Russia had changed. It wasn’t just the weather, though the sun helped. A wide expanse of green grass and silvery birches, dotted with whitewashed villages and dark green clusters of trees, was a far cry from the endless frozen waste they had seemed trapped in since they broke out of the Baltic. It was pretty, Vicewachtmeister Kanngiesser had to admit. It had a certain postcard charm. You could imagine enjoying holidays here. Not that Kanngiesser would ever want to come back, but in principle, he could see the appeal. No, Russia had changed in much more concrete and practical ways. It had houses to be billeted in, food to requisition and people you had to deal with. It made a big difference from the hellscape of burned villages and ghost towns they had become used to. In fact, the place looked a lot like Eastern Poland had last spring. Back then, though, there had been good boots. The felt or plaited straw monstrosities that most Russian prisoners wore these days were not even worth stealing. Knobelbecher were bad, but they weren’t that bad.
It figured, though. The Vicewachtmeister stretched out on his bed of straw, looking into the square of the tiny village they had settled into for the night. The Russians were simply no longer able to keep up with destroying things. If that meant roofs to sleep under, kasha and mushrooms to eat, and the occasional bottle of vodka to liberate, that was fine by him. Kanngiesser’s men could use the relief. They had been through the wringer a few times since they’d ridden out of their barracks, every man mounted on a cavalry horse and certain they’d be facing the foe galloping into action, caissons clattering and harness jingling. Now, they were mostly walking. Even the foul-tempered., unseasoned Argentinian horses they’d come to hate last year were treasured as more and more guns now sported panye ponies. If that cut into their speed, it hadn’t mattered too much during the muddy season. Now – they just had to make do and walk as best they could. It was, they’d said more often than Kanngiesser cared to remember, one hell of a way to fight a war. Maybe next year they’d have lorries to drag the guns. But of course nobody had the least intention to still be fighting next year. The war had been going on too long as it was.
.Out here, with the horses stabled for the night and the wind rustling in the birches, a fire softly glowing, it felt oddly peaceful. Kanngiesser had checked the posts and settled his men in for the night, passing around the last of the spirits they had taken along from the last town they’d come through and listening to them gripe. Damn, why couldn’t the Russians see they were beat? What was the point risking your life if the only thing you got was more of the bastards coming out of the woodwork? The Austrians were about to grab Kiev, at least if the papers they got were good for anything other than arsewipes. The Chinese and Turks had beaten them, which just went to show they were hot stuff if you kicked them into proper shape first. And it looked like the only thing stopping everybody from going home was that the government was asking for more than the Czar would give them. Kanngiesser could see how that would annoy the emperor. His boys had bled for the victory. He’d lost three quarters of the original force, buried or invalided home. But still, Russia was a big place. Even a modest bite should be quite enough for any appetite. He had no desire to lose more of his comrades.
A shadow passing by the watchfire – Kanngiesser set aside his bottle. Wachtmeister Helwig was making his rounds, no doubt spreading cheer wherever he passed. That bastard was always more than happy to enforce every chickenshit order from clueless officers who thought themselves called to raise fucking morale. Perhaps he wouldn’t have minded so much if Helwig wasn’t a living reminder how Kanngiesser, despite his Iron Cross first class, despite his five years of service, despite his excellent marks on every test, was always second choice for promotion. They’d brought Mehling in from the god-damned lifeguard cavalry when old Wachtmeister Mehling’s head had intersected with the path of a Russian shrapnel fragment. Not the first clue about how to fight a gun, but big ideas of spit and polish. But you couldn’t have a Socialist in charge of the company. And sure enough he was passing around Division Field Order # 1243 – on singing German folk songs to maintain morale. A spirited rendition of the Wacht am Rhein died two fires over.
Very well – they could sing. Kanngiesser fumbled for the dog-eared songbook in his knapsack and beckoned his corporal: “Bernoth, die Klampfe! Es wird gesungen.”
Of all the things to take on a thousand-kilometre hike illegally, a guitar was not the first that came to mind, but by now none of the men in the battery wanted to miss it. Bernoth was a damned good player. He’d been with some youth group or other before being drafted, apparently.
“Page 27. Bernwardsturm.” Bernoth opened the page and shot him a questioning glance. Kanngiesser nodded firmly. The first chords were exhilarating, joyful, defiant. A manly song. Helwig came closer, still smiling.
Die Glocken stürmten vom Bernwardsturm,
Der Regen durchrauschte die Straßen.
Und durch die Glocken und durch den Sturm,
Gellte des Urhorns blasen.
“Kanngiesser!” The voices fell.
“Yes, Wachtmeister?”
“This is not on the list of approved songs.” Helwig straightened himself, looking around the circle of men around the fire. “The order clearly states….”
Kanngiesser took a step forward, facing his superior directly. “The order calls for the songs of German folk memory and historical greatness. I think this song should qualify.”
“You think?” An unpleasant smirk. “I didn’t know you could do that. Best leave it to people who get paid for it, you hear?”
Kanngiesser turned to Bernoth. “Keep playing.” The music continued. Helwig’s eyes widened. “I don’t know what the fuck you are doing, but if you think you’ll get away with this…”
… Die Klingsburg hoch am Berge lag,
Sie zogen hinauf in Waffen,
Auframmte der Schmied mit einem Schlag
Das Tor, das er fronend geschaffen. …
Kanngiesser spat. “Get away? I’m getting away with as many of my men alive as I can. Right good men in a fight, too. Not that you’d know much about that.”
The Wachtmeister stared openly. “Are you drunk?”
Kanngiesser smiled grimly. “Not enough vodka in this shithole to get a man drunk, Herr Wachtmeister. Not that I would, being on duty. I’m just keeping up the morale of the men, as ordered.” He turned around. “Keep singing!”
For a brief moment, Helwig stood completely motionless. Corporal Bernoth launched into the next stanza, fingers flying over the fretboard. Kanngiesser balled his fists. If that lickspittle bastard was going to make a fight out of it, he’d break a few teeth.
Dem Ritter fuhr ein Schlag ins Gesicht,
Ein Spaten ihm zwischen die Rippen,
Er brachte das Schwert aus der Scheide nicht
Und nicht den Fluch von den Lippen.
“That song is not permitted!” Helwing’s voice trembled. “Stop it or….”
Kanngiesser laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Or what? You’ll have us sent to the Russian front?”
Helwig stared uncomprehendingly. “Kanngiesser, I am going to assume you are drunk. We will clear this matter up in the morning.”
Still laughing, eyes locked on the Wachtmeister’s retreating back, Kanngiesser joined his men in their song again. Maybe something would happen tomorrow, but probably not. And Helwig would know not to fuck with him one way or another.
Auf rauschte die Flamme mit aller Kraft
Brach Balken, Bogen und Bande,
Ja, gnade dir Gott, du Ritterschaft:
Der Bauer stund auf im Lande!
