The engine rumbled expectantly as the Tiger rolled along at less than five miles an hour. The men followed, treading lightly as if they too were reluctant to disturb the solitude.
A squirrel appeared on the lowest branch of a cedar-tree. It gave an anxious glance at the column of troops, puzzled at the sight of these new animals, then it disappeared into the foliage.
Langer adjusted the MP 40 on his shoulder and reached into his pocket for a wad of tobacco. He bit off a large lump and began chewing.
“What a waste!” remarked Steikel. “There’s enough for fifty fags in that.”
“Waste,” mumbled Langer, brown juice dribbling from his mouth, “you talk about waste after pouring half a bottle of brandy over his hand.” He nodded towards Herzog who smiled. A row of teeth gleamed whitely against the darkness of his skin. A darkness more attributable to dirt than the work of the sun. He couldn’t remember the last time he, or his uniform, had been clean. Stained with sweat and caked in mud and dust, it was already beginning to rot under the armpits.
Langer shot a stream of tobacco juice into the grass and sighed wearily. Steikel brushed a fly from his cheek.
“How much further to the next town?” he asked.
Herzog shrugged. “A mile, maybe more, but I doubt if we’ll be staying long.”
“We never stay anywhere long,” grunted Langer. “As soon as we get settled into some nice places the bloody British come along and blow it sky-high.” He spat.
“I never thought the British would try another invasion after Dieppe,” said Steikel, reflectively.
Langer sneered and directed another stream of juice at the roadside flowers. “To hell with the British, why don’t we just chuck it in?”
“And be shot for deserting?” Steikel asked.
Herzog laughed bitterly. “You’re just as likely to die from a German bullet as you are from a British one. The firing squads back home are shooting hundreds every day for Christ knows what. All that’s left are kids and old men. Half to young to know what they’re fighting for, the other half too senile.”
“Then there’s us in the middle,” said Steikel, “what are we fighting for?”
Herzog turned sharply on the Austrian. “Survival.”
Willi Feld, marching behind Langer, heard the remark and it made him feel even more nervous, if that were possible. He licked a tongue across his cracked lips and swallowed hard but the saliva stuck in his throat. As he glanced around, the trees seemed to be closing in on the road, attempting to crush it out of existence. He felt a bead of perspiration pop onto his forehead.
Until he joined the army, six weeks earlier, he had never left the town where he was born. His mother had died giving him life and he had never known his father. An uncle had raised him. It had been he who had suggested that Willi join up. Of course the idea was abhorrent to Willi but what else could he do? He would be called a traitor otherwise, worse still, a coward. What if word should get around? To the young lad, confused and uncomprehending, it seemed like something out of a romantic novel. Death or disgrace. But when he had joined up and returned home in his uniform there followed a few idyllic days. His uncle had told him how smart he looked and how proud he should be to go off and fight for the Fatherland. He had even taken a photograph of him with the camera he got on the black market. For short halcyon days, Willi had been the centre of attraction within the closely knit community of his home. Old women would kiss him and give him gifts when they saw him in the street. Even young girls began to take notice of him, or of his uniform at least. Then, finally, the day had come when he had climbed aboard the train with the others and travelled to France. Transported like cattle to a place where they were to die like animals.
Defending the beaches at Normandy.
Willi remembered the waves of khaki-clad men who had swarmed ashore, blasted by grenades and mines, shot down with automatic-weapon fire until their bodies clogged the beach and turned the sand red.
He had fainted, awoken many hours later, his uniform splashed with blood and muck. The stench of his own excrement strong in his nostrils. He had wanted to cry. The memory was still painful.
“I’ll be pleased to see the back of this forest,” said Steikel, nervously adjusting the stick grenades jammed in his belt, “it’s too quiet.” He chanced a furtive glance into the impenetrable greenery of the roadside shrubs. The low rumble of the Tiger’s Maybach engine drowned out what little natural noise circulated within the forest. The big Austrian always relied upon his intuition, a kind of sixth sense which fighting men acquire after years in action, and now he felt a tingle run up and down his spine like minute fingers. The icy grip at the back of his neck tightened. The feeling was premonitory of something.
Shrieking, a bird flew from the tree tops and the Germans reacted instinctively. Weapons were brought to the ready, breath caught in dry throats. The bird disappeared and Herzog grinned, relieved. Willi Feld swallowed nervously and briefly closed his eyes.
There was an explosion.
Perhaps two hundred yards ahead of them, around a bend in the road. It was followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire. Then silence again.
“Into the bushes,” snapped Herzog, banging hard on the side of the tank. Dorn shut off the engine and the Tiger was also swallowed up in the returning solitude.
They waited. Waited in the bushes. Eyes fixed on the road ahead they waited for nearly an hour. Herzog could hear the steady ticking of his watch, the second-hand flicking across the face in rhythm with his pulse. He glanced around at his men, at Langer and Steikel who both held stick grenades and at Bonhof who was running his finger along the blade of the knife he always carried. The ex-policeman looked across and caught Herzog’s eye. The two men looked at each other for a moment until Bonhof could no longer return the piercing blue glow of his sergeant’s eyes. Readjusting his sub-machine-gun, Herzog cautiously stepped out into the road. Crouched low, he trod slowly to the centre of the road, squinting into the distance. His boots sounded harshly conspicuous on the dry surface as he advanced to the curve in the track, about fifty yards ahead. The watching men saw him shake his head and then scuttle back to the cover of the bushes.
“We’ll have to go on,” he said, quietly, “find out what happened.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “No sense risking the whole battalion. Langer and Steikel, you come with me, and you.” He pointed to Willi Feld and the boy felt the colour draining from his cheeks.
“Stay close to the trees,” ordered Herzog, motioning them forward. Steikel stumbled over a branch and dropped his MP 40. It clattered, noisily, to the ground. Herzog spun round and threw a reproachful glance at the Austrian who shrugged apologetically and retrieved the weapon.
“Clumsy bastard,” whispered Langer.
Moving in single file, the four men made their way along the road in the direction of the explosion. The road bent sharply to the right, forming a kind of dog-leg which dodged through the maze of trees and bushes for the next two hundred yards.
Herzog raised his arm, signalling them to halt. Steikel slid a stick grenade from his belt and gently unscrewed the cap, priming it. Langer squirted another stream of tobacco juice into the grass and watched as the sergeant scuttled across to the far side of the road. He ducked down behind a tree which was on the very point of the bend. From where he was he had an unobstructed view of the road ahead; his blue eyes passed slowly over what confronted him.
Lying on its side, in the middle of the road, was the field ambulance. Smoke was still rising from it and the ground round about was charred and blackened, a testament to the hemorrhage of burning petrol which had spilled from the trucks’ ruptured fuel-tank. From the hole in the floor of the truck a head protruded. So blackened and scorched it looked like a negro, the teeth gleaming whitely in a feral grin.