I know in my bones what our watchword “Courage” means — from days and nights of resigned desperation, and from the insurmountable fear which one continues to accept, even though one’s brain has ceased to function normally. I know what it means, remembering deliberate immobility against frozen soil, whose coldness penetrates to the marrow of the bones, and the howling of a stranger in the next hole. I know that one can call on all the saints in heaven for help without believing in any God: and it is this that I must describe, even if it means plunging back into a nightmare for nights at a time. For that is the substance of my task: to reanimate, with all the intensity I can summon, those distant cries from the slaughterhouse.
Too many people learn about war with no inconvenience to themselves. They read about Verdun or Stalingrad without comprehension, sitting in a comfortable armchair, with their feet beside the fire, preparing to go about their business the next day, as usual. One should really read such accounts under compulsion, in discomfort, considering oneself fortunate not to be describing the events in a letter home, writing from a hole in the mud. One should read about war in the worst circumstances, when everything is going badly, remembering that the torments of peace are trivial, and not worth any white hairs. Nothing is really serious in the tranquility of peace; only an idiot could be really disturbed by a question of salary. One should read about war standing up, late at night, when one is tired, as I am writing about it now, at dawn, while my asthma attack wears off. And even now, in my sleepless exhaustion, how gentle and easy peace seems!
Those who read about Verdun or Stalingrad, and expound theories later to friends, over a cup of coffee, haven’t understood anything. Those who can read such accounts with a silent smile, smile as they walk, and feel lucky to be alive.
I shall now resume my account of our life and how we began to regain our health and spirits, despite the distant thunder of guns.
“It was too good to last,” muttered the Sudeten, as we watched the stream of troop carriers and other vehicles which had been flooding back for the past twenty-four hours.
Each house in the small hamlet had become temporary headquarters for groups of officers deliberating the immediate fate of the men they were leading. The men themselves waited patiently beside their equipment — whose total mass must have been at least ten times as great as the mass of the buildings. We had just been chased from our billets, and were waiting under the trees at the edge of the village. Our entire company was there, grouped in order, with our equipment loaded into civilian vehicles. A rough wind swept across the dried steppe, raising clouds of dust that veiled the empty horizon.
“They’ve thrown us out!” said the veteran to a heavy drinker named Woortenbeck.
“But we’ve left them nothing but empty bottles.”
They waved toward the newly-arrived troops who had pushed us from the isbas where we’d been taking it easy.
“I packed all the samahonka that was left under the seats of the car.”
“Good for you, Woortenbeck,” shouted a thin sergeant.
“Samahonka’s for an elite unit like us. The rest can get water from the troughs.”
I had made a new friend my own age, who spoke French well. Holen Grauer had spent some time studying in France in ’41. Then the army had collared him, promising him that he would be able to continue his studies as well as provide the indispensable value of his presence in the service. Like me, he had been overwhelmed by military enthusiasm at the age of sixteen, and had volunteered, marching in step, and singing “Wolken ziehn dahin, daher,” in the impeccable ranks of the Wehrmacht. Then he had experienced the war through Poland and across a huge expanse of Russia, in Belgorod, and on the sack where we were sitting, contemplating the world and the war.
Like me, he had dreamed of becoming a famous aviator, piloting JU-87s, and like me, all he retained of this dream was a vision of huge birds screaming as they swooped down from the sky. As we couldn’t speak of the ordinary life we had never shared, the shattered dream we had so much desired often illuminated our misfortune.
Hals had made himself scarce for the last few days: his girl, who helped him forget the war, had absorbed him almost entirely. He had just reappeared with one of his comrades in sin. His forehead was creased by an anxious frown, and he couldn’t stop fretting. He unburdened himself to Grauer and me: “If Captain Wesreidau won’t let Emi come with us, the Reds will kill her. We can’t let that happen.”
“I understand how you feel,” I said to Hals.
Woortenbeck and the veteran, who were amused by our innocence, roared with laughter.
“If everyone in the company brought along the girl he’s sleeping with, there wouldn’t be enough transportation in the whole division.”
“But there’s no question of that, you bastards.”
“Don’t cry over it. You’ll have plenty of time to do the same thing somewhere else.”
“You’re too thick to understand what I’m talking about.”
There were many jokes on this subject, which Hals did not find funny.
“Are you in love with her, Hals?” I asked, quite by chance, understanding, because of Paula, what “being in love” meant.
Hals continued to bristle.
“Because it would certainly be possible to fall in love with a whore.”
“Sure. Why not?” said Grauer, who undoubtedly was about as experienced in these matters as I.
Hals calmed down somewhat.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he said, taking us each by the shoulder. “With you two, at least, it’s possible to talk.”
When we had drawn apart, he unburdened himself. He had fallen head over heels in love and was certain he could never love anyone else. On that point he was absolutely beyond any reason or argument. As for me, despite my earlier certainty that I could never mention Paula to anyone, I found myself pouring out the whole story to Hals and Grauer.
“So that’s why you had such a long face at the end of leave,” said Hals. “Why didn’t you say anything? I would have understood, you know.”
We talked over our amorous difficulties for a long time, and Hals decided I was lucky.
“You, at least, are sure to see her again,” he said, opening his mess tin. Through eyes misty with youthful passion, we watched the sky grow dark and the stars come out.
Our company moved out at dawn, heading west. During the day we watched an aerial combat which revived — for Grauer and me — all our old feelings about the Luftwaffe. Our ME-109s had the upper hand, and seven or eight Yabos fell from the sky in whirling flames, like enlarged fireworks.
Toward noon, we reached an important divisional base. Thirty companies, including ours, were regrouped to form a large motorized armored section.
For the first time, we were given over-garments of reversible cloth: white on one side and ordinary camouflage on the other. We were also given medical checkups, which we hadn’t expected, and drew a large quantity of supplies. A Panzer colonel commanded our group, which was classified as “autonomous.”
We were surprised by the quantity of new supplies for our armored section. Everywhere, drivers and mechanics were giving their machines a final look over, and reving the enormous tank engines.
Tiger tanks on Porsche bodies roared as their engines began to turn over. From the sound of it, we could have been at the start of a giant motor race. We waited about two hours for the order to leave.