Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

As he spoke his words came out ever faster, as he worked himself up into a convulsive frenzy.

‘Of course it’s all a con, a lowdown, dirty con trick! Fairy tales, opium for the people! It’s… it’s a complete…’

He broke off and left the room. Lakosch stared after him in astonishment.

The following day, when Breuer asked Endrigkeit how the Russian airman was getting on, he found the old officer in an unusually emotional state.

‘He’s dead,’ Endrigkeit told him, his small eyes beneath his bushy brows revealing a suspicious gleam. ‘That’s right – dead! Here’s what happened: so, this morning, I sent my two lads, Emil and Krause, off with him to the collection point, and on the way there, right in the middle of the street, the sodding bloke gets it into his head to do a runner, and hares off across country like an idiot! My lads can’t believe their eyes. Sheer bloody suicide! They call out to him not to be so damned stupid, and start chasing him. But there’s nothing for it, he refuses to stop and just keeps on running. Zigzagging all over the place, like a hare, they said. He’d gone completely crazy. Anyway, Emil’s finally forced to open fire. First shot, straight through the head. Stone dead on the spot.’

The captain wiped his hand across his face. Momentarily, a surge of suspicion welled up in Breuer.

‘Captain,’ he asked uneasily, ‘your men – they didn’t… I mean, they haven’t gone and…’ His words tailed off; the captain looked up at him in surprise.

‘What, you’re thinking they might have… just for the hell of it? Now listen here, lad, this is my lads you’re talking about! I told them all about you interrogating him. Dead impressed with him, they were. No, no, it’s out of the question, Breuer – the bloke had a death wish.’

Meanwhile, all the hoo-ha about Manstein had died down. Some people maintained they could still hear the sounds of artillery fire and battle in the south, and someone claimed to have sighted from the western front German armour moving once more along the road above the Don escarpment; even so, the rallying cry, repeated time and again by the Army High Command, of ‘Hang in there – Manstein will get us out!’ had by now lost much of its impact. Even Count Willms had become positively monosyllabic with the information he divulged latterly. He pointed to the great difficulties in launching such an attack, especially during winter, and urged everyone to remain calm and be patient.

One day the mess orderlies to whom Lakosch had given some of the white flour he’d purloined sent him a dinner invitation, which hinted at some great treats in store. The rather draughty wooden bunker next to the kitchen was set out for a banquet. The table was laid with an old general staff map for a tablecloth and three candles. A wonderful smell of roasting pervaded the space. It grew even more intense when Krämer came in with a tray and set down in front of each of them an aluminium plate carefully covered with a piece of paper. Lieutenant Colonel Unold was accustomed to having his breakfast served in this way. The NCO in charge of the mess rose from his chair, arranged his permanently grinning face into a semblance of gravitas, and opened the banquet by saying grace:

‘I won’t hear a word said against jacket potatoes and herring!’ laughed Lakosch. ‘If you could magic that up, that’d do me just fine.’

Cautiously he uncovered his plate. The others kept a close, expectant watch on his eyes, which grew steadily larger and rounder. Before him lay a huge schnitzel, framed by two large Thuringian dumplings in a fragrant caramelized onion gravy. Lakosch had been prepared for a big surprise, but this went beyond his wildest dreams. Almost in reverence, he sliced into the juicy, wonderfully tender meat.

‘Oh, lads,’ he enthused, ‘what a feast! I haven’t eaten anything this good in years. It tastes just like veal. Now, don’t you try telling me this is horsemeat, no way! I’d give anything to know where you got hold of it, though!’

‘Don’t ask, just eat!’ the NCO told him, while the rest sat around with sly grins on their faces.

‘There’s more where that came from if you’re still hungry,’ the NCO reassured him. He felt like a millionaire who was treating some poor wretch to the time of his life just for once. Lakosch felt very comfortable in that role – he loosened his belt and devoured the schnitzel like a ravening beast. The others got stuck in to their food with almost as much gusto, while the mess chief regaled the company with jokes. The atmosphere grew appreciably livelier, especially after Lance-Corporal Wendelin produced a bottle of cherries steeped in rum of dubious provenance. Lakosch, too, felt moved to treat his fellow diners to some gems from his inexhaustible supply of witticisms and anecdotes.

‘Have you heard the one about the walking stick?’ he asked, his mouth still half-full of schnitzel and dumplings. ‘No? Well, there’s these two friends from Silesia, Antek and Franzek. One day, Antek runs into Franzek on the street, and he’s carrying a new walking stick that’s much too tall for him. So Antek says to Franzek: “You don’t look too comfortable with that – where’d you get it?” “Inherited it from my uncle!” replies Franzek proudly. “Well, if I was you,” suggests Antek, ever the practical one, “I’d shorten it a bit.” “Nah, that’s no good,” says Franzek, “then I’d have nothing to hold on to.” “No, not at the top – at the bottom!” his friend replies. “How come?” asks Franzek, baffled. “It’s the top bit that’s too tall!”’

Gales of uproarious laughter. The portly NCO laughed so hard he found it hard to catch his breath. His face turned alarmingly red, and his large protruding ears waggled about like an elephant’s.

‘It’s the top bit… ha ha ha, priceless!’ he spluttered, with tears running down his cheeks.

Lakosch was frankly a bit surprised at the rip-roaring success of his joke, which he’d already tried out on a few people at Staff HQ. During the outbreak of laughter, he’d glanced aimlessly a couple of times at a heap of clothes lying in a corner of the bunker. All of a sudden, his gaze froze to that same spot and his body tensed. In among the greatcoats and camouflage jackets, there was a tawny patch of something that looked like a foal-fur pelt. Lakosch got up slowly and crossed the room like he was sleepwalking… A silence fell over the room.

‘Wait for it, lads,’ whispered the NCO, ‘he’s twigged! Now we’ll have some fun!’

Lakosch thrust his hands into the clothes pile. They came out holding the neatly flayed coat of his dog, Senta. For a moment he stood there, rooted to the spot. Then, all at once, he felt a warm sensation rising in his gorge and he vomited all over the heap of clothes. When he’d finished, he turned around and strode stiffly back to the table. A feeling of apprehension gripped the others. Lakosch stopped in front of the corpulent NCO. His hands gripped the table edge, and his upper body swayed slightly to and fro. His bloodshot eyes bulged from his greenish-white face, where his freckles stood out like flecks of mustard. Then he raised his fist and smashed it as hard as he could square into the fat man’s face, which had frozen in terror – once, twice… before the others dragged him off.