By the time he dares to look up again, the room has grown light. Bent double, legs akimbo, the Arse is standing over the upended table; his helmet is sitting lopsidedly on his head, covered with what looks like flour. The side wall is half collapsed, and up above there is a gaping hole, through which Harras can see, alongside daylight, clouds scudding by and powdery snow falling. The planks of the roof have been exposed and a steady trickle of soil is pouring down from it. The floor of the bunker is a rubbish tip. A figure levers itself out of the mountain of clods of earth, clothes, boards and telephone equipment, clutching wildly at the air, and slowly staggers to its feet. It’s one of the two messengers.
Harras works himself free of the body lying on top of him. It yields like rubber, slips back and slumps over. It is the junior doctor. He’s dead.
Meanwhile, the infernal concert thunders on. Harras sinks back into his corner. His senses start to fail him. He’s lost all sense of feeling, and all his willpower. He has become insubstantial, and his body is being absorbed into the shaking and humming vibrations of the earth. His bottom jaw goes slack and his head lolls back and forth, banging at regular intervals against the clay wall.
The three men have no idea how long they have been sitting there like this. Ten minutes, an hour, two hours? It seems like an eternity… All of a sudden, they lift their heads. Something has changed. Their ears are still ringing and buzzing, and their nerves are vibrating like taut musical strings. Outside, though, it’s fallen quiet, unbearably quiet…
Then there’s the sound of running steps. ‘Get out!’ a hoarse voice yells through the entrance. ‘Get out now! They’re coming!’ The captain grabs his machine-pistol, staggers on stiff knees to the exit and ascends the stairs, stepping over a lifeless body as he does so. Bounding out into the open and drawing himself up to his full height, he stands as if thunderstruck at the sight that meets his eyes. Churned-up earth as far as the eye can see – clay-coloured soil with patches of black in it, in the midst of a snowy winter, a ploughed-up, turned-over wasteland, a landscape of craters. Harras has followed him. He peers cautiously over the edge of the top step. The messenger is cowering behind him. High above them, the last remnants of the heavy artillery barrage go droning overhead to land somewhere far behind the lines. But up ahead there, they’re advancing, in dense white lines across the brown landscape, slowly and bolt upright like they’re on the parade ground. Between them manoeuvre the white rumps of tanks, with fur-coated figures perched on them, stopping briefly before moving on another short stretch. Hardly a shot is fired. The only sound of gunfire comes from a machine gun hammering away to one side. A single, solitary machine gun, in forlorn, asthmatic bursts. Up ahead, there’s a sudden flash, and at the same time a metallic blast whips through the air around him. Harras feels it like a punch in the face; suddenly, he’s wiping something sticky and soft from his eyes. And then he sees it: up front, where the captain had been standing a moment ago, just six metres away, all that’s now left is a half-person, a pair of legs up to the waist. As he looks on, the legs slowly topple forward…
Harras bellows like a wounded steer. He jumps up and makes a run for it, leaping and bounding in long strides over craters and shell holes. Another shockwave blasts past his head; the air pressure knocks him off his feet, momentarily dazing him. But immediately he’s up and running again, dashing on in a crazy zigzag, still yelling his head off. His hammering heart clings to this screaming; it reassures him that he’s still alive. He rushes past the wrecks of vehicles, past destroyed field guns, over the dead bodies that are lying all around. His eyes take in none of this. All they can see is a pair of legs, tipping slowly forward, over and over again…
He tumbles down a slope. A pair of fists grab hold of him. ‘What’s up, then?’ asks a calm voice. ‘Looks like someone’s gone crackers!’ And in the grip of these strong hands, Harras loses consciousness. Blackness swims before his eyes.
The pale red traffic light of the sun, which pushed itself up out of the grey layer of mist, brought with it a cold, clear winter’s day. The atmosphere was fraught with tension. The sound of fighting drifted over from the west. On the road leading from Novo Alexeyevka to Dubininsky, which was normally almost empty, motorbikes and lorries were speeding back and forth, and squads of marching soldiers and small columns of trucks were heading east. In the city of bunkers, things were humming and buzzing like a beehive.
First Lieutenant Breuer was profoundly shocked at what had happened over the past two days. His thoughts were plagued by dark doubts and bitter questions. Yet the pace of events, which came thick and fast, left him no time for reflection. He was buffeted by the whirlwind like a ship that had lost both its mast and rudder. He telephoned the Corps early this morning. The orderly officer picked up the phone. The man was clearly in a foul temper and gave monosyllabic answers to Breuer’s questions: Yes, the Russians were attacking… Nobody knew for certain, no clear general picture had emerged yet… No, he didn’t have any more information at present. Breuer lost his temper and demanded to speak to the captain in person.
‘Who, Count Willms?’ came the response. ‘He’s not here any more!’
‘How come?! What do you mean?’
‘Flew out a few days ago. He’s an army messenger now!’
Breuer hung up. That told him all he needed to know. So that was how things stood!
Around midday, a call came through from the chief of staff: ‘Get yourself over here right away!’ Lieutenant Colonel Unold had finally been able to occupy his new bunker. When Breuer arrived, Unold, Engelhard and old Endrigkeit were already assembled in the panelled room with wide map tables, while in the corner there stood a small figure in a greatcoat that was far too large for him and was torn and caked with mud. The balaclava he was wearing framed a grey face covered with several days’ growth of stubble. Breuer gave a start. It was his driver, Lakosch.
‘So, we’ve caught the little bastard!’ said Unold, giving the first lieutenant’s outstretched hand a perfunctory shake. ‘What did I tell you? The bloke deserted, tried to go over to the enemy. Clear-cut case. He’s confessed to everything.’
Breuer stared at the lieutenant colonel.
‘But that’s just not possible!’ he stammered.
Unold’s pale face was a mask of mocking scorn.
‘Go ahead, ask him yourself!’
Breuer turned his gaze on Lakosch. How utterly worn out the poor lad looked! He couldn’t have eaten anything for days.
‘Is that true, Lakosch? Were you planning to desert and go over to the enemy?’
The little driver’s eyes shot Breuer a sad but unabashed look. ‘Yes, Lieutenant, sir,’ he replied calmly.
‘You’re saying you wanted to save your own skin by betraying us all here? I can’t believe it!’
Lakosch couldn’t meet the lieutenant’s gaze. He said nothing.
‘No, Lieutenant Colonel, sir.’ Breuer swung round, agitated, and faced Unold again. ‘It simply isn’t possible! The man’s clearly taken leave of his senses. I know him! You know yourself, sir, what a good soldier he was. He’s just had a nervous breakdown. It happens… After, all, we’re all…’
Suddenly, words failed him. Unold narrowed his eyes slightly and, stroking the corners of his mouth, gave Breuer a searching look. Then he turned to Endrigkeit, who had been sucking silently on his pipe the whole time.
‘Put him in the old bunker,’ he said. ‘And keep him in the dark there. Lock the place securely and post a sentry outside. And no one is to speak to him! Make sure that all metal objects are removed from the room. A bloke like him is capable of anything.’