‘But… you mean…’
‘See for yourself!’ Breuer jerks his head in the direction of the red glow of the artillery barrage to the north.
They carry the lieutenant under his armpits and drag him towards the road. On the right stands the truck with the airdropped supplies. At that moment, someone rushes up and whispers something to the two sentries guarding it. They shoulder their rifles and disappear at the double, leaving the lorry and its cargo unattended.
The other soldier assisting Dierk wastes no time in clambering up into the lorry, where he starts throwing down tins of food and wrapped loaves of bread. Breuer stuffs the kitbag and his wide greatcoat pockets full of provisions. It’s clear that Dierk is really out of it. He’s dragging his legs like a cripple. The main road lies just ahead; they can hear the sound of passing cars and lorries. Breuer casts one final glance back at the airfield. It has vanished, swallowed up in the darkness. The only thing still visible, in the far distance, is the noisy, churning mob of waiting men, sharply silhouetted against the blood-red, flickering skyline. What are they waiting for? For a miracle! Their own personal miracle – the fifty Ju 52s that are rumoured to be on their way.
It’s less of a troop detachment and more of a ragtag bunch of helpless, destitute individuals that has found its way to the village of Gumrak from the abandoned airfield there. Anyone still motivated by fear or hope has tagged along – men from the pioneer battalion, from Fackelmann’s task force and various other troops who have become separated from their units or been wounded. The others have stayed behind, including the old major who’d once been a technical college professor.
‘No, no, you go on!’ he’d told Fröhlich, on the verge of tears. ‘Anyone who’s able to should get out now. I’m stopping here. I’ve had enough, come what may. It’s a damned disgrace! To go and betray us like that! Oh, that devil, that bloody devil!’
The little group disperses in Gumrak, merging into the general stream of retreating troops. Fröhlich’s sense of responsibility and leadership urge have quickly evaporated, and only a grim, unfocused rage drives him on. With his collar turned up, Breuer’s machine-pistol slung over his back, and his head lowered like a bull’s against the driving snowflakes, he tramps ahead; scarcely noticed by him, Herbert and Geibel trot along in his wake like loyal dogs. In his determined stride they can scent a purpose that he himself is unaware of.
Muzzle flares from artillery fire can be seen all around. Mysterious shadows flit sideways through the grey mist. Occasionally there comes the sound of gunfire; no one knows who’s shooting, or at whom. Here and there, one of the retreating troops drops silently and unnoticed into the snow. Sometimes shells land nearby, spraying out blood and flame, and with each impact a handful of men are swept from the road. Stolidly, the rest press on through the screaming, moaning and gurgling of the mortally wounded. No one bothers throwing themselves to the ground any more as the projectiles come whistling in. It’s no longer worth the trouble.
Geibel has been limping for a while. He stops and clings on to Herbert’s arm. His face is a dirty yellow hue.
‘Herbert, mate… I think I’ve copped one!’
He wipes his hand on his trousers, and looks at the blood on his fingers with childlike wonder. His lower lip trembles. Together they squat down at the roadside and Fröhlich takes a look at the private’s injuries. A bullet wound in the upper thigh. Herbert pulls out a grubby handkerchief and ties it round the wound with a bootlace. There’s nothing more he can do.
After just a few steps, it’s obvious that he can’t continue on foot any more. Just ahead of them are the trailers of a signals unit. Maybe he can hitch a ride with them. Suddenly, very close at hand, thunderous blasts rend the air. ‘Tanks! Tanks!’ Vehicles sound their horns in alarm and crash into one another as a crazy chorus of shouts goes up. Everyone is energized by the warning cry of ‘Tanks!’ The road becomes a raging, roaring, tumbling torrent. The signals troops, their faces frozen in fear, throw away their rifles and ammunition belts, tear off their bulky fur jackets and run for all they’re worth. Their CO shouts himself hoarse trying to call them back, but all in vain.
Clanking shadows appear in the foggy dusk. Fröhlich has crawled beneath one of the abandoned trucks on the road. He is beside himself with fury. He’d like nothing better than to settle scores with Nasarov and with the Russians in general. He’s a Baltic German, after all…
A tank rumbles up, a T-34. It doesn’t open fire. A figure in white winter camouflage is standing up in the turret, waving his cap and calling, ‘Churman soldier, come, come!’
Fröhlich yanks the machine-pistol into firing position, takes careful aim and with gritted teeth pulls the trigger. Bratatatatat… the man in the turret stiffens, his voice dies in his throat and he sinks slowly down through the hatch. As the tank rattles by, only his limp hand is still sticking out, waving to and fro as if in farewell. The cap falls from his hand and rolls into the road.
‘Got you, you fucking dog!’ growls Fröhlich, completely unmoved by the Russian’s apparently friendly intentions. Cautiously he pokes his head out from under the lorry. The tanks have veered off to the left. They have forced the fleeing Germans to leave the road and are driving them across the steppe into the thickening fog. Fröhlich crawls out from his hiding place. He kicks the Russian’s cap aside and strides over to the signals vehicles. A driver is trying to get the coughing engine of one of the lorries to turn over. A knot of distraught men has gathered round. Herbert is just helping the shaking Geibel up onto the truck. Fröhlich climbs aboard too. His good mood has returned.
‘Ha, we really stuck it to ’em, eh?’ he brags. ‘Pack of bloody filthy swine! Thought they had us in the bag here, didn’t they? Ha! We can still show ’em a thing or two! Specially when we’re properly dug in in Stalingrad, right?’
The others don’t respond. They’ve found a sack of wheat on the lorry and are busy chewing the hard grains with grinding teeth. Finally the engine roars into life. The driver steps on the accelerator and crashes through the gears, sending the heavy vehicle on a wild, hurtling course down the highway.
The fog grew ever denser as the night set in. The route along which the long column of fleeing men was slowly and haltingly making its way through powdery snow entered uncharted territory. Again, for the umpteenth time, Breuer stopped to wipe the sweat from his burning face. A raging fever was thumping and hammering away in his head and sending black waves of migraine across his field of vision. The bulging pockets of his army greatcoat tugged down on his shoulders like lead weights. Would this march never end? They must have been underway for an eternity already and put countless kilometres behind them. With no destination in sight, nowhere to call home (even a foxhole would do!) and cast adrift from everything that had gone before, if he had been alone in the hostile winter night he would probably have thrown himself down in the snow, never to rise again. But he wasn’t alone. He and the corporal were supporting the wounded, listless Lieutenant Dierk. Breuer himself had no idea what possessed him, at this desperate time when every man scarcely had enough strength to save his own skin, to drag this broken and clearly half-dead man through the night. Perhaps it was just the dread of loneliness that drew living creatures to one another.
‘Come on, Lieutenant, sir!’ urged Corporal Görz (he had, in the meantime, introduced himself to Breuer). ‘It can’t be far now. And we’ll be bound to find somewhere we can doss down. Especially with our bag of goodies…’
He triumphantly brandished the kitbag of provisions he was carrying. The two men took a firmer grip under the lieutenant’s armpits and pressed on.