The night comes to an end and another day passes. Only a small band remains under the padre’s care now. And the one whom he was determined to save at all costs has long since frozen to death and is lying back there somewhere in the snow. Something has frozen inside Padre Peters, too, over this last dreadful day and a half. He thinks and feels nothing any more.
Another dawn breaks. Houses come into view, and a railway embankment. Gumrak, their destination! To their right is the wide expanse of a cemetery, an immense forest of crosses. Perhaps that’s their destination? Dead on their feet from exhaustion, the men stumble across the bomb-cratered road and make for a low brick building. Stepping over bodies lying on the ground, they crowd around the entrance to the field hospital. A sentry is stationed there. He holds his rifle at port arms and bars their way.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he shouts. ‘What do you want? It’s chock-a-block here, floor to ceiling! There’s no room inside!’
He knows his duty is to defend those who have managed to find refuge here from the importunate, death-bringing world outside. And so he grips his rifle tightly and pushes these spectres of the night back into the darkness. They tumble over one another and sink to the ground, first snivelling and eventually falling silent. They have reached their goal.
A night disrupted by air raids and the distant sounds of fighting was followed by an uneasy day. Columns of vehicles and men came streaming from the west on their way to Dubininsky, bringing with them the hot breath of the front into the tranquil bunker city. Wood fires crackled beneath engines that had been allowed to freeze up; spurred on by superiors barking orders, soldiers dragged mattresses, window frames, planks and pieces of furniture from foxholes and piled them up on lorries in huge heaps. Panic gripped the logistics and supply units that were stationed here away from the front-line fighting and roused them from their hibernation.
Staff officers and the heads of various other units crowded into Unold’s bunker; some of them were wrapped in fur greatcoats and carried weapons slung round their chests. There was a strong smell of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. Unold stood leaning against the edge of the table. On this occasion, he exuded an air of almost too-punctilious correctness. However, the hunted look in his eyes belied these outward signs of self-confidence, while the pungent smell on his breath instantly betrayed what he had been seeking solace in (even if one failed to notice the half-empty bottle on the card table).
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, lowering his voice to a whisper that only served to make the tension in the room unbearable. ‘Since yesterday the major Russian offensive has been underway. It has forced a collapse of our western front. The Russians could be here as early as tomorrow. Our orders are to prepare to defend Dubininsky on all sides and to hold… to hold it to the last man! I don’t think we need waste any time assessing the importance of this order.’
A look of consternation crossed the officers’ faces. All-round defence? Without any fixed positions or any materials for fortification? There’d clearly been a will and a way to construct ostentatious staff bunkers. No shortage of time, materials or manpower for that task, apparently. But no effort had been expended on preparing defensive positions!
Breuer was standing next to Captain Engelhard’s desk. His eyes wandered over the map, the pencils all neatly laid out, the fastidiously stacked piles of paperwork and files. On the desk lay a sheet of white paper. Breuer’s gaze came to rest on the few oversized letters the page contained, which read:
‘They could not prevail, they could only fall in battle! 11.1.1943. Unold.’
In front of the sheet of paper sat Captain Engelhard, bolt upright and very composed. Absent-mindedly, his hand was doodling along the bottom edge of the page. He was drawing a series of little crosses. Disturbed from his reverie by Breuer’s attention, the captain glanced up.
‘You can write home one more time, you know,’ he said quietly. ‘Straight after this meeting, we’re sending a messenger down to the airfield with the post.’
‘Lieutenant Colonel Braun will be in charge of defending the fortified position at Dubininsky,’ Unold continued.
As he made this announcement, he pointed to an officer with a ruddy face and watery goggle eyes who was turning a lambskin cap round and round in his hands.
‘As of now, all units stationed in and around Dubininsky are under his direct command… and that includes our staff. I need to speak with you presently, Fackelmann, about putting together a special fighting group. First Lieutenant Breuer will serve as Lieutenant Colonel Braun’s adjutant and the rest of the staff officers will form an officers’ fighting unit at the front under the command of Captain Engelhard.’
The disquiet among those present increased palpably.
‘But that’s out of the question!’ a short captain muffled up like Father Christmas called out nervously. ‘We’re in the middle of baking… our division has to eat, after all! I can’t just drop everything all of a sudden and leave the loaves and the flour standing there. The whole lot’ll be nicked in the meantime!’
‘And what about my workshop?’ shouted another. ‘I’ve got two tanks and about thirty other vehicles under repair.’
‘And I…’ ‘And I…’ A cacophony of objections buzzed round the room. It transpired that a large number of those present ruled themselves entirely out of participating in the defence of Dubininsky on the grounds that they had more important tasks to perform.
‘Now just hold your horses a minute!’ Unold interrupted the hubbub. ‘I think you’re labouring under some kind of misapprehension. To put it bluntly: we’ve had it! There aren’t any other tasks any more. We’re under orders to die here, and that’s that! You’re aware that the Corps commander is here with his staff, too. Well, he’s already chosen the foxhole where he’s going to fight till the very last bullet. That’s how things stand!’
The room had fallen very quiet. Only the little bakery captain kept muttering: ‘My God, my God!’
At the back of the room, the door creaked and someone pushed their way rather roughly to the front. It was Captain Endrigkeit. He gave an awkward salute.
‘Lieutenant Colonel, sir, beg to report,’ he droned in his deep bass voice, ‘that we’ve seen the last of the prisoner.’
For a moment, Unold looked at him blankly. He’d forgotten completely about Lakosch in the interim. Then he remembered.
‘Very good, Endrigkeit!’ he replied briefly. ‘So that business is settled, then.’
‘No, not at all, Lieutenant Colonel,’ Endrigkeit persisted. ‘It’s not settled at all… far from it, in fact. Lakosch is gone, he’s done a bunk. When we opened up the bunker first thing this morning, he’d vanished.’
And that was indeed the truth of the matter. For a few moments, the lieutenant colonel’s face took on an expression of childlike helplessness.
‘Endrigkeit!’ he gasped, almost imploringly. ‘You’re driving me round the bend!’ Then he barked, at the top of his lungs: ‘Do you take me for a complete fool, you… I hold you fully responsible for what’s happened! I’ll have you court-martialled for this! Thrown in the glasshouse, and shot! I’ll get you sent to the front, you incompetent ass…!’