Opposite Sides (57 page)

Towards the end of
November, Hans received word that Elisabeth had provided the
Fatherland with a baby boy who had been born on the 20th October.
The men in his unit congratulated him but when he would be able to
see his new son, no-one could say. Elisabeth had named the child
Siegfried Erwin Lothar Resmel; Siegfried after the great Wagnerian
hero, Erwin after her husband and Lothar after her own father. She
had written that with such names, the child could do nothing but
grow into a wonderful boy, who would later serve his Fatherland in
a most heroic and noble way. Towards the end of her long letter,
she mentioned that Renard had been home on leave and had popped in
to give his congratulations.

Renard was so
proud to be an uncle that he has given Siegfried a beautifully made
model of his submarine which he painted himself but Erwin, my dear,
I wished in my heart that it had been you who had walked through my
door. You would be so proud of our beautiful baby. He is such a
good baby . . .

Letters from home were
now taking longer to arrive as ships and planes ran even more of a
risk trying to cross the Mediterranean and there were increasing
occasions when letters never arrived at all.

As a group of senior
officers came together for a meeting under the canvas covering of
their General’s tent, Major Resmel quickly outlined the latest
information concerning enemy troop movements he and his group had
found out during their last excursion a few days before. Blick
picked up his locked attaché case and drew out the new set of
orders.

“
Now,
gentlemen, we have new information and it is our duty to interpret
what we have.” He moved over to a long, tressle-table and rolled
out a detailed map of the North African region where the fighting
was taking place. “Anglo-American forces have made landings in
these areas. They have taken here, here, and here.” He pointed to
several places on the map. “Here’s the main thrust of General
Montgomery’s forces.” He thrust his finger, this time, heavily over
the positions. “As you can see, we are surrounded on several of our
main fronts. Now, it is the Feldmarschall’s opinion that . . .
”

Having got business out
of the way, General Blick insisted that they stay a while longer to
celebrate the good news the Major had only just received with one
of the last remaining bottles of Schnapps.

“
It’s not
every day that we have something to celebrate. This baby will cheer
us all, especially when we are celebrating the birth of a boy. I
ask you, gentlemen, to raise your glasses and toast the arrival of
Siegfried Erwin Lothar Resmel.”

General Blick held high
his glass, came to attention and downed the small amount in one
small gulp. There would be no more alcoholic drinks. It was to
signify another Christmas without cheer and a New Year without
hope. Like their enemy, the men of the Afrika Korps fought the
heat, dragged themselves across an unforgiving arid landscape and
picked the blowing sand grains from out of their teeth and eyes,
having to remain alert and ready to throw all their energies into
battle when required. When news filtered through about the bitter,
bloody fighting among the frozen ruins of Stalingrad, Hans sat with
those veterans, who had been transferred from the Eastern front to
the desert, and listened as they talked among themselves about the
difficulties they had faced since the time they had been
conscripted.

“
Hell, I
don’t know where I’d most like to be,” moaned Grenadier Ketten, one
young old-hand in despair after a visit to relieve himself, “in
this God awful place where I pick sand either out of my teeth or
out of my arse; or out there where the ice seizes up the fingers
and freezes our balls off! Which ever way, pissing’s a
pain!”

He finished buttoning up
his flies and packing away his trowel. Those around him laughed
loudly, not because of what had just occurred but because each one
knew exactly what it felt like.

“
God, I hate
these biting flies. They find every bit of free flesh. Look at my
arms! Just look at them!” The soldier rolled up the sleeve of his
shirt and stretched his swollen scratched arms out for all to see.
“The flies never let up!” He swatted several of the million flies
hanging around in the air just in front of his nose. He spat a gulp
of dry air in the sand. He sneezed and a small black dot with legs
fell out from his nostril.

“
You
should’ve seen the big boil on Kurt’s arse!” Another Grenadier
leaned over and patted the seat of his trousers. “Sat on a hot
rock. Burnt him like a hot-plate!”

“
Shrapnel’s
worse.” The soldier patted himself down the right side of his body.
The others had nick-named him
Willow
because his injuries had made
his torso lean slightly to one side but he took it in good spirit.
No one referred to him as Wilhelm any more.

“
Agreed,
Weide
. Copped some myself. Got me in the leg. Only good thing was
I went home for a few weeks. Fräuleins, beer and real
sheets.”

More raucous laughter.
Ketten sat down and hung his head until his chin touched his chest.
He coughed and spat but his mouth was so dry no spit came
out.

“
Spit it out,
Ketten! Spit all the bastard sand out! Get it out! Get it
out!”

“
Get it out!
Get it out!” chanted the men.

Hans understood that
these men needed these brief moments of respite in which they could
laugh about themselves or curse the horrible conditions. Yet these
times could also open the window to graver things, like battle
fatigue or shell-shock. Hans noted that the lad who sat there
trying to rid himself of sand could not have been more than
nineteen but he already coughed with the lungs of an old man.
Grenadier Kurt Ketten had experienced it all: the ice and snow
horrors of the Eastern Front; the stink and fly hell of the
desert.

What a hell
of an existence for one so young
, Hans
thought.
What are we doing to the youth of
our country
?

Ketten sat flushed green
and bloated in the face, looking like a blown-up frog. He had spent
most of the morning heaving as his congested lungs tired to expell
mucus, together with smoke and inhaled sand grit.

“
You smoke
too much. Better give up those cigarettes, Ketten before they do
you in!” Someone in the group called out.

“
Scheisse
! It’s not those. It’s the
sand! And the heat! And the shells! And the bombs! And, and, and .
. . they say we’re winning! They keep saying we’re winning! But are
we winning? Really winning?” He looked up and there were small
tears trickling down the indented lines of his sandy cheeks. “It’s
men like us,
arme
Schweine
, who do all the dying! Not those
in Berlin!” He pulled at his gritty limp hair in despair. “Why
here? Alone. Alone in this hell-hole.”

Hans made his way across
to the young soldier and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“
How old are
you, Grenadier?”

“
Nineteen,
Major. But I’m almost twenty. In a few weeks.”

“
We are with
you, Grenadier Ketten. You’re not alone. And in a few weeks we’ll
help you celebrate your birthday.”

“
Danke,
Major.” Ketten looked up. He still felt too shaken to stand. His
commanding officer understood.

“
In a few
weeks we’ll all help you celebrate your birthday. In the meantime,
keep your wits about you, Grenadier. Think of your parents back
home and that one day how surprised they’ll be when you walking
back through their front door. This can’t last for ever. Think of
that, Ketten. Got a girlfriend?”

“
No, Major.”
Ketten was beginning to pull himself together again.

“
Why not? A
good looking guy like you should have plenty of girls after
him.”

“
I was in the
Hitler Youth a year ago, Major.” Ketten swallowed hard and swiped
more flies from his face. They had been drawn to him by the few
drops still left on his cheeks. Like the men, the insects were also
short of water and soaked it up wherever they could find some.
Ketten flicked more away and managed to smile slightly as he
continued. “I liked that. It was fun. Camping in the forest,
tramping, pretending to be the great defenders. I felt like a hero.
We all did. Then I was sent here. I was told I must prove myself.
Prove myself. What does that mean, Major?”

“
Dig deep and
keep your head down. Stay alert. Any man who returns home will be
the nation’s hero.” Hans beckoned to one of the older men. “Look,
Ketten, Obergefreiter Mäuschen will look after you, won’t you
Mäuschen? You’ll share the pit together. You won’t be alone,
Ketten. Mäuschen might even play you something on his mouth
organ.”

Not that the mouth organ
was still pleasant to listen to. The sand had even wriggled its way
deep into the blow holes so that now, when Mäuschen played, the
tunes sounded odd and strange.

“
Thanks,
Major. It’s the shelling. That’s the worse part. In the dark, night
after night when we walk. Don’t know if it’s coming just for me
half the time.”

“
You won’t
hear the one that gets you, Ketten.” Mäuschen lit a short stub end
of a cigarette and handed it over. “Just arrives! Wheeze! Boom!
That’s it . . . finish. You won’t know anything. I’ve seen plenty
of corpses, especially in Russia. They don’t care. They’re out of
it.”

“
It’s not
that, Major.” Ketten still directed his words to the officer. “If
it just takes my leg off or blows my guts outs and I’m still here.
Alone. You’d have to leave me. Alone out here. That’s what scares
me most.”

“
Ketten, I’ve
told you we won’t leave you. So don’t think about it.” The signs
were all there: the rocking, the shaking, the nightmares and
confusion. Hans knew this soldier wasn’t far from cracking. “If you
think about it, you’re inviting it to happen. We wouldn’t leave you
alone for the Desert Rats to finish you off. Now pull yourself
together. We’re a team.” Mäuschen crouched down beside the lad and
put his arm around Ketten as he rocked back and forth. “We fight as
a team,”Hans explained. “We support each other, like Mäuschen is
supporting you now.”

“
Sorry,
Major.”

Kurt Ketten looked like a
despondent child.

“
Here.” Hans
opened up his jacket and took out his brandy flask. “Have some.
It’ll calm your nerves. You’re a good soldier, Ketten. Remember
that. And, . . . the Afrika Korps is still the best.
Richtig
?”

“
Jawohl,
Major.”

In Russia, by 24th
January, only a few scattered remnants of Paulus’ army remained but
Hitler still forbade any surrender.

The Sixth
Army will hold out their positions until the last
man
!

Finally, on February 2nd,
1943, at 2.46pm, the last shot was fired. Ninety one thousand
German soldiers, half-starved and frostbitten, wounded or dazed,
wrapped in blood-soaked blankets, hobbled to Siberia, driven over
ice and snow by the soldiers of the Red Army. The battle to take
Stalingrad had come to an end. The Propaganda Minister did not
broadcast that.

Hans was aware that the
army was pulling back in North Africa and this time the retreat was
demoralising. There were rumours that large numbers of prisoners
had been taken by General Montgomery’s 8th Army but until the small
part of infiltrators returned, that news could not be verified.
Dispatches began to come through with the news that even more
British and American forces had landed in North Africa. It appeared
the fighting would intensify.

Back in Berlin, the
Führer spent most of his time raging, blaming the ground soldiers
and their commanders for betraying the Fatherland.

Any soldier
refusing to stand and fight will be shot for high treason and
cowardice
!

The net around the Afrika
Korps tightened. Hitler recalled Rommel. The rest of the men were
left to defend themselves to the best of their ability. Their
leader, Adolf Hitler, had forsaken them. They could only move at
night when the cover of darkness offered them some protection from
the keen-eyed fighter and bomber pilots of the enemy forces. With
no fuel, they dragged everything they could by hand over the
towering sand-dunes and between the orange, silent rocks. With
diminishing resources, they scavenged the countryside looking for
discarded bits of machinery and weapons which could be used to
repair those they still had. They hoped to regroup but so far only
fragments of units struggled around over the desert sands. They
rationed their precious rusty-coloured water and tins of food that
had been their staple diet during the previous months and prayed
that somehow they would survive to see another day.

In the early weeks of
April, fighting was extremely fierce. Of course, the propaganda
ministry at home kept the exact truth of this away from the general
public. For the generals, it was the beginning of depression and
surmounting shock that would begin to erode their belief that they
could win. Only nine divisions remained, spread along a 160
kilometre curve between the mountains and the sea. The men took
refuge in the deep gullies and ravines, huddling around wadis and
any water supply for fear of dying from thirst. They sought any
protection against the screaming shells and whining bombs. Their
objective now was to retreat and regroup, to find the Panzer
Divisions, if any still existed intact.