“With the head start the rest of battalion has, that’s barely possible. What’s to become of us?” Braun lamented. He voiced the fear everyone in the squad was thinking. Good news made bitter by the poison of futility. Minnesinger attempted to quiet their worries. He explained, as Lustig had described, the manner in which the pullout was organized—in stages, and each battalion would have a lead by no more than two hours at most. “It’s very likely we will catch up with one unit or other from the Regiment shortly after dawn,” Minnesinger said, trying to reassure them. He then instructed Angst which route to follow out of the company sector. The squad was to exit the platoon ellipse from the right, following the trench that bypassed the company command bunker, and continue until the trench linked directly to the main communication lane and out of the sector completely. Minnesinger impressed upon them all not to deviate from this course. Access to all other trenches and strong points was strictly “verboten.” Mines and booby traps had been sown throughout the bunkers, emplacements, and trenches. They were not to scavenge in the hope of finding something of value that might have been left behind. When the Russians finally entered the abandoned positions, a nasty surprise was waiting to greet them. Trip wires placed inside an officer’s briefcase stuffed with documents or under a map case. A high-explosive charge rigged to a box of field ration tins. The availability of food always aroused the Russians’ interest. They would act recklessly, move the partially opened box lid, and it would detonate. Even seemingly harmless things, like a small pile of personal effects that had belonged to dead comrades-in-arms. Small, inconsequential items like snapshots, letters from home, or a tobacco pouch. Sift through the pile, and the curious are left without hands or a face. Create panic and terror; the potential of death lurking with each footfall. The German rear guard could not slow down the Russian offensive advance. There wasn’t the manpower or tactical weapons available. Not for this regiment, at any rate, they all knew. Only the mines could do what the weak, desperate units couldn’t, and that was to force the Russians to examine every square meter of ground, centimeter by deadly centimeter. Antitank and personnel mines had been laid west of the divisional sector. Minnesinger showed Angst a map where the dummy mine fields were, so they could cross over in safety. He admonished them all one last time before he left. “Don’t touch anything, and don’t set foot where you don’t belong.” No one foresaw a problem. They all wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
So, the Tortoise Line was to be abandoned, Angst thought. The corps and divisions of two armies were in retreat. This was the second time in less than a week! The industrial heart of the Donets Basin was lost forever. The Wehrmacht would never make its way back here again. No counterattacks or offensives to retake the wealth of coal and machinery necessary to maintain the war. Even if the will existed, there wasn’t the strength.
Twenty-two-thirty hours. The platoon had gathered their gear. Assault packs, mess tins, shelter halves, and gas mask canisters strapped on, buckled, cinched, and tied down tight. No clatter that might give away their movements. Richter dropped by with a handful of Pervitin and a bottle of schnapps. The night march would be long, and Minnesinger didn’t want them passing out on their feet. The keen edge of the drug and alcohol was needed. The amphetamine helped fuel the invasions of Poland and France, as necessary as petrol, and Angst remembered being hopped up on the stuff in those days—entire armies were. What pushed the men forward during blitzkrieg now was used to keep the troops mobile and alert for lightning retreats over great distances. But it was getting harder to come by. It was terrific when you were on the drug, fearless and unstoppable, but a devil of a descent. Paranoia lay coiled in the brain and could spring out at any moment.
On schedule, Angst led the squad down the silent empty trench. As they followed the assigned course through the third platoon area, past the company bunker, they fell in behind the tail end of Minnesinger and the rest of the men who had filtered into the communication trench from the left of the ellipse.
Lustig and a machine gun crew occupied an emplacement near the bunker. He gave them all a thumbs-up as they passed. The sergeant could have led the company out but opted to remain behind to shoot off the last flare, a final burst of the machine gun, to maintain the deception of a continued presence. The platoon would have passed the regimental headquarters bunker before Lustig and the machine gun crew followed. Angst hoped they lost no time.
7
The slow, inexorable trek to the front was reversed. Angst headed back in the direction he had traveled originally—only this time, the journey was to be made on foot rather than by train. The night was warm and still, and the only sounds that could be heard were the dry feather grass and weeds crushed underfoot. The sky was a magnificent extravagance of stars against a background of ink blue. It seemed as though he walked beneath a limitless, jewel-encrusted dome, strangely beautiful, but overpoweringly lonely. Angst felt terribly alone, despite his Kameraden, who walked alongside him. Despite this loneliness, he felt a tinge of exhilaration. He had survived a day of so much death and carnage. He had trembled and wept before and after the firefights and had wet himself, involuntarily, at some point. Having made it through alive emboldened him.
Spread widely across the steppe, the platoon had marched for several hours when the first signs of fatigue started to creep back. The Pervitin had begun to wear off, but he had to remain alert; they all had to. His thoughts wandered, mainly to the events that brought him to this alien, dangerous place. He blamed Lieutenant Nieheus for his arrogance and stupidity and cursed his own misfortune for having accepted the role as the lieutenant’s orderly. And he prayed that the very worst would befall Colonel Heinrich, the division Aide-de-camp; because of that officer’s vanity and petty cruelty, he now found himself in the inextricable situation he’d been thrust into. How long had it been since he and the lieutenant had received their orders, in a most unorthodox, even melodramatic fashion? Angst figured the date tonight was the eighth or ninth of September. He made an attempt at counting back the days but got lost. He could well remember that oppressive evening in mid-July when the telephone rang. He’d been tidying up the lieutenant’s quarters. Nieheus took the call, and after he hung up, an unsettled mood came over him. They were to expect the arrival of the colonel within minutes, and both he and Angst were to accompany him: reason and destination unknown. Nieheus tried to shrug it off. Probably some exercise or staff meeting. The atmosphere at division headquarters had become unbearable lately. The Americans had recently landed in southern Italy, and the Kursk offensive, Operation Citadel in Russia, was not proving to be as successful as one would have hoped. In fact, word circulated it was a disaster. All the staff officers were in a foul mood, wondering if the division was to be packed up and shipped off to Mother Russia to make up, if only in part, for the appalling losses suffered at Kursk. A posting in France was too comfortable to be reassigned from.
The staff car arrived. Large and black, it reminded Angst of a hearse. Behind the wheel was Sergeant Kortner, an NCO with a reputation for brutality. He had never before been the colonel’s driver. Both Angst and the lieutenant knew that whatever the colonel had in store for them both it wasn’t good, perhaps not the specifics as to what would occur, but certainly the reason as to why they were summoned—or abducted. The back door of the staff car opened slowly, and Nieheus got in. Angst was made to sit up front with the NCO. They drove in silence for several minutes, and then the lieutenant asked if there was an emergency of some kind. “The Americans haven’t landed on the coast, I pray?” Nieheus asked, lightheartedly. Coldly, the colonel told him to keep his mouth shut. There was no denying what this fateful rendezvous with the colonel signified. This was personal. A mortally silent tension enveloped the car for the duration of the trip.