The lieutenant suddenly swung round to face Breuer.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get out of here?’
His voice was choked with emotion.
‘Of course we will, Wiese! No doubt about it! Just now, Unold was talking about the major relief operation that the High Command’s set in motion.’
The lieutenant shook his head.
‘No, we won’t get out of here; I know it. Even if we’re relieved one day – and I really believe it might happen – we won’t be the same people. We’ll never bring our best side home with us. That’s fallen victim to this war. It’s lying dead and buried under the snowy fields of Stalingrad.’
Stalingrad… the name fluttered out into the night, and the two men stood pondering it. From the far northwest came a dull rumble, and faint yellow flashes momentarily lit up the sky.
Then Wiese spoke again, this time clearly and calmly. ‘You’re right, Breuer. We mustn’t give up as long as we’re still able to fight. We should tend that glowing ember; maybe one day it’ll burst into flame again…’
They heard the sound of shuffling steps approaching. It was Geibel, who’d gone to fetch the next day’s provisions. The forager doled out rations as soon as he received them now; otherwise too much food got stolen overnight. The two officers followed Geibel into the bunker. By the time they got down there, he was already being mobbed by the others.
‘What delights do you have for us today, then?’
‘Cold dandruff with artificial honey, right?’
‘It’s not great,’ Geibel conceded glumly. ‘Two hundred and fifty grams of crispbread, thirty grams of tinned meat and three cigarettes each. There weren’t any supply drops today.’
The men’s faces had grown long. Less bread yet again… and the pathetic number of smokes, too! Even yesterday, they’d still had five, and the company sergeant major had assured them that would continue. Geibel put the little ration packets on the table, while Lieutenant Wiese glanced through the bundle of mail.
‘Newspapers, nothing but newspapers!’ he announced. ‘All dating back to October and November. Not a single letter, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s this lot here, then?’ asked Herbert, pointing at a pile of boxes and tins.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Geibel, ‘forgot about them. There’s a tin of boot polish and a tube of toothpaste per person!’
‘Toothpaste? When we don’t even have any water to wash with?’
‘And what’s this I see?’ cried Herbert, holding up two large rolls against the light. Printed on the packaging were the words ‘Premium toilet tissue’. The men stood and gawped in disbelief at one another.
‘Oh, that’s really bloody priceless!’ Breuer exploded. ‘They send us fuck-all to eat, but they manage to fly us in bog paper – bog paper, for Christ’s sake! Maybe they’ll follow it up tomorrow with a collapsible flushing toilet!’
In his fury, he grabbed the rolls of tissue and booted them into the corner.
‘The forager told me,’ Geibel went on, ‘that the Corps got a load of other stuff, too. Toothbrushes, combs, razor blades and… and…’
Realizing he’d said too much, his face was flushed with embarrassment. Once more, it was plain to see he hadn’t been a soldier for very long. ‘No doubt some nice galoshes too,’ Lakosch said in a stage whisper to Herbert, ‘as winter wear so they don’t go catching a nasty cold.’
Herbert kicked his shin to shut him up.
‘They’ve lost their minds,’ said Breuer, perfectly calmly. ‘Don’t you reckon, Wiese? Well, either it’s the case that the top brass has gone crazy, or—’
Fröhlich broke into a nervous laugh.
‘Come, come, Lieutenant,’ he giggled hysterically. ‘Don’t you see that’s fantastic, wonderful news? It’s the best possible indication that the encirclement’s about to be broken!’
The phone rang. Breuer snatched up the receiver and gestured for everyone to pipe down. On the other end of the line was Cavalry Captain Willms, the tank regiment’s intelligence officer. The men caught the sound of his nasal, always rather sleepy-sounding voice buzzing faintly from the earpiece.
‘Hello, Breuer. Yes… Just wanted to give you a quick update. Thing is… Manstein started his push to relieve the Cauldron two days ago… No, no, not from the west! From the south… What’s that? Yes, absolutely… so far it’s going well, he’s made good progress…’
At a stroke, the mood in the bunker changed. All their cares were suddenly forgotten. There was a hubbub of excited chatter. Even Senta emerged from under the table and dashed about whimpering and barking from one person to the next, celebrating the news in her own doggy way.
‘See? What did I tell you!’ crowed Fröhlich. ‘It was absurd to think that the Führer could have just left us to rot here, just absurd! We’ll be out of here within a week or so, and they’ll give us a Stalingrad campaign flash to sew on our shoulders, and then it’s off home to mother to celebrate Christmas!’
And this time, even Herbert said nothing and did nothing to signal his disagreement.
When the Russians broke through in November, what remained of the two grenadier regiments from the tank division had been withdrawn from Stalingrad and placed under the command of one of the two regimental COs to form a combat group. This new unit was ordered south with all dispatch to close the breach in the defensive line there. And that was where they still remained, having in the meantime been incorporated into a motorized infantry division. Sergeant Major Harras had been with this ‘Combat Group Riedel’ for the past eight days. When, dressed in his stylish fur jacket, he reported to the CO and clicked his heels, the lieutenant colonel had peered down his long nose and looked Harras up and down.
‘Hmm… so, you’re Harras from the divisional HQ, are you? You can start by taking off that ballet costume and getting hold of a camouflage suit! Then at least you’ll look halfway like a soldier!’
Together with the ten men from all the other sections of Staff HQ who had been ‘sifted out’ as superfluous to requirements, Harras was assigned to a company. Up to now, he’d had no reason to regret his change of unit. The southern sector was now quiet. The front line ran along the high railway embankment, an effective barrier above all against tanks. Behind this, flanked along parts of its course by water meadows, elms and scrub, wound the Karpovka River. Their positions were well developed and protected by minefields. The Russians showed little desire to attack here. Through the binocular periscope, they could observe them doing square-bashing and field training. When Harras walked through the bunkers here for the first time, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Wooden shuttering, lamps, tables, proper doors and windows! And the blokes here were loafing about on beds with spring mattresses.
‘Pah, this place looks like a brothel!’ he said resentfully, though when he called to mind the wooden shack that had been his billet in Dubininsky, he rejoiced inwardly at his good fortune. ‘Where did you conjure all this stuff up from?’ he enquired.
‘From Stalingrad,’ the private who was showing him round said proudly. ‘We brought it down the railway line on a handcar. If we’re all going to hell in a handbasket, better do it in style, eh, Sergeant Major?’
Harras seethed. Next thing you knew, the bloke would be slapping him on the back! Harras hadn’t really got the measure of the men here yet. At first, he’d tried taking the authoritarian approach he’d employed hitherto. ‘Click your heels together properly, you shithead! Are you off your rocker, you sad specimen? You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with here!’ First the men looked at him stupidly, then later took to grinning slyly at one another, and finally played a couple of practical jokes on him so as to make it crystal clear to him, the newcomer, that he was dependent upon them here – not the opposite. Thereafter, Harras tried now and then to mimic the crude, blokeish tone that the company commander had adopted to get in with the men. The result was a crass, patently insincere familiarity, and this only reinforced the somewhat contemptuous reticence with which the men in the trenches customarily regarded a superior whose only decoration was the ribbon of the war service cross. As a result, he was really happy when he picked up a minor head wound during an air raid, which entitled him to pin the official black-metal medal worn by wounded soldiers on his chest. At a suitable opportunity he exchanged it for an old, worn one that shone like dull gold from a distance. But even this didn’t help much.