The Cross of Iron (7 page)

‘So you have, so you have, Captain Stransky. I suppose you have not yet had enough front -line experience to realize when some adjustments are in order. Unfortunately, there was no time to send revised instructions. Vogel and Körner used their judgment in taking their platoons back with them. I have commended the good sense of these officers in my report to Division.’

Stransky bit his lips. All this is only because of this man Steiner who had saved Brandt’s life, he thought bitterly. He must know that Steiner is in command of the platoon. I wonder who -

‘Are you still there, Captain Stransky?’

‘Certainly, sir. You must understand that I—I mean, that this situation is most unpleasant for me. If I had only guessed! But we had not the slightest difficulty in evacuating our positions. I,

therefore, saw no reason for taking the platoon along. I -’

‘Very well, Captain Stransky,’ the commander cut him off. ‘You certainly cannot be blamed for obeying an order. It is simply unfortunate. How strong is the platoon?’

‘I am sorry, I have not yet inquired,’ Stransky replied uncomfortably. ‘Ten or fifteen men, I believe. I can check immediately with Lieutenant Meyer.’

‘You might have done so earlier. I want to be kept informed on how this matter turns out.’

The hum in the receiver faded. Stransky slowly replaced the telephone on the hook. He stood up, cursing softly. He went over to the little window beside the door and stared wrathfully out upon the sunlit landscape. Why in the world did he have to suffer all this ? After all, he himself had asked to be transferred here from France. I must have been mad, he thought, stark raving mad. He turned back to the table, took a map out of the briefcase hanging over the chair and spread it out. His eyes travelled over the vast area of forest stretching eastward from Krymskaya to the positions the battalion had occupied yesterday. The green surface was crossed in many places by fine blue lines. Undoubtedly a marsh. The observation gave him a peculiar sense of triumph. The commander’s protege would have a tough time getting through there, he thought. First the woods, then the city and finally the Russian front line. Slowly, he straightened up. The trouble men could make for you without your even knowing them. Meditatively, he folded up the map. First of all he had to establish himself solidly; the next task was to teach his subordinates their place. Once he had achieved a strong position in the battalion, not even Brandt would be able to undercut him. In France he had succeeded in doing that within the first week. Here conditions were somewhat more complicated. But he would manage. Although there were certain limits to the jurisdiction of a battalion commander, his opportunities for operating in depth were greater than those of a general. The smaller the pebble in the shoe, the more it could hurt. The comparison amused him.

There was a knock on the door. Stransky tinned his head impatiently. ‘What is it?’

The door opened, and Stransky recognized his adjutant. ‘I just heard that you were back, sir. Am I intruding?’

‘Did you need me?’ Stransky asked in an unfriendly tone. Lieutenant Triebig returned a gentle smile. ‘Major Vogel telephoned about twenty minutes ago. He asks that you drop in on him some evening soon.’

‘Thank you. Anything else ?’

‘No, sir. Do you have any orders?’

Stransky regarded with distaste the lieutenant’s soft womanish features. What kind of man was this ? he thought. His voice had no soldierly timbre to it, and his wavy hair was combed back far too carefully for Stransky’s taste.

‘Yes, something has just occurred to me,’ he said in the same unfriendly tone. ‘Inform the company commanders that they are to report tomorrow morning for a conference. Here, at nine o’clock.’

‘Yes, sir. Any other orders, sir?’

‘No, you may go.’

Triebig saluted. When the door closed behind him, Stransky dropped back on his cot. Major Vogel, he thought. Why the sudden burst of friendship? he wondered. Last week, when they had met for the first time at regimental HQ, the elderly major had treated him with condescension. But he was commander of the 3rd Battalion and one never knew when it would prove useful to be on good terms with one’s neighbours. Nevertheless, Stransky felt no great urge to accept the invitation. Their conversation last week had been very brief, but Stransky had taken away an impression of the major’s opinionated bluntness.

Stransky became aware of how heavy his eyelids felt. Last night’s lack of sleep was overtaking him. He stretched out full length and turned on his side. Nothing but vexations, he thought.

After his interview with Stransky, Lieutenant Triebig returned to his bunker and put through a number of telephone calls to the company commanders. Then he sat down at the table and languidly turned through some old picture magazines. The air in the bunker was stale, and the fierce outside heat could be felt even here in this half -underground room. He came to a stop at a picture of a scantily dressed girl lying on her stomach and kicking her feet into the air. Under the low -cut blouse her pointed breasts showed clearly. Triebig studied the picture for some time. Finally he tore the page out, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into a corner. He glanced at his watch. It was after twelve. Time to eat, he thought. He went over to the tin basin and washed his hands. Then he reached out for the loaf of bread standing on the table and cut off a number of thin slices. Conscientiously, he spread the tiny portion of butter over each of the slices. From his canteen he poured cold coffee into a tin cup. Nostalgically, he recalled the aromatic coffee that had been served hot by the field kitchens in France.

His meal completed, he remained sitting at the table. There was a knock at the door. His orderly opened it and stood hesitantly at the threshold. ‘Is there anything you wish, sir?’

‘Not at the moment,’ Triebig replied. Thoughtfully, he regarded the shy, boyish face. Then he beckoned the man into the bunker. ‘You can keep me company for a bit,’ he said. ‘I really hardly know you. Sit down somewhere.’

The man looked around the bunker, indecisive. Triebig was sitting on the one chair. ‘Sit down on the bed,’ Triebig suggested. ‘Are you always so timid?’

The orderly risked a shaky smile as he obeyed. ‘No,’ he murmured under his breath. He perched on the extreme edge of the narrow army cot.

Triebig lit a cigarette and studied him with interest. Keppler had been sent to the battalion from a replacement unit only a few weeks ago. Triebig had taken him for an orderly because his own orderly had just been wounded. Keppler was also a runner for 1st Company. No older than nineteen, Triebig guessed. His soft, unformed features bore a helpless expression which was further accentuated by the way he kept his mouth slightly open.

‘Where do you come from?’ Triebig opened the conversation. Keppler clasped his hands over his knees. ‘Frankfurt, sir.’

‘Is that so? I know Frankfurt quite well,’ Triebig commented. ‘I used to run over that way frequently in my car.’

With satisfaction he noted the look of respect that came into Keppler’s face. ‘You have a car of your own, sir?’

Triebig nodded casually. ‘Had one for years. Though it’s been taken over by the army now, like everybody else’s. But we must all do our share for victory.’ Raising his eyebrows, he put on a lofty expression. No need for the boy to know that the car had belonged to his firm. It was always wise to impress these fellows right at the start. Made everything easier. He puffed reflectively on his cigarette for a moment, then leaned forward. ‘Do you live with your parents?’ he asked.

Keppler shook his head sadly. ‘No, they’re dead. My father’s been dead for ten years, and my mother died seven years ago.’ 

‘Oh!’ Triebig pretended sympathy. In a kindly tone he said: ‘That must have been very hard for you. Where did you live?’

‘In an orphanage, sir. Later I went to work for a baker. I learned the trade there, and lived in the baker’s house.’

‘Didn’t you have any relatives ?’ Triebig asked. ‘I mean, anybody who could take you in?’

‘No, sir. You see, we used to live in Munich. Then we moved to Frankfurt and my parents died there.’

‘Well, well,’ Triebig said. I couldn’t have made a better choice, he thought with gratification. He felt excitement spreading from his thighs throughout his body. He moistened his lips, while his eyes rested upon the boy’s narrow waist. Keppler’s face slowly reddened as if he guessed the lieutenant’s thoughts.

‘You’ve had a tough time,’ Triebig declared. He sat down on the bed beside Keppler. ‘But time heals all wounds. If you get along with me, you’ll have a good life here. You may go now. Come back this evening and arrange my gear.’

Keppler jumped to his feet with repressed excitement. ‘Yes, sir! When shall I come, sir?’

Triebig considered. It was clear that he would have little trouble with the boy. A naive young fellow, and just the type to while away the boredom of long, dull spells with little to do. ‘Don’t come too early,’ he replied. ‘Around ten. We’ll have a chance to talk.’ 

Keppler’s face flushed with pleasure. He clicked his heels sharply. ‘Yes, sir,’ he began briskly. ‘I -’ Abruptly he paused and lowered his eyes.

‘Well ?’ Triebig smiled. He stood up and chucked the boy under the chin. ‘What did you want to say?’

His jovial tone restored Keppler’s confidence. He raised his head, looked into Triebig’s eyes, and said: ‘I want to make good on this job, sir.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Triebig said patronizingly. He barely touched Keppler’s cheek. ‘Do your best and I’m sure I shall be satisfied with you.’

I hit it just right, he thought, as he watched the boy go out. He felt perspiration starting all over his body. ‘Damnable heat,’ he murmured, dropping on to the cot. For a while he stared blankly at the ceiling. What the hell, he told himself. Who knows whether we’ll be alive tomorrow. You had to grab your chances. But all the same he would have to be careful. For a moment he tried to imagine what would happen if Stransky found out, or one of the other officers. You could not trust anybody. His thoughts drifted back to Keppler. Closing his eyes, he allowed his imagination free rein.

The bunkers of the Regimental Combat HQ were situated on the western slope of a chain of hills that ran from south -east to north -west, shielding the headquarters from the enemy. In the commander’s bunker Lieutenant -Colonel Brandt and Captain Kiesel sat at the table opposite one another. The commander’s gaunt face was angry. ‘I have to attend to every damn triviality,’ Brandt complained violently. ‘Ought to have every corporal in the regiment reporting directly to me every day.’

Kiesel shrugged equably. ‘That would be a good deal of trouble,’ he remarked. ‘Besides, you can hardly blame Stransky. He’s a conscientious officer and was strictly obeying orders.’

‘Don’t tell me that again,’ Brandt replied irritably. ‘To me the word conscientious stinks of pedantry. I need officers able to act on their own initiative when the situation demands. Look at Vogel—by God, I wish I had more like him.’

Kiesel shook his head in mild disagreement. ‘Not everyone can be expected to take on the burden of independent decisions when there is a chance to shift responsibility to superiors. However, if I know Steiner, he will find some way out. I count on his turning up tonight.’

‘It’s not only Steiner,’ Brandt said with sharp reproof. ‘It’s a whole platoon.’

Kiesel smiled fleetingly. ‘Of course, I was thinking of the platoon too. But without Steiner the others would never get through.’

‘Hm, do you think so,’ Brandt murmured, regarding Kiesel with suspicion. Brandt was tall and thin, with sparse hair covering an elongated knobby head. Under a high forehead were eyes that seemed to express a permanent bitterness. When he compressed his narrow lips, the tautening skin of his face deepened the hollows beneath his cheekbones.

The commander gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘I know what you are thinking. You can’t put anything over on me, Kiesel, remember that. But you are right to think so. People can think what they like of me, and have done so. But nobody can say I don’t know the meaning of gratitude.’

‘Certainly not,’ Kiesel quietly agreed. He had been adjutant of this regiment for eight months now, and had served under three commanders. With neither of the others had he reached so good an understanding as he now had with Brandt. I must look this fellow Steiner over some day, he decided. So far he knew a great deal about him from reports, but had never met the man. A few months ago Brandt had spoken to him about a black mark on Steiner’s record and had asked him to investigate. He had done so, but with inconclusive results. There was no question about the charge, but there was something suspect about the evidence, an unexplained contradiction somewhere. Brandt had had the same impression. Later, they had let the matter ride.

Kiesel stood up and began pacing back and forth in the bunker. For a while Brandt ignored him. Then he turned upon him. ‘For heaven’s sake stop the marathon. You bother me more than the Russians. Tell me your private opinion of Stransky.’

Kiesel stopped by a chair, pulled it between his legs and sat down backwards on it. ‘My private opinion?’ he said, drawling. ‘To tell the truth, I have not yet taken the trouble to form an opinion. Herr Stransky seems to think very well of himself. But that may be because he comes from a fine old family. Or maybe he is just too rich to be human.’

Brandt dismissed these suppositions with a gesture. ‘Stop beating around the bush. You’re a judge of people. What do you think of him?’

‘I have so far met Stransky only once,’ Kiesel answered noncommittally. He lit a cigarette, holding the burning match in his fingers until it went out. ‘The few words I’ve exchanged with him were instructive in one sense. On the other hand, they were hardly enough to justify an objective opinion. My personal impression is that Herr Stransky considers himself an unusual personality who is above criticism. If I understood him rightly, he believes he has a great mission to perform, namely to achieve spiritual domination of the battalion.’

‘What’s that?’ Brandt asked in utter incomprehension.

Kiesel smiled. ‘It does sound odd, but I have an inkling of what he wants. To put the matter more clearly: Herr Stransky wants his orders obeyed not because of his rank, but because of the sheer impression his personality makes upon the men.’