Forgotten Soldier (55 page)

Hals, who was as tight as a drum, burst out laughing and shouted: "Here come the Franzosen to the rescue: Ourrah pobieda!"

Then something disagreeable happened. Lensen stood up, stiff with drunkenness.

"Who the hell is talking about the Franzosen? What can anyone expect from a bunch of lousy milquetoasts like that?"

He was shouting at Hals, who was dancing heavily, like a bear. Hals grabbed him by the arm, and tried to pull him into a waltz.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Lensen yelled. "Go stick your head in the snow instead of belching out such crap."

Hals, who was almost a head taller, went right on dancing. Then Lensen let him have it with his fists, shouting at him louder than his minuscule superiority of rank gave him any right to do.

"Stillgestanden, gefreiter!" he yelled.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Are you telling me to shut up?" Hals was trying to stare at Lensen through eyes clouded by drink. "Stillgestanden!" Lensen repeated. "Or I'll give you something you won't like."

"But you're forgetting Sajer!" Hals shouted, waving at me. By now he was purple-faced too.

"He's half French, and he's lived in France all his life. And anyway the French are with us now."

He'd obviously been reading the same stories I had.

"You damned fool. Where the hell did you get that?"

"But it's true!" someone else shouted.

"I read it in Ost Front."

I no longer knew which way to look.

"Wake up, you dummkopf. So what if a handful of those milksops have come over to us? It doesn't mean a  damn thing. And anyone who thinks anything different is no better than they are-goddamned black-haired guitarists whining over their goddamned love gongs."

I knew that Lensen was talking about the fundamental discord which has always existed between South Germany and Prussia.

"You're forgetting, Lensen, that my mother grew up just outside Berlin," I said.

"Well, then, you've got to choose. Either you're German like us, or you're one of those worthless, feckless Frogs."

I was on the point of saying that after all I didn't really have much choice.

"And you were asked to make just that choice in Poland, even at Chemnitz. I remember. I was there."

"But he did choose!" Hals shouted. "And here he is, in the same boat as you and me and all the rest of us."

"So-he doesn't have any more goddamn connection with the French."

Lensen, who was unquestionably brave, had been awarded the Iron Cross after destroying his seventh tank.

I suddenly felt overwhelmingly depressed and vulnerable, and incapable of ever attaining anything like Lensen's record. As always, I found the war almost totally paralyzing-probably because of my soft French blood, which Lensen despised so much. I was really almost as bad as Lindberg. He wasn't a true German either, but came from somewhere near Lake Constance-one of Lensen's typical "black-hairs."

A joyous group had begun to sing "Marienka," and general drunken revelry took over again. This time, though, I stayed on the sidelines, sunk in thought. All the pride I had felt when I had sworn my oath at Camp F, all my joy in feeling that at last I was the equal of my companions, for whom I felt an unquestioning respect, all the struggles and miseries undertaken and endured with the burning faith of a true believer-all of these had been once again cast into doubt by Lensen's drunken outburst. I had always sensed a certain scorn on his part. However, once in Poland he had come to my defense, and I had jumped to the conclusion that he held nothing against me on account of my origins. Now I knew the truth. Despite all my efforts, and all the suffering we bad been through together, my comrades rejected me. Would they ever think me worthy of bearing German arms? Inwardly, I cursed my parents for having brought me into the world at their particular crossroads.

I felt angry and sad and incredibly alone. I knew that I could count on Hals and Wiener and maybe a few others; but even they had started drinking and singing again, beside their blood brothers.

I would never again be able to sing with a light, casual spirit those German songs I enjoyed so much. And someday, maybe very soon, I might die, in a position not much better than that of an adoring black slave at his master's side. This vision of things was unbearable, and increased the nausea brought on by alcohol. I went outside to vomit and take a few breaths of icy air. My drunkenness prevented any further thought, and when I returned to the hut, I collapsed onto a heap of packs, to scratch at the lice biting me under my belt.

The next morning, the Russian front began to move again. First they sent over a few rounds of artillery. They had been keeping us in a state of expectation for several days now, undoubtedly preparing a definitive offensive with the slowness characteristic of their organization. During the day, we were reinforced by an artillery column which meant digging new trenches, and blistered hands for all of us. All along the front, our troops were ordered to break up the Russian positions.

That afternoon, we pounded the enemy with our big guns. They remained obstinately quiet. As soon as it was dark, certain sections loaded with ammunition left our trenches and advanced across the snowy ground. We had resumed our push to the east.

Scheisse! In a state of considerable apprehension, these groups fell on a motorized Soviet regiment, whose mass of vehicles seemed immobilized for all eternity. The night stillness was broken by the sound of our F.M.s and grenades, the cries of the Russians, surprised by this sudden and unexpected display of aggressiveness, and the roar of incendiary bombs, which must have consumed a costly quantity of materiel.

Then our men made a half turn, before the Russians were able to muster an organized reaction, and ran back to our trenches, bathed in transitory glory.

We had, in fact, aroused the anger of the Russians, who decided to retaliate as soon as it was light.

As at Belgorod, the whole horizon burst into flame, with the sudden, total involvement of the opening bars of a Wagner opera. Our frantic dash to our positions assumed a tragic quality, as the rain of fire was so dense that a quarter of our men fell before they'd reached the line. Then, we relived scenes and experiences very like what we'd known before. The sight of comrades screaming and writhing through final moments of agony had become no more bearable with familiarity, and I, despite my longing to live or die a worthy hero of the Wehrmacht, was no less of an animal stiff with uncontrollable terror.

Fortunately for us, the Luftwaffe, on which we could no longer rely, made an unexpected appearance, and somewhat reduced the force of the Russian blow. But the next day this intervention was answered in kind, and Russian planes did what they could to knock out our artillery. As a result, our artillery was withdrawn during the night, leaving us to do the honors unsupported.

We held our positions for four more terrible days, in spite of continuous infantry attacks supported by armor. Whenever possible, we buried our dead in the holes where they fell. Eighty-three names were scratched off the company list-among these, Olensheim, who had re covered from a serious wound at Belgorod, to receive his coup-de grace here, on the west bank of the Dnieper, where tranquility was to have been assured.

The Russians had finally regrouped for their supreme effort, and were delaying only to complete last-minute preparations. Their artillery, which seemed to be growing stronger by the hour, pounded our positions and the countryside for a long way back. The veteran had just been wounded, and was waiting, along with some hundred other men, for evacuation to a hospital, or at least to a quieter zone in the rear. A brusque sergeant had taken Wiener's place, and I continued to feed ammunition into the spandau, operated by someone considerably less expert than my friend.

The night which followed was so horrible that I retain only a confused and fragmented memory of it. Fresh supplies of ammunition were often slung into a length of canvas and carried across the trenches by two or four fellows.

The "night" of which I speak was, of course, total by five in the evening. Time in Russia is like that: in the summer there is almost no night, and in the winter, no day.

We had just withstood two or three major assaults. From the screams of anguish to our left, we concluded that a great many of our men had been killed. We had emptied five magazines, and were warming our fingers on the hot metal of the machine gun. Our sixth and last magazine had been attached, and we were anxiously waiting for fresh supplies. The night was continuously lit by the explosions of thousands of Russian shells, which made movement extremely difficult. Our trenches, which in any case were not deep enough, extended only to certain positions. The others had to be reached by leaps and bounds, alternating with plunges to the ground, and writhing on our stomachs across dozens of yards of snow mixed with chunks of frozen earth.

From time to time, we could see four figures moving toward us, jumping from crater to crater, carrying shells for our 50-mm. mortar, and magazines for the spandau. They were still about forty yards away, when their shadowy mass was surrounded by a flash of white light. We never heard any cries. A few minutes later, I was sent out to crawl to the point of impact. The sergeant ordered me to bring back at least two magazines. I had just arrived at my destination when I heard the Russian assault cry, followed by a shower of grenades and mortar shells. The ground shook beneath me in a manner which defied all prediction. I felt like a pea inside a ferociously beaten drum. I was lying flat on the ground among the bodies of comrades killed only a few minutes before, unable to see any of the supplies I'd been sent to fetch. Then I heard the sound of a tank. The darkness all around me was broken by streaks of light and large pink and yellow explosions. In a momentary beam from some headlight, I could see a small sign marked S. 157. I opened my mouth wide, as prescribed, because I could hardly breathe, and lay where I was, frantically groping for something to hang on to in that diabolical setting, where horizontal and vertical alternated to the rhythm of the lights which slashed the darkness. I thought that I could recognize through the uproar the crackle of the weapon I had operated with Wiener and had left only a moment before, and felt that my sanity might be close to collapse. I could see no escape from my situation, and lay glued to the ground with my head down, like a trussed animal, waiting for the butcher's axe.

A hundred yards to my left, the Pak, with its barrel marked for eleven kills, was fleeing into the striped darkness with its ammunition and gun crew. I heard the terrifying roar of a tank rising above the general tumult, and a headlight wavered and leaped through the undulating darkness. It had obviously driven through our defenses and was now passing within twenty yards of where I lay. I saw it suddenly burst into flame, and despite the intense cold a wave of hot air almost asphyxiated me. Half unconscious, I could hear the trample of running feet all around me, and, despite the noise of guns and explosions, cries which sounded more like curses than anything else, and were certainly neither French nor German.

I thought I could distinguish three or four pairs of boots thumping past me. Everything happened so quickly at that moment that I am no longer sure of what in fact I did see. I could still hear the sound of a machine gun, and then there were hundreds of shouting voices. The tank exploded a second time, showering steel fragments all around me. Some of our soldiers must still have been firing.

Then there was a period of relative calm, which lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. Exhausted by nervous tension, I managed to pull myself out of my torpor enough to take a few steps toward the position I had left twenty minutes earlier. But nothing remained of it except smoke and motionless bodies. Furthermore, the entire sector, as far as I could see, was veiled in smoke. I turned back again, heading for our rear lines, and, too late to stop myself, tripped over a corpse. I realized that I had no weapon, and grabbed the dead man's gun, which was lying beside him. Then I began to run.

I heard four or five shots. The whistling flight of the balls made me think of hell. I knew that I might faint at any moment, and between two spasms of nausea fell into a hole where three fellows in roughly the same state as myself were staring fixedly at the dark, somber east. Literally crumpled into the bottom of the hole, I attempted to order my thoughts. My retina still bore the imprint of a thousand darting, luminous points, which prolonged my sense of vertigo.

For a long moment, I stayed where I was, wondering where to head for next. Then I heard the other fellows in the hole exclaiming with astonishment. Far to the south, the earth seemed to have caught on fire, and the sky rang with the sound of thunder.

Twenty miles to the south, the second Dnieper front had given way in the face of irresistible Russian pressure, and thousands of German and Rumanian soldiers met an apocalyptic end. Some twenty regiments had been unable to disengage in time, and had laid down their arms, to be rewarded for their bravery by captivity and degradation. For the rest of us, the war continued. In a rush, I decided to leave the hole which had received me a few moments before. Doubled over, I ran like a madman to another defensive position, where a group of soldiers were clustered around a motionless figure who was being bandaged. A fellow I didn't recognize hailed me by name: "Where've you come from, Sajer?"

My head was still pounding to the rhythm of the bombardment. I stared at him.

"I don't know. . . . I don't know any more. . . . Everyone back there is dead.... I ran away, through all the Russians."

Behind us, we could hear the roar of an engine. A tractor was pulling a heavy anti-tank gun into position. Then we heard the burst of the exhaust a moment before each shell exploded. Our overwhelming weariness was now affecting us like a drug. Russian shells were coming over in profusion. For a moment, we watched the storm closing in. Then, with a cry of despair and a prayer for mercy, we dived to the bottom of our hole, trembling as the earth shook and the intensity of our fear grew. The shocks, whose center seemed closer each time, were of an extraordinary violence. Torrents of snow and frozen earth poured down on us. A white flash, accompanied by an extraordinary displacement of air, and an intensity of noise which deafened us, lifted the edge of the trench. None of us immediately grasped what had happened. We were thrown in a heap against the far wall of the hole, wounded and intact together. Then, with a roar, the earth poured in and covered us.