‘Drive up the hill and cover from there. I’m going in.’
He jumps out and the vehicle sets off.
Once we come out of the trees and climb up onto the ridge we hear explosions about a kilometre further on into the fog, towards the massif, but all we can see is the forest fringe and the clearing ahead of us.
Manfred rides past, carries on down the other side towards the clearing.
Ten Hiwis run on behind.
They vanish into the trees some five hundred metres further on.
The rain pours.
The gunner pulls back the charging handle.
All quiet again.
_ _ _
I sweep the line of trees below with my binoculars, but spot nothing.
It is five minutes since Manfred headed off. The gunner is right beside me, his eyes fixed on the forest, finger on the MG’s trigger. I have seen him before, when we found Steiner at Belize, the retard who shot at the dogs.
A volley of machine-gun fire to our right, I sweep the binoculars, but the forest is a shimmering haze. Another burst, more explosions, cries, and then a Hiwi emerges from the trees, running towards us, carbine in hand. His body contorts as he is hit by fire from behind, from among the trees.
‘Are you ready?’ I say to the gunner.
I knock on his helmet and point.
I direct the binoculars to where the Hiwi emerged. More shots are fired within.
A man comes out from the trees wearing a jacket and cap, gets down on his haunches, glances about, twists round and gestures into the forest. In his hand is a Soviet sub-machine gun, the drum magazine below the barrel. Four men appear at his rear, with carbines and rucksacks.
They hesitate for a moment before moving out into the clearing and starting to run straight at us.
We wait until all five are properly in the open before opening fire.
The MG stutters at the gunner’s shoulder, spent cartridges clattering to the floor.
‘Fuck you!’ he yells.
We give them an extra burst for good measure once they are down.
‘Fucking cunts, fuck you!’ he yells again.
‘That’s enough,’ I tell him, but my head too is seething with excitement.
‘Did you get them?’
Manfred’s voice on the receiver.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. We’ll mop up here, I’ll get back to you later.’
‘Any sign of Goga?’ I ask.
‘No. Sending back wounded.’
The gunner turns the MG towards the trees again, snaps back the charging handle.
‘They’re ours, for Chrissake!’ I shout.
Two medical assistants emerge, a stretcher between them.
A moment later two more, then two more still.
A hail of shots from the trees.
_ _ _
A few minutes later.
The first two stretchers have passed through to the dressing station behind us.
The third pair of medical assistants are halfway up the hill when a burst of fire rings out, the one at the rear is hit in the back and falls. The wounded SS-Sturmmann is turned out of the stretcher with a cry.
The radio crackles.
‘Heinrich!’ Manfred barks.
I am already out of the vehicle, sliding down the slope, feet first.
The Sturmmann has lost a leg at the knee, he is on his side, screaming, a jagged stump poking in the air.
The dead medic lies with his head in the grass. The other administers morphine to the wounded soldier, tightens the tourniquet, the gauze gripped between his teeth. Water sprays up from the earth around us as another burst of machine-gun fire rips through the air. We bundle the Sturmmann back onto the stretcher. Another staggered round of bullets thuds into the corpse, sending plumes of water from the saturated soil. I grip the rear handles and make eye contact with the man at the front end.
His face is oblong, daubed black. Blue eyes.
‘Ready,’ I say. He turns and takes hold.
Bullets whistle as we struggle back up the hill.
The man on the stretcher is unconscious.
_ _ _
When we get to the top they stop firing.
Three soldiers on horseback come galloping out of the undergrowth behind us. It looks like Manfred and two men from the SS-Kavallerie. Four Alsatian dogs come tearing after them.
We push on down, and now they are gone.
At once, silence, the pouring rain.
The Sturmmann on the stretcher has stopped moving. Is he dead?
The dressing station, a hundred metres on. Perhaps we are in time.
The sleeve insignia of the medical assistant. Totenkopf.
What is Steiner’s division doing here? The naked corpses of Belize …
‘You,’ I say. ‘What unit are you from?’
He pulls hard on the stretcher, I stumble forward, a tight grip on the handles.
When I look up he is pointing his gun at me.
A jolt goes through me.
‘Goga?’ I blurt out. ‘You’re Goga?’
He stiffens for a second, blue eyes staring.
They show no fear.
What, then? Scorn?
Now I hear the hooves behind the ridge.
The barking dogs.
Goga turns his head slowly towards the sound.
He turns back to face me.
Something strikes my neck, and I fall back.
_ _ _
‘Did you see him?’
Manfred, dismounted, shaking me.
‘Yes, he … am I hit?’
There’s a searing pain at the side of my neck, and adrenalin courses through my body.
‘Here,’ Manfred says, handing me a cloth. I press it to my skin.
By the time I get to my feet Manfred is already back in the saddle, catching up with the two other horsemen on the other side of the dressing station, the heavy, loping beasts in the tall grass. One of the dogs spins in the air, hit as it reaches the vegetation behind the operating tent.
Then more shots.
Cries.
Two, three rounds.
I sit down and try to steady my pulse.
_ _ _
Five minutes later Manfred comes riding up.
Behind him he drags a man with a noose around his neck, hands tied behind his back.
They have wiped the black paint from his face, and stripped him of his shirt. When they reach me I see the tattoos in the small of his back.
Two great eyes that look like butterfly wings. And on his shoulder a cockerel depicted with an earring, just beneath the shoulder blade.
The girl from Belize was right.
Etke.
His face is swollen, but the resemblance to the stuffed head of his brother is striking.
Only the eyes are wrong.
They are
