Moller giggled.
“We’d better look round,” said Herzog. “You,” he pointed to the engineer, “and Moller check the house. Zorn, you and Faber look in the buildings, Vogel and I will have a look around the yard.”
The men split up and began their search. Moller and the engineer ran across the yard and broke down the door of the farmhouse. They both clattered in making enough noise to wake the dead. Herzog shook his head, been all the same if the place had been booby-trapped, he thought. Vogel began searching through a wooden cart which stood outside the barn. Finding nothing, he jumped down and scurried across to the pig-pen. All that it contained was one dead piglet.
“Perhaps they took everything with them when they went,” he wondered. Herzog didn’t answer.
Zorn kicked open the door of the cattle-shed and edged in, machine-gun levelled.
Nothing.
Just the smell of cows and straw. He checked each stall, kicking at the straw beds, not even sure what he was looking for.
Moller was delighted to find a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese on the table in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Ignoring the green mould on the cheese he hastily gobbled it down, anxious to finish before the engineer decided to join him. He stuffed the bread into his pocket and walked on into the next room. The door was ajar but, beyond it, Moller could see that the room was in darkness. He motioned to the engineer to be still and levelled his sub-gun. Then, with a powerful swing of his boot, he sent the door creashing back on its hinges. Light flooded into the room and the German saw that it was occupied.
Lying on the rough wooden bed, pushed up one corner of the room, was the body of a woman. Moller guessed that she was in her forties, but it was hard to tell. She had been shot in the back of the head, the splashes of blood and grey brain matter on the wall indicating that it had been done as she lay there. Her hands were tied behind her back.
“Get the corporal,” said Moller, keeping his eyes on the corpse. The engineer disappeared, returning a moment later with Herzog. He looked at the body and shook his head. Lying under the bed was an empty cartridge-case. The corporal knelt, picked it up and walked out. He called Zorn over and showed him the cartridge-case. He studied it for a second, then handed it back.
“It’s from a Luger,” he said.
Herzog looked up for a moment and saw Faber entering the barn. The corporal dropped the case into his pocket and went back into the house. He had barely set foot across the threshold when a single shot rang out. He spun round to see Faber staggering from the barn, blood jetting from a large hole in his forehead. He swayed for a moment then collapsed.
The men ducked down.
Zorn sprinted across to the barn, pressing himself against the wall until he reached the door them he stepped into the gap, the barrel of the MP 40 spitting flame. There was silence for a second them the men heard an unmistakable sound.
The noise of a child crying.
Cautiously, they crept out from behind cover, eyes fixed on Zorn as he stood, splay-legged in the barn doorway. Herzog was the first to join him. He looked into the barn and what he saw made him feel sick.
Slumped over a sack of grain was a boy who the sergeant took to be sixteen or seventeen. Blood was pumping from three wounds in his chest and, in his right hand, he held a rifle.
That was what he had shot Faber with.
Beside him were two other children. A girl aged a little more than fifteen and a boy of ten. The girl was holding the boy, tears welling up in her large brown eyes. She watched, bewildered, as Herzog walked across to her, his hand extended. She gripped her brother tighter and tried to melt into the wall. Tears poured even more violently down her cheeks.
She was a big girl for her age, dressed in a simple yellow dress, probably that she had made herself, or with her mother’s help. It was her mother who lay in the house with most of her head blown off.
Herzog knelt beside the children and closed his arms around them. Zorn and Vogel stood transfixed until the corporal turned his head. “Signal the others,” he said, “tell them it’s safe.”
The two men stood for a second, watching, but then turned and walked off to obey the order. Herzog picked up the dead boy and carried it into the courtyard, laying it beside the cart. Then he went back into the barn to fetch the other two children. Moller listened for a moment, certain that along with the sound of the child’s sobs he could hear a lower, guttural sound of anguish.
He realised that it was Herzog and walked quietly away.
Chapter Nineteen
The change which the farm underwent was startling. An hour ago it had been quiet, apparently deserted, now it was a hive of activity. A score of tents were set up in the yard and men were taking the opportunity to rest and catch up on some of life’s more important matters like playing cards and eating. The bodies of the boy and Faber were buried side by side behind the barn.
The whole place had now been thoroughly searched and Captain Ritter had given orders that they should camp there the night. Rations were shared out and anything that could be found lying about was made use of. Vogel and Schiller found that one of the fields had been planted with carrots and potatoes. Those that they couldn’t eat they stuffed into their packs for the future.
Now they sat around playing cards and eating, not even thinking that there was a war on.
“I tell you,” said Schiller, laying down his cards, “there’s nothing to beat a good feed.”
“Yes there is,” Vogel corrected him.
“What is it?”
“A good fuck.”
Schiller shrugged. “That depends where you are, doesn’t it, I mean, if you were in the middle of the desert with nothing to eat or drink and two wagons rolled up, one with food and the other with crumpet, which one would you get in?”
Vogel scratched his groin and looked thoughtful. “The one with the crumpet,” he finally decided.
Schiller shook his head. “No good.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I mean to say, if you hadn’t had anything to eat for a few days, you wouldn’t have the strength to get it up.” He smiled. “What use is a lorry-load of crumpet if you can’t even get a hard on?”
Vogel nodded and stuffed a whole potato into his mouth.
Driest picked at his food like a sparrow. “Fancy staying here the night,” he muttered, “if the Russians catch up we’re sitting ducks.”
“The Russians are miles behind,” said Schiller.
“They’re in front of us too, you know. They’ve probably already reached the fucking bridge and they’re sitting waiting for us to roll up so they can finish us off for good.” He gave up his potatoes and returned to biting his nails.
“Well, at least old Gustavus is happy now,” Schiller said, reflectively, “I mean, he’s gone up there to meet the Governor.”
Moller laughed.
“Mine, bad way to die,” said Kahn.
“Is there a good way?” muttered Driest.
“With mine, you not see what hit you.”
“And that’s just the way I want it,” said Schiller, “if I get killed, which I doubt, I hope it’s quick.”
“What makes you think you’ll survive?” Driest demanded. “I doubt if any of us will get out of this shit so why are you so fucking special?”
“My dear Driest,” said Schiller, assuming a haughty pose, “it’s all a matter of luck whether a man gets killed or not and I am a lucky man.” He let rip with a loud fart, a suitable full stop to the sentence. Moller laughed again. Kahn pulled out a bottle of vodka from his pack, took out the cork with his teeth and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bottle to Zorn who accepted it gratefully.