The Cross of Iron (52 page)

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Triebig replied obsequiously.

Stransky blew an invisible grain of dust from the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Then that will be all for today.’

While the others left the room, März came over to Stransky and asked: ‘Where do you intend to begin, sir?’

Stransky was on the point of replying sharply when he recalled that März was the regimental adjutant’s brother-in-law. He smiled slyly: ‘With your company, Lieutenant März.’

‘Then I’ll have the company fall in at once.’

Stransky nodded casually. When März remained posted in front of him, he asked: ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Nothing important,’ März said casually. ‘I only wanted to inform you that Master Sergeant Steiner returned to the company an hour ago.’

Although Stransky made an effort to master his feelings, März saw his eyelids flutter rapidly. The evenness of his voice sounded quite forced as he said: ‘Steiner?’ He looked down at the floor, then raised his head again. ‘Very well. Send the sergeant to me at eight this evening.’

März saluted and left. As he emerged from the command post, there was a thin smile at the corners of his mouth. Stransky watched him through one of the big triple-casemented windows as he crossed the street. Then his eyes suddenly widened. A tremendous, swelling roar filled the air. He had time to see März leap with giant strides into the nearest house. For his part he threw himself instantly to the floor. A terrible impact shook the house to its foundations. The window glass shattered and fell inward; plaster broke from the ceiling and shrouded the room in white dust. Stransky lay with bated breath until outside the pattering rain of brick, wood and fragments of stone stopped. Then he shook off the paralysis of fear and stood up. His knees were quivering. He looked out through the empty window frames. Across the street one of the houses had collapsed. A huge blackish-yellow cloud of smoke was billowing out of the ruins and drifting slowly toward the waterfront. Stransky realized that the house was the messengers’ quarters.

He saw März come rushing out of the house next door and stop, horrified. Behind him several men of the signals company appeared, their faces white. Suddenly they threw themselves to the ground. Stransky drew in his head. Once again that horrible hum filled the air. But it was higher in pitch this time, and did not have the same sense of fatal abruptness. Far behind the houses, in the midst of an open field, the shell exploded. Another dark cloud of smoke shot up into the sky. The noise of the detonation was so painful that Stransky clapped his hands to his ears.

He watched while the men got up and, led by März, disappeared into the wrecked house. He wondered what calibre the shell had been. Perhaps one of those notorious 21 cm. Russian mortars about which he had heard so many ghastly tales. He waited for a few minutes. When no more shells came over, he sent for Triebig and ordered him to cancel all roll-calls at once and set the men to work digging bunkers near their quarters. ‘Inform the company commanders,’ he added, ‘and see to it that a strong dugout is built behind my command post. You can use the signal men.’ He became aware of Triebig’s distressed look and asked: ‘Were there casualties?’

‘Three men,’ Triebig replied hoarsely. ‘Dudek was one of them.’ 

‘Dudek?’ Triebig nodded silently. Stransky bit his lip. ‘Really unfortunate,’ he said at last. ‘I was highly pleased with him. Couldn’t have asked for a better orderly.’

‘I feel exactly the same,’ Triebig said softly. ‘Keppler was one of them too.’

‘Dead?’ Stransky asked.

Triebig nodded. ‘All three.’

There was a long pause. Stransky went over to the window, hands clasped behind his back, and watched the men of the signal platoon working to get at the victims, whose bodies were trapped under the ruins. ‘Steiner is back,’ he said abruptly, without turning round. As a result he did not notice the sudden pallor that spread over Triebig’s face. ‘I’ve sent for him for this evening. As soon as I have his signature I want you to transmit the paper to Regiment at once.’

Triebig had recovered from the immediate shock, though his face remained unnaturally pale. He moistened his lips with his tongue. ‘I had not expected him back so soon. I hope he doesn’t make trouble.’

‘Bah!’ Stransky laughed contemptuously. ‘I’ll soften him up, rest assured.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Getting late. Inform the company commanders and see to it that new messengers are detailed. I’ll look around for another orderly.’

Triebig saluted and left the room. As he crossed the street, his face was set and hard. When he reached his quarters he telephoned the companies, informed them of the new situation, and ordered them to detail a messenger each to battalion. Then he drew a chair over to the window and sat staring absently at the white limestone slopes of the mountain. He felt as if a suppurating sore inside his chest had broken open and was poisoning his blood. Steiner’s return struck him like a physical blow. All the past few months had been a torment; every time the telephone rang the sweat had started on his forehead. He had trembled before every meeting with Stransky, and the constant fear had brought his nerves nearly to the breaking point. Although it looked as if Steiner intended to keep quiet, the threat remained, and it would remain until Steiner had been silenced for good and all.

As he was considering rather hopelessly how that could be done, Triebig remembered that Steiner was to see Stransky that evening. He knew about the antagonism between the two men. Couldn’t that be put to good use? There must be some way.

He laid his arms on the window-sill and half closed his eyes. It will depend on how the interview turns out, he thought. If his estimate of Steiner were correct, Stransky was going to be in for a disappointment. For all he too was implicated in the success or failure of the interview, he felt malicious joy at the thought of the tight spot Stransky had got himself into. This business could lead to anything. Pursuing that thought a little way, he became worried. You shouldn’t have let yourself in for it, he thought; now you’re going to have to figure out some way to slip out of the whole affair.

The thing had started because Stransky, in his report on the events of the night before the Russian offensive, had somewhat overdone it when he described his own part. According to his account, it was only due to his initiative that the unexpected Russian penetration into the positions of the second company on Hill 121. 4 was repulsed. The report had pictured Stransky, accompanied by his adjutant, appearing at the last moment among the fleeing men, stemming their panic and leading them into the counter-attack. Stransky had candidly told his adjutant that he counted on an Iron Cross as the reward for this report. ‘Of course you must confirm the details if you’re asked, Triebig. It’s perfectly safe. You are the only witness. Meyer is dead so no one can prove it wasn’t so. This is the way everybody does it, and if the nomination goes through, you’ll get the Iron Cross Second Class for it.’ The temptation was great, and in any case Triebig was in no position to oppose Stransky’s wishes.

Next day the report had been sent on to Regiment. Brandt had comprehended the point and had informed Stransky that he was entitled to the Iron Cross First Class for his part in the counterattack. But he had also pointed out that in such cases two witnesses were required; he would have to have the signature of the company commander in addition to Triebig’s. Stransky had pointed out that Meyer was dead. In that case, Strauss suggested, he should apply to Meyer’s deputy at the time. In case the latter could not be reached at the moment, he was to table the nomination until the witness was available. Although Steiner’s name had not once been mentioned, Stransky realized at once whom the regimental commander meant. ‘A ticklish affair,’ he had said to Triebig at the time. ‘But we can’t back out now. There’s too much at stake.’ 

The more Triebig thought about it, the more pessimistic he became. But Stransky was right. Their retreat was cut off, and the affair had to be fought right on through Regiment. And it seemed highly likely that Steiner would refuse to give his signature. In that case Stransky would be forced to get rid of him as a person who knew too much. How—that was Stransky’s affair. It shouldn’t be too difficult to manoeuvre a hothead like Steiner into a situation where even Brandt could no longer protect him.

WHEN STEINER APPEARED
at the command post, Stransky received him with marked restraint, and asked him to sit down. The sergeant did not take up this invitation. ‘You may sit down,’ Stransky repeated impatiently.

‘If you order me to,’ Steiner said.

‘Consider it an order,’ As Steiner reluctantly drew up a chair, Stransky moved the kerosene lamp so that he himself was sitting in darkness. He crossed his legs casually and asked: ‘Do you recall our last conversation?’

Steiner nodded silently.

‘As a result of your wound,’ Stransky went on, ‘we were unable to conclude it. I don’t like to do things half-way and should like to follow it up.’ He continued in a completely colourless voice: ‘You are still quite young. That is why I prefer to excuse your past behaviour. But I can do so only if you recognize that I am being tolerant.’

‘Are you referring to my switching tommy-guns?’

Stransky frowned. ‘The matter of the sub-machine-gun is only one phase of the subject,’ he murmured. ‘When I speak with you, I assume a certain amount of mental agility on your part.’ 

Steiner shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re assuming too much, then. But leaving that aside, certain things can be talked about only man to man, not superior to subordinate.’

Stransky studied him speculatively. ‘You would naturally think that,’ he said with an attempt at a smile. ‘But even if we leave my rank aside, this still remains a conversation between a superior and an inferior. You are quite aware that in civil life a distinction is made between people and personalities. Or haven’t you ever been aware of that?’

Steiner bit his lips. So that’s what you’re getting at, he thought. Evidently Stransky was bent on humiliating him. He forced an ingenuous sunny tone to his voice. ‘I have never thought much about such matters. But I’m sure you can explain the distinction to me.’

‘I can,’ Stransky said. He folded his arms over his chest, his long face with its silvery temples forming the very portrait of a distinguished man. ‘The difference is a matter of ethical and intellectual superiority and comes about whether you like it nor not, from class differences. Those who are reared in dirt will never or rarely emerge from it because they have never learned to see dirt as dirt. Isn’t that self-evident?’

Steiner shook his head. ‘I disagree,’ he said. ‘What experience I have had has shown me that talent, sensitivity and character are not privileges of the upper classes. If I remember rightly Kant was the son of a saddlemaker and Schubert’s father was nothing but a poor schoolmaster. I’m sorry my scanty education makes it impossible for me to add a whole lot of big names to the list, because at eighteen I had to drop my schoolbooks and pick up a spade in order to dig useless holes in the ground, instead of developing myself into a personality.’

He had spoken swiftly, in a low voice. Now he fell silent and looked past Stransky into the dark reaches of the room. There was a pause.

‘We were talking about general concepts,’ Stransky parried.

‘We are still talking about general concepts,’ Steiner said quietly. ‘I might add that useful plants and weeds grow on the same soil everywhere. Or are things different in East Prussia?’

Stransky’s voice had become less urbane. ‘May I ask in which category you count yourself?’

It was an open challenge, precisely what Steiner had feared. He straightened in his chair. ‘This talk was going to be about general concepts,’ he said. ‘Before we go over into personal matters, I’d like to clarify one question.’

‘What is that?’

‘To go back to the beginning: is this conversation taking place between two equal human beings, or between a superior and his subordinate?’

‘I see no reason to throw the weight of my rank into the balance.’ Stransky declared haughtily.

Steiner nodded with satisfaction, feeling the sharp delight of the chess player who sees the game is his. ‘In that case,’ he replied quietly, ‘I am free not to answer your tactless question.’

There was a silence, such a dead silence that for a second Steiner felt as if he were alone in the room. He watched the change in Stransky’s expression. He felt himself like a man who has tossed a pebble down a slope and stands and watches it start a roaring landslide. Yet Stransky did not stir from his seat. The fury showed only in his eyes as he whispered: ‘You are forgetting yourself, Steiner.’

For a moment Steiner quailed before that fury. But he shook off his fear, the product of years of military discipline, and raised his head. ‘You are forgetting our agreement,’ he said coldly. ‘If you feel insecure about standing on grounds of equality, we can easily go back to our regular relationship.’

Stransky looked down at his hands. ‘Your impertinence can only arise from stupidity,’ he said softly. ‘If it came from courage, I might punish it, but I would also admire it.’ He stood up brusquely and paced about the room several times. Then he came to a stop in front of Steiner, who sat and looked up at him. ‘I have encountered more than one person of your type.’ he went on, ‘and I have always crushed them like repulsive vermin. At our first meeting I told you that you overestimate your own importance. If you think you can impress me, you are very much mistaken. I consider you nothing more than an insolent lout with criminal tendencies who cannot keep his hands off his comrades’ property.’

Steiner stood up slowly. He looked down at his hands and was glad to see that they were steady. ‘You’ll regret that,’ he said quietly.

Stransky wiped his sleeve with his right hand. ‘For that remark alone,’ he replied, ‘back home I would have had dogs chase you over the countryside until your feet were bleeding straps.’

‘We’re not back home,’ Steiner replied.

‘You’ll wish you were before long.’ He turned his back on Steiner, strode over to the table, picked up the telephone and called Triebig.