“Dead,” announced Wimmer. He reached for the cut-glass decanter and refilled his glass, watching as the tiny air bubbles rose to the surface of the liquid, waiting until they disappeared before he took a sip of the alcohol. Kernel turned to him with a questioning stare and pointed with a shaking hand to the parade-ground.
“There are only eleven of them,” he said.
“I told you,” repeated Wimmer, impatiently, “the others are dead.”
“What will happen to their medals?”
“They will be sent to the families, they will be told how their loved ones died fighting for the Führer.” He smiled thinly.
“Painlessly,” muttered Kemel.
Wimmer frowned. “What did you say?”
“I said painlessly. On the postcards, it always says that the men died quickly or painlessly in the name of the Führer.” Wimmer nodded and crossed to the window. “They’re filthy,” he muttered, “we have scum fighting for us now.” He glanced across at the section of Hitler Youth. “Scum and children.”
“What does it matter as long as they’re able to fight?”
Wimmer turned away from the window. “Come now, Kemel, it isn’t only a matter of fighting ability, the appearance of a soldier is important. A slovenly appearance means a slovenly attitude, no attention to discipline.”
“One fights wars on battlefields, not on parade-grounds.”
Wimmer sneered and drained his glass. “Come on, let’s get it over with.”
Kemel nodded and finished what was left in his glass. He picked up his peaked cap and held it up, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the peak, squinting at the tired visage reflected in the sparkling leather. He quickly composed himself before the full-length mirror then followed Wimmer out.
Herzog was the first to see the two generals. They appeared in a blaze of medals and shining leather. The sergeant could see that the leading man had a small wooden box under his arm. The men drew themselves to attention, ignoring the rain which coursed down their faces like tears. Wimmer quickened his pace and Kemel struggled to keep up with him. Both were anxious to return to the warmth of the office. Wimmer sighed this was one of the drawbacks of being Divisional Commander. Kemel caught up with him and struggled to keep in step. His leg was throbbing.
The two generals paused a yard or two from the line of men and Herzog saw Wimmer wrinkle his nose as he cast a disapproving glance over the men. Pompous bastard, thought the sergeant, another one who’s never seen a uniform unless its in the barracks. He guessed that the general must have been in his early forties and he carried the affected sneer which seemed, to Herzog, to epitomise Wehrmacht officers.
As the men watched, Wimmer flipped open the box, revealing two neat rows of sparkling medals. Rain splashed onto the thick, blood-red velvet lining of the box. Herzog bit his lip.
The Iron Cross.
Wimmer and Kernel stood still, the rain bouncing off their leather coats. What the hell were they waiting for? No one moved. It was like a play where the actors had all forgotten their lines. Then they all heard it, the steady crash of steel-shod boots, coming from the barracks. It grew steadily into a climax. Herzog afforded himself a fleeting glance out of his eye corner and he saw the first trickle of what rapidly became a torrent. Long lines of German troops, led by shouting officers, marched swiftly into the parade ground and formed up in lines, company strength. There looked as though there must have been nearly five hundred of them, all arrayed in arrow-straight lines facing the sergeant and his bewildered men. As one man, the troops saluted. Old men, youths, the final desperate dregs of the master race. They stood still in the driving rain. An order was snapped out and the first rumblings began, not very musical but adequate for the occasion.
“Deutschland, Deutschland, Über Alles, über alles…”
The five hundred rain-sodden men tried to raise their voices as Wimmer stepped forward, taking one of the medals from the box. He pinned it on Erhardt’s chest and saluted, passing down the line. Fritz, salute. Steikel, salute. Until, finally, Herzog. The general looped the red, white and black ribbon through the sergeant’s second button-hole and stood back. The medal gleamed. Herzog felt his stomach contract. It was a feeling he had not known for a long time. Disgust.
The troops finished singing. The gesture was complete. Wimmer paused for a moment, as if he thought he should be saying something, but then he and Kernel turned and headed back towards the officer’s quarters. As the generals left, so did the watching troops. The square was empty again. Just Herzog and his men stood in the rain, silently like sentinels. The sergeant shook himself up and ordered his men into the waiting Krupp. The driver started the engine and the truck began to creep forward. Herzog swung himself up onto the tailboard and stood, for a moment, gazing out across the courtyard, then, without looking, he plucked the Iron Cross from his jacket and dropped it into his top pocket.
Chapter Eleven
Herzog found that, with his steel helmet on, it was practically impossible for anyone to see the bandages which covered his head. The doctor had told him that they could be removed in two or three days.
Two or three days. He sighed as he composed himself before the dirty mirror in the dugout. Two or three days. He frowned at the reflection, tucking a piece of gauze up out of sight. The wound was throbbing. The numbness gradually giving way to pain.
It had happened in some pissant little French town he didn’t even know the name of. The same blast that wounded him killed Steikel and Erhardt. Fritz had been burned alive in a ruined house nearly a week since. Herzog looked around the dugout at his ‘replacement’ troops. Fucking kids, all of them. He doubted if there was one over twenty. Herzog wondered where the next batch of recuits would come from.
The asylums perhaps?
He vaulted the low barbed-wire fence which covered the approaches to Sturn’s dugout, nodded to the sentry outside and walked in. The major was sitting over a map and the cigar was burning down which he held, getting dangerously near the knuckle.
Formalities over, Sturn told the sergeant to sit down. He watched as Herzog did so, removing his helmet and exposing the mass of bandages.
“How are you feeling?” asked Sturn.
Herzog shrugged. “Better.”
“What do you think of your new section?” asked Sturn, tapping his cigar against the edge of his desk so that the ash fell on the floor.
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Are you satisfied with it?”
“I have children to replace soldiers, do you expect me to be satisfied?”
There was an uncomfortable silence and Sturn threw the sergeant a malevolent glance.
“Your Iron Cross, sergeant,” said Sturn, “you are not wearing it. Where is it?”
“I have it,” answered Herzog, sharply.
“Why are you not wearing it?”
“Do you want my report, sir?”
“I asked you a question. Why aren’t you wearing it?”
“Do we have to discuss it again, sir?” said Herzog, tiredly.
Sturn stubbed out his cigar on a pile of papers. “There is nothing to discuss any more. You have the Iron Cross, you will wear it.”
Herzog made to stand up. “No sir, I will not.”
“Sit down,” shouted Sturn, his face darkening, “I have not finished.” Herzog sat. “You have been warned repeatedly, Herzog. You were told before you received the medal why it was being presented, the reason you and your men were used. Yet you still continue to obstruct the plan.”
“To hell with the plan,” bellowed Herzog, rising, “and to Hell with Germany.”
Sturn drew the Mauser pistol from his holster and pointed it at the sergeant. “Then you leave me no choice. You are under arrest.” He walked around and pulled the P-38 from Herzog’s belt, calling for the sentry as he did so. “I told you there was no room for principle in this army.” Herzog held his gaze impassively. The sentry entered the dugout, saluted, then stopped dead, puzzled by the scene before him. Sturn saw him staring.