The huts by the roadside were on fire. The wooden roof shingles or thatch glowed to white heat. The house of the artillery colonel, the house in French style, was burning on the edge of the village of Podrova. Even the pump-handle of the well was being licked at by little flames. The tin regimental colours were squeaking in the hot wind. Only the Major’s hut was still cowering and intact, like a little black box, in the smoke.
The Major was on the telephone. ‘I’m telling you that Podrova’s in flames, even the phone line may break at any moment. The Russian artillery has been ranged on this place for the past half-hour, and low-flying planes are raking us with incendiaries. Now please understand that this isn’t some local initiative, but that the Russian has gone on to the offensive.’
‘Schnitzer, my dear fellow,’ replied the voice on the other end of the line, ‘from everything we know about the enemy here at divisional HQ, I assure you that’s out of the question. It’s nothing more than an – admittedly heavy – attack on the blocking position, and, as ever, that blasted hill. The general is of the view that your company will be able to regain control of the situation. He asks that you keep him abreast of developments through me.’
‘I’ve been keeping you abreast, as you put it, for the last hour,’ the Major said a little more loudly than necessary, even though the rattle of the fire was coming in through the shattered window panes, and had forced him to raise his voice a little anyway.
The man on the other end appeared to ignore the volume. ‘Yes indeed,’ he countered, ‘but what you’ve had to say is nothing new. Strong enemy fire on the blocking position and the heights. The barrage moving slowly back, and for the past half-hour it’s been levelled at Podrova. That’s what I’ve been hearing from the infantry, the light and heavy artillery, the observers in your sector, the ack-ack. Now what I want to know from you is: what is your company doing? The blocking position is critical. If that collapses, we’ll have to take counter-measures tomorrow morning.’
The Major ducked. A low-flying fighter swooped over the roof. Through the engine noise, he heard bursts and spurts of fire along the main street. He kept the receiver pressed to his ear. As though sitting with crossed legs at his desk, he replied: ‘I seem to remember twice having informed you that we have never had direct contact with the blocking position. There is only radio contact with the adjoining infantry position on the right. And there’s silence from them. It takes a runner two hours to get here from the blocking position. Even if one got through, which I would regard as an impossibility, any news he brought would be out of date.’
The speaker in divisional HQ waited while the line crackled. He cleared his throat: ‘I’m sure your situation is very difficult, but it’s not up to the division to dig you out of trouble. You’ll have to do that by yourself. Once you know more, give me a call.’
It sounded condescending, impatient.
The Major bit his lip. ‘I’m perfectly willing to dig myself out of trouble,’ he said sarcastically. ‘But what I want from the ruddy division is permission for the artillery to fire. That’s the only thing I ask of you!’ His voice had acquired an edge of anger. ‘I want my company to get the sense that something’s being done for them. The other three companies have been detached from my battalion and put with other regiments. I have no more replacements. So I want the artillery to return fire. I’m telephoning because I don’t have permission from the division for the artillery to fire. And I’ll keep on telephoning as long as the line holds. I swear. Whether it suits you or not!’
‘Schnitzer, stop playing silly buggers.’ The line crackled again. ‘It’s three in the morning. On your account, I woke the general’s orderly, and he relayed your request to the general. And I told you what he said. But that’s not to say that I can wake the general every time you call. You don’t know what things are like at HQ. You see things from your particular point of view. You’re in the thick of things. But here . . .’ the voice in the earpiece came out much louder, in a scream, but that was the fault of the line, ‘here everything is as per normal! I can’t break with protocol for you.’
‘I see,’ said the Major icily. ‘In that case I just have one question!’
‘Go on.’
‘Am I talking to divisional HQ, or is this a lunatic asylum?’
‘What’s that?’ The voice suddenly sounded as though it was coming through a wall.
‘Never mind.’ The Major hung up. The room was lit up by the brightness of the conflagration. A shadow stood in the doorway.
‘What do you want?’
A light whining in the air deepened to a hum. Something whooshed and whistled over the roof. The shell burst smack in the middle of the village street.
‘What do you want?’ the Major repeated. A shower of earth rained down on to the roof.
The Sergeant saluted, as though he’d been summoned. He took a couple of steps forward from the doorway, into the lit-up room.
The Major stared at the man as if he were an apparition. ‘Sergeant!’
‘Yes, Major?’
‘What’s happening at the blocking position?’
The Sergeant hesitated. The Major saw his face twitch. He reached a bottle off the table, and held it out to him.
‘Here, have a drink before you go any further!’
A voice on the village street moved nearer, wailing: ‘Ambulancemen! Ambulancemen!’
The man passed the house. The Sergeant set the bottle to his lips. Drank in greedy gulps. Firelight flickered across his face. It was a long time before he set the bottle down. Then he looked at the Major – vacantly, as though he had nothing to say.
‘Well?’ The commander couldn’t repress his curiosity any more.
‘The Russians are attacking,’ said the Sergeant, as if that explained his presence here.
The Major hesitated. He was still waiting for his report. When the Sergeant persisted in his obdurate silence, he tried to prompt him:
‘What does your commanding officer have to say?’
‘Well . . .’ The Sergeant looked round the room, and started to sweat.
‘Are you unwell?’ asked the Major.
‘No . . . well, maybe . . . yes.’
‘Your nerves are shot,’ said the Major. ‘Well, that’s true of every one of us.’ Like a doctor, he put out his hand and took the Sergeant’s wrist, felt his hot pulse. He touched the cool watchcase. ‘All right now, just a few details please. Get a grip on yourself. You’re bringing the very first account from the blocking position. Is the company holding out?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied the Sergeant pathetically. There was an explosion outside. A blast of air ripped through the room. The beams creaked. When the smoke cleared, the window frames lay shattered on the floor. A confusion of maps and papers and shards of glass. The Sergeant was crouching on the ground.
‘Did you catch some of that?’ asked the Major.
The Sergeant got to his feet. He said: ‘Report from the company, sir. Following intense artillery preparation, the enemy moved against the blocking position. The company is holding out, but reinforcements are urgently required.’
The Major looked at him piercingly. ‘Come on, man, we’re not on manoeuvre!’ He swished his hand through the air. ‘For God’s sake, what is the Russian strength? Are they attacking with tanks? Have we enough ammunition, how heavy are our losses? Whatever you saw before you left, tell me.’ The Major corrected himself: ‘And tell me – what time actually did you leave?’
The Sergeant flinched: ‘My watch stopped.’
The Major shook his head. From outside, a voice called: ‘Where’s the assembly point?’
The Major leaned out of the window: a roughly bandaged head. Further back in the smoke was another man propped on a stick, with an arm in a sling.
‘What unit?’
The man with the head wound saw his shoulder tabs. He straightened up: ‘Infantry regiment Hartmann. Light machine-gunner.’
‘When did you leave your unit?’
‘Why did I leave my unit?’
‘When!’ the Major roared at him. ‘When – I want to know!’
‘Over half an hour ago, Major.’
‘Your unit is to the right of the hill?’
‘Correct, Major!’
‘Then how can you have left your unit half an hour ago?’
‘That’s what I did, Major. A vehicle gave us a lift.’
‘What time did the Russian attack begin?’
‘Must have been about eleven at night, Major, sir.’
‘I’m talking about the attack, not the artillery barrage!’
A fighter roared over the roofs from the direction of the village, flying towards the front. Its machine gun was jabbering wildly. The Major identified a red star on the wing. The man with his arm in a sling rolled himself up into a ball on the street. The Major ducked under the window frame. The man with the head wound flattened himself against the wall. When it was gone, he stood up again.
‘The sons of bitches,’ he swore, ‘they haven’t started attacking yet.’
‘Are you telling me that as of half an hour ago, there’d been no move?’
‘Not in our sector, sir. And not left or right of us either. Nor against the hill. We would have noticed.’
‘Are you quite certain of that?’ the Major asked with a strange intensity.
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Thank you. There’s a Red Cross tent at the end of the village.’
The Major slowly turned back to the room. He called: ‘Sergeant?’
The room was empty.
‘I don’t get it,’ he muttered. He walked back and forth. As if he was already out in the open. Round him bare walls. A wooden ceiling. The roof that did nothing but keep out some of the sky. Alternating hot and cold draughts through the window holes. And the rattling and crackling of the flames.
The brown telephone box which had fallen over on the desk now began to buzz.
‘Command-post Schnitzer.’
The familiar voice from battalion HQ: ‘Just rang back to tell you the artillery’s been given permission to fire back.’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’ The Major’s voice sounded icy.
‘That’s all right. We’re catching it ourselves.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Heavy enemy artillery bombardment of Emga. We’ve just had an air attack.’
‘That was quick.’
‘Yes, a bit of a surprise. But now we’re getting our skates on.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Not exactly,’ the earpiece said in a peculiar tone. ‘We’re moving.’
‘You what?’
‘The division’s relocating.’
‘This is hardly the time for jokes.’ The Major frowned.
‘No joke,’ the voice gave back. ‘Just one of the facts that we deal in.’
‘But with all this going on, you can’t move the division!’
‘Oh, the division’s not moving. It’s staying put. The order’s going out to you that the position must be held. Only our HQ is being withdrawn slightly, or at least that’s how the General put it. By the way, he was in his pyjamas as he got in the car. Thought you might like to know.’
‘Unbelievable.’
‘Yes,’ said the voice after a pause. ‘And do you know why I’m telling you that?’
‘No, I can’t quite make sense of it after our previous conversation.’
‘You will in a minute. I have a personal command to convey to you as well.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You are instructed to join the blocking position, to set a personal example to the fighting men.’
‘Those your words?’ Shells gurgled overhead.
‘No. Those of a general in pyjamas. And he might have got them from a children’s storybook.’ The shells struck in the village. ‘Bastards,’ said the voice on the line. ‘But you should know who you’re putting your balls on the line for.’
‘Pretty encouraging, isn’t it?’
‘Highly.’ The officer in divisional HQ lowered his voice. ‘Now I understand why you kept badgering me for permission for the artillery. It doesn’t have to be that only the good guys die. A nod or wink at the proper moment . . .’
‘True,’ said the Major, ‘and I won’t be joining the blocking position because of the General’s say-so, but because there are still a couple of decent people there, who might have some use for me. Whatever decent things we do, we do for the decent people among us. Maybe that’ll help you? You could probably do with some help yourself?’
There was a click in the bakelite, but no further answer.
‘Hello!’ shouted the Major. He pressed the connection button twice. The line remained inert. Thoughtfully he put down the receiver, and stepped outside into the smoke-filled corridor. The Adjutant was leaning exhausted in an alcove.
‘What’s going on?’
The Adjutant merely shook his head, and indicated his sleeve. There was a tear in the uniform from shoulder to wrist. ‘I was standing on the street when the fighter came over,’ he reported shakily.
‘Well, you’re in luck,’ responded the Major carelessly. ‘I need to go to the Front. I want you to take over the battalion. Don’t pull any stunts.’
‘Major?’
The Adjutant looked totally bemused. But the door was already closing, and the Major disappeared into the smoke. Heat batted into his face. Somewhere in the village small-arms ammunition was going up with a rattle. He ran to the back of the building, where his jeep was parked.
‘The Front!’ he barked at his driver. The engine wheezed into life. The smoke draped itself round the windscreen like a protective grey cloth. Once they had left the burning village, it got better. They headed east, in the direction of the fiery horizon. The sand hissed under their tyres. They drove faster. When the cemetery came, there was suddenly a yawning crater in the road.
The driver clutched his wheel, the brakes squealed, the windscreen flew towards the Major. He closed his eyes, the jeep seemed as if it would turn over. For a split second, the world drowned in shock. Then they came to a stop between the cemetery crosses. The jeep trembled like an exhausted animal.
The driver asked stupidly: ‘What now?’
‘Through the cemetery!’
The crosses clattered against the bumper, and the wheels bounced among the graves. The Major felt a vague unease. Just before they rejoined the tarmac, a couple of planes flew silently out of the treetops. They banked steeply up into the air, and wheeled down in a shaking trajectory. They had spotted the grey crate in the midst of the white crosses. Little red flames spat out of the propellers. Earth spurted up. The driver was already lying pressed to the earth, in front of the radiator. The Major stared fixedly up into the sky, at the two cockpits racing towards him. Bullets tracked towards the car. Birch crosses splintered. The air grew unbearably warm, then there was a brief thrumming, and the metal of the jeep was riddled with holes. The engine noise ceased. The cemetery lay there impassively, as though nothing had happened. A pale expanse of morning sky stretched over the swaying grasses. Peace and solitude. Even the burning village somehow participated. In the distance, a charred structure collapsed without a sound. The driver lay in the grass in front of the jeep. A whitish fluid dribbled from the back of his head. The Major laid the dead man out on his back. He found it hard to close the man’s eyes. He thought of his daughter. Pain, mingled with rage and helplessness. He leaned forward, and attempted something resembling a prayer. But he could produce no sound. Only a memory surfaced in him. Something that had happened twenty-five years ago seemed to have happened only yesterday . . .
A ring at the door. The landlady announces: ‘There’s a lady come to speak to you.’ The lady comes in. ‘I’ve been told you were the last company commander of my son. Private Lotz. He’s been reported missing.’ ‘Missing? That surely can’t be.’ The woman smiles through her tears. ‘I knew it. He’s alive after all. He must be in some field hospital somewhere. His letters have gone astray. The revolution. It’s terrible. Do you know where he is?’ Striped wallpaper. A green glass lampshade. The gloss peeling off the double windows. Shall I tell her he’s dead? She has wrinkles in her face. As if someone had taken a nail to a piece of art. Etched grooves all over her face. He was her only son. ‘I don’t have any information for you, I’m afraid. He was wounded.’ ‘Well, and?’ ‘We got him back. The revolution . . . The confusion . . . You understand. I’m sure you’ll hear before long.’ A wounded man caught in the barbed wire. The ambulanceman is shot in the head as he tries to get him back. The company commander forbids all further attempts to rescue him until cover of darkness. By then, the wounded man is dead. ‘But you were his company commander, weren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ The mother cries. ‘If you hear from your son, will you let me know.’ The woman leaves, with tears in her eyes . . .
The Major got up and looked around. A black steel storm hung menacingly over the Front. The remnants of a company were fighting in the blocking position. Somewhere, women were waiting for their husbands, children for their fathers. He recalled his fatuous order, the attack on the log-road. He left the cemetery with grim determination. He selected the quickest route to the Front, the route through the swamp.