The general stopped his pacing and squared up to Unold, waving his clenched fists in his face.
‘So, do you want to see me court-martialled, Lieutenant Colonel?’ Unold’s face remained as impassive as a slab of granite, but his eyes flashed dangerously.
‘What happens to the General is not the point at issue here, sir,’ he replied sharply, ‘any more than it’s about what happens to me or to any of my men. It’s all about how we carry out the military task that’s been assigned to us. There’s no sacrifice too great for me in fulfilling that, believe you me. But this short-sighted order of yours, General, not only places our ability to do so in jeopardy, it also has the potential to put us in a disastrous position. The General is sacrificing an entire artillery unit with valuable equipment, particularly its eight 88-millimetre anti-aircraft guns, which we’re sorely in need of right now, and condemning it to complete annihilation! And for what? Nothing! For absolutely nothing!’
‘Absolutely nothing, you say? The heroic fight of the unit to the very last man and to the very last bullet will be a shining example to the division for all time!’
At this, the lieutenant colonel lost all self-control. He couldn’t take hearing such sentiments come out of the mouth of this pompous windbag, this charlatan arrogating to himself the sacred rights of some military genius! His reply burst forth in a storm of fury. Slamming his fist down on the table so hard that the pencils leaped up into the air and landed in disarray, he roared:
‘I can’t be a part of this monstrous hoax a moment longer! Either we exercise leadership here responsibly, like proper military commanders, or we go on making these grand, futile gestures and churning out claptrap! But if we go down that route, Herr General, we’re going to lose this war!’
The general’s face turned deep crimson and then violet, his ugly bloodshot eyes bulged, and his mouth gaped like a fish gasping for air. He’s about to have an apoplectic fit, thought Unold. Followed immediately by the unspoken wish: I do hope so. But all of a sudden, the blood drained from the general’s cheeks, leaving behind a slack, jaundiced sack of a face, and he sank down into a chair, doubled over and buried his head in his hands. After a long while, he glanced up. He looked like a wrung-out dishcloth. In a voice now changed beyond recognition, he asked: ‘Do you by any chance have a cognac, Unold? My nerves have been shot to pieces something awful recently. I really think I should take it easy for a bit.’
He stood up slowly, wiped his eyes and reached for his cap. ‘Tell Lunitz,’ he said over his shoulder on his way out of the door, ‘that he can do what he likes. There’s no point in anything any more—’
The lieutenant colonel shot a look of cold contempt at the general’s retreating back. Then he lifted up the receiver to phone through the order to the artillery commander, Colonel Lunitz, to abandon his position on Hill 218 immediately. The line was down.
3
In Retreat – to the East!
The divisional HQ was in headlong retreat. At least, it was hard to find any other way of describing their hasty departure from Businovka. In the early hours of the morning, after the first Russian artillery salvos, Lieutenant Colonel Unold gave the order to all sections of the Staff HQ to withdraw by whatever route they saw fit and to regroup in a village a few kilometres to the east. Some motorized units had already reached the appointed location and were parked beside the road leading into the village.
A hard frost and a biting easterly wind had set in overnight, coating the windows of the farmhouses with thick patterns of ice. The officers and men stood around their vehicles in a state of bewilderment. Up till then, the division had only known successful advances or hard-fought defensive actions that had cost many casualties but always ultimately ended in victory. And now here they were – on the run? It was just inconceivable! Only yesterday, they’d been making fun of the Romanians… and now they were confronted with a shocking reality that they could see, feel and experience at first hand, but found quite impossible to comprehend all the same. And if all that wasn’t bad enough already, there was that seemingly inconsequential little word ‘eastward’. It lurked there in the background, buried deep like some landmine with a time fuse – even Sonderführer Fröhlich’s otherwise unshakeable confidence was momentarily dented. His mouth was half agape and his slightly bulging eyes darted about restlessly in his gaunt, angular face. Endrigkeit’s ubiquitous pipe was sticking out from beneath his ice-encrusted moustache, but it wasn’t lit. The captain took no notice.
Unold was dashing up and down the line of parked vehicles, clearly agitated. He was unshaven and his face was almost as grey as his weather-beaten leather jacket.
‘Christ in heaven!’ he shouted. ‘Where the hell’s Fackelmann? And Siebel, with the stores? And Harras isn’t here yet with the field kitchen either! I’m sick to the back teeth! We’ve got to press on; the Russians could catch us at any moment!’
At the end of the line stood Breuer’s little staff car, behind the unit’s bus. Corporal Herbert had disappeared with Geibel into one of the cottages to warm themselves up a bit. Breuer was standing by the car, shivering and stamping his feet to try to keep his legs warm. A consignment of felt boots had finally turned up the previous evening. But the ones he’d been issued with – a nice pair with leather toe caps and soles – were too tight. He hadn’t been able to get into them. He too was very disturbed by the overnight calamity, which had hit them like a bolt from the blue. The images from earlier that morning were still replaying in his mind’s eye: the wildly gesticulating troops running down screaming from the high ground after the first salvo of rockets from the Stalin organ hit; the hideously mutilated Romanian lying in the courtyard, the victim of a direct hit on the straw hut; the crying woman with the child cradled in her arms; the expression on the face of the Russian prisoner clutching his bundle of belongings and getting ready to make a run for it – a look that seemed to say ‘See, old chum, I told you so!’ The burning village, the confusion of people rushing about and vehicles roaring by on the road, which was obscured by clouds of smoke and churned up by the impact of shells; the horse that galloped past with its stomach torn open, dragging its entrails behind it… Suddenly, he couldn’t help but burst out laughing, as he called to mind the sight of the lieutenant colonel lying on the floor of his room covered in plaster dust and shards of glass, with the window frame, which had been blown into the room, wedged firmly over his buttocks, and recalled the incredulous surprise in Unold’s voice as he announced: ‘Good grief! I think it’s time we were moving on!’
Good that some humour could still be extracted from this dire situation…
‘Breuer – you’re looking fighting fit!’ A young man’s voice close by jolted him from his reverie.
‘Oh, hello there, Dierk!’ he replied to the officer in the white winter camouflage suit who had sidled up to him silently on felt boots. ‘Real heap of shit we’re in, eh? Did you manage to get all your guns out of there in one piece, at least?’
‘Certainly did!’ answered Lieutenant Dierk, who commanded the detachment of four-barrelled anti-aircraft guns. ‘But I nearly got stuck fast myself in these bloody new boots!’
He pointed at the new felt boots on his feet, which were clearly far too big for him.