“How you will achieve this must be left to you, Herr Gursten. If there’s anything we can do to assist …”
Outside he set out to find his friend.
“I honour you for it, Klaus, with all my heart,” Engelhardt murmured, shaking him by the hand. The two sat down and began to plot.
Towards evening, a shabby figure and another in a junior officer’s uniform made their way to the last outposts before the enemy.
Near a pig-sty there was an old out-of-use wooden barrel. Gursten was helped into it and after it was upended his friend left.
In the suffocating black airlessness Gursten crouched and waited. Voices rose and fell. He heard muffled commands and the rumbling of a wagon or two-then quiet.
Hours came and went. His cramped body was a torture but there was no alternative.
Longer. It must be getting close to daybreak by now.
Then … voices.
He couldn’t make them out and strained to hear. Hoarse, peasant muttering. Polish-no, some other … If he chose wrongly, it could be a vile death from some looting band.
It wasn’t meant to be like this!
The plan had seemed a good one: this spot was contained within a salient of the Prussian perimeter that was scheduled to be drawn in as lines were shortened, leaving him concealed in his barrel. As the French pressed in it would be overtaken and he’d find himself behind their line, at which he’d safely give himself up, a Prussian deserter.
He froze in shock as someone casually kicked against his hideaway, then heard a distant impatient order-in French.
With a convulsive heave he capsized the barrel and scrambled out before a goggling soldier in a French uniform. He lifted up his hands and gave a twisted smile as the man shouted, bringing at the run a French poilu, a sergeant.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Gursten drawled, in deliberately bad French. “I’ve had enough of being on the wrong side. I’m giving it away.”
“Ha! You left it a bit late, fripouille Prussien. We’re going to wipe the floor with you lot before long. Still, if you’re coming over we’ll find some use for you. Take him to the adjutant.”
With a pair of soldiers on each side he was marched to the rear. He knew he would be interrogated but was prepared.
“I’m Corporal Baker Hopfner of the third Potsdamers-but precious little could I bake!”
They quickly lost interest in one who could have no knowledge of the larger picture and he was handed on to others to process.
“Can’t take you on here, m’ friend,” a jolly staff sergeant told him. “It’s a tidy trot to Headquarters for you.”
“Kind sir, have you a crust and a taste of wine first? It’s cruel hard times I’ve had and …”
The corporal was sent to get some small victuals and Gursten wolfed them.
When he had finished, he looked up with gratitude. “What corps should I join, do you think?” he asked eagerly. “I’m rare skilled on breads-pumpernickel, Bauernbrot, Zwieback and similar.”
It caused spirited discussion between the two, and by the time they’d concluded, Gursten had a considerable appreciation of the quality and reliability of Bonaparte’s troops, quite unmatchable by the most meticulous observations.
A paper was made out: a pass for one Hopfner to travel to Saaldenz, Marshal Ney’s headquarters, to join up as an auxiliary. He was given a simple knapsack with basic rations and a blanket, and two discontented soldiers were told to escort him there.
Against all the odds it was working!
They set off on the march: thirty-five miles along badly rutted roads and bare tracks over marshy, directionless moorland and heath.
Gursten had no intention of completing it for he had what he wanted: a legitimate paper accounting for his presence. He slipped away at the first opportunity and made off at a sharp angle to the north-towards the Russians.
He skirted one village and unexpectedly found himself in an apple orchard. So close to the front line it was doing service as an under-cover artillery park. He turned to go but found his way blocked by a fiercely grinning gunner who held a heavy sword to his throat. Others approached to see the fun.
“A poxy spy!” he growled, flicking the tip of the sword under Gursten’s throat. “As will be strung up when we find a tree!”
An officer in a gold-laced shako came up, knocking aside the man’s sword. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Oh, s-sir,” Gursten stammered, “I-I think I’m lost.” He rummaged about in his undeniably French-issue knapsack and produced his paper. “It says here I’m t-to join Marshal Ney’s German auxiliary.”
The officer took it suspiciously. “Where’s your escort?”
Gursten looked down, shamefaced. “We were at an inn and, er, they didn’t wake up in the morning, and I thought I’d better-”
“They got drunk,” the officer sneered. “Not your fault. You did right-but Ney’s over there, not here. You go any further in this direction and the Russkies will have your hide on a fence.”
The gunners about him chortled.
“Get going.” He thrust the paper at him. “It’s not safe to be so near the fighting. On your way, little man!”
With profuse thanks, Gursten scuttled off.
He had to think-and quickly. No carefully laid plan could get him through the terrible danger of the opposing lines this time.
At some distance from the village there were the shattered ruins of a farmyard. It would give shelter until night fell when he could move under cover of darkness. But before he could slip away from his hideout there was the flash of guns and horses galloping past, other noises. It would be lunacy to go out but he would not get a second chance-and the value of his information was fading with every hour he was delayed.
The confusion and disorder had still not settled as the cold light of a new day appeared. He was now in very considerable danger and had to make a move.
He peered through the splintered timbers of the barn into the meadow. All the farm animals had been carried off for food but a stolid, hairy-footed old plough-horse remained, calmly snatching at tufts of overgrown grass.
For some reason his heart went out to the loyal creature in a world of madness caused by men-and he was struck by a thought equally as crazy.
In the strengthening light he scrabbled around in the rubbish of the barn until he found what he was looking for: a dusty grey farming smock and hat, even trousers still hanging on the hook where their owner had left them.
With rising hope he pulled aside the fallen beams and saw in the dark end of the barn a wondrous sight: a cart with a load of hay. It was rank-smelling but it was all he needed.
He drew on the ancient clothing and trudged out to the horse, lumbering, head down and with the pain of age.
The beast looked up at him mildly, tossing its head as he secured the straps but obediently followed him to the barn. Gursten used it to haul away an exit for the cart, then backed it into the shafts and finished the job with bumping heart, expecting a sharp challenge at any moment.
He heaved himself into the rickety seat and clicked the horse into motion. A scene from earlier times drew into the daylight-an old farmer taking hay out to his animals as he’d done every new morning of his life. No war was going to stop him. That he was bent and his head drooping, his track an aimless meander, clearly pointed to the loss of his wits in this murderous war: he was piteously taking refuge in doing what he had always done for his creatures.
Gursten’s hands on the traces were slack, letting the horse choose his way. A subtle tug every now and then pointed the nodding head resolutely towards the lines and they continued on, the wobbling wheels complaining loudly.
There was no challenge, even as he could see the emplacements with their troops lying at the ready, some staring at him as if at a ghost.
There was now a spectral quiet as he rattled on; no musket fired on him, no shouts or warnings. A tranquil vision of another age had entered their existence of blood and struggle and nobody had the heart to disturb it by harming the old man.