Oh, that fear of being taken prisoner by the Russians! It was that fear alone that prevented the war in Russia from ending as early as 1942. Imagine, if you will, what would have happened if our soldiers had been made to fight there for years under the same inhuman conditions, the same incompetent leadership, against the Americans or the British.
We remained in that sector for one week.
X
The attack expected for the morning of the following day did not come until evening. During this attack, something occurred that I would never have believed possible: we repulsed it.
From the moment I saw the first shapeless, muffled-up figures really and truly a hundred yards away from us approaching our sector—from that moment on I stood totally prepared to flee, my whistle at my lips, braced against the rear wall of the trench, one hand poised for the leap. Your brother stood there quite calmly, giving the orders that we had to pass on. Every few seconds we had to duck when a wave of Russian fire seemed to burst right in our faces, and every time that appalling fear when one could raise one’s head again: Are they here?
From time to time I would look back to make sure of a retreat under cover, for one of the old soldiers had told me, between two gulps from a bottle of schnapps, “What matters most in this whole war, kiddo, is a retreat under cover.”
The Russians came surging forward, forced over and over again by the scythelike action of our machine-gun fire to fling themselves to the ground: the screams of the wounded were already filling the thick gray air. From the rear we were supported by heavy artillery, while the neighboring companies also aimed their fire in front of our sector. Still, it seemed hopeless to try to stem that relentless tide. Just then your brother suddenly gave the order, “Prepare to attack!” Hardly had he uttered the command when a heavy salvo of Russian naval guns forced us to take cover. I ducked, and it flashed through my mind: This is it, you can’t go back, by now the Russians are here. But suddenly your brother’s voice shouted, “Forward, charge!”
He was the first to go over the top: with a frenzied gesture and another shout, he swept the entire company after him, and charge forward we did. At first the Russians hesitated, but that moment was enough; first a few of them started running, then whole groups turned tail—we could hear the shrill yelling and cursing of their officers while the rest put up their hands. We brought back twenty prisoners, the first living Russians we had seen face to face; their eyes held only one thing—fear.
The evening of the eighth day, I was sitting, for the first time in a long while, alone with your brother in the bunker. While we waited tensely for the ration runners, we drank schnapps and smoked cigarettes. The stretcher bearer had gone back with the ration runners to pick up medicines, bandages, and antitetanus ampules, for if anyone was wounded in the daytime, we had to leave him lying where he was until nightfall. Your brother sat by the phone, and I squatted at his feet on the flattened pile of straw on which we slept.
“The whole secret of attack,” he suddenly said, after we had been silent for a long time, “is to imagine how scared the enemy is. Imagine yourself crouching in your hole and you suddenly see some characters charging at you and yelling their heads off! You go crazy with fear; you saw that on Tuesday—we lost all self-control. You have to force the enemy to become passive. Then he’s done for.”
“You’ve found the secret of how to win the war,” I said dryly. “Sell it for a fortune, and you’ve got it made.”
He gave a quick laugh, then his expression grew serious again, and he lit another cigarette. “But the terrible thing is that one doesn’t know which side one wants to win …”
At this moment the stretcher bearer rushed in, shouting, “We’re being relieved, sir, we’re being relieved!”
What was happening was that the front, whose defense was demanding increasingly pointless sacrifices, was being shortened; the lines were allowed to shrink, and for several days a few units could be saved that were then sent back to the front to reinforce the shortened line. Whatever the reason, it was wonderful to go back to the rear for at least a brief respite. The ration runner hadn’t bothered to bring any more rations; we were to have our meal in peace and quiet at the rear. At midnight, when darkness had become solid, we moved off, a sad procession: one week earlier we had moved into position with nearly eighty men, and we were returning with forty-eight.
In the dark it was impossible to make out whether it was the same place. When we actually did reach the village I was filled with a fantastic feeling of life.
Your brother was kept busy for a while, making sure his men were properly accommodated, supervising the distribution of rations. He gave orders that the following day the men would be off duty, attended to a pile of tiresome paperwork in the orderly room, and instructed me to heat up enough water for a thorough wash.
We were billeted in a farm cottage whose rough windows had been nailed up with cardboard and then draped with blankets. I lit four bunker lights, one in each corner, and stoked up the stove with plenty of wood. It was almost November. I had lost all desire for sleep, although an hour earlier I could have collapsed from exhaustion. Slowly savoring every mouthful, I emptied my mess kit, washed down the rich bean soup with generous swigs of schnapps, and stuffed the larger of my two pipes so full of tobacco that the pale yellow shreds hung over the edge. Drawing deeply on my pipe, I would drink another schnapps and watch the roaring flames as they devoured the wood in the stove. From time to time I would dip my hand in the bucket to test the heat of the water. With every pull on my pipe I sucked in something precious, indescribable, something that felt good even as I remembered the dead and the wounded: life.
When the water seemed hot enough, I carefully pulled out my underwear from the bag I had collected from the company baggage, chose a decent civilian shirt—light blue with a proper civilized collar—and sniffed it: it still smelled of Cadette’s soap.
Slowly, with an intoxicated sensuousness, I washed myself. Imagine, if you can: you live in the ground and receive every day as much or as little liquid as you need barely to satisfy your most elementary thirst; not a single opportunity to wash even your fingertips, yet still having to spend hours crawling over the wet ground. You become matted with dirt. Fortunately, since we were all newcomers, we had been spared the otherwise inevitable lice, those demoralizing vermin that contributed significantly toward our losing the war. Later I was to become familiar with them.
I kept on washing long enough for the fresh lot of water to have heated up again; then I shaved and put on clean underwear and socks. I was filled with exaltation: never had that rotgut tasted so delicious, never had tobacco tasted so good. Just before two, your brother came back. He greeted me wearily, sat down on the bench by the stove, removed his cap, and, with a sudden gesture, flung it onto the floor in the middle of the room.
While he ate, I set the bucket of water on a low wooden stool, put soap and towel beside it, and laid out the underwear I had taken out of his pack.
Then I lay down on a bed in the corner and watched him. When he began to shave, I said, “You still owe me the solution to a riddle you asked me at the station in Abbeville. About the wine salesman …”
“Yes,” he said with a laugh, “that was two weeks ago; it feels as if it had been in another life.”
“It was in another life,” I said.
“Maybe you’re right—I’ll give you the solution before the day is out.”
The door opened, and in came Schnecker. We were surprised less at the sight of him than of a new decoration on his chest.
I had jumped to my feet and accorded him the mandatory obeisance. With a wave of the hand he said, “Lie down again.”
Your brother greeted him silently and, just as silently, offered him a stool.
Schnecker seated himself astride a chair, lit a cigarette, and proceeded to watch your brother shaving.
I had ample time to observe him as he sat turned sideways toward me. He sat extraordinarily still, almost mot
ionless, but when I looked at him more closely I realized that he was completely drunk. He was at that stage when a drunk man is filled with a leaden stability, when an almost idiotic law of gravity keeps him upright. When he started to speak, it became obvious that I had assumed correctly.
“My friend,” he began; his voice, very pinched, came from high up in his throat. “I see you’re up to some nice little tricks, my friend, hm?”
“What do you mean?” countered your brother, who had finished shaving. He dried his face and put on his shirt.
“I see you’re up to some nice little tricks. I haven’t heard a thing about there being no duty tomorrow, and you simply go ahead and order it.” He laughed.
Your brother laughed too. “If you haven’t heard a thing about it, so much the better.”
“But now I have heard about it,” said the captain, his tone sharpening as he jerked himself to his feet. “And I’m telling you that it’s important for the men to go over their weapons and gear tomorrow—the day after that we’re being redeployed, assigned to the Seventeenth, a bit farther south, understand?” By now he was almost shouting.
“I understand perfectly, but first I’m going to see that the men get some sleep. Besides …” he hesitated, slowly tied his neckband, ran his hand once more over his hair, looked at Schnecker, and was silent.
“Besides what?” asked the captain.
“Besides,” your brother calmly continued, “I would have preferred it if I could have seen you now and then up at the front with me this past week.”
“What’s that?” A wary look came over the captain’s face, and he shot a glance in my direction, but I had closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. The two men now lowered their voices.
“I would have preferred it if I could have seen you now and then in my sector during this past week. It would have given the men quite a boost, and me too, for that matter. It’s dreadful to feel all the time that one is alone. After all, orders are only paper.”
“Paper?” asked Schnecker. His expression was now almost maniacal; his voice had slipped too, and he was quite hoarse.
“Yes, paper!” shouted your brother, so loud that I was really startled. “Paper! Paper! A substance inferior even to that gilt tin on your manly chest!”
“Oho!” cried the captain; now he was laughing again. Suddenly he stood stiffly to attention. “I have to inform you, First Lieutenant Schelling,” he said raspingly, “that you have been awarded the Iron Cross, First and Second Class, also the Infantry Assault Medal in Silver. You fought damn well. In fifteen minutes the gentlemen of the battalion will be holding a small celebration in your honor and”—he gave a little bow to himself—“in mine too.”
He put on his cap and marched out stiff as a ramrod. It was almost as if he hadn’t been there at all. Your brother whistled softly as he cleaned his nails, the cigarette between his lips. I rose and put out two of the lights that had begun to flicker and threatened to burst into flames.
“I don’t feel much like sleeping now—how about us looking in on the party?”
“Us?” I asked in surprise.
“Of course you’re coming along—you’re getting a decoration too, maybe a couple.”
“What, me?” I exclaimed.
“Of course,” he said, laughing. “Besides, there’ll be women there. I’d like to have one more chance to see a woman.”
“Girls?” I cried.
“Maybe girls too!” He laughed again. “I’ve no idea what kind will be there. Anyway, they’ll be women, and I’d like the chance to have a glass or two of wine with one of them.”
“Jesus!” I cried. “Women!”
He stood up and drew on his greatcoat. I put on my cap and slipped into a padded camouflage jacket.
We stepped out together into the cold night; it was quiet, something resembling peace lay spread under the dark vault of the sky. Headquarters were in a large building, something between a palace and a manor house—I imagine it had been the administrative offices of a kolkhoz.
The sentry let us pass without hindrance, although we didn’t know the password. We found ourselves walking along dark corridors and managed to rout out a telephone operator who directed us to the third floor. Raucous singing filled the corridor, which smelled of Russia. A door opened, light and noise streamed out onto the corridor, were immediately swallowed up again, and we soon came upon a figure that was staggering toward a window, apparently to throw up.
“Hello, Piester!” cried your brother. The man turned, recognized your brother, and waved. We went closer. He leaned on a window sill and groaned pitifully. It was the adjutant, an agreeable young lieutenant not much given to talking.
As we stood beside him he said, “I can’t take any more, Schelling. He keeps forcing me to drink, I can’t take any more, but he threatens to shoot anyone who won’t drink. I can’t take any more.” As he leaned over the sill, I followed him with my eyes; below lay a dark, silent garden that appeared to be planted with vines.
“Where’s your room?” asked your brother.
“Why do you ask?”
“Come along.”
Your brother took Piester by the arm and steered him ahead down the long corridor. Each time Piester hesitated, your brother gave him another push. Piester opened a door.
“Let’s have some light,” your brother said to me. I fished out my box of matches, and by the light of the burning match we entered the room. Then I closed the door behind me and ran to the window to fasten the blackout curtain.
The room looked bare. On the floor lay a pack; beside the narrow wooden bed stood an officer’s trunk, and on it a half-written letter and a candle stuck to the lid. A piece of broken mirror hung on the wall.
We forced Piester onto the bed; his face was yellow.
“Something terrible is going to happen,” mumbled Piester, his eyes closing the moment he lay down. “He’s run out of schnapps, and the paymaster won’t fork out any more. Something terrible—they’re expecting you …”
We went back onto the corridor. All this time I had been listening, almost apprehensively, for a woman’s voice, but even now I could hear nothing but that stupid male yowling.
The moment we opened the door, silence fell in the room. It was a scene of utter debauchery: Schnecker was sitting on the table, his legs spread-eagled, his tunic unbuttoned and revealing curly black hair on his broad chest. Beside him stood an artillery officer holding a bottle of cognac upside down over Schnecker’s gaping mouth. After a brief pause they both resumed their bestial yowling.
Over in the corner stood the battalion’s medical officer, an elderly bourgeois type; beside him a young Russian woman with soft blond hair and a rosy, peasantlike face: she looked like a girl. I assumed her to be the doctor’s mistress, a doctor herself, of whom I had heard a good deal when collecting our rations. She was said to be very skillful at bandaging and very kind to the wounded. Now she was watching the scene at the table with a completely dispassionate curiosity, while her lover, looking very nervous, was holding her tightly by the arm.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said your brother.
Schnecker let out a hoarse roar and tried to jump off the table, but he slipped and would have struck it head first if we hadn’t caught him in time. The artillery officer smashed the empty bottle onto the floor and looked at us idiotically.
“Good evening,” your brother repeated, smiling in the direction of the Russian woman, who bowed slightly and smiled back at us.
We helped Schnecker down from his wedged position on the table. “Not a drop of booze left!” he shouted. “Goddamn it, not a drop left. My good friend Karlemann has just squeezed the last drops out of the bottle for me!” He gratefully patted the artillery officer, who was still laughing idiotically.
“Well!” said your brother. “You’re a fine host, I must say. When I arrive there’s nothing left!”
Schnecker stared at him. Those bloodshot eyes were hot and ugly.
I could look
only at the Russian woman; the mere sight of her soft, rosy skin gave me a pang of happiness, and I trembled as she approached. She kept her eyes firmly on Schnecker as she took her doddering old medical officer by the hand and walked without a sound to the door.
Meanwhile Schnecker had been having an incoherent, raucous dialogue with the artillery officer, but when the Russian woman was almost at the door—I had stepped aside and was close enough to be aware of how crisp and clean she smelled—Schnecker swung around in a flash and, his mouth agape with laughter, shouted, “Stop, my girl—not yet! You have to have another drink with me!” The medical officer had freed his hand and stepped back.
“But you’ve nothing more to drink!” said the woman, her voice as clear as ringing metal.
“There’s more on the way!” He careened around the table, guffawed, dashed to the door, flung it open, and screamed, “Alarm! Alarm! Alarm!”
At first we didn’t understand and stood rooted to the spot. Even the artillery officer seemed to have sobered up a bit Schnecker came back and called out to us, “Now he’ll have to get out of bed, that stinker—then we’ll have some booze!”
Your brother sighed and took a deep breath, flung himself at Schnecker, and thrust him out into the dark corridor. I followed them, the woman screamed, the medical officer shouted, “My God … my God …” while the artillery officer tried in vain to get around the table, stammering, “Karlemann … Karlemann …”
Schnecker was now wrestling outside with your brother: he was a muscular fellow, and drunkenness must have doubled his strength. I ran to them, grabbed him from behind, and dragged him over to the window, meanwhile pummeling away at him in my towering rage. Somewhere in the dark the last of his decorations fell with a tinny sound onto the tiled floor. Schnecker groaned, spat, bit, and, whenever he managed to free his mouth, which your brother was clamping shut, screamed like a madman, “Alarm! Alarm!”