The Cross of Iron (30 page)

‘Too damn many of them,’ Steiner murmured. ‘Get going.’

He watched Krüger crawl off until the dark shadow on the ground was absorbed by the surrounding gloom. Abruptly he felt terribly isolated. For a while he stood staring across the trench, jaw set. He wished he could turn back and take one of the men with him. One of the men.... He remembered that they were waiting for the signal, and pulled himself together. Cautiously he climbed up the other side of the trench, clambered over the rampart, and waited until the next flare came. When it faded, he straightened up and tensed his body. His heart suddenly began to pound like mad, and he sank back on the ground. ‘Stand up, you fool,’ he chided himself. ‘Stand up.’ His legs were trembling violently; he panted, gasped for air and dug his fingers into the soft earth. For a few seconds he fought desperately against his fear, against the sheer terror that pinned him to the ground and threatened to crush his will. His face was contorted, and he stared wide-eyed at the height where the German line must be located. Groaning between clenched teeth, he tried to force his body into motion. But the night lay with a frightful weight upon his hunched back. It clutched at his throat until he felt that he was choking; a sound like a death-rattle emerged from his mouth, and spittle trickled from his lips on to his hands. He fought against himself. Suddenly the whole area was illuminated again. This time there were two flares sent up from different spots; they rose almost vertically, drifted sideways, driven by a faint breeze, and wrapped in their bright light sailed down toward the ground. At that moment he pulled himself up, braced his shoulders against the returning darkness and charged forward, mouth wide open. He saw nothing, heard nothing. His feet churned the ground; in a few seconds he had crossed the level space and was flying as if hurled out of a catapult up the slope. He had come within about twenty yards of the German line when the next flare arose. Then he threw his arms up and began to shout.

MEYER WADED THROUGH
the water in the bottom of the trench, feeling the rain patter down on his face. He stumbled over something, and fell. Cursing, he got up and groped for the obstacle. It proved to be a length of wood that had jammed between the walls of the trench and in spite of all his efforts would not move. Irritably, he kicked at it. Then he noticed an opening in the left side of the trench, and when he cautiously climbed into it he found that it was a well-constructed machine-gun emplacement, provided even with a convenient bench for sitting. As he straightened up he knocked his head against a ceiling beam. He glanced through the wide embrasure, but the darkness was as impenetrable outside as in. Nevertheless, he felt a certain sense of comfort in here, and the feeling was intensified by the pattern of the rain outside. Sighing, he dropped on to the bench, hunched his shoulders and listened to the monotonous, lulling sound of the rain. He closed his eyes. A long while afterwards—he did not know whether minutes or hours had passed—he was startled by a noise. He heard a voice, and when he opened his eyes he thought he detected the shadow of a man moving in front of the dim rectangle of the entrance. ‘What’s the matter?’ he snapped.

There was a silence outside. Meyer was wide awake now. Automatically he reached for his pistol-holster, and sprang to his feet. Then he heard a voice which was unmistakably Lieutenant Gausser’s saying: ‘What little beast’s crawled into this nice burrow?’

Momentary embarrassment made Meyer duck his head. But his sense of humour came to his rescue and he answered jokingly: ‘If you mean me, Lieutenant Gausser, I must insist upon a more respectful tone toward a fellow-officer.’

From outside there came an exclamation of surprise. Then Gausser’s lean figure appeared. ‘Meyer,’ he blurted, ‘how the devil did you get into this cave?’

‘Through the entrance, Gausser, through the entrance, even as you yourself.’ They stood facing one another in the darkness,

unable to see more than the blurred outlines of their bodies, Meyer explained. ‘I must have fallen sound asleep,’ he concluded. ‘After all, it doesn’t matter much whether I spend the night here or in my bunker. But what brings you out at this hour? I would have thought you’d gone to sleep long ago. Whom were you talking to outside there?’

‘Too many questions at once,’ Gausser said. ‘I stumbled over that wood in the trench just as you did. Was just making a tour of the positions. I wasn’t talking to anybody, just cursing to myself. I suppose that woke you. Shall we sit down?’

‘Why not?’ Meyer said. They moved close together and lit cigarettes.

‘Miserable weather,’ Gausser growled.

Meyer nodded. ‘If it lasts much longer,’ he said, ‘the bunkers and trenches will collapse on us. I would never have thought the rainy season could go on for so long.’

They fell silent and looked out through the loophole. Now that he had recovered from his initial surprise Gausser began to consider the reason for Meyer’s presence here. Undoubtedly he was waiting for his platoon, he thought. Perhaps he had intended to wait until dawn. He was conscious of a warm admiration for Meyer. Meyer must think a good deal of his men to stay awake night after night on their account. For a while he wondered whether he ought to bring up the subject again. But since Meyer remained laconic, he decided not to say anything. After a while they began chatting casually, occasionally taking surreptitious glances at their watches. Although they could scarcely keep their eyes open, neither of them wanted to be the first to admit it. But they spoke less and less; their conversation faded into dull monosyllables that scarcely rose above the monotonous patter of the rain. At last it petered out entirely.

Third Company’s positions ran around the eastern tip of Hill 121. 4. It had stopped raining about an hour before. The front was quiet. In one of the advanced weapon pits stood Private Faber behind a machine-gun. His tour had begun at three o’clock in the morning. He was a broad-shouldered fellow who never did much talking. But the other men in his platoon felt that when he did speak there was little to be added to what he said. He picked his words painfully, and his thoughts often struck his fellows as deep and mysterious, like the still lakes of his native province Faber came from the Black Forest district. Before the war he had been a woodcutter, and the pathways through the dense pine-woods were as familiar to him as the wrinkles on his mother’s face. Three years ago, when he had been called up, he had donned his uniform without enthusiasm. At that time he had been twenty-four. Since then he had remained in Lieutenant Gausser’s 3rd Company and was well thought of by his superiors. A steady, reliable man. Now he stood motionless, alert in the chest-deep MG position, his eyes probing the dark landscape before him, his ears attentive to every sound. The noises, however, were always the same: the suppressed coughing of the man in the foxhole nearby; the metallic clank when the lever of a machinegun was moved; the smacking suction-noise of boots on the muddy bottom of the trench. He was aware of these sounds only on fringes of consciousness. Nevertheless, he had become more alert during the past fifteen minutes. At first he could not have said himself what had shaken him out of torpor during the first few minutes of his watch and produced a mounting uneasiness. Then he had realized that it was the unnatural silence in the Russian positions opposite.

Now he was suspicious and tense. He used his flare-gun frequently, and the men in the nearby weapon pits were also shooting off flares at shorter and shorter intervals. But strain his eyes as he would, he could detect nothing to give him grounds for concern. Every time one of the flares hit the ground and went out, he closed his eyes in order to ease the shock of the returning darkness. As he reloaded the flare pistol, he wondered whether it might not be best to communicate with his platoon leader. He had half made up his mind to go over to the adjoining sentry and ask his opinion when he suddenly started and his hand flashed out again to send up another flare.

From the right came a warning cry, and as the flare mounted he saw the bent-over figure of a man come tearing up the slope, saw him stop abruptly and throw up his arms. Then a shout reached his ear, words in German. Faber took his hands from the MG and stared bewildered at the Russian who stood some twenty yards away. But then Faber displayed a presence of mind in keen contrast to his usual slow-moving temperament. He called hastily to the men within range of his voice, and before the flare had gone out he ordered the Russian who was shouting that he was Corporal Steiner to approach the trench slowly, with hands raised, He was quite conscious of the risk he was taking; the whole business might be a clever Russian trap. For that reason he kept his finger on the trigger of the MG and waited until the man was close enough so that he could watch his every movement in spite of the darkness. Then he ordered him to jump into the trench. From the neighbouring weapon pits men hurried up; they thronged into the MG emplacement with rifles at ready to receive this strange visitor. Suspiciously they stared at him as he stood before them, panting and doubled over, leaning his back against the wall of the trench for support. Faber meanwhile sent up another flare; only after he had made sure there were no more unexpected visitors on the way did he turn to the men who were pouring out a torrent of words at the new arrival.

‘Quiet a moment,’ Faber said, thrusting his broad frame into the midst of the group. For a few seconds he studied the Russian silently. Then he said quietly: ‘So you’re Steiner.’ The man nodded. Faber switched on his flashlight and illuminated the man’s face. It was smeared with mud, unshaven and unrecognizable. ‘Where are the others?’ he went on.

‘If you waste any more time,’ the man in Russian uniform replied irritably, ‘you can pay them a visit in Siberia. They’re waiting for the signal, green and white flares shot up in succession. Hurry up, damn it all.’

Faber hesitated. He had seen Steiner only a few times. If this man should happen to be a double who was playing the part of Steiner, the pre-arranged signal might bring a horde of Russians down on the position. The other men were equally wary. They had been in the company only a few weeks, and when Faber asked whether any of them recognized Corporal Steiner, they remained silent.

Their hesitancy was legitimate but nevertheless disastrous, Steiner realized, yet a lethargy prevented him from doing anything. The moment after he had reached the trench and recognized the men as members of 3rd Company, the furious energy which had propelled him across the 300 feet of no-man’s-land and up the slope to the German positions had left him like a fountain turned off at the source. The reaction set in: he felt like closing his eyes and falling promptly asleep. But out there in the night his platoon was waiting. He pulled himself together, explained the meaning of his masquerade to the men, tore open the pack on his back and produced his own uniform. ‘Don’t be asses,’ he said with some return of his former vigour. ‘If Meyer or anyone else from my company were here, they’d let you know who I am, by God. But we can’t take the time to rustle up one of them. If I were a Russian-’

He broke off. The men had not noticed that as he spoke these last words Faber had turned and fussed with his flare-pistol for a few seconds. He moved fast, and before anyone could stop him a green and right after it a white flare rose into the sky.

‘Are you mad?’ one of the men exclaimed angrily. The others stared in alarm over the rim of the trench. Faber stood squarely behind his MG watching the flares sink to the ground and go out. Then he turned his head. ‘Go back to your posts. If there’s any need for shooting, leave the first shot to me.’

‘You should have waited till I went for the sergeant,’ one man protested.

Faber shook his head. ‘If what the corporal says is true, we have no time.’

‘And suppose it isn’t true?’

Faber glanced at Steiner. Evenly, he said: ‘Then this fellow will be the first to get a belly-full.’ He spoke to Steiner. ‘Go out there.’ 

‘Where?’ Steiner asked in amazement.

Faber waved his hand toward the rim of the trench. ‘You sit down over there. Right in front of the MG, three paces away from the barrel. When the others come along tell them to enter the trench one by one and without their weapons.’

‘Suppose I don’t,’ Steiner drawled.

‘If you don’t I’ll fire as soon as the first man appears.’

As Steiner wordlessly clambered out of the trench and sat down in the assigned spot, the other men scurried back to their places. The next few minutes were trying. Through his clothes Steiner could feel the damp of the ground. Anger filled him as he stared into the darkness. But his irritation was soon gone. The man’s prudence impressed him, and he grinned as he reflected that this was the first time he had obeyed a private’s order without protest. The boy is all right, he said to himself; he’s handling a ticklish business skilfully. If only he would not lose his nerve at the last minute. A ribbon of MG bullets in the back would be devilishly uncomfortable. He turned his head and saw the stocky figure like a dark log behind the machine-gun. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘I’ll tell you later; you shut up now.’

Steiner raised his eyebrows. Then he shook his head and suddenly began to chuckle. ‘You’re priceless,’ he whispered, ‘really priceless.’ Shaken with amusement, he kept looking at the man’s face, which was visible only as a white blur.

It was the hour before dawn. The night still clung darkly to the hill* lay upon the trenches and weapon pits and filled every hollow of the land. In the east, however, the face of the night was turning sallow like the skin of a dying man, and above the still invisible horizon a gash in the sky had opened, through which trickled yellowish light. Steiner drew his feet close to his body and turned his eyes ahead again. The men ought to be showing up any second now. He suddenly felt a keen sense of happy anticipation. There no longer seemed any reason to worry. The loud shouts by which he had announced himself might have made the Russians suspicious, and there was always the possibility that they had seen him standing with arms raised in the light of the flares from the German trenches. But the absolute silence on the other side was reassuring. Several times he thought he heard distinctly the rattle of weapons. But the noises might have come from the trenches behind him; he could not be sure. Again and again he glanced at the radiant dial of his wrist-watch. It seemed impossible that only four minutes had passed since the green flare rose into the sky. His uneasiness mounted.