A Kiss for the Enemy (34 page)

‘I somehow doubt whether I shall really do so, in spite of your protestations. You are not fundamentally serious, and I am. I know very well, for instance, that when you first decided to – shall we say show an interest? – in me, you were still protesting undying love for Marcia Marvell: a sweet girl whom I love and whom you have injured.

You have injured her because you have treated her as a toy, from which to extract pleasure …'

‘And give it!' muttered Tony irritably.

‘She was young and vulnerable, and you set out to make her love you. You succeeded. Does that make you proud? I fear it probably does, that it simply represents a little conquest, some
pleasant memories of love-making before passing on to something else. It is not, my dear Toni, that I criticize your amours or their number. It is simply that I could not myself take seriously one whose approach to life and love is so essentially uncommitted. It is not that I should fear your infidelity. It is, I am afraid, that such an attitude betokens, for me, a personality that is, fundamentally, uninteresting.'

‘
Letzlich uninteressant
!' This was almost the most painful part of the letter to accept and Toni read it three times, put it away in his pocket and periodically took it out and read it again.

‘Uninteresting!' Yes, it hurt. And it brought to mind other expressions, sentences Anna had let fall from time to time when they used to talk lightly, happily, at Arzfeld, sentences spoken so casually as to imply complete sincerity. She had referred to a man they both knew, shrugged him off as of little consequence. Toni had demurred, smiling –

‘Surely he's admitted to be highly attractive – to women?'

‘Oh yes,' Anna had said. ‘But you know how some attractive men can also be great bores!'

Once he had spoken of someone as being proud. Anna had said,

‘Not proud, I think – not at heart. Vain, certainly.'

‘What's the essential difference?'

Anna had considered, laughing.

‘Well, I think pride can be an intelligent sin – a sin, of course, but consistent with a good mind. Vanity, I think, is almost inseparable from silliness.'

Had he imagined it, that her eyes, her lovely, laugh-filled eyes, had looked at him, in saying it, with particular meaning?

And she was surely being unfair. She cited the case of Marcia Marvell. She was fond of Marcia. Yet he had explained things frankly to Anna at the time. It was hardly a crime to enjoy a delightful little affair with a lovely girl and then, after a little, aspire to a stable – an entirely honourable – relationship with a mature woman of beauty – and, the world being what it is, of property.

‘Or if that's a crime,' Toni thought sulkily, ‘it's a pretty criminal world.' Yet as he formed these sensible, worldly opinions he could not rid himself – and sometimes he felt,
uneasily, he would never rid himself – of the image of Marcia, the recollection not only of beauty but of a personality as fresh, as clear – and as effervescent – as a mountain spring.

All this was complex and depressing. Toni's taste was for simple, carefree and uncluttered human relationships, physical enjoyment, melody, laughter, a few tears perhaps. But, as he had always recognized, there was in the case of Anna Langenbach a great deal at stake. If it was to be won there was, he supposed, justice in the fate which made him sweat for it. Meanwhile, he thought ruefully, it was by no means certain that he would see Anna, Marcia, or for that matter, home, ever again. Toni's spirit, however, was resilient. Although he could look forward to no leave in Austria or Germany in the immediate future there had been a wonderful break in the clouds the previous afternoon, 14th December. The Division was shortly going into reserve for a while after continuous fighting since arrival on the Don front. Toni's Divisional commander, a man of particular kindness and charm as well as ability, had taken his arm –

‘Rudberg, you should have a few days off. I insist. I know your record. You've been wonderfully fit, and no Russian bullet or shell has hit you. The result is, in this job like in your last, you've done everybody's work. Seven days off and no argument. Starting next Monday.'

It was true that even Toni had been feeling near the end of his tether. The troops in the foxholes, or trudging through the snow were harder tried, physically, but they got at least some periods of rest. For the staff, Toni thought, the war goes on all the time. Fight one battle, plan the next, the pressure never eases. Furthermore, Toni – and he was admired for it – was always going forward, visiting the troops, getting impressions of the fighting. It was only recently, as temporary chief of the operations section, that he had been largely confined to Headquarters and Headquarters, in this Division, was pretty far forward. Toni knew that he had the name of a cheerful, efficient officer – and a name by now pretty widely known. He also knew, however, that he was stale and tired: and now he hadn't much hope of Anna to keep him buoyant. Seven days off, his duties safely entrusted to another, could be a wonderful restorative.

Toni wanted to get as far away as he could, but the claims on aircraft were such that any attempt to travel to Germany or Austria was out of the question. Providentially, he had earlier befriended a Rumanian Colonel: and by a supreme stroke of luck a telephone call to ask for his good offices had disclosed that the Colonel was himself flying to Bucharest – on Sunday. It was easy to advance his own leave by a day. There was a seat obtainable and the distances weren't too bad. Toni and the Colonel had discussed the possibility weeks ago, as something unlikely ever to happen. Now it was within his grasp.

‘You'll like Bucharest, Rudberg,' the Colonel had winked, ‘I'll show you round!'

Bucharest after the Don front! It had sounded like Paradise. There was nothing he could do about Anna, and he'd see things more clearly – and no doubt, write more eloquently – after a break from this appalling scene of desolation. The icy wind sighed and moaned round the corners of the cottage. ‘Here's to next week!' Toni thought, spirits high again. It was Friday. He'd heard delightful things of Bucharest.

An orderly entered and saluted. He handed Toni a piece of paper. It was marked for him, personally. Toni saw that it was a hurried note from the Divisional Commander who was, as usual, with the forward troops.

‘The Army Group Command urgently wishes an experienced officer to fly into Stalingrad to report to Sixth Army and to compile a report on certain questions after personal observation. The Army Group Commander has just been with me. Captain Eicholz from Headquarters was due to fly yesterday and has been taken ill. There are difficulties in sparing another from the Army Group staff. In view of our impending move to reserve the Field Marshal has requested, and I have agreed, that you shall fly into Sixth Army area this afternoon. Instructions will reach you direct from the Army staff later this morning.'

Below his initials the General had scribbled –

‘I regret this but it is necessary.'

The likely fate of General Paulus and Sixth Army in Stalingrad overshadowed the Don front. Sixth Army had been the spearhead
of the Army Group in the victorious advances of the late summer. One great expedition, General von Kleist's Army Group A, had advanced into the Caucasus while behind it General von Weichs pushed Army Group B toward the Volga. Sixth Army eventually found itself in a huge salient whose tip was the city of Stalingrad. And in Stalingrad the Red Army was hanging on desperately to the Volga banks and to various pockets which the Germans, in savage fighting, failed wholly to eliminate.

Toni, like every other staff officer on the Don front, remembered vividly what happened next. In November the greatest Russian offensive of the war crashed into the Rumanian Army on the Chir and the Don. The Russians developed a huge pincer movement against the flanks of the salient that led to Stalingrad. By 22nd November Sixth Army was encircled. Thereafter, Paulus could only be supplied by air: or not at all.

It was generally supposed that this situation would not be allowed to last long. It was, all thought, inconceivable that a whole German Army – and there were said to be 230,000 men in Stalingrad – would permit itself to be throttled. But those, like Toni, with some knowledge of the workings of the High Command, knew that the Führer had forbidden any attempt by Paulus to break out of the encirclement. Sixth Army was to stand its ground. It would, Hitler promised, be supplied. The Luftwaffe would never let the Army down. And in the spring, when mobile operations became practicable again, Sixth Army would find itself once more in the van. Meanwhile it would do its duty. There had been a relief march from the south-west, but German tank strength in the Panzer divisions was so low that the attempt seemed already to be failing in its object; and one of the three Panzer divisions engaged had had to be withdrawn to deal with yet another crisis on the northern flank of the salient. Without permission to fight their way out, and without further hope of German troops in sufficient numbers being able to fight their way in, Sixth Army settled, shivering, to meet its fate in the ruins of Stalingrad.

As he flew toward Gumrak airfield, by now the only serviceable strip, Toni glanced again at the paper he had been given. Background statistics: Sixth Army needed 600 tons flown into the pocket daily to make operations possible, and 300 tons for
mere survival. Further background statistic: Luftwaffe average delivery during December 140 tons. Commander-in-Chief's decision: an offensive west from the pocket was an absolute necessity in order to open a land line of communication.

‘And how is that likely to be possible?' Toni respectfully enquired of the Army Group Chief of Staff, who had briefed him personally before departure. ‘How can that occur,
Herr General
, if Sixth Army has, at the same time, to hold its positions by the Führer's order? And if its supply position is so bad that, as far as I can see, it must be almost out of both fuel and ammunition?'

The other looked at him without expression.

‘There's to be a conference to discuss it with Paulus. What I want from you are some clear impressions of the real state of Sixth Army. Statistics are one thing. We all know that where the spirit is right one can achieve great things with every material odd against one. It's possible Sixth Army are exaggerating. They originally said they could only hold out until today!'

Toni saluted. His smile was as disrespectful as it was possible for a General Staff Officer to be.

‘Exaggerating!' From what he'd heard the plight of Sixth Army had been, if anything, understated. He'd managed to visit a severely wounded friend who'd been flown out ten days earlier: one of the lucky ones. Brenndorf had held his hand tightly:

‘The
landsers
are permanently frozen – already. Fingers, toes, dropping off. No food – and it's getting worse. We're down to a hundred grammes of bread per man. Do you know we're killing most of our horses to eat them? And we're digging the corpses of horses out of the snow –'

‘Take it easy, Brenndorf, old friend, you're out of it now.' – ‘I'm out of it. What about them?' Brenndorf was lying, feverish, in the field hospital near the airstrip. ‘What about them? They're living among the rubble like animals, freezing, famished. You remember winter '41 – believe me it was nothing to this. We can't move – no fuel and now no horses. The Russians infiltrate between us, they scuttle around like sewer rats. There are Ivan snipers everywhere and our fellows have to exist on a few rounds each – if they're lucky. And as often
as not they've no finger to shoot with. What the hell do they think they're doing, leaving a whole Army like that?'

‘Sh, sh!' Toni said automatically. He glanced around. Nobody was taking an interest in Captain Brenndorf's delirium.

‘The men are lousy – they're rotten with disease, they stink to heaven. Some of my battalion have had dysentery for the whole time, they're so weak they can't stand. I've seen men fall into the snow and they've had to be left there to die. Pray God they did so before the Russians got them! But Rudberg,' Brenndorf held his hand tightly, ‘Rudberg, they're still magnificent, our fellows. They're suffering, God, how they're suffering! But give them one bowl of filthy stew, get some together with enough limbs to shoot and run and you wouldn't believe some of the things we've done! We've still mastered them! We –'

‘Hush, old fellow. I believe you!' Toni left him.

That was ten days ago. It must be worse now. If it could be.

Toni's light aircraft was delayed in take off. He talked to the pilot.

‘It's pretty good chaos at Gumrak airfield,
Herr Major
, I can tell you.' Toni nodded.

‘It's a big job to get these tonnages in to one airfield, turning aircraft round in time, clearing the airfield of stores and so forth. I can imagine. And the snow can't make it easier.'

The pilot laughed. ‘That's true. Often there's been no flying at all. But that's not the worst of it. At the far end they have a job to fight off our fellows trying to help themselves. They've a real security problem I'm told.'

Toni looked at him. ‘You imply that some of the troops are out of control?'

The pilot looked uneasy and shrugged his shoulders.

‘These stories always get exaggerated,
Herr Major.
I expect it's a small, criminal minority, who've lost their self-respect.'

‘It always is,' Toni said half to the pilot, half to himself. ‘It always is a small minority,' and he wondered what he would find.

They took off at last. The light was fading rapidly. Out of the window Toni saw great fires blazing as they approached the pocket.

‘They've fired a lot of our own dumps,' the pilot said through
the intercom. ‘Couldn't defend the perimeter, couldn't cart the stuff back. No transport, no fuel, no horses. Burnt it to stop the Ivans getting it. Pity.'