Forgotten Soldier (19 page)

I had not yet absorbed all the emotions of the day, and was suffering a belated reaction.

The intermittent rain began to soak into our clothes and weight them down. The pond gave off a faint smell. Two men began to snore. Throughout the night, which seemed interminable, I kept up a dull conversation with my companions, to prevent a nervous collapse. In the distance, we could hear the continuous rumble of our retreating trucks. Enemy action began again well before dawn. Flares above our position blinded us with their unexpected white lights. We looked at each other in wordless confusion. The intensity of this diabolic light threw a sinister, almost indecent glare on our ghostly faces.

At daybreak, enemy artillery poured a hail of projectiles of every caliber onto the road about a quarter of a mile behind us. Beyond my hole, when I dared look outside, I could see other helmets poking up here and there from below the ground. Under their visors, eyes gleaming with fatigue were trying to discern our immediate future on the dim bank across the pond.

I scraped up some crumbs of vitamin biscuit, which was the last food in my possession. Insomnia and exhaustion made us incapable of grasping the situation with any precision. We were simply there, shivering and wet, and if even a small group of Russians had appeared, we wouldn't have been able to stop them.

Fortunately, the Soviets didn't attack, and we were only subjected to one round of mortar fire, which nevertheless wounded nine of us. At last the sun rose, and we felt somewhat better. When it reached its zenith, we were still waiting in our holes, which the spring warmth had not been able to dry out. We had not been given any more food, but then a soldier of the Reich was supposed to be able to withstand cold, heat, rain, suffering, hunger, and fear. Our stomachs growled, and the blood beat in our temples and at our smallest joints. But the air and the earth and the universe were growling too. From habit, we were almost able to persuade ourselves that this was a possible way to live. I know of many who actually managed it.

Toward six o'clock that evening, we were ordered to abandon our positions. This step required many precautions. We had to cover a considerable distance with all our equipment, while two men stayed behind to lay mines for the enemy. When we reached the ruins of the first house, we were finally able to straighten up. We went into the battered buildings, whenever we could, to look for food. I can remember devouring three raw potatoes, and finding them delicious.

We arrived at the crossroads from which our group had set out twenty-four hours earlier. The two mutilated but recognizable roads we had taken the day before had been turned into a jumble of churned earth. As far as I could see, the disabled carcasses of Wehrmacht vehicles lay scattered in a haze of whirling smoke, across the ruins of what must once have been houses. There were several muddy German bodies, too, lying in rigid attitudes beside wrecked machines, waiting for the burial squad.

Some men from the engineers were setting fire to the vehicles that blocked the road. We walked through this chaos for a while, supporting our wounded. A hundred yards away, another group, larger than ours, was also withdrawing, with arms and equipment.

We followed the lieutenant as far as the re-groupment center, abandoned by the officers two hours before we received the order to withdraw. Not a soul was left in the battered building which had housed the officers responsible for the defense of the town. A sergeant on a motorcycle was waiting alone in front of the building to instruct stragglers. The lieutenant seemed disgusted by the available options, and continued to lead us westward.

We covered another twelve miles on foot, constantly threatened by Soviet patrols, who would open fire without hesitation on even a single famished landser. After diving down some thirty times or more to avoid Russian salvos, we arrived at a Luftwaffe airfield, which had already been abandoned. We thought that the wooden buildings-which were like the ones we had occupied on the Don-might still contain some scraps of food. Carrying our four wounded men on improvised stretchers, we walked toward one of the huts, stumbling with exhaustion. But we never reached it: a scene of intense horror stopped six or seven of us.

We had just passed a bunker in which we noticed a body lying at the bottom. Two emaciated cats were eating one of its hands. I felt sick.

"Get out, you damned cats!" shouted my companion.

Everyone came over to look. The lieutenant, as sickened as I had been, threw a grenade. The two ghostly cats ran off into the countryside, while the explosion sent a column of more or less human debris straight up into the air, like a chimney.

"If the cats are eating stiffs," somebody said, "there couldn't be much left in the pantry."

There were still two bi-motors with Maltese crosses on their wings standing on the empty field-probably inoperable in some way. From the sky, we heard a disquieting sound, which was growing louder. We all turned our white faces the same way, suddenly realizing that we were standing beside two planes in the center of a vast, flat space, and could hardly fail to attract attention.

We scattered without waiting for any orders, flinging ourselves onto the ground, trying to escape those six black dots, which were already falling toward us like lightning. I thought immediately of the bunker where the cats had been feasting. Six others had the same idea, and although I ran as fast as I could, I arrived next to last beside the hole where four soldiers were already trampling on what was left of a human being.

I looked desperately into that crowded space, hoping that some miracle would make it larger. Two others were doing the same thing. Maybe we'd made a mistake; maybe the planes were really ours.... But that was impossible; the sound was unmistakable.

The noise grew louder and louder. We threw ourselves down, painfully aware of our absolute exposure. I held my head between my hands, and closed my eyes, trying to obliterate the muffled explosions which reached my partially blocked ears. I felt the fury of hell pass over me like a hurricane. The blows striking the earth shook every organ in my body, and I knew that I was going to die. Then the storm passed as quickly as it had come. I lifted my head to see the enemy formation break apart as it climbed higher into the pale blue sky. Here and there across the field, men were getting up and running for better cover. The Russian planes had regrouped and were turning as tightly as they could. Then they swooped down at us again. I felt a bitter presentiment freeze my blood. I began to run like a madman, with my legs flying, trying to force myself to go faster. But I knew that exhaustion had the upper hand, that I would never reach the road, with its ditch, which might shelter me. I kept stumbling over my heavy boots.

In desperation, and despite myself, I fell onto the wet grass, instinctively aware that the planes were on top of us again. The first explosions shook the ground, filling me with a frantic fear. I scratched at the ground like a rabbit whose last hope of escape is to bury itself. I could hear the earth being torn, and horrifying human shrieks. White flashes burned into my eyes through my clenched fists and eyelids. I lay there for two or three minutes, which seemed like an eternity.

When I finally looked up, the two bi-motors were burning like torches. The Russian planes were far off, turning back into formation for another attack. They had pulled up after this one in all directions. Once again I called on all my reserves of strength to get up and run, the other way this time, to the wooden buildings, which suddenly seemed to offer refuge. I had covered about a third of the distance when the Russian planes attacked, shooting rockets into the buildings, which disintegrated like matchwood. After a few moments of further terror, we could hear the engines of the planes fading into the distance. Everyone who was able stood up again. No one spoke. We stared at the flames, at the sky, at the reddening heaps of human remains. Our lieutenant, who seemed to have lost his sanity, although he was unhurt, was running from one wounded man to another.

"Shit," someone shouted. "Another attack like that, and there won't be anyone left. They've just left us here. We'll never get out. . . ."

"Shut up!" shouted the lieutenant, who was supporting a wounded man. "War is never a picnic."

Who did he think he was telling? We gathered around him. He lifted the shoulders of a poor fellow covered with mud and blood, who was laughing to split his sides. For a moment, I thought he was crying with pain, but he was in fact howling with laughter.

"Das ist der Philosoph," someone said.

I had never noticed the man before. His friend added that he had always believed he would return home unscathed. Three of us tried to lift him to his feet, but soon realized this was impossible. His bursts of laughter were interrupted by words which I understood perfectly, and thought about for a long time afterward, and which still trouble me. As I remember his laugh, there was nothing mad about it, it was more like the laugh of someone who has been the victim of a practical joke, a farce in which he had believed until suddenly he realized his folly. No one questioned the philosopher, but he himself, through his hilarity and his agony, tried to explain:

"Now I know why. . . . I know why. ... It's too simple.... It's idiotic. . . ."

Perhaps we would have learned what he meant, but a sudden surge of blood poured from his mouth, and ended his life. We dug graves for the new victims, and then stretched out, exhausted, on the bed of warm ashes that marked the site of the destroyed buildings.

At nightfall, we were wakened by the sound of guns, which seemed to be following us. By now we all felt desperately hungry and thirsty. Despite our rest, we had not recovered our strength, and we looked appalling. We stared at each other suspiciously, wondering if the next fellow didn't have a couple of biscuits hidden somewhere, forgetting the lessons of comradeship we had been taught in Poland. But apparently we were all cleaned out. If anyone had been hiding something, we could scarcely have reproached him, as we all might easily have done the same thing.

In the darkness, as we fled the curtain of flares which had pursued us since our retreat from the Don, we heard once again the sound of a moving column, and were once again filled with panic. The night was as black as pitch. A fine rain was falling. We followed the lieutenant: God knows where he was taking us. No one spoke. Our strength seemed barely adequate to move our legs, weighted by exhaustion and mud.

Finally the lieutenant spoke: "Maybe they'll go by without seeing us. Are any of you anti-tank gunners?"

Quickly, our solitary spandau was set up for a final effort of defense. Luckily, the exhaustion which made my temples throb under my leaden helmet prevented me from clearly grasping the seriousness of our situation. The simple fact that we had stopped walking presented my foundering body with a moment of relief which had to be used to the utmost. I knew that my fear would return with my breath, and that I would again be aware of everything that was happening.

The first black mass which came into view, with all its lights out, seemed to be some kind of light vehicle. We tried to see what it was, but the darkness was too thick. Then we heard tank treads, unmistakable and frightening, as those who have heard the sound on the front at night will appreciate.

As the noise grew louder, our panic increased. While some were trying to see where the tanks would come from, others-including myself-lay with their faces pressed into the ground. Two black shapes loomed against the sky some thirty meters away. Another, less than ten meters from us, made the earth shake, and every hair stand on end. Someone called out: "Die Maltakreuze, mein Gott! . . . Kameraden! Hilfe! Hilfe!"

For me, who spoke German so badly, and understood it even worse, this was a signal for everyone to save his skin. I jumped up and started to run. This, evidently, is what one should not do. Through the noise of the tanks, I could hear shouts and curses. The group had taken my action as a signal for general flight. Everyone had jumped up, and was running, shouting at the tanks-with the exception of the lieutenant and one or two more reflective, prudent soldiers. Later it occurred to me that even German tanks might have machine-gunned us, taking us for Russians. Also, they might have been Russian tanks.

However, we managed to make ourselves recognized, and were taken in by a detachment of the 25th Panzerdivision, commanded by General Guderian.

These men were extremely well-equipped, and had not been involved in our retreat. They put us wherever there was room, on the backs of the tanks, where the heat of the engine burned our buttocks. No one asked if we'd eaten, and it wasn't until hours later, under the rolling fire of the Russian artillery which was raking Kharkov, that we were served a hot, greasy soup, which we received like a benediction.

It was here that I first saw one of the enormous Tiger tanks and two or three Panthers. I also saw, a few hours later, the appalling avalanche of the famous Katushas, which poured hours of devastating fire on the German infantry advancing with appalling losses through the outlying district of Slaviansk-Kiniskov. Guderian's tanks took us right into Kharkov, where the Donets battles had already been in progress for more than a week. Once again, the Wehrmacht took the battered city, before losing it finally in September, after the failure of the Belgorod counter-offensive.

Dawn found us in the sand pits to the northwest of the city, where our group was gone over with a fine-toothed comb by the Kommandos responsible for sending men back to their original units. As they didn't know where most of these units were, the best they could do was to form the strays into new groups, which everyone wished to avoid. These new units, with no official affiliation or assignments, simply sapped the actual strength of the army as recorded by military registration and on the maps at headquarters. The men assigned to these varied and un-measurable groups could not be fitted into any logical organization. Already classified as missing or dead by their original units, they were officially considered dead, and used as unexpected reinforcements whom there was no reason to spare. Long lines of soldiers, sitting, lying down, asleep and awake, were waiting for orders which would somehow fit them into the battle.