The Undaunted (Book 2 of The Undesirables)

Epilogue: The Troublemaker

The basement of the Railwayman's House had begun to feel like a tomb. The cold penetrated the broken plaster on the ceiling and seeped in from the frozen ground. There wasn't wood, coal or oil for the stove, so those places in the corners where water gathered now glistened with black ice.

Krause was alone. Fourth Panzer Army had attacked the Russian forces strangling Stalingrad a week ago. They'd smashed into the Red Army lines and destroyed hundreds of T-34's in the first days of the assault. But like every Stalingrad offensive, it had eventually stalled. The Panzers now idled fifty miles southwest of the city.

Krause's commander, General Seydlitz, decided to visit 6th Army Headquarters at the Univermag Department Store in an effort to convince Field Marshal Paulus to attempt a breakout. Seydlitz had brought his brilliant young protégé, and Krause's lover, Major Polik, with him. Together they hoped to make a convincing argument: that if 6th Army attacked from within the city, while 4th Panzer Army attacked from without, they could fight their way to freedom and save the Germans trapped in the Russian stranglehold – in other words, save themselves. They had left three hours ago, and Krause was growing uneasy and impatient.

Then he heard the sound of boots on the stairs. He knew it was Polik stomping off the ice and snow. Then he appeared in the gloom, alone.

Major Polik's uniform was dirty and wrinkled – they lacked clean water for washing and it was too cold to undress, anyway. His uniform hung on his malnourished body like the clothes of a scarecrow. He'd let his hair grow long and his beard grow thick in an effort to fight the cold, and both crawled with lice. His eyes were dark and hollow, but despite it all, Krause found him vital and beautiful, like the mummy of some ancient warrior-Pharoah rising from the grave. Krause actively avoided looking in reflective surfaces from fear of seeing his own face. During their nights together, when they cuddled for warmth, Polik had assured Krause he was still handsome. But Krause knew he was lying. Now they stared at each other across the dark basement, Polik having paused on the bottom step. "What happened?" Krause asked him.

"Paulus refused," Polik replied bitterly.

"Where is General Seydlitz?"

"He's been relieved of command."

Krause was shocked. "Why?"

"Because he has ordered us – all of the officers under his command – to defy Hitler and Paulus and try to break out ourselves."

Krause chewed his lip, trying to process that information. A German Officer of Seydlitz's rank and reputation, openly defying a direct order, that was unheard of. "What are we going to do?" Krause asked.
"Hitler has ordered us to dig in. He has refused to let us attack, and he has refused to let us surrender. He is sacrificing us. For what, I don't know. Fourth Panzer Army was our only hope. But they waited too long. Now all that's left for us is to defy Hitler, or to die."

"Or maybe do both," Krause said pessimistically.

Polik smiled sadly at Krause and nodded. "Maybe do both."

* * *

Major Polik gathered his remaining men and explained the situation. He didn't command them to join him, but they knew they would die if they stayed. They called themselves "Kampfgruppe Polik", in the tradition of small ad-hoc battle forces that had a habit of outperforming their size for the Wehrmacht. Then they began to march southwest, through the German-held streets of Stalingrad.

The men who watched them from icy slit trenches and frozen ruins looked more like ghosts then soldiers. They seemed to watch without emotion – neither envious nor pitying – they were so malnourished that they lacked the strength for emotion.

When they reached the southwest lines they were stopped. "We have orders to attack," Major Polik told the Colonel in charge of the garrison.

"Then show me your orders," the Colonel insisted.

"The orders were verbal," Polik lied. "There was no paper left to write them on."

"I am sorry, Major Polik," the Colonel refused respectfully, "But I have been warned of mass desertions. I have been ordered to stop them. And my orders were written."

Polik tried to stare the Colonel down. "We are not deserters," he insisted, defending his own honor and that of his soldiers. "Would deserters be attacking the enemy?"

The Colonel passed his eyes over the three-score men that remained in Polik's battalion, the so-called Kampfgruppe. What he saw did not re-assure him. Like all the troops trapped in the city, they were dying on their feet. But that didn't mean that the rifles and machineguns they were carrying weren't dangerous. "I am sorry, Major, but I must ask you and your men to surrender your weapons."

"I must refuse, sir," replied Polik indignantly, "since we will need our weapons to attack the enemy." He turned toward his men and raised his arm. "Forward!" he commanded.

Krause and the other soldiers followed their Major right past the Colonel. They descended the defensive trenches and marched beyond its wide-eyed defenders. Then they climbed up over the other side and, suddenly, they were marching through no-man's land.

A cold fog was clinging to the frozen steppe. It blocked their view of the Russian lines. My God, Krause thought, we're actually going to make it. We're going to appear right on top of the Russians before they even know we're attacking.

Then, suddenly, the man beside Krause fell in a spray of blood. An instant later Krause heard the rifle shot that had killed him.

There were more shots and more men fell, but Krause couldn't see who was firing. He peered into the fog, but he couldn't see any Russians.

Then he heard a terrifying sound – a ripping sound, like the fog was being torn in half. And that's when he understood what was really happening. It was the sound of a German machinegun, an MG-42. The Russians weren't shooting them from the front; the Germans were shooting them from behind.

Adrenaline shot through Krause's malnourished body and jolted him into a run. "I surrender!" he yelled into the fog, hoping against hope he would reach the Russian lines.

He only made it fifteen feet before the machinegun bullets tore into his back.