Lieutenant Dierk had positioned his two 20-millimetre, four-barrelled anti-aircraft guns in some old Russian machine-gun nests a few hundred yards away from the Staff HQ bunkers. He was only permitted to fire in the event that the bunkers came under a low-level attack by Russian planes. Up until now, the enemy hadn’t obliged him in this, so he and his men idly sat out the long days and nights frustratedly observing the high-altitude aerial dogfights they were unable to take part in. It was an engrossing spectacle when the long lines of transport planes, escorted by a handful of fighters, would circle above the airfield, gradually gaining height until, one by one, the aircraft were swallowed up in the protecting blanket of cloud, or when Russian fighters suddenly burst out of the grey shroud and, twisting and turning around one another with siren-like howls from their engines, began mixing it with the German Messerschmitts. The soldiers on the ground craned their necks to follow every move of the dogfights like they were some sporting contest.
‘There, over there! See how he’s getting stuck in! You wait, he’s going to get him!’
‘You’ve turned too sharply. Told you, you pulled out of that far too early! You’ll never hit him like that!’
‘Look at that bastard! He’s bottled it, the coward!’
‘Yes, now… now… oh, so close! He’s got some guts, that guy! Want to bet he downs another one?’
‘Look, they’re hightailing it out of here now. Yeah, see, Franz? They’ve gone! Vanished into the clouds! Nah, that’s our lot, they won’t be coming out of there again. What shitty luck!’
No sooner had the paltry German force of three fighters, which flew sorties round the clock, touched down to refuel and re-arm than the Russian bombers were overhead. They moved steadily across the skies, gleaming silver, and those watching from below could clearly see small shapes dropping from their bellies. Soon after, the dark mushroom clouds of explosions rose up from the ground; a thick black column of smoke indicated that a fuel dump had taken a hit.
One time, though, they arrive prematurely, while two German fighters are still in the air. The Russian planes weave about uncertainly, firing wildly with all guns blazing. But the two Messerschmitts stick doggedly to their task, attacking the formation time and again. There – a thick plume of smoke trails from one of the bombers, it’s on fire! Two small objects detach themselves from the stricken aircraft; one plummets to earth, gaining in velocity as it falls, while above the other a white ball suddenly blossoms. Swaying gently to and fro, it drifts straight towards Dierk’s flak position. Soldiers rush from all sides. The parachute is dropping faster and faster, and now they can clearly make out the head and limbs of the man dangling beneath it. As they look up, without warning several flashes appear in rapid succession.
‘Hey, the bloke’s taking potshots at us!’ The soldiers reach for their rifles.
‘No! don’t shoot!’ shouts Lieutenant Dierk. ‘He’s scared, that’s all.’
By now the parachute has touched down. It billows out one more time, dragging the man attached to it over the snow a short distance before collapsing on top of him. The infantrymen approach the white bundle with caution. But the Russian fires no more shots. Either he dropped his pistol when he landed or he’s out of bullets. They unravel the parachute and free the man, who has got caught up in the lines. He stands up slowly and looks at the men surrounding him, uncertain what to expect. He is short and slender in build. His youthful face is bruised and swollen. When one of the soldiers tugs off his cap, a tousle of blond hair falls across his forehead. Lieutenant Dierk hands him a cigarette and lights it for him. The Russian smokes it in short, quick puffs, his hand trembling slightly. In the meantime, Captain Endrigkeit has also appeared on the scene.
‘Tough luck, fella,’ he laughs. ‘You’ve picked a bad time to become a prisoner of war.’
The two officers escort the man to the bunker. The crowd of onlookers disperses, avidly discussing whether the Russian is going to be executed.
‘Executed?’
‘Yeah, absolutely, we’ve either got to kill him or let him go. After all, we haven’t even got enough to feed ourselves!’
‘You know what, I’m more in favour of letting him go.’
‘You cretin! You want to release this Bolshevik. He could be a political commissar for all we know, you blockhead!’
‘Here, Breuer, we’ve caught a rare bird for you,’ Endrigkeit announces on entering the Intelligence Section’s bunker. ‘He just fell from the sky. At last, you’ll be able to carry out your proper duties again now!’
Sonderführer Fröhlich asks the captured Russian the standard questions about name, rank and serial number. On opening his flying suit and examining the insignia on his collar, the young man turns out to be a flight lieutenant. He sits slumped on a wooden bench, and doesn’t answer. Breuer attempts some more questions. What’s his official position? His unit? Which airfield did he fly from? Nothing, no response! Was he wounded or in pain? Everyone’s watching the Russian’s face with rapt attention. He doesn’t move a muscle, and says nothing. His pale grey eyes look past his questioner. Lieutenant Dierk is the first to lose patience.
‘Come on, let’s beat this bloke to a pulp! Then maybe he’ll open his mouth!’
‘Dierk, please!’ Breuer upbraids him. ‘You’re an officer, aren’t you? Well then, remember your position! This man’s got the right, and from his perspective even the duty, to keep silent when questioned. Or do you think you’d act any differently if you were in his shoes?’
Dierk is chastened and annoyed at the same time.
‘So, we have to behave honourably as officers when we get hold of this red scum, have we?’ he mutters. ‘I’d like to see if they’d worry about an officer’s honour if we fell into their hands. Kick the shit out of us, more like!’
‘And even if they did so a thousand times over,’ Breuer answered sharply, ‘it wouldn’t absolve us of our responsibility to act like people from a civilized nation. We’re German soldiers, not mercenaries and freebooters!’
The lieutenant holds his peace.
‘Right, get him out of here!’ says Breuer, concluding the interrogation. ‘After all, in our position it makes no odds whether we know how many bombs the Russians have or where their airfields are. Have we still got anything for him to eat, Geibel?’
‘There’s still your ration of bread and lard left, Lieutenant.’
‘What, nothing else? Oh well, give him that then, and warm up some coffee too! The man’s half-frozen!’
They turn their attention to discussing the military position. Nobody pays any further attention to the prisoner, whose face had betrayed a faint hint of involvement during the altercation between the two officers. Out of the blue, he suddenly pipes up, speaking calmly and in fluent, almost accent-free German.
‘Finish me off, please! I’m begging you… shoot me!’
Everyone’s heads suddenly swivel round, looking at the airman as if he were some exotic animal.
‘What do you take us for?’ Breuer replies angrily. ‘No one’s planning to shoot you! Maybe you’ll die of starvation alongside us here. I can’t say. But shoot you? We’re not murderers, we’re not criminals!’
The Russian doesn’t reply. In the look he gives the German officers, coolly appraising them, there is more than a trace of contempt. He shrugs his shoulders.
‘Ya nye znayu,’[2] he says slowly. ‘Maybe you’re not a criminal,’ he continues in German. ‘You’re an upstanding German citizen’ – he rolls his German ‘r’s – ‘you’ve given me your food. No doubt you’d give me wine and chocolate if you had any. Yes, you’re all…’ Here his gaze sweeps quickly over the assembled German officers once more, and comes to rest for a split-second on the defiant features of Lieutenant Dierk. ‘None of you are criminals… perhaps. You’re all just – now, what’s your word for it? – henchmen, right? No, you won’t shoot me…’