The Cross of Iron (72 page)

Kiesel hung back in the doorway. His voice thick, he reported: ‘Captain Körner has already arrived.’

‘And?’

Kiesel pulled himself together. ‘Captain Killius informs me that one of his NCOs, Master Sergeant Steiner, was wounded by a Russian shell just ten minutes ago. He is already being taken back to the clearing station.’

‘I see,’ Brandt said. He kept his eyes on the desk before him as he continued. ‘There you are, Steiner is a special case. I am glad I did not have to exceed my authority. Keep Captain Körner company for a while. When the rest of the officers are here, let me know. I’ll finish this off alone. Go on now.’

He waited until Kiesel had left the room. Then he walked over to the window. Hands clasped behind his back, he held his face up to the sunlight which slanted down over the ravine. Star and flower, he thought. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and the hill opposite was bare as a board. The words went through his head in endless iteration: star and flower, star and flower. There was no colour in his face.

In the distance muted detonations rumbled out of the sky, to be swallowed up in the October stillness. But Brandt had not really heard them. There was a greater stillness in him than that which covered the horizons like a hood of glass. He felt unencumbered and content, like a man who has ordered his life and marked out his road. There no longer remained anything to do but wait.

Behind him the door was opened and he heard Kiesel saying: ‘The commanders are here.’ For a while the officers stood stiffly erect, looking at one another. Then Brandt walked slowly to his desk and tucked the assortment of papers under his arm. ‘Well, gentlemen, here we are again.’ he said.

THE BATTALION HAD
occupied its last position in the bridgehead. Second Company was posted at the exit of the tunnel, its front facing westward, and all the men except for the sentries had lain down to catch up on their sleep. Sergeant Schulz was in command of what remained of the company. He sat at the tunnel exit with Krüger and Faber. Their monosyllabic conversation had faded out entirely a few minutes before, and they were watching dully as Krüger, with ferocious care, inspected the miserable remnants of his socks. Suddenly he cursed and drive his fist through a huge hole where, a few hundred miles back, there had been a heel. ‘Look at that thing!’

‘Put your stinking socks away,’ Schulz said in disgust. ‘What can we do about it? Go see the paymaster.’

‘Paymaster?’ Krüger snorted. ‘Maybe you can tell me where there’s a paymaster on the whole eastern front? I tell you, either I’m going to get a new pair of socks or they can stick these up at both ends, the goddamned war profiteers.’

‘I have only one pair myself,’ Faber said, shrugging. ‘You should have asked Fetscher.’

‘Fetscher!’ Krüger waved his hand grumpily. ‘Did you see what a face he made when he saw Schnurrbart? Pretty near started to bawl. Though we had more reason to than him.’

‘Where did you bury him?’ Schulz said. He gazed out of the tunnel into the sunny October day.

Krüger’s face hardened. ‘There were a few trees around,’ he said tersely. ‘About two miles from the supply dump. Well. . .’ He fell silent.

Schulz scratched in the dirt with his fingers. ‘That was decent of Moninger, giving you the cart. You wouldn’t have been able to carry him the two miles.’

Krüger nodded. After reaching the battalion he had gone to the commander of the first company and borrowed a horse-drawn, two-wheeled weapons wagon on which they had moved Schnurrbart. Since Stransky had appointed Schulz temporary commander of Second Company until Steiner’s return, Krüger and Faber had had no trouble leaving the company for two hours. They had come back a few minutes ago, and so far had not said a word about their brief expedition. Schulz asked no more questions. He began talking about the new battalion commander. The two listened to him in high astonishment.

‘It’s funny, changing commanders so sudden,’ Krüger said suspiciously. ‘Have you had a squint at the new one?’

‘Not yet,’ Schulz replied. ‘He telephoned and said he would be coming up here this morning to look over the position. Stransky has just up and vanished. I wish I knew where.’

‘Who cares?’ Krüger grunted. He had already lost interest in the conversation and was gloomily studying his foot which lay, dirty and bare, beside the boot.

Schulz lit a cigarette. ‘I wonder where the Russians are.’ He looked up ahead where a heavy machine-gun was emplaced. The sentry stood motionless gazing across the railroad embankment toward the west, where there were no signs of life.

‘They’ll be along soon enough,’ Krüger said. ‘I’d be more interested to know what’s happened to Steiner. It will be ten o’clock soon.’

‘Me too,’ Schulz said. He lowered his voice. ‘I hope there’s no stink about Triebig. If any of those fellows starts shooting his mouth off, there’s going to be trouble.’

‘How come?’ Krüger said sharply. His apathy dropped away; all at once he was intensely alert. When Schulz shrugged and made no reply, Krüger leaned toward him. His voice sounded so menacing that Schulz edged away from him. ‘Triebig had a Russian hand grenade blow up in his mug and that’s all there was to it. If anybody says any different, I’ll personally bash his skull in. Let’s get that clear.’

‘Don’t shout about it,’ Schulz said uncomfortably, looking around with a scared expression. But Krüger was not so easily subdued. His face flushed a deep red. ‘I’ll shout all I please, and if anybody has something against it he’d better come and see me with his steel helmet buckled on so he can pick up his bones later, the swine.’ 

He seemed on the point of continuing in the same tone. Faber laid a hand soothingly on his shoulder. ‘Why work yourself up,’ he said quietly. ‘No one is shooting off his mouth, and if anyone does, we’re still here. Till then we can hold our fire.’

Krüger slowly simmered down, He once more gave himself to the observation of his dirty feet, and thought that he simply had to get a chance to wash soon. Since this idea necessarily was connected with a bathtub, his reflections landed him back home in Königsberg. He sighed.

‘What’s the matter?’ Schulz asked.

Krüger shrugged. ‘I was thinking about something,’ he said evasively. He turned to Faber. ‘Why are you so quiet?’

‘I’m not one for talking,’ the woodsman said.

Krüger nodded. ‘That’s true.’ It had never really struck
him
before, but now he realized how little Faber spoke. ‘That has its points. I once knew a girl who was just as quiet as you.’

‘She would be the wife for me,’ Schulz put in. ‘Why didn’t you marry her?’

Krüger did not answer, and the other two felt it would be better not to press the matter. Schulz puffed away at his cigarette. Further back in the tunnel several men were vying with one another to snore the loudest. The sentry at the machine-gun stood with head drooping, half-asleep on his feet.

‘Shit,’ Schulz said. The other two looked inquiringly at him. He raised his shoulders and exclaimed: ‘Everything.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Is it true that your father was a Russian?’ he asked.

‘You mean me?’ Krüger asked.

Schulz nodded. ‘Yes, you. Someone told me that a while back —I don’t remember who.’

Krüger drew on his boot. His face had darkened and his voice rumbled dangerously as he replied: ‘Does Krüger sound Russian? If you want to know, he had Russian citizenship, that’s all. Besides which he died five years ago.’

‘Oh,’ Schulz said. He dropped into an embarrassed silence. Krüger busied himself with the laces of his boot.

‘What about your mother?’ Faber asked.

‘She’s been dead a long time,’ Krüger said, standing up.

He walked off, shoulders stooping. ‘Shit,’ Schulz said again. He tossed his cigarette butt between the rails, and yawned. For a few minutes he sat moping; then he picked up his tommy-gun and yawned again. ‘I’m going to catch a few winks,’ he said glumly to Faber. ‘When the new Iron Cross hound comes by, wake me.’ He walked a short distance back into the tunnel, where the others were sleeping, lay down beside the rails, shoved his pack under his head and closed his eyes. Faber watched him. Farther back the darkness was like viscous ink, while up ahead, no more than ten yards in front of Faber, the sunlight flooded into the tunnel entrance with such glare that Faber, as he turned his head again had to squint to see at all. He sat still for a while. Then he decided upon a short walk to see what the terrain looked like. He went past the machine-gunner and out into the open. The ridge through which the tunnel passed rose almost vertically above him, its muddy slope quite barren. Halfway up this slope several men were standing waist-deep in a foxhole, looking down at him. ‘What are the Russians doing?’ Faber called up to them.

One of the men laughed. ‘Not a sign of them. I’ll bet my arse they’re still sitting in Novorosisk guzzling champagne. Where are you going? Reconnaissance?’

‘Too dangerous,’ Faber said. He was about to add a word or two, but was interrupted. From higher up came a loud call, and then a man said: ‘Someone’s coming.’

‘A Russian?’ Faber asked; from his position he could not see any great distance.

The man above shook his head. ‘I doubt it; must be one of our men.’

Turning, Faber peered westward over the railroad embankment. The tracks glistened in the sunlight and merged in the distance into a single silvery ribbon that ran straight on into the blue sky. ‘He’s coming from the right,’ the man above said.

Faber saw him hitch himself up out of the foxhole. With a sudden feeling of certainty that this was Steiner, Faber asked: ‘From the highway?’

‘Yes.’

Faber hesitated a moment longer. Then he said: ‘I’ll go see who it is.’ He climbed down the embankment. To reach the highway he had to cross through a wide field of tall grape vines whose thick foliage cut off the view. Careful not to damage any of the vines, he squeezed his big body between wires and posts down to the road. At a glance he recognized Steiner trudging toward him, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. Steiner must surely have seen him, but he did not increase his pace, and his face remained a blank. He covered the rest of the way between them casually, as though he had been expecting this meeting. A few feet away he stood still and took the cigarette from his mouth.

Faber looked back in the direction from which Steiner had come. ‘The Russians might have been here by now,’ he said reproachfully.

‘I’d have seen them,’ Steiner returned. ‘I came back the same way because I didn’t know where you were.’

‘Didn’t you find out at Regiment?’ Faber asked.

‘I forgot to ask. Besides, I didn’t report that I was leaving. Have they asked for me yet?’

Troubled, Faber studied Steiner’s face. It was somehow changed, although he could not have said what was different about it. ‘Not yet,’ he answered slowly. ‘How did you come through the front line?’

‘I have no idea,’ Steiner replied, shrugging. ‘What does front line mean here, anyway? Where’s Krüger?’

‘He went to lie down just five minutes ago.’

‘I’ve got to talk with him right away,’ Steiner said. ‘I have to disappear. Take me to him.’

‘You have to what?’ Faber exclaimed.

‘Don’t waste time talking,’ Steiner said impatiently. ‘I have to leave, but fast. Has there been any fuss about me yet?’ Seeing the blank expression on Faber’s face, he added: ‘I mean on account of Triebig.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Faber said. ‘Why should there be any fuss?’

‘Sometimes you get on my nerves,’ Steiner snapped angrily. ‘For Christ’s sake, take me to Krüger.’

‘All right,’ Faber said. They turned off the road and made a path through the vines until they reached the railroad embankment. ‘There’s where we’re stationed,’ Faber said, pointing to the tunnel.

Steiner nodded. They still had about a hundred feet to go. They walked swiftly along the tracks, stepping from sleeper to sleeper.

Steiner just had time to hear the shell coming before an inconceivable force tossed him into the air. Wrapped in a cloud of black smoke, he was thrown to the side and crashed to the ground like a plank. He uttered one brief shriek. Then he remained lying motionless. Several men came dashing out of the tunnel, lifted him in their arms and ran back with him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Krüger’s face above him. ‘So there you are,’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ Krüger said. He gulped. ‘I was beginning to think you’d had it.’

What’s the matter with him, Steiner thought. ‘Why are you bawling?’ he asked.

‘I’m not bawling,’ Krüger said, turning his head away.

‘You are,’ Steiner said. ‘Where did I get it?’ There were several other faces bending over him. These bothered him. ‘Go away,’ he said to them. Then he remembered that Krüger had not answered his question. He attempted a grin. ‘Is my arse gone?’ 

‘Not your arse,’ Krüger said.

Steiner tried moving his arms, but could not. Because he felt no pain he became impatient and struggled to sit up. But Krüger held him fast. ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ he said roughly. ‘They’ll come for you in a minute.’

‘The gravediggers?’ Steiner asked, and felt something moist run out of his mouth. He knew it was blood and thought: in the lung. Suddenly he also felt the pain. It was everywhere, in his back, in his chest, in his legs, in his brain—everywhere. He groaned and closed his eyes. What rotten luck, he thought.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Krüger said. ‘The medicos from the clearing station are coming for you.’

Steiner grinned. ‘Comes to the same thing.’

‘I wanted to go with you,’ Krüger said dolefully. ‘But Schulz won’t let me go. I’m the last NCO here.’ They were silent for a while. Then Krüger looked at his watch. ‘Where the devil are they?’ he murmured restively. ‘It’s more than twenty minutes already.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since you were hit. Took you ten minutes to come to and I was beginning to think you’d had it.’

The words sounded familiar to Steiner; when had he heard them before? But suddenly a noise reached his ears that drew his attention away. It was like a man screaming with his head wrapped in a thick blanket.