Forgotten Soldier (50 page)

"Did that ever occur to you?"

I thought he was going to throw me out. But his attitude was inconsistent. Perhaps he was a little afraid of me.

"I'll take the coffeepot back when we're through with it," he said with a bitter laugh.

"Would you like a little more?"

I held out my cup, feeling pleased with myself for putting a fellow soldier back on the right track.

I waited for more than nine hours, and had almost given up hope, when at last a train arrived and took me away.

CANCELLED LEAVE

Partisans

On the train from Vinnitsa toward Lvov and Lublin, I was traveling with soldiers who'd been at Cherkassy and Kremenchug.

They told me about the hellish fighting which had taken place near those towns, now lost to us or slipping from our grasp. Everywhere, the crushing numerical superiority of the enemy was finally overwhelming our positions, which we defended with desperate determination, paying an appalling price in casualties. All the fellows on the train were going on leave too, but despite their joy, they seemed crushed by the experiences they had just lived through.

The train came into Lublin station at dawn on a winter morning. The ground was covered with snow, and the Polish cold felt much sharper than the cold in Russia. Even though we were used to sleeping outdoors, no one had been able to rest on the train, and we greeted the morning with turned-up collars and gray faces. Despite the early hour, the station platforms were crowded with soldiers walking up and down to keep warm, dressed and equipped for the front. There were many new recruits, easily distinguishable by their boyish, rosy faces. Military police had been stationed at intervals of ten yards down the length of the platform for incoming trains. I had overestimated my strength. As I obeyed the orders barked over the P.A. system, and jumped down onto the platform, I was shaking with sleeplessness and cold, and my legs were buckling under me.

We lined up parallel to the train, and marched into the big hall which stood at one end of the station. As we tramped toward the hall, the gasping locomotive pulled the empty train onto a secondary track.

In the hall, we were each given a cup of steaming ersatz and two spoonfuls of a curious jam. As we ate, several officers climbed onto a wheeled platform equipped with a loudspeaker. Military policemen were standing watchfully on either side of them, and at the foot of the platform.

First, the amplifier crackled and buzzed for a moment, and then a nasal voice roared unintelligibly until someone adjusted the mechanism. The principal thrust of the officer's speech struck all of us like a slap in the face:

". . . leaves must be cancelled."

We thought we must have misunderstood him, but then the familiar series-

"necessity ... difficulty . . . duty ... supplementary effort . . . victory" brought it home to us that this was no dream. The crowd buzzed angrily, and a few fellows even shouted their outrage. But the loudspeakers were already blaring the "Deutsche Marsche," drowning our fury in martial music. As the hopes and plans of several thousand men crumbled, the music grew louder. The jam we were swallowing suddenly seemed tasteless, and the ersatz bitter. Before we had time to feel sorry for ourselves, the M.P.s were herding us toward a train which was ready to leave for the East.

Three cars were loaded with supplies for the troops, and we were ordered to line up beside them. Because our nervous exhaustion and disappointment were so evident, and the desire to desert was so clearly stamped on so many faces, we were closely hemmed in by police. We were issued fur hats, like the hats worn by Russian troops, crudely made over-vests of reversed sheepskin, cotton gloves with woolen linings, and enormous overshoes with reinforced cork soles and felt uppers. A few boxes of tinned food were added to this voluminous issue, and we no longer entertained any doubts as to our fate: we were obviously being shipped back for another winter in Russia. Most of us were ready to cry with disappointment.

The train was crammed to the bursting point. Some of the passengers were young boys about to go into combat for the first time. Others were veterans returning from leave, who were scarcely any happier than we were, and others, like myself, had been suddenly obliged to replace their plans for leave with the sinking apprehension which all men, no matter how brave, feel as they are about to confront a highly problematical fate.

We rolled east for a considerable time, before we finally grasped what had happened to us. I was dumb with disappointment, remembering Magdeburg and my despair when the scope of that leave was abruptly limited. This time Berlin wasn't even on my route, and there was no chance of encountering Paula. There had been no period of grace at all-not even twenty-four hours. As I thought about it, the weight of what had just occurred seemed to increase, dragging me down into a black depression. However, I still had one hope. As soon as I had returned to my unit, I would have my status as a convalescent officially verified. Why hadn't I thought of explaining that to the police at the station? But, of course, no one in his right mind should ever expect anything decent from a military policeman. My last chance was that once I got back to the company Wesreidau would be able to arrange things for me.

As always, the trains for the front were moving at top speed, unlike westbound trains, which often made long, inexplicable stops. Ours was no exception to this rule.

Nevertheless, an important incident broke our momentum.

The locomotive had just refueled and resumed the speed which was to carry us through to Vinnitsa. The station where we had stopped had bristled with signs bearing the names of towns no longer accessible to us: Konotop, Kursk, Kharkov-names which evoked unbearably painful memories.

About fifteen minutes out of the station the train braked so violently that all the carriages shuddered, and we nearly left the rails. Inside, men and boxes were flung to the floor, and the air rang with angry curses. We all thought we had in fact been derailed. Soldiers in long coats were running down the length of the tracks, answering our shouted questions by waving ahead.

"You were lucky we could stop you," one of them yelled.

About five hundred yards to the east, the track, which ran between two walls of sparse woodland, was blocked by a chaos of overturned cars. We jumped down to the ground to find out what had happened.

Partisans . . . dynamite on the track . . . train loaded with munitions . . . 150 soldiers killed ... reprisals ... patrols ... pursuit.

The immediate work had already been divided among three hundred unhurt soldiers. One group remained on the spot to help the wounded and another left in pursuit of the partisans, who had not been content simply to derail the train, but had opened fire as our men struggled to get free of the wreckage. Officers were blowing their whistles, and at least three thousand men from our train climbed down. We were divided into three groups. The largest of these, about two thousand strong, was sent out in pursuit of the enemy. I was included in this section. The second was sent to help our wounded comrades, while the third was deployed in the immediate area, to ensure the protection of the train. The bulk of my belongings, like everyone else's, remained on the train, and at the blast of the whistle we dogtrotted off into the countryside, which lay under a foot of snow.

Running through snow isn't easy. In less than two minutes one is lathered with sweat, and after twenty it is almost impossible to breathe. Within an hour one's lungs feel bruised by the pressure of one's ribs, and everything is dancing with colored lights. The weather wasn't very cold, and the effects of our gymnastic efforts nearly suffocated us. The noncoms and officers who had followed us eventually grew tired of sustaining a zealous performance and resumed a walking pace. An hour and a half after leaving the train, we slogged into a large peasant village, our heads drooping with fatigue. Almost all the houses had thatched roofs, and attached sheds made of woven sunflower stalks, for storing winter supplies.

When we arrived, the place was already full of German soldiers, and the snow-covered central square was tightly packed with civilians men, women, and children-gesturing excitedly and talking loudly. Soldiers-some of them with spandaus ready to fire-were stationed all around the square, and toward the center other soldiers were shoving their way through the mass of civilians, roughly driving some of them off to one side. To the right, beside a building which probably served as the village hall, a third group of soldiers were standing with drawn guns over a dozen Russians lying on their stomachs in the snow.

At first I thought they were dead.

"Partisans we caught here," explained one of the soldiers standing beside me.

Were they really guilty, or were they only suspects?

None of the questioning was up to me. The interrogations lasted for at least an hour. The Popovs lying on their stomachs must have had frozen guts but that was true for our machine gunners too.

An S.S. section had been included in the pursuit group. I had the honor of being assigned by them to a smaller group of a hundred men who, like me, were returning to duty. Their attention was undoubtedly drawn to me by the edge of my left sleeve with its Gross Deutschland inscription. The S.S. preferred to use men belonging to elite divisions. Without explanation, we were loaded onto S.S. trucks, ignorant of the fate of the civilians lying on the ground. We drove for about twenty minutes over very hilly country. Then we were ordered to leave the trucks. An S.S. hauptmann in a long, dark leather coat addressed us briefly.

"You will fan out to the right, and move into those woods, taking every precaution. A factory which you can't see from here is situated about three-quarters of a mile to the west. The Russian informants who are accompanying us have indicated that this is an important center of terrorist operations. We must take them by surprise and wipe them out."

He appointed squad leaders, and we moved off.

What a splendid convalescence! I would have done better to stay in the hospital at Vinnitsa.

After a short time, we saw a series of metal roofs, which must have been part of the factory. But, before we had a chance to give them a second look, a burst of machine-gun fire broke the silence. One of the S.S. men shouted: "We've got you, you bastards! You might as well give up!"

It looked as though the Russian partisans we'd caught in the village had given this place away under pressure. There were some more shots, and then the familiar clatter of Russian machine guns coming from the edge of the buildings. Another fellow and I threw ourselves down under a small tree, whose snow-laden branches touched the ground. We heard whistles ordering us to advance, but for the moment I stayed where I was. It would be too stupid to get knocked off by a handful of terrorists. The other fellow muttered in my ear:

"The bastards! We've really got them this time! Now we'll teach them to blow up trains!"

After five minutes of hard fighting, German soldiers began to stand up all around us. We had taken about ten more Russian prisoners. Some were singing a Russian song of vengeance, but most were begging for mercy. About thirty S.S. men were herding them toward the truck, already beating them and shouting questions. We thought everything was over, when the S.S. captain blew his whistle to fall in.

"Those bastards," he said, gesturing at the sobbing prisoners, "claim they're the only ones here. Maybe they think they can fool us and protect their friends who are still hiding inside, but I want you to clear the place." He pointed at the factory buildings. "We've got to take the whole bunch, and all the weapons they're hiding there."

Of course, there was no question of argument. With dry mouths, we moved forward into the factory buildings, which were littered with hundreds of large objects-ideal for snipers and as bad as possible for us. The relatively large size of our force was in no way reassuring. Even if we overwhelmed the partisans in the end, each bullet they fired was bound to hit someone, and if I should happen to be the only casualty in a victorious army of a million men, the victory would be without interest for me. The percentage of corpses, in which generals sometimes take pride, doesn't alter the fate of the men who've been killed.

The only leader I know of who finally made a sensible remark on this point, Adolf Hitler, once said to his troops: "Even a victorious army must count its victims."

What was made in this factory lost in the wilderness? Perhaps they processed timber. The first shed housed a large band saw, and farther on we passed several others, as well as a kind of dredging machine with a string of rusty scoops. The first two sheds were empty. Perhaps the prisoners had been telling the truth. But our orders were to check the whole place. Our group surrounded the entire factory complex, and then began to move toward the center. We passed through a series of enormous barn-like buildings which seemed to be on the point of collapse. They had never been painted, and every iron fixture was half eaten away by rust, like the old anchor chains at a port.

The wind was blowing hard, and the buildings echoed with sinister creaking sounds. Otherwise, everything was quiet, except for an occasional clatter made by one of our men deliberately shoving aside some metal object, or overturning a pile of crates.

About eight of us had moved into the darkness of a building littered with a jumble of miscellaneous clutter. There were no windows, and consequently there was almost no light. Then we all heard a series of clicking sounds. But the wind blowing through the building filled the air with the bangings and clickings of loose boards and tiles. Although everyone understood that theoretically each moment might be our last, no one really accepted that idea, and no one took any special precautions. Outside, the S.S. must have cornered several Russians. We heard a series of shots and cries, and sounds of running and shouting. Suddenly, our shed was filled with the noise of explosions. Five or six flares thrown from a room or closet in an upper story lit the darkness, and almost simultaneously four of our companions screamed with pain. A moment later, two of them had collapsed onto the dusty floor, while the other two staggered toward the open door. The rest of us looked hastily for shelter, stumbling through the darkness, uncertain of where we might find cover. There were several more shots, and somewhere to my right two more soldiers howled with pain. My gun shuddered violently in my hands. A bullet had struck it in the butt, taking a piece with it, and missing me by inches. The two fellows trying to get to the door were both hit again, but neither of them fell until they had reached a drift of white snow which the wind had blown over the threshold. Outside, more soldiers had run up, but they stopped at the door and fired a few shots which were far more likely to hit one of us than any partisan. There were two of us still unhurt, and we began to shout as if we were fifty. Some idiot might think of tossing in a grenade, which would finish us off along with all the Russians. Luckily, someone heard us in time to think of another tactic. While our comrades outside tried to break through the corrugated iron walls, the Russians inside were firing at every detectable movement. The bullets, which pierced the flimsy walls, were as dangerous to our men outside as they were to us. I was half dead with fright.