Fröhlich would then carefully toast the millimetre-thin slices on the little stove, filling the bunker with a heavenly smell. He’d proceed to spread them thinly with fat, and could spend hours nibbling with his long teeth at his own portion. The others weren’t nearly so patient, wolfing down their slices in the twinkling of an eye. It was only fortunate that they still had plenty of coffee, a good blend of beans, sweetened with saccharin from Geibel’s supplies.
One day Private Krüger, one of the mess orderlies, took Lakosch aside and pointed at the herd of shaggy ponies outside the camp, grazing on a few impertinent stems of steppe herb that had dared to poke their way up through the mantle of snow. He spoke quietly to the driver, reinforcing his words with extravagant hand gestures. Lakosch nodded thoughtfully and disappeared into the bunker. Soon after, he could be seen wandering aimlessly out over the plain. Senta ran ahead of him, snuffling round the half-eroded foxholes dating from the time when the Russians were here. Seemingly quite innocently, Lakosch sidled up to the sentry, who was standing, his rifle under his arm, on the small knoll that he used as a convenient vantage point to survey the herd in his charge, which belonged to an infantry division from the northern sector. A little further on, three Russian prisoners sat chatting around a campfire. They appeared to be Hilfswillige (or ‘Hiwis’ for short, as the German troops called them),[1] who’d been sent out there to help the sentry. They didn’t seem to be taking their task very seriously. Anyhow, the half-starved ponies, barely able to keep themselves from falling over, certainly wouldn’t run away.
‘Mornin’,’ Lakosch greeted the sentry. ‘Pretty brassy today, eh?’
The man shot him a mistrustful sideways glance and muttered something under his breath. Lakosch tried to act indifferent. He took out his cigarette case, which he’d just taken the precaution of filling with the daily tobacco rations of all the mess orderlies, and made great play of lighting one up for himself. The sentry looked over at him, his interest rekindled.
‘Still so many fags?’ he asked, astonished. ‘You’re in clover all right!’
‘S’pose so,’ answered Lakosch. ‘Ten cigarettes a day, that just about does at a pinch. Sometimes there’s even cigars. You get more of them.’
He nonchalantly offered the guard the open cigarette case. The man dipped in eagerly.
‘Ten smokes a day, you say?’ he marvelled. ‘We’ve only been getting three for the past week or so… And to think I was a twenty-a-day man before that!’
He dragged greedily on his cigarette.
‘In fact, it’s pretty shitty in general for us, I don’t mind telling you. We’ve even taken to eating our own horses!’
Lakosch pulled a face.
‘What, those old nags there? No thank you! Haven’t you got anything else, then? No tinned meat? We’ve still got two lorryloads of the stuff, just for the Staff HQ! Herrings in gravy, and goulash and tuna and sardines in oil and grade-A pork, all the stuff from France still!’
He grew quite drunk on his own eloquence. The sentry licked his lips. His hand started trembling so much that he dropped his cigarette butt into the snow. Lakosch handed him the case again. The two of them sat down on the rim of a snow hole.
‘Tell me, mate,’ the sentry began, ‘what are the chances of you getting… I mean, a tin of that tuna, for instance… I’m not expecting to get it for nothing, mind!’
From the depths of his greatcoat, he fished out a pocket knife with a mother-of-pearl handle. ‘There you go, it’s got two blades, a screwdriver and a tin opener, it’s really something! All genuine stainless steel.’
Lakosch, feigning real interest, opened and closed the various blades. ‘Hmm,’ he pondered, ‘it’s not that simple! Our sergeant major, see…’
The sentry shifted about uncomfortably, his eyes now blank and staring. He rummaged through his pockets to try to find anything else to swap. In the process, he failed to notice that a lorry had stopped about two hundred metres along the road. He also didn’t spot that two soldiers had jumped down and were grappling with one of the ponies. Only the shouts of alarm from the auxiliaries caused him to look up. Cursing, he sprang to his feet and levelled his rifle at the rustlers. But he was already too late. The two men were jumping back onto the moving lorry. The pony, which had had a tow rope lashed around its hind legs, was pulled to the ground. The truck picked up speed, dragging the pony behind it. It lifted its head a couple of times and opened its mouth to utter a pitiful cry. The sentry fired two shots in vain at the disappearing lorry. Their report did not even startle the grazing ponies, who hardly even pinned back their ears. ‘God damn it!’ cursed the soldier. ‘That’s the second time that’s happened on my watch… now I’ll really cop it from my CO!—’
All of a sudden, he paused and directed a curious look at Lakosch, who now thought it prudent to beat as hasty a retreat as possible, and not to pause to offer the guard his condolences. He whistled to Senta to follow him, and wandered off in the direction of the camp. As he departed, the sentry shot him an impotent look of growing realization…
By the time Lakosch got back to the kitchen, the pony had already been eviscerated.
That evening, roasted horse’s liver was served in the Intelligence Section’s bunker. Everyone was amazed at how generous the cook had been. Lakosch had chosen not to divulge that this was the payoff for the part he’d played in the rustling escapade. For three days, the whole Staff HQ indulged in horse goulash and horse rissoles, while Unold even had a horse schnitzel. Then all that was left of the scrawny pony was the skeleton. The bared teeth in the beast’s mangy rotting head kept grinning up from the rubbish pit for many days thereafter.
The great grey bird stands alone on the white expanse of snow. It’s a Junkers Ju 52, the good old ‘Auntie Ju’. It must have come down just short of the Russian lines. When the regiment gets word of the forced landing, people are beside themselves with frustration. We could have… should have… It’s amazing how wise everyone is after the event about what they might have done to prevent this catastrophe. Two tons of food, or ammunition, or fuel lost to the encircled army! But at least the Russians won’t get to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. Two tons of cargo aren’t exactly easy to unload, when you’re forced to work within range of enemy artillery. During the day, there’s no Russian to be seen anywhere near the aircraft. Most of the cargo might well still be inside! The heavy machine guns fire a couple of bursts into the fuselage – and nothing happens. So, it’s definitely not fuel. After much deliberation, the division allows the artillery three rounds to try to blow the plane to smithereens. The third shell lands quite close, but it will take a direct hit to destroy such a large aircraft. Ultimately, the order comes from the regiment that a commando squad will be sent in to blow up the plane. Sergeant Major Harras goes to see the Arse.
‘Lieutenant, sir, I’d like to volunteer to be part of the commando unit!’
The company commander looks him up and down.
‘You? Okay, then! But think what you’re letting yourself in for! The operation won’t be without its dangers. If anything goes wrong, we can’t give you covering fire!’
‘I’ve weighed up all the dangers!’ replies Harras. And that was certainly true; he had considered things carefully: in a few days, the whole hullabaloo of the attempted breakout would erupt. Compared with that, this business here, executed under cover of darkness, would be a picnic. After all, the aircraft wasn’t behind enemy lines. This was just the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
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