Opposite Sides

by Susan Firman

CHAPTER 18

  Africa

  Hauptmann Resmel was back in Germany by early December. A light dusting of snow brought back memories of the eastern front and he could not keep out the dismal thoughts of the floundering battalions struggling back from a snow-bound Russian landscape. What he had seen this time nourished his seeds of doubt about Hitler’s war. Like many of the front line veterans, die alte Hasen, who had lived through the hardships of the eastern front, Hans found himself becoming distrustful about some of the things Goebbels was broadcasting about this war. This time when he visited home, he found himself arguing bitterly with Uncle Karl, especially when he was told how marvellous everything was going for Renard on board one of the North Atlantic wolf-pack submarines. Renard’s exploits were far more interesting and he had always been seen as the one who was prepared to take risks . . . and seemingly delighting in relating them.

  What did his uncle really know about the war? Uncle Karl could only see the extra business and money it had brought him. Renard was securely canned in his tin boat, secretly sneaking under the surface of the Atlantic. In his letters, Renard only wrote about the excitement and the thrill of the hunt. He did not share in the intimacy of suffering and misery that Hans had witnessed on the battlefield. How could he, when all Renard could see was a far-off death plunge of some huge metal-hulled whale through the end of a periscope?

  Hans had been close enough to witness some of the unbelievable cruelty that one human being could do to another. The battlefield was not for those who were sensitive or weak. It was a cruel world.

  One evening, after Uncle Karl and Aunt Laura had gone to bed, Hans was able to talk frankly with his younger brother.

  “Stay out of this mess as long as you can, Axel. I do not think this war is doing any of us much good.”

  “I’ve never agreed with what the government is doing.” Axel hoped he could trust his elder brother for he was putting his life on the line. “I dread Renard’s home-coming. All he does is talk politics and how great everything is since the National Socialists have taken over. But what does he know? He is not here to see the misery his friends cause. And he boasts to uncle about his submarine and how good the hunting is and how every woman on this planet worships the ground beneath his feet.”

  “What do they say about sailors? A whore in every port?”

  “I hope not for Hertha’s sake.”

  “Hertha?”

  “His latest. Did you not know his marriage is in tatters?”

  “I’ve suspected as much but Renard has never come out with it.”

  “He’s not convinced me that every woman on this planet worships him like some Tutonic god. His female companions never seem to last and I wonder how long Hertha will put up with him. All he talks about is how the National Socialists will end up ruling the world. He really does believe in the thousand year Reich.”

  “I doubt that will be the case, Axel. But what about uncle? What does he think? I get the impression he has changed.”

  “Ach, uncle’s all for them now. With Renard’s blathering and party funds helping, uncle’s business is now being propped up by cheap, cheap labour.”

  “From where? I thought most men have been drafted.”

  “Foreign labour. Brought in from countries we control. Poles, Czechs, Belgians and Dutch among others. They do not want to work for us but they have no choice because they have no rights.”

  “And that has made uncle a happier man?”

  “Not really. He’s always on edge. He has quotas to fill and orders to obey and we have to watch the workers all the time. Sabotage is rife.”

  “I see.” Hans looked seriously at his brother as he knitted his brows tightly together.

  “Uncle moans about the extra taxes he now has to pay. Good for one’s position in society, it is said. A handful of money goes a long way to keeping certain officials at bay and it keeps them in a happy mood. Cannot say that about his workers.”

  “They do not like working for uncle?”

  “Would you on meagre rations and long hours? It is slave labour by any other name. Surely, your department knows something about that?”

  Hans did not answer his brother’s question. It had nothing to do with the department he was under. Each department had a duty and they kept their noses out of the affairs of others. It was better that way, if you were to survive scrutiny from the Gestapo or SS.

  He walked casually over to the sideboard and took out two glasses.

  “Beer, Axel?”

  “Thanks.”

  Hans filled the glasses and joined his brother at the table.

  “You still work at the factory I gather?”

  “Yes. Not as an engineer but in an advisory capacity, on paper, that is. Uncle tells them the production would fall without my input.”

  “And would it?”

  “Probably not but they are not to know. I just fill in the forms and add up the numbers and keep my head down but I’m not happy about it. I do know someone from my university days who has been trying to help some of the workers in other factories but I don’t know if I am ready for that.”

  “Do be careful, Axel. What you are thinking is extremely dangerous.”

  “I realise that but in the meantime, it pays my bills.” He took a long drink and the beer froth covered his top lip like a moustache. “I’m glad I’m not in your position . . . a man at the front. I don’t think I could ever harm, let alone shoot another human being. It’s against everything I believe in.”

  “Matter of having to when it’s a case of shoot first or be shot. War is no fun, Axel, whatever Renard may say.”

  “I’ve already come to that conclusion. I’ve not walked around the city like a blind man. I have seen those who have been injured.” He leaned forward towards Hans and dropped his voice as though the room had been bugged. “I’ve seen what those black-shirted thugs do to those who are forced to wear the star.”

  “You mean the Jews?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come to think of it, Axel, I have not seen many around the city this time.” Hans poured more beer into his glass and offered the bottle to Axel.

  “No thanks. I still have plenty. The Jewish areas we used to know have all but disappeared. Have you heard what is going on?”

  “Nothing more than general gossip.” Hans sat upright and leaned back against the chair back as if distancing himself from the subject. “If there is anything more, it will be classified and consequently has nothing to do with the department I am attached to. Our area is only concerned with gathering information about enemy prisoners but from what little I have heard, is that the Jews work for the Reich in return for their keep.”

  “I cannot believe that applies to all of them.”

  “The papers I have seen say that special family labour camps have been set up so they can be close to their work. The government line is that those who are fit enough now have to work for us rather than milking the German public as they had done in the past.”

  “They can’t all be employed in the factories and such like, can they?” Axel appeared genuinely concerned. “What about the older ones or children? It just does not add up in my books.”

  “Do not openly question the official line, Axel. It is too dangerous. They need to be able see your loyalty. Never dare to say what’s on your mind. That, you must keep to yourself. You realise, brother, I have never spoken to anyone as openly as we have done tonight. What we have discussed could be taken as treason by some so I ask that our conversation goes no further than these walls, not even a mention to aunt or uncle.”

  Axel swallowed the last of his drink in one audible gulp and began telling Hans about what he had seen a week ago in one of the side streets not far from Leipziger Platz. As he began to describe what he had seen, Axel drizzled the rest of the beer from the bottle into his glass. He described how he had seen one of the black-uniformed men kick a young woman for no other reason than she was wearing a yellow star. That act of violence on th
e street had made him feel sick and he wanted very much to go over and punch the offender. The worst of it, he lamented, was that no-one dared interfere and acted as though it were just a normal part of everyday life.

  “ . . . which it is now,” he concluded, looking deeply into his rocking glass of untouched beer. “Where has our humanity gone when people aree prepared to look the other way and do nothing?”

  “I do not have an answer for you.” Hans gritted his teeth and the muscles in his cheeks grew hard and unyielding.

  “Why should I turn a blind eye to such cruelty?” Axel clenched his hand into a ball and banged heavily down on the table.

  “Careful, or you will have that drink over,” Hans warned.

  “Damn the drink! It’s only beer! Why should people do things like that?”

  Hans felt upset by seeing his younger brother in such a turmoil.

  “I can’t understand how Renard can be so friendly with such men!” The words exploded and bounced around the kitchen walls before Hans had time to think about his own association with men like Ott and Streiter.

  “Shh! You keep your voice down.” Axel hissed the warning like a deflating tyre and pointed upwards at the ceiling. “Uncle might hear. He thinks Renard’s the hero of our family.”

  “Do you?”

  “He’s been decorated twice. I guess that makes him a hero.”

  “And do you really think that makes him one?” The question was quite sneering in its delivery.

  “Renard certainly acts that way whenever he comes here on leave. He brags about how good life is for him in the Kriegsmarine.”

  They discussed the war a little longer and then Axel made a disparaging remark about the propaganda minister.

  “Now you take care, little brother. Drink your beer up and learn to hold your tongue. Criticising the government is a crime. In my case it would result in an instant court-martial. For you, it may mean death.” Hans warned his brother by stressing the words with his finger.

  “I realise and I would never say anything like that if uncle was around. University taught me more than just my studies. I heard what happened to those students who were against the Nazis . . . and I do not intend to go that way.”

  “So keep well away from any anti-government groups, Axel. Don’t get mixed up with them or it will turn out nasty. I’d like to think I will be around to see the end of this war. And I hope you will, also.”

  Axel got up and took his glass to the sink. When he returned, he patted Hans on the arm in brotherly comradship.

  “Renard tells us you are going out with a lady from Neubrandenburg.” Axel swung his head downwards and grinned into the face of his older brother. “Says you have him to thank for that.”

  “Possibly.” Hans was giving nothing away.

  “Come on, Hansie. He said he has a friend who has connections with a well-to-do family . . . and . . .” Axel edged around the table, stepping his fingers lightly around the far corner. “He said you have already met the young lady and . . .”

  Hans found this annoying. He was now angry with both his brothers: Renard for his interference and now Axel for his curiosity. He did not want to discuss it. Not yet. His answer to Axel was curt. He was tired

  “I’m off to bed! Another early start.” Hans picked up the empty glasses and took them to the sink. “Good night, Axel.”

  “Is it true, then?”

  “Good night. Axel!”

  “Will I see you in the morning, Hans?” Axel looked upset over the rejection he had just received.

  “No. I have things to do and I am leaving early so, good night, little brother!”

  Hans lay in bed thinking about his life and the war; the happy domestic life Elisabeth could offer him and the pressure for him to do his duty for his country. He tossed and turned as his mind raced through the recurring images he had seen on the Eastern Front. The area had become a horrible playground for the young recruits who were learning how brutal laws became bed-fellows with the offerings of war. Was their leader using Germany’s youth as a pawn in his fantasy for hate and revenge on all the peoples of Europe? Had they been feeding a hungry tiger which, in turn, would devour them as well?

  Hans heard the hall clock strike two. He still had not dropped off to sleep. He was uncertain of what he should, or could do. Kill or be killed was the only law that governed men today; ordinary men who had, only a decade ago, been shopkeepers, teachers and bankers; farm labourers, blacksmiths and tool-makers. And now? To refuse orders, would mean instant death. There was no way out of this hell. Fighting and slaughter had become the fuel, greedily feeding upon the living until they, too, succumbed to it’s ravenous appetite.

  The newly promoted Major Erwin Hans Resmel used up some of his leave by taking the S-Bahn into the city centre. He found Berlin glitzy and glaring after what he had got used to in the war-torn cities of Eastern Europe. The traffic was still as busy, the people on the streets still filled the cafés and restaurants and the large red-swastika flags lining each side of Unter den Linden gave the city a colourful festive appearance, and yet there was little gaiety or family atmosphere. So many of the young men were absent and those he saw were mainly middle-aged or elderly. There were uniformed men, like him but they were not free but shackled like pawns to a monstrous machine that neither slept nor cared. The young ones he saw were the girlfriends and wives, the mothers hurrying their children along before the Humpelmann came to claim. These were the young of the Reich.

  There were still enough privileged people capable of popping countless bottles of bubbly. They were the Party supporters, doing the entertainment rounds in hot-pressed uniforms and chin-mounted iron crosses, conspicuously accompanied by their richly dressed women companions with lavish exotic fur heads and legs dangling front and back. These people made sure city life was as exciting as before the war.

  As Hans walked further, he noticed several small clusters: young men, soldiers who had been given leave, only to be re-indoctrinated with the propaganda, in the hope it would strengthen their resolve, before being thrown back to the fighting on the front lines. These voices were loud, boisterous and drunk. They were many who lived their short lives to the full, frequenting the pubs and whore houses or filling the many of the cheeky musical shows that ran continually between one show and the next.

  The city was now a foreign world for Hans: exuberant and bawdy, affluent and prosperous, crowds mingling and jostling between canals and streets that surrounded Berlin’s Mitte; some of those hoping to glimpse their beloved Führer, if luck was on their side. Yet, even within seemingly relaxed social engagements, war conversation was never far below the surface. Ears strained, ready to pick up on any hints of disloyalty, a betrayal of confidence that deceived the friend. Hans hoped that Axel really did understand.

  Axel was, so far safe. As long as he did not re-new certain friendships from his student days, his younger should not come to the notice of the Secret Police. No call up papers, so that was good. Many new recruits were being called up and sent to prop up the Eastern Front but how many had any hope of returning home?

  Uncle Karl never stopped talking about Renard. He was becoming a bore. The Atlantic had become Renard’s permanent home, either on or under the sea, or resting in the northern French town where the submarine docks were. He had written to tell everyone that he had his own command of one of the most modern U-boats.

  Neubrandenburg was far quieter than Berlin. The war was remote here and life was more relaxed wihtin the walls of this quaint Medieval town with its red brick gates and its old, historic houses. No wonder that Herr Kohler spent his free weekends here whenever he could get away from his Berlin office. They were the perfect hosts, Herr and Frau Kohler, and Elisabeth delighted in telling him all about her job with the girls in the Bund deutscher Maedel. She insisted he should accompany her one afternoon and watch the girls go through their exercises of dance with music that was becoming so popular with the young women of the Reich.

&nb
sp; “We are told that we all need to keep our bodies strong and healthy if we are to provide the Reich with strong baby boys.”

  During the rest of the week Herr Kohler insisted Hans join them each afternoon for a meal. It would be to his benefit to engage in conversation with top army officials who were invited to the Kohler house. It was a different world from the one of the serving soldier. Hans discovered very quickly that one did not discuss any of the realities of war, only how wonderful the Führer’s new initiatives had been in bringing happiness and health to the new children of the Reich.

  Duty called and for almost a month, he was away again. He missed Christmas except for attending a midnight mass in one of the small stone churches near to where he was stationed. When he met with Sturmbannführer Ott again, he was quietly reminded of his other duty concerning Elisabeth Kohler. And so he felt an obligation to devote all his free time to accompanying the daughter of Herr Kohler to various entertainment venues where they could be seen in each other’s company.

  The Kohler family was well positioned in society. Herr Kohler ran an important business from his city office. What he did was never said but he had been given the position shortly after the Nazis had come to power. Elisabeth had let it slip that it had something to do with Ott. This man had a lot of influence and it did meant that Herr Kohler would be forever in Sturmbannführer Ott’s debt.

  Shortly after the second week in January Hans and Elisabeth were married. It was a lavish affair. Elisabeth arrived at the church in one of Ott’s large cars, together with chauffeur and footman. Herr Kohler spared no expense in demonstrating to the people of Neubrandenburg that his family was now one of the most important families in the town. He paid to have the main street leading to the church draped in flags and Ott found a guard of honour to welcome and honour his daughter on her wedding day. People opened their front doors and came out on to the street as the highly polished limousine slowly drove past. Elisabeth felt like an Empress and Herr Kohler was well satisfied with the investment he had made.

  Renard did manage to attend the ceremony. Uncle Karl had pressed Hans into asking his elder brother to be his best man, for Renard had already sent word that he would be available on the wedding day. However, Renard did not stay long. As soon as formalities were over, he excused himself saying that the love of his life was waiting and her needs were paramount. He was talking of his submarine, of course. Hans was relieved to see him leave. Not to have a conversation with Renard would be a relief for it was difficult to remain polite and courteous once party, politics and duty were introduced.

  Sturmbannführer Ott was an honoured guest. He saw to it personally that the newly-weds received their national gift: a leather-bound volume of Mein Kampf.

  “Neither of you will have an excuse for not reading our Führer’s words.” Ott bowed his head forward and clicked his heels. “But we will permit you to wait a little until after the love-making, my friends! There’s little on that subject in here!” He held up the book and swept it around his head so that everyone could see what a beautiful copy it was. From every table there was stiff, subdued laughter, the like that was forced to appease. Ott strutted between the tables like a parading bull, grinning to tables left and right until he reached the bridal one where he carefully placed the book in front of the bride and groom. His voice reached every table in the room and probably even beyond, for Ott wanted to make sure everyone heard.

  “As every good citizen on their wedding day, you and your beautiful new wife should be honoured and proud to receive this book. Mein Kampf. This one has been signed by the Führer himself. Heil Hitler!” Ott turned and faced the guests. His right arm extended in the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!” He barked like a performing sea-lion.

  Immediately the entire room stood to attention: guests as well as those serving the wedding breakfast. Everyone raised their arm high into the air.

  “Heil Hitler!” The sound of voices in unison exploded around the room. Ott turned to Hans and spoke with a low, deliberate voice.

  “Look after this book well, Major. It will guide you in your duty to the Führer and to the Fatherland. Consider its message well.”He poured himself a glass of champagne from the wedding table and held the fizzing container high in the air. “A toast! To the bride and groom! Major Erwin Resmel and his beautiful wife Elisabeth! Heil Hitler! Sieg Heil!”

  His new wife was extremely happy. Elisabeth Karla Udele Kohler had found herself the man who would father the sons she would bear for the Reich. Sturmbannführer Ott was another who was well satisfied that day.

  Herr Kohler had found the newly married couple a small house on the outskirts of town Only eighteen days remained for Hans and Elisabeth to organise themselves into married life. Hans thought Elisabeth charming and very efficient but he could not love her as he had loved Caroline. Maybe, in time, he could hope to find love again. Maybe, in time, he could learn to cherish his new wife in the same way he had cherished Caroline. But war had little time for love. Duty had to came first. A man’s honour only came through success on the battlefield and Elisabeth desperately wanted a hero of her own to impress the girls and young women of the Bund deutscher Maedel. Love, honour and obey; not only for her brave warrior husband but for her Reich that would last a thousand years.

  There was little time for the newly-weds to get to know each other or to enjoy the trappings of family life. As long as the new Mrs Resmel was satisfied with her husband’s standing, together with her role as his wife, Hans was content to let it be. Elisabeth’s National Socialist training had been thorough for she knew exactly how to be an excellent war bride.

  The morning call from the Tirpitzufer office broke the spell. The Abwehr had another assignment and Hans would be given his new orders in a few days’ time.

  The clock kept ticking away the minutes of domestic happiness and the hour for departure arrived. Duty called and duty had to be obeyed. Herr and Frau Resmel both knew that. Elisabeth put her face against the thick double-paned window and searched for the car she knew would arrive on time. A large black Mercedes pulled up in the street below and stopped directly outside their house.

  “I think that must be your driver,” she said, straightening the curtain a moment before turning to her husband. “I have put everything you need in your suitcase, Erwin.”

  “You think of everything, mein Schatz.” He gave her a peck on her cheek. Hans closed the lid and lifted it off the bed. “It is a lot heavier. Goodness knows how you managed to get everything in. Are you sure I need all these things?”

  “I think you do,” she said, curling up to his free arm. “We have standards to keep now and my hero must be well prepared.” She looked at him and laughed. “Mama insisted I buy you new things to wear. So there.”

  Elisabeth decided to accompany her husband to the small military airport on the outskirts of the town. It was a bleak, grey day with blanketing cloud which hung ominous and low. Large spots of splattering rain began falling as the driver opened the rear door of the black car and opened a large umbrella. The Major began to climb out. Elisabeth slid across the seat and made an effort to follow.

  “No, stay inside. You can just as easily watch from here and as soon as the plane’s taken off, the chauffeur can drive you home.”

  Elisabeth loved and admired her husband as much as any wife in the Reich was expected to do. She had been deeply attracted to him from the first moment of their introduction and now he had been promoted to Major, she knew that she would have regular invitations to wine and cheese evenings put on by other very senior officers’ wives. She would have a busy schedule, and time would pass very quickly until his next leave.

  “Take care, Erwin,” she implored him in her soft, Mecklenburger accent. Elisabeth always referred to him by his first name as she considered ‘Hans’ rather too countryside and unsophisticated for the office he held.

  He laughed flippantly and brushed her concerns away. He was pleased to be back with a fighting unit where comradery and a
ction went hand in hand.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let the Tommies get me. Don’t worry, Elizabeth!”

  “But I do, Erwin. I do!” She partly wound down the rain splattered small window until she could look over the top, looking at him with pleading puppy-dog eyes and fluttering her heavily mascaraed eyelashes in his direction. Elisabeth never had even a hair out of place, so perfectly manicured and presented she was.

  “With our famous Feldmarschall in charge, we’ll soon wipe them out of Africa.” He laughed under the umbrella and glanced in the direction of his waiting plane. “Might even decide to stay near Tobruk on a more permanent position.” He turned back and faced her, grinning like a cheeky schoolboy. “How would you like to live there in all that endless sun?”

  “Erwin, you shouldn’t joke about such things.” She knew the time had arrived for him to grab his attaché case, and leave. “Poor dear,” she crooned. “I know you’ve got to do your duty. I could never leave all my friends here. Sun or no sun, I’ll wait here until you have your next leave.”

  “Shouldn’t be too long, Elisabeth. In six months, maybe.”

  Elisabeth wound the window right down and wrapped her white-clad, delicate gloved fingers around the smooth top of the glass.

  Hans bent back into the vehicle and pecked a kiss on the side of her cheek. The chauffeur opened the boot lid and took out Major Resmel’s suitcase which handed to a Grenadier for loading on to the plane.

  “My brave Major! Stay safe, my darling!”

  She blew him several kisses as he walked away.

  Hans walked across the concrete towards the plane before turning and giving her a quick wave with his free arm. She blew him a white-gloved kiss in return.

  “Have you loaded the bottles of wine and cigarettes yet?” he asked the navigator.

  “Yes, Major.” The man saluted. “All accounted for and ready.”

  “Excellent! Let’s go, then.”

  Just before he ducked his head to enter the fuselage, Hans turned once more and waved. The car was still on the concrete pad. Elisabeth’s white fingers were still folded around the glass. Then, in the next instant, he vanished from her sight. The door was shut, the engines fired and the aeroplane turned and thundered down the concrete runway. The tail lifted and a few seconds later, it climbed into the air only to be quickly swallowed by the low grey cloud. Out through the cockpit window was a grey curtain of nothingness. Only the constant loud hum of the engines told its passenger that they were in the air.

  Elisabeth sat listening as the engine noise got fainter and fainter until all she could hear were the increasing splatter of raindrops hitting the windscreen of the large black car.

  The plane flew a zigzag course to take them over towards the Sudetenland and then turned in a slight south-westerly direction to cross the Austrian lowlands before setting a final course to head south, flying down the eastern coastline of Italy. They had been flying for many hours and fuel was beginning to run low so the navigator made his way down the fuselage to inform the Major that they would soon be landing. The pilot selected his aerodrome and as the droning plane broke cloud, Hans could see the unfamiliar ground nearing as they made their approach and adjusted the flaps for finals.

  “Major Resmel.”

  The Italian officer gave the fascist salute as the Major stepped on to the concrete taxiway.

  “Heil Hitler.”

  He hoped that the rumours were true that this officer knew some English, for the Italian spoke no German. His English was bad but at least it was worth a try.

  “Mos’ sorry . . . there be, is a . . . ” He groped for the English word.

  “Delay,” added Hans, for he had already been forewarned that this refuelling stop would take far longer than at first anticipated.

  The Italian officer was relieved that the Major understood.

  “Si certo. Exactly. There is a trouble.” The Italian pointed upwards into the partly clouded winter sky. Hans nodded. He looked upwards but saw nothing but sky overhead. “Two, three, cinco.” He held up five fingers to make his message more easily understood. “Aeroplanos, Major. Inglese . . . Americano . . . they . . . ” He used his hand to show how the enemy aircraft had appeared and swooped out of the gaps in the clouds and sprayed their bullets over the airfield.

  “When will it be safe to take off, then?”

  “Momento . . . in one o’clock, maybe two.”

  “Two hours? That would be too late to reach the next field. Ask someone to arrange some accommodation.”

  “Day shon?” The Italian officer was puzzled.

  “Hotel.”

  “Ah, si, si . . . alloggio. I understand, Major. First, you have a drinka. Good café in aeroporta. Drink lotsa good. Then I see for ‘otel.”

  Hans slapped one hand on the back of the other. He spoke, frustration in his voice.

  “I was hoping to be in Southern Italy before nightfall and to have landed at Mareth the following day. Scheisse!”

  Such a delay would mean that he would not arrive in North Africa on the designated day. He would have to send an encoded message via radio and give the code word for day. All messages had to be sent under the strictest orders, for to use unencrypted ones would be to tempt an attack and death. With war now on two fronts, German forces were being stretched and situations compromised. One did not dare take unnecessary risks. The flight, itself, was risky enough: low, skimming the sea, not enough height if anything went wrong, a speeding tube, sweaty palms and thumping heart until the safety of the African airfield was reached.

  Although the fighting in North Africa was still progressing well and Rommel’s Afrika Korps was still making quite a name for itself, the fighting forces in Russia were almost in a state of collapse. Both sides were exhausted, yet the battles struggled on. Goebbels kept making his promises and German wireless broadcasts kept repeating that it was the Red Army that was near to collapse. Hans had secretly managed to locate a wireless set of his own on the black market during his time in Berlin so he could furtively tune in to the BBC broadcasts from London. What he heard in those news items was at variance to the news from home. By the end of March in 1942, a BBC news report revealed that of a total of one hundred and sixty two combat divisions in the East, only eight remained effective for any sort of offensive missions.

  A letter from Elisabeth had told of Ott’s anger when he heard that several of his senior officers had been taken from his Berlin office and sent out to the east but as to the reason, she only wrote that an eastern victory was just round the corner. She had no idea that fresh reinforcements were desperately needed and that men were being dragged from one fighting front to the next before collapse was total. There was great fear that troops would become demoralised if they heard such truths, so an even greater effort was made to hush up such information. Wireless broadcasts were made only to inspire soldiers to push themselves further and harder for the glory and honour of the Fatherland.

  No better sacrifice, no greater honour could be attained by our heroes; they go to their Valhalla as we sing our glorious praises. Through their sacrifice, we will ultimately triumph! Long live the Führer! Long live the Reich! Long live the people! Heil Hitler!

  Goebbels did not say anything about the one million men who perished, or the utter despair of those who had managed to survive. But Hans knew. And others in the Abwehr also knew. Hans knew because he had been witness to a truth that was blanketed under a pile of lies.

  Better news came from the Kriegsmarine. In the Atlantic, U-boots were sinking seven hundred tons of British and American shipping a month. By September, Dr Goebbles made the figures look astounding. In his daily broadcasts, his speeches constantly reminded the German population that their troops stood guard over the Reich from the Arctic Ocean to Egypt and from the Atlantic Sea to the borders of Central Asia.

  There is nothing to fear for the might of the Reich is great. For a thousand years our people will look on this as one of the finest years in our hist
ory. Your Führer continues to guide us along this path to greatness. His greatness shall be your greatness! Germany’s greatness reflects the greatness of its leader! Sieg Heil! Heil Hitler!

  However, the fighting man, those who were on each front, knew of a fear their masters refused to heed; a fear of failure because of a lack of resources. There were simply not enough trained men; not the expected number of guns, tanks or planes; not enough raw materials to keep the increasing appetite of the monster in check. All the time, their leader demanded that fresh divisions be thrown into the fight. He forbade any withdrawal along the Eastern Front and, in a fit of rage, demanded the same for Africa. Rommel was just preparing to attack El Alamein.

  “What the bloody hell are we supposed to fight with? We need weapons, not bottles of wine!”

  Officers screamed at each other. Their words were the same: Eastern Front or North Africa. Always the same. Words to attack flooded in every direction out from Berlin.

  “As the propaganda minister keeps promising a swift end to the war and victory for the Fatherland, why aren’t the supplies coming through?”

  Hans could only point out that in their case it was because Britain still controlled the sea and air routes. He knew that the men of the Afrika Korps would do anything for Rommel but to lose large numbers of them because of a lack of supplies was stupid. Britain was too well organised and even trying to bring in supplies by night did not stop the convoys of trucks being destroyed by the RAF. Never-the-less, Rommel received a message from Hitler himself demanding that he throw everything he had into the new offensive and hold fast. Every Panzer, man and gun was to be on the battlefield: for victory or annihilation.

  The day began, as usual, now cold and damp as a warning of the winter rains to come. Battle lines were bloody as neither side was prepared to move back from its position. Rommel had a total of one hundred thousand men, of which half were men in his Afrika Korps. The rest were made up of Italian battalions still under the leadership of Italian generals and officers. The German officers complained that the Italians were not interested in fighting any more. Moral was low as news filtered through that more of their troops had been taken prisoner and together with food rationing, there were those who were only too willing to throw in the towel. Yet there was a glimmer of hope. Under strict German discipline, success would prove to be theirs.

  Rommel was a leader who considered his men first. Against Hitler’s orders, he withdrew his troops from the offensive battle positions at El Alamein and prepared to dig in and hold. For a while there was a stalemate but by early November, British tanks penetrated the Axis lines. The foot soldiers, mainly Italian, were left to surrender in vast numbers as the remnants of Rommel’s divisions fell back. They regrouped near Benghazi. It was an impossible position to be in: only a fraction of his battalions had survived and they had been left with little to fight with. To survive, the Afrika Korps was forced into sending raiding parties behind the lines.

  Hans, with his excellent knowledge of English, accompanied them on several excursions, listening for any conversations that may be to Rommel’s advantage. Sometimes, they would be gone for a week and when hope was fading of their return, they would re-surface as soon as it was dark. Other groups executed swift, short-burst attacks on the British forces in the hope of obtaining the much needed fuel and supplies their army lacked.

  Towards the end of November, Hans received word that Elisabeth had provided the Fatherland with a baby boy who had been born on the 20th October. The men in his unit congratulated him but when he would be able to see his new son, no-one could say. Elisabeth had named the child Siegfried Erwin Lothar Resmel; Siegfried after the great Wagnerian hero, Erwin after her husband and Lothar after her own father. She had written that with such names, the child could do nothing but grow into a wonderful boy, who would later serve his Fatherland in a most heroic and noble way. Towards the end of her long letter, she mentioned that Renard had been home on leave and had popped in to give his congratulations.

  Renard was so proud to be an uncle that he has given Siegfried a beautifully made model of his submarine which he painted himself but Erwin, my dear, I wished in my heart that it had been you who had walked through my door. You would be so proud of our beautiful baby. He is such a good baby . . .

  Letters from home were now taking longer to arrive as ships and planes ran even more of a risk trying to cross the Mediterranean and there were increasing occasions when letters never arrived at all.

  As a group of senior officers came together for a meeting under the canvas covering of their General’s tent, Major Resmel quickly outlined the latest information concerning enemy troop movements he and his group had found out during their last excursion a few days before. Blick picked up his locked attaché case and drew out the new set of orders.

  “Now, gentlemen, we have new information and it is our duty to interpret what we have.” He moved over to a long, tressle-table and rolled out a detailed map of the North African region where the fighting was taking place. “Anglo-American forces have made landings in these areas. They have taken here, here, and here.” He pointed to several places on the map. “Here’s the main thrust of General Montgomery’s forces.” He thrust his finger, this time, heavily over the positions. “As you can see, we are surrounded on several of our main fronts. Now, it is the Feldmarschall’s opinion that . . . ”

  Having got business out of the way, General Blick insisted that they stay a while longer to celebrate the good news the Major had only just received with one of the last remaining bottles of Schnapps.

  “It’s not every day that we have something to celebrate. This baby will cheer us all, especially when we are celebrating the birth of a boy. I ask you, gentlemen, to raise your glasses and toast the arrival of Siegfried Erwin Lothar Resmel.”

  General Blick held high his glass, came to attention and downed the small amount in one small gulp. There would be no more alcoholic drinks. It was to signify another Christmas without cheer and a New Year without hope. Like their enemy, the men of the Afrika Korps fought the heat, dragged themselves across an unforgiving arid landscape and picked the blowing sand grains from out of their teeth and eyes, having to remain alert and ready to throw all their energies into battle when required. When news filtered through about the bitter, bloody fighting among the frozen ruins of Stalingrad, Hans sat with those veterans, who had been transferred from the Eastern front to the desert, and listened as they talked among themselves about the difficulties they had faced since the time they had been conscripted.

  “Hell, I don’t know where I’d most like to be,” moaned Grenadier Ketten, one young old-hand in despair after a visit to relieve himself, “in this God awful place where I pick sand either out of my teeth or out of my arse; or out there where the ice seizes up the fingers and freezes our balls off! Which ever way, pissing’s a pain!”

  He finished buttoning up his flies and packing away his trowel. Those around him laughed loudly, not because of what had just occurred but because each one knew exactly what it felt like.

  “God, I hate these biting flies. They find every bit of free flesh. Look at my arms! Just look at them!” The soldier rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and stretched his swollen scratched arms out for all to see. “The flies never let up!” He swatted several of the million flies hanging around in the air just in front of his nose. He spat a gulp of dry air in the sand. He sneezed and a small black dot with legs fell out from his nostril.

  “You should’ve seen the big boil on Kurt’s arse!” Another Grenadier leaned over and patted the seat of his trousers. “Sat on a hot rock. Burnt him like a hot-plate!”

  “Shrapnel’s worse.” The soldier patted himself down the right side of his body. The others had nick-named him Willow because his injuries had made his torso lean slightly to one side but he took it in good spirit. No one referred to him as Wilhelm any more.

  “Agreed, Weide. Copped some myself. Got me in the leg. Only good thing was I went home f
or a few weeks. Fräuleins, beer and real sheets.”

  More raucous laughter. Ketten sat down and hung his head until his chin touched his chest. He coughed and spat but his mouth was so dry no spit came out.

  “Spit it out, Ketten! Spit all the bastard sand out! Get it out! Get it out!”

  “Get it out! Get it out!” chanted the men.

  Hans understood that these men needed these brief moments of respite in which they could laugh about themselves or curse the horrible conditions. Yet these times could also open the window to graver things, like battle fatigue or shell-shock. Hans noted that the lad who sat there trying to rid himself of sand could not have been more than nineteen but he already coughed with the lungs of an old man. Grenadier Kurt Ketten had experienced it all: the ice and snow horrors of the Eastern Front; the stink and fly hell of the desert.

  What a hell of an existence for one so young, Hans thought. What are we doing to the youth of our country?

  Ketten sat flushed green and bloated in the face, looking like a blown-up frog. He had spent most of the morning heaving as his congested lungs tired to expell mucus, together with smoke and inhaled sand grit.

  “You smoke too much. Better give up those cigarettes, Ketten before they do you in!” Someone in the group called out.

  “Scheisse! It’s not those. It’s the sand! And the heat! And the shells! And the bombs! And, and, and . . . they say we’re winning! They keep saying we’re winning! But are we winning? Really winning?” He looked up and there were small tears trickling down the indented lines of his sandy cheeks. “It’s men like us, arme Schweine, who do all the dying! Not those in Berlin!” He pulled at his gritty limp hair in despair. “Why here? Alone. Alone in this hell-hole.”

  Hans made his way across to the young soldier and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

  “How old are you, Grenadier?”

  “Nineteen, Major. But I’m almost twenty. In a few weeks.”

  “We are with you, Grenadier Ketten. You’re not alone. And in a few weeks we’ll help you celebrate your birthday.”

  “Danke, Major.” Ketten looked up. He still felt too shaken to stand. His commanding officer understood.

  “In a few weeks we’ll all help you celebrate your birthday. In the meantime, keep your wits about you, Grenadier. Think of your parents back home and that one day how surprised they’ll be when you walking back through their front door. This can’t last for ever. Think of that, Ketten. Got a girlfriend?”

  “No, Major.” Ketten was beginning to pull himself together again.

  “Why not? A good looking guy like you should have plenty of girls after him.”

  “I was in the Hitler Youth a year ago, Major.” Ketten swallowed hard and swiped more flies from his face. They had been drawn to him by the few drops still left on his cheeks. Like the men, the insects were also short of water and soaked it up wherever they could find some. Ketten flicked more away and managed to smile slightly as he continued. “I liked that. It was fun. Camping in the forest, tramping, pretending to be the great defenders. I felt like a hero. We all did. Then I was sent here. I was told I must prove myself. Prove myself. What does that mean, Major?”

  “Dig deep and keep your head down. Stay alert. Any man who returns home will be the nation’s hero.” Hans beckoned to one of the older men. “Look, Ketten, Obergefreiter Mäuschen will look after you, won’t you Mäuschen? You’ll share the pit together. You won’t be alone, Ketten. Mäuschen might even play you something on his mouth organ.”

  Not that the mouth organ was still pleasant to listen to. The sand had even wriggled its way deep into the blow holes so that now, when Mäuschen played, the tunes sounded odd and strange.

  “Thanks, Major. It’s the shelling. That’s the worse part. In the dark, night after night when we walk. Don’t know if it’s coming just for me half the time.”

  “You won’t hear the one that gets you, Ketten.” Mäuschen lit a short stub end of a cigarette and handed it over. “Just arrives! Wheeze! Boom! That’s it . . . finish. You won’t know anything. I’ve seen plenty of corpses, especially in Russia. They don’t care. They’re out of it.”

  “It’s not that, Major.” Ketten still directed his words to the officer. “If it just takes my leg off or blows my guts outs and I’m still here. Alone. You’d have to leave me. Alone out here. That’s what scares me most.”

  “Ketten, I’ve told you we won’t leave you. So don’t think about it.” The signs were all there: the rocking, the shaking, the nightmares and confusion. Hans knew this soldier wasn’t far from cracking. “If you think about it, you’re inviting it to happen. We wouldn’t leave you alone for the Desert Rats to finish you off. Now pull yourself together. We’re a team.” Mäuschen crouched down beside the lad and put his arm around Ketten as he rocked back and forth. “We fight as a team,”Hans explained. “We support each other, like Mäuschen is supporting you now.”

  “Sorry, Major.”

  Kurt Ketten looked like a despondent child.

  “Here.” Hans opened up his jacket and took out his brandy flask. “Have some. It’ll calm your nerves. You’re a good soldier, Ketten. Remember that. And, . . . the Afrika Korps is still the best. Richtig?”

  “Jawohl, Major.”

  In Russia, by 24th January, only a few scattered remnants of Paulus’ army remained but Hitler still forbade any surrender.

  The Sixth Army will hold out their positions until the last man!

  Finally, on February 2nd, 1943, at 2.46pm, the last shot was fired. Ninety one thousand German soldiers, half-starved and frostbitten, wounded or dazed, wrapped in blood-soaked blankets, hobbled to Siberia, driven over ice and snow by the soldiers of the Red Army. The battle to take Stalingrad had come to an end. The Propaganda Minister did not broadcast that.

  Hans was aware that the army was pulling back in North Africa and this time the retreat was demoralising. There were rumours that large numbers of prisoners had been taken by General Montgomery’s 8th Army but until the small part of infiltrators returned, that news could not be verified. Dispatches began to come through with the news that even more British and American forces had landed in North Africa. It appeared the fighting would intensify.

  Back in Berlin, the Führer spent most of his time raging, blaming the ground soldiers and their commanders for betraying the Fatherland.

  Any soldier refusing to stand and fight will be shot for high treason and cowardice!

  The net around the Afrika Korps tightened. Hitler recalled Rommel. The rest of the men were left to defend themselves to the best of their ability. Their leader, Adolf Hitler, had forsaken them. They could only move at night when the cover of darkness offered them some protection from the keen-eyed fighter and bomber pilots of the enemy forces. With no fuel, they dragged everything they could by hand over the towering sand-dunes and between the orange, silent rocks. With diminishing resources, they scavenged the countryside looking for discarded bits of machinery and weapons which could be used to repair those they still had. They hoped to regroup but so far only fragments of units struggled around over the desert sands. They rationed their precious rusty-coloured water and tins of food that had been their staple diet during the previous months and prayed that somehow they would survive to see another day.

  In the early weeks of April, fighting was extremely fierce. Of course, the propaganda ministry at home kept the exact truth of this away from the general public. For the generals, it was the beginning of depression and surmounting shock that would begin to erode their belief that they could win. Only nine divisions remained, spread along a 160 kilometre curve between the mountains and the sea. The men took refuge in the deep gullies and ravines, huddling around wadis and any water supply for fear of dying from thirst. They sought any protection against the screaming shells and whining bombs. Their objective now was to retreat and regroup, to find the Panzer Divisions, if any still existed intact.

  Then, during a sustained heavy barrage just after Easter,
General Blick got hit; his head blown clear away. Major Resmel’s command, or what was left of it were cut off from the rest of the army. They struggled to keep the single transport vehicle operative but by the end of the week, the engine finally gave a final cough and came to a dead halt. Nothing they did could coax it back to life.

  They moved by night and rested by day but progress was painfully slow. Hans was as good as his word. The wounded were carried as best they could until there were too many to continue on. They sensed the Desert Rats were not far away.

  They dug into their position among rocks and damaged tanks as best they could, trying to keep their heads down as the net was drawn tighter. Spasmodic fighting continued for a few more days and it was now apparent that there would be no way out of the situation other than in a body-bag. Supplies were now dangerously low as the last of the food and water was rationed further. The only ammunition left was in their rifles. The Major gave orders that no bullets were to be wasted on unnecessary targets and, if at all possible, the possibility of life should overrule death. He instructed his men only to respond to fire if their own life was in jeopardy.

  At each sunset they could feel the cold of the evening crawl across the barren scarred landscape and creep up the trouser leg, biting a pathway into the bone itself. Without blankets and cover, the men shivered in the clear chill air, waiting for any slight indication that another barrage attack was about to begin. But for two nights everything remained calm. There was not even a hint of a flare or explosion anywhere near them,

  Dawn broke just as peacefully the following day. As the sun climbed higher, the heat became unbearable. Everything not in shade cracked and sizzled. Lookouts had trouble keeping watch and had to be rotated every few hours. Major Erwin Hans Resmel strained ears and eyes to keep track of the situation. Fragments of speech broke into the long silences as men tried to reassure themselves that they were not alone.

  ‘Got a cigarette left, Fritz?”

  “Sorry. Smoked my last several hours ago.”

  “Who was the b . . . b . . . blasted one who took my biscuit?”

  “Damn you and your biscuit. You should have eaten it when they were handed out.”

  “Stop belly-aching!”“Well, someone did. We’ve got a thief in our midst.”

  “Shut up! Have mine. Go!”

  A small tin of dry biscuits was launched into the air like a shell. The moment it was caught, it was dropped on to the ground.

  “Mein Gott, Walter, this metal’s come from a blast furnace!”

  “What did you expect in this heat?” the thrower called over. “Try touching the side of that tank wreckage and see what that does to your hands!”

  Having sorted out the biscuits it went quiet for a while. The men knew they would have to move themselves and the injured round the rocks and wreckage as the glaring sun inched its way across the sky. It was better at night. Cold but at least one did not have the burning and dreadful thirst.

  They scanned the desert and rocks around them.

  “What can you see? Hey, let me have a look.”

  A battered pair of binoculars that had been found earlier half submerged in the sand were handed over.

  “What can you see?”

  “Nothing!” The answer came from behind a rock. “There’s no movement at all. It’s too hazy to see clearly.”

  Over to one side, about two hundred metres away, several muted voices could be heard singing a verse of Lilli Marlene.

  Mäuschen must be playing again, Hans thought.

  “I wish they’d shut up,” someone complained. “I’d like a nap.”

  “Siesta time,” another commented. “Maybe the Latin’s do have the right idea.”

  “Shut up, will you!”

  It remained quiet well into the late afternoon. Then as the sun dipped towards the far hills, a barrage of shelling began. The period of quiet had come to an end.

  In the last few hours of the afternoon of April 18th their position was heavily shelled. One of the unwelcome arrivals landed close to the small group which had been sheltering close by the Major. Kurt Ketten was one of those who was killed. Blown to bits from a direct hit. At least the boy didn’t have to suffer. His nightmares would torture him no more. A splinter from the shell had hurled itself outwards to strike Hans deep in his left shoulder. It felt at first as if he had been kicked by a mule and after a few minutes, when nothing more appeared to be happening, he began to wonder whether he had been mistaken. He felt no pain although he found it impossible to raise his left arm much more than a few centimetres from his body. Slowly blood began to ooze through the thin material and stain his shirt and he became aware of a stabbing, throbbing pain which radiated downwards through his spine and into his leg. The old wound he had there complained and made the damaged muscles of his leg ache. He gritted his teeth, and managed to keep the pain at bay as he called the names of the men around him. A young, inexperienced boy of no more than seventeen or eighteen crawled forward from behind rock and squatted down beside the Major.

  “There’s some of us over there still able to fight, Major.” He pointed to the group of rocks from whence he had come. “Many injured in that last round. Some bad.” The young soldier noticed the bright red stain that was turning into a large black-red mark. “You’re hurt, too, Major.”

  “Never mind that. What about over there by the tank?”

  “No-one’s left, Major. They had a direct hit. You’re our last officer. Unterfeldwebel Mand’s an old hand. He’s not far from here.”

  “Where is Mand?’

  ‘Over there. Behind that.” The boy pointed to a large chunk of rock that jutted out of the ground like monument making a statement. It was not so far away from where Hans’ group had taken refuge. The Major weighed up their respective positions. They were too scattered and too short of ammunition to wage a counter attack.

  “How long have you been fighting, lad?” asked the wounded officer, squeezing out his words between the pulsating bouts of pain. Across his shoulder and down his arm, his uniform was turning bright red.

  “A few weeks, Major. This was my first real go. My mate, Udo’s crouched over there with his hands over his ears. At night, he rocks and screams like a frog. He’s been like that ever since the shelling’s started.”

  “You all right?” The boy nodded. “Have we anything that’s white?” asked his commanding officer.

  “No, Major.”

  “Verflucht! It’s obvious they’ve got us well surrounded.” He winced as he took a deep breath. “Not much we can do about that. To try and make a run for it . . . day or night . . . now would be suicide. They’d tear us to shreds . . . and to fight on would be sheer stupidity. Surrender’s our only option. We’ll have to offer our surrender. It’s senseless to carry on to the last man. Think you can crawl over to Mand?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Keep down. Tell Unterfeldwebel Mand to report here.” He flinched as he tried to shift his position. “Are there any more flares left?”

  “I can find out for you, Major.” The boy seemed eager to please and carry out orders.

  Young men, like these, are a credit to any unit, thought Hans. Pity such lives were candidly wasted in such senseless ideals.

  The young recruit scrabbled away, ducking and twisting with the dexterity of a rat over to Mand’s position and then returning in the same way with the Unterfeldwebel crawling with difficulty behind.

  “Ah, Mand. Good, you’ve found some. We may have to fire a few flares first. You’ll have to get the men to lay down their weapons. Those severely injured need attention. There’s to be no more shooting. Understand? My old wound on my leg is also giving me a problem. I’m finding it difficult to move about. I’ll give up my Luger when the Tommies come over. Go, now!”

  Mand did his best to salute. It was a military salute. This time there was no ‘Heil Hitler.’ He had not done that for many months.

  Hans saw that Mand had put up a white flag and that it
s movement must have caught the attention of the enemy for the shelling ceased abruptly. They men waited a full eighteen minutes for the surrounding soldiers to walk, guns ready for action, towards their position. As the British got closer, the soldiers of the Afrika Korps popped out from behind the rocks and held up their hands.

  It was an American jeep which rolled out from cover and headed first towards the white flag and then over to Hans. Tied to their aerial was the white flag Mand had been waving. Immediately beside the driver was Mand. The vehicle stopped a few metres from where the Major was leaning, his head resting on the side of a huge rock that had been his protector during the last few days. Mand was in the passenger seat, a rifleman just behind.

  An officer in a British Commonwealth uniform stepped out from the rear seat and walked briskly up to the Major. Hans swayed a little. He used the edge of the rock as a support and managed to salute. The officer came to attention and saluted in return. Hans took out his Luger, removed his gun belt and handed them both to the officer.

  “Major Erwin Hans Resmel, Afrika Korps. I request that you accept our surrender. I speak on behalf of them all. I have forty three men left, three severely wounded and a further eight needing medical attention. The rest have all been killed.”

  “Your surrender is accepted, Major. Your wounded will be treated. Consider yourselves prisoners of His Majesty’s Armed Forces together with the Armed Forces of the United States of America in North Africa. Please give the order for your men to put all weapons in front of my Sergeant, over there.”

  “Unterfeldwebel Mand will see to it, at once.” Hans spoke quickly to Mand who had been escorted over. Mand saluted and left. They could hear him bark out the order. Immediately, the war-weary soldiers of the Afrika Korps made a line and as the file came closer to the British officer, machine guns, rifles, shells and the remaining bullets were thrown down to make a pile. The men then remained in lines, awaiting further orders from their commanding officers.

  Four other vehicles had since arrived, bringing British and American soldiers who would provide an armed escort until the two hundred men reached some form of prison camp. A tall sandy-haired American walked up to Hans.

  “Major, I see you’ve been wounded.” He indicated the entry point, using his own body, hoping the German Officer would understand. Hans nodded.

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Allow me to drive you back to our lines. Our medics there will fix you up.”

  “And my wounded men?” asked Hans. “They need help. Some are a lot worse than me.”

  “They will be seen to, Major. There’s a truck on its way.” The wounded Major attempted to move but now the pain was getting worse.. “No, allow me. Corporal!” The corporal came running. “Help the Major to that vehicle.” He indicated the vehicle that would be used to take the wounded to where medical help could be given.

  “By the way, Major, your English is excellent. Don’t come across that often.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Hans was in no condition to give any further explanation. The burning of the wound made Hans woozy. He could feel the sticky blood seeping into his shirt. By the time the vehicle arrived at the First Aid post, he felt too unsteady to walk unaided into the tent. He collapsed on to one of the stretcher beds and lay there with his eyes closed, trying to think of anything to lessen the searing pain.

  High up in his beloved Alps it was cool and soothing. He could hear children’s voices. They were calling. The calls were for him. He was the little boy again rolling himself down the slope, turning like a spinning top: faster and faster over the grass. He heard someone call his name. He tried to answer.

  “Wait for me!”

  A face materialised. It was Caroline’s face. She was lying between the sheets ¨C the last time he saw her. He tried to shake her.

  “Don’t die, Caroline. Please don’t die!”

  If only he could have kept holding her, maybe she would not have died.

  “He’s very restless, sir. Is there anything we can give him for the pain?”

  Hans hardly felt the needle penetrate the muscle in his thigh.

  Caroline faded away. The bed, the room, the hospital dissolved into a murky background until his mind slipped into the deep, black void of unconsciousness.