Zorn was cleaning his rifle, Schiller was sharpening his bayonet on a piece of sharp stone and Kahn was wiping the blade of his sword with a damp cloth.
“Where did you get this?”
The voice startled Herzog and he spun round to find Synovski sitting beside him, the Iron Cross held between his fingers. It must have slid from the top pocket when he dropped the jacket. He took the medal from the Pole and slipped it back into his pocket.
“I was curious,” repeated the Pole.
Herzog nodded. “Does it really matter?” he asked wearily.
“Why don’t you wear it?” asked Synovski, puzzled.
Herzog rubbed his bristled cheeks and stared into the eyes of the Pole. “I’m not proud of it,” he said, softly. “I didn’t ask them to give it to me.”
Synovski swept a hand through his red hair; he was smiling. “Some men die for those fucking things, yet you have one and won’t wear it.”
Herzog sighed wearily. “Have you ever heard of a town in France called St Sarall?” The pole shook his head and the former sergeant continued, “It used to have a population of over four hundred, now it doesn’t exist any more, all the people are dead.” The other men could hear his voice beginning to crack slightly. “I helped to murder them.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Iron Cross, brandishing it for the men to see. “And my reward for doing that was this piece of fucking metal. A piece of metal for four hundred lives.” With a final groan of despair he threw the medal to the floor.
The bunker was silent.
Herzog breathed deeply, he felt drained.
Synovski bent and picked up the Iron Cross, handing it to him. Herzog took the medal, studied it for a moment, then slid it back into his pocket. Schiller placed an arm around his shoulder and said quietly, “We need a few more like you, my friend.”
The Pole grunted, “So that’s why you’re here?” He paused for a moment. “So now what do you do? Carry that in your pocket for the rest of your life?”
Herzog grinned and patted his pocket. “I’ll wear it when I think I deserve it. No sooner and no one is going to make me change my mind.”
He took a draft from the bottle of vodka which Schiller offered him and turned to Synovski. “You ask me why I’m here. What is a Pole doing in the Germany army?”
Synovski considered the palms of his hands for a moment, then sighed softly. “In 1939 I fought for the Polish army against the Germans. I was captured and offered a choice. Fight for Germany or be a slave to the S.S.” He shrugged. “I chose to fight. But I don’t give a damn who wins this stinking war, all I care about is my country. Poland.”
Schiller clapped sarcastically. “Very gallant, but what the fuck do you think old Adolf is going to do for Poland when this lot is over, eh? He doesn’t give a fuck about anybody but the bloody master race. The only ones who’ll come out of this war are the S.S., the Führer’s personal arse-lickers.” He snapped his heels together and shot his arm out in a Nazi salute. “Sieg fucking Heil.”
Schiller suggested a game of cards but no one seemed interested. Vogel hobbled in from the trench and stumbled across to his bed.
“Hey, Vogel,” called Schiller, “fancy a game? You can have credit.”
“Stick your credit up your arse,” said Vogel, rummaging in his pack. “I’ve got important things to do.” He stretched out on his bed, his prized new possession in his hands. It was the latest pornographic magazine. Driest asked him where he’d got it.
“From one of the medical orderlies, I swopped it for some fags.”
“You must be mad,” gasped Schiller, incredulously.
“Oh yeah?” said Vogel. “Well you come and take a look at the cunt on this bint.” He held up the book for all to see and a ripple of appreciation ran around the dugout. “That’s better than a fag anytime.”
Schiller laughed. “Is it hell. You can’t smoke a cunt.”
“Vogel could,” said Ganz and the men began to laugh. From behind the magazine, the others could hear the low murmurs of lecherous enjoyment as Vogel thumbed eagerly through the pages. Zorn asked if he could borrow it when Vogel had finished.
“Fuck off. The last one you gave me back had the pages stuck together,” he was told.
Vogel continued mumbling and drooling over the magazine for the next two hours.
Outside, the sun had risen high in the sky, driving away the dark clouds and many looked up at it wondering if it would be the last time they would see it.
Zorn finished cleaning the Mauser rifle and carefully began the same task on his P-38. He loved his weapons, all weapons, to be more correct. They fascinated him and he prided himself on his ability to recognise any weapon currently in use on the Eastern Front, by either German or Russian. He was a good shot, had been before he joined up. His father had taught him. But what he had not learnt as a youth was the exhilaration of shooting a man. That was something he had acquired. He jammed a fresh magazine into the butt of the P-38 and slid it back into the holster on his belt.
The field telephone rang and Ganz answered.
“Herzog,” he said, “you’ve to go to the command bunker immediately.” The former sergeant nodded and got to his feet. Synovski patted his shoulder as he passed.
What struck Herzog as he stepped out into the trench and made his way up the slope towards the command bunker was the peacefulness of the scene. The sun sparkled on pools of dirty water which had collected in shell-craters. It was warm, and the only sound to be heard was the hammering of nails into wood as a group of engineers constructed a small stockade halfway up the slope. A 75mm gun was being wheeled into it along with a couple of machine-guns. He walked past the stockade until he reached the edge of the small wood which masked the approaches to the bunker. Through this wood ran a small path led right to the bottom of the rearward slope where the bunker lay. He paused at the edge and looked across at the Russian positions. There was no sound and not a sign of movement. Perhaps, thought the former sergeant, they had all had enough of the war and gone home. He smiled to himself and took off his forage-cap, wiping his forehead with it. The sun was warm and there was no breeze to break up the heat.
Nestling on the edge of the wood was an anti-aircraft position, the three 20mm guns mounted on a half-track. One of the crew waved happily to the former sergeant as he passed. Herzog smiled and continued on into the wood. It was cool in comparison to the heat of the sun and he inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of damp earth and moss. The well worn path was strewn with lumps of dry twig and these snapped loudly as he walked across them. There was a bird singing in one of the treetops and this final touch seemed to give the scene an idyllic tranquillity quite alien to the rest of the landscape.
Through a small copse, Herzog could see a burial party hard at work, tumbling shattered, half rotten bodies into a deep hole.
He reached the end of the path and emerged out of the wood on the reverse slope. Here the land fell away sharply and when it levelled out was flat for as far as the eye could see. Just once vast ocean of grass and mud, zigzagged by the occasional road, it looked like a badly assembled jigsaw.
The command bunker had been built into the side of the hill so that only a narrow doorway separated it from the outside world. This door was heavily blockaded with sandbags and the former sergeant found it a squeeze to get through.
It was like stepping from day into night. The gloom within the command bunker was so thick as to be almost palpable. Herzog blinked hard and rubbed his eyes before coming smartly to attention. He could see that there were three people inside and he recognised one of them as Foss.