Nacht und Nebel
horror by Stephen D. Rogers
I wake and it is quiet. Too quiet. Even in the dead of night, a full Kompanie makes noise. Bodies shift. Equipment rattles. Horses nicker. Men snore or fart, murmur to each other. Fire rifles across the line at unseen Bolsheviks because the men are bored.
A Kompanie of men breathes and dreams and lives.
“Ritcher?” Thick fog pins me in place. I can’t see Ritcher at the other side of our hole and I’m afraid to reach out for him. I call his name a little louder. “Ritcher?”
No response.
Gulping, I scramble across the hole but I don’t find him.
“Richter!” When he doesn’t answer, I shout the names of other men in our Gruppe. My cries are muffled by the fog. I’m greeted by silence.
Gripping my rifle, I crawl out of my hole, over to the next. Empty. I scurry to the next hole. Empty. I stand and stagger from hole to hole to hole.
Empty, empty, empty.
Have the Bolsheviks overrun us without waking me? Even if I could have slept through the assault, where is our abandoned equipment? Where are the bodies? The litter of spent cartridges?
I search from one end of our defensive position to the other but find no evidence the Kompanie had halted here after a day’s hard march. Except for the holes; the holes remain. One hundred men rested here when I fell asleep. Now I am alone.
I force one hand from my rifle to catalog my equipment. Anything to occupy my mind. Bayonet and entrenching tool. Three grenades. My canteen sounds full, my iron rations are untouched.
Raising my rifle, I aim into the fog and fire. I make a quarter turn and fire. Turn and fire. Turn and fire. I return to my original position and fire. The night and fog swallow the bullets, dampen the sound.
After inserting a fresh magazine, I take a deep breath and yell as loud as I can. The night and fog muffle me. The sound is pitiful.
I shiver.
The shiver becomes a shudder before I gain control. One hundred men cannot go missing without a trace. Not even Mother Russia can accomplish that. Had the Kompanie withdrawn or advanced while I slept? An orderly movement would have left less behind, but they should not have left me.
Had the night and fog hampered assembly, allowed my Gruppe and Gruppe leader to miss my absence? That made no sense at all. The whole of the German army recoils in horror if so much as a belt is mislaid.
I realize I have lost my orientation. Which way is forward, which way back? Where is home? Where is the bulk of mysterious, unknowable Russia?
My Gruppe leader whispers in my mind: When in doubt, advance. I close my eyes, taste the air and march. One foot in front of another until it quickly becomes a mindless rhythm. The dark fog engulfs me, welcomes me, urges me to increase the pace.
If the vast expanses of Russia taught me anything, it is how to march. No, two things. I have also learned the depth of my insignificance.
A sudden drop in the ground forces me to stumble. I speed to catch my balance and run out of the hole. I stagger in and out of another. A field of holes. German holes, given their measured size and spacing.
We had never dug in so close to another position. Could I be marching in circles? Could these be the holes I’d just stumbled through?
I find no men, no signs of men. No equipment or evidence of a firefight. Just holes.
Were there light I would search for boot prints. Then I would know. Perhaps we advanced in tandem with another Kompanie. Have I entered our flank?
The holes end. As I leave the holes behind, I concentrate on marching a straight line. Even if I am moving sideways along the front, I would rather that than march in circles.
Was any advance ever so quiet?
After years in Russia, I’ve grown accustomed to the rumble of boot steps, the squeak of wheels, the jangle of harness. Alone on the eastern front, I missed the coughing and cursing of men.
The ground disappears under my next step. Another hole. Another and another until I can take no more. I step into the the last hole I have found and sink to my knees, resting my head on the packed earth that rims the hole. I begin to sob.
I turn my head to look and there is Richter. Before I can speak he lifts his finger to his lips and shakes his head. I clutch at his arm, thankful he is here with me. He pulls away, turns back to the front, his rifle clutched before him.
Flares explode above us – ours and theirs. From both sides of the front comes the stuttering clatter of machine guns. Red-white tracers cut the fog.
The Gruppe leader shouts commands and we respond. Shooting, shouting, cursing, dying. Then there is a roar in the distance and the earth thumps beneath our feet. Katyusha rocket launchers. Stalin’s Pipe Organs. When had they been brought into play? I hear that fearsome, awful whistle high above us and all is quiet once again.
Even in the dead of night, a full Kompanie makes noise. Bodies shift. Equipment rattles. Horses nicker. Men snore or fart, murmur to each other. Fire rifles across the line at unseen Bolsheviks because the men are bored. A Kompanie of men breathes and dreams and lives.
Not anymore.
Copyright October 2011 by Stephen D. Rogers
Stephen D. Rogers lives in Massachusetts. He is the author of Shot to Death, Three-Minute Mysteries and and more than seven hundred shorter pieces. His website, Stephen D. Rogers, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.