A few hapless individuals happened to have been tending to some wounded in the courtyard and had been enveloped by the fringe of the blast. Staring out over the courtyard, through the smoke and debris, Karl Wendorff tried his best not to linger too long on the lifeless forms and bloodied body parts that lay strewn across the ground and scattered about burnt-out cars and armour.
It was impossible, however, to avert his eyes. The sights were too grotesque and unimaginably dreadful. This was especially true for those blasted and mutilated frames which still contained some semblance of life. One woman in particular, just a few yards from his vantage point, was hauling herself inch by excruciating inch back towards the doorway beneath him. Something told Wendorff that she was a nurse◦— though how he could tell would have been beyond the ability of most observers. Whatever tunic or uniform she had been wearing was so blood-soaked and charred that it fell to one of those curious characteristics of the human mind◦— the ability to fill in the gaps between missing bits of information◦— to arrive at such a conclusion.
Wendorff looked on in revulsion as the stricken creature◦— for surely one could no longer apply the term nurse, woman or even human being◦— threw its one remaining hand repeatedly out in front of itself to grab at the very earth in an effort it to pull itself forward. ‘It’ was a torso with one arm remaining, the other cut off at the elbow. Blood poured from the stumps where her legs had been, three crimson trails marking her journey. To make things worse◦— as if they could get any worse◦— a still smouldering piece of shrapnel was lodged in the small of her back and Wendorff could hear the horrific sound of new blood spitting and boiling as it came into contact with the red hot metal.
Wendorff tried to look away but could not help but look at the woman’s face. Mercifully, it was impossible to make out her face, just the back of her head, charred and hairless. The only clue that there was a face was the low grunting and gasping as she made the superhuman effort to claw herself back to safety. Safety? What possible meaning could the word possess in a situation like this? Back from where to what? It then crossed Wendorff’s mind to help the woman. Would he carry her, lift her, offer her his hand? Almost immediately a spray of machine-gun fire raked across the ledge below him, forcing him to duck under the window, the dust burning into his eyes.
Leaning back against the wall, he felt like crying, he felt like he wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and never wake up. All the young life◦— all that was good and vital about him◦— felt like it had been hollowed out and rudely emptied on the ground around him. The young boy in flames, the look of betrayal in the eyes of the Russian soldier who had befriended him and confided in him, and now this pitiless creature on the ground beneath him, these visions all now seared into his brain with a power that suggested they would never ever leave him.
He, like all the young men in this war, had met the old soldiers of older wars and had listened to the stories, the stories of nightmares and cold sweats, waking up back in hell, but like all young men he had listened and forgotten, thinking it a weakness of particular old men. This could never happen to him surely?
However, in this moment, Karl Wendorff now realised and partook of a universal truth, one that affects all warriors of all ages. The truly shocking and indescribable can never be related or described. It cannot be discussed, talked or reasoned away. Once seen, it can never ever be forgotten. This realisation, that these ghosts would haunt him forever, that these brutalities would visit and revisit him, even in his sleep, was the last straw for Karl Wendorff. He curled himself into a ball and shook uncontrollably, an inner voice repeating itself over and over in the dark, “Take me from here! Take me from here!”
He was interrupted by the soft voice of Nurse Bettina Ostermann.
“Bandsman Oistrakh, can you help me? Surely the end is now here. We need someone to help the children to safety. We need to get them out.” She carried with her a white flag made from her underskirt which had been crudely fastened to a pole.
“I agree, the time has come, there is no more to be done here,” said Wendorff, accepting the makeshift banner from Bettina.
“Excellent. Now let’s get moving. You have a sympathetic face. This may be the job for you, come.”
They moved down the steps and soon arrived at a tunnel which led into a cellar, the occupants of which would have softened the heart of even the hardest and war-weariest soldier. In the dimly lit near-darkness, a group of children, the oldest of whom couldn’t have been much older than seven or eight years old, stared back at Wendorff and Nurse Ostermann as they entered the cellar.
Despite all they had seen and suffered, their eyes were still bright, their spirits undimmed. Some wore bandages and splints, but the thing that impressed most upon Wendorff was the silence. There was no wailing, crying or pleading, just the wide-eyed trust that suggested they knew they were in safe hands and that everything was going to be all right. In all this violence and madness, these truly were the innocent.
“From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. These young eyes have seen enough already,” said Bettina. “Who knows what future awaits them? But God knows, it has to be better than they have suffered in here. On behalf of them, their parents, and Mother Russia, I salute you.”
Wendorff felt a welling-up in his soul, but remained silent and just nodded. Bettina Ostermann had hidden reserves of strength and she rose to the situation. “If you carry the flag, I will follow with the children. They will be fine. We have grown quite close.”
This last statement was accompanied by such a gentle hint of a smile that Wendorff could not help but smile back. It was then that he noticed her beauty, a beauty that found its origin not just in her face or figure, but also in her spirit and heart. This became even more evident when she smiled, turned and kneeled before the children, explaining in soft clear tones what was about to happen. The children stared up at Wendorff wide-eyed, like true-believers to the one true Saviour.
The catastrophic force of the two colossal blasts in quick succession had sucked out the will to resist. In any conflict, there comes a moment that is the tipping point. It is that moment when rock-solid resolve suddenly evaporates and all that is left is hopelessness. The defenders of the east fort had now reached that point. Within minutes, a series of white flags had been waved along the walls and windows of the east fort.
With his hands above his head, Wendorff continued to wave the flag and stepped out into the courtyard. To Bettina’s surprise, he also started shouting out in fluent German.
“Cease fire! Cease fire! We are coming out with the children! There are wounded, we are surrendering! Please don’t shoot! We surrender!”
He had to keep waving the flag to obscure the fact that his arm was shaking uncontrollably. As he realised the danger of his predicament, a current of fear ran through him like electricity. Here he was, dressed as a Soviet soldier. Any idiot or avenger could cut him down, but no shots were fired and, when he judged that perhaps the truce was holding, he looked behind to motion to Bettina.
“Come now, my lambs. Don’t be scared. The soldier will make sure you are safe,” she said gently as she shepherded the children out from their hiding place. Walking with her back to Wendorff, still looking at the children, she continued with her soft words of encouragement. “Don’t look at anything. Just look into my eyes. That’s it. Just look into my eyes. The nice soldier will make sure you are safe. Come, my little lambs.”