Ritter crossed to the desk in the corner of the room and hurriedly unrolled the map he took from the pocket of his greatcoat. It was of Poland, the German positions traced thinly across it in black ink. Here and there, Herzog saw that large red crosses had been drawn along the line and he took these to be the places where the Russians had broken through. One of the crosses covered Turek.
No one spoke as Ritter drew two large arrows across the map and joined their heads at a place named Poznan. He ringed it and stood back.
“That is where the Russians are heading for,” he announced, authoritatively.
“How do you know, sir?” asked Althus.
Ritter tapped the map. “Because if they wanted to catch us in a pocket that would be the best way to do it.” He paused for a moment, watching the men’s faces. “I have been in touch with headquarters and they verified my suspicions. The Russians are trying to surround us.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “This part of the line has become a salient. The flanks have fallen back, some of them as far as forty miles.”
“And how far is it to Poznan?” Herzog asked.
“A little under eighty miles.”
“And the Russians have already pushed as far as forty? We’ll never reach the bloody place, it’s impossible,” said Foss.
Ritter narrowed his eyes in anger. “We must reach it. There is a bridge there which we have to cross, if the Russians reach it first we’ll be cut off.”
Herzog shook his head. “I agree with Foss, it’s impossible.”
Ritter brought his fist crashing down onto the map. “Nothing is impossible,” he bellowed, “nothing. We are German soldiers, the finest fighting force in the world, we will not allow ourselves to be beaten by these untermenschen.”
The men watched him in silence for a moment until he recovered his composure and refolded the map.
“We will leave within the hour. Speed is essential.” He looked at them. “That is all.”
The men saluted and filed out of the ticket-office. Pausing at the door, Foss took out a cigarette and lit it. Herzog found the remains of a chocolate bar in his pocket and began chewing on it.
“What do you think?” asked Herzog.
Foss shrugged and smiled bitterly. “I think we’re all marching to hell,” he said flatly. “You?”
“I think Ritter is off his fucking head,” said Herzog quietly.
Together, they walked back across the marshalling yard towards the waiting troops. Herzog looked down at his watch and then at the sky as two more planes swept over.
“It won’t be long now,” he said, softly.
PART IV
RETREAT
Chapter Eighteen
There were nearly eighty of them in the column.
All ages and beliefs but all with one aim. To reach the bridge at Poznan before the Russians. But now they rested, able for fleeting moments to enjoy the beauty of countryside so far untouched by the finger of war.
Kahn dipped his sword into the stream and swept it back and forth, carving through the ripples which bounced off the stones on the bed of the gurgling brook. Men sat by the stream and enjoyed the sight of the sun sparkling on the clear surface of the water. Schiller, Driest and Herzog had removed their boots and were dangling their feet in the water like children. Zorn was urinating up against a tree. The other men were stretched out on the grassy banks lapping up the warmth of the sun.
It was the first time they had stopped to rest since the retreat began, three days ago. Ritter had refused to let them stop until they had covered at least forty miles. As he said, the Russians were drawing nearer to the bridge as fast as they were and it was a race the Germans couldn’t afford to loose.
Synovski lit up a cigarette and leant back against a rock. He looked around him, behind at the wood which they had not long emerged from and forward, to the endless stretch of golden cornfields which sprawled before them like yellow ocean.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, smiling, “this country.”
Foss drew on his own cigarette and nodded agreeably; a slight breeze ruffled his hair and he inhaled deeply, taking down lungfuls of air for once not contaminated with the stench of blood and death. “When you see something like this,” he said wistfully, “it makes you wonder if perhaps there is a God.”
“Well if there is,” began the Pole, bitterly, “he’s kept himself well hidden these last five years.”
“He is there,” said Gustavus, quietly.
‘But whose side is he on?” Schiller wanted to know.
“Ours,” Kahn told him, holding up his buckle, “it says so here. God with us.” The men laughed.
“It should say God help us,” said Driest.
“We’re going to need someone’s help if we’re going to reach that bloody bridge in time,” said Vogel, picking a flea from the hairs on his chest. He squashed it between his thumb and forefinger.
“You not kill lice,” Kahn rebuked him, “save them.”
“What the fuck are we going to do with lice?” demanded Schiller.
Kahn smiled. “Eat them.”
Schiller felt his stomach contract as he watched the Jap pick one out of his hair and stuff it into his mouth. “You dirty slant-eyed bastard.”
“We maybe have to eat them one day if food run out.”
“Want to bet? I’d sooner starve.” He turned away muttering to himself. Kahn smiled gaily. Schiller took a piece of bread from his pack and began gnawing on it. It had been stale for a long time and was as hard as iron, but, as far as he was concerned, it was better than lice.
Herzog pulled on his boots and seated himself beside Foss and Synovski. He took a bar of chocolate from his jacket and broke off a square. It was the first thing he had eaten in two days. He looked round and saw Captain Ritter standing alone on a small hillock, scanning the horizon through a pair of binoculars.
“I wonder what the Prussian piss-artist is looking for now?” mumbled Schiller, still chewing on the stale loaf.
“We’ll find out in a minute,” said Herzog, “he’s coming down.”
With measured steps, the captain made his way across to the men, splashing through the stream until he reached the bank. The men nearby sat up expectantly.
“On your feet,” shouted Ritter, “we’re moving on.”
Muttering rebelliously, the Germans dragged themselves up and N.C.O.s formed them into some semblance of order.
“We will cross the cornfields,” Ritter announced.
Synovski sighed and looked down at the rolling plain of gold, the sun winking off it. He helped Zorn lift the heavy MG 42 and the two of them set off. The corn seemed to wave a greeting as they entered it and the smell it gave off reminded Herzog of bread.
“Spread out and keep quiet,” Ritter shouted.
The cornfield swallowed them up, closing behind the last man, only the slight rustle of its stalks testifying to the fact that they were even there. It was as if all of them had vanished from the face of the earth. The corn was well above head height and Herzog found that he could not see forward even by jumping up. The world was narrowed down to a few yards of tarnished golden cornstalks which crackled as he brushed through them. The earth underfoot was moist and spongy and stuck to the men’s boots as they walked. A mouse scurried away as Schiller’s heavy steps disturbed it; he kicked out at the little animal and nearly lost his footing. The air was damp and smelt fusty as they neared the centre of the field but the corn began to thin out slightly and, as they walked on, Herzog suddenly dropped to one knee, his eyes fixed on a patch of ground before him. Foss made his way across and looked down.
“What is it?” he asked.