The question Voss had originally asked remained unanswered, but the captain’s explanation clarified the reason for the dark mood he exhibited after his return from Melitopol. Normally, Voss would be moved to say something to soothe the worries or disappointments of a commanding officer who confided in him and help bolster his morale. In this instance, there was the need to assure Falkenstein he was not alone, that he and the crew were with him, but Voss lacked the heart to do so. Not for this officer. Not for this man.
“Tell me, Lieutenant, and please be candid. Should something happen to me, would you continue with the mission on your own?”
“I will follow my orders, sir, whatever those orders may be.”
“Yes, of course. As I would have assumed…”
“But allow me to add that you, captain, are the mission. Stand or fall. Succeed or fail, this mission and your entire being are intertwined like the strands of a rope.”
“Then I should take care so as not trip over—or worse, hang myself by that rope, eh, Lieutenant?”
The armored personnel carrier slowed, and Reinhardt squeezed out of the co-driver’s seat and into the crew compartment. “One thousand meters to the east,” he said, and took his position at the bow machine gun. The two officers raised their binoculars and saw a farmhouse and barn, with a vehicle parked out in front. They agreed it was a Kubelwagen. Hartmann drove slowly and detoured in a wide arc so as not approach the buildings head on. The machine gun swiveled on the coaxial mounting as Reinhardt took aim. Closer inspection revealed two German soldiers milling about the wide entrance to the barn. The four tires of the Kubelwagen were half-submerged in the mud. Still cautious, Reinhardt kept his finger on the trigger.
The armored carrier pulled up in front of the ramshackle barn. A group of eight grenadiers roused themselves as Hartmann eased the vehicle inside. The men looked miserable, faces drawn with fatigue, wet uniforms and boots encased in mud. The interior of the barn reeked with urine. Irritated at having to move out of the way so as not to be crushed by the armored vehicle, and despite their exhaustion, they possessed the strength of nerve to look upon the officers’ arrival with insolence. Khan peeked furtively over the edge of the siding, as though he was unwilling to reveal too much of himself.
“What unit do you men belong to?” Falkenstein called down.
One grenadier came forward from the darkened rear of the barn as the other men stepped aside, deferentially. He was either their leader or had simply elected himself as the official spokesman of the group. “We don’t have an outfit. At least none to speak of. We’re stragglers.”
“And nothing more?” Falkenstein prodded.
“We’re not deserters, if that’s what you’re getting at. The lieutenant colonel will vouch for us. He’s allowed us to stay here and rest before it’s time to move out. Which is impossible to do now,” he said, indicating the enormous Hanomag that was parked where most of the men had been lying down. Falkenstein and Voss climbed out of the crew compartment.
“Is that the lieutenant colonel’s car out front?” Falkenstein asked. Heads nodded in affirmation. “What division?”
“Some headquarters or other. What difference does it make? We’re all stranded,” said the spokesman. Voss was about to discipline the man for speaking to a superior officer in such a disrespectful manner, but Falkenstein, unusually calm, had him ignore the remark.
“Obviously, these gentlemen are all too miserable for anything to matter, Lieutenant.”
A face, bright with inquisitiveness, peered into the barn. It belonged to a lieutenant, slightly built and round-shouldered, who wore an ill-fitting winter coat that was soaked with at least ten liters of rainwater. The hem practically touched the ground. He extended an enthusiastic welcome as he entered.
“What headquarters is this?” Falkenstein asked, dismissing the junior officer’s pleasantries.
“Lieutenant Colonel von Helmansdorff. Not exactly a headquarters, but rather a place we have gotten stuck, more or less. The car ran out of gas quite literally where it now stands. I’m Kreutzer, the colonel’s adjutant.” Lieutenant Kreutzer went on to explain that the lieutenant-colonel was attached to First Panzer Army staff and had volunteered to go out into the field to keep headquarters appraised of the fighting capacity of units still in withdrawal. Most, if not all, the corps and divisional headquarters staff members had already crossed the river and deployed on the west bank. “Now this weather has caused us to get bogged down and lost, along with part of a regiment that’s dug in a few kilometers further east. The radio no longer works, so we can no longer communicate with Army headquarters—or anyone else, for that matter.”
“You said part of a regiment. What about the other part?”
“Haven’t a clue, Captain. Patrols have been sent out to make contact with our neighbors on either flank, but they have yet to report back. Did you happen to cross paths with anyone on your way here?”
“We haven’t seen a soul. The lieutenant and I have embarked on the same goal,” Falkenstein told him.
“Do you know who is operating in this sector?” Kreutzer’s question sounded desperate.
“Other than us and this lost regiment of yours, only the Russians.”
“Well, no matter. The colonel has taken it upon himself to remain until the regiment links up, or we cross the river. Whichever comes first,” Kreutzer said, beaming with pride.
“Under the circumstances, I don’t see you having much choice in the matter,” Falkenstein said.
Suggesting that they must be wet and uncomfortable, Kreutzer invited them both inside. They followed the lieutenant into the farmhouse, quarters that were little better than the barn. Moist earth oozed through the seams in the floorboards, and the roof leaked, but at least it was warm. The small brick oven was fired up, and a kettle steamed on the hearth. Lieutenant Colonel von Helmansdorff was preparing tea, emptying the meager remains of a packet with a wet clump of previously brewed leaves, and spooned the mix into a mess tin. A noticeable sigh of relief escaped his lips when the officers entered. Kreutzer began to make introductions, but the colonel allowed him no opportunity. “Has one of my patrols made contact with you? Is that why you’ve come?”
“Reconnaissance Group Falkenstein. This is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Voss.”
“Captain Falkenstein has not made contact or seen any of our patrols,” Kreutzer told the colonel, whose expression promptly turned worrisome.
“It is a pleasure, gentlemen. Where have you come from, Captain? And to what unit are you attached?”
“The lieutenant and I have recently returned from the south, and I’m not attached to any specific combat group or division. Ours is an autonomous unit.”
“An autonomous reconnaissance group? Well, I suppose anything is possible these days. But we are having an absolute time of it, aren’t we, Captain? This weather! Autumn mud, and so soon. It’s nothing short of a disaster. Now please, gentlemen, take a seat,” von Helmansdorff said, indicating the stools and benches around the table. Falkenstein sat down and placed his leather folder on the table, strewn with maps and a variety of papers, some of which were stained with coffee or tea and smudged with tobacco ash. There was also a field telephone, its cable trailing to the back end of the small, impoverished dwelling and out a window. A paraffin lamp burned dimly.