Forgotten Soldier by Guy Sajer Page B

S.S. company came, but three days later they were sent on to the Sixth Army. We've already had forty killed, which is a lot for one company."
    That afternoon, we organized an odd-looking convoy using four wheeled Russian carts to which runners could be attached, transforming them into sleighs. There were also some real sleighs-a few eidekas and even two or three troikas covered with decorations-all requisitioned from Russian civilians. As we started off, I remember wondering where we were taking this convoy, which looked so like Christmas, but whose load of shells and grenades was of such a different character.
    We set off towards the northwest, and a sector somewhere near Voronezh. We had been given special rations for the cold, new first-aid kits, and a two-day supply of precooked dinners. We took a track more or less blocked with snow-which crossed the line of defenses that cut off the steppe. A bulky, hooded soldier, who was the only sentry in sight, waved to us as we slowly went by him. His round shape looked enormously vulnerable as he stood there, puffing on a huge covered pipe, with his feet planted in the snow.
    After an hour or so on the trail, which grew increasingly snowy, we fastened the runners to the wheels. Our leather boots, although they were remarkably waterproof, were not the ideal foot gear For tramping through nearly two feet of snow. We tired quickly, and hung on to the horses' harnesses or the edges of the sleighs with the desperation of cripples clinging to their canes. I myself twisted my fingers into the long hair of one of those shaggy ponies whose pelts are thick and tufted, like sheep's wool. However, the horses' pace was too quick, and forced us into an exhausting rhythm which made us pour with sweat despite the cold. From time to time one of the leaders of a column would stop and watch the long convoy going by, catching his breath under the pretext of checking the line of march. When they rejoined the column, it was always at the end of the line: I never saw anyone run back to the front.
    Hals, who had become a real friend, was holding on to the other side of my horse. Although he was much bigger and stronger than I, he also looked as though he were nearly through. His face was almost hidden between his upturned collar and his cap, which had been pulled down as far as it could go. His red nose, like everyone else's, was producing a plume of white vapor.
    We hardly spoke. I had learned to be as silent as Germans usually are. But, even without words, I knew that Hals was a friend who felt as warmly toward me as I did toward him. We gave each other occasional smiles of encouragement, as if to say: "Hang on! We'll make it!"
    We halted at dusk. Feeling that I had been pushed beyond the limits of my strength, I collapsed onto a cart shaft. My legs ached with stiffness, and I could feel exhaustion pulling down my face.
    Hals let himself fall onto the snow.
    "Aie, my poor feet."
    All along the convoy, men were sitting or lying on the snow.
    "We're not spending the night here, are we?" asked a young soldier who was sitting next to me.
    We looked at each other uneasily.
    "I don't give a damn what anyone else does," said Hals, opening his mess tin. "I'm not taking another step."
    "You say that because you're still sweating. Wait until you're a little colder. Then you'll have to move if you don't want to freeze." "Shit," said Hals without looking up.
    "This food stinks."
    I opened my mess tin too. The cooked dinners they had given us early in the afternoon had long since cooled, and then frozen in the metal containers. It looked like tripe.
    All around us, other soldiers were making the same discovery.
    "God damn it!" said Hals. "But there's no point in just throwing it out."
    "What do you think?" someone asked a feld, who was looking at the stuff in his own tin.
    "Those bastards must have given us rotten meat."
    "Or a week of leftovers. It's unbelievable. There's enough food in that town for a whole