The Sergeant stood behind a tree, watching the figures swarming in front of the artillery Colonel’s building. The roof was well ablaze, and its collapse was imminent. Soldiers were dragging boxes and cases and items of furniture out into the open. A basket of crockery came tottering out, pieces of uniform clothing were handed along a line. A couple of men tried to put out the flames, dragged buckets from the well, and emptied them over the smouldering beams.
The Sergeant recognized the soot-blackened faces. And he noticed too that the Russian shelling was moving west. The shells wailed past the ruins of the village; and exploded in the forest, among the dense trees by the sawmill.
The Sergeant stepped out from behind his cover, and cautiously looked about him. No one was watching him. He progressed hesitantly towards the village street, then, under cover of some shrubbery, bent round the back of a burned-down house. Boxes and cases lay around in the wild garden. Some exhausted men were standing together, staring into the collapsing beams. No officer about. The Sergeant walked resolutely out. An energetic swing of the arm:
‘You can’t just leave that stuff lying around.’
The startled men looked at him. They saw his stripes, and began to get to work on the chaos.
‘Over here!’ ordered the Sergeant, picking up a low chess-table and taking it to the spot he had in mind. Artillerymen, he saw they were. He felt a little out of place. When a jeep turned off the thoroughfare, he recognized the Colonel at once. ‘Carry on!’ he called. Walked with firm stride to the jeep, raised his hand to his helmet in a salute.
‘All right, all right,’ the Colonel said distractedly. He looked at the ruins of his house with irritation. ‘Can you get a car for my things?’ He screwed in his monocle, and looked at the Sergeant: ‘Oh, a field engineer – well, that’s very nice of you,’ he gruffed as he saw the black tabs, ‘but we can manage this by ourselves.’
The Sergeant was going to say something back, but the Colonel had already turned away, and was giving the necessary orders. The Sergeant therefore spun on his heel and dismissed. Where now? The village street was empty. He drifted off to one side and rejoined it at another spot. An officer came out from between the ruins. The Sergeant squared his shoulders. Made as though he had important business to do. Saluted, and passed the man. He sensed the officer’s glance in his back, and he speeded up. He reached the track. A horse and cart clattered up to him. The driver was standing upright in front of his seat, holding the reins taut. He didn’t look at the Sergeant, and disappeared into the village in a cloud of dust.
Brushwood beside the track. The Sergeant thought for a little while, and decided to stay on the road. A jeep curved round the corner and raced up to him. He leaped aside. It stopped. An officer leaned out.
‘Have you come from the Front? I’ve orders to block off any breakthrough with my battalion, but I’ve lost my way.’ He didn’t let the Sergeant get a word in. ‘Podrova – am I right for Podrova?’
‘Yes, sir . . .!’ He pointed in the direction he’d come from. The smoking village was already obscured by the treetops. ‘Another half-mile.’
‘Thanks. Now where are you headed for?’
‘Divisional HQ.’ The Sergeant looked sternly into the officer’s face. The jeep sped off. The Sergeant tramped on, but now he kept his eyes peeled on the road ahead. When a fresh dust-cloud rolled up on the horizon, he promptly jumped into the wood, and threw himself behind a bush. Marching steps, rattling gear, muffled voices. All he could see through the leaves were the boots. Infantry, evidently. Then the wheels of the support vehicles. Heavy machine guns, probably. A gap. Then more pairs of boots. An entire company. More wheels, this time light artillery. Finally, silence.
The Sergeant bided his time. Then he got back on the tarmac. Walked on, keeping to the side. From the direction of Podrova, the sounds of large-calibre explosions. Spinning shells overhead. Behind him, the soft drumming sounds of the Front. A figure appeared. The Sergeant hesitated. Marched on. A lone soldier, sweating under a heavy radio transmitter. His steel helmet bouncing along on his belt. His lank hair falling in his face. He wanted to go by. The Sergeant stopped.
‘Hello there – where’re you off to?’
The other set down his transmitter. With his sleeve he wiped the sweat off his brow. ‘Reserve radioman,’ he replied grumpily. ‘Join the artillery at Podrova. They’ve lost a wireless there.’
‘And where are you coming from?’
‘Back in the forest somewhere. They radioed us, and I had to go.’ With a vague gesture, he waved somewhere behind him.
‘Too bad,’ said the Sergeant, and offered the man a cigarette. ‘Any news of the fighting troops?’
‘A little.’
‘How’s it looking?’
The fellow didn’t seem terribly communicative. He gestured again: ‘Pretty chaotic.’
‘Details!’
‘The Russians have got through. Anyone still standing is running for it.’
The Sergeant held out the cigarette packet: ‘Here, keep the pack.’
‘Thanks.’ He grew more talkative: ‘There’s already talk of them moving the Front back to the rail crossing-point. No idea where that is.’
‘Left of the hill.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘This road goes to Podrova. Things are going to get pretty hot around here . . .’
‘Road!’ The soldier shouldered his radio-pack again. ‘It’s a bloody forest path if you ask me.’
‘Break a leg, eh!’ said the Sergeant, and went on. Bit of luck, he thought. He felt a little more optimistic. He could stay on the road. With all the confusion, who could ever prove whether he had received orders or not? In Emga, he would join the baggage train. In fact, it was his duty to do just that. There’d be plenty for him to do. Collect up scattered groups of men. Double rations for the company. Maybe even chocolate. They would certainly need him there. Thoughtfully, he went on.
He never saw the soldier who was leaning casually against a tree. At most a shadow entered his unconscious.
‘Sergeant!’
He turned with a start.
‘Just a minute, please.’
The Sergeant saw the Corporal’s stripes. ‘What’s got into you? Are you crazy?’
The Corporal walked calmly up to him: ‘All right, where to?’
The Sergeant was bewildered: this had never happened to him before. He said: ‘I won’t be spoken to like that!’
He wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He walked resolutely on. The Corporal was holding him by the sleeve. Unexpectedly, he had seized hold of him.
‘Goddamnit!’ The Sergeant knocked the hand off his arm, less furious than bemused. Then he saw the tin badge on the Corporal’s chest. He shut up. ‘Well, about time,’ said the Corporal with irritation. ‘Military Police. Your documents please.’
The Sergeant grew unsure of himself. He had a feeling of foreboding in his stomach. As he opened his wallet, his hand shook. Hope he doesn’t notice, he thought. ‘You probably think I’m a spy or something,’ he tried to joke. The Corporal looked him up and down while the Sergeant held out his paybook as if it were a disappointing school report.
‘Orders?’
‘No orders.’ He was amazed how calmly he said it.
‘From where? Going where?’ The Corporal kept staring into his eyes.
‘My company is at the Front, by the side of the hill. I have to get to the supply column at Emga.’ He was too agitated to consider what he was saying. What he said corresponded to an intention he had only recently thought of as perfectly acceptable. He couldn’t think of anything better. He tried to calm himself, but still had a sensation of being garrotted.
‘What’s your business with the supply column?’ The Corporal’s voice had a strange undertone as he asked.
‘As a Sergeant, my place is with the supply column.’ This is crap, he thought in alarm.
‘Not necessarily.’
The Sergeant started to cough. The Corporal waited politely till he had finished.
‘At what time did you leave your company’s position?’
Got to get this one right, he thought. The answer he gave now might be decisive. But everything in his head was a tangle. Shall I say: ‘Before’ or ‘After’? ‘Before’ seemed better to him. But what about the intervening time? Suddenly he had the notion of running away. But the Corporal had a pistol, the holster was unbuttoned, the butt was sticking out. He abandoned the idea.
‘At midnight,’ he answered stoutly.
‘You probably imagine we don’t know what time the Russian bombardment began?’
What’s that about? thought the Sergeant. He pondered. ‘Well, of course, before,’ he added.
‘Exactly,’ the Corporal remarked ironically. ‘Why don’t you come along with me.’ He spun the Sergeant round, gave him a brusque shove in the back, and pushed him in front of him towards a clearing in the forest. The Sergeant involuntarily remembered the Russian prisoner. ‘Human shield,’ he thought. The night had begun with the push he had given the Russian; it would end with the push in his own back.
There was a jeep in the clearing. Only now did he notice the tracks on the forest floor. Why didn’t I see them before, he wondered. Three MPs were leaning against it, smoking. Their steel helmets were lying in the grass. They looked up as he approached – a Lieutenant, a Sergeant, and an NCO.
‘Well, Meyer, you demon, who have you come up with this time?’ laughed the Lieutenant.
‘Bit of a strange case, this one. Might be worth taking a bit of time over him.’ The way the Corporal was speaking, it was as though there was no difference in rank between them. At least the Lieutenant’s an approachable fellow, thought the Sergeant. He pulled himself together, to make a good impression. Stood up straight. Saluted.
‘Lieutenant, beg to . . .’
‘Ssh. Only speak when you’re spoken to’s how we do things here,’ the Lieutenant said good-humouredly.
From behind, the Corporal reached into the Sergeant’s inside pocket, pulled out his paybook, and handed it to the Lieutenant, who slowly began to leaf through it. ‘Claims to have left his position at midnight. Confirms that the Russian bombardment had already begun. On his way to the supply column at Emga,’ said the Corporal. He stressed ‘midnight’.
‘Why not just admit you’ve done a bunk,’ said the Lieutenant equably.
‘Lieutenant . . .’
‘Yes or no. No stories.’ A confusing manner he had.
‘No, Lieutenant.’
‘What were you doing for your company?’ The Lieutenant straightened a creased page in the paybook.
‘Platoon commander!’ The Sergeant thought: Why did I write in all the details of what I was doing, and even get the Captain to confirm the dates?
‘And so your commanding officer decides to send you back to supply in the middle of the bombardment, just before the onset of an enemy attack?’
The Sergeant chewed on his lip.
‘It’s my feeling,’ the Lieutenant turned to the NCO, ‘that we’ve got a live one here.’
The Corporal nodded: ‘There’s no reason for them all to be reservists.’
‘Bad business,’ the NCO threw in, obscurely.
The Sergeant felt sick.
‘Well, let’s be off then.’ The Lieutenant stood up. ‘Take him to Emga.’
‘Yes, sir!’ A hand took the Sergeant by the sleeve, and pulled him gently to the jeep. The Corporal got in behind the wheel.
‘I want you back immediately!’
‘Yes, sir!’
They rolled out of the clearing, and got on the road to Emga.
‘Won’t be so bad,’ said the NCO, sitting next to him, and passed him a cigarette. So that the match didn’t go out, the Corporal took his foot off the accelerator. The Sergeant pulled hard on his cigarette. ‘You might be lucky,’ said the NCO. The Corporal accelerated again. Funny, thought the Sergeant, they’re making it sound as though I could be put away for this business. He looked at the speedometer. The needle was flickering around the 50 mark. A couple of times they stopped for vehicles coming the other way. The Sergeant received curious glances.
Emga. The road widened. Blockhouses. Up on a hill, a church without a roof. A building on fire, to the right. The jeep clattered over a rail crossing. Behind a steaming locomotive, a carriage with the windows whited out, and a large red cross painted on the middle of it. Banners and signposts with various tactical instructions rammed into the ground. In the middle of the road, a fountaining explosion. Because of the noise of the engine, the Sergeant had failed to hear the gurgling approach of the shell. He ducked. On the left, a long low barrack hut. The divisional emblem stuck over the door, skew-whiff. Soldiers carrying sets of files, loading them on to lorries. Behind the low wooden fence, swaddled forms on stretchers. The jeep stopped outside a tall barn. Plaster peeling off the outside. An MP standing outside.
‘Come on, get a move on!’ said the NCO, leaping out of the jeep. ‘Otherwise the Russian guns will get us!’ He waited impatiently for the Sergeant. The door was so low they had to stoop. Inside, it was pretty dark. There was a cold draught. The Sergeant couldn’t see any windows in the barn, only a little light came in through chinks in the walls. With practised movements, an NCO with a bulldog’s face took his pistol and belt off him. He didn’t have time to resist. Nor would there have been any point. Sit tight. Talk to them later. He was given a piece of card with a number on it. His name was entered in a worn ledger. Then the NCO pushed him up a staircase. Above them was a wire cage with a door in it. The NCO unlocked a padlock, let the Sergeant step inside, and clattered down the stairs. The Sergeant saw empty paper sacks. GERMAN PORTLAND CEMENT. All round damp brick walls. Three soldiers were sitting on wooden stumps, playing cards. Not cards, bits torn out of the paper sacks. Their uniforms dusty with cement. Overhead, beams and struts, and the undersides of red rooftiles. Feeble light came in through one or two chinks.
‘The last trump!’ The men paid no attention to his arrival. One of them spat on the floor. The Sergeant saw on his shoulder the traces of a removed Corporal’s insignia. ‘Maybe he can tell us what’s going on! Hey, what time are the Russians coming?’
The Sergeant didn’t answer.
‘Shy?’ They put together their bits of paper. Their laughter sounded edgy. ‘Which commandment did you break? The eighth?’
‘Save it,’ said the Sergeant. Only now did he notice another figure squatting by the wall.
‘Would the Sergeant be kind enough to let us know when the Russians are expected in Emga?’ twitted the ex-Corporal. ‘It’s damned important for us.’
‘And maybe for him as well,’ said another.
A shell went up in the village. They listened. The Sergeant tried to work out which way the Front was. He couldn’t do it. The soldiers went on taunting him:
‘We’re not good enough for him. A Sergeant finds it very hard to adjust.’
The Sergeant ignored them. He forced himself to be indifferent, contemplated the crumpled figure by the wall. He was boiling inside. It was just a misunderstanding. After all he’d gone back with the agreement of the Captain, had reported to the Major, and was on his way to Emga, where else was there to go anyway! Just a misunderstanding. Another crash outside. Dirt and splinters rattled on the roof, plaster dust sprinkled down. Damnit, he thought, one can land here any second, and we’re sitting ducks. Just on account of a misunderstanding. He wanted to talk to an officer right away. Only he needed to think about what he was going to say first. And with this banter going on, he was unable to think straight.
‘The gentleman can’t have any information. Must have come from the back area. Else he’d speak to us.’
‘Shut up!’ the Sergeant suddenly screamed.
They fell silent. Only for a moment or two. Then their laughter burst in his face. The Corporal was bent double, as though he had cramp. Behind it, though, was something disconcerting, fear and hatred. Abruptly, he stopped. A twisted red face looked up at the Sergeant:
‘You bastards brutalized us whenever you could. But not in here, OK?’ The veins in his temples stood out. Like a beast of prey, he approached the Sergeant. ‘I’m not going to make it out of this rotten hole in my lifetime, and I don’t care either. But I’ve had enough, and I’m not going to take any more shit from you or anyone!’ His voice cracked. The Sergeant flinched. The Corporal edged him back, step by step. A scar gleamed on his forehead. The Sergeant groped his way along the wall. The scarred forehead got closer and closer.
‘Help! NCO!’ shouted the Sergeant.
The Corporal’s fist smashed into his face. He staggered. From his throat came a gurgling sound. A second blow. He didn’t dare raise his hands. He sagged along the wall. Shut his eyes. As though through a veil, came a sudden voice: ‘Haven’t you had enough yet?’ A whooshing sound. The Sergeant tried to get his eyes to open. The MP was standing in the cell, whipping the man. Blow upon blow. Blindly whipping him about the head and shoulders. ‘Stupid motherfucker!’ The Corporal crumpled. The remaining prisoners pressed back into corners. The Sergeant felt satisfaction, and worked his boot into the Corporal’s testicles. The MP spun round.
‘Hey!’ The NCO raised his whip.
The Sergeant jerked back. ‘He punched me.’ He felt a minuscule advantage as he sensed that the NCO didn’t want to strike him.
‘Shut up. You’re all the same.’
‘You’ll be sorry you said that,’ hissed the Sergeant. He bit his tongue. But the other looked at him in puzzlement. So that’s the way to talk to him, thought the Sergeant. He ordered: ‘Open the door! At once!’
‘What?’ said the NCO.
‘I said open the door!’
Outside, an explosion hit very close to the barn. Plaster leaped out of the walls. A surge of air seemed to lift the roof. For an instant it was as bright as day. Rooftiles came clattering down.
By this time the Sergeant had calmed down, the MP had already stumbled down the stairs. A feeling of disagreeable sobriety remained in his wake. Spots of sun lit the floor, which was sprinkled with cement and scraps of tiles. The two prisoners got up, and dragged the Corporal into the shadows. They were like ruffled vultures, hunkering in a ruin after a failed expedition. Furious looks flew after the Sergeant.
The Sergeant was looking round anxiously. He stopped and looked at the man, who, during the altercation, had not moved. He was leaning against the wall, little more than a boy, terribly young. The uniform drooped off his narrow shoulders. Two bony hands, and a head that seemed much too heavy for the body. Under greasy hair, two shining, deep-set eyes. Awkwardly, the Sergeant seated himself at his side, in the lee of the wall. The cool, and the dimmed light, both calmed him.
‘Are you not well?’ he asked in such a quiet voice that the soldier barely understood the question.
The boy faintly shook his head. His eyes were directed at a particular spot, a white splotch of plaster on the opposite wall.
‘How long have you been here?’ the Sergeant asked softly.
‘I don’t know!’
‘Surely you must know!’
Silence again. Then: ‘They take me with them wherever they go. It’s been a long time already.’
The Sergeant was startled. He had never seen such eyes. The dullness of a blind man lay in them. And yet they moved, took in his shoulder tabs.
‘You’re a Sergeant . . .’
‘Yes. Have you received your sentence?’ Maybe he might hear something that came in handy.
‘Not yet,’ said the boy.
‘But you’re waiting to hear?’
‘Yes.’ The boy looked dully, eyes front. The other three were watching them.
‘And what did you do?’
‘I hid.’
The Sergeant whispered: ‘Hid?’
‘We were to storm the Russian trenches, and I hid. On account of my mother.’
The Sergeant was disappointed. Fear would have been another matter. ‘Your mother?’ he asked, indifferently.
‘She’s alone, and I’m all she has in the world. Can you understand that?’
The Sergeant looked at the scrawny body, the bony fingers, the yellow skin pulled across the cheekbones. Suddenly he said: ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll never see your mother again!’
‘That’s all in God’s hands,’ the boy replied quietly.
‘What God do you mean?’
‘That one.’ He pointed to the floor. He meant the MP.
‘He’s not a god!’ The Sergeant pulled a face.
‘We’re all in his hands!’ The boy’s eyes started to flutter. The Sergeant felt a bit peculiar. He moved away.
‘Idiot!’ someone said on the other side.
‘You’ll see!’ The boy’s voice rang through the barn. The Sergeant shuddered.
‘Have you got the time?’ one of the three men asked.
Almost gratefully, the Sergeant replied: ‘Eight.’
‘So the day’s just beginning then.’