Foss picked his way through the men until he found Ritter. The captain was laying amongst the engineers, wrapped in a groundsheet and trying to sleep. Foss snapped his heels together and coughed exaggeratedly. Ritter opened his eyes and looked up.
“What is it, sergeant?” he asked wearily.
“Partisans, sir,” said Foss, flatly.
The captain pulled the groundsheet away and scrambled to his feet, drawing the Luger from its holster. He looked anxiously at the sergeant.
“How many of them?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen them, sir, but…”
Ritter cut him short angrily. “Then why did you wake me? What makes you think there are partisans about?”
“We found one of the sentries with his throat cut,” snarled Foss, trying to keep his voice low.
“Tell the men to stand ready,” ordered Ritter, kicking the sleeping men around him. They looked up in bewilderment and, grumbling mutinously, dragged themselves up.
The word was spread before the order.
‘Partisans’.
Silence descended on the moonlit hillside, bathing the Germans in a cold white light, making them visible for miles. Men shivered, a mixture of fear and cold. Hands felt clammy against the cold of gun-metal. Men squinted through the darkness, trying to shield their eyes against the snow. They saw things that weren’t there, heard noises where there was only silence.
Far away to the north, the sky was beginning to turn red; a steady rumbling of cannonfire rolled across the land but the men couldn’t hear it. Their problems were more immediate. Herzog felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck and, despite the cold, he felt the perspiration sticking hotly to his back. The reality of hand-to-hand combat didn’t bother him, at least he could see his enemy face to face, but standing impotently waiting to be shot down by an unseen assailant, the idea horrified him. He swallowed hard and chanced a glance around. The others were as nervous as he was, fingers rested uncertainly on triggers and a vast hand of fear slowly enveloped the men.
It didn’t release its grip until morning.
The sun brought more than warmth and light, it brought relief. The men relaxed when the order to stand down was given, they put down their weapons. Fires were relit and cigarettes passed round by those glad to be still alive.
“I bet the bastards were sitting out there all night watching us,” said Schiller, yawning. He sat down on the damp earth and rubbed his hands together, trying to restore the circulation.
“Well they won’t try anything in the daylight,” said Foss, chewing on a piece of stale bread, “night birds, the partisans.”
“Bloody cowards,” snorted Driest, “they skulk about in the dark like ghosts.”
“Too bloody right,” said Schiller, “what’s the point in parading about so that everybody can see you? That’s the quickest way to get killed.”
“What about Von Roder?” asked Ganz. “Aren’t we going to bury him?”
“Fuck him,” grunted Schiller, stuffing half a potato into his mouth, “the bastard had it coming, if the partisans hadn’t done it someone else would have.”
“We’d better not sit around here too long,” said Herzog, peering through the binoculars. “Look.” He handed the glasses to Foss and pointed towards a set of low hills which were spouting smoke. The sky above them was black and, as Foss watched, he could make out the black arrowheads of distant aircraft.
“Poznan,” he said quietly, “looks like they’ve beaten us to it.”
“They could be ours,” offered Schiller, hopefully.
Foss shrugged. “Could be, but you know how fast the Russians move.” He handed the binoculars back to Herzog and spread the map out in front of him.
“Six miles to go,” he said, thoughtfully.
“It’s not getting there that bothers me,” added Herzog, still looking through the twin lenses, “it’s what we’re going to find when we get there.”
“You saw it too,” said Ritter, appearing at his elbow. “Sergeant Foss, we must move on immediately, if the Russians have reached the town, then they can’t be far behind either. We are in danger of being encircled.”
Brilliant deduction, thought Herzog, lowering the glasses. Ritter leant over the map and prodded it with his finger. “We can take that route when we have crossed this bridge, that way we can bypass the Russians on the outskirts of Poznan.” He turned to Ganz. “Try and get through to H.Q., I want to know their strength.”
The radio crackled for a moment, then whined and went dead. Ganz fiddled ineffectively with it and then shrugged his shoulders. “It’s blown,” he said.
Ritter kicked out at the broken set and turned on Foss, “Get these men up now,” he shouted. Foss saluted and bellowed to the waiting Germans to pick up their gear. Vogel lifted the heavy MG 42 onto his shoulder and stepped into line beside Schiller who was finishing off his potato.
Herzog was the first one to hear the rumbling.
“Listen,” he said, raising a hand for quiet.
The men cocked hopeful ears but heard nothing.
“You’re imagining things,” chided Schiller.
“No,” interrupted Driest, “I hear it too.”
“It’s probably coming from over there,” said Synovski, motioning towards Poznan, still bleeding smoke into the air.
Herzog shook his head. “It’s closer than that.”
“Why are you standing around?” demanded Ritter, angrily. “Corporal, move your men.”
“Listen,” snapped Herzog, turning on Ritter.
“The guns,” shouted the captain, “it’s the guns.”
“Then why,” said Herzog, looking down, “is the earth shaking?”
The men looked round, towards the top of the hill, and thought that they had been transported back in time.
It was as if a race of centaurs had crested the ridge. The rumbling grew to a climax and then broke like a wave over the hill. First a line of upheld sabres appeared, then the heads and necks of the horses and finally the shapes of the men riding them.
Cossacks, hundreds of them, astride magnificent horses, swept over the crest, sabres glinting in the early-morning sunlight.
“Oh my God,” whispered Driest.
Without waiting for the order, the Germans broke and fled, racing for the bridge at the bottom of the valley. Behind them, horses snorted wildly urged on by the exhortations of their riders. Many of the Russians were also carrying machine-guns and a hail of bullets began to spatter the fleeing Germans. Those that fell were left to be trampled, no one dared stop to help them.
“Take cover,” screamed Ritter as they reached a line of hedges, “we can’t outrun them.”
The men threw themselves behind the hedge, scrambling for their weapons and firing madly into the wall of flesh. The thunder of horses’ hooves was momentarily drowned by the crash of rifles and machine-guns. High-pitched screams rang out over the hillside as bullets ploughed through men and horses, dropping them like slaughtered cattle. Many of the Cossacks dismounted and fired back, using the bodies of dead horses as cover. A group of about thirty charged the crouching Germans.
Vogel squeezed the trigger of the MG 42 and a hail of bullets swept the onrushing Cossacks. Horses cartwheeled, sending riders hurtling through the air. One man, unable to release his foot from the stirrup, screamed as the limb was wrenched from the socket. Grenades exploded amongst them, the blasts plucking men from their saddles and hurling them beneath the hooves of the following horses.
One of the German engineers had a flame-thrower and, as half a dozen Cossacks reached the hedge, he turned its blistering tongue towards them. There was a loud whoosh and the air was filled with the stench of burning oil and the shriek of flame, next moment to be replaced by the howls of agony as men and animals were reduced to ashes by the flame. Burning horses dashed madly about, carrying riders who were living torches. The familiar odour of charred flesh filled the air.