With these thoughts running through his mind, Karl Wendorff prepared to drink his first full glass. He paused briefly, but his parched and dehydrated body, forgetting the habit of a lifetime, called for him to drink anything. He began to drink the glass offered to him. He had to stop halfway through, as he felt the vile spirit rise up from his gut and try to force itself back out his mouth. By an act of sheer will he managed to swallow it back down without throwing up. He then took a breath and downed the second half of the glass, fighting to keep his face from screwing up too much; trying to give the impression that he was an old hand at this game. The second glass followed quickly and went down a little easier. The sergeant was next, drinking the two glasses in quick succession without the flicker of an eye or even a facial muscle. Wendorff could feel his brain start to heat up.
“So, comrade, it is apparent that you were unlucky today. You did not make a single catch?” asked the burly Russian private, the one who was doing all the talking.
“It is not fish, but water, that he is trying to catch. For the wounded,” said Sergeant Tarovsky, thankfully answering the question for Wendorff.
“This was your idea?” asked the private, looking at Wendorff.
Wendorff nodded, at which point he could feel an almost palpable outpouring of warmth and respect.
“It may be,” said the private, “that in these conditions, water is as valuable as ammunition. One of the nurses described to me the agonies being undergone by patients. There is no water to boil, so not only are infections increasing, but amputations… amputations with a cold knife… this is not something we want to think about. So, thank you, comrade. This is a great service you do.”
Wendorff found himself nodding in humility at the power of the compliment. All the time aware though that not only was he the one responsible for the water in the fortress being cut off in the first place, but that the whole fishing for water story was a lie. He began to feel uncomfortable.
“What is the current situation with the fortress?” the private asked Sergeant Tarovsky.
“The fascists have captured the Terespol gate and most of the western island. Cholmsker Island is gone, but under Captain Zubyachov and Commissar Fomin we are still holding out in the citadel. The defences there are strong and we still hold at the east fort.”
Then there was silence as the group waited for the answer to the one great unspoken question.
“I regret, no,” continued the sergeant, “there is no word yet of reinforcements.”
The atmosphere in the room dropped palpably and Wendorff felt his own mood drop too. Why was that? Where did this sudden feeling of solidarity come from? The thought of possibly having to kill one or more of these men in the coming hours and days depressed him. The need to get the message to von Schroif now seemed irrelevant. Perhaps he should just stay here with these men, his new pals, a group of skulking cowards selfishly consuming the last of the precious liquid which could be put to good use in the stinking hell of the tunnels beneath them. His addled brain told him he could stay with these equally hopeless men and let the world continue its fight outside. He could make sure they were treated well…
Suddenly there was the noise of footsteps in the corridor outside and the atmosphere in the room was transformed. The private grabbed his submachine gun and dashed out of the door. Most of the drinkers followed him. Wendorff remained sitting, looking in bemused terror at the equally confused figure of Sergeant Tarovsky. There was now the sound of shouting, screaming and machine-gun fire in the corridor outside. The last of the Russian soldiers who had occupied the room grabbed his rifle and ran to the door. Almost immediately, he fell back inside. He had been raked by machine-gun fire and his chest was a mass of bullet holes. He lay bleeding and dying, but Wendorff just sat there, stunned into immobility. It was then that he heard a clank and a grenade bounced off the inside of the open door and landed right in front of him.
Wendorff just stared at it, but the sergeant had more presence of mind. He hurriedly plucked it off the floor and threw it back into the corridor. Both men dived for the floor as the deafening explosion shrieked through the corridor. After that, all he could hear was the screaming in German of a young man who screamed for his mother. Wendorff stayed face-down on the floor, his only reaction to instinctively arm himself with his knife as the bold Sergeant Tarovsky picked himself up, fixed a bayonet to his rifle, and stepped outside.
The next sound Wendorff heard was the death rattle of the young German as his misery ended. Then came more shouts and the unmistakeable screams of hand to hand combat, grunts, shouts and the sounds of clubbing and stabbing; the noise of a fight to the death. The sounds came to an abrupt end and Wendorff hid behind the door, knife in hand. Then he heard the sound of footsteps and, turning slowly, was appalled to see the sight of Sergeant Tarovsky walking slowly back into the room, a young German on the end of his bayonet. The German took a series of agonising slow and faltering steps backward before Tarovsky twisted the bayonet and the German fell to his knees as he cried out for help. The man was beyond help and there was no prospect of mercy in this confined version of hell. The sergeant gave one final twist and pulled the bayonet out of the dead man.
“Out, before the next wave arrives,” ordered Tarovsky.
Wendorff fell in obediently behind him. He and his quick thinking companion fled back down the staircase and reached the safety of the tunnels of the east fortress.
Von Schroif sat under the bough of a shady oak tree. He was engaged in the task he hated more than any other, writing sad letters of condolence to bereaved parents. Many officers had a standard form that they harnessed for each fatality, but this practical approach offended von Schroif’s sense of honour. He tried to write each one completely from scratch, adding personal details, but everything he wrote amounted to the same pack of lies, all attempting to conceal the awful details behind what was mostly a series of grisly traumas.
There was no such thing as a painless death in an armoured fighting vehicle. Vicious shards of metal tore soft bodies to pieces or, even worse, cruel flames immolated the crew. If he was honest, von Schroif could have scrapped all the nonsense about single bullets to the heart and peaceful last moments and simply written “Dear Madam, I regret to inform you that your son was trapped in his vehicle and burned alive. He died screaming for help, but received none. He took about three minutes to die. We are certain that he was tortured by the utmost agonies. Yours etc., Hans von Schroif, Officer Commanding.”
He was not altogether sorry therefore to be interrupted by the sound of an approaching staff car. He was intrigued to see that it was a Luftwaffe vehicle. No sooner had the car drawn to a halt when there came a loud shout followed by a cheery word of greeting and there, springing from the car, was his old friend, Oberleutnant Rossheim.
On duty, Rossheim was the archetypal Prussian, serious and business-like. Like von Schroif, Rossheim was one of those men who loved to get his hands dirty. He loved life at the front and felt that he could carry out no greater duty than when asked to put his experience and skill to any mission. Off duty, however, he was magically transformed into a garrulous and vocal reprobate who loved to drink, carouse and hang out in any bordello he could find. Rossheim was the type of character who made life bearable, and he was just the man to ease the growing feeling of defeat which now hung over von Schroif, despite the successful conclusion to the protracted siege that was now just days away.