Forgotten Soldier (6 page)

The first train passed by without even slowing down. Our feldwebel, who had outdone himself in his efforts to stop it, was furious. Soldiers shouted to us from the train that their orders were not to stop for any reason whatever.

Extremely irritated, we walked on in the direction of the train which had passed us. At all events, the road must be parallel to the tracks; we would only have to make a right-angle turn to find our com pany again. The difficulty was that we were far from the kitchen and the hour for the distribution of food must have come and gone. I had two pieces of rye bread in my coat pocket, but I didn't want to take them out for fear of having to share them. The two soldiers with whom I had been shoveling snow must have known each other for some time. They were deep in conversation, and had stuck together ever since we'd left the convoy. Our noncom was walking ahead of us, by himself, and I tried to catch up with him. By now we had been walking for some time. The tracks were sunk between two banks which supported a thin growth of scrubby brush. They extended straight ahead into an indefinite distance. If a train came along, we would be able to see it for at least five miles. The scrub on the banks at this point was growing more thickly, and extending a greater distance from the tracks.

It was now some three hours since we had left our company. Everything stood out clearly against the snow. For some moments now I had been staring at a black shape about five hundred yards away. Ten minutes later, we could see that it was a hut. Our feldwebel was walking toward it; it must be a shelter for railway workers. The feldwebel raised his voice: "Hurry up. We'll wait in that shelter over there."

It didn't seem a bad idea. We had regrouped, and a young fellow covered with freckles, one of my snow-shoveling companions, was joking with his friend. We were making our way toward the but when a violent burst of sound struck my ears. At the same moment, I saw, to the right of the hut, a light puff of white smoke.

Utterly astounded, I looked around at my companions. The feldwebel had flung himself down on the ground like a goalie onto a ball, and was loading his automatic. The fellow with the freckles was staggering toward me with enormous eyes and a curious stupefied expression. When he was about six feet from me, he fell to his knees. His mouth opened as if he wanted to shout, but no sound came, and he toppled over backward. A second barrage of sound ripped the air, followed by a modulated whistle.

Without thinking, I threw myself flat on the snow. The feldwebel's automatic crackled, and I saw some snow from the roof of the but shoot up into the air. I couldn't take my eyes off the freckled young soldier, whose motionless body lay a few yards away.

"Cover me, you idiots," the feldwebel shouted, as he jumped up and ran forward.

I looked at the freckled soldier's friend. He seemed more surprised than frightened. Calmly, we aimed our weapons toward the woods, from which a few shots still rang out, and began to fire.

The detonation of my Mauser restored some of my confidence, but I was still very scared. Two more bullets whistled in my ears. Our sergeant, with appalling self-assurance, stood up and threw a grenade. The air rang with the noise of the explosion, and one of the worm-eaten planks of the but disintegrated.

With incomprehensible calm, I continued to stare at the cabin. The feldwebel's automatic was still firing. Without panic, I slid another bullet into the barrel of my gun. As I was about to shoot, two black figures ran from the ruins of the hut, and headed toward the forest. It was a perfect opportunity. My gun sight stood out clearly in black against the white of the countryside, and then merged into the darkness of one of the galloping figures. I pressed the trigger ... and missed.

Our chief had run as far as the hut, firing after the fleeing men without hitting them. After a moment, he signaled us to join him, and we extricated ourselves from our holes in the snow.

The feldwebel was staring at something in the ruins of the cabin. As we drew closer we could see a man leaning against the wall. His face, half covered by a wild, shaggy beard, was turned toward us; his eyes looked damp. He gazed at us without a word; his clothes, of skin and fur, were not a military uniform. My eye was caught by his left hand. It was soaked with blood. More blood was running from his collar. I felt a twinge of unease for him. The feldwebel's voice brought me back to reality.

"Partisan!" he shouted. "Hein? . . . You know what you're going to get!"

He pointed his gun at the Russian, who seemed frightened and rolled farther back into the corner. I too recoiled, but our noncom was already putting his automatic back in its holster.

"You take care of him," he ordered, waving toward the wounded man.

We carried the partisan outside. He groaned, and said something unintelligible.

The sound of an approaching train was growing steadily louder. This one, however, was returning to the rear. We managed to stop it. Three soldiers wrapped in heavy reindeer-skin coats jumped from the first carriage. One of them was a lieutenant, and we snapped to attention. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?" he barked. "Why did you stop us?"

Our noncom explained that we were looking for labor.

"This train is carrying only the wounded and dying," the lieutenant said. "If we had some troops on leave I'd help you out. As it is, I can't do anything for you."

"We've got two wounded men," the sergeant ventured.

The lieutenant was already walking over to the freckled soldier, who was lying motionless where he had fallen. "You can see that this one's dead."

"No, Mein Leutnant. He's still breathing."

"Ah ... well, maybe ... But another fifteen minutes . . " he gestured vaguely. "Well, all right . . . we'll take him." He whistled at two skeletal stretcher-bearers, who lifted our young comrade. I thought I could see a brown stain in the middle of his back, but I wasn't sure whether it was blood mixed with the green of his coat, or something else.

And the other one?" the lieutenant asked impatiently. "Over there, beside the hut."

The lieutenant looked at the bearded man, who was clearly dying. "Who's this?"

"A Russian, Mein Leutnant, a partisan."

"So that's it. Do you really think I'm going to saddle myself with one of those bastards who'll shoot you in the back any time-as if war at the front wasn't enough!"

He shouted an order to the two soldiers who were with him. They walked over to the unfortunate man lying on the snow, and two shots rang out.

A short time later, we were making our way back to the road. Our noncom had abandoned the idea of an improvised labor force, and we would now rejoin our unit, which undoubtedly had not made much progress.

I had just been under fire for the first time, an experience I can no longer describe with any precision. An element of the absurd was mixed into the day's events: the feldwebel's footsteps in the snow were so enormous, and I, in my confusion, kept looking for the young freckled soldier who should have been returning with us. Everything had happened so quickly that I hadn't been able to grasp the significance of anything. Nevertheless, two human beings had suffered senseless deaths. Ours had not yet celebrated his eighteenth birthday.

It had already been dark for some time when we finally found our company. The night was clear and cold, and the thermometer was dropping with horrifying speed.

Despite our forced march of nearly four hours, we were shaking with cold, and famished. My head was swimming with exhaustion, and frost from my breath lay on the high collar which I had pulled up almost to my eyes.

For some time before we reached it, we were able to see our convoy, standing out clearly, black against white. Its progress had indeed been small. The trucks had sunk in through the icy white crust over the tops of their wheels, and great slabs of snow clung to their tires and mudguards. Almost everyone had taken refuge inside the cabs. After chewing on their meager rations, they had wrapped themselves in everything they could find, and were trying to sleep, despite the bitter cold. A short distance away, the two fellows who'd been chosen for guard duty were stamping on their boots, hoping to warm their feet.

Inside the cabs, through the frosted glass, I could see an occasional gleam from someone's cigarette or pipe. I climbed into my truck and felt in the darkness for my rucksack and mess tin. When the tin was propped between my icy fingers, I wolfed down a few mouthfuls of some filthy mixture that tasted like frozen soya. It was so bad that I tipped most of it onto the snow and ate something else.

Outside, I could hear somebody talking. I craned my neck to see who it was. A small fire had just been kindled in a hole in the snow, and was burning with a cheerful brilliance. I jumped down from the truck and hurried as fast as I could toward this source of light, heat, and joy. Three men were standing beside the fire, among them my feldwebel of this afternoon. He was breaking pieces of wood across his knee.

"I've had enough of this cold. I had pneumonia last winter, and if I get it again it's goodbye to me. Anyway, our trucks are visible for at least two miles, so we're not giving anything away by just lighting a few sticks."

"You're right," replied a fellow who must have been at least forty-five. "The Russians, partisans or not, are all snug in their beds."

"I certainly would be glad to be home in my bed," said another, staring into the flames.

We were all practically in the fire, except for the big feldwebel, who was busily reducing a packing case to fragments.

Suddenly someone shouted at us. "Hey, you over there!"

A figure was approaching us between the trucks. We could see the silver trim on his cap gleaming through the darkness. Already the feldwebel and the old man were trampling on the fire. The captain came up to us, and we stood at attention.

"What do you think you're doing? You must have lost your minds! Don't you know the orders? Since you've come out to watch round the campfire, you can pick up your guns and make a nice patrol of the neighborhood. Your festivities have undoubtedly attracted a few guests.

Now it's up to you to find them. By twos until we leave. Understood?" It was the last straw. With death in my soul, I went off to look for my damned gun. I was on the point of collapse from hunger, exhaustion, cold, and God knows what else. I would certainly never have the strength to spend the night slogging through that horrible snow, whose frozen crust covered more than two feet of white power, into which I sank over the tops of my boots. I was filled with rage which I couldn't express. Exhaustion prevented reaction. I returned to my companions in misfortune as best I could. The feldwebel decided that the fellow who was pushing fifty and myself should take the first patrol.

"We'll relieve you in two hours, which will be easier for you."

I have never understood why, but I had the distinct impression that the miserable cur had purposely put me with the old man. No doubt he preferred the other fellow as a companion-twenty-five years old and strongly built-to a scrawny seventeen or an old man. I started off with my fellow sufferer, convinced that we were a vulnerable combination. After the first few steps I tripped, and fell down full length onto the snow, scraping my hands against the hard, icy crust. As I was pulling myself up, I was scarcely able to contain a paroxysm of tears.

The old man was a decent sort: he too seemed to have had about enough.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked in a paternal tone.

"Merde," I replied.

He said nothing. Pulling his collar a little higher against his head, he let me get in front of him. I didn't really know where we were supposed to be going, but that was unimportant. What I knew beyond a doubt was that I would double back as soon as the black mass of the convoy was out of sight, and despite my exhaustion I managed to put a considerable distance between myself and the old man. I moved forward nervously, breathing as little as possible, as the icy air burned my nose. But after a moment I couldn't go on. My knees trembled, and I dissolved in tears. I could no longer grasp anything that was happening to me. I could see clearly in my mind's eye France, and my family, and the games I used to play with my friends and my Meccano set. What was I doing here? I can remember crying out between bursts of sobs: "I'm too young to be a soldier."

I don't know whether or not my companion was surprised by my confusion. When he caught up with me he contented himself with saying:

"You walk too quickly, young fellow. You must forgive me if I can't keep up with you. I shouldn't even be a soldier. I was retired before the war. But six months ago they called me up anyway. They need everyone they can get, you know. Anyway, let's hope we get home again safely."

As I didn't understand very much about the times, and needed someone to blame, I began to attack the Russians: "And all of this on account of those bastards! The first one I meet has had it!"

However, I wasn't able to forget the events of the afternoon. The partisan and his execution had overwhelmed me. The poor old man looked at me in bewilderment. He must have wondered whether he was involved with a party fanatic or a security agent.

"Yes," he said in a carefully veiled tone. "They're certainly making us sweat. It would be better to let them settle it among themselves. They won't stay Bolshevik for long. And in the end, anyway, it's none of our business."

"And Stalingrad! We certainly have to supply the Sixth Army! My uncle is there! They must be having a tough time."

"Of course they're having a tough time. We don't know everything. Finishing off Zhukov isn't going to be easy."

"Zhukov will quit, the way he did at Kharkov and Zhitomir. This won't be the first time General von Paulus made him run."

He said nothing. As we lived without much information from the advanced front, the conversation came to a halt. I certainly never guessed that the doom of Stalingrad was already sealed; that the soldiers of the Sixth Army had given up hope and were fighting in horrible conditions, with heroic tenacity.

The sky was covered with stars. In the moonlight I was able to see the little student's watch strapped on my wrist, a souvenir of my certificat d'etudes in France. Time seemed to be standing still, and those two hours dragged like centuries. We walked slowly, watching the tips of our boots sink into the snow with every step. There was no wind, but the cold, which was growing increasingly severe, pierced us through and through.