SS General (37 page)

"So what? You're not suggesting we take it?"

"Why not? Who's going to take any notice of a couple of
NKVD
men?" I patted the green cross on my fur bonnet. "They'll pick us up for sure if we go skulking across the fields. They'll never think of searching for us down there on the road."

Gregor looked at me. "You mean, walk along as bold as brass in the middle of 'em?"

"Can you think of anything better?"

We walked down to the road and took our place in the slow-moving stream of traffic, Russian cars and trucks mixed up with American Willyses and Studebakers, their white U.S. stars painted out and replaced by the hammer and sickle. For a couple of miles we marched along quite boldly. Faces peered out at us and looked the other way again as soon as they saw our green crosses. We were in danger of growing overconfident, and it pulled us up with a nasty jolt as we realized we were approaching a genuine NKVD checkpoint.

"What'll we do?" hissed Gregor. "We haven't any papers!"

Within seconds we had disappeared into the ditch behind the shelter of some bushes. We lay there shivering in the icy wind, watching as the trucks were allowed past after a brief check, while the soldiers on foot were called to a halt,

"Probably looking for us," said Gregor glumly.

"What are we going to do?"

I stared at him helplessly. It had been my idea to join the Russian columns, not his, but now we were here I felt suddenly exhausted, unable to think the most elementary thoughts or perform the simplest of actions for myself. I wished Porta or the Legionnaire were with us. They always knew what to do. I had never seen either of them at a loss. I needed someone to guide me gently but firmly by the hand and tell me where to go.

I glanced at Gregor. He was white-faced, chewing at his lower lip, staring at the passing column like a frightened rabbit. Perhaps he too wished Porta and the Legionnaire were with us. Or Tiny or the Old Man, or anyone but me.

"Well," I said, "we can't sit dithering in a ditch for the rest of the war." I tried to speak firmly, to convince myself that I was making some sort of practical suggestion.

Gregor looked around at me. He seemed to gain new strength from my feebleness. "We'll have to get a lift--climb into the back of a passing truck."

"The passing trucks," I said, "are practically nose to tail. The guy in the one behind would be bound to spot us."

"Very likely," said Gregor coldly. "But unless you've anything better to suggest . . ."

His tone implied, you got us into this mess, don't start whining when I'm trying to get us out of it. And in any case, I couldn't think of anything better.

We remained crouched in the ditch, almost frozen into position, for nearly an hour, watching the column as it passed and watching for an opportunity to steal a free ride. Suddenly, bumping and jolting over the icy ground, a Molotov came full speed ahead along the road. The column creaked to a halt and vehicles obediently pulled over for the Molotov to pass. It was on our side of the column. We nudged each other into action, judged our moment, darted out into the road and hurled ourselves at the tailboard. For a few yards we were dragged along behind it, and then Gregor managed to heave himself inside. He held out a hand to me. I felt as if all the muscles in my body were being wrenched apart. Gregor pulled and I strained. The Molotov raced on. At last I succeeded in gaining a foothold, Gregor gave an extra tug, and I fell into the back of the vehicle, tied into a thousand painful knots.

We were fast approaching the checkpoint. Gregor rolled us both under a pile of sacks as the heavy truck shuddered to a halt. We heard shouts, heavy boots crunching across the snow, doors slamming. Gregor seized his MPI, and in terror I pulled it away from him. One shot in a moment of panic and we should have the whole pack at our heels. We lay side by side under our protective covering, not daring to breathe too deeply for fear the rise and fall of our bodies would be noticed.

Someone looked into the back of the vehicle. He moved a crate of grenades to one side, prodded about a bit with a rifle. Gregor and I stopped breathing altogether for the duration. It could have been only a few minutes before the Molotov set off again, but minutes can seem like hours in certain situations.

We cautiously raised our heads. Following the Molotov was a Studebaker, driven by a shifty-eyed Mongol. The long column stretched out for miles. And all the time the familiar sounds of the front were growing closer. We had crossed hundreds of miles in a vain search for that front, and now here we were being taken straight to it in a Russian vehicle!

After another hour or so we stopped for gas. Gregor and I ducked back under our sacks as a shower of empty jerrycans were tossed in on us. The sharp edge of one caught me a blow on the head and I lost consciousness for a while. How long I was out, I don't know, but I was jerked back to wakefulness by the sound of explosions. I sat up sharply and looked around for Gregor.

"German artillery," he told me. "We've just come into their firing range."

"That's all it needs," I said bitterly. "Blown up by our own guns!"

The Molotov began swaying from side to side as the driver, plainly unnerved, increased his speed. I don't blame him; anyone driving around with twenty tons of grenades behind them would be unnerved in the circumstances. Gregor and I certainly were. We crept shivering under our sacks and lay there with our hands over our heads.

The column slowed to another halt. We heard running footsteps and men shouting. We peered out into the night and saw that several vehicles were on fire.

"Shall we go?" suggested Gregor. "Before the balloon goes up?" He nodded significantly at the grenades.

"What about him?" I said, jerking my thumb toward the Mongol driver of the Studebaker.

"Take a chance--he might not notice us. Even if he does, he'll only take us for NKVD."

We crawled out of our sacks and jumped over the tailboard. The Molotov started up again and pulled slowly away. Officers were shouting orders, men were milling about in confusion, it was the ideal moment to make our escape.

We set off in what we judged to be the right direction, following the sound of the pounding German batteries. We passed a Russian officer, who hurried by without so much as a glance. Seconds later a massive explosion lifted him off his feet, flung Gregor and me to the ground, and sent up a whirlwind of debris, both human and mechanical. A gust of scorching air blew over us. The first explosion was succeeded by others. Gregor and I stumbled to our feet and dived headfirst into the nearest snowdrift to escape the suffocating heat.

Slowly and painfully we moved through the mounting chaos. Shells were bursting all around us. The air was full of flying lead. And now it was nearly morning again and we were approaching one of the worst of our trials: the zone that lay between the two front lines, patrolled by field police, those jackals ever on the prowl for fresh prey.

We decided to go to ground. We dug ourselves into the snow, Gregor using his MPI, while I attacked it with a rifle I had purloined. The Russian day is very short in winter, but to us it seemed an eternity as we lay buried in the snow and anxiously awaited the night.

As soon as it was dark, we crept out of our hiding place, smoked our last cigarettes, stamped our feet and swung our arms to restore the circulation, then set off on the last lap of our journey.

One behind the other, we crawled on hands and knees through the scenes of carnage and destruction. Bodies freshly dead and dying; bodies stiff and frozen; burned-out tanks, overturned trucks, debris of every description.

The whole of the front was alive and simmering. The big guns were silent, but every now and again came the faint, distant crackle of machine gunfire, the flare of a magnesium grenade. Tracer bullets lit up the darkness, occasionally a single cannon roared its defiance. And then again, an uneasy silence would fall upon the uneasy night. The two sides were preparing to come to grips at dawn, growling at each other, making their little warning gestures.

A Russian patrol came by--so close I could have reached out and touched them. A great ball of fear clogged my throat and almost choked me. I could feel myself on the edge of breaking, I knew my nerves could not take much more. I wanted to open my mouth and scream aloud into the night, scream and scream and keep on screaming until I had screamed it all out of me . . .

The patrol passed on. Gregor jumped into the shell hole beside me, dislodging a corpse. It fell onto my feet. I gave a shrill yelp as I felt its clammy weight.

"Sh!" Gregor closed a hand over my mouth. "Take a look over there!"

He pointed ahead. I could see nothing but darkness, felt he was probably trying to lure me with promises of false visions. And then, by the swift light of a flare, I saw it--the first of the barbed wire!

We crawled toward it, jumping from hole to hole, from corpse to corpse. The wire had been destroyed in several places and the ground was thoroughly trampled. Any mines must have long since been exploded. Here and there hung the tattered corpse of a man. Here and there a naked bone protruded from the earth.

Once safely under the wire, we moved stealthily on toward our own lines. It was a temptation to start running, but they would only have taken us for Russians and opened fire; it was a temptation to call out in German, but they would almost certainly think it was a trick. In neither case would they stop to ask questions. When in doubt, fire: that was the rule of the front line.

We reached the first of the trenches and stumbled down into it, rolling joyously on top of each other. I fell into the snow and began kissing it in sheer gratitude for our deliverance. Gregor beat on it with his hands in a frenzy of triumph. And then we heard approaching footsteps and the clicking of a safety catch, and I saw Gregor open his mouth to shout, and this time it was I who silenced him with a cautioning finger--just in case. And just as well: the voices were those of Russians.

We lay still at the bottom of the trench and waited a long, long time before we dared move. Even now, it seemed, our trials were not yet over.

The first streaks of dawn found us still out in the open. We discovered we were sharing a hole with an unexploded shell; one of those capable of tearing the very flesh off your bones. We looked at it askance.

"Spit on it," I said. "Porta always does--he says it brings you luck."

"God knows, we need it," muttered Gregor.

We duly performed our act of obeisance, then crawled out of the crater and began running across the black and pitted wastes toward our own lines. They could surely not now be far away, and it was essential we reach them before the morning attack began.

Suddenly, emerging wraithlike from a fold in the landscape, came a tank. A it drew nearer, it grew less wraithlike and more unpleasantly realistic; huge and menacing, black cross on dirty white turret, the long cannon stretched out toward us like the accusing finger of death. It was a Tiger! It was one of ours!

"Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen! Wir sind Deutsch!"

We stood shouting, waving at them, repeating again and again, "Don't shoot! We're German." All quite useless, of course, for they couldn't have heard us. On the other hand, if we turned and ran, they would open fire immediately. We could only stand there, waiting, with our hands behind our heads, while the heavy tank plowed forward. The long finger of the cannon remained pointed directly at us. The Tiger rolled majestically over a broken field gun, crushing it irremediably. We stood our ground as it approached. The least movement on our part and they would certainly shoot.

The tank was now almost upon us. The hatch was thrown open with a harsh metallic clang, and a heavily perspiring face looked out at us from beneath a gray helmet. I saw the death's head insignia on the lapels. It was an officer, a member of Eicke's SS Tod Division. Even more surprising that they had not shot us on sight!

"Heil, Ivan!" He cocked his pistol at us. "Where are you off to, ape-men?" Without waiting for our reply, he beckoned us over to him. "Come aboard, Soviet swine! And no funny business, or you'll go straight off again--feet first!"

We scrambled up into the tank, still clasping our hands behind our necks. The hatch clanged shut and the vehicle lurched forward. Three other Tigers appeared, and we fell in behind them. Gregor and I sat sullen and silent beneath the watchful eyes of the SS officer. He was obviously not sure what to make of us. He was plainly itching to shoot us on the spot, yet military discipline told him that a couple of stray Russians wandering about near German lines might well be more valuable alive than dead. Gregor and I kept our mouths shut and our hands up.

The four Tigers reached base and we were ordered outside. The SS surrounded us, jeering, sneering, prodding and poking at us. Live Russian soldiers seemed to be something of a rarity to them.

"All right!" snapped the officer. "Talk fast if you want to keep a head on your shoulders. Where have you come from? What were you doing near our lines?"

"Jesus Christ!" burst out Gregor, suddenly unable to restrain himself. "Here've we been searching for the stinking line ever since we left Stalingrad, and now he has the nerve to ask us what we're doing here!"

The man was too taken aback at the sound of Gregor's homely German accent and the mention of the word Stalingrad to upbraid him for showing lack of respect toward an officer. He looked disbelievingly from one to the other of us.

"Stalingrad?" he repeated. "You've come from Stalingrad?"

"Part of the Sixth Army," I said. "We came out with General Augsberg."

There was a silence. They stood staring at us as if we were a couple of dodos returned from extinction.

"Why the hell are you wearing that getup?" demanded one of them, pointing at our Russian caps and tunics.

"When in Rome--" Gregor shrugged.

"We marched here with the NKVD," I added.

"A likely story!"

It was plain they still lusted after blood, and plain that they now dared not take a chance and kill us, just in case we really had come from Stalingrad. In the end, they hit on a compromise: they ripped off our enemy uniforms, hurled them to the ground and riddled them with bullets. It seemed an acceptable substitute for shooting flesh-and-blood Russians.