The escort grenadiers did not bother to look; rather, they stared with hostility at the sergeant. Angst looked. The barefooted, the underequipped, and the untrained. Soldiers who were never soldiers until only yesterday or the day before. Lustig brought the matter to the attention of the men in his own company.
“Did any of you participate in this?”
Minnesinger and Richter shook their heads animatedly and answered in unison, “No, Sergeant.”
“And you did nothing to try to stop it, did you?”
“It just sort of happened,” Richter said. “Not like it was planned. They all came up from the dugout, yelling for food. Demanding it, like the corporal said.”
Schroeder wore an expression of keen satisfaction. “I did it because they irritated me. These Bolshevik swine tore my platoon apart. Your company almost ceased to exist because of the likes of them, and you’re giving me grief?” Schroeder appeared genuinely astounded.
“I will inform regiment of this incident, corporal. I intend to pursue this.”
“Then be prepared, Sergeant. I’m going to get a medal for what I did here today” Schroeder said, and then spat in the bloody face of one of the dead. He spun around and walked away with his small gang of panzergrenadiers swaggering behind.
“Cold-blooded, arrogant bastard,” Lustig muttered.
“He’s right, you know; they’ll pin a medal on him,” Minnesinger said.
It was true, Lustig thought; the incident would be ignored and then conveniently forgotten. The best he could hope for was that the men under his command try and behave decently. He felt like a relic from some other time. Soldierly traditions such as honor and respect toward one’s enemy had no place in this wilderness. It never had. This was altogether different; something worse. The Fuehrer had proclaimed that the war in the east would be like none other in human history. Given what Lustig had witnessed so far, that statement had proven to be a brutal truth. And the men had all understood it to be true sooner than he. For a brief, imperceptible moment, Lustig wanted to rebel against something or someone. But he did not know how or, more importantly, against whom.
A signalman from the company command bunker jogged up the trench, made brief notice of the dead Russians, came to attention in front of the sergeant, and saluted.
“Captain Raeder has just arrived at company headquarters and wants you to report to him immediately.”
“Get this mess cleaned up,” Lustig said, and followed the signalman back down the trench.
Pieper lay on the outer hull of the assault gun and leaned against the sloped gun shielding that had been marred by numerous dents and small cracks in the armor. On the ground, Naumann and Kurowski struggled with oversized wrenches and spanners as they completed the repairs on the damaged track link assembly with a small reserve section. In the fighting compartment, Hofinger piped up a broadcast from the receiver. Transmissions from a spotter plane to brigade headquarters described the results of the air strike. In case the men could not hear, Pieper reiterated what he had just heard.
“The ravine has been scoured clean.”
“And the tanks,” Naumann asked.
“Kaput. Everything burns.”
The gunner grunted in satisfaction. “You pulled it off, Ulrich.”
The voice sounded distant and Pieper was too fatigued to answer. The morphine, a small dosage he allowed his gunner to administer, flowed through his veins rapidly and had begun to take effect. His thoughts had become muddled. There was something he wanted Schroeder to do, a detail that needed to be verified. He could not remember what it was, but he knew it was terribly important. All the tanks in the ravine had brewed up, and nothing remained on the steppe other than wrecks. That settles it, then, he thought; all the tanks are destroyed. All in all, it was a successful day, although there were moments when he had his doubts. The loader’s hatch opened, and Hofinger joined him on the hull. Hofinger smiled down at his two crewmates wrestling with the link section as he handed the gun commander a piece of paper, a decoded message from headquarters. Pieper read: Hold position until zero seventeen hundred hours…They had pulled back four kilometers from the battalion sector after the air strike. He continued to read:…fall back due west at best possible speed. All units are to maintain mobile defense. That would include the infantry as well, Pieper thought. “How far are we to fall back and where are we to link up?”
“That was the message in its entirety. Brigade will tell us once they know what the hell is going on,” Hofinger said.
Pieper crumpled the paper tightly in his hand. That clinches it; we’re on our own, he thought. The enemy breakthrough at Konstantinovka wasn’t under control. “Mobile defense” was command’s standard euphemism for retreat. Pull back as far and as fast as possible to shorten the line and thus, with any luck, close the breach. He dared not voice a negative opinion, so as not to affect the crew’s morale. Traveling by night, the area teeming with Russians and without a clear definition of a front line…not a task to look forward to.
“Are you in contact with Schroeder? How many left in his platoon?”
“He’s got about a squad left. He was up front with the second company, ‘settling old scores,’ as he put it. Whatever that means.”
“Tell him to get back here, right now. I want to know who’s still among us and what kind of shape we’re in.”
“Right,” Hofinger said, and climbed back down into the vehicle.
Pieper settled back. It would prove to be a long, difficult night before this was over. Pieper could easily go for medical treatment, but it would mean leaving the crew members to make the journey by themselves, and that was something he was too stubborn to allow. Not for a nosebleed. Obstinately, he would see them through the long night drive. Damn, what was it I wanted to ask Schroeder? The thought, which he had yet to grasp, continued to linger in his mind like something hiding under a blanket. Or was it a beast, under the cover of darkness?
6
Flares illuminated the night with unyielding frequency. Yellow, green, and red, the respective colors shed an eerie cast over the “no man’s land” that separated the German defensive line and the balka. Intermittent bursts of machine guns and the single crack of a rifle fired upon shadows and forms, either real or imagined. Hillocks and mounds of the countless dead afforded cover for parties of Russian shock troops as they attempted a probe. A major night attack wasn’t likely, but small, isolated assaults were guaranteed. No letup on pressure. The Russians were masters at infiltration. They would be right on top of the trenches before the grenadiers knew what hit them.
Angst, Braun, Seidel, and Wahl remained in their rifle pits and maintained vigil over the squad’s vulnerable strong point with anxiety-laced fatigue. Schmidt fired flares from a Very pistol at intervals. At any given moment, someone, somewhere, shot a flare into the sky. The battalion sector wasn’t left blind for a minute. Minnesinger came around to inform the platoon that they were to withdraw at twenty-three-hundred hours. Sergeant Lustig had briefed him in full. Most of the battalion had already pulled out at dark. Quietly. Efficiently. Nobody in the first platoon had been the wiser. Although he had been wounded slightly, earlier in the day, Captain Raeder was able to lead the withdrawal. The top kick, Kessler, was back at his side, no better or worse for wear. Division headquarters recommended that no less than forty-five kilometers had to be covered before defensive positions were reestablished by sunrise the next day.