After Daryna was left in the care of the medical orderlies, Angst inquired what would become of her. If there were room when the next truck arrived, she would be taken back further to the rear with the next batch of serious cases, he was told. Eventually, she would be placed with the civilian conscripts employed by the division—in other words, a work gang. The orderly explaining all this to him hoped she would snap out of it soon, because there was no telling where she would end up.
Upon leaving the aid station, Angst and his companions fell in with the panzergrenadiers supporting the armor; there was still a lot of activity, as the divisions from the north and south fought to close the gap between the two armies. Luckily for Angst and the squad, they were taken out of the line at the end of the day. An officer from the division intelligence staff had summoned them. Overweight and smelling like a distillery, the officer, a major, had asked them all to give a rundown of events since leaving the Tortoise Line. He said very little as another officer wrote down their statements. When the interrogation ended, the major made arrangements that the entire squad be taken out of the front line and, barring a catastrophe, excused from combat duty for the time being. They were sent further to the rear and placed with an artillery battery. Fortunately, the sector was relatively quiet. Upon their arrival, they dug slit trenches and foxholes for themselves a short distance behind the guns. The rings of fatigue that encircled their eyes had grown darker. Uniforms coated with a thick layer of dust and underclothes stiff with dried sweat and grime chafed at their skin. They had fought too hard and walked too far with no sleep and no food. Numb from the expenditure, the only thought that registered was that they were still alive; in and of itself, that was the only success that could be gauged.
Late in the afternoon, a second lieutenant arrived, looking for the squad leader. He was from the artillery commandant headquarters. Schroeder had informed every officer that would listen that he had taken over command of the squad after all the NCOs had been killed. He went with the lieutenant, who didn’t explain why or where (and Schroeder knew not to ask). He had been gone for several hours when a runner, assigned to the artillery observers, scurried up to where they had dug in. He announced that Corporal Schroeder’s squad was to pack up their gear and follow him. Assailed with a multitude of questions, the runner remained crouched, trying to keep from being fully exposed. The position was not so far back that a stray shell from enemy artillery couldn’t reach them. An occasional round would scream in and crash down; luckily, the harassment fire was few and far between, and the shells didn’t land too close. Nevertheless, the runner was unnerved and anxious to leave. He didn’t answer any of the questions the squad hurled at him, namely, when were they getting something to eat, and how long would it take to get sent back to their unit? The runner merely snapped at them to hurry it along, which only brought on another round of gripes and grumbling.
Braun had since replaced Ganz as the number two gunner on the MG42, a role he clearly did not enjoy. He had to carry the sling of replacement barrels and lug the ammo boxes for Detwiler, who took every advantage of having someone to boss around. To lighten the load, Angst and Schmidt offered to take some of their friend’s gear and his rifle. They climbed out of their holes and followed the runner down the railroad tracks. The artillery command had set up headquarters a couple of kilometers further down the line, but the runner didn’t lead them that far. Instead, after walking only half a kilometer, he made them stop at a ganger’s hut, a small wood structure with a rusting tin roof. An armored scout car and a foreign-made truck were parked nearby. The runner told them to wait and entered the hut. He remained inside for only moments, then he exited along with the second lieutenant from before. Again they were told to wait; the corporal would be finishing up presently. Angst spoke up. “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”
“I can’t answer that question, Corporal, but I’m sure you will be briefed at the proper time.” Then, followed by the runner, the junior officer receded down the tracks.
“Are we in some kind of trouble, do you think?” Schmidt asked.
Angst could not think of anything offhand. “I’m sure Schroeder is putting whoever is asking the questions into perspective.”
Two men leaned against the side of the truck and smoked, obviously bored with the long wait. There were quite a few butts littering the ground at their feet, and they regarded the squad’s arrival with passing interest. The one dressed in soiled mechanic overalls was a sergeant, Angst saw, and the other dense, fireplug-shaped fellow with a thick moustache, despite the Wehrmacht-issue fatigue dress, was Russian. He became aware of Angst and Schmidt’s stares and, rather than take offense, smiled quite welcomingly. In heavily accented German, the Hiwi said, “Good day, Soldaten. My name Josef.” They introduced themselves to the Hiwi and the sergeant, whose name was Vogel.
“What’s your outfit?” Angst asked.
“Recon-Intelligence.”
“With the Twenty-Third?”
“No. We’re special. If we answer to anyone higher up, it would be to Army Group.”
Braun had just approached and heard what the sergeant said. Out of breath, he dumped the load of ammo boxes and quiver of barrels loudly on the ground. “They’ve got Russians working at Army Group intelligence,” he said caustically. “No wonder we’re getting whipped.”
“Josef is only a driver,” Vogel said, unruffled by Braun’s thoughtless remark, and patted the side of the truck. Then he pointed to the 222 armored scout car. “That one is mine. I’m Captain Falkenstein’s driver.”
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“I gather it will, in time.”
Before Braun could say anything more (as he was sounding hostile and could land himself in trouble), Angst interrupted. “Do you know what this is about, Sergeant? Why have we been summoned?”
“Nobody tells me anything, and I don’t know anything. This is, after all, intelligence.” Vogel smiled.
Braun leaned over toward Angst and whispered in his ear, “Fucking comedian. I don’t trust that in an NCO.”
Something of a disturbance occurred over by the scout car. Detwiler had been circling the vehicle as if appraising the worth of a stud horse or prize bull. He pressed his face close to the opened side port and peered in. “Hello in there. Machine gunner Ernst Detwiler. Pleased to meet you.” He could barely make out the whites of a pair of eyes that stared back from within the darkened interior. “Hello, I said. Don’t care to introduce yourself? That’s not good manners.” There was a growl, followed by a bark so loud and piercing, it caused him to jump back. “Hey,” he shouted, as the barking continued, “what have you in here, a Doberman?”
Vogel and Josef laughed, but their faces turned serious when Detwiler poked the muzzle of the MG42 into the port opening before the armored shutter had time to close. Whatever was inside took hold of the barrel and tugged violently. Detwiler needed both hands and all his strength just to maintain his grip as the weapon began to disappear into the port. He wriggled back and forth like a hooked fish, yet the more energy he expended, trying to extricate the machine gun from the clutches of whatever was inside the scout car, the less it was under his control. Finally, he lost his grip completely, and the momentum forced him to the ground. The gun flew out of the port like a gob of spit and nearly brained him.