On the back seat of the car, two officers sat freezing under layers of blankets and coats. First Lieutenant Breuer and Siebel; two days before, aged just twenty-seven, Siebel had been promoted to major.
‘What do you think Unold has got us here for, then?’ asked Breuer through his woollen balaclava, on which a thick beard of icicles had formed. The major looked bored and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Haven’t the foggiest! He ordered all the rest of his stuff to be brought over too. Perhaps he’s planning to fly out and take us with him.’
Breuer shot Siebel a sideways glance through the balaclava.
‘Do you really think so, Major?’
Siebel gave a mirthless laugh.
‘Honestly, you’re so naive!’
The car came to a halt in a circular parking area surrounded by high snow banks. Breuer struggled free of his blankets and then turned to help the major, who was hampered by his false arm. Siebel was always very reluctant to accept such offers of assistance. An officer in a white fur coat came rushing up.
‘Quick, hurry it up!’ he began calling from some way away. ‘Could you get a move on, please! Get that car clear!’
He cast a worried look up to the clear blue vault of the sky, which was filled with the faint drone of engines. The two newly arrived officers hurried past a blackish bomb crater towards the bunker entrance, on which hung a board with the inscription ‘Id’.
In the Army’s High Command post, the course of those anxious days of the Russians’ major offensive – the speed of which made a mockery of any notion of central command – were almost always the same. The mornings were filled with a sense of confidence shot through with nervous tension. Then, towards midday, a series of alarming reports would begin to come in. An overwhelming assault by the enemy in one place. A serious breakthrough at another. At yet another, two battalions wiped out. Send reserves, urgently! There ensued feverish, nerve-jangling activity by the staff of the chief of operation’s division. Pencils dashed across maps and communiqués, telephones jangled, a hubbub of shouting voices arose, and officers clutching papers scurried to and fro. Nonetheless, this bustling activity failed to keep pace with the growing avalanche of the unfolding catastrophe. Orders to lay down curtain fire were issued to artillery batteries whose guns had already been blown up or fallen into enemy hands; fuel that had already been consumed was earmarked for dispatch by transport units that no longer had any trucks, to units that had already abandoned their last-reported positions. Detachments that no longer existed were sent to plug gaps where breakthroughs had occurred, which in the interim had become massive, gaping holes in the line. By the evening, the situation had been brought under control – at least on paper. And the general mood calmed down until the next day, when the cries for help from fronts that had been smashed found their way once more to High Command through official channels or via the roster of regular reporting deadlines.
Unold and Engelhard had found themselves caught up in this hustle and bustle for some days now. The collapse of the Cauldron fronts in the west and the south had, among other things, prompted the army to find out exactly how many tanks it still had at its disposal. To perform this task, Captain Engelhard found himself going around day after day searching – mostly in vain – for tank workshops that still existed on paper. It was also understandable that the army, after eight weeks of encirclement, which it had endured trusting in an ultimate liberation, should now hit upon the idea of expanding the network of rearward defensive lines within the Cauldron. This plan was to blame for a marked deterioration in the state of Unold’s nerves.
When Breuer and Siebel walked into the room they’d been told to go to, Unold’s seat was empty. A soldier was busy mending the shattered window with a sheet of cellophane, evidently having realized that glass wasn’t a suitable material to use given the constant air raids. The only other person present was an elderly artillery officer, a lieutenant colonel, who was standing around waiting. A narrow, heavily lined face with a brush-like moustache and a pince-nez peered out from above a green wool scarf, while on his head he wore a peaked officer’s cap customized to the requirements of the winter with makeshift black earmuffs. Beside him was a grained leather suitcase. The man struck Breuer as somehow familiar.
After a few minutes, Unold burst in, carrying several large map rolls under his arm. He nodded curtly to Breuer and Siebel and, after sitting down, began nervously rooting around among his papers. The artillery officer approached and casually tipped his cap in salute.
‘I’m trying to find out the whereabouts of my columns at the moment. I last saw them in Karpovka ten weeks ago. I was on leave in the meantime, you see, and I only just got back here by plane early this morning, and because we’re an unattached unit, well, as you can imagine, that makes for certain…’
Unold looked up briefly from his papers.
‘So… flew in this morning, did you? Very good. Right, as of now you’re under the command of the major here. You can stay and listen to the orders I’m about to issue. So, Siebel—’
‘Excuse me,’ the artillery officer butted in, ‘there’s clearly been some misunderstanding here. I’m a first lieutenant, in charge of an autonomous division located somewhere in the Cauldron. The only thing I’m concerned with is trying to ascertain where my—’
‘Yes, yes, you’ve explained. I’m perfectly aware of that!’ Unold interrupted him. ‘Your columns have doubtless been redeployed as infantry, and they’ve probably long since gone to hell in a handcart, rest assured! So, you see, Siebel…’
The lieutenant colonel took a deep breath.
‘Look here… I really must protest in the strongest possible ter—’
‘How dare you?’ barked Unold, leaping up from his chair. ‘Do you know what an order is, sir? We have martial law here!’
Under this onslaught, the old artilleryman’s composure dissolved completely. He took his pince-nez from his nose with trembling hands and began polishing it, as though it was at fault for his incomprehension. His shortsighted eyes looked helplessly at his interlocutor and his lips moved, though no sound emerged. Unold paid him no further attention, but called the major – who had enjoyed the whole incident with a malicious smirk on his face – to come over and look at the map with him.
‘So, Siebel,’ he began, ‘you need to prepare this area here on the railway line west of Yeshovka right down to the station at Voroponovo as a holding position for the retreating Fourteenth Panzer Corps. You have the Army High Command’s full authority in this matter. It’s essential that all the troops streaming in from the west are intercepted here and grouped into work parties that can start digging foxholes without delay. And make sure you include the drivers, too. All vehicles must be left parked off the road – those carrying the wounded and senior staff officers excepted, of course. Primarily, make sure you winkle out some officers with real drive to assist you. You’ve already got the lieutenant here; Breuer will accompany you as your adjutant. On top of that, the Fifty-First Corps of the military police will be under your direct command. You’ll be based at the Talovoy Gorge. Quarters have been prepared for you there. Any questions?
The major bit his lip. Now it was his turn to seethe with fury.
‘That’s not going to work, Lieutenant Colonel, sir,’ he announced with great determination. ‘Even assuming we manage to intercept some of the troops there, where am I supposed to find food, accommodation for the men and above all any kind of materials for building defences from?’