The brass pounds away at the overture, the strings sharply adding their own particular brand of menace. He'd come to adore Puccini's creation, and Sprink sinks into the music, forcing himself to recall the Italian. It's fragmented, he hasn't performed Tosca in five years, and his Italian keeps wanting to slip into Latin.
But if he sinks deeper into his memory, he can almost block out the artillery shells exploding around him. Pretend Jörg is standing next to him just to make sure he arrives perfectly on time for his scene with all the necessary accoutrements.
The next volley shatters the night; he flinches and all vestiges of the past disappear. Jörg steadies him. There's no retreat from the nightmare.
..
They dig the next endless mile. It's backbreaking work but not especially dangerous. There are moments to relax from the grip of terror, to remember the memory of normality.
The lieutenant's arrival is a welcome respite from the labor. He's a good man, kind and generous. Sprink has turned his haunted gaze onto the lieutenant countless times, and every time the lieutenant seems to sense it, finding Sprink with his eyes and offering the understanding smile that made every soldier of his willing to go through this unmitigated terror with him, and Sprink finds the horror recedes a little, the panic retreating just the slightest bit so that it goes unvoiced.
But the lieutenant's smile is brittle this time. He turns, meeting each one's eyes, and every soldier knows the news before he opens his mouth. An attack has been ordered.
Death is what will come.
Sprink still doesn't understand it. How people can stand together and run off into wasteful slaughter, terrified and crazed and every single one of them wishing they were someplace else. If none of them wanted to be here, the lieutenant didn't want to give the order, and they all knew nothing would be accomplished, why did they all obey?
But when his lieutenant speaks, he can understand it a little better. Once again, the fear recedes, just a little. Just enough.
They advance. Death meets them.
…
They are to be adopted out. Their unit decimated, their regiment disbanded, their lieutenant dead. The remnants of the 74th are to be given to whichever units need them most.
Fate decides to be kind for a moment and he and Jörg are transferred together. They and several others meet the 93rd in respite at the back of the lines.
A sergeant greets them; the lieutenant for the 93rd is away, meeting with some superior officers. It's a gloomy, overcast, chilly day, and the men look up from their huddled spots around the sputtering fires. They're subdued but friendly enough. A couple soldiers beckon, and he and Jörg begin the meet-and-greet.
They're in a new family now.
They seem nice. None of them seem to recognize his name, which is a relief, he is grateful for the anonymity, but somewhat of a surprise.
Then the lieutenant arrives and all the soldiers snap to attention. The lieutenant holds himself like a general. His uniform is impeccable, gloved hands clasped authoritatively behind him, officer's cap positioned perfectly.
The sergeant gestures and Sprink and the others step forward. The sergeant introduces them, the lieutenant quickly putting the faces to the names as the sergeant goes down the line. When Sprink's introduced, the lieutenant's head lifts a fraction higher; Sprink knows this man recognizes his name. The lieutenant's eyes raze him. It's only a moment before the lieutenant moves on, but Sprink can't shake a feeling of falling short.
The introductions end. The lieutenant nods briefly. "Gentlemen. Welcome to the 93rd." He says the required words, and to be fair, he is polite.
But.
Well, he's brusque.
He's already moved off. They've been introduced and then dismissed in less than a minute.
Sprink doesn't voice any of his thoughts; he won't criticize a superior officer right in front of his own men. For one thing, he has not had enough time to make a qualified judgment, and for the second thing, he has no idea what the men of the 93rd actually think of their lieutenant and insulting their perhaps beloved superior is not the most politically suave move he could make.
Another new arrival isn't quite so cautious and remarks upon the abrupt dismissal.
Fortunately, none of the veterans take offense; most even grunt in agreement.
One of the older men looks over. "Horstmayer's not the nicest, but he's a good man in the trenches."
Sprink had seen that. The Iron Cross, its ribbon snaking quietly through the second buttonhole.
…
They're transferred back to the front lines in mid-November, trenches dug right next to a destroyed French farm. Sprink spends a probably unhealthy amount of time wondering what happened to the farmer who owned it.
He and Jörg get along well with the other men. Lieutenant Horstmayer is quiet, taciturn; he opens his mouth to give orders or to ask clipped questions before delivering even more commands. But he's not a terror. He is just…very focused on his duty.
But he snaps his orders to Sprink. There's more bite to them, an edge of antipathy that Sprink knows he's not just imagining.
And then comes the day they're once again called to attack. To go out onto no-man's land and be fodder for the enemy's guns.
Lieutenant Horstmayer is not eager, as Sprink half feared him to be. He barely shows any emotion, just relays the orders and plans. He doesn't do any encouraging, gives no uplifting speeches about how he trusts his men and he knows they'll make it.
But there's a certain reassurance, nevertheless. He exudes competence. Before Sprink knows it, Horstmayer is leading the charge up and out of the trenches.
The shots whiz by. They make it to the French line, a good number of them having survived, Horstmayer urging them on. All too soon, they've killed out this section. Horstmayer yells them forward, they've taken another piece, but then the lieutenant orders them back.
They're fleeing. The man in front of him falls to the ground. Sprink collapses next to him, trying to help him. Intellectually, he knows it's useless, but he can't seem to stop trying to aid the corpse. Until someone's pulling him up and throwing him forward. Horstmayer shoves him again until he's through the path in the barbed wire and then Sprink hurtles himself back into their trench.
Horstmayer is shoving more and more people back into safety, and then Horstmayer's in, already yelling orders to organize the care of the wounded. Sprink's still mentally paralyzed for a second; Horstmayer gives him a disgusted look.
They've lost a third of the company, both in casualties and wounded. It's actually a much lower number than Sprink had feared, and one of the veterans attribute it to Horstmayer's quick call to retreat.
That night, Sprink is ordered to aid in the refortifying of the Friedrichstrasse section. He stops.
Horstmayer is exiting his private quarters. Sprink has never begrudged the lieutenants and captains their luxury rooms. It's the one of the few privilege of rank they get out here, and as long as they're out here with the their men, Sprink has no problem with them having their private place to sleep. In fact, he understands it; he had the need for his private dressing room to prepare to go before the new audience every night.
Horstmayer, undoubtedly thinking himself alone, closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair before clenching it into a fist. For a moment, Sprink sees a soldier like all of the rest of them.
But then Horstmayer sets his cap down and his face closes off. Sprink quickly and silently retreats a few feet until he's turned the corner.
…
The trenches are filled with endless amounts of boredom. They have to fill the hours somehow, and besides cards and smoking, the only other thing to do is converse. Discussions of hometowns and families are good only sometimes; other times the longing is too painful for anyone to voice. Sprink finds himself volunteering the fanciful stories that are to be found in his operas. He's conscious of the class differences, but he's made friends here. He offers the stories rarely, most times the others ask for one, and he watches their reactions carefully, to see if he's coming across pompously. But most of the soldiers seem to relish the distraction, the sinking into the woes and farces of the theater. Even if they mostly seem to enjoy scoffing at them.
Horstmayer hates them. He never says anything, but the dislike is etched into his features as he listens. His dislike doesn't really come as a surprise, but then again, describing a foreign opera might not be the best way to appeal to his superior during wartime.
The next time he's asked for a story within Horstmayer's hearing, Sprink takes the safer route and goes with Wagner. Horstmayer does not seem impressed; if anything, Sprink thinks he sees the lieutenant roll his eyes, but Sprink can't decide if it's because of the plot or because the lieutenant sees through Sprink's attempt to ingratiate himself to the other man.
..
Jörg finds a cat. Naturally he falls in love.
He asks for some milk, but Horstmayer refuses. "No. If you want to feed it, it comes out of your food."
Jörg does so, and Horstmayer lets the cat stay.
But Sprink thinks he sees Horstmayer's eyes stray to Felix more than once. He's never seen Horstmayer touch it or feed it, but he does see the cat occasionally rub against the lieutenant's legs.
…
The artillery begins raining down on them. Sprink hunkers down in the limited protection they have.
Horstmayer runs through, telling them to not let their guard down. His eyes dart everywhere, taking in every avenue of attack and defense. He makes sure they're all aware of the vital importance of the machine guns. Keep them operational, keep them maneuverable.
The artillery fades away, and Sprink finds himself tensing, the conductor suddenly silencing every musician, waiting, drawing out the tension, until
The crescendo crashes.
There's a yell from the French and English trenches and the soldiers start pouring out. Sprink and the others try to pick them off. There's no choice, Sprink knows. It's kill or be killed.
But too many of them have made it through. There's a repeated order from Horstmayer to retreat, and as they quickly run from where the French are making their way in, Sprink sees Horstmayer's defense come together. The machine guns are hurried to the bottlenecks.
And they do their job.
Sprink hears several yells, but it takes until he actually sees the response that he realizes it's the French and English words for retreat.
The Germans fire at the retreating soldiers, and Sprink understands the order, they have to keep the enemy fleeing, keep hammering at them so that they're afraid to turn and resume the fight, but Sprink can't do it. He's already killed enough for today. He points his rifle but doesn't fire.
A lingering, smoky silence sinks down. Even Horstmayer takes a moment to regroup.
…
A few days later, the supplies they are receiving from headquarters seem unending. Decorations.
Horstmayer is not impressed.
But at least it keeps all of them busy.
Sprink is ordered back to headquarters. To entertain the officers. He hadn't thought about singing, but now that he's forced away, the injustice of it all punches him in the gut. He should be singing for the men who are risking their lives every minute of the day. His comrades. Even Horstmayer.
…
Horstmayer allows him to sing. There's no orchestra helping him out, only Jörg with the harmonica, no Crown Prince observing in all his noble taste. Just these tired comrades. It's melancholy, but he knows it's therapeutic. They aren't forgotten, they aren't alone, they won't let the horrors of war make them forget their humanity, won't forget the reason for this night.
He's so grateful to offer this chance. Horstmayer is right about one thing – he's useless as a soldier, but here, he's not afraid to remind the soldiers next to them that war is not the only thing.
But how much will this really affect anything? Tomorrow, they'll still be at war, exchanging warning fire with the enemy, perhaps even charging into no man's land. But he has to sing; it's all he has to offer.
The bagpipes pick up his tune.
Everything changes. He turns, belting out the words, singing to that Englishman who responded to him. Emotions surge in him, he mounts the steps, singing not just to his men but to the English as well.
His fellow soldiers are on their feet as he finishes the last verse. Horstmayer's shot up as well, speechless for a second, but then he yells. "Sprink, get down!" Sprink vaguely registers the terror in Horstmayer's expression – fear for him.
The English appear in the night. One of them steps forward; Sprink watches as he begins fidgeting with the bagpipes. A familiar tune fills the night, then the man stops and watches Sprink expectantly.
Sprink's mind races to connect the tune. It's on the tip of his tongue. And then, he has it.
He sings his soul out in those Latin verses, and the whole regiment of bagpipers accompany him. His heart soars as he steps toward the enemy. Too soon he finishes and gently sets the Christmas tree down on the ground. "Guten Abend, Engländer," he calls out.
"Good evening, Germans," one of them returns, "but we're not English, we're Scottish." Sprink smiles at the correction and the laughter that accompanies it.
The smile's still on his face when he turns to greet Horstmayer. And Horstmayer actually compliments him – before ordering him back to the trench. Did he not see what just happened here? What's still happening here?
The lieutenant doesn't yell at him for not immediately complying. Horstmayer must see his puzzlement, as he elaborates, "This is not the Berlin Opera."
The truth of that hits him as he takes in the Scottish soldiers who had just cheered as they allowed a German soldier to walk right over to them. "Quite right. This is better than Berlin."
An officer is striding toward them. Horstmayer straightens and steps forward, offering a salute. Sprink takes a respectful step back.
But he hears.
"Good evening," the Scottish lieutenant says.
"Good evening," Horstmayer replies.
…
Anna was speaking softly to a French private. Sprink tries to focus, but his attention keeps returning to the three lieutenants. He can't help a small flicker of unease. If anyone were to destroy this fragile truce, it would be Horstmayer.
Horstmayer was behaving much better than Sprink would have given him credit for. The Scottish lieutenant was showing the others a picture, and Horstmayer was nodding along to the conversation.
He was polite. It was such a jarring visual, to see their brusque, ill-tempered commander engaging in small talk with two enemy soldiers. Horstmayer, well-mannered. Another miracle to add to this night of truce.
…
The wind finally carries away the last notes of Anna's voice. No thunderous ovation follows. Quiet settles in, a fragile tableau of snow and soldiers.
Reluctantly the soldiers surrender to reality. Men stand up, donning their hats as they each prepare to return to their trench. Sprink holds tightly to Anna's hand as they return, listeninging to the quiet murmurs of goodbye filling the air.
Jörg finally leads the applause as Anna is escorted back into the trench. And for a moment, Horstmayer continues his apparently newly rediscovered manners. Sprink listens with pride as Horstmayer gives Anna the first compliment Sprink has ever heard him utter.
But then the Horstmayer he knows returns – back to business, gruff and uncompromising. They are left to sort out where Anna will sleep themselves – but Sprink does agree that rats would not be good company for Anna.
In fact, had Horstmayer actually almost smiled at him?
…
Sprink wakes to the sound of indistinct shouting. He jumps up, duty thrumming through him. Attacking again, already? Had Horstmayer…?
He doesn't know, but no matter what, he has to get Anna to the relative protection of the trenches. Waking her up, the two of them gather up the blankets. At the edge of the barn, Sprink peers cautiously out. There has been no gunfire, and after the initial shouting, it's been completely quiet. Outside is still, so he and Anna hustle out and down into the trench.
There's some quiet excitement up ahead. The men are huddling together, whispering animatedly. Horstmayer's having none of it. As he strides through, he snaps at any whispering soldier to get to work.
Sprink hangs back until the lieutenant stalks away, then he sidles up to Oskar. "What happened?"
Oskar tells him about the Scottish men out there, and how Horstmayer figured out that one of them was trying to bury a man. "The lieutenant was out there for quite a while talking to the Scottish commander. He's going to go back in a bit to talk to all three of them, but no one else is allowed out. He says cease fire is in effect until he rescinds it or if they shoot first."
Cease-fire still in effect? Was Horstmayer negotiating another day of peace? Sprink shares a look with Anna.
Sprink waits anxiously as Horstmayer is out with the French and Scottish officers. They seem very civil together. Drinking coffee, talking quietly. Nothing ill-tempered, even a smile from the French lieutenant.
The three stand. The whole trench straightens as Horstmayer returns. "The cease-fire will stay in effect for the rest of the day. We will also be exchanging and burying the dead."
…
The crosses sober them. Anna keeps staring at them. Sprink needs to get her away from that…that uncompromising horror.
But Anna surprises him when she wants to get him away from it altogether. But she doesn't understand. He can't run away. It was impossible and…and he has a duty to his fellow soldiers. He just couldn't.
Anna accepts his answer but refuses to leave him. For as long as she could she was going to remain with him, and well, Sprink isn't going to argue with that.
He should have realized Horstmayer would.
"Are you two still here?"
"We waited, but no car came. Everyone back at headquarters must still be asleep."
When Horstmayer smiles at his attempt at humor he knows he's in trouble.
Horstmayer fills him in on the phone call he'd had. They thought him a deserter, even though he'd returned to the front lines. Ironic that only hours ago he'd refused Anna's request to do exactly that.
The lieutenant reports the punishment ordered, and Sprink appreciates that Horstmayer doesn't look happy at the orders, but it was the rationale that had him scoffing. "Disobedience in the presence of the enemy." Horstmayer just starts to eat his dinner, as if the irony was lost on him. "And what does tomorrow's schedule look like?" Sprink couldn't rein in his disbelief. This man had laughed and cheered and drunk champagne with the enemy. And now he was going to go back to killing them without a moment's hesitation?
"Shut your mouth, Sprink." He'd hit a nerve.
But Horstmayer tries to wave it off, turning away from him. "Any coffee left?"
He didn't care. Or if he did, it didn't matter enough in the grand scheme of things.
…
Horstmayer comes back from the latest phone call. Upset. Sprink watches him pace up and down, a betrayal of nerves that he'd never seen the man show in front of his soldiers before.
The lieutenant stills, his eyes staring unseeingly up over the trench. Around Sprink, the other soldiers shift uneasily, not liking the unusual behavior of their officer. Sprink tilts his head as he watches, but that tiniest of movements has Horstmayer's gaze snapping to him.
Sprink almost takes a step back. Horstmayer's eyes sear him. The anger's large, harsher than he'd ever seen directed at him, but..but it couldn't hide the desperation. The pleading.
"Herr Oberleutnant?" he asks.
Horstmayer closes his eyes. Breathes deeply, then turns to his second, snapping out orders. "Get everyone ready. Our artillery will start up in twenty minutes." A low murmuring breaks out among the men; Horstmayer raises his voice for the next command. "But cease-fire is still in effect. And everyone stays in the trenches."
Then he practically throws himself up and out onto no man's land.
Sprink jumps to his feet along with the rest of the men, his heart thundering.
.
He's walking across. And not stopping in the middle, waiting for the other officers to attempt to join him. No, he's heading straight for the French side.
He prays and prays that no one shoots his lieutenant.
"What is he doing?" Oskar mutters, fingering his rifle nervously.
"He's warning them."
Don't shoot him, don't shoot him. Don't-
He makes it over.
But he's staying there and staying there. He must have already passed the news along, given them time to start retreating to some attempt at shelter.
Unless.
A thought forms, an idea at what his lieutenant was actually attempting to do. Sprink can't obey anymore; his feet are hitting the steps before he's even aware of it. He stands a few feet away from their trench, watching Horstmayer commit the most brazen act of treason and morality that he's ever seen.
When Horstmayer tells him to shut up, he can only smile. The French and Scottish troops make their way into their trench.
He's never felt prouder of anyone.