Mila 18 - Leon Uris [54]
He turned on his heels, followed by the captain, and walked briskly to the forward trenches.
The distant thump-thump-thump of artillery never quit. It was still too dark to see across the field. Another eight minutes. Andrei gave a series of security commands.
Chris climbed down into the trench alongside him.
“Gaby staying?”
“Yes.”
“It was a safe bet.”
“I tried ...”
“Don’t blame yourself. Be thankful. Find out anything about the prisoner exchange?”
“They’re still paying us almost five to one. We’re watching for a trick. Lord knows what they’re up to.”
The thumping stopped.
All eyes strained for the sight of something moving in the ugly grayness over the field. Andrei held his field glasses up and crossed back and forth over the horizon ... back and forth.
There! A shadow emerging from the clump of trees. Barely make it out. Definitely coming into the field. He waited for five minutes while the figure grew more visible.
You son of a bitch, Andrei thought. How I’d like to blow your filthy head off! The figure stopped. He was holding a makeshift white truce flag.
Andrei jumped out of the trench and walked toward the German over what had once been a potato field. It was pocked with holes and littered with wreckage. From both sides, ten thousand eyes were on them. Andrei stopped a few feet from the German. He was a colonel, but neither beetle-browed nor blond Aryan, but rattier nondescript. He seemed uneasy in his exposed position. He and Andrei stared at each other for several moments without a word.
“You are in charge?” the German said at last.
“Yes.”
“What is your situation?”
Although Andrei spoke conversational German well, he addressed the colonel in Yiddish. He rattled his Yiddish, staring directly at his enemy.
“We have forty-seven mixed neutral nationals, American Embassy personnel, and eighty of your people. Credentials have been checked.”
“Bring them out here. I will escort them through our lines.”
“You owe us three hundred ninety Poles. I will bring the evacuees to this point when you bring my people here.”
Andrei’s implication that he mistrusted the Germans was obvious. There was more the two men wished to say to each other. Andrei longed to break the German’s neck with his hands, and the German’s eyes told a message of “don’t let me find you when we enter Warsaw, Jew boy.”
But this part of war was by the rule book. Restraint. The victor had to show majesty. The loser was given his pride.
“I have a message from our commander. He urges surrender of Warsaw to avoid further useless bloodshed.”
“I have a message from our mayor in the event that your commander asks Warsaw to surrender. No.”
The German broke off the conversation, looking at his watch. “It will take me approximately six minutes to have your people moving here. They have been assembled in the small woods there.”
“I’ll wait.”
The German snapped his heels together, made a curt short bow from the waist, and walked back across the field.
Andrei stood alone. He heaved a terrible sigh and bit his lip. He watched the figure of the German grow smaller and smaller, and now the thousands of eyes were on him alone. The last of the proud Poles ... erect as a statue. Still cursing beneath his breath, still praying for his enemy to fight him face to face.
Six minutes passed to the second. The German was efficient. Clusters of men began to emerge slowly from the woods and cross the field toward Andrei. Andrei turned to his own lines and raised his hand.
They came from his side in two groups, one led by Thompson, the other by a German officer in command of the German prisoners. The distance was far shorter to Andrei than to the woods. They came at a trot and were formed up quickly.
Andrei looked toward the woods again, annoyed by the slowness of the Polish prisoners in returning.
“Something is wrong out there,” Thompson said.
Andrei lifted