His father, once a man of status and power, was now a pathetic figure. Instead of rejoicing in the conquest of barbarian Poland, he just moaned about ill-treatment of the Poles – which he must have heard about by listening illegally to a foreign radio station. Such behaviour could get them all into trouble – including Erik, who was guilty of not reporting it to the local Nazi block supervisor.
Erik’s mother was just as bad. Every now and again she disappeared with small packages of smoked fish or eggs. She said nothing in explanation, but Erik felt sure she was taking them to Frau Rothmann, whose Jewish husband was no longer allowed to practise as a doctor.
Despite that, Erik sent home a large slice of his army pay, knowing his parents would be cold and hungry if he did not. He hated their politics, but he loved them. They undoubtedly felt the same about his politics and him.
Erik’s sister, Carla, had wanted to be a doctor, like Erik, and had been furious when it was made clear to her that in today’s Germany this was a man’s job. She was now training as a nurse, a much more appropriate role for a German girl. And she, too, was supporting their parents with her meagre pay.
Erik and Hermann had wanted to join infantry units. Their idea of battle was to run at the enemy firing a rifle, and kill or be killed for the Fatherland. But they were not going to be killing anyone. Both had had one year of medical school, and such training was not to be wasted; so they were made medical orderlies.
The fourth day in Belgium, Monday 13 May, was like the first three until the afternoon. Above the roar and snarl of hundreds of tank and truck engines, they began to hear another, louder sound. Aircraft were flying low over their heads and, not too far away, dropping bombs on someone. Erik’s nose twitched with the smell of high explosives.
They stopped for their mid-afternoon break on high ground overlooking a meandering river valley. Major Weiss said the river was the Meuse, and they were west of the city of Sedan. So they had entered France. The planes of the Luftwaffe roared past them, one after another, diving towards the river a couple of miles away, bombing and strafing the scattered villages on the banks where, presumably, there were French defensive positions. Smoke rose from countless fires among the ruined cottages and farm buildings. The barrage was relentless, and Erik almost felt pity for anyone trapped in that inferno.
This was the first action he had seen. Before long he would be in it, and perhaps some young French soldier would look from a safe vantage point and feel sorry for the Germans being maimed and killed. The thought made Erik’s heart thud with excitement like a big drum in his chest.
Looking to the east, where the details of the landscape were obscured by distance, he could nevertheless see aircraft like specks, and columns of smoke rising through the air, and he realized that battle had been joined along several miles of this river.
As he watched, the air bombardment came to an end, the planes turning and heading north, waggling their wings to say ‘Good luck’ as they passed overhead on their way home.
Nearer to where Erik stood, on the flat plain leading to the river, the German tanks were going into action.
They were two miles from the enemy, but already the French artillery was shelling them from the town. Erik was surprised that so many gunners had survived the air bombardment. But fire flashed in the ruins, the boom of cannon was heard across the fields, and fountains of French soil spurted where the shells landed. Erik saw a tank explode after a direct hit, smoke and metal and body parts spewing out of the volcano’s mouth, and he felt sick.
But the French shelling did not stop the advance. The tanks crawled on relentlessly towards the stretch of river to the east of the town, which Weiss said was called Donchery. Behind them followed the infantry, in trucks and on foot.
Hermann said: ‘The air attack wasn’t enough. Where’s our artillery? We need them to take out the big guns in the town, and give our tanks and infantry a chance to cross the river and establish a bridgehead.’
Erik wanted to punch him to shut his whining mouth. They were about to go into action – they had to be positive now!
But Weiss said: ‘You’re right, Braun – but our artillery ammunition is gridlocked in the Ardennes Forest. We’ve only got forty-eight shells.’
A red-faced major came running past, yelling: ‘Move out! Move out!’
Major Weiss pointed and said: ‘We’ll set up our field dressing station over to the east, where you see that farmhouse.’ Erik made out a low grey roof about eight hundred yards from the river. ‘All right, get moving!’
They jumped into the truck and roared down the hill. When they reached level ground they swerved left along a farm track. Erik wondered what they would do with the family that presumably lived in the building that was about to become an army hospital. Throw them out of their home, he guessed, and shoot them if they made trouble. But where would they go? They were in the middle of a battlefield.
He need not have worried: they had already left.
The building was half a mile from the worst of the fighting, Erik observed. He guessed there was no point setting up a dressing station within range of enemy guns.
‘Stretcher bearers, get going,’ Weiss shouted. ‘By the time you get back here we’ll be ready.’
Erik and Hermann took a rolled-up stretcher and first aid kit from the medical supply truck and headed towards the battle. Christof and Manfred were just ahead of them, and a dozen of their comrades followed. This is it, Erik thought exultantly; this is our chance to be heroes. Who will keep his nerve under fire, and who will lose control and crawl into a hole and hide?
They ran across the fields to the river. It was a long jog, and it was going to seem longer coming back, carrying a wounded man.
They passed burned-out tanks but there were no survivors, and Erik averted his eyes from the scorched human remains smeared across the twisted metal. Shells fell around them, though not many:
