The blacked-out headlight had been left with only a narrow strip uncovered. Within a few minutes this strip was sealed by mud, so that we had no light at all. I couldn’t even see the back of the tank, although it was no more than five yards ahead of us. Our truck, more often than not at an oblique angle to the tank, was constantly being pulled back into line by the tightly stretched chain. Each time this happened, I wondered if we still had our front wheels.
Behind us, the wounded had stopped moaning. Maybe they were all dead — what difference did it make! The convoy moved ahead, and daylight dawned on faces haggard with exhaustion. During the night, the convoy had spread out. It no longer seemed to matter whether we were ahead of schedule or behind. The driver of our Panzer suddenly turned off to the right, leaving the track, which had become impassable even for a tank, and drove straight up the scrub-covered bank, crushing the sodden birches under his treads.
Our truck, whose wheels by this time were balls of mud, was pulled forward, while its engine rattled helplessly. Then everything came to a complete halt. This was the second stop since our departure. We had stopped once in the night to gas up. The poor bastards on the back of the tank jumped down among the broken branches. Their backsides had been burning all night on the hot metal over the engine, while the rest of their bodies froze in the cold rain. An exchange of shouted abuse which was nearly a fight broke out at once between a noncom in the engineers and the Panzerführer. Everyone else took advantage of this opportunity to crap and eat.
“One hour’s rest!” shouted the noncom, who had taken on himself the leadership of the group. “Make the most of it!”
“Fuck you,” shouted the Panzerführer, who had no intention of being pushed around by some half-baked engineer.
“We’ll leave when I’ve had enough sleep.”
“We have to get to Belgorod this morning,” the noncom said in a steely voice. He undoubtedly nourished dreams of being an officer. Then, putting his hand on the Mauser which hung at his side, he added: “We’ll leave when I give the order. I’ve got the highest rank here, and you’ll obey me.”
“Shoot me if you like, and drive the tank yourself. I haven’t slept in two days, and you’re going to leave me the hell alone.”
The other flushed crimson, but said nothing. Then he turned to us. “You two! Instead of standing there asleep on your feet, get into the truck and help the wounded. They have their needs, too.”
“That’s it,” added the tank driver, who was clearly looking for trouble. “And, when they’re finished, the Herr Sergeant will wipe their asses.”
“You watch it, or I’ll report you,” snorted the sergeant. He was now white with rage.
Inside the truck, the wounded had not died, despite the jolting of the journey. They were no longer making any noise, and we could see that some of their bandages were soaked with fresh blood. Fighting the exhaustion which made our hearts race, we helped them down and back as best we could — omitting only one man, who was missing both legs. They all asked us for something to drink, and in our ignorance we gave them as much water or brandy as they wanted. We certainly shouldn’t have done this: two men died a short time later.
We buried them in the mud, with sticks and their helmets to mark their graves. Then Ernst and I curled up in the cab, to try to snatch a little sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come, and we lay instead, with throbbing temples, talking of peace. Two hours later, it was the tank driver who gave the order to depart, as he had predicted. It was now midmorning. The day was clear and bright, and large chunks of snow fell slowly from the trees.
“Hah!” he said. “Our general left us all while we were asleep. Maybe he felt like taking a walk!”
It seemed that the noncom really was gone. He must have managed a ride in one of the trucks that had passed us during our rest.
“That shit has gone to make his report!” shouted the tank driver. “If I catch up with him, I’ll drive right over him, flatten him out like a goddamned Bolshevik!”
It took us a while to extricate ourselves from the bank we had driven into. However, two hours later we arrived at a hamlet whose name I no longer remember, some five miles from Belgorod. It was filled with soldiers from every branch of the army. The few streets were perfectly straight, and lined with low houses; the way the roofs sat on the walls reminded me of heads with no foreheads, whose hair grows right into the eyebrows. There were swarms of soldiers, and a multitude of rolling equipment covered with mud, pushing through the shouting mob of soldiers, most of whom were looking for their regiments. The road at this point had been roughly resurfaced, and was much more negotiable.
We unhooked ourselves from the tank, and took on eight or ten of the engineers who had been riding on its back. Somewhat bewildered by this flood of soldiers, I had stopped the truck, and was looking for my company. Two M.P.s told me they thought it had gone on toward Kharkov, but as they weren’t sure, they sent me to the redirection center which had been organized in a trailer and was staffed by three officers, who were tearing their hair. When I was finally able to catch their attention through the thousands of shouts and gesticulations besieging them, I was harshly reprimanded for straggling. They probably would have sent me to be court-martialed, if they’d had time. The disorder was incredible, and the landser, half furious, half joking, flooded into the Russian huts.
“We might as well sleep while we wait for all this to settle down.”
All they wanted was a dry corner where they could lie down, but there were so many men crammed into each isba that there was almost no room left for the Russians who lived in them.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I went to find Ernst, who had gone to look for information. However, he had run into a truck hospital, and had returned to the Tatra with an orderly, who was checking over our wounded.
“They can go on as they are,” he said.
“What?” Ernst asked. “But we’ve already buried two of them. At least we should give them fresh dressings.”
“Don’t be stubborn and stupid. If I label them ‘urgent,’ they’ll have to wait their turn, lying in the street. You’ll get to Belgorod quicker than that — and escape the trap that’s closing on us.”
“Is the situation serious?” Ernst asked.
“Yes.”
So Ernst and I found ourselves responsible for twenty wounded men, some of them in critical condition, who had already been waiting several days for essential medical attention. We didn’t know what to say when a man grimacing with pain asked us if he would soon be at the hospital.
“Let’s get going,” Ernst said, frowning anxiously. “Maybe he’s right. If I’d ever thought it would be like this…”
I had been at the wheel for only a few minutes when Ernst tapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, little one, stop. You’ll finish somebody off if it goes on like this. Hand over.”
“But I’m supposed to drive, Ernst. I’m the one who’s in the drivers’ corps.”
“Never mind. Let me do it. You’ll never get us out of here.”
It was true. Despite my best efforts, the truck was jolting and sliding from one side of the road to the other.
We arrived at the village exit point, where there was an interminable line of vehicles waiting for gas. Thousands of soldiers were walking up and down on either side of the road. An M.P. ran over to us.
“Why aren’t you waiting like everybody else?”
“We’ve got to leave right away, Herr Gendarm. We’re carrying wounded, and that’s what the infirmary told us.”
“Wounded? Serious cases?” He spoke in the doubting, disbelieving tone of every policeman in the world.