Forgotten Soldier (30 page)

"You just let me whistle my own tune," said the other, who appeared unimpressed by a flowery turn of speech.

"But I'm afraid I must insist on a reply," said the young man. "And I say you're a bunch of fatheads, who won't begin to think until you've been cracked on your nice little skulls."

Another of the young Hitler boys jumped up, as if he'd been shot. His features were regular and firm, and his steel-gray eyes reflected an unshakable determination. I thought he was going to rush the older fellow, who wasn't looking at anyone.

"Do you think we're still tied to our mothers' apron strings?" he asked, in a voice as steady as his look.

"We've been through months of training too, and we're just as tough as you. We've all been in endurance squads. Rummer," he said, turning to a friend. "Hit me in the face."

Rummer jumped to his feet, and his strong, nervous fist struck his friend in the mouth. The latter staggered for a moment under the impact of the blow, and then walked over to the veteran, who decided to look up. Two streams of bright red blood were pouring from the mouth of the Junge Lowe and running down his chin.

"Fatheads like me can take it just as well as bourgeois shits like you."

"All right," said the veteran, who had decided against coming to blows ahead of H-hour. "You're all heroes."

He turned away, and tried to whistle.

"How about writing to your families, instead of squabbling like this?" said our feld. "Mail will be collected in a little while."

"That's a good idea," Hals said. "I'm going to write to my parents." I had a letter to Paula in my pocket which I'd been carrying around for a couple of days, waiting for a chance to finish it. I added a few tender sentiments, and sealed it. Then I wrote to my family. When anyone is afraid, he thinks of his family, especially of his mother, and as the moment of attack drew closer, my terror was rising. I wanted to confide something of my anguish to my mother, and felt that somehow I could do it in a letter. I had always found it difficult to confide in my parents face to face-even the slightest of crimes-and had often criticized them for failing to help me. But on that occasion I was able to express myself.

Dear parents, especially Maman:

I know you must be quite angry with me for writing to you so little. I have already explained to Papa that the life we lead here leaves almost no time for letters. [This was not strictly speaking true: I had written to Paula at least twenty times, and only once to my family.]

At last, I want to ask your pardon, and describe something of my life here. I could have written to you in German, Maman, because I'm getting much better at it, but it is still easier for me to write in French. Everything here is all right. I've finished my training, and I'm a real soldier now. I wish you could see Russia. You can't imagine how huge it is. The wheat fields near Paris seem like tiny gardens compared to what we have here. Now it's as hot as the winter is cold. I hope we won't have to spend another winter here. You wouldn't believe what we went through. Today, we've moved up to the front line. Everything is quiet, and it seems as if we've just come here to relieve our comrades. Hals is still my best friend, and I have a good time with him. I think you'll like him when you meet him on my next leave unless the war is over before then, and we're home for good. Everyone thinks it must be going to end soon-that we can't have another winter like last one. I hope that my brothers and sisters are well, and that my youngest brother doesn't broadcast my affairs too much. I look forward more than I can say to seeing them again. Papa told me that life was hard for you. I hope it's easier now, and that you don't have to do without too much. Don't go short yourselves to make a package for me-I'm more or less all right. Dear Maman, soon I want to tell you about something wonderful that happened to me in Berlin. For now, I send all of you my love.

I sealed my letter and, together with the one to Paula, handed it to the postman. Hals, Olensheim, Kraus, and Lensen all had letters too....

Everything was quiet on that summer evening in 1943. After dark, of course, there would be a few clashes between patrols-nothing more. But that's war.

Some of us were rounded up to distribute supper, which we ate late. We were forbidden to touch the few cans we had, for they constituted our total reserve. Dusk was falling when the feld responsible for our section waved us over to him. We were soon listening intently, as he told us what we would be expected to do. He had a large map of the district, on which he showed us the points we should attain, taking every precaution. When the order was given, we should be prepared to protect the infantry, who would quickly join and then pass us. We were given a list of rallying points and other details which I only partly understood, and advised to rest, as we would not be called before the middle of the night.

We stood and stared at each other for a long time. Now we knew. We were going to be part of a full-scale attack. A heavy sense of foreboding settled over us, and the knowledge that soon some of us would be dead was stamped on every face. Even a victorious army suffers dead and wounded: the Fuhrer himself had said it. In fact, none of us could imagine his own death. Some would be killed-we all knew that-but each one imagined himself doing the burying. No one, despite the obvious danger, could think of himself lying mortally wounded. That was something which happened to other people-thousands of them-but never to oneself. Everyone clung to this idea, despite fear and doubt. Even the Hitlerjugend, who spent years cultivating the idea of sacrifice, couldn't consciously envisage their own ends occurring within a few hours. One might be exalted by a grand idea based on a structure of logic, and even be prepared to run large risks, but to believe in the worst is impossible.

Finally, night came: a soft summer night, which brought with it a breath of freshness after the torrid day. Everywhere free of the war, people must have been stretched out on the grass beside their houses, enjoying the season with their friends. Sometimes, when I was small, I used to take a walk with my parents before going to bed. My father believed one should enjoy these summer evenings to the maximum, and kept me out until my eyelids drooped with sleep. Hals pulled me back from my thoughts.

"My dear Sajer, be sure to look out for yourself when we get going. It would be too stupid to get killed just before the war's over."

"Yes," I said. "That would be stupid."

All of us were haunted by so many thoughts that conversation was impossible. And each of us was obsessed by the particular question: "How shall I come through this time?"

In the depths of the covered shelter, one of the Jungen Lowen was playing quietly on his harmonica, and the voices of his companions joined softly in the melody. Then the sound of gunfire made us jump.

"Here we go!" we thought.

But everything quieted down again. Lensen came up to us.

"The first Soviet line is less than four hundred yards from here," he said. "The feld just told me. That's really not very far."

"But it's not too bad, either," said the veteran of a little while ago. "At least we can sleep in peace. At Smolensk the Popovs' holes were less than a grenade's throw from ours."

No one answered him.

"I'm commanding Group 6," said Lensen, "and I have to get right under Ivan's nose, to keep him from moving when the assault troops begin their attack. You can imagine . . ."

"We'll have it about the same," said the sergeant who would lead us. "According to what I've heard, we'll be right in line with one of their positions."

We listened attentively, hoping that our part of the enterprise was not going to be too dangerous.

"But the Russian scouts are sure to see us!" cried Lindberg, horrified. "That's crazy!"

"That will be the hardest part of it, but let's hope the night is dark. Also, we've been advised not to fire before the attack-to get into position without any noise."

"Don't forget mines," said the veteran, who in fact had not gone to sleep.

"The ground was checked for mines by details from the disciplinary battalion-insofar as possible," the noncom retorted.

"Insofar as possible," sneered the veteran. "I like that! All the same, you'd better be careful if you see any wires. Don't go tugging them." "If you keep on like this," Lensen shouted in a threatening voice, "I'll put you to sleep until the attack." He shook his stubby-fingered fist under the older man's nose. The veteran only smiled, but didn't say anything.

"What if we run right into Ivan?" asked grenadier Kraus. "Then we'll have to use our guns, won't we?"

"Only as a last resort," the noncom answered. "In principle, we're supposed to take them by surprise, and knock them out without any noise."

Without any noise! What did he mean?

"With the butts of our guns, or spades?" asked Hals anxiously. "Spades, bayonets, anything. We've got to get rid of them-that's all. And without raising any alarm."

We'll take them prisoner," murmured young Lindberg.

"Are you off your rocker?" said the noncom. "An assault group can't take prisoners during a mission. What would we do with them?"

"Hell," said Hals. "You mean we'll have to skewer them?"

"Lost your guts?" asked Lensen.

"Hell, no," said Hals, to show that he was a man. But his face was white.

I glanced at the spade-pick hooked to my big friend's waist. Then we had to stand up so a hauptmann and his group could get through.

"Where are we, exactly?" young Lindberg asked naively.

"In Russia," said the veteran.

No one smiled at this feeble joke, and the noncom tried to give us a rough idea of our position-some three miles northwest of Belgorod.

"I'm going to try and sleep," stammered Hals, who was clearly shaken by all these preparations.

We lay down side by side, without bothering to undo our bedrolls. The steel of the spandau which Hals had set up pointing down the length of the trench gleamed with a dull luster. Sleep was impossible-not be cause of the discomfort of a night out of doors, strapped into all our gear-we'd done that often before-but because of our anxiety about what lay ahead.

"Hell-I'll have plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead," said Grenadier Kraus in a loud voice. He stood up and pissed against the wall of the trench.

I lay awake for a long time, thinking and thinking. . . . Finally, I did sleep, for about three hours, until I was wakened by the distant sound of a motor. My movement woke Hals and Grumpers, the other grenadier, who was lying beside me with his head on my shoulder.

"What's the matter?" he groaned sleepily.

"I don't know. I thought maybe they'd called us." "What time is it?" Hals asked.

I looked at my school watch. "Two-twenty."

"What time is dawn?" asked young Lindberg, who hadn't been able to sleep at all.

"Probably very early this time of year," someone said. The sound of engines continued.

"If those fucking drivers keep it up, they'll wake every one of the goddamn Russkis."

We tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't. About half an hour later we heard a muted noise of bustle and commotion just beyond the walls of the covered shelter. In the darkness, we guessed that we were listening to some fellows collecting their gear. We all turned toward the sound, trying to grasp what was happening, when a feld appeared, wearing camouflage.

"Groups 8 and 9?" he asked in a low voice. "Present!" answered the two group leaders.

"You'll be leaving in five minutes, by way of access C, and will proceed to your respective positions. Good luck!"

He pointed to a small sign, scarcely visible in the darkness, marked with the letter C. All our reflections came to a dead stop, and our brains emptied, as if we had been anesthetized. Everyone grabbed his gun, and checked the critical points of his harness and straps, as Hauptmann Fink had taught us-especially the chin straps of our helmets. Hals lifted the big F.M. onto his shoulders, and Lindberg, who was his number-two man, slipped his slender silhouette in beside the man he was supposed to serve. Only the veteran-our second machine gunner-behaved as if he'd forgotten the object of all these preparations. His movements were not marked by the febrile haste which characterized the actions of all the rest of us. He knew all this from before. He propped the heavy F.M. against his leg, and waited for the order to move out.

"I hope you're in good shape," he said to the gun, grinning sardonically.

"Group 8!" called the sergeant, sounding as if he'd been struck by a sudden electric shock.

"After me, and silence!"

We took exit C and, sticking close together, followed the trench to the forward positions. Our noncom was at the head of the column. Behind him came Grumpers, the grenadier, who was about twenty-two years old; then Hals, just past eighteen, and Lindberg, not quite seventeen; then our three gunners: a Czech of indefinable age with an unpronounceable name, a Sudeten of nineteen, whose name ended with an "a," and me. Right behind me was the veteran with his number-two man, another terrified boy, and finally Grenadier Kraus, who must have been well into his twenties. We moved out in good order, exactly as we'd been taught at Camp F, where we'd sweated so hard.

Indefinable noises reached us, coming from either the Russian or the German lines. We crossed several trenches jammed with troops who were still half asleep in the warm summer air, before climbing out of our own trench in the middle of the woods. Young Lindberg, who was loaded down like a donkey, slipped on the earth embankment, and the magazines of the spandau he was carrying clashed together. The noncom grabbed him by his straps and helped him climb up. Then he glared at him furiously, and kicked him in the shin. We walked to the edge of the wood in single file. The noncom stopped short very suddenly, and we all more or less piled into each other.

"It's darker than Hades here," the veteran muttered in my ear.

It seemed to me that our guide, having signed us to stop, was now going on ahead. We stayed where we were, bent double, waiting for an order to proceed. Despite our best efforts to keep quiet, we couldn't avoid a certain amount of metallic clatter from all the weapons we were carrying.