We lined up parallel to the train, and marched into the big hall which stood at one end of the station. As we tramped toward the hall, the gasping locomotive pulled the empty train onto a secondary track.
In the hall, we were each given a cup of steaming ersatz and two spoonfuls of a curious jam. As we ate, several officers climbed onto a wheeled platform equipped with a loudspeaker. Military policemen were standing watchfully on either side of them, and at the foot of the platform.
First, the amplifier crackled and buzzed for a moment, and then a nasal voice roared unintelligibly until someone adjusted the mechanism. The principal thrust of the officer’s speech struck all of us like a slap in the face:
“…leaves must be cancelled.”
We thought we must have misunderstood him, but then the familiar series — “necessity… difficulty… duty… supplementary effort… victory” brought it home to us that this was no dream. The crowd buzzed angrily, and a few fellows even shouted their outrage. But the loudspeakers were already blaring the “Deutsche Marsche,” drowning our fury in martial music. As the hopes and plans of several thousand men crumbled, the music grew louder. The jam we were swallowing suddenly seemed tasteless, and the ersatz bitter. Before we had time to feel sorry for ourselves, the M.P.s were herding us toward a train which was ready to leave for the East.
Three cars were loaded with supplies for the troops, and we were ordered to line up beside them. Because our nervous exhaustion and disappointment were so evident, and the desire to desert was so clearly stamped on so many faces, we were closely hemmed in by police. We were issued fur hats, like the hats worn by Russian troops, crudely made over-vests of reversed sheepskin, cotton gloves with woolen linings, and enormous overshoes with reinforced cork soles and felt uppers. A few boxes of tinned food were added to this voluminous issue, and we no longer entertained any doubts as to our fate: we were obviously being shipped back for another winter in Russia. Most of us were ready to cry with disappointment.
The train was crammed to the bursting point. Some of the passengers were young boys about to go into combat for the first time. Others were veterans returning from leave, who were scarcely any happier than we were, and others, like myself, had been suddenly obliged to replace their plans for leave with the sinking apprehension which all men, no matter how brave, feel as they are about to confront a highly problematical fate.
We rolled east for a considerable time, before we finally grasped what had happened to us. I was dumb with disappointment, remembering Magdeburg and my despair when the scope of that leave was abruptly limited. This time Berlin wasn’t even on my route, and there was no chance of encountering Paula. There had been no period of grace at all — not even twenty-four hours. As I thought about it, the weight of what had just occurred seemed to increase, dragging me down into a black depression. However, I still had one hope. As soon as I had returned to my unit, I would have my status as a convalescent officially verified. Why hadn’t I thought of explaining that to the police at the station? But, of course, no one in his right mind should ever expect anything decent from a military policeman. My last chance was that once I got back to the company Wesreidau would be able to arrange things for me.
As always, the trains for the front were moving at top speed, unlike westbound trains, which often made long, inexplicable stops. Ours was no exception to this rule.
Nevertheless, an important incident broke our momentum.
The locomotive had just refueled and resumed the speed which was to carry us through to Vinnitsa. The station where we had stopped had bristled with signs bearing the names of towns no longer accessible to us: Konotop, Kursk, Kharkov — names which evoked unbearably painful memories.
About fifteen minutes out of the station the train braked so violently that all the carriages shuddered, and we nearly left the rails. Inside, men and boxes were flung to the floor, and the air rang with angry curses. We all thought we had in fact been derailed. Soldiers in long coats were running down the length of the tracks, answering our shouted questions by waving ahead.
“You were lucky we could stop you,” one of them yelled.
About five hundred yards to the east, the track, which ran between two walls of sparse woodland, was blocked by a chaos of overturned cars. We jumped down to the ground to find out what had happened.
Partisans… dynamite on the track… train loaded with munitions… 150 soldiers killed… reprisals… patrols… pursuit.
The immediate work had already been divided among three hundred unhurt soldiers. One group remained on the spot to help the wounded and another left in pursuit of the partisans, who had not been content simply to derail the train, but had opened fire as our men struggled to get free of the wreckage. Officers were blowing their whistles, and at least three thousand men from our train climbed down. We were divided into three groups. The largest of these, about two thousand strong, was sent out in pursuit of the enemy. I was included in this section. The second was sent to help our wounded comrades, while the third was deployed in the immediate area, to ensure the protection of the train. The bulk of my belongings, like everyone else’s, remained on the train, and at the blast of the whistle we dogtrotted off into the countryside, which lay under a foot of snow.
Running through snow isn’t easy. In less than two minutes one is lathered with sweat, and after twenty it is almost impossible to breathe. Within an hour one’s lungs feel bruised by the pressure of one’s ribs, and everything is dancing with colored lights. The weather wasn’t very cold, and the effects of our gymnastic efforts nearly suffocated us. The noncoms and officers who had followed us eventually grew tired of sustaining a zealous performance and resumed a walking pace. An hour and a half after leaving the train, we slogged into a large peasant village, our heads drooping with fatigue. Almost all the houses had thatched roofs, and attached sheds made of woven sunflower stalks, for storing winter supplies.
When we arrived, the place was already full of German soldiers, and the snow-covered central square was tightly packed with civilians men, women, and children — gesturing excitedly and talking loudly. Soldiers — some of them with spandaus ready to fire — were stationed all around the square, and toward the center other soldiers were shoving their way through the mass of civilians, roughly driving some of them off to one side. To the right, beside a building which probably served as the village hall, a third group of soldiers were standing with drawn guns over a dozen Russians lying on their stomachs in the snow.
At first I thought they were dead.
“Partisans we caught here,” explained one of the soldiers standing beside me.
Were they really guilty, or were they only suspects?
None of the questioning was up to me. The interrogations lasted for at least an hour. The Popovs lying on their stomachs must have had frozen guts but that was true for our machine gunners too.
An S.S. section had been included in the pursuit group. I had the honor of being assigned by them to a smaller group of a hundred men who, like me, were returning to duty. Their attention was undoubtedly drawn to me by the edge of my left sleeve with its Gross Deutschland inscription. The S.S. preferred to use men belonging to elite divisions. Without explanation, we were loaded onto S.S. trucks, ignorant of the fate of the civilians lying on the ground. We drove for about twenty minutes over very hilly country. Then we were ordered to leave the trucks. An S.S. hauptmann in a long, dark leather coat addressed us briefly.