“Fuck it,” growled Herzog, shifting his gaze back up the hill to the wood which was now almost completely aflame. Trees crashed down, sending out great blistering showers of sparks. Soldiers were crushed beneath burning tree-trunks and fried. Foss finally gave the order to withdraw and the section sprinted through the blazing inferno, shielding their faces from the tongues of flame which licked hungrily at them. Kahn’s uniform caught fire but the Jap quickly threw himself to the ground and doused the flames. He was helped to his feet and the men ran on, not daring to look behind. Through the hell of burning trees, a number of T-34s were trying to follow, crushing the wood flat and ignoring the heat.
“Jesus,” gasped Vogel, “how much further?” Blinded by smoke and flame the men could feel their skin blistering. Then, as if they reached another world, they came to the edge of the wood and tumbled gratefully to the bottom of the hill where Herzog and the others were waiting.
“Get the men together,” called Foss and a quick headcount revealed that there were seventy-eight of them.
“We’d better clear out before the bloody Russians come looking for us,” he told them. Over the hill, the sound of sporadic gunfire could still be heard and smoke was flooding the sky. Two medics had somehow become entangled with the desperate flight and they were administering to the wounded. Vogel stood alone, hands pressed to his ears, weeping quietly. He had reached that stage which all men under stress eventually reach, he could take no more. Schiller placed a protective arm around his shoulder and spoke something into his ear. Vogel nodded and stumbled into line along with the rest of his companions. Zorn took over the field radio while Ganz received treatment for a badly cut arm.
“Try and get through to headquarters,” instructed Foss. Zorn fiddled with the knobs, trying to pick up something more than the insistant whine of static. Foss and Herzog stood by, watching for some sign of success. At last, Zorn shook his head.
Foss sighed. “Try again later.”
Zorn switched off the set and took his place in the column. They moved off at the double.
“What the fuck do we do when we reach the station?” Schiller wanted to know.
“Get on train, ride back to Germany,” laughed Kahn.
“This is no time for humour, you slant-eyed bastard.”
Kahn grinned and prodded Schiller in the back with his sword. Driest was sweating profusely. “If the Russians send planes over now, we’ve had it,” he said, nervously.
“It’s being so cheerful that keeps you going, isn’t it?” snarled Schiller. “Stop thinking about the fucking Russians and concentrate on running.”
“Stop thinking about them,” babbled Driest, “there’s thousands of the bastards over that hill and you say stop worrying.” He spat into a puddle.
The untidy column finally reached the road and marched briskly towards the railhead. Ahead of them they could see large numbers of troops, all heading in the same direction. Herzog shook his head as he watched the milling throng. “Nothing like giving the enemy something to aim at,” he muttered.
They passed a burnt-out Krupp, the body of the driver slumped out of the cab.
A hundred yards from the railhead, a field hospital had been set up and row upon row of walking wounded were trailing past a large tent. Four hard-pressed medics attended to the wounds as best they could but the more seriously wounded were left where they fell.
Herzog and the others crossed the railway tracks and set up camp. They spread their groundsheets beneath them and sat around in a circle, rummaging about for something to eat, quite unperturbed by the commotion going on around them. Men dashed frantically to and fro, some searching for their units, others trying to find the quickest way of escaping. A train was standing at one of the platforms, steam hissing slowly from it and men were frantically trying to climb aboard, despite the shouts of their officers. Many hauled themselves up onto the roofs of the carriages when the cars themselves became too crowded. The scene at the railhead was one of blind panic and nothing could check it.
Driest got to his feet and pointed to the train as it slowly pulled away, straining under its heavy load. “Why the hell aren’t we on that?” he demanded.
Foss chewed thoughtfully on a piece of sausage and watched the train. He wished he knew the answer. Driest repeated the question, growing more impatient.
“For Christ’s sake sit down and shut up,” snapped Schiller.
“Fuck off,” snarled Driest, quivering with rage, “I want to know why every other bastard is getting out of here and we sit waiting for the Russians to arrive and wipe us out.” He glared at Foss who continued to chew on the sausage.
The voice which gave him the answer came from behind him.
“The others have gone because I ordered them too go.”
Driest turned round to see Captain Ritter standing there. The officer was swaying backwards and forwards on his heels.
“Someone must act as a rearguard against the Russians,” he explained calmly, “you and the rest of the men under my command.”
“Your command,” said Foss, “What about General Thurlinger?”
Ritter smiled. “The general left soon after the Russians began their attack, he told me to take command, he knew the extent of my abilities. I wish to see all section commanders in there,” he pointed to the ticket-office, “immediately.” With that, he turned and walked away.
Herzog thumped the ground in frustration. “That’s all we need,” he growled, “a death-or-glory boy in charge of us.” He got to his feet and handed the bottle of vodka back to Vogel who finished scratching his groin and took a swig. He smacked his lips and grinned up at Herzog. “Go on, section leader Hertzog, go and get your orders.”
The corporal aimed a playful kick at him.
“Come on,” grumbled Foss, “let’s see what the bastard wants.”
Chapter Seventeen
Herzog and Foss shot anxious glances at the sky as a plane swept over high above them. They watched its vapour trail arrow through the clouds away from them. The two sentries at the door of the disused ticket-office saluted as the N.C.O.s passed them. Herzog grinned broadly and returned the salute.
“What the hell is so amusing?” asked Foss.
Herzog shrugged. “It’s a long time since someone saluted me,” he explained. “I like the feeling.”
Foss shook his head and pushed open the door for his companion. They found the room already occupied.
Herzog recognised Sergeant Lenz from number three section and Sergeant Althus, accompanied by his vicious cohort, Corporal Von Roder. The three men looked round and grunted a semblance of greeting to the newcomers.
“Up to our ears in shit again eh, Foss?” said Lenz.
“You all know Corporal Herzog,” said Foss, gesturing towards his companion. The men nodded. Von Roder scratched his chest and studied the corporal, his little eyes sparkling malevolently.
“It’s a bit different from fighting the British, isn’t it?” he said, sneering.
Herzog shrugged. “Not really. You can get your head blown off in France same as you can here. If a man is going to die what difference does it make who kills him?”
Von Roder pulled out his combat knife and began picking his teeth with it. “But at least it’s warm in France, here it’s cold enough to freeze your balls off.”
“That shouldn’t bother you then,” said Herzog, grinning.
Von Roder glared at him from beneath a low forehead and felt himself turning red. The men were still laughing when Ritter walked in. He saluted and waited for the men to stand up, which they promptly did, Lenz wincing from the pain in his right knee. A stray bullet had cracked it hours earlier.