One morning, the twenty-first of January, Geibel came back from collecting their rations. The customary expression of dumb loyalty on his face had been enlivened by an exciting piece of news.
‘The balloon’s going up today, Lieutenant, sir! Captain Fackelmann is to assemble a task force from the remnants of the staff! We’ll be picked up at midday by lorry. Everyone’s coming along; only the cook’s staying here along with the lieutenant colonel’s batman and Sergeant Schneider.’
This news broke the tension like the first clap of thunder breaking the sultry atmosphere just before an impending storm. Breuer and Fröhlich looked at one another. This was their chance!
‘What about the officers?’ asked Breuer. ‘Are they going along as well?’
‘I don’t know about that, Lieutenant, sir,’ murmured Geibel anxiously.
Breuer rushed out. Discussions were taking place in the chief of staff’s bunker. He flung the door open without knocking. At the table, poring over the map, stood Unold, Colonel Dr Steinmeier, Major Kallweit and Siebel. They started up like counterfeiters caught in the act at Breuer’s abrupt entrance.
‘What? What’s the meaning of this?’ rasped Unold. ‘Is it something urgent? If it isn’t, please come back later!’
Breuer elected to go outside and wait. His fingers drummed impatiently on the wooden wall. From the bunker came the sound of agitated whispering. Finally, the door flew open. The tight-fisted divisional medical officer rushed past with a curt nod, followed by Kallweit and Siebel. Kallweit’s face had by now lost all trace of its former freshness and nonchalance; he seemed to be deep in thought and failed to acknowledge Breuer’s salute, though surely not maliciously. Only Siebel stopped to talk. He was chewing on his top lip and looked up at the lieutenant from the bottom of the bunker steps.
‘Well, Breuer,’ he said, ‘that’s just the way it is. Nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s going on exactly, Major?’
‘What’s going on?’ Siebel gave a nervous little laugh. ‘We’re flying out… that is, the senior MO, Kallweit and myself. On the orders of High Command.’
With trembling lips, he gave a truculent sideways glance, like a boy scolded for being naughty. There he stood, this young soldier, already a major, with his wooden arm and his Knight’s Cross. His broad face with a slightly turned-up nose had a faint redness about it, while his unruly mop of hair poked out from beneath his forage cap. In his furious set-to with Engelhard, he had vowed to stage a ‘reckoning’, to have ‘payback’ when he returned to Germany. He certainly had the necessary gumption. But would it even occur to him, now that things had turned out so differently for him? Or would he just step up meekly to the microphone and talk about the ‘heroic struggle we put up at Stalingrad, confident in our Führer’s leadership’ and then take command of a battalion and return to the front line somewhere – and forget all about Stalingrad?
‘I’m delighted for you… and for your young wife,’ said Breuer with a weak smile, offering the major his hand. ‘You’re going to have it easier than us now… with our breakout. Farewell, then!’
In response Siebel uttered a bitter laugh, tormented and terrible to hear; it seemed to sum up all the insanity of this world. No, he wouldn’t forget. At least, he would never forget these few seconds. As if by way of reassurance, he grasped Breuer’s hand and gave it a short but firm shake. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.
Unold received his intelligence officer with the cool detachment of a very busy person.
‘How can I help you?’
‘I just wanted to enquire what’s going to happen to me, Lieutenant Colonel?’
‘Why?’ Unold shot back; his tone was sharp and suspicious.
‘Well, will I be staying here with the staff or going out with the task force?’
‘Ah yes, of course…’ Unold seemed only now to take on board the fact that he still had an intelligence officer. ‘I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know in due course.’
On his way back from the bunker, Breuer ran into his adjutant, Captain Gedig.
Gedig’s initial response when the lieutenant quizzed him was unequivocaclass="underline" ‘You want to know what’s to become of you, my dear Breuer? You’ll be staying with us, naturally! Goes without saying! We have to stand shoulder-to-shoulder over these final few days.’
Then his smile grew distracted. ‘That is, I don’t know yet for sure… The lieutenant colonel said… Well, anyhow, wait and see. We’ll know soon enough.’
Gedig too, it appeared, was much preoccupied with his innermost thoughts about his own situation. The division had fallen apart already and now the rest of the staff was following suit, fragmenting into individual urges and individual destinies. Endrigkeit was dead too, killed at Dubininsky. One of the stragglers had brought the news.
Breuer’s mind was made up. He, too, was only thinking of himself now. He could no longer identify any higher principle or point of fixity that he could cling on to or navigate by.
‘I’m coming with you, Fröhlich!’ he announced to the Sonderführer. ‘This is our chance. We’re no use here any more.’
He stuffed the few items that seemed worth taking along – including his mouth organ and the camera that had accompanied him through three and a half years of campaigning – into the deep pockets of his greatcoat. Everything else – his fine riding boots, his second pair of trousers, the contents of his kitbag – he left behind with no regrets. If the plan succeeded, they’d be over behind German lines within two days and would get all their hearts desired issued to them anew. And if it didn’t – well, then that was that anyhow. In that event, he wouldn’t be needing any socks or shirts either.
As midday approached, the newly formed ‘company’ assembled on the parade ground above the gorge, where three lorries stood waiting. Including clerks, batmen and drivers, predominantly from the quartermaster’s section, a quite respectable band of around sixty men had been scraped together. Dressed in motorcycle jackets or greatcoats, with their heads covered by all manner of caps and balaclavas and hoods, and brandishing a ragbag of weapons, they looked like a band of brigands. Morale was extremely bad. The men were grumbling and swearing quite openly. The batmen and the men from the cookhouse were cutting up especially rough.
‘What the fuck’s going on, then?’
‘They’re wanting rid of us! So they can sneak off nice and quietly!’