“Are you hurt?” Angst did not recognize the sound his own voice made.
Schmidt used his entire body to answer. The shrug seemed to indicate he was unharmed. Angst leaned further into the rifle pit and looked through the loophole. Nothing happened. Only the dead and dying lay on the steppe. He knew they could not withstand another onslaught.
“I’m going to see who’s left,” he said, and patted his friend gently on the arm. Schmidt continued to shake.
Angst crawled in the direction of the machine gun emplacement. Piles of soft, loose dirt had filled in the trench from the pounding they received from the artillery and the T-34s. He had to wade through as the dirt seeped into his collar and inside the waistband of his trousers. The layout of the strong point, once recognizable, had all but vanished. The wooden stock of a Mauser 98k burned, its orange embers emitting an intense heat. A steel helmet lay on the ground, cracked like an egg. The site of the machine gun emplacement had been totally obliterated. The ground was churned up and patterned with scorch marks. Then he saw something, lying in the dirt not more than a meter away. He could not quite make out what it was. He stepped closer. It seemed to be a small animal, its weight having made a slight impression in the loose soil, almost like a nest. Maybe it was a squirrel, a rabbit, or some small burrowing creature that inhabited the steppe. The fur had been completely stripped away and it lay quivering, skinned alive by all the shelling. How the poor thing could have survived the torrent of steel and fire was miraculous. Angst reached out toward the mutilated creature, not really sure if he intended to provide comfort or to put it out of its misery. His fingers touched the spongy mass and he immediately reeled back in horror. He suddenly understood what it actually was. Not an animal but a brain. A human brain. Violently dislodged from a cleaved skull, the organ had landed, basically intact, still pulsating. Did the mind still function? Did it know what had happened, that it had become forever separated from the body that possessed it? Were these the traumatized thoughts that caused it to pulse? Overcome by a revulsion so acute he believed he would go mad, Angst scrambled backward on all fours and collided into something. He was caught hold of in mid-scream. Wahl. He, too, looked at the grayish-pink mass and grimaced.
“Forget it,” Wahl said, and kicked dirt over the brain, hiding it from view.
Angst breathed deeply and took a moment to settle down. When he looked around, to get his bearings, he became totally confused.
“Where’s the dugout?”
Wahl pointed down the trench to where a ruined T-34 lay smoldering not more than a hundred meters away.
“Took a direct hit from that monster. There was a cave-in, and I barely managed to dig my way out.”
“And Seidel?”
“Making a sweep to find who’s left. Needless to say, I lost the connection to the command bunker. Ivan washed over us bad this time.”
We’re not supposed to be alive, Angst thought, not the squad or the platoon. He heard his name called. They both turned and saw Braun make his way over to where they sat. Braun appeared as though he had been trampled.
“We have a problem,” Braun said, as he collapsed into the soft earth, exhausted. “The Russians are inside the trenches.”
Wahl gasped. “How many?”
“Lindenberger got his head knocked off by a shovel,” Braun continued breathlessly, “and Sauer took one in the shoulder.”
“How many are they, and where?” Wahl asked.
“Minnesinger pushed them out of the strong point and into the trench linking second platoon.”
“How many?” Angst asked this time, with impatience.
“I don’t know. Twenty-five. Thirty, maybe. Minnesinger is itching to mount a counter attack before they get established.”
“Why doesn’t he call in for artillery support or the assault gun?”
“Because he’s fuckin’ crazy,” Wahl said.
Braun shook his head. “We’ve lost all communication. Besides, there isn’t time. Minnesinger says if the Russians launch another attack before this mess is cleaned up, they’ll roll straight over us for certain.”
And should the counterattack fail? Angst didn’t want to contemplate that possibility. “Find Seidel and the both of you cover the communication trench to the third platoon. Have a runner inform Lustig, should this thing get out of hand.”
“I’ll tell Lustig myself if I have to,” Wahl said, and ran off.
Braun and Angst returned to the rifle pit where Schmidt lay, stretched out and drinking deeply from a canteen.
“Stay here,” Angst told Braun. “In case the counterattack falls short, you two will have to slow them down until help arrives.” Schmidt, if he listened, did so with an air of relative unconcern. He was busy satisfying his thirst.
“Make that last. There won’t be a resupply of water anytime soon,” Angst cautioned.
“Do you really think that matters to me now?”
Angst turned to Braun. “Nothing I’ve said seems to have made much of an impression on our friend. Should I be worried about him?”
“He’s a sensitive fellow,” Braun replied, “but resilient. He’ll pull it together.”
Angst hoped he was right. He set off down the trench, grim at the thought of having to confront the enemy at close quarters. Along the way he passed a headless torso that lay in a rifle pit. Lindenberger. Two Russians lay nearby, shot so many times their bodies were beyond recognition. Angst wondered which one had actually wielded the shovel. Not that it mattered now. They both got caught and paid the price.
The trench zigzagged for another twenty meters before he reached the platoon’s main dugout, where he found Sauer. Keller, a rifleman with Minnesinger’s squad, knelt beside Sauer and changed a saturated field dressing with a new one. A sizeable chunk of meat had been shot away where the neck and shoulder joined.
“The artery is still intact,” Keller offered, when Angst looked in. Sauer exhibited a baleful look of incomprehension as he sat upright, almost completely bared to the waist, his pale skin smeared with gore. Keller shook his head sadly. “I should get him to the aid station, only Minnesinger said there isn’t time.”
“Finish up with him, and let’s go,” Angst instructed him.
Keller taped the dressing and helped the wounded gunner to lie back.” Take it easy,” Keller consoled. “I’ll get back to you soon.”
Angst grew impatient and left the dugout. He wanted to get on with whatever needed to be done before he lost his nerve completely. He joined the first gunner, Ehrling, in the machine gun emplacement. He had removed the MG42 from the continuous firing mount and laid it on the top of the sandbags, the muzzle pointing in the direction of the platoon strong point’s inner ellipse. Halle stood several meters down from the emplacement with a satchel of grenades hanging from each shoulder. He reminded Angst of a milkmaid.
“You come for the party?” Halle asked when Angst drew up beside him. Angst nodded. “I get to throw the grenades,” Halle said, and shrugged. “I don’t mind. I got a good arm.”
Further down, where the trench began to narrow and then turn, Minnesinger lay on his stomach next to Richter, who sat up against the trench wall, facing in Halle and Angst’s direction, cradling a Soviet Pshagin submachine gun on his lap.
“Why not keep the Russians contained in the trench for now,” Angst said, “And let Frank’s mortars at second platoon to flush them out?”