“It will be a penal battalion for you once we get back. Is that realistic enough for you?” Reinhardt herded Detwiler into the parlor and then turned his anger toward Angst. “Evidently you lack the ability to control the men of your detail, Corporal.”
“I don’t have any men.”
“Go ahead and be flippant. You’re headed for the same place as this one.”
“I’m not being flippant. I have no control over what he does. Corporal Schroeder can keep him under control, when he has a mind to do so, but not me.”
“With such poor leadership qualities, I am amazed you have risen to the rank of corporal—but I can guarantee it will not be a rank you will hold for long.” Reinhardt lifted the weighty MG42 off the bar counter, thrust it into Detwiler’s arms, and practically threw the belt of ammunition at him. “Get over to the workers’ settlement on the north side of town and help Schroeder.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Detwiler, now thoroughly cinched and buttoned, left the house.
Reinhardt turned back to Angst. “Collect the women’s identity papers. When the lieutenant arrives, get over to the repair depot. Maybe you will have better luck overseeing Braun and Schmidt.” Elenya had straightened herself up and now stood in the doorway. The sergeant regarded the women as one more irksome detail that he lacked the patience or the stamina to deal with. “Clean up this pigsty,” he told them. “Captain Falkenstein will use this as his headquarters. Fix some bedding, if there is any. Something unused. And open some windows. I don’t want this place smelling like a brothel.” He noticed Valeria glued to the armchair, unresponsive the entire time. “What is the matter with this one?”
“I believe she is in a state of shock,” Monika replied.
“Well, get her involved in something. It’s better than allowing her to brood.”
After Reinhardt had stormed out of the house, Angst suggested to Elenya that she change into more suitable clothing. “And give me your identity papers.” Monika merely reached into her jacket pocket and turned over the booklet. Angst pointed to where the near-catatonic Ukrainian girl sat. “What about hers?”
Monika stepped over to where Valeria sat and knelt down beside her. “Give me your papers, dear.”
Valeria looked up. “Are we going now?”
“Not yet, but very soon. We have to show the corporal our papers. It will be all right. You’ll see.”
Valeria undid the straps of the valise and rummaged through an assortment of clothing and personal articles. Growing impatient at the girl’s painstakingly slow movements, Monika took the valise and searched. She found the booklet and gave it to Angst. He was impelled to put both women at ease. “Make her understand that nothing bad will happen, now that the captain is in charge.”
“So we have nothing to fear from the likes of that brute with the machine gun?”
“You mean Detwiler?”
Monika nodded. “Should I assume he’s the worst of your lot?”
“No, I wouldn’t assume that. He’s only the most impulsive. Besides, your friend didn’t put up a struggle. If she had, then I would have intervened. I did on your behalf, remember.”
Monika’s eyes widened. “Elenya is a bighearted soul but something of a cretin.”
“Someone mention my name?” Elenya said in halting German, as she sashayed into the parlor. She had thrown on a light green shift, sweater and apron. She was still zippering and buttoning when she entered. The transformation was matronly, as opposed to the slovenly manner of near-undress when Angst had first discovered her. She handed Angst her identity booklet. “What is your captain like?”
“Your charms will have no effect. Now get to work, or there will be hell to pay for us all.”
Valeria was hustled out of the armchair and a broom thrust into her hands. Listlessly, she began to sweep the floor of broken glass. It was decided between Monika and Elenya that the storeroom would serve as sleeping quarters for the captain. They opened a window, and all nonessential paraphernalia was thrown outside. While Elenya busied herself with this chore, Monika took a small area rug, dragged it into the parlor and rolled it out. She turned the table that lay in the foyer upright, placed it on the rug, and arranged the upholstered armchair next to the table. Angst decided to keep out of their way and returned to the front door. The command vehicle had pulled up to the house, and Reinhardt conferred with the two officers. They all turned to look as Angst came out of the house, saluted, and handed the identification booklets to the lieutenant. “The women are making the quarters more habitable, Captain. Will there be anything else?”
“There are two new men,” Reinhardt said. “Help them with the aft machine gun from the vehicle, and set up a position on the south side of town. Then get over to the depot and keep watch.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Angst turned to the captain and the lieutenant, saluted again, and cut across the square to where the Hanomag was parked. He was relieved not to be in for some form of punishment, at least for the moment; not that the sergeant would be reticent to describe Detwiler’s actions or his own lack of maintaining discipline. More urgent requirements needed attending to first, and Angst had no doubt that the matter would be dealt with, eventually.
At the vehicle, Hartmann introduced the new machine gun crew, Fritch and Herzog, who were weighted down with the MG34, a spare barrel, and boxes of ammunition. “You will want to dig in really deep,” Hartmann said, as he removed the clamps from the long-handled shovel mounted on the fender and gave it to Angst. The driver also provided them with a section of tarp, binoculars, and a Very pistol with several signal and illumination flares. His arms loaded with the extra gear, including an entrenching tool from his own personal equipment, Angst led the way down Old Cart Road. “What’s the idea of fortifying this place?” asked the one called Herzog. “Aren’t you crossing the river?”
“Not anytime soon. Nobody asked you to tag along, but now that you’re here, you belong to the captain.” Angst was in no mood to exchange comradely banter with the two men. He remembered Herzog from the night before; he was among those who tried to force their way aboard the vehicle and had nearly gotten them all killed. Herzog was wearing a forage cap, having either lost or thrown away his helmet. Neither man possessed a rifle. When they had walked halfway toward the railroad tracks, Angst steered the two grenadiers off the road. The houses, blackened piles of rubble, were few and spaced well apart. They walked south for another hundred meters, beyond the farthest outlying barns and shacks that had been reduced to cinders. Angst stuck the blade of the shovel into the soft ground, dropped the tarp and extra equipment, and removed the entrenching tool from the leather case attached to his belt. The view of the steppe was open for a number of kilometers, until the mist obscured the view in the distance. Fritch was of the opinion that this position was too vulnerable. “There’s no place to fall back to if we’re overrun.”
“You won’t be forgotten. Send up a red flare, and the Hanomag will pick you up.”
Fritch did not appear convinced; nonetheless, he set down the MG34, took up the long-handled shovel, and started to dig. Angst stood there, not moving. Reluctantly, Herzog picked up the entrenching tool. The two grenadiers looked every bit as tired and miserable as Angst felt, but still he was not inclined to help them. “What are you going to do?” Herzog asked. The question annoyed Angst, as he felt he did not owe these men any explanations. “I’m headed for the repair depot. Some of the crew is setting up an observation post.”
“What if the Russians come before we’re ready?”
Angst was not disposed to hand-hold two strangers or fight alongside them. He wanted to be among his friends. “Then this machine gun will be very useful,” he snapped. He left them to their digging and headed for the railroad tracks.