“What are you doing, comrade?” called an NCO from the passenger seat of the ammunition truck.
Wendorff turned around in shocked amazement. He had to think fast, and he had to think in his second language. Although his father’s family were generations old from Nuremberg, his mother’s people were mixed Volksdeutsche of Belorussian extraction. They hailed from Volhaynia, near the Soviet frontier and, as expected, German supporters had been driven out of Poland by the awful events which had followed the end of the last war. At home he had grown up hearing a mixture of German and occasional Russian. He hoped his Russian would be good enough.
“I am not certain, comrade… I lost my unit.”
“Where are you based?”
“Err… Brest-Litovsk,” replied Wendorff, remembering his cover story.
“Well, you’re in luck, that’s where we are headed. Jump in.”
Wendorff squeezed himself into the cab beside the obliging NCO and the driver roared off down the dusty lane.
“What is happening, comrade?” Wendorff asked in an attempt to cover his unexplained appearance on a country road.
“Don’t you know anything? The fascists have stabbed us in the back. They invaded at four o’ clock this morning. The fortress is still holding out though. They need ammunition. That’s what we have in the back there. So, let’s hope our fascist friends above don’t drop a bomb on us or it will be the biggest fireworks display since the revolution!”
There was nothing in the Sergeant’s short speech that gave Wendorff any form of comfort. He thought briefly about the possibility of plunging his knife into the man’s chest but he would still have to overcome the driver and where would that get him? Wendorff decided to continue on the journey. The nearer to Brest-Litovsk he got, the nearer he would be to German forces.
“Keep your eyes peeled on the skies. I’ll watch for fascists on the road.”
“Yes, comrade,” replied Wendorff, now in selfpreservation mode.
The German forces attacking the fortress on that auspicious summer’s morning continually attempted to exploit the advantages of their unexpected attack. The guns continued to pound away while the advance assault detachments of submachine-gunners made further fresh assaults, still hoping to capture the fortress in one energetic thrust. However, by mid-morning it was clear that the attempt to take the fortress in one fell swoop had failed. The German planners had expected their bombardment to reduce the fortress to defenceless rubble. They were wrong. The Russian soldiers were now fully awakened from their disorientation and, under the leadership of Captain Zubachyov, Commissar Fomin and others whom history has overlooked, they recovered very quickly, grouped themselves, and began a desperate, stubborn, and well-organised defence.
The grounds of the Volhyn fortification, which the assault troops had tried to capture in the first hours of the war, contained border-guard formations, a regimental school, whose cadets unfortunately were absent on exercises, and the large military hospital where Bettina Ostermann had worked.
On that Sunday morning when the unheralded bombardment fell, the military hospital serving the 4th Army was actually in the process of being moved out of the fortress. A large portion of the patients and medical personnel had opportunely been moved out. They were indeed fortunate, because the first enemy shells and bombs fell on the hospital’s forty or so wooden hospital buildings which instantly took fire. As she groggily rose to her feet from the Nebelwerfer storm, Bettina instantly realised that the most seriously ill patients were beyond help. Those who could save themselves did and Bettina watched in terror as fugitives emerged from the flames. Many were hideously burned, while others exhibited terrible wounds. Bettina now pulled herself together as she recognised the familiar figure of Dr Stepan Babkin.
“Nurse Ostermann, help me to get these patients to the casemates of the earthworks.”
“Yes, Doctor,” replied Bettina and her professional training took over. She was able to escort and guide the patients into the tunnel that led to the casemate where they would be safe from the bombs and bullets that now flew in all directions.
The strongest patients and the few uninjured soldiers who had been on duty now took up arms and rushed back over to the surviving hospital buildings to beat off the attack. The defence was organized by Commissar Nikolai Bogateyev and Dr Stepan Babkin. Weapons and ammunition were issued to those who felt they could handle a weapon. Bettina was not one of those who felt she could be of any service in this respect. She watched as many of the doctors, nurses, orderlies, and patients also took up weapons. However willing they may have been, they could not hope to withstand the crack infantry troops for long.
The German assault forces soon penetrated the hospital grounds and the survivors fled back to the tunnel to await their fate. They brought with them horrific tales of what they had witnessed as the invaders surged through the hospital buildings, shooting, tossing grenades and bayonetting patients and medical staff alike.
With the morning sun behind him, Dimitri Korsak headed back to the fortress. Behind him the dust trails obscured the horizon, the rear units of the German advance kicking up clouds, some 25km long. He briefly calculated where the front line was now. “If it was Kobrin this morning, then how many kilometres further east was it now?” Occasionally he would wish for the sight and sound of Soviet planes passing overhead, the first sign of a Soviet counterattack, but none came. The only planes over Belorussia were headed in the opposite direction. The Luftwaffe constantly flew overhead, passing into the east unopposed. The sun was already hot and his mouth was parched. Normally he would have gone looking for water, but, suspecting that the German reserves may not be far off, he kept as straight a line as possible for the fortress, hoping the defenders were still holding out. He briefly entertained the notion that the citadel may be the furthest point west in a new rolling Soviet offensive, but reason and reality forced him to dismiss this hope as unsupported fantasy.
“Live in the present moment, deal with the observed facts, and do not get distracted by daydreams.”
Then, in front of him, he made out the unmistakeable sight of dust clouds coming towards him. Quickly calculating their direction and factoring in the knowledge that the column would travel across the open terrain of the grain fields he himself was in, Korsak decided to detour for a mile and head for the oak trees to his right.
“Bastards!” he thought to himself. “How could it be so easy? Why was there no warning? Where were the opposing forces?”
He consoled himself with the further thought that this state of affairs could surely only be temporary. The distances were so vast. How many times had he flown over them himself? Surely Stalin was setting a trap at this very moment? Draw them in, draw them in, wait until the supply lines are stretched. Yes, we are strong in the south. Maybe some grand pincer movement was already under way, a giant outflanking. Striding on through the huge field of ripening wheat Korsak cursed the decision not to take a crew. As he moved through the endless wheat Korsak again reprimanded himself. There were now no grand plans or strategies. “Just keep your eyes and ears open, concentrate on the here and now.”
Before long he was amongst the oaks, which gave good protection, cover from the air, and shade from the endless sun while he considered what to do next.
Up ahead he saw a road leading to the entrance of the abandoned quarry which he had passed on the way out. Unfamiliar trucks were now parked there and above the rumble of explosions and roar of aircraft he could discern a new and disturbing sound, the sound of female voices, then shots and screams.