Forgotten Soldier Read Free Page A

and get ready."
    I salute, and take myself off at a gallop. It's not possible . . . I, the best driver in the platoon! I literally leap with joy, and, in less than no time, am dressed and back in the courtyard. I begin to run to the command quarters, but that proves unnecessary, as Lieutenant Starfe is already waiting for me. He is a thin, angular man, but does not look disagreeable. It seems that he was gravely wounded in Belgium and has stayed in the army as an instructor. I snap to attention.
    "Do you know the way to Cremenstovsk?" he asks. "Jawohl, Herr Leutnant."
    To tell the truth, I am only guessing that this is the road on which we sometimes run into companies who seem to be coming from that village. But I feel too pleased to hesitate. For once I am being asked for something more than a simple exercise.
    "Good," he answers, smiling. "Let's go, then."
    Starfe points to one of the tanks we were using yesterday. Something that looks like a four-wheeled trailer is attached to it. In fact, it's an 88, covered with a camouflage net. I settle into the driver's seat and turn on the engine: the gauge shows only two and a half gallons, which isn't enough, and I ask permission to fill the tank. Permission is granted, and I am congratulated for this elementary observation. We start a few minutes later. My vehicle proceeds somewhat nervously past the porch and over the bridge. I cannot bring myself to look at Starfe, who must surely have noticed my deplorable beginner's technique. About 6oo yards from the castle I turn off toward what I think must be the road to Cremenstovsk. For about ten minutes I roll along at a moderate speed, in a state of considerable anxiety about my itinerary. We pass two Polish carts loaded with hay. They take one look at my Panzer, and make for the side of the road. Starfe looks at me and smiles at their precipitate flight.
    "They think you did that on purpose. They'll never believe it's because you haven't mastered the machine."
    I don't know whether I'm supposed to laugh at this observation, or take it as a warning. I feel more and more nervous, and jolt the poor lieutenant as if he were riding a camel. Finally we arrive at a decrepit group of buildings. I look desperately for a signpost, but all I can see is the gang of tow-headed boys who have rushed out to see us go by, at the risk of falling beneath our treads.
    Suddenly I catch sight of about a hundred German vehicles parked in the road, and Starfe points to a building with a flag flying in front of it. I heave a sigh of relief. We were on the road to Cremenstovsk after all.
    "You'll have at least an hour to wait," Starfe tells me. "Go to the canteen and see if they can give you something hot."
    As he speaks, he pats me on the shoulder. I feel very much moved by the friendliness of this lieutenant to whom I have just given such a frightful journey. I would never have guessed that this man whose face is somewhat frightening would be capable of a quasi-paternal gesture.
    I walk over to a building which looks like a town hall. A notice board carries a white-on-black inscription: SOLDATENSCHENKE 27e KOMPANIE. Soldiers are continuously going in and out. As there is no sentry, I walk in, and through a room where three soldiers are busy unpacking crates of food. Beyond this room is another, with a counter at the back, beside which a group of soldiers are standing and talking.
    "Could I have something hot? I've just driven an officer over here, but I don't belong to the 27th."
    "So," mutters the soldier behind the bar. "Another one of these damned Alsatians pretending to be German."
    It's plain that I speak hideously badly.
    "I'm not Alsatian, but half German, through my mother."
    They don't press me. The one behind the bar goes off into the kitchen. I stay where I am, planted in the middle of the room, wrapped in my heavy green overcoat. Five minutes later, the soldier is back with a steaming canteen half filled with goat's milk. He pours a full tumbler