Some of the men were actually sleeping. Christian stared at them with wonder and loathing. Hardenburg and five of the men were lying just under the ridge. Hardenburg was peering over the ridge at the convoy through his glasses, only the very top of his head above the jagged rocky line. Every line of Hardenburg's body, even through the swathing of the big, thick overcoat, was alert, resilient. God, Christian thought, doesn't he ever have to sleep? What a wonderful thing it would be if Hardenburg got killed in the next ten minutes. Christian played deliciously with the idea for a moment, then sighed. Not a chance. All the rest of them might get killed that morning, but not Hardenburg. You could take one look at Hardenburg and know that he was going to be alive when the war ended.
Himmler crawled cautiously down from his position under the ridge next to Hardenburg, careful not to raise any dust. He shook the sleeping men to awaken them and whispered to them. Slowly they began to move around, with elaborate measured motions, as though they were in a dark room crowded with many delicate glass ornaments.
Himmler reached Christian on his hands and knees. He moved his knees round in front of him and sat down next to Christian very deliberately.
"He wants you," Himmler whispered, although the British were three hundred metres away.
"All right," Christian said, without moving.
"He's going to get us all killed," Himmler said. He had lost a great deal of weight and his face was raw under the stubble of his beard and his eyes seemed caged and desperate. He hadn't made a joke or clowned for the officers since the first shell was fired over their heads outside Bardia three months before. It was as though another man, a thinner, despairing cousin, had taken possession of Sergeant Himmler's body upon his arrival in Africa, leaving the rotund, jovial ghost of the old Himmler comfortably moored in some shadowy haven back in Europe, waiting to claim possession of the Sergeant's body if and when he ever returned. "He just lies up there," Himmler whispered, "watching the Tommies, singing to himself."
"Singing?" Christian shook his head to clear it.
"Humming. Smiling. He hasn't closed his eyes all night. Ever since that convoy stopped out there last night, he's just lain there and kept his glasses on them, smiling." Himmler looked bleakly over at the Lieutenant. "Wouldn't go for them last night. Oh, no. Too easy. Afraid we might miss one of them. Has to lay up here for ten hours, to wait till it gets light, so we can get every one of them. It'll look better in the report." Himmler spat unhappily into the restlessly swirling sand. "He'll get us all killed, you wait and see."
"How many Tommies are there?" Christian asked. He finally dropped his blanket and shivered as he picked up his carefully wrapped machine pistol.
"Eighty," Himmler whispered. He looked around him bitterly.
"And thirteen of us. Thirteen. Only that son of a bitch would take thirteen men out on a patrol. Not twelve, not fourteen, not…"
"Are they up yet?" Christian broke in.
"They're up," Himmler said. "Sentries all over the place. It's just a miracle they haven't spotted us so far."
"What is he waiting for?" Christian looked at the Lieutenant, lying tensely, like a crouching animal, just under the ridge.
"You ask him," Himmler said. "Maybe for Rommel to come down and watch this personally and give him a medal after breakfast."
The Lieutenant slid down from the top of the ridge and waved impatiently for Christian. Christian crept slowly up towards him, with Himmler following.
"Had to set the mortar himself," Himmler grumbled.
"Couldn't trust me. I'm not scientific enough for him. He's been crawling over and playing with the elevation all night. I swear to God, if they examined him for lunacy, they'd have him in a strait-jacket in two minutes."
"Come on, come on," Hardenburg whispered harshly. As Christian came up to him, he could see that Hardenburg's eyes were glowing with what could only be happiness. He needed a shave and his cap was sandy, but he looked as though he had slept at least ten refreshing hours.
"I want everyone in position," Hardenburg said, "in one minute. No one will make a move until I tell them. The first shots will be from the mortar and I will give a hand signal from up here."
Christian, on his hands and knees, nodded.
"On the signal, the two machine-guns will be raised to the top of the ridge and will begin firing, and continuous fire will be kept up by the riflemen until I give the command to stop. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir," Christian whispered.
"When I want corrections on the mortar I will call them myself. The crew will keep their eyes open and watch me at all times. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir," said Christian. "When will we go into action, Sir?"
"When I am good and ready," Hardenburg said. "Make your rounds, see that everything is in order and come back to me."
"Yes, Sir." Christian and Himmler turned and crawled over to where the mortar was set up, with the shells piled behind it and the men crouched beside it.
"If only," Himmler whispered, "that bastard gets a slug up his arse I will die happy today."
"Keep quiet," Christian said. Himmler's nervousness was unsettling. "You do your job, and let the Lieutenant take care of himself."
"Nobody has to worry about me," Himmler said. "Nobody can say I don't do my job."
"Nobody said it."
"You were about to say it," Himmler said pugnaciously, glad to have this intimate enemy to argue with for the moment – to take his mind off the eighty Englishmen three hundred metres away.
"Keep your mouth shut," Christian said. He looked at the mortar crew. They were cold and shivering. The new one, Schoener, kept opening and closing his mouth in an ugly, trembling yawn, but they seemed ready. Christian repeated the Lieutenant's instructions and crawled on. Making certain to raise no dust, he approached the machine-gun crew of three on the right end of the ridge.
The men were ready. The waiting, through the night, with the eighty Englishmen just over the scanty ridge, had told on everyone. The vehicles, the two scout cars and the tracked carrier, were barely hidden by the small rise. If an RAF plane on an early patrol appeared in the sky and came down to investigate, they would all be lost. The men kept peering nervously, as they had done all the previous day, too, into the clear, limitless sky, lit now by the growing light of dawn. Luckily, the sun was behind them, low and blinding. For another hour the British on the ground would have a difficult time locating them against its glare.
This was the third patrol through the British lines that Hardenburg had taken them on in five weeks, and Christian was sure that the Lieutenant was volunteering again and again at Battalion Headquarters for the job. The line here, far over on the right of the shifting front, among the waterless, roadless sand and scrub, was lightly manned. It was a succession of small posts and wandering, mingled patrols, more than anything else, not like the densely packed ground near the coast, with its precious road and water-points, where there were full-dress artillery and aerial sweeps all day and night.
Here there was a sensation of uneasy stillness, a premonition of disaster hanging over the landscape.
In a way, Christian thought, it was better in the last war. The slaughter was horrible in the trenches, but everything was organized. You got your food regularly, you had a feeling that matters were arranged in some comprehensible order, the dangers came through regular and recognizable channels. In a trench, Christian thought, as he slowly approached Hardenburg, lying once more just under the crest of the ridge, peering over it through his glasses, you were not so much at the mercy of a wild glory-seeker like this one. Finally, Christian thought, in 1960 this maniac will be in command of the German General Staff. God help the German soldier then.