‘I can imagine that your men wouldn’t be too ecstatic about leaving these trenches,’ Nate said.
When the silence dragged on, Nate looked the German officer in the eye. ‘My men are not trench soldiers, General Clark. They would attack if I order it.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that they wouldn’t.’ Nate looked around the bunker. Interspersed with the bags full of sleeping men — who presumably had been on duty the night before — were machine-guns, anti-tank missile launchers and automatic grenade launchers.
‘Why are all these crew-served weapons in here?’
‘We keep them in the living quarters during the day to keep them warm. At night, we keep all crew-served weapons and half the riflemen in their fighting positions.’
Clark nodded again, and they rose to leave. Although it was relatively warm in the bunker — Clark guessed it was slightly above freezing — he still relished the crisp, clean air under the blue sky outside. The colonel led Clark down a narrow trench.
‘The living quarters are connected to the fighting positions by slit trenches.’ When they passed men, they had to edge by sideways. Empty machine-gun revetments would be filled at nightfall. They stopped at a small, covered hole dug out of the side of the wall. ‘We have bombardment shelters every twenty meters. On top we put three sandbags,’ the colonel said, patting the three green sacks filled with dirt. ‘Half a meter overhead gives us protection from indirect fire, but we have trouble finding loose fill for the bags.’ He again kicked the toe of his boot into the frozen floor of the trench with a scraping sound.
They moved on. The narrow slit trench eventually opened into a much roomier main trench. There, a squad lounged around the floor — eating, cleaning weapons, writing letters. They all dropped what they were doing and rose to rigid attention.
‘As you were,’ Clark said, but they remained ramrod-straight. ‘At ease.’
The colonel issued his own order in German, and the men relaxed but still remained standing. Clark shook the half-dozen men’s hands. His nods were returned with a crisp bow of the soldiers’ heads. Clark and the colonel then climbed up to fighting positions that had been carved into the forward walls of the trench.
The gently sloping hill had been cleared. The few stumps that remained wouldn’t severely restrict their fire. ‘I noticed your mines are still flagged,’ Clark said.
‘Ah, yes, sir. We keep them out for the nighttime. When the snow falls; we will dig them up. The trouble with landmines is the pressure of the snow. Heavy snowfall will trigger them, ja?’
‘What about tripwires?’
‘We could lay tripwires. But you have to leave slack. When metal wire grows cold, it contracts. If you don’t leave slack, it will set off the landmine. But if you leave too much, the wire just lies on the ground. Und all of it will be covered with snow soon. Plus the ground is frozen. We could just lay the mines on top, but the Anarchists might take them in the night. Und even if we have the mines out there, the snow will smother the blast. So, mines are not that effective, ja?’
Clark nodded, having already concluded two things. First, the man knew what he was doing. Secondly, Clark did not. He had a lot to learn. From then on, it was less an inspection tour of a forward post than a field trip with an able teacher.
The young colonel led Clark through another maze to a round, heavily sandbagged junction. Men fell silent and shot to attention. Clark again shook hands. ‘These troops are for our “Gegenstösse” — our hasty counterattack. Our positions can be fought from every direction. We plan to let the enemy troops penetrate our weak points. Then, before they can consolidate their gains, we attack with these troops in a Gegenstösse. A hasty counterattack by a platoon is better than a “Gegenangriffe” — a deliberate counterattack — by an entire battalion the next day. But these men… they must attack over open terrain.’ The colonel peered out over the sandbags. Clark followed his gaze into the thick woods. The trees would protect these men as they dashed into the gaps in the lines. ‘Mobility is the key, ja? When the deep snow comes, we will pack it down in lanes with our snowshoes for them to go fast.’
‘You tramp down paths?’
‘Ja? “Tramping.” We tramp along axes of our counterattacks this way,’ he chopped at the air with the blade of one hand, ‘und that way,’ he chopped again along a different bearing. ‘These men,’ the colonel said, turning to face the soldiers, ‘they are our very best, ja? Our most daring!’ Clark looked from face to face. They were all young. ‘They have to be — ya-a-a — for zis job?’
Clark nodded again. ‘Where are their weapons?’ he asked.
‘Ah, here!’ The colonel stooped and picked up a small blanket at the feet of one of the men. He unwrapped the fabric and removed a small black machine pistol — a Heckler & Koch MP-5. ‘The teams are armed for close combat. Machine pistols und hand grenades only.’ He unzipped one of the men’s white parkas. Hand grenades were affixed to bandoliers under the thick winter jacket.
They wound up the tour with a look at the artillery emplacements. Before Clark boarded the warm helicopter for the return to the warm command post in Khabarovsk, he mounted the sandbagged roof of a German bunker. From that vantage, he took in the panorama — the look, and feel, and smells, and sounds of a firebase. How many years had it been since his last? Since Vietnam?
Was it different, or the same? he wondered. Men worked all about the base. In Vietnam, they would have been stripped to their waists, soaked in sweat. Here, they were thick white shapes, moving about the altered landscape of the well-prepared defenses like men in spacesuits on the moon. But it was the same, Clark felt certain. It was all the same… all the same.
Chapter Six
This is going to be easy, he thought as he squeezed his way through the crowd of young rowdies. A cyclone fence ran through the cheap seats from the soccer field to the top of the stands. It divided the visiting fans from the locals. He picked his mark and headed straight for him.
The singing fans were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder on both sides of the fence. All looked to be working-class or unemployed. Despite the ban on alcohol, they all held cans of beer or bottles of liquor. The air reeked of pot and hash. Many of the young men sported outrageous dangles of looped earrings from their ears. Their hair was shorn short. There was the occasional tattoo on their ruddy necks. Ratty leather jackets, black denim pants, and black boots tied with silver chains were de rigueur.
The man he had chosen as his mark was a ‘bull moose’ — a huge man who was the center of attention among his friends on the London side of the fence. The fence drooped low right where the big man stood. A single wooden support was snapped in the middle. It looked like an oft-used crossing point between sections… or perhaps a flashpoint of battles past. He stopped beside the mangled fence and turned to watch the action.
The stadium was packed. The fans sang lilting and rhythmic chants as the London midfielders passed the ball conservatively back and forth. They never ventured too long a pass — moving the ball from side to side or safely back to a defender but never advancing it too far into Liverpool’s end.