Audrey Magee - The Undertaking

‘That’s bad news for us then,’ said Kraft.

‘We’ll piss on them, Kraft,’ said Gunkel. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get to it.’

Kraus was already on the street, tucked behind the gable end of a house.

‘Let them play with their guns. Then we’ll move forward and teach them some manners.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said Weiss.

He pointed to the area on the edge of the city where he wanted them to wait until they were ordered to advance.

‘Off you go, boys. And keep down.’

They moved out, the shells arching and falling, felling trees, gouging holes in the earth, into other men’s bodies. They turned their backs on the barrage, leaned against a wall and lit cigarettes.

‘I wish we had coffee,’ said Faber. ‘Wake us up a bit.’

‘How awake do you want to be?’ said Weiss.

‘Good point.’

‘How far away do you think they are?’ said Kraft.

‘About ten, twelve miles,’ said Weiss.

‘Poor bastards underneath it,’ said Faustmann.

‘At least it’s not us,’ said Gunkel.

‘Not yet,’ said Kraft.

Kraft took a pipe from his pocket.

‘What are you doing with that?’ said Faber.

‘My mother sent it to me. It belonged to my father.’

‘Are you going to use it?’

Kraft opened his knife, scraped at the bowl and filled it with tobacco. He lit the pipe and sucked on it, then passed it to Faber who drew on the smoke and coughed.

‘I think I’ll stick to the cigarettes.’

‘It uses less tobacco,’ said Kraft.

‘Too much effort,’ said Weiss. ‘All that cleaning.’

‘It keeps you calm,’ said Kraft. ‘The routine of it.’

‘Your father was never calm,’ said Faber.

‘True.’

‘How is your mother, anyway?’ said Faber.

‘Much better, thank you.’

‘Did you tell her about your feet?’

‘No. There’s no need to worry her.’

They fell silent, listened to the Russians and lit more cigarettes.

‘Any news on Reinisch?’ said Faustmann.

‘He got what he wanted,’ said Gunkel.

‘Which is?’ said Faustmann.

‘First lieutenant,’ said Gunkel. ‘With the reconnaissance battalion.’

‘Bastard,’ said Faustmann.

‘Will Kraus do the same?’ said Kraft. ‘Use us to get promoted?’

‘Kraus is loyal,’ said Weiss. ‘We’re not a tool for his career.’

‘So he won’t care if we sit out this battle?’ said Faber.

‘He has no interest in being shot either,’ said Weiss.

Kraft cursed at the pipe and threw it to the ground.

‘Has anyone got a cigarette?’

They laughed, momentarily masking the sound of the planes. Faber looked around the wall. He saw a mass of aircraft coming from the east, flying low, bombs already falling. They were Russian.

‘I thought they had no fucking planes, the bastards.’

They ran, scrambling back towards the city, towards the already blasted houses. Kraft was in front, but stopped suddenly.

‘Move,’ shouted Weiss.

‘I don’t want to be in the lead.’

The bombing and strafing was almost above them, the bullets cutting into the soldiers behind them, scattering bodies across the earth, a fresh crop of death. Weiss bellowed at Faustmann.

‘Where do we go?’

‘Over there,’ said Faustmann. ‘We need a roof.’

They lunged at the remnants of a house. But there was no roof, only an overhang barely big enough to cover them. They huddled tightly into each other. Kraft was whimpering.

‘Don’t move, anybody,’ said Faustmann. ‘Don’t attract attention.’

Faber looked up at the sky, tracking the planes as they flew overhead, as they travelled west towards Germany, willing them onwards, horrified when they banked and turned back towards them, flying even lower than before, even closer. Kraft started screaming

‘We’re going to die. We’re going to die.’

Faber pulled his knees to his head, making himself as small as he could. Kraft was babbling. Pleading for his mother. Weiss shouted at him.

‘Shut the fuck up. I want to listen.’

‘Why do you want to listen to that?’ said Faustmann.

‘Because I can’t fucking listen to him crying for his mother.’

Faber closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the pilots, or find out whether they had seen him. He covered his ears with his hands but the thunderous roar drilled into his head anyway. Prayers flowed from his lips, one after the other, prayers from his childhood, when he stood in church beside his father, his big hand enveloping his own small hand. He wanted to go home; to retreat behind the laurel hedge, into the garden where the earth did not shake. He opened his eyes, briefly, and saw the planes mowing the earth, cutting down men, over and back, over and back, the movement as methodical and thorough as his father mowing the grass on a Saturday afternoon.

After twenty minutes, the planes left, flying back east, their bellies emptied. The men stumbled to their feet, unable to speak, their trousers wet. Kraus yelled at them to move forward. They started to run, over the bodies of the dead and the not yet dead; charging and scurrying across open ground towards the Russians, their backs bent, shoulders rounded, as though that might protect them from the storm of bullets and bombs.

Faustmann dived into a freshly formed crater.

‘We’ll set up here. Use it as our trench.’

‘Their weapons reached here,’ shouted Faber.

‘Their weapons reached fucking everywhere, Faber.’

Faustmann slid the machine gun off his shoulder, opened it up, locked it in place and began firing, Faber feeding in belts of ammunition, Weiss pointing out targets, Kraft preparing the next round. They threw grenades, fired their rifles and moved on to the next crater, staying longer in each newly held position, fighting even harder, battling until night fell, when they took turns to go back for food, cigarettes and ammunition. They dug into the ground, and crawled into their holes, Faber and Weiss together.

‘Any idea how many we got?’ said Faber.

‘I lost track.’

‘It’s pretty stupid, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Running like that,’ said Faber. ‘At a machine gun. It seems so pointless. And terrifying.’

‘They seem intent on using up all the men in Russia.’

‘And women, Weiss. We shot them too.’

They slept, woke and began again, covering the ground with another layer of bodies.

‘Death to Bolshevik Jews,’ shouted Faber.

He had slept well.

‘We really are invincible,’ said Faber.

‘We’ll have to be,’ said Faustmann.

Word came that the Russians had surrounded a village occupied by German soldiers, cutting them off.

‘They’re not capable of that,’ said Faber.

‘They obviously are,’ said Weiss.

‘They’re copying us. What we did at Kiev.’

‘We should be flattered. They won’t be there long.’

German planes flew over from the west and dropped food, fuel and ammunition to the stranded soldiers, loud cheers erupting from the battlefield. The tanks and heavy artillery followed, breaking through to free the men.

Stockhoff cooked beef stew.

‘You see, Faustmann. They do care about us.’

Faustmann lit a cigarette.

‘We’re crucial, Faber. Absolutely crucial.’

Kharkov, May 23rd, 1942

My dearest Katharina,

You would be so proud of us. We fought so hard and have pushed the Russians back again, further east, beating their attempts to take back control of land that is no longer theirs. They seem to struggle to accept this basic fact.

As you may have already heard, they surrounded some of our troops, but Berlin sent in wave after wave of rescue missions until every man was freed. It was marvellous to watch, Katharina. The planning and precision of the operation, the elegance of it all. It is marvellous to know that we have so much support from other regiments and from Berlin. It warms me to know how much you care about us all out here, because I have to admit that sometimes it is hard to know whether anybody back home is concerned about what we are doing.