Heinrich Gerlach - Breakout at Stalingrad

One of those who did not fall victim to this dream world was Lance Corporal Lakosch. The experiences of the past few weeks had rained down on him like an artillery barrage, destroying the edifice that his upbringing and propaganda had built within him. Yet beneath the ruins of this structure something long suppressed was now stirring, impelling him to action.

In the days following Christmas, another link to his former life had been severed. His beloved little Volkswagen, his faithful companion through the long, arduous years of war, finally gave up the ghost. On the orders of the NCO in charge of the motor pool, Lakosch had taken it to the division’s workshops, where they’d promised to get it back to him within three weeks. Lakosch knew only too well what that meant. Three weeks… who could say what might have happened within three weeks? He was sure he was saying goodbye to his car for good. Sunk in melancholy, he trudged his way back through the balka . The snow crunched and squeaked beneath his feet, and behind him the hissing sound of welding and the thumping and hammering noises from the workshop gradually died away. From a cloudless sky, a feeble sun cast its rays across the shimmering snow and threw blue wedges of shade into the jagged-sided gorge. Thin ribbons of smoke snaked up from the black oven chimneys on top of the bunkers. Ragged Romanians were shovelling soil into the reddish-brown bomb craters that pockmarked the road. A group of heavily muffled German infantrymen were jostling and stamping their feet in dirty grey puddles around a steaming field kitchen. Outside a bunker entrance curtained with sacking, a soldier was hastily shovelling snow into various cooking utensils. As Lakosch passed by, he lifted his head.

‘Hey, Karl! What brings you here, mate?’

Lakosch stopped in his tracks. He knew that voice! He peered over towards the speaker. Yes, indeed, it really was him – Seliger, the old mess orderly.

‘Well, blow me down,’ said Lakosch in a deadpan voice, ‘and there was me thinking you were a goner.’

Seliger came over to the little driver, swinging the clanking cooking pots.

‘Oh, you think so!’ he laughed. ‘No way, old son, you know what they say – “bad weeds grow tall”! Come inside for a bit, why don’t you! It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey out here.’

Lakosch hesitated, but Seliger took him by the arm and steered him towards the bunker.

‘We’ve got a bottle on the go! Our CO’s off somewhere and won’t be back for another couple of hours. I’m Captain Korn’s batman for the time being here, see, while I recuperate.’

Down in the cramped, frowsty bunker, he produced a bottle of vodka from underneath a camp bed and placed two mugs on the table. Lakosch’s gaze wandered to the Iron Cross ribbon that shone spick and span from Seliger’s tattered battledress jacket. His thoughts were still on his car.

‘How’s things with you, then?’ he enquired somewhat indifferently. ‘At ours they told us you’d bought it.’

Seliger looked at him in amazement. He was clearly put out.

‘Don’t you know anything, mate? Me and Harras gave the Russians a run for their money! Haven’t you read about us in dispatches, then?’

‘What! – that was you?’ exclaimed Lakosch, suddenly shaken from his torpor. ‘You’re the two who went roaming around behind Russian lines? Come on then, spill the beans!’

Seliger was duly assuaged, so he didn’t need much prompting to start telling his story. Boy, oh boy – all the things they’d seen and done! After their way back had been cut off by a Russian reconnaissance unit, they’d taken their courage in their hands and decided to work their way through enemy lines. They’d spent two nights hiding in an abandoned bunker. Then, under cover of darkness, they’d nicked bread and jam from a food truck, killed two lone Russian sentries, taken their coats and weapons, and thus equipped had moved undetected through villages and Red Army encampments. Lakosch, who had started by interposing questions now and then, had grown increasingly quiet. He knew Seliger of old: all mouth and trousers! And here he was trying to tell him… what tosh!

‘You know what?’ he said at length, interrupting the torrent of words issuing from Seliger, who by now was noticeably a bit tipsy, ‘You can tell that to the Marines! You reckon you can pull a fast one on me after just a little tot of vodka, eh? I could believe it of old Lissnup, maybe… but you, of all people? You shit your pants at the slightest bang!’

Seliger swallowed a couple of times. His bragging bonhomie instantly switched to angry resentment. The drink was clearly disagreeing with him; his eyes were already looking glazed.

‘You just watch it!’ he slurred indignantly. ‘You won’ b’lieve me, but iss okay comin’ from the bloody high-and-mighty sar’nt-major, yeah? Course, no one believes the li-little private, right! But ol’ Lissnup – he can tell you anything he likes, that puffed-up sack of shit! I tell you, over there, he was sucking up to me like there was no tomorrow – yeah, Seliger here, his dear old comrade Seliger! And now he won’t even look me in the eye, the pig.’ He gave a loud belch. ‘But I’m telling you, sunshine, if I ever spill the beans, he’s finished… finished, d’you hear!’

Lakosch pricked up his ears. The whole business was starting to smell a bit fishy. ‘Hey, hey,’ he said, trying to mollify the orderly, ‘what have you got against him, then? I thought you and him were thick as thieves after your escapades? You’re a big noise now!’

‘Big noise – what shit!’

Seliger slammed his fist down on the table.

‘The only big noise round here is Lissnup – made him a lieutenant with the Iron Cross First Class! And what do I get? This scrap of ribbon here!’ He slapped his chest. ‘So I can just sit here in this bunker and die!’

‘You’re off your head!’ said Lakosch. ‘If things go wrong here, we’re all done for, every man jack of us. Do you think they’ll make some exception in your case?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I thought! D’ya think I’d have bothered coming back otherwise? I didn’t… I didn’t need to… But he wouldn’t let up, the bastard! Kept going on about being flown out to the Führer’s HQ, and about the home leave we’d get and so on. What an idiot I’ve been! Karl, I’m an i-idiot!’

Unsteadily, he got to his feet, propped himself against the table and put his arm round Lakosch’s shoulders. His face puckered into a tearful grimace.

‘Karl, tell me that I’m an idiot!’

‘Yeah, yeah, you’re an idiot,’ Lakosch replied impatiently. ‘But what makes you realize that now all of a sudden?’

Seliger downed another slug of vodka. He was sobbing uncontrollably now, overcome by emotion and world-weariness.

‘Karl, you – you’ve always been my mate, you’ve al… always understood me. I’ll tell you why I’m an idiot. I wan’ – I wanna – hic! – confess something to you… the last request of a – hic! – dying man. When I’m six feet under, I want you to avenge me… take revenge for me against that bastard, that piece of crap… promise me that.’

‘Yeah, yeah, right you are! Just get on with it!’

Seliger stared vacantly, his eyes wandering. The emotional picture he’d conjured up of his tragic end had sidetracked him. He started to sing: ‘When I’m go–o–ne put roses on my gra–a-a–ve…’

Spittle ran down his chin; this particular hero didn’t exactly cut an inspiring figure. His hand groped for the bottle. Lakosch grabbed the drunk Seliger by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Come on, mate, your last request! Tell me!’

Seliger’s head lolled to and fro, and his eyes were closed.