Unlikely Warrior (7 page)

The men rose up slowly, their formerly clean uniforms, faces, hands, now all a mess of muck and mire. I wiped my face as best I could, gathered my things together, and continued walking onward toward the east.

That night we rested for a few hours in the ruins of a house that was still burning. At dawn, just before we continued our march, I wrote my first letter home.

Somewhere in Russia, December 4, 1943

Dear Mutti,

I still haven’t arrived at our destination. Until now the other lively fellows and I have been messing around on the train, in burned-out houses, etc. It’s already pretty warlike here. The front isn’t far away. Everything is stuck in the mud. We often wade in it up to our ankles and feel after four kilometers as though we’ve covered forty. I don’t have a field post number yet, but it won’t take much longer. I am in tip-top shape physically, mentally, and spiritually. You get used to everything, to the mud, too. I don’t have one dry thread left on my body. Everything is saturated with mud, but it dries up and falls off again. When the mail is working better, I’ll write you in more detail. You should receive this letter by way of one of the guys who is going on furlough. I wish all of you a happy Christmas. Be well and don’t worry about me. Weeds don’t perish that easily. Many kisses,

Your Georg

Thanks to the chilly rain and the conditions of the so-called road, we were barely recognizable by the time we reached the front. My feet were covered with new blisters, and having caught only snatches of sleep, I felt primarily relief that we finally had reached our destination.

It was already dark as we reinforcements were assigned places within a long stretch of a zigzag-running trench, where we joined the likewise weary, wet, and filthy soldiers already there. I jumped down into the ditch, which measured just the width of my shoulders.

The older, unshaven soldier inside said simply, “Good that you’re finally here,” and showed me the space where I could stash my things. It was a horizontal hole dug into the side wall of the trench, about the length of a man and relatively dry, at least compared to the bottom of the trench.

It seemed incredible that now only a few meters lay between me and those over there. It was so dark that I couldn’t distinguish any details, such as how far away they were or whether perhaps one of them was right now raising his arm to fling a hand grenade in my direction. I felt painfully aware of my inexperience, without a clue from where or when an unknown quantity of them might come sneaking or storming up. I also doubted that my rifle—a ridiculous affair that had to be reloaded after every shot—would be of much value in repulsing an attack. Perhaps I had made a terrible mistake after all in choosing the infantry.

Nevertheless, here I was, in the foremost lines of a front in a war I never wanted, understood, or was able to justify. From now on I was expected to shoot at people I didn’t know and for whom I hadn’t the slightest feeling of enmity.

The black of the night sky and the yet deeper black of the earth beneath, together with the faint sound of the ever-continuing rain and the hopelessness of my situation, brought me close to tears, but I hadn’t even a clean finger for wiping my eyes.

Another day passed with the old veteran and me changing places every two hours. The temperature dropped far below freezing. Every now and then an officer came by, pressing himself past us in the trench, usually with a few encouraging words. It struck me that the coarse, loud tones of the drill ground weren’t to be heard here at all. All of that standing at attention and the other obedience-building chicanery had disappeared. Here the attitude seemed to be “We’re all in the same soup together.”

About midnight some soldiers came dragging heavy iron containers from which they filled our mess kits with an almost-cold stew of sorts. Half a loaf of
Kommissbrot
(rye bread), a finger-thick slice of sausage, and a piece of hard artificial honey completed the day’s rations.

Russia, December 7, 1943

Dear Mutti,

And so it’s come to this. I have been standing in the front trench for forty-eight hours. It’s a very strange feeling to know that thousands before me have already stood in such a trench, and probably just as many will come after. Here we sit, day and night, ready to ward off the attacking Russians. Only here can one first claim to be a soldier, for he who hasn’t heard the bullets whistling isn’t yet one.

Twenty-four hours ago I couldn’t have said I was in such a good mood. In fact I was pretty unhappy, because I have been placed here as an infantry soldier, even though I was ordered to headquarters as a telegraphist. It has struck me here that I really don’t completely understand such concepts as bravery and cowardice. For example, I can’t reconcile military courage and bravery with the drive for self-preservation that I feel so strongly here in the bottom of my trench.

There is already a little snow. The ground is frozen and the sky cloudy. Overnight it has become bitter cold. I’m wearing no less than two pairs of long underwear, a pair of sweatpants, and my uniform pants. In addition, I have on two shirts, a military pullover, my own pullover, a stomach band, uniform jacket, overcoat, and a blanket. On my head two scarves, earmuffs, and a cap pulled down over my ears. All that and I’m still freezing! But we’ve been promised quilted suits in a few days. Your mittens are splendid. They have proven themselves wonderfully. I don’t want to take them off at all.

I have very little left of the things I brought with me from home, but it doesn’t matter. I have the most necessary things with me, and the rest is just a great burden. I haven’t washed for almost two weeks, which isn’t exactly pleasant, but there has been no opportunity. I don’t have lice yet.

In spite of everything, I’m actually in quite a good mood. I look at everything from a certain distance with a kind of superiority, and I really don’t know where this comes from. I only notice that it has quite a refreshing and calming effect on the others who, in part, are pretty run-down—spirits as well as nerves.

Of course I won’t be celebrating Christmas this year. There’s no tree, no friends, no presents. I’ll just be happy if I’m not too hungry on that day. With that in mind, I’ve been saving a piece of bacon and some sugar. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not so fussy in this respect. Who knows, perhaps for all this the Christmases to come will be that much better.

You mustn’t be surprised at my writing and spelling. It’s 7 a.m., my fingers are pretty stiff and dirty, and the trench is just as wide as I am. Besides, one’s heart does beat a little faster, after all. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again, but it could be a while, since there isn’t always a chance.

Be well and don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me. Besides, I have faith in your religious attitude, and that simplifies things considerably. Warmest greetings to all who care about me, and tell them I’m fine. Many loving kisses from …

Your Georg

After nightfall on our fourth day in the trenches, a lieutenant came and announced, “The companies will be pulling back at 7:00 p.m., and a small group will remain behind as rear guard until 11:00 p.m. Both of you are detailed to this group.”

Our task was to keep walking the trench in one direction until we met the next soldier, a distance of three to four hundred yards, and then do the same in the opposite direction. At the same time we were to fire off a shot now and then to simulate the continuing presence of the entire company.

The withdrawal of the majority took place very quietly, and we began marking off the trench. It was quite still. I could hear only the far-off rumbling of the artillery and an occasional rifle shot.

I worked my way toward the contact on my right, returned to the left, and then went back again. Two hours must have passed in this fashion when, as I was once more walking the trench toward my right, probably more or less absentmindedly, it suddenly occurred to me that I had walked much farther than before without meeting the other man. I stopped and debated whether to keep going or to wait until he came back in my direction. It was very dark and very still, one of those black and cloudy new-moon nights.

As I stood there undecided, I thought I heard something—just a smattering of strange sounds. I glanced toward the dark mass that formed the slope across the way, and there, along the faint contour of the hill outlined against the night sky, I thought I detected some moving spots. The harder I strained to see, the more certain I became; those were people moving up there. Then I also saw some indistinct, even darker spots on the slope but closer to me, and again that low, unfamiliar murmuring.

The longer I stared, the more easily I could distinguish shapes, closer and closer to me and moving silently forward. A chill ran down my spine, and the artery in my neck began to throb as I realized that one of the shapes was crouched not more than a few meters in front of me. Then more of those sounds, whispered scraps of Russian words, but behind me!

“They’re in back of us,” I thought. “They’re already over the trench. They must have killed the other man, and that’s why I didn’t meet him.”

At this moment I discovered what fear is. It became all too clear to me that those creatures crawling toward me through the mud in the middle of the night were there for the sole purpose of killing me. With that they became, whether I wished it or not, “the enemy.”

I made myself as small as possible and began creeping back very slowly the way I had come, hoping just not to make a sound, just not to bump into anything, expecting at any minute that a Russian would jump down on top of me or a flare would light up the sky and I would be surrounded by shooting Russians.

I wormed my way along the trench for an eternity. Eventually I started coming to places that seemed familiar: a bunker, a bomb crater. Finally someone growled in German, “Password?” and I gave the response with enormous relief. It was my old veteran.

After I had described the situation in whispers, we went seeking the noncom in charge of the rear guard. Shortly afterward we were all out of the trenches and on our way to the rear, but I soon noted that the noncom seemed to be having some difficulties finding the right way. More and more often the group received the signal to halt while he studied the map with a carefully shielded flashlight. It had begun snowing and the flakes were coming down thicker and thicker. I chewed on my last piece of bread and asked myself how long it would take for us to run into our company.

Map my father drew in an attempt to follow my whereabouts in the Ukraine.

Soon the ground became completely white, and a dismal silence lay over everything. Then the wind began blowing. Before long a heavy blizzard was hurling the snow into our eyes, making it difficult not to lose the blurred shape of the man in front of me. Two hours had already elapsed since our flight from the trenches, and I was becoming very tired, what with all the equipment I had to carry. The pace of the group was slowing down considerably.

Suddenly the silhouette of a house appeared through the snowstorm, and behind it, another. They were the first houses of a village. We searched them, and when they proved to be deserted, the officer ordered us to sleep inside until daybreak. Guards were posted outside, and I found a dry corner where I fell asleep immediately.

I thought at first I must be dreaming when someone shook my arm and whispered, “Wake up, quick! The Russians are on the other side of the street. Just grab your rifle and ammunition and get out the back as quickly as possible. Leave everything else.”

It was still snowing. The ground was soft and swallowed up our footsteps as we crept down a small depression, expecting flares and bursts of fire at any moment. After crossing a small stream that plunged us knee-deep into icy water, we disappeared among the bare fruit trees on the opposite side.

Two more days passed before that incompetent nincompoop of an officer finally led us back to our company. Our rations during this period consisted of cooked corn kernels.

When we finally reached the others, no joyous reunions took place among these men who had been fighting next to each other for months. That surprised me. I still hadn’t learned how dulled soldiers become, how superficial relationships remain when the dead are constantly being replaced by new faces, these likewise destined to disappear in a short time.

An hour after our return I was in the front lines again, once more in a trench, this time one filled with snow. But a day later my situation took a definite turn for the better.