The Cross of Iron (22 page)

For a while Stransky remained lying where he was. But when minute after minute passed without incident, he pulled himself up, blew the sand from his lips and felt his limbs. It seemed a miracle to him that he had not been hurt. Never had death been so close to him.

For a few seconds longer he stood still dazed. Then he ran with giant strides down the hill, stumbled into the ravine, hurried along the brook, and slowed down only as he approached his headquarters. A few paces before the bunkers he was hailed. One of his men emerged from the shadow of the fruit trees. As soon as the soldier recognized Stransky, he clicked his heels and rattled off a report. Back in his bunker, Stransky threw himself down on the cot. For a long while he lay still, staring open-eyed at the ceiling. Each time his recollections came around to Kiesel, a blaze of rage obliterated cool thought.

He began to seek excuses for his conduct. The period in France softened me up, he thought. I’m not the man I was. Certainly those two years in Paris had left their traces upon him. He had been commander of a garrison battalion and uncrowned lord of several thousand civilians. Those feasts at the colonel’s villa, the French wine, the ladies of easy virtue—he closed his eyes and enjoyed his recollections for a while. Then he saw the colonel’s mocking look when he informed him of his decision to ask for a transfer to the eastern front. His parting words rang in Stransky’s ears as if they were being spoken at the moment. ‘I can’t stop you,’ the colonel had said, ‘since I am convinced that without you the eastern front would collapse in a matter of days. Go ahead, in the devil’s name, you heroic fathead.’ His other friends and acquaintances had shaken their heads in bewilderment, as if he were a man exchanging a mansion on the French Riviera for a straw-roofed kraal in the Congo.

And now after only ten days here, he was wishing he were back in France. Fortunately his connections were good enough to enable him to transfer back at any time he wished. But it was too soon as yet. First there was the little matter of filling out the empty space on the front of his tunic. Eyes closed, he tried to picture the look of the Iron Cross on the grey uniform cloth. An oval face appeared before his eyes, a hand touched his arm lightly, and a bewitching voice whispered words that stirred his blood and confused his mind: ‘I love brave men, men who have more courage than it takes to pay compliments, men who have lain with death as well as women -’

At the sudden knock on the door he jerked around sharply. ‘Yes!’ he called in a strident voice. Lieutenant Triebig entered, pausing in the doorway with a respectful smile. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you at this late hour, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but there are a few things for you to sign.’

‘Let me have the junk,’ Stransky said crossly. As he glanced through the papers and signed his name, Triebig continued to watch him with his soft eyes, the smile remaining fixed on his face. Stransky, finishing the batch, pushed the signed papers toward him and looked up quickly. This bird cannot look you straight in the eyes, he thought. Time I found out a little about him. After all, it was of some importance to know what kind of creature lived inside the skin of his adjutant. Gesturing toward a chair, he tried to inject a cordial note into his voice. ‘Sit down, won’t you? We really have had no chance to exchange a personal word until now.’ ‘Unfortunately that’s true,’ Triebig replied politely.

Stransky offered him a cigarette. ‘How long have you been here—with the battalion, I mean?’ he asked.

‘Four months. The battalion was at Tuapse when I joined it.’ 

‘Where had you been stationed before?’

‘In the south of France—Bordeaux,’ Triebig said, his voice softening.

‘Oh!’ Stransky raised his head in surprise. ‘What unit?’

‘The 312th Infantry Division. Guarding the coast.’

‘Then being transferred must have come hard, eh? Why were you transferred, anyway?’

The question caught Triebig off balance. Officially, the transfer had come by his own request; unofficially, there had been a small incident he preferred not to mention. At an impatient little cough from Stransky he quickly pulled himself together and replied: ‘I voluntarily applied for a transfer, sir.’

Noticing his embarrassment Stransky began to look at him suspiciously. ‘How interesting,’ he drawled.

In the ensuing pause Triebig moved his head restlessly. With mounting apprehension he waited for Stransky to speak again, and was almost overcome with relief when the captain dropped the awkward subject and began to talk about the lovely countryside of southern France. ‘Believe me, I have seen a good deal of the world; but whenever I visit that region I am enchanted all over again. A. beautiful country; its charm is in the very air. One can almost scent it; perhaps it is the closeness of the sea.’

Triebig nodded eagerly.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is exactly how I felt.’

He gazed dreamily into a corner of the bunker. It was all present to him again: the undulating blue of the water, the white pebbled beach, the flickering brightness of the caressing air, the deep, moist green of the palms. With a little sigh he said:

‘All of southern France is like one garden. We lived in real mansions right on the beach. Swimming at any hour, day or night. It was indescribable: the sea, the palms, the beaches, the people, everything -’ Overwhelmed by his memories he stopped. Stransky was astonished to see him swallow with emotion. With a knowing smile he winked and said:

‘The women, you mean.’

Triebig raised his head inquiringly:

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, the women—I mean, in referring to the people you meant, of course, the women?’ Stransky repeated.

Triebig shrugged indifferently. ‘Not so much that. I am—that is -’ he became confused. ‘I didn’t have much time to think about women.’

‘Come now,’ Stransky raised his finger jokingly. ‘Occupation duty and no time for women—I’ve been in France myself!’ Triebig tried hastily to correct his slip.

‘Of course, there were opportunities now and then,’ he said. ‘But to tell the truth, I had other worries.’

He felt at once how unsatisfactory this explanation sounded and watched the commander’s face uneasily.

Stransky’s eyebrows rose:

‘Other worries. You mean to tell me you had worries in
France? '
And suddenly Stransky became keenly alert. The story of voluntary transfer sounded fishy. Anyone who talked so enthusiastically about France was unlikely to volunteer for service in Russia. Triebig didn’t look the type who would risk a hero’s death for the sake of a few medals, and Stransky remembered the man’s reluctance to answer when asked the reasons for his transfer. He decided to probe a little further.

‘If you had worries in France, that is your affair. It is not my habit to intrude on any man’s private life. It is-’ He stopped abruptly. The relief on Triebig’s face was so patent that for a second Stransky lost the thread. But he caught himself quickly and continued in an even, casual voice: ‘Are you married?’ Triebig shook his head. ‘No, sir. When would I have had a chance to marry? I was only twenty when I started at Officers’ Training School. That didn’t leave much time for anything like that.’

‘I suppose not,’ Stransky agreed. His next question was a cautious generality: ‘Do you like soldiering?’

‘Certainly,’ Triebig declared with emphasis.

Stransky nodded patronizingly. ‘I am glad to hear that.’

‘It is like living in an altogether different world,’ Triebig added. 

The candle had burned down. Stransky rose and lit another. Then he sat down again and folded his arms across his chest. ‘It would interest me,’ he said slowly, ‘to hear your definition of the differences between this world and the world of the civilian.’ Triebig smiled, abashed. ‘Hard to say, sir. I suppose it’s something in the environment, in the atmosphere.’ He shrugged. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘You are a keen observer,’ Stransky remarked innocuously. ‘But after all isn’t it always the people who make the environment, who provide the atmosphere.’

‘Certainly,’ Triebig agreed.

Stransky lit another cigarette and dropped the burning match to the floor. He waited until it went out; then he raised his head. The suspicion he had been nursing during the past few minutes began to assume a definite shape.

‘It is indeed a very different world, the one we live in,’ he now said. ‘A world of danger and a world of men, a world without women. You know, Triebig, we experience it in ourselves. Things that seemed simply impossible in the past, in ordinary civilian life, happen here.’ He laughed. ‘For example, in the army it becomes apparent that men are not absolutely dependent on women after all. It’s an old idea of mine that we men can get along, even without women. Dependency upon women seems to me a regrettable flaw in the male character. I tell you, man’s truly natural destiny is not only to breed children, but rather to be free, to rule, and fight—in other words, to lead a man’s existence in which women are no more than a fancy but superfluous dessert. Or do you disagree?’

Triebig looked up at him in great confusion. For a moment Stransky wondered whether he had not gone too far. But no, he had nothing to fear from the man. The bait was good; if his suspicion proved correct, Triebig was sure to bite.

He was momentarily disappointed. Triebig remained extremely reserved. His innate sense of caution, sharpened by a good many bad experiences, had been alerted by Stransky’s remarks. Intertwining his fingers, he regarded his thumb thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think I disagree, sir.’ He hesitated. If Stransky was seriously feeling his way to an offer, he must not put obstacles in the way. He had played this nerve-wracking game of words dozens of times and thought he could trust himself to risk a step further. Forcing himself to adopt a tone as innocent and casual as possible, he said: ‘This seems to me an individual matter. There are men who simply cannot live without women, and others who never have been dependent upon them.’

‘And which class do you feel you belong to?’ Stransky asked. Triebig hesitated again. ‘That depends,’ he said tentatively. ‘I think that if I have to, I can live without women.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ Stransky declared. For a moment he studied the burning tip of his cigarette. Then he looked up quickly. ‘In other words, you prefer the company of a man to that of a woman?’

Triebig, eyes half-closed, scrutinized him. He felt himself breaking into a sweat, and he shifted uneasily about in his chair. From here on every word could turn into a booby-trap. ‘It depends on the situation,’ he muttered.

‘Really?’ Stransky smiled. When Triebig did not reply, he shrugged. ‘Wearing a uniform does not relieve you of the obligation to display a certain amount of ordinary, everyday courage. But if it will help you, I shall put your thoughts into words for you.’ His smile broadened. ‘You prefer the society of men to that of women in any and all situations.’

The words hung in the silence of the bunker in all their brutal nakedness. Triebig retreated into himself like a snail sealing itself up in its shell. His chin trembled and he stared with mingled fear, assent and hope at Stransky’s face, which still registered nothing but friendly interest. Afraid silence might be interpreted as agreement, Triebig murmured, ‘I did not say that, sir.’

Stransky nodded reassuringly. He felt convinced that he was on the right track, and decided to risk everything on a single card. Softly, insistently he said: ‘Certainly you did not say it, but I wish you would.’ He grinned confidentially. ‘Let’s drop the hide and seek. By God, man, you don’t have to put on a front with me, of all people. What I said is true isn’t it? Say yes, man, for heaven’s sake.’

Triebig felt his mouth opening. He wanted to stop himself, but the word was already said. The smile on Stransky’s face went out at once. He dropped back into his chair, staring at Triebig as though seeing him for the first time. His eyes filled with contempt. ‘How very, very interesting, Lieutenant,’ he drawled. ‘Extremely interesting indeed. To tell the truth, I’ve never had dealings with one of your kind before.’

Triebig stared at him appalled, his mouth partly open as though he were on the point of screaming. ‘I don’t understand, sir -’ he stammered.

‘You understand me well,’ Stransky replied savagely. ‘Do you take me for a fool. You said yes, didn’t you?’

Triebig, lips quivering, did not answer. Stransky sprang to his feet and stepped directly in front of him. ‘Speak out,’ he bellowed. ‘You said yes. Don’t you dare lie to my face. You said yes, didn’t you?’ At the sight of the enraged face only inches away from his own, Triebig closed his eyes in terror. When Stransky gripped his shoulders and shook him, he nodded feebly and whispered: ‘Yes.’

At once Stransky released him, took a step back, and ordered: ‘Stand up!’ Trembling, Triebig obeyed. Slowly Stransky looked him up and down. His voice was under control again as he said: ‘I can assure you of this: if I catch you trying any of that stuff, I’ll have you hanged, remember that! Now get the hell out of here and keep out of my sight for the next twenty-four hours. Get out!’ He suddenly shouted as Triebig stood immobile. For a second Triebig looked at the commander’s distorted face. Then he wheeled round, stumbled across the threshold and vanished into the night. Stransky remained standing in the same spot for several minutes. Then he fished for a cigarette, lit it and began to grin. For the first time in a week he was completely satisfied with himself and with the world at large.

Triebig stood in front of the bunker gazing wild-eyed at the trees. From the trenches came the occasional hammering of a machine-gun. Isolated rifle-shots sounded disturbingly close, and tracer bullets whished in fiery trails above the dark hills. For a long while Triebig stood unmoving, incapable of a coherent thought. He felt his whole being trampled upon, humiliated, reduced to a pulp. Finally he moved off toward his bunker on unsteady legs. He stumbled down the steps, closed the door and dropped on to his cot like a stone. I must shoot myself, he thought; I must shoot myself at once. He groped for his pistol. But as soon as he felt the cool steel against his forehead, he lowered his arm, and with a sudden, violent movement hurled the gun to the floor. Then he turned over on his stomach, pressed his face against the blanket and began to sob unrestrainedly.