Lookouts who had stood all night in the freezing wind tried to restore their circulation by jumping up and down. No one bothered trying to shave, few even bothered washing. Half eaten meals from the night before were hurriedly finished off.
Schiller took one of the potatoes from his pack and began munching on it as if it were an apple he had just picked. He brushed the excess dirt off on his tunic, then began his feast.
Vogel rubbed his groin and smiled. “I had a lovely dream,” he said. “I dreamt I was marooned on a desert island with a regiment of nymphomaniacs.”
“I dreamt that the war was over,” said Driest, yawning and stretching his arms.
“Now that is a dream,” said Schiller.
“All right,” shouted Foss, “on your feet, let’s go.”
Muttering mutinously, the men picked up their equipment and filed out into the yard, forming a line behind Foss. The children were standing between Synovski and Kahn. The Pole gently touched the girl’s head and she shivered a little in the cold breeze. The men snapped to attention as Captain Ritter emerged from the farmhouse. He saluted the waiting horde and crossed to Foss’s section.
“We cannot leave them here,” he said, pointing to the children, “and, as you know, we are forbidden to take prisoners.” He began pacing up and down, followed by the collective gaze of the men.
“So what do we do?” asked Foss.
Ritter answered without hesitation, “Shoot them.”
The men round about froze; Synovski gripped the boy’s hand but dared not look at him. The child looked up and smiled.
“Well,” repeated Ritter, “you heard what I said.” He looked at Herzog. “Shoot them.”
“You shoot them, sir,” said the corporal, quietly.
“I gave you an order, corporal, obey it.”
Synovski stepped forward, pushing the children before him. “I’ll do it, sir,” he said. Ritter smiled. “Very well.”
The Pole pulled the Radom pistol from his belt and cocked it. Herzog looked incredulously at him and took a step forward, but the Pole shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The corporal saw and stepped back. Pushing the children in front of him, the Pole disappeared behind the barn.
In the silence of the morning, two shots rang out and, a moment later, he returned. Ritter smiled and looked across at Herzog. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Herzog clenched his teeth; the words were there but he held them back.
It was nearly five in the morning when the column left the farm.
The two children watched them go from the safety of the barn. They never did quite understand why the strange man in the grey uniform had told them to lie down and had then fired two shots into the wall above their heads. He had kissed them both and left.
They wondered if they would ever see him again.
Twisting gently in the breeze, the two bodies dangled from the branches of the tree like discarded puppets. What horrors those eyes had seen no one knew but they were stretched wide, blackened around the extremities and sunken into pallid flesh which was a day away from putrefying. Stripped of their uniforms, they hung, naked, for all to see, revealing the extent of the injuries which had killed them. Dried blood was caked all over the corpses like random tattoos and, as they were cut down, some of it flaked off. Both of them had been tortured before they died, probably for no other reason than the enjoyment of their torturers. Long wounds had been scored the length of their bodies, ending at the groin, scene of the worst mutilation of all. For between the legs was a blackened void of nothingness, a gaping wound, still raw and red, mottled green in places with gangrene, where the genitals should have been. The stench which it gave off did nothing to dissuade the flies which swarmed over the gaping sore like so many gourmets, enjoying the flavour of corruption.
“Partisans,” said Herzog flatly, unable to take his eyes off the sight hanging before him, “no one else kills like that.”
“I wonder how long they’ve been here,” said Foss.
“A day or two,” answered the corporal, prodding one of the corpses with the barrel of his MP 40. The other men began to cast nervous glances around them. The partisans could still be around for all they knew; you didn’t realise they were there until they got you. Driest twisted back the bolt on his Mauser rifle and it clicked noisily in the silence of the forest.
“Fancy cutting their choppers off,” said Vogel, painfully.
Schiller overheard him and grinned. “Why not? They wouldn’t have much use for them out here anyway.” He spat into the grass under the first corpse.
“Shouldn’t we bury them?” said one of the engineers, a boy who had yet to reach his twentieth birthday.
“We haven’t the time,” snapped Ritter.
“We’d have time to bury you, you bastard,” muttered Herzog, under his breath. Foss dug him in the ribs, afraid that the captain might hear. Ritter paced up and down for a moment, then turned to Ganz.
“See if you can get through to Divisional Headquarters,” he snapped, “find out what is going on.”
Ganz nodded and began fiddling with the controls but he heard nothing but the whine of static. It went on for a minute or two, then, abruptly, cut out completely. He looked up apologetically at Ritter and shrugged his shoulders.
“Keep trying,” he was told.
Foss stepped forward. “Captain, wouldn’t it be wise to move on? If there are partisans in the area…”
Ritter cut him short. “I must first know the position of the Russians.”
“Yes sir, but surely the longer we stay here…”
“Enough, sergeant,” bellowed Ritter, angrily, “we are not moving from this spot until I hear from Divisional Headquarters, is that understood?” He fixed his gaze on Foss, watching as the words registered. The sergeant clenched his fists and saluted stiffly.
The men stood around nervously as Ganz fiddled with the radio.
“Calling Headquarters, do you read me?” he repeated endlessly. His voice becoming more desperate as time ticked on and no answer came. Ritter continued to pace backwards and forwards, watched by Foss and Herzog. Ganz was sweating, beads of moisture rolling from his sloping forehead, his hand quivered on the frequency control but, finally, a voice stammered through the static. He hurriedly turned the dial back, trying to find the voice again.
“Calling Headquarters, come in please,” he gasped and this time he got an answer. Watched by the other men, he relayed their position.
“Ask them where the Russians are,” demanded Ritter, impatiently.
Ganz relayed the question and sat anxiously, waiting for the answer.
“Headquarters report that they reached Kradiski three hours ago.”
“A map,” demanded Ritter, “I want to see a map.”
An engineer corporal pulled one from his pack and handed it to the captain who spread it out on a tree-trunk beside the road. He ran his finger over it, searching for the place marked Kradiski. “Here it is,” he said quietly, “twenty miles north-east of Poznan.” He turned to Synovski. “What is the name of the town beyond this forest?”
The Pole looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Sroda.”
Ritter looked at his compass and then down at the map, but it was Foss who spoke first: “And we’re twenty-four miles away.”
“They’ve got in front of us,” said Herzog flatly.
Driest began chewing his nails.
Ritter dropped the compass back into his pocket. “We can still make it,” he said, reassuring no one, including himself, “provided we don’t run into any trouble on the way. There are fewer of us than there are of the Russians, we should be able to move more quickly.”