come home earlier?”

  “I was extracted, shall we say, to a field hospital. Had some surgery to repair the bone damage, then spent some time getting my arm and shoulder working again. I needed to be certain that my men were healing, too, before I left, and that added further delay.”

  He sipped the brandy again, savouring it. “As soon as I had mobility in my arm and shoulder, I was given leave. We all were. Those of us who are able-bodied have been ordered east in three weeks.”

  “East! Nein! Not east.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I hope it’s a slow road east. But don’t repeat that to the Führer der Nation.” He made a face of distaste. “We’re supposed to be enthusiastic and feel honoured to be in his service.”

  Emma folded her hands in her lap, unable to hide the concern etched across her face.

  “Hitler continues to promise jobs for everyone and a better economy,” Paul said, shaking his head. “People love him for it. But, I was right … all I see are his false promises and his prejudice. The Brown Shirts single out anyone who doesn’t toe the line. They instil fear and brutalize those who protest. Hitler says one thing and does another,” he spat.

  “Paul …” Emma began.

  “We’re fighting another damned war—and for what! All I ever wanted was to be a priest. After this, I won’t be worthy.” He wound down his diatribe of frustration and disappointment and finished by saying, “I’m constantly reminding myself to hold my tongue. Wouldn’t help my cause if my men heard me spewing off about that Dummkopf. They don’t necessarily agree with my opinions.”

  A few days later, the Lange family enjoyed a special meal prepared by Cook in honour of the two returning soldiers. Tante Cook and Anna supervised the new cook’s preparations to ensure that their fighting boys would have their favourite, traditional dishes.

  Tante Cook continued to prepare simple meals for herself and Anna, but when it came to preparing meals for the family, a younger cook had been engaged following the move to Bayreuth. Tante Cook shared a suite with Anna upstairs, and they kept each other company.

  “That was delicious, ladies,” Gerhard said, rising from the dining table, bowing formally to Tante Cook and his mother. “Would you mind if Paul and I excuse ourselves? We have things to discuss.”

  The women shooed them from the dining room and helped with the clearing of the dishes.

  “May I come too, Papa?” Arthur asked.

  “Not tonight, son. Paul and I have military business to review. Don’t you have homework?”

  “Yes, sir.” Arthur took a boxing pose with Paul and punched the air in front of him. “I was hoping to defer the in-e-vit-able.” Arthur exaggerated his pronunciation mischievously.

  “Evading homework is not a way to succeed in life. Off you go.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arthur snapped to attention, saluted his father and brother, and darted up the old oak staircase to his room.

  Paul closed the door. Gerhard poured the brandy.

  “I hear congratulations are in order, Lieutenant. Or should I say, Captain.” Gerhard smiled at his son, holding a glass of brandy out to him.

  “Sir?” Paul accepted a proffered crystal glass.

  “Word’s filtered down to our humble Depot. I understand your heroics in Norway have earned you the Iron Cross! Congratulations. It takes a lot of guts to stand up to overwhelming opposition, to take crippling gunfire, and still get your men out safely.”

  Gerhard inhaled brandy fumes before raising his glass to his lips. “I’m proud of you, Paul. I hate this war and everything it stands for. And I’m proud of you for conducting yourself as the leader I always knew you would be.” His forehead had begun to throb, and he absent-mindedly massaged the old battle wound as he spoke.

  “Thanks, Papa. Coming from a military family certainly makes a difference. All that horsing around that we did when we were young. The war games you instigated in the fields. The boot-camp training and military tutoring we had at the academy—it all kicked in.”

  He walked over to the old painting of Mars, the warrior god, and straightened it with his free hand. “The military training is invaluable, of course. But you, grandfather, and Uncle Otto. Your early influence helped make my responses intuitive. And Great Uncle Leo’s words kept me focussed. ‘Keep your wits’ became my mantra.”

  He studied his glass of brandy. “We were out-numbered. I drew on everything I knew to get us out of that spot. It was tricky. Some of us were injured, yes. But none of the injuries were fatal or incapacitating. At least, not for long.” He flexed his injured arm and shoulder.

  “Did you tell your mother?”

  “Nein. I didn’t want to worry her. She worries enough already. I just told her that we were under fire and debris ricocheted off a rock wall. She doesn’t need to know the rest.”

  “I agree. We’ll leave it at that,” Gerhard said. “I understand that you and your men have had some additional training.”

  “Yes. After Trondheim, I approached my commander and asked whether we might hone our marksmanship. I felt we could have defended ourselves better if we’d had specific training before going in. We are all now certified as sharpshooters, but half of us will serve as spotters, and we’ll work in teams of two—one spotter and one sniper.”

  “When do you leave for the east?”

  “I have three weeks to get my arm working again. I think I’ll visit with Uncle Otto for a bit. Do you mind? I need to practise my shooting, too, and I know I can do that out in one of the fields without being questioned. We were reminded constantly during the training that the only way to be the best was to practise. I intend to be the best. I don’t want to be in another position where the safety of my men is compromised. I can’t call on you for advice when I’m trapped. And I certainly can’t look to grandfather or old Uncle Leo.”

  “I’m sure Otto will appreciate all the help he can get. He’s lost a lot of the farmhands t
o the conflict. The Jewish fellow who used to do our bookwork disappeared without a word. He may have relocated with his family or been caught in a round-up. Some of the Polish folks are still there; others have joined the Russians, or gone underground. All of the German hands capable of fighting are serving in the military now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PAUL REUNITED WITH his men three weeks later. They were based in Breslau, but their orders kept them scouting north and south and, when necessary, defending the German position from counterattacks by the Red Army. Fighting was fierce wherever they were assigned.

  They also carried out raids to intercept Russian intelligence, and interpreted dispatches before sending the information further up the line. They set up sniper nests and rotated stations frequently to avoid predictability.

  Paul often volunteered to take the night shift, allowing most of his men to rest. With dark, though, came the greatest risk. He and his spotter had to remain vigilant—ensuring they were adequately camouflaged, and that their rifle barrels and other gear did not reflect the moonlight. Lighting no fires, they stared into a black void for long hours at a time, watching for the slightest movement, always aware that it was just as easy to be seen as it was to see. Stakeout time passed slowly, especially when the weather was foul with heavy rain or snow and biting cold.

  In time, his platoon became renowned amongst the division for their night work along the front.

  One bitterly cold night, Paul and his spotter, Werner Friedrich, were embedded in a pit at the edge of a forested area. The pit was lined with decayed foliage collected from the forest floor.

  Once they were entrenched, they had piled more decay on top of themselves, which served to better hide and insulate them in their beds of frozen earth.

  Paul was grateful for the winter field uniforms, including woollen overcoats, which were issued at the beginning of October. Unlike the Great War, troops no longer relied on their families to provide well-made uniforms. The standard-issue garments were made from a mixture of wool and rayon, which ensured that their uniforms had endurance, and maintained a high thermal efficiency. They were also comfortable and easy to move in.

  Paul had no care about the political reasoning behind the design: that traditional features and trims were retained to improve morale and cultivate unit spirit. He cared only that his men were warm and capable of performing their duties when required.

  Although the standard-issue uniform included a toque, Paul had his men replace theirs with a balaclava that could cover their face and reduce reflection. Paul was glad for his balaclava. It kept warmth around his face and minimized the likelihood of his frosty breath revealing his location.

  Before them lay the no-man’s-land of a harvested hay field. Another grove of trees edged the east side of the field.

  Clothed as they were in military camouflage, Paul and Werner blended in to the winter foliage. Small branches were bound with wire to the barrels of their Karabiner 98Ks, telescopic sights, and binoculars.

  Paul felt an involuntary shiver of dread run through his body. 1941! How much longer will this war business go on? How did a candidate for the priesthood become a killing machine? Focus, fool! You can’t afford to let your mind wander.

  After hours of stillness in their shared pit, even the sheepskin lining in his boots and mittens could not keep the cold at bay. The flexibility of his finger joints had lessened, his toes were numb, and his muscles felt par-frozen.

  Paul had given an order that, when the ability to make an accurate shot was compromised by stiff fingers, shivering, or simply a sense of frozen brain, he expected the shooter to identify the need to stand down. A precise shot was difficult enough to make, but waiting to take a shot with exposed hands and a freezing rifle compromised that precision. I’m going to have to call for a stand-down soon.

  Moonlight reflected off the thin layer of frost blanketing the field.

  “I’m glad we have nature’s cover to help keep us warm,” Werner whispered, a cloud of icy breath escaping from below his binoculars. Paul withheld his response, knowing the risk Werner took with his words.

  I’ll have to remind him later to take care of when and how he speaks.

  In the instant that it took for Paul to form his thought, he heard the tell-tale whistle, followed by a deep and deadly thud. A fine spray of crimson droplets erupted in slow motion from the gaping hole, ringed in blackened flesh, between Werner’s frosted eyebrows.

  Paul was momentarily distracted by a recollection of the birthday cake presented to his sister on her eighth birthday. Its white icing had been covered with red sprinkles.

  Paul’s movement was miniscule, shifting only his eyes to witness the shot, before his mind screamed, Duck!

  Two more bullets whistled in his direction, the first thudding into the trunk of a sapling directly behind Werner’s lifeless body. The second skimmed across the brim of his helmet, even before he could distance himself from the line of fire and collapse deeper into the pit for cover. The percussion of bullet against helmet gave him an instant headache, which amplified when his head crashed into the nest wall as he fell backward.

  Werner lay beside him, unmoving, braced as he had been before his life escaped him. The binoculars remained as they had been positioned, on the earthen wall at Werner’s nose.

  Before the second bullet found its lodging, Paul had heard more familiar whistles from nests to his left and right, where other members of his squad had settled. Seconds later, a Russian voice echoed from across the field.

  “Mama?” he cried.

  Silence followed. Except for the crawling of time, nothing moved.

  Paul tried to still his racing heart. Adrenaline pulsed through his body, and he fought to overcome its control. I can’t sight with shaking hands, his mind screamed.

  He took several deep breaths, releasing them into his mitted hand. When he felt his heart slow, and control return to his limbs, he raised the barrel of the Karabiner 98K slowly, until it rested on the lip of the pit. He was well aware that any movement put him at risk of being spotted by a Russian sniper.

  Paul settled the weight of the rifle butt and placed his finger on the trigger while he sighted the trees on the opposite side of the field. False dawn was approaching. Soon, the dark would hide no one.

  He found a target, high in a fir tree, and focussed. Squeezing the trigger slightly in preparation, he took a deep breath, steadied his body for a count of three, then squeezed the trigger home.

  Through the sight, he watched the bullet’s trajectory until a faint, crimson spray confirmed the accuracy of his shot and the shadow of his opponent slumped against the tree trunk. A moment later, the target’s rifle fell through the branches. Once again, silence followed; time crawled and nothing else moved.

  When Paul was confident that the immediate threat had passed, he gave the command to withdraw, before the light of dawn put his men at greater risk. He alone remained in his pit, scanning the far side of the field for danger. When he heard the quiet shuffle of his men assembling behind him, he began his own withdrawal.

  Paul reached for the rifles and other gear that he and Werner had brought into their pit and shoved them toward his feet. Feeling one of his men tug them away, he scrambled backward, grabbed Werner’s ankles, and pulled the spotter clear. With Werner hoisted over his shoulder, he lumbered to the fall-back position, signalling for his men to return to base.

  It’s time for someone else to assume the German control of that field. We’ve done our part this nasty night. I’m tired. My soul feels empty.

  Seeing Werner’s body slung over their captain’s shoulder, the other squad members remained quiet and contemplative, giving Paul an opportunity to reflect on the early morning events.

  For the first time since I was dragged into this wicked war, I’ve lost a man! How do I tell his family? I’m relieved to be out of that damn pit and heading back base. But, God help me, a man died on my watch! I need to get Werner’s body back to base bef
ore it freezes solid.

  When they had retreated deeper into the forest, Paul gave the leader of the relief squad a status report and passed command of the field to him. In the meantime, his men secured transportation back to the city for all of them, including Werner’s body.

  When Paul and his men returned to camp, he directed some of them to take Werner’s body to the makeshift morgue while he went in search of a field hospital. His head had been pounding since Werner had been killed, such that he wondered how he was able to make his last shot. He needed something more than a brandy to end the pain.

  He entered a field hospital tent and hailed a medic as he removed his helmet and balaclava.

  “Let me have a look at that,” the medic said, approaching him. “That’s a wicked bump. What happened?”

  Paul raised his hand to his forehead and felt the bump for the first time, then looked at his helmet. At the crease above the brim of the helmet was a narrow gouge about three centimetres long, exposing shiny steel beneath.

  “No wonder I have a headache!” Paul said, and proceeded to tell the medic what had happened earlier. “The percussion of the bullet when it grazed my helmet was obviously greater than I realized. It had to have banged the helmet hard into my head to create this lump!”

  The medic concluded his examination of the welt and applied a small bandage to the broken skin. “There’s not much I can do about the bump, but I’ll give you something for the pain,” he said. “You’re lucky not to have died with your spotter, sir. Any other injuries you like me to look at?”

  Paul shook his head. “If only there was a way for you to mend my spotter’s injury,” he said quietly.

  Werner’s body, his men confirmed later, was to be transported out within twenty-four hours. Paul told his men to stand down for the rest of the night. “Go have a beer and remember a good man,” he said, sadness filling his voice. “I have a letter to write.”