Diggers (21 page)

I didn't ask whether the Classicist needed this particular object. He gets excited about two things—tanks and iron helmets with which soldiers from various countries and at various times have tried to protect their brains. I like the Classicist for this.

A digger will never stop telling you that in a previous life he might well have been a tank driver and that he burned up in the tank. He's a fool. In the Classicist's case, he was a soldier in the German army in his previous life. Why? Let me explain. He gets terribly excited when he spots a German military helmet. He gets gooseflesh. Can you imagine? If not, then I can. He was a soldier. He was slowly being approached by a Russian T-34 tank. The soldier grabbed his gun and crawled out of the foxhole. Either he didn't get a shot off or he missed, but the tank's treads rode over his helmet—and, of course, his head.

I often think about what I was in a previous life. When I go to bed I ask the kingdom of dreams to show me that I was a military nurse or a female doctor, one with lots and lots of men around. What would my friends say about that? What shame!

Anyway, I'm off the subject. We didn't find anything interesting. We trod out of the forest, bone tired.

As we left, the Classicist switched on his metal detector again and climbed up on a hill.

Once again my shovel was tearing through the moss and chopping through densely grown tree roots. We replaced each other from time to time, and then we found a piece of wood that looked peculiar in terms of its shape and color. Some sixth sense told me not to see the wood as yet another tree root that must be destroyed with a sharp shovel. It was a German, an automatic gun. All of the wooden parts were in perfect condition, as if the weapon had been buried yesterday. Tell me, how can I explain this to you? How can I describe the wide-open eyes of the two of us who spotted that gun, the happiness on our faces? We could have cried for joy. The brown clay had preserved the beautiful gun like a mother protects its child. We were like midwives—old, professional midwives who showed that child the light of day.

Five minutes later I found a Russian gun somewhat higher up the hill, but its wooden parts were broken.

Thanks to the gods of the diggers! Thanks, Little Mole.

On the way home we didn't talk about women any more. On the way, the Classicist called Natalija and told her to get out the video camera so that she could tape our triumphant return.

***

A week later.

For family reasons, Matt and Ken will be arriving tomorrow, but our first colleague from England is coming today.

The first part of the day was spent with jangling nerves. What if Chris and Chummy turned out to be worse than we had imagined? What would we do with them for four whole days?

No matter—we were all there when it came time to go to the airport. Along with me, there were the Classicist, Little Spirit, the Communicator and our translator, Natalija. The Classicist had given each of us a little something from his “museum.” One of us was wearing a Russian military helmet, someone else—a German helmet. The third man had a Latvian helmet, while I proudly wore a British one. It was similar to a dinner plate and looked very funny. We stood outside the passport office, smiling, and waited for someone to smile back. When they saw us, everyone smiled.

The Englishmen spotted us. We laughed and shook hands.

“Guys, I think these are very fine dudes,” I said happily. In Latvian, of course.

Now I have to chuckle about the fact that the Internet brought together a bunch of very different men—men who are all far older than 30 but who are still boys when it comes to adventure and childish foolishness. Chummy is actually called Lee, and he's a doctor who mends broken bones. I could say that he is my brother, because his girlfriend dumped him recently, too. If you want to know how he felt, read the chapter about how I felt, and you'll know.

Chris is a journalist and PR specialist. The Classicist, Chris and I all have sons who are about the same age. Little boys in England pose the same idiotic questions as little Latvians do.

“Daddy, why do women need breasts?”

“Because, my son, they provided you with food when you were little. They're also there so that I have something to play with.”

“Play with? How?”

SHIT! Now I can't think of anything to say!

We ignored the issue of questions that can't be answered. Sitting in a beer bar on the first evening, we found that we had once been enemies. The Englishmen had been trained to oppose communism, while we had been trained to oppose capitalism. Fucking politicians. If you're one of them, I tell you—you're an idiot, one of the idiots. Stubborn people who love themselves and are greedy for power.

***

The second day of the British adventure

In the morning I was at a university lecture when Little Spirit called me on the mobile phone.

“OK, we're ready. OK? We're going to go—we're going to get Matt and Ken.” Little Spirit was stuttering.

I ran out of the room. “Little Spirit, what's happening here? What's happening? You're still celebrating the arrival of the Englishmen? Fuck, you assholes! Matt's going to be here. What will he say when he sees you this drunk?”

“V-v-v-vViktors, don't worry about it. Those are normal guys, just like us.”

“Don't tell me that you haven't had any sleep tonight.” I was getting angry.

Little Spirit's voice was calm. “Of course we slept. Two hours. Well, maybe one. The Communicator just got up. My sister is saying something nasty to him, but who cares?”

There was no point in going back to my lecture. I was upset. We could lose our reputation. I got into my petrol-guzzling car and was at the Classicist's ten minutes later to complain.

My friend, like a professional actor, kept smiling while I was talking. He was showing Chummy and Chris his home museum.

The adventure started out with worries that proved to be pointless. At the very end I found that we men really are all as similar as two tears. Let me explain. On the last night, our column of cars rolled back into the capital city, and we decided to let our foreign friends spend some time on their own. We gave them a map that showed popular tourist destinations, souvenir stores and cultural monuments. They found one of the monuments. It was called Mirage, and underneath that word was Nightclub. They learned about the nightlife of Riga. Chris took out his video camera to tape the way that Ken was dancing around an iron bar. The doctor, when he got home, fell out of bed and slept on the floor until the morning. Matt never did find his way back to the hotel.

When we saw their trembling hands and pitiful looks, we were happy. Our friends had had a festive night!

Matt was a bit apologetic. “Look, Viktors—once they start partying, they can't stop.”

I was prepared for this statement. “Well why didn't you tell me that on the first day? We were holding back!”

What are you thinking now? We're a bunch of old men who like to tip back a few glasses? We're drunks? Go ahead. I can't keep you from thinking whatever you want. Life is life, and I'm writing down the truth here, dammit. Drinking is an inviolable part of our peculiar lives.

The evening fog was spreading itself over the meadows like a blanket. The forest was falling silent. The hurried pace of the day, when we were boiling in our own sweat, fighting mosquitoes and sharing our last drops of water, was finished.

“Look. Let's drink to the boys who are in those black bags over there. The first toast for the soldiers, the second for the gods of digging, the third one for us…”

The burning liquid poured strength back into our bodies. Slowly but purposefully it always soaks into each and every cell of your body, and then you want to walk into the dewy meadow, barefoot, look at the silent moon and shout, “I FUCKING LOVE THIS GAME!!!” And then it's time to go to bed.

Matt and Ken finally arrived. There wasn't time for talking. The forest, shattered by hand grenades and full of foxholes and trenches, was waiting for its guests.

I think that Chris can best tell you what we saw and experienced.

We are 130 kilometers southwest of Riga in a forest that has no name. On the maps, it is just a green shaded area with a marsh at its center—just another expanse of dense foliage deep within Latvia.

It looks tranquil enough, untouched even. The only access is down a rutted, twisting dirt road that seems to go on forever. Apart from the occasional logging track, there is no other visible sign of life—surly the place has remained unchanged for hundreds of years?

The wind scatters the fur and pine trees and the lack of any human noise, apart from our own, is very odd and for a westerner-used to continual background noise-slightly disturbing. Frogs leap away from our advancing wellies; crucial for the ground is boggy, and tangled, twisted branches grab and claw at our faces.

Everything seems to look just as it has done for thousands of years. But when you look closer, become more attuned to the contours of the ground and study the rise and fall of the land, you iviliz this is not a forest untouched by man, not a forest tranquil and unchanging, but a place of death and destruction.

For what first appeared to be a small brook and large, leaf filled ponds are in fact trench lines and command bunkers. Scattered collections of holes and divots aren't fox or badger dwellings, but the remains of a German bunker position. The solid immovable objects that are easy to trip over aren't the thick hard stumps of roots, but the top end of unexploded German 81 mm shells—welcome to Latvia's Valley of Death.

This is where we found ourselves, accompanied by the local military archaeological group known colloquially as the Diggers.

They have been coming into these woods for the last couple of years, exploring, searching and finding an amazing collection of weapons and equipment from both German and Russian armies. And on some occasions finding the bones of the men themselves.

Situated about 15 kilometers, or about nine miles, from the town of Saldus we are in an area known as the Curland Peninsula. In 1945 the remnants of the German Army Group North (led by General Schorner) found themselves pinned into the peninsula by the Soviet 1
st
Baltic Front. This once great army—part of which had fought in the suburbs of Leningrad—had been in full retreat for more than a year. Bottled up and unable to escape they fought pitched hand-to-hand battles with the Russians as the front line advanced slowly northwards.

Saldus was another town that needed to be taken by the Russians just as they had taken hundreds before them since they had managed to stop and then turn back the Germans in 1943.

Latvia's capital Riga was taken in October and the speed of the Russian advance was matched only by the retreat the Germans where now having to iviliza.

The 8
th
Soviet Guards Division moved in a classic pincer formation with the right flank engulfing the German lines to the east of the town. But the western flank got bogged down in the heavily wooded terrain and the Germans were able to surround and destroy the Russian advance. No one knows how many died in this battle but the Diggers reckon it was probably about 1000 men—it was a small victory for the Germans at a time of massive defeats.

Today the terrain is little changed. Some years after the war, the heavy armour wrecks were removed. Since then the area has returned to nature.

Our party of 13 stayed at a lodge about an hour's drive from the forest. The four of us from the UK had flown into Riga a couple of days before and had met up with the Diggers before heading out into the country's heartland.

Our team of Latvians is made up of former Soviet army conscripts, most of whom served in the Eastern block countries just before the fall of Communism. They are all experienced not only in the ways of modern war, but also extremely interested in the events that blighted their country so many years ago. Some are farmers, others marketing directors and company presidents. But all share a common interest in digging up relics from the past and repatriating the bones of long dead and forgotten servicemen.

How three Brits (journalist, logistics manager and war historian) and one South African (doctor) came to be in this forest of death is testament to the powers of e-mail and, perhaps more importantly, Internet search engines. We made contact, exchanged ideas and then got invited to Latvia. We landed at Riga airport three months later full of enthusiasm, which was tempered slightly by the fear of the unknown.

Conditions were extreme on the first day. All night the rain had drummed down on the roof of lodge. At daybreak the sky was dark and heavy, but at least the rain held off.

From Saldus, the drive into the forest took just over an hour. Here we stopped and suited up for a first day of digging. Army camouflage waterproofs and waders are essential for this type of work, as most of the ground is little more than a thick bog. We gave each other one last apprehensive look before heading out into the dense, unyielding forest.

The going was tough as we followed two deep rutted tracks made by some kind of logging-truck leviathan and the walk into the area of the battle took another hour and a half. The foliage was so thick and disorientating that our guides routinely cut indents into the trees so that we would be able to find our way out again.

Along the path was the evidence of what took place here. Shattered trees long hollowed out, deep round shell holes and half filled-in trench systems. Rounds of 7.62 mm ammunition, steel helmets and the occasional shell casing lined our route—evidence of earlier digs and finds.

What state the Germans must have been in when they arrived in Latvia one can only image. Having been involved in the original Blitzkrieg into Scandinavia and then the siege of Leningrad, Army Group North was a formidable, if battle scarred fighting force.

But the remnants of the army that dug countless trenches and bunker positions in this almost deserted part of Latvia in a desperate struggle to stop the Soviet advance must have been tired, hungry and pretty sick of war. Cut off from a land escape route by the Russian 1
st
Belorussian Front and with Hitler stubbornly refusing to allow them to evacuate by sea, to members of the Army Group it must have all seemed pretty futile.