Front Pigs: The Lost Company

Preface

It is an episode of history, which encompassed the biggest killing of life, both human and animal, involved more countries, cost more money, and destroyed more material things than any other event in human record. In addition, it brought forth the largest field armies, air forces, and navies ever. This event is most commonly identified by two letters and two Roman numerals: WWII.

This is not a history book – there exist thousands already, describing the war in nearly every detail. Conceivably, it is safe to say that no other event is so thoroughly covered as this one. A long list of categories is available to the reader, covering the war as a whole or in a myriad of portions. No – this is a historical fiction instead. Alas, this is a tiny category, which takes in a small fraction of books in the genre WWII.

Why write a fictional historic account involving German soldiers fighting on the Eastern Front? First, because it was essentially fun to do so – for the most part at any rate. Second, it was also a means to put into words some of the many stories that had been conveyed to the author over the course of a life span. It may even be seen as an approach to try to correctify the image of the German and Russian soldier. Especially the German soldier has been shed in different types of light and most of it inaccurately. Over the past decades, this misrepresentation has been brought forth mainly by means of distorted stories in books, articles, and especially the motion picture industry. It is possible to see them displayed with a variety of character traits, i.e. the hard, disciplined and much feared super-trooper, or at the other extreme, the idiotic imbeciles, who, for instance, run out of a house in scores even though the enemy (usually a US soldier) greets them with a hail of bullets! The truth, as is typical in life, is to be found somewhere in the middle. No doubt, there had been many soldiers then, who deserve to be called the somewhat overused term hero, just like those who could be considered cowards. This is so as in any other army anywhere in the world and at anytime in history – such is human nature.

How was it – being a soldier on the Eastern Front and how can it be compared with other wars or battlefronts? To set the record straight, fighting in just about any war is a horrible experience. The men are there to kill – something that is normally a misdeed, looked upon with abhorrence. Nevertheless, if someone never had the opportunity to fight in more than one war or on more than one battlefront, how can it be said that this particular war or battlefront was worse than any other? To answer the above question, do the obvious and ask the eyewitnesses – people who experienced the war first hand. Especially valuable in this regard are those rare individuals, who had the displeasure to fight on both fronts: The Eastern Front and the Western Front. For simplicity, the Western Front will include not only the fighting in France but also the North African Campaigns and the Southern Campaign in Italy. Those individuals that fought on both battlefronts are almost one hundred percent in agreement that they had preferred fighting on the Western Front, saying that the Eastern Front was the worst. Although it matters not if the bullet came from an American, British, or Russian rifle, death looked the same on all fronts, but such was their opinions.

Another tool that may help to answer this is one of humankind’s favorite pastimes – juggling numbers. If this is an agreed upon technique to ascertain a truth than the Eastern Front wins in the category biggest and worst, hands down! Let the numbers speak and it will tell a gruesome story. This book is not a number cruncher, so suffice it to say that these figures reveal on this battlefront alone a chronicle of terrible slaughter and destruction; the biggest land battles ever, the biggest tank battles ever, the costliest air battles ever, the most deaths ever, and etcetera.

A certain quality was included in the east, which was largely missing in the west – hate. It started on the top. The two well-known tyrants in charge hated each other, hated the other’s system of government, and the people too, no doubt. This hate was passed all the way down to the lowliest of men, fighting in the trenches, snow, and mud, fuelled by lies and misinformation. The propaganda machines of both nations were so effective that surrendering was often enough an exception and not a rule. It is reasonable to assume that two opponents, who are more afraid to surrender than death itself, will fight with savagery. Thus, it was this way in the east. In many of the thousands of battles, starting with the small squad-sized scuffles on up to the largest land battles ever, was it the same – fight to win or die trying but no surrendering. True, more than enough were taken prisoner, but many a soldier in the western fronts gave-up, when in the east he would not have done so, while in the same type of circumstance.

The author was fortunate enough to hear a quantity of stories from those veterans that had fought in this great conflict. Alas, many of them are no longer with us, naturally. The great majority went into their graves, taking their stories with them. Indeed, many had little opportunity to speak over their wartime experiences in the first place and this for various reasons. One reason was the self-imposed emotional blockage, in which the individual cannot speak about it simply because the occurrences there were so bad, they refused to bring it into the open in speech or writing. When questioning those types of veterans, their wishes would always be respected and the matter was thus ended before it had even started. Then there were the others who would have told someone but found virtually nobody with enough interest to listen. The modern German is different from those of the wartime era; their main interests lie in pleasures and not what father, uncle, grandfather, or great uncle experienced during the war. The veterans thus wither away and their stories die along with them.

Although many accounts were told and all were interesting, it was never enough to fill a whole book. Writing a persons biography with so little material is not appealing, to say the least. When these individuals still lived and/or were still mentally fit enough to give their accounts, the conception of writing a book to cover this subject was not there – unfortunately. Now it is too late! The few gentlemen still left alive are no longer mentally capable to pass their stories on. Thus, a collection of very short stories remains, which were incorporated into this work.

Who were they, the German soldier? This is a rhetorical question, like asking what is the American like or the French. It is obvious that they came from all walks of life. Many of these men were raised as devout Christians, had families, worked hard, and generally lived a humble life before being sent to fight a dictator’s war. They were as varied as any other individuals found elsewhere in the world. Some were good, kind, and loving men, some were themselves tyrants and others in between the two. However, most were immature young men or even boys, misused by those in power. Perhaps the greatest difference to other young men in the world back then was the political system under which they lived. This political structure placed great emphasis to the superiority of the Germanic race. This is not a study of politics or the morals of such. Nevertheless, some of its characters do reflect the mental attitude, which had been influenced by this governmental system.

This story is fictional but based on historical facts, which stays fully within the military, geographic, chronological, and mental context of the war. The basis for these aspects stemmed from various sources studied over the past forty years and from those same individuals who had narrated their accounts. A goal for this work was to bring forth as much of these aspects as possible. Within these pages are not only individuals who were brave and clever soldiers but also those that were less. The Russians, staying within the same perspective, are not displayed as monsters nor are they put down as imbeciles. They too, were normal men, taken out of their humble, everyday lives, stuck into a uniform, and then sent to the front and forced to fight for their dictator.

If certain accounts or details therein seem too fantastic, remember the numbers game. It is hard to visualize millions of men fighting against one another for several years in an area half the size of the United States in the first place, but the numbers are real. Each one of those millions of men and women has his, or her, own stories to tell. Millions of variables abound. How many would be unbelievable? How many absurd? Incredible? Surely, there are many odd tales intermingled with the average ones.

Historic Background

Kursk! After a certain date, this battle, named after this city located in the depths of the Soviet empire, had left Adolf Hitler with an army that lost much and gained nothing. Although it was an unknown city to most of the millions of German soldiers before the fourth of July 1943, it left a lasting impression during the course of time after this date. This encounter, which was actually a number of battles and lasted around seven weeks, would go down in history carrying the name of this city instead of the official designation Operation Zitadelle. While another battle, named after the then soviet leader Stalin, would become far more famous, Stalingrad did not involve the largest tank battles in history, nor did it involve the costliest aerial warfare in history, as did Kursk. Operation Zitadelle spelled for Hitler the virtual end for any further major offensives in the east. Even though he lost fewer men and less material than his adversary, Stalin, the latter could compensate his losses more easily, and naturally, the losses on both sides were huge. No one really knew Hitler’s private feelings in the aftermath of this epic struggle, but perhaps it is reasonable to say that they were not positive, to say the least. Afterwards, he knew that it was a mistake. Indeed, he should have listened to von Manstein.

General Field Marshal Erich von Manstein, one of Germany’s very best generals. In March of the same year, he developed plans to eliminate the Kursk salient, which jutted into the German lines up to around 150 kilometers deep and 200 kilometers wide and was a remnant from his previous great victory during the Third Battle of Kharkov. With this plan, he intended to trap a large Soviet force with a ruse. The enemy was to be lured into the Donets Basin in the eastern Ukraine by faking an attack further to the south and then retreating to allow the enemy to follow his forces, leading them into the trap. The trap would snap shut by turning the German troops south of Kharkov towards Rostov and thus entrapping the Red Army forces against the Sea of Azov.

Hitler and his cronies refused Mansteins’ plans, to instead perform a classic pincer movement. Model’s Ninth Panzer Army was to attack from the north near Orel and Hoth’s Fourth Panzer Army from the south near Kharkov. However, perception after the fact is sometimes a cruel teacher, because this plan did not work. It seemed like such a good and simple plan: Encircle the two Red Army fronts inside the salient west of Kursk, the Soviet Voronezh Front and Central Front, and destroy them. This meant the loss of one-fifth of Stalins’ army in one swoop! It could have been a successful coup if this little word if did not exist. For if the attack had not been delayed, and if it had not been delayed again – and again – and again. If the new Panthers would not have been pressed into service too soon.... If the Russians had not learned of the plan long before the first shot had been fired.... If….

When the pincer-movement was accepted by the high command as the conclusive plan, it was Manstein once more who had the foresight by insisting to attack much sooner. He knew the Soviet forces were allowed far too much time to prepare for a proper defense. He was proven right, because the many delays to attack gave the enemy plenty of time to build up a formidable and deep reaching defensive line, one that had rows of bunkers, landmine fields, and trenches after another. All of this was backed up by thousands of artillery pieces, mortars, aircraft, and tanks.

When the German juggernaut had entangled itself in this vast defensive field, it received a second blow – a far-reaching and massive counter-attack! The Soviet generals had learned from previous mistakes and had turned the spear around and jabbed its own masters with it!

When the battle was over, everyone realized that the mistakes were made and the repercussions harsh. No one will ever know if Manstein’s original plan would have worked, but in hindsight, it is realistic to assume that if it had not, the German losses would have been at least far less.

The mistakes the ones ‘on top’ had made was to be paid for with the blood of the ones ‘on the bottom’ – the common soldier.

After the Battle of Kursk, and the ensuing retreat, the OKH (Oberkommando des Heeres – Army High Command) had ordered the Army Groups on the Eastern Front to be withdrawn behind the so-called Panther-Wotan Line. Hitler’s generals had realized during the later stages of Kursk that they did not have the necessary strength remaining to stop the Red Army from advancing even further west than they already had. They knew that without a properly prepared defensive line the enemy forces would pour through like water surging over a riverbank during a flood. At first, Hitler stuck with his favorite and unimaginative tactic: No retreat! However, eventually his generals had convinced him that doing so would cause a disaster much worse than Stalingrad. As if this was the crucial remark, Hitler relented and signed his Führerbefehl (A direct order by Adolf Hitler) Nr. 10, on the 12th of August 1943, ordering the immediate build-up of this new front.

The Panther-Wotan Linie ran from the Baltic Sea, the length of the Narva River and along the western shore of Lake Peipus. It continued along the Welikaja River, going through Witebsk, Gomel and then it followed the west side of the Dnieper River all the way to the Black Sea. The River Dnepr with its significant width and high western riverbank would form the main line of defense of this front. All this looked fine on paper. However, building such a vast line called for much time with a huge work force and enough building materials to do a proper job. All this was in short supply at this stage of the war. This resulted in a system of defenses, which really did not deserve the name. This defensive line was mostly a phantom!

While the Red Army and Wehrmacht [ref_1] eyed each other and hurried to reach the river, many units from both sides had found themselves being torn into disarray by the raging battles. In these, sometimes chaotic situations, it was not unusual for individual soldiers, portions of units, or entire military elements to suddenly be trapped behind enemy lines. In many areas, troops from both sides were interspersed, which created a confused overall situation, and there, a continuous front-line did not exist anymore. It was a crisscrossing of paths with everyone aiming to head towards one general direction – the west – to the river.

Moving one million men over the vast river in good order was a mammoth undertaking. Add to this, the vast amounts of equipment and vehicles accompanying such a force, starting from the simple rifle up to locomotives, a person can only guess the dimensions of the job at hand. Not forgetting to fight while accomplishing this and the mere six bridges, which where available to move this mass of men and material.

It is here we find ourselves, during the times of retreat, in a tiny speck of the nearly one thousand and five hundred miles long battlefront. Much of the front lines had been pushed to or even behind the Dnepr by this time. The ones not yet on the western bank would have to hurry, lest the enemy cut the path off. The lucky ones who made a timely retreat away from the lands east of the mighty river would never return. Only those unlucky enough to be captured later on would be brought back to here as prisoners-of-war, sometimes up to ten years. However, the truly unfortunate soldiers would forever stay in the huge land – as rotting corpses....

1 The Train

The soldier peered through a gap in the boards of the boxcar’s walls, watching the land passing by, which was far and wide and interspersed with many large forests. A few villages whooshed by occasionally, sprinkled along the rails like distant spaced pearls on a string. His thoughts meandered back and forth, once to another time not too far into the past, to a time when death was a daily companion and then back to the present with the serene, peaceful landscape moving past.

He looked away, stared at the far wall of the semi-dark boxcar, and closed his eyes shortly. The steady sound of the steel wheels rolling over the rail joints in combination with the gentle swaying of the cars made him feel drowsy. It is no wonder, he thought, because he had been travelling for days. He did not join the other men who were mostly lying asleep on the hay-covered floor or the card-plying comrades. He stayed by himself and his own lonely thoughts. Opening his eyes again, he peered through the crack to the countryside once more, appearing as if there was no war at all, like there never had been a war. One could think this if it were not for the occasional bomb crater near the tracks, grown with a layer of grass and sometimes partially filled with water. It was such a stark contrast each time he traveled to and from the fronts. Indeed, the disparity of mere time was sometimes surreal when a piece of land could be so peaceful on one day and then filled with death and destruction the next.

He re-adjusted his body some and a small bit of pain shot down his back where his most-recent wound was. It was the reason why he had been sent home and the reason why he was on this train. Returning to the front, fixed-up, patched-up, freshly packaged, and then sent back to the meat grinder. As he stared out, he was wondering what the war had in store for him this time. Of course, the inevitable question crossed his mind; would he find himself inside another boxcar sometime in the future to return home as a cripple, or even alive?

The squeal of the brakes indicated a stop. Karl Wildner opened his eyes and was surprised that he had fallen asleep after all. He stood up and went sleep drunken to the large sliding door, which two soldiers had pulled open. He checked which stop this was and found out that it was the end of the line. How ironic, he thought, as he went back to his place to get his gear – end of the line!

Laden with a rucksack and weapon, he stepped out onto the rough wooded boards of the primitive little train station. He was followed by perhaps thirty other soldiers, and they too stood on the loading platform not knowing where to go with the inevitable chatterboxes being present. Wildner looked at his watch and compared it with the one hanging on the station wall. He adjusted his to the new time zone and then looked around to get orientated.

He did not know any of the other men who were with him in the boxcar. They were the two usual basic types of soldiers, the raw recruits, and the veterans. One could easily tell them apart, even if one disregarded the ranks. The veterans always seem to have the same expression as he; we know what is awaiting us. While the recruits share their own kind, what now? Although the facial expressions alone could be placed to one or the other of the two, the eyes ‘said’ the most. After some time, soldiers could tell these sorts of things just by looking, or maybe it was a sort of sixth sense?

The train emitted a loud whistle, followed by the heavy breathing of its pistons as it slowly set forth its journey, but this time it went backwards to return from where it came from. Thick black clouds of smoke, interspersed with white steam, puffed out of the stack becoming quicker as the train gained speed. The group of soldiers watched the locomotive and its row of boxcars steadily growing smaller.

This was a small, insignificant station in a small, insignificant town. Except for the wind blowing gently through the station, another sound could scarcely be heard. It seemed a rather forlorn place, not possessing the usual bustling activity like most other train stations. One man stepped down onto the tracks to have a look at the station sign, hanging a bit crooked above the gray, weathered platform roof. The faded letters spelled out Budka, so it was indeed the right stop.

Wildner took a few steps and dropped his gear on a fragile looking wood bench, which stood against the front station wall near the entrance and then entered the building. The others stayed outside, talking and smoking.

The place was dark, dusty – and just as empty of life as outside the structure. Now he really began to wonder what all this could mean. His main concern was the deserted setting. Every train station he had been to thus far had always been busy places, there was always a coming and going of men, supplies, and equipment. Activities in and around train-stations were normal, but this place offered no such things.

As Wildner looked for someone – anyone, he scrutinized the interior of the structure. It was made of wood, darkened with age, and obviously not cleaned for many months, maybe even years. The only furniture was another rickety looking bench and an empty shelve beside it, perhaps to hold luggage. A square opening in the far wall nestled a single ticket-boot, which looked like a dark cavity. An old clock hung on the wall above it, and it had a bullet hole in it.

The whole setting reminded him to some extent of a movie he had once seen, one of only three in his twenty-four years of life. He was a young teenager at the time, and it was a western. He suddenly had the outlandish feeling of being himself in a western and it caused him to temporarily forget the war. Yes, he thought it would indeed be far better to be somewhere in the western United States instead of here. He had always wanted to visit ‘The West’ since he saw that movie. However, though many of the features here were almost identical to the scenes of the silver screen he was still in the Soviet Union, and it was not a group of bad guys with Winchesters and Colts somewhere out there but millions of soldiers with far deadlier armaments.

His reverie was interrupted by an-all too familiar sound, distant and echoey. He went into a short hallway to follow the feint resonance, which seemed like a slow machine, clicking in irregular beats. He stopped in front of a closed, worn-out door and knocked on it. The somewhat sluggish clacking of a typewriter on the other side stopped. A voice behind the door bellowed, Come in. The tone sounded like it was meant to be tough but did not achieve its intended affect; it just did not convince Wildner. He had his fair share of experiences with these desk jockeys. Their most dangerous encounters were with sharpened pencils and their most serious injuries were paper cuts. All right, maybe he overdid it a little bit, he thought, but....

He opened the door and entered the room. A somewhat overweight Unterfeldwebel (Sergeant, Sergeant Corporal) sat behind a desk filled with papers, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke. Seemingly disinterested to Wildner’s presence, he let out another cloud of smoke from his pipe and resumed the leisure hammering of the typewriter keys.

What do you want? He grunted.

I’ve just arrived with the train and want to get to my unit. This office here seems to be the only one with any signs of life. Do you know to whom or to where I need to go for transport?

The man behind the desk stopped torturing the keys and peered at Wildner through the hazy air. Behind the station is a supply depot. It’s being cleared-out, maybe there’s someone there who can help you. He pulled the paper out of the machine, set it onto a small stack, and then inserted another. The buttons on his uniform tunic strained to stay in place. Anything else? he asked and began abusing the keys again.

Do you happen to know where the Twelfth PD (Panzer Division – Armored Division) is?

He bobbed his head towards a map hanging on a wall. Should be marked on that map – hasn’t been updated for a few days though.

Wildner went to it and studied it for a moment. Hmmm ... twenty kilometers ... if this is still correct, he said more to himself. His mind went back in time for a moment to remember when he last saw a map of this land. His unit was stationed a fair number of kilometers further east; back then, before his most-recent injury. Got pushed back pretty far, he mumbled again. He turned around and left the office with a simple, Thanks. The clerk only grunted as a thick finger circled over the machine while searching for the correct key.

The other men were still standing around when Wildner came out of the station. He told them to follow him. Although they were a mixed group of soldiers, going to different units, Wildner took charge of them since he was the ranking man. They took their gear and followed him around the building – like a family of ducks.

The small town looked like it had been through a vicious storm. Many of the wooden houses were destroyed, tipped over power and telegraph masts crisscrossed some of the streets, and a jumble of other types of debris were scattered about. Wildner knew that this place had been bombed. The group went about a hundred meters away from the station to a compound surrounded by a double layer of barbed-wire fencing. The men were stopped at the gate by a grim looking guard. Another soldier who tried to impress toughness, Wildner thought, as he took out a pack of cigarettes and offered the guard one of the few remaining smokes he still had. Hey, comrade, he said, where can we catch a ride to the front?

The guard took a cigarette and suddenly did not look so tough anymore. He told Wildner to go to his commander, over in the little building just inside the compound. Wildner went to the place and entered, leaving the others standing outside again. The officer in charge told him that a few vehicles were indeed expected sometime during the day to pick up returnees and replacements. He could not tell Wildner a time though. Wildner thanked him for the info and went back outside.

Well, one of the older soldiers asked him, are we going to be picked-up?

Yes, but I don’t know when. Wildner asked the men what units they belong to. Some belong to the same regiment as he. I guess I’ll just go by foot, Wildner said, Who will join me?

The men glanced at each other, not looking very enthusiastic over the idea of walking. However, the only other option was to sit around and wait. There was even a chance that some officer may possibly put them to work hauling things. The veterans saw the sweaty uniforms of the supply men as they loaded crates onto a few trucks. They readily volunteered to accompany Wildner. The newcomers decided to wait instead. They had done enough marching and running during basic training, they argued. When Wildner and the others set off to leave, one of them told the ones waiting to have fun loading crates. The group of men was complete again by the time they reached the dirt road leading out of town; the newcomers had changed their minds after all.

2 Perspiration Saves Lives

The commander entered the smoke-filled room, abruptly the conversation among the officers ended and the men stood up to go to attention. He told them to be at ease and greeted them, went over to the table standing in the middle of the room and then put his satchel on top. They watched Hauptmann (captain) Hirsch take out a stack of papers and then being settled for the briefing; his expression told them that he did not bring good news. The men did not pursue any illusions that the division would be sent home for refitting, even though it would be necessary and highly welcome. However, they comforted themselves with the fact that they were still part of the division’s reserves. Despite the fact that the battalion was not in the trenches, it was imperative to be kept up to date, and this is why they are here being briefed. There was always the possibility to be put into action within minutes notice.

Men, Hirsch began as he lit a cigarette, according to the intelligence section the Russians are planning to follow up on their successes in the south. In addition, other available information revealed that this might be within the next few weeks. We do not have exact information at this time – it might be sooner, or even later. We do know that the Russians are starting to shift their transport capabilities to within our sector now. Due to the precarious situation to our south and to our own manpower and material shortages the corps will be preparing to move back some time this week.

Oberleutnant (First Lieutenant, Lieutenant) Gravitz squished his cigarette into an ashtray. This sounds good, but I feel there’s more to it!

What new situation exists to our south, Herr Hauptmann? asked one of the other company commanders, Oberleutnant Wagner.

Hirsch drew the men’s attention to the map, lying on the table they were gathered around at. One hand rested on the chart while the other held a pencil and pointed to a thick red line. Hirsch ran the tip of it along the crooked contour and explained, First, this is our current line. The enemy attacked with massive forces against it here, which you see, adjoins our own sector to the south. The consequence was a penetration here, and here. To our north, here, they had achieved another breach. As you can see once more, the northern breakthrough is but a few dozen kilometers away from our own sector. Furthermore, the enemy managed to accomplish this on both sides of the Pripyat-Dnepr confluence. Hirsch drew back the pencil, looked at his notes, and then went on. The enemy’s bridgeheads will be counterattacked by reserve forces tomorrow and hopefully be pushed back. If we cannot achieve this, then the whole Army Group may have to go back and not only the corps, because the danger to be surrounded is real. We do not have enough forces to allow us the luxury for a second try. Then he added with a more downcast tone in his voice. Gentlemen, the main point is this, either way you look at it, we are going back, and because we’ve had a chance to rest and recuperate, we were chosen to be one of the units to be kept back to cover the retreat.

A brief discussion followed the Hauptmann’s last words. The men were heavily debating over how to do this, because they knew it would be a difficult task with the available resources. This led to the inevitable question.

Herr Hauptmann, what about supplies? Oberleutnant Wagner asked, and then he went on to explain briefly. We’re dangerously low on ammo, and we need replacements to fill the gaps. The other company commanders grunted and nodded their heads confirming his company’s predicament to be the same as their own.

Hirsch lifted a hand as if to ward off the words. Gentlemen, I know of your problems. He turned to his Ib [ref_2]. Leutnant (Second Lieutenant) Krause informed me of the supply situation. He checked with the division and was told that we are to send a few trucks to pick-up the supplies at Budka. Herr Leutnant....

Krause cleared his throat and carried on the dialogue. Yes, Herr Hauptmann. We will also receive a few replacements. In fact, we expect them to arrive some time today. I’ve ordered two trucks to go there, and they will leave as soon as possible.

Very well, but will two vehicles be enough? Hirsch asked skeptically.

"I’m sorry, but that’s all we have available for now ... that and a Kübel [ref_3]."

How many men are we receiving, do you have any numbers?

Fifteen for us, Herr Hauptmann, and fifteen for the First Battalion.

Fifteen! I’m afraid this small number won’t be near enough to fill the gaps. He took another drag. I was hoping to get more replacements than that. Well ... I hope at least there aren’t too many raw recruits among them.

Gravitz meant, I beg your pardon, Herr Hauptmann, but I believe that’s wishful thinking.

Hirsch gave him a wry smile and acknowledged dryly, Of course it is, Herr Gravitz. However, I too may have an occasional wish. Or not?

Despite the less than joyful discussion, the men found enough humor to chuckle at this reply.

Krause, make sure you get more vehicles ready to get the replacements. Use some of the half-tracks if you must.

Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann.

Well, gentlemen, is everything clear now ... does anyone have another question?

Yes, Herr Hauptmann, Gravitz said, have you found out yet how much longer we’re on reserve status?

Oh yes, thank you for reminding me, Herr Gravitz. The regiment plans to send us back to the front within two weeks. I know, I know ... this is a bit imprecise, but I can’t change that. Any more questions? No? Good then, we’ll end our little gathering now, but before you leave let’s have another drink. Hirsch allowed the Hauptfeldwebel (First Sergeant, Company Sergeant Major) to fill the officer’s glasses with more of the Cognac. You can fill yours too, Putzkammer, Hirsch added, and Putzkammer enthusiastically filled his glass again. This was officially his second one, unofficially his fourth. Some of the officers could not help but grin. Of course, they had caught a glimpse when Putzkammer secretly took a drink or two from the bottle. However, the Feldwebel was a well-liked man in the battalion, so no one found an offense in this. More than once had he shared the contents of packages he had received from home with those who had gotten nothing. Hirsch held his glass towards his subordinates and said, Here’s to us and our men, and may we all survive the coming times. Prost (cheers)!

Some kilometers away from the briefing, a group of soldiers were sweating despite the cool autumn air at this early-morning hour. With less than positive enthusiasm, their entrenching tools hacked, stabbed, and scraped the soil to get ever deeper into the earth. Digging trenches and such was always a tough job. Although the soil here was relatively soft, containing few stones and roots, it did not lessen the fact that it was hard labor. Making holes or trenches in the ground was only one aspect of the work; it must be done in such a manner to blend in with the surroundings. Ledges must be dug into them along with burrows, and all of this must be shored-up with wood wherever it was necessary. Sweat saves lives! Becker thundered at the men. Every experienced soldier would agree with the statement, however, it was still natural to complain about it. With time, the amount of moaning and complaining among the men was less as they tired. It would do no good at any rate, and it wasted precious breath, nevertheless, there always seemed to be at least one person in a given group who forever had enough air for his mouth.

Messinger threw his spade down for perhaps the fourth time since the beginning of the dig. Damn it! I feel like a ground hog! he said loudly again. We are supposed to be reserves, but here we are digging instead!

Messinger was known in the company as a grumbler and a tough person to get along with. He was a leader of nine men, six now after the last battles, but sometimes he still found it hard setting a good example for them. Becker accepted his demeanor simply because Messinger was otherwise an excellent and competent soldier, and such trivial things as his mouth were thus tolerated.

He looked around and saw that the others were ignoring him. It was no wonder, since they had become accustomed to his behavior when it comes to ‘demeaning duties’. This is what he liked to call just about anything else except fighting. He picked up the spade again and continued to dig. So looks like the glorious modern German warrior, with digging tool nine times in his hands compared to once the weapon, he grumbled to himself.

Vonderheid got a bit irritated now. Shut up, Peter, I’d rather have to dig than do the other things we’re here for!

Messinger shot back, Uwe, you are allowed to kiss my.... he abruptly stopped in mid-sentence, because just then Wagner and Becker showed-up. They were making their rounds to inspect the trenches.

Well men, I see the work is coming along nicely, Wagner said. The men’s answers were a few grunts.

Becker went over to Messinger. Peter, what’s the problem? Every time you have to dig you also have to gripe.

But I didn’t say anything.

Wagner and I heard you before we even saw you.

But....

Never mind that now, Peter. Go over to the motor pool and check with Kunkel. You and he are to take a couple of trucks over to Budka to get a few re-placements and supplies.

Delighted, Messinger threw the spade down, and then he trotted off in a speed that was obviously intended to escape any possible revision of the order.

After the inspection rounds, Wagner and Becker returned to the company’s temporary headquarters in the small village house. Becker lit the Hindenburglicht [ref_4], which stood on top of two ammo crates, serving as a makeshift table. It emitted a dim light but it was enough for the small structure. He sat down on one of the other two empty crates, serving as chairs. The people who had deserted the house weeks ago took with them the few pieces of furniture they possessed. They waited for the other platoon leaders to arrive and when they did, they began to discuss the necessary preparations for the coming days. The inspection of the lines only confirmed their fears that the digging would help rather superficially the lack of filled ranks. They knew that other companies too were in the same shape as they, which was a small comfort.

I’m going to go back to the battalion command post to see Sepp, Becker told Wagner after the discussion was over.

You know there’s nothing to get, Oswald. Wagner suspected that Becker wanted to pull some strings with Putzkammer. He did this whenever the company needed the one or other rare item. Sometimes he was even successful.

Oh, I don’t know ... we’ll see.

Oberleutnant Wagner and Oberfeldwebel (Technical Sergeant, Color Sergeant Major) Becker were on first-name basis. They had served together for the past two years and had been acquainted with each other before that. The medium tall officer was well liked by the men, known to be fair and one who cared for their well being as well. Becker put his helmet on, took the submachine gun, which hung on a nail, and said, I’ll be back before dark.

Becker left the house and Wagner brooded over his paperwork.

Wildner and the other men had trudged along the dusty road for quite some time. Forming a rather straggly column, they went further east and closer to the front with every step of the way. So far, only a few vehicles had passed them, but none could give them a ride. Coming from the front was not possible for obvious reasons and those going there were already too heavily laden. Wildner looked at his watch and then to the western sky; the sun was just above the horizon, throwing long shadows. The day was waning and still no vehicles had come to get them.

His thoughts went elsewhere. Even though Wildner had been fighting in Russia for quite some time, he had never been in this particular piece of the land before. It looked very much like most of what he had seen thus far. He wondered about the weather, because it was still so dry. During this time of the year it usually rained a lot, turning the roads into a quagmire. He was glad of the dryness.

Some of the men were getting to know each other as they walked. They talked and laughed and it seemed as if the small group of men were in peacetime, simply wandering through the countryside instead of being at war and going to their combat units. One of the soldiers, walking nearest Wildner, increased his steps to catch up with him. It was one of the young recruits. He had wanted to ask Wildner a few things ever since the train ride but did not have the nerve to do so. Basic training effects upon recruits to attain a high amount of respect, some even say fear, for anyone of higher rank than they.

When he had caught up to Wildner, he nervously coughed, cleared his throat, and then asked, Herr Unteroffizier (Sergeant)! Excuse me, but how much longer do you think it’ll be before we get to the division? Actually, the young recruit wanted to ask something else but had decided to start with something trivial.

I don’t know, Wildner answered while still in deep thought.

The soldier interpreted Wildner’s mellow tone to be forthcoming, which encouraged him to ask another question. Is the division in a town?

I don’t know ... probably not.

Herr Unteroffizier, have you been through many battles?

Yes.

This answer was drawn out a bit and sounded as if it were an irritating one to give. The soldier felt that he had to be a little more careful with the chosen questions. Herr Unteroffizier, how are the Russians?

Wildner cocked his head to him a bit and said cantankerously, Look son, quit the Herr Unteroffizier thing! You’re no longer in basic training!

The recruit fell back some and mumbled, Sorry. He was a little befuddled. In basic training, another soldier who is even one rank higher was someone to be highly respected and addressed accordingly, and now he was told not to say Herr Unteroffizier to an Unteroffizier!

Wildner sensed that he had affronted the recruit with his gruff manner. Although he was not the sort to care much what recruits felt, he decided to continue the conversation; maybe it would make the time marching go by faster. He glanced over his shoulder. What’s your name, son?

The recruit looked up in surprise and increased his step to catch up with Wildner again. Hagan. he said enthusiastically.

Hagan what?

Hagan Förster.

Hagan, I’m a grouch when I have to march on an empty stomach ... nothing personal.

Alright ... what’s your name, Herr Unter ... oh ... apologies.

A small grin formed at the corners of his lips. I’m Karl Wildner.

Pleased to meet you, Herr Wildner.

They went on in silence once again. The other men were not speaking either presently. Mulishly, they marched onward. Wildner sensed that Hagan wanted to ask more questions. He understood the kids’ curiosity. Being in a strange land for the first time and very far away from home was not easy. In addition, being in the middle of nowhere with a small band of soldiers who were marching towards an unknown destination certainly did not make matters any easier. Not to forget that nightfall was near. The kid must be anxious. Finally, Wildner told Hagan to go ahead and ask.

Hagan crinkled his eyebrows in surprised fashion. How did you know I have more questions?

Just a good guess, Wildner replied dryly, and then added, Well, I was in your situation once too, you know? I used to have many questions then and was glad to have someone around who could answer them.

Oh. Hagan contemplated for a moment which of his many questions he should ask next. He decided to start with the most important ones first; just in case, Wildner got irritated again. How far away is the enemy?

We’re several kilometers behind the frontlines.

This means we’re safe?

Wildner almost told him yes, but why should he lie to him? It would not be wise to keep the truth from the kid. The kid is a soldier and a soldier needs to know what predicament he is in if he is to be useful. A Feldwebel (Staff Sergeant, Sergeant Major) told Wildner this before. No. It doesn’t mean a thing, he finally said. The enemy can be anywhere and everywhere, especially the partisans. It really depends. Out here, in the open landscape we should be safe enough. It is in the forests you have to be careful, though, but still ... always watch out for the Ivan. Who’s this?

This is my friend Gustav, Gustav Hendricks. Hagan signaled Gustav to come closer. Gustav, this is Unteroffizier Wildner.

Wildner is fine.

Hello Herr Wildner, Gustav said amiably. He seemed glad to join in on the conversation, which he had been eavesdropping on. He too had questions. What really interested him ever since he saw Wildner on the train were his decorations. He was burning to ask him about them. Just your typical young soldier with the desire to get his own chest full too!

Hagan continued the conversation again. Gustav and I managed to be in the same unit. We are best friends and I think we will work together well. Maybe I should say, fight better together, since we know each other so good, which makes our teamwork really good. I know of other’s who had no luck trying to be in the same unit with their friends. That is too bad, I think. Our Feldwebel told us it would be better not to, but what does he know, as far as I know he doesn’t have any friends, which doesn’t surprise me, because he is a really grouchy sort, and I know that I would not want to be his friend, and I can’t really think of anyone else who’d want to be his friend. Do you have a best friend?

Wildner started to regret to have begun a conversation with this Hagan. No, not really. He glanced at Gustav. Does your ... friend always talk so much?

Gustav shrugged his shoulders.

Hagan ignored Wildner’s little comment. Why not? Hagan could not understand why Wildner did not have a best friend by now.

Gustav too wondered over this, but his interests still lie mainly elsewhere.

Wildner re-adjusted the rucksack some and then told the two recruits, Listen up: Don’t have best friends, though I suppose it’s too late for you two.

Hagan and Gustav expected an explanation, but Wildner just stayed mute and walked on.

Hagan asked, Why? During basic training the instructors kept telling us about the importance of comradeship.

Wildner was groping for the proper words to say. He knew it was not an easy subject for inexperienced soldiers to understand. He also had to learn the hard way. After a minute of silent going he explained, Hagan, don’t confuse camaraderie with friendship, they are different. A friend is more but a good comrade is all a soldier needs; a man you can count on when bullets and grenades fly. The main point is that when a comrade gets ... killed, it’s bad enough, but when a friend gets killed it’s even worse.

Hagan had nothing to reply with, just yet, and took a few minutes to contemplate Wildner’s words.

Gustav felt it was a good time now to start another subject. Herr Wildner, I noticed all those medals you have. I can’t wait to get my first one. Which was your first?

Wildner raised an eyebrow and answered brusquely, Gustav, I don’t talk about these things.

Gustav was again confused. But why? Isn’t this what every soldier wants and would be proud enough to talk about?

Not everyone!

Gustav narrowed his eyes and said obstinately, I’ll do whatever I can to get medals! I told everyone back home I would. I know that I’ll fight like mad. The Ivan will learn to respect the superior and highly trained German soldier ... you’ll see! They taught us a lot in basic training and they told us no other soldier in the whole world could reach our level of training and discipline, and that we have some of the best generals alive and fine equipment too! Gustav stopped, and then added, And I really don’t see anything wrong with having a good friend when at war.

Wildner suddenly stopped and looked at both hard into their eyes. I never said it’s not all right to get medals, and if you ever do something to earn one then wear it with pride, and you may even brag about it if you wish. I choose not to. Let me tell you something else, Herr Hendricks ... You might be right by some of those other claims, fine equipment, good training and all that, but how many others like you do you think had said or thought the same things?

No answer.

How many of them do you think are still among the living?

No answer still.

We have past mid nineteen hundred and forty-three. You want to put the fear into the Russians? he continued pointing a finger at Gustav, What in God’s name do you think the German soldier has been doing here for over two years? Waiting for you two to arrive so you can drive the fear of hell and damnation into the Russians? I’ll tell you two beginners another thing; this war is hell and you’ll be glad to make it back with all your limbs attached, let alone alive. You want medals? They’ll be the last things you’ll want; instead, your main concerns will be to survive, to be warm in the bitter cold winters, and to find something to put into your empty stomach. You may even find yourself eating lichens off the rocks! Maybe you’ll end up digging your fingers into the soil to escape the sharp-edged pieces of steel flying by so close you can feel their heat. You’ll cry for a comrade you only knew a month or two when you see his bowels scattered in the mud, or for another with a hole in his head! You’ll kill for an hours worth of sleep and for the safety of your mothers lap! Wildner stopped speaking for a moment. His eyes appeared to be burning, revealing the pain and suffering he had to endure. The two stood speechless, and the other soldiers had stopped too to listen.

One of the veterans said casually, as he rolled a cigarette. You better listen to what the man says, boys, because he knows what he’s talking about.

Wildner, in a lower tone now, said finally, Have you ever seen horses that were caught in a swamp still hitched onto a wagon? I don’t mean a knee-deep puddle but the type of swamps you find here, especially every spring and fall. The kind that’ll suck a large animal into its depths, slowly but surely, and you can’t do anything about it, except to watch them disappear while they scream with terror in their eyes ... until someone puts a bullet into their heads to end the suffering. Have you ever even heard a horse scream? You will when you see one lying in the dirt with most of both front legs gone after it stepped on a mine. One more example, fellows, the Ivan (A German nickname for Russian) had used dogs for special purposes. First, they train them by feeding them only underneath tanks with running engines. When it was time for their mission, they would get a few pounds of explosives strapped onto their backs – and are hungry. When they are released, they run straight underneath our tanks thinking to find food underneath, and then.... You see, Herr Hendricks and Herr Förster ... here ... even animals find themselves to be in hell.

Hagan and Gustav said nothing. They do not know what to make of all this talk. Weeks of indoctrination and years of propaganda had left their mark. Even words from a veteran of Wildner’s caliber had a hard time penetrating this wall of ideology.

Let's go on, Wildner finally said, and the column resumed its march.

About ten minutes later Wildner said, Look ... I really don’t mean to ruin your fun, but your kind of thinking will get you killed faster than you realize. I’ve seen too many of your sorts who believed the Russian soldier is an imbecile. He is not. He is a very cunning and tough fighter. Never underestimate your enemy. Haven’t they taught you this?

Hagan dawdled with an answer. Well ... yes ... I think it was mentioned.

Onward they marched, each man in his own thoughts. After another while Hagan continued the previous conversation from where he had left off, What happens if we run into them? The Russians I mean?

We’ll see.

But we have hardly any ammo.

Like I said earlier, the chances are slim to run into any Ivans.

Hagan and Gustav looked a bit confused. Gustav asked, Ivans? Is this what you call the Russians?

Wildner nodded, and then the two friends laughed at this. I mentioned their nickname earlier, Wildner said annoyed, but you two didn’t hear what I was saying ... or?

The two stopped laughing.

The men set forth the walk. Hagan and Gustav had lost the desire to talk for now, so they looked at the terrain instead. It was different from the countryside of their homeland. The land was quite flat with huge crop fields – much bigger than they had ever seen before. The wheat swayed gently in the slight breeze and it looked like ocean waves and almost as far reaching. They saw sunflower fields that seemed to go on forever. Could there be enemy troops hiding in there? Sure would provide enough hiding even for a small army! Little patches of trees and bushes interspersed inside the fields. Settlements seemed to be few in numbers; much different from the population density they were accustomed to. The road was made of compacted dirt, was broad and pockmarked with many potholes.

A cloud of dust suddenly became visible far ahead on the road. Wildner and the others stopped. Although dusk was well advanced, they could tell that a truck was approaching. A few of the soldiers breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out to be a German vehicle. The truck brakes squealed as it came to a halt. Now they saw that it was really four trucks and