The Cross of Iron (64 page)

A sudden noise in his ears interrupted his broodings. Automatically he adjusted the headset over his ears and leaned forward, intent. His fingers glided skilfully over the knobs beneath the dial, and a voice shouted so loudly out of the earphones that he pulled back in alarm. As he regulated the volume, a tense expression settled upon his face. He reached hastily for paper and pencil and began copying down the words. Glancing at the pad in front of him, where the call numbers were listed, he noted that the second company was sending a message to Battalion. The contents of the despatch were dramatic enough to command attention. When the voice stopped and a few moments later a second voice repeated the words, Nonnenmacher muttered an exclamation that startled the snoring men from their bunks. Sleep-dazed, they reeled toward him. ‘What’s going on?’ one of them asked.

‘Read that,’ Nonnenmacher said, handing him the slip of paper. 

'Cannot hold the factory any longer,’ the man read aloud. ‘Sergeant Steiner killed. Request orders.’ The man let the paper flutter out of his fingers. ‘That would happen just before we’re withdrawing,’ he murmured. ‘What are you going to do?’ 

Nonnenmacher shrugged. ‘It isn’t really any of our business. They’ll report it directly to Regiment. I suppose we might inform the commander. Then if he wants he can...’ Nonnenmacher abruptly broke off. The voice he had heard before sounded in the earphones again, a breathless, distraught voice, and Nonnen-macher’s pencil skipped across the pad as he copied down the words. Then he wrenched the headset away from his ears. ‘The Russians are attacking,’ he told the anxious group around him. ‘They’re signing off now, but asking First Battalion to stay on their frequency. Get the other set and keep check on the other battalions. I want to hear how this thing turns out.’

While the men brought another set from the back of the room, and hooked it up, Nonnenmacher again listened at the earphones. Minute after minute passed without any further messages from Second Company. He grew increasingly anxious and wondered again whether it might not be best to inform the commander. But the report must already have been telephoned in from the first battalion, he thought. He waited. At last, when more than fifteen minutes had passed, a loud whistle-tone sounded in his ears. ‘They’re switching to CW,’ he said to the men. Again Nonnenmacher picked up his pencil and waited. The call signal came: dah, dit, dit... dit, dit... dah, dah. Reception was feebler than before. ‘They must be asleep,’ one of the men said impatiently.

Nonnenmacher turned to him. ‘Were you listening in?’

The man nodded. ‘It’s loud enough. QSA 3, I’d say. David, Ida, Mike—that’s the Second. But Battalion doesn’t answer. Have they changed frequency?’

Nonnenmacher shook his head. ‘They’re coming in on the same frequency. I wonder what the hell is the matter with Battalion.’ 

Several more minutes passed, during which the call signal came in regularly at shorter and shorter intervals. Finally Nonnen-macher’s patience gave out. ‘I’m going to answer,’ he said. ‘Maybe 1st Battalion’s transmitter is on the blink.’ He placed his thumb and forefinger on the bug, switched the transmitter to CW and gave a continuous tone. Then his fingers flew on the bug. The men watched him with admiration. Nonnenmacher was undeniably the fastest operator in the regiment; you had to be damned good on the other side to copy him. The answer came. First the call signal and confirmation, then a succession of staccato whistling tones. Nonnenmacher nodded with satisfaction. ‘They’ve got us. We’re to wait; they’re sending AS.’

Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then the call signal came again, and after Nonnenmacher had answered, the men heard the familiar and exciting signal that preceded every urgent message.

‘KR,’ Nonnenmacher murmured, leaning forward over his pad, frowning with concentration. For a while nothing but the Morse signals could be heard. Then Nonnenmacher sat bolt upright. ‘I can’t see what’s going on here,’ he said helplessly. ‘Take a look at this.’ As he turned back to the transmitter to acknowledge, the men studied the message with equal puzzlement.

‘Take it to the commander,’ Nonnenmacher ordered. ‘Immediately.’

One of the men hurried out and raced downstairs to the commander’s room. Lieutenant-Colonel Brandt was busy stowing his personal belongings into a large canvas bag. His head whirled around in annoyance as the radio man came in. ‘What is it?’ he asked harshly.

The man clicked his heels. His voice rang like a trumpet as he said: ‘Radio message from Second Company to Regiment.’ Brandt turned around to face him. ‘Well?’

‘Second company surrounded in factory cellar, underneath tower. Lieutenant Triebig dead.’ The man hesitated. Then he added: ‘Signed by Sergeant Steiner.’

With three long strides Brandt reached the man and snatched the sheet of paper from his hand. ‘Any more messages?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man spilled out an explanation: that they had picked up the first message and had finally answered when Battalion remained silent. Brandt heard the story out before he asked: ‘Have you the text of the first message?’

‘Corporal Nonnenmacher has it.’

‘Bring it here at once,’ Brandt ordered. ‘And inform Second Company that we will come to get them out. Hurry up.’ He waited a moment until the door closed behind the man. As he went to the telephone there was a dangerous light in his eyes. ‘Get me Lieutenant Stroh,’ he barked.

When the prearranged light signal flashed at the top of the elevator shaft, Sergeant Schulz turned his head. ‘They’ve made it,’ he said to Triebig, who was standing behind him. He signalled into the shaft with his own flashlight. He then asked the lieutenant, who stood nervously fingering the strap of his tommy-gun: ‘How many men do you want to send up there?’

Triebig looked around indecisively. ‘Ten will be enough,’ he ventured. ‘The rest will stay with me. You too, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Schulz addressed the men standing nearest him. ‘Up with you, and make it snappy.’ One after the other they entered the shaft and began climbing. ‘Speed it up,’ Schulz called impatiently. He took a step forward, and craned into the shaft. The fourth man had just swung on to the ladder when a strange noise came from up above. There followed a scream that sent the other men reeling back from the doorway. Seconds later a body plummeted past their horrified faces and struck with a dull thud at the bottom of the shaft. Schulz started forward to shout to the other men on the ladder to come back, but as he opened his mouth a Russian tommy-gun began roaring up above and the other three plunged also, slamming with a hideous sound upon the iron platform of the elevator. A hissing rain of sparks from hand grenades danced past the doorway; four or five shattering explosions reverberated in the shaft; and then there was a deadly silence.

‘We can write them off,’ Schulz said hoarsely to Triebig. ‘Them and the others with them. If we don’t instantly...’ He fell silent, for Triebig had suddenly sped off down the long hall, running in the aisle between the machines. Schulz chased after him. He caught up with him in front of the lathe on which the radio men had placed their apparatus. Triebig loudly telling them: ‘Report to battalion that we cannot hold the factory another five minutes; we must pull out at once and...’ He hesitated. ‘Report that Sergeant Steiner has been killed. Are you connected?’

‘They’re on permanent reception,’ one of the men replied. He was wearing a throat microphone, and as he spoke he slipped the headset away from his ears.

Triebig nodded, gratified. ‘Send that right away, * he ordered. ‘I’ll wait until you receive an answer.’

As the radio men bent over their apparatus, Schulz stepped up to Triebig’s side. ‘Isn’t it premature to report Steiner killed?’ he remarked.

Triebig shrugged impatiently. ‘It’s a dead certainty the Russians have already got him. Lord knows what went on up there.’ 

Dubious, but not minded to dispute the matter, Schulz remained silent. He watched with interest as one of the two radio men spoke into the microphone. Unthinkingly, he put his hand into his pocket to take out a crushed cigarette. Halfway through the movement he froze. Through the window a fiery rain sprayed. A deafening rattle of gunfire followed. Schulz dropped to the ground. Beside
him
he saw Triebig, who was shouting something. But he could not grasp the words. Innumerable darting, bluish flames were dancing in the big room. They’re shooting explosive bullets, Schulz thought. He forced himself to his knees and crawled to the windows, where the men were huddled on the floor shouting something to him. The din grew louder. Cries of pain came from the wounded men. From the direction of the corridor hand grenades burst, and as Schulz looked toward the right-hand door he saw the sentry there run back into the hall. He turned and crawled back to Triebig. ‘They’re attacking from both sides,’ he shouted in Triebig’s ear. ‘We’ve got to get out of here. We’re trapped.’ 

Triebig jumped to his feet and ran down the aisle between the machines to the other end of the hall. He stooped in front of the elevator shaft and waited until Schulz caught up with him. Several other men joined them there. Triebig leaned over the shaft. ‘One man go down there,’ he ordered, his voice trembling. ‘Perhaps there’s a cellar door below. Go on, Sergeant.’

Schulz hesitated. But since hand grenades were already flying in through the windows of the hall, he fished with his foot for the rung of the ladder below the door. For a few seconds he remained suspended, peering upward. Above him all remained still. Squinting, he descended the ladder until his foot encountered something soft. As he tried to feel along the wall, his hands encountered nothing and he felt a draught of cool air in his face. He kicked aside a body lying in his way, and made sure that the opening actually led into a room. Then he swarmed rapidly back up the rungs. The shaft stretched above him, a column of blackness. When he reached the main floor, the full violence of the battle struck his ears. He jumped out of the shaft and landed in front of the group of men. Triebig gripped his shoulder. ‘How is it?’ 

In breathless haste he reported what he had found. The men groaned with relief. ‘Everyone down there,’ Triebig rapped out the order. ‘Is the radio section here?’ One of the radio men replied, and Triebig turned to Schulz. ‘Call the men away from the windows. They’re all to come down to the cellar.’

‘What about the wounded?’ Schulz asked. But Triebig was already swinging down the ladder in the shaft. Schulz bit his lips. A dirty deal, he thought. Then he shrugged. He raced across the room, which was by now saturated with dust and smoke and an insane roar. At one of the windows he found two men kneeling behind an MG, firing into the yard. He slammed the first man on the back and shouted: ‘Into the shaft, into the shaft and down to the cellar.’ Then he rushed on, to the next window and the next.

But then he recoiled. In the fore part of the hall great shadows poured through the windows,
_l
jumped over the lathes, landed on the floor and scattered with phantom movements in all directions. For a second Schulz stood rigid. They’re here, he thought. The Russians are here. Then he whirled around and sped blindly back between the machines, stumbled over a body, felt two hands clutching at his coat, heard a gruesome, despairing bellow, and with a jerk pulled free. The wounded, flashed through his mind. But there was no time for him to take any other path. They lay side by side, filling the narrow aisle between the machines. His boots dug deep into the lushly soft carpet of their writhing bodies. He tripped over outstretched arms, until at length his foot caught somewhere; he plunged full length on his face, and several hands held him fast. He saw a face in front of his, a mouth stammering something. Gasping for air, he raised his tommy-gun and struck out blindly with it. He got to his feet again, was pushed from behind and thrown forward. ‘Kill him,’ a voice roared, and many others took up the cry: ‘Kill him, kill him.’ He defended himself like a wild beast, and when he realized that he was making no progress he pulled the trigger and fired until his magazine was empty. The shouts died away into groans and whimpers and helpless sobbing; the hands fell away from his torn uniform. Free, he took three huge leaps, reached the firm pavement of the flooring, dashed with aching lungs toward the shaft, while behind him a single voice continued to shout, each word striking him like a blow: ‘Yellow, bastard, traitor.’ He dropped the tommy-gun and pressed his hands to his ears as he continued to run. But the shouting went on. When he got to the shaft he was shaking so violently that he could scarcely stay on his feet. He saw a knot of men struggling in front of the door, pushing each other back from the shaft, behaving like madmen. For a moment he halted and stared with bloodshot eyes at the scene. Then he gathered himself and crashed with all his weight against the living wall that blocked his way, and carried it down with him into the shaft. He fell about fifteen feet, landed on a clump of intertwined bodies, instantly rolled away from them, leaped to his feet and pelted on. The shouting behind him sounded more muted. He rushed down a narrow corridor toward a glimmer of light until he noticed a door on his right, and heard a harsh voice. A few seconds later he came face to face with Triebig, who stood in the middle of a room. As he recognized Schulz, Triebig slowly lowered his raised tommy-gun. There were about fifteen men in the room. Some were holding flashlights. Blinded, Schulz closed his eyes. Then he remembered the Russians and shouted: ‘Keep going; they’re coming; the Russians are coming, Lieutenant.’

Triebig jerked around, shouting orders. The men stormed toward the back of the room where, Schulz now noticed, another door opened out. As he followed he suddenly realized that other members of the company would be coming. He stood still and looked back.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Triebig screamed impatiently. Schulz silently pointed to the opposite entrance as two more men came running toward them. One of them shouted: ‘Hold it there.’ He collided with Triebig, who violently pushed him back. ‘What are you yelling for?’ Triebig asked loudly. ‘What’s the matter?’

The man recognized the lieutenant and snapped to attention. ‘More of the fellows are coming, sir,’ he panted, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder.