Panzer Soldier

Jews, in their faces a strange mixture of fear and resignation, knowing where they were going, but not wanting to believe the unimaginable. By the hundreds they were pushed and packed into cattle cars until there was no room to stand. Mothers held their babies over their heads so they could breathe, but before the trains could unload, over half the people in each car would die of suffocation, or simply be crushed to death when they fell. SS guards, aided by enthusiastic Ukrainian police, went about their task in a businesslike manner, their faces devoid of any semblance of compassion or mercy; these were beasts who relished their work.

Sweat ran freely down Teacher's face, his eyes wide in their sunken sockets, skin waxy, pale, his hands trembling. The Schmeisser swung from its shoulder strap, bumping his leg with each step. 'Carl,' he half whispered hoarsely, his throat dry, 'is this what we've become? '

A child cried, then silence. They passed a group of laughing SS and their Ukrainian counterparts standing in a huddle.

Teacher paused. 'Carl, go on, I have something to do and I know you can't help me. Go on, you'll find your destiny later alone, as you always have.'

Langer stopped, face grim; the beginning look of killing gathered at the corners of his eyes. Teacher gave a gentle shove with his hand.

'No, Carl, this is the way I want it. You told me once that life is a great circle with no beginning or end. Well, my circle has turned long enough. It's time for me to make a new beginning. Please go on, get away from me, now is not the time for you, it's mine and if you don't go I can't do it.'

Langer sighed deeply, put his arms around the shoulders of the thin, sad-faced man and hugged him farewell. Silent, he walked away, not looking back. He passed between a couple of cars and their cargos of pain out of sight.

* * *

Teacher unslung his submachine gun, pulled the cocking lever back slowly. His back straightened, he held the gun to his hip, barrel straight ahead. He moved to where the SS and their toadies were enjoying themselves. Stopping at about fifteen meters, he called out, voice crackling, 'Kamaraden.'

The heads turned, curious at first at the intrusion. Then they saw the weapon pointed at them. 'Heil Hitler, Kamaraden.' The Schmeisser spoke its rapid, flat, cracking chatter; the bullets smashed into the packed group, dropping them to the earth to twitch and die, wondering at their pain. They weren't supposed to be hurt, they were the ones who gave pain, not received it. Teacher emptied the magazine on full auto, spraying the twitching bodies until they were still.

He dropped the weapon to the dirt, reached into his coat pocket, took out a grenade, knelt down and pulled the pin, holding the lever tight, tears running down his face into his beard. He raised his eyes to the gray skies. 'God,' he cried, 'forgive me, God, that I didn't do this sooner.'

Two SS Sturmmen seeing him on his knees from the back, with his gun lying beside him, rushed to throw themselves on this traitor; they reached him seconds after he released the hammer; they grabbed him in time to participate in the dull thud of the grenade's explosion, and died with him. Teacher crumpled over on his back, stomach almost completely ripped out, eyes wide; but for the first time in years his face was calm; he found his way to end the pain.

When the firing started Langer hesitated, started to turn back, then stopped again. No, this was Teacher's to do alone the way he wanted it. He had no right to interfere. The crump of the Grenade going off told him it was over. He walked on out of the yards across to the road, where columns of men fresh from Germany were being herded up to the lines to fill gaps that couldn't be replaced with ten times their numbers. Bright young faces, full of confidence in the final victory. They knew the Fuhrer would triumph and they would show those who went before them how to fight; all it took was the proper spirit and faith.

Carl moved on, his feet automatically taking him in the direction of the fighting, his body moving under its own accord, following the built-in patterns of years of conflict; at times battle did ease pain and the Russians he knew were no better than the Nazis, so what difference did it make who he killed?

Another winter was here; snow was in the air. His greatcoat fluttered around his legs, the pack on his back tugged familiarly at his shoulders, giving a hot spasm of tension in the muscles between the shoulder blades. He walked with his eyes on the road, joining in with the masses moving up. The steady, kilometer-eating step of the professional took over his subconscious and moved him. All that day, faces picked at the comers of his mind. A sense of emptiness all too familiar walked with him. The road turned to slush with a cold drizzle falling which softened the ground, and the treads of armor and trucks turned it into boot-sucking slush. Still, he moved on to the distant sound of thunder. With the dark, the first snow came, soft, fat white flakes that floated gently, melting at first, then increasingly one added its whiteness to another until the ground was covered. The temperature dropped, the mud began to firm, the snow fell steadily, one inch, then another. Before midnight he stopped and took shelter in a burned-down tavern. The beams were still holding, made of oak hundreds of years old. Time had turned them almost into iron; charred and discolored they still held up, part of the roof. Langer settled into a corner. There, sheltered from the snow, he built a small fire in a forgotten metal wash pan and hunched over it, the red glow bouncing off his face, the warmth pressing against whatever skin was exposed. He leaned over to soak it in. Taking his blanket out of his pack he wrapped it around him; sitting Indian fashion, he nodded and slept fitfully, head bobbing and jerking up for an instant, eyes opening, then just as fast, shutting again. Several times the waning fire woke him to feed it and restless sleep claimed him again, only to plague him with dreams and doubts.

The soldier's mental clock pulled his head up, eyes open, fully awake. Just before dawn the night's snowfall had reached five inches and the road was gone, vanished under its covering; only the trees and brush lining the way showed where it lay under the blanket of white. Scrounging through the rubble he found another battered tin pot. Filling it with fresh snow, he sat it by his fire to melt and warm him at the same time. Eating a ration, taking small bites of black bread, he held each bit in his mouth until it turned sweet and dissolved and he washed it down with a swallow of lukewarm ersatz coffee that tasted more like burned nut shells than anything else.

The Knight's Cross sparkled in the light of the fire as he took off his coat and tunic to wash in the melted snow water. Careful not to use too much of his remaining piece of soap, he gave himself what was known in less than polite circles as a whore's bath. Using a straight razor, he scrapped at the stubble on his face, cursing at the tugs and nicks. Drying himself with one of his dirty undershirts, he redressed. A momentary flick of consternation ran across his face when he put the Knight's Cross back on. But what the hell did it matter.

Thousands of passing trucks and men pulled him out on to the road. The rusting hulks of burned vehicles and tanks, both German and Russian, were common; relics from last year's battles, rusting skeletons that gave a sense of foreboding to those who saw them for the first time. For Carl Langer, they weren't even there.

Shortly after noon he stopped to rest in the shelter of a burned MK IV. Leaning up against the rusting bogie wheels, he eased off his pack and lit up, holding his hand cupped over the match to keep the wind from blowing it out. He looked at the sky. It would be dark soon, now probably around five o'clock. He had a few more hours before packing it in; there was no rush, if he didn't move fast enough it was a sure thing the war could come to him. A passing Kubelwagen with three men and a woman in it stopped beside him. The woman