After circling the target area, pierced continually by red needles of tracer bullets from a half-dozen MG42s from the defensive line, the Stukas climbed up and banked around in a wide circle. The pilots aligned their aircraft above the ravine. One behind the other, at intervals, the planes descended at an incredibly steep angle, the air vent sirens on their undercarriages wailing. The first four each dropped a single SD1 aerial bomb. The fat, squat bomb canister, about the size of a bathtub, broke open at low altitude and released a squall of three hundred sixty 1-kg bomblets. What followed was an unending series of small explosions with terrific fragmentation. The remaining JU-87s followed up with incendiary bombs at key places within the ravine. The narrow sides helped to funnel white-hot flame that roiled down its length. The aircraft circled around again and strafed the area with cannon fire. After several passes, the dive- bombers turned back towards the west to refuel and rearm, then visit death upon some other seriously threatened sector of the front.
From their dugouts and rifle pits, the grenadiers gaped at the ravine that seethed with flame and black curtains of smoke. Secondary explosions occurred as the searing heat touched off the ordnance supply—mortar shells, grenades, the constant zip and ping of small arms ammunition. Geysers of flame shot into the sky as the last of the tanks cooked off.
Numb with exhaustion, Angst watched the aftermath of the airstrikes’ effectiveness with an overwhelming emptiness. No allusion to hell could suitably describe the scene. The ravine had indeed become a place on earth without hope, mercy, or reprieve. He could hear Schmidt, nearby, uttering the words from some psalm or other, over and over; the prayerful words spilled out of his mouth like drops of blood in water. It was over, Angst thought, with blunted elation; for a little while at least, it was over.
5
The men took advantage of the respite, lighting cigarettes and inhaling greedily as they tried to regain control over their shattered nerves. The flames within the ravine had diminished substantially, although the smoke was considerable, especially where the tanks had brewed up. Hiwis had arrived to help with the wounded and cart off the dead. The Russian casualties were prodigious, and many would stay where they had fallen. The prisoners were rounded up and placed under armed escort for transfer to the rear. They were only too eager to show their cooperation in the hope of being rewarded with a sip of water and something, anything to eat. The Soviet army marched, fought, and lived off the land. Supply companies for many units were unheard of. The Hiwis translated the same litany repeated by so many prisoners, the words might have been scripted—pressed into service and forced, at NKVD gunpoint, to fight. Yet, not all were willing to surrender. A high level of alert was still in effect throughout the company battle stations as some holdouts carried on the struggle to the bitter end. Small pockets of Red infantrymen had taken refuge in shell craters in and around the strong points and offered resistance. Snipers lay amid the scores of dead that littered the steppe. These were the most difficult to pinpoint and silence, as the corpses of their former comrades served the snipers well as excellent cover. Special fire teams of machine gunners and marksmen were organized among the grenadiers and given the task of dispatching these diehards in short order. Angst was grateful that neither he nor anyone from the squad had been snagged for this duty. He did see Schroeder and a few of the escort grenadiers within the platoon sector, mopping up. Their stamina was profound and awful to behold; it appeared to be fueled by rage. As soon as the whereabouts of a sniper or rifle team was located, Schroeder would unleash a firestorm of machine guns, grenades, and submachine guns. It was a brutal, dirty job, but necessary; Angst steered clear of them. He had his own task to accomplish, which was equally gruesome and depressing if he allowed himself to ponder over it. Minnesinger had him collect all the identity disc halves and pay books from the platoon’s casualties—Max Greiner, Paul Hermann, Karl-Heinz Lindenberger, and Lothar Steinmeier, one of the machine gunners from his own squad. He didn’t know Lothar at all and probably hadn’t uttered more than a dozen words to him in the entire month since he’d been with the company. But Angst liked him and didn’t know why, really. Strange. The same could be said for the second gunner, Knopfler. Angst could not even picture what he looked like. What he did know was Knopfler’s body had yet to be recovered, and the Hiwis had all but given up on digging through the ruined emplacement. Disappeared. Caught up and carried away by the storm of war.
Angst went in search of Minnesinger to turn in the pay books and disc halves and decided to stop in at first squad’s dugout on the way to scrounge a dressing. The gash in his forearm had been left untreated for too long and had grown more annoying. He found Ehrling, Braun, and Halle milling around the entrance but did not speak; they all eyed him when he went in. Sauer had since been taken away on a stretcher, but Keller still remained. His boot had been cut away and a bandage wrapped around the foot in a haphazard, even careless fashion. Angst didn’t think too much about it; he merely asked Keller how he was doing and looked around the dim hole for the first aid kit. He slipped his arm out of the field tunic and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. The field dressing normally sewn on the tunic lining had been used weeks earlier, and he’d failed to get it replaced. He had given it to somebody who’d been wounded, rather badly in fact, although he could not remember the exact circumstances. If the fellow survived, he would probably be in a field hospital or transferred back to the occupied territories. If he hadn’t, then his cross would be among the hundreds of thousands that lined the roads and highways over the great expanse of Russia. The first aid kit, Angst had discovered, had very little in the way of salves or ointments. There was tincture of iodine; wincing, Angst applied it to the cut liberally and then wrapped a length of gauze around it several times. It stung like hell. Seeing Keller, he made less of a fuss over himself. Keller’s left big toe had been shot clean off.
“What are you still doing here, Keller? Why haven’t you been given a lift back?”
Keller did not answer. The three who were lingering outside the dugout filed in at that moment. The look on Keller’s face was one of disdain.
“Keller wants it in writing that his wound is legitimate. He refuses to leave before he gets it,” Halle said.
“What’s the holdup?” Angst asked.
No one answered. Finally Keller spoke. “Why don’t you explain your theory, Halle? No? Then I will. You must understand, Corporal, that Halle, along with others whom he has managed to convince, is of the opinion that I did this to myself. During the course of a counterattack, in which I played an important role, I took the time to mutilate myself.”
“When is there a better time” Halle asked.
“You were directly behind me, Angst. Did you see me shoot myself?”
They all looked to Angst for corroboration. The wound Keller sustained would prohibit him from further service at the front, and he’d probably be discharged from the army altogether. The practice of self-inflicted wounds was, to Angst knowledge, a rarity; the severity of punishment was harsh and decisive. Keller had the reputation for being something of a malingerer, which put him out of favor with the majority of the platoon. Whether he thought himself so clever to get away with it, Angst did not know. He had no feelings about Keller one way or the other. He simply didn’t know the man.