by Sven Hassel
Pluto and I went out on our spell of sentry-duty. We had to walk along the foot of the high walls which surrounded the whole barracks area. We had to see to it that all the regulations were kept, that doors were closed at 10 p.m., that the ammunition boxes behind the parade-ground were properly stowed. If we met anyone in the grounds, he had to be halted and his papers examined. Our officers took a peculiar pleasure in wandering about just to make sure the sentries were alert enough to challenge them.
Colonel von Weisshagen, our commandant, had a special passion for this form of sport. He was a very small man with a much too big monocle screwed into his face. His uniform was a study in the fancy dress of a Prussian officer: green tunic in a half-Hungarian, half-German cut, very short like a cavalryman’s; light grey breeches almost white with the hide of half a cow sewn to the seat, typical cavalry style; black, very long, patent-leather boots. It was a riddle to us how he managed to bend his legs when he wore them. because of the breeches and the boots he was nick-named ‘Backside and Boots’ by the soldiers. His cap was high in front, of the kind particularly favoured by the Nazi bosses and heavily embroidered with eagle and wreath, and a chinstrap fashioned from an enormously heavily knotted silver cord. Naturally his greatcoat was of the long black leather kind, with those dashing broad lapels. Around his neck dangled a ‘Pour le Mérite’. That was his decoration from the First World War when he had served in one of the Kaiser’s horse guards regiments. He still wore the old cavalry insignia quite improperly, on the shoulder tabs of his Nazi army uniform.
The soldiers laid bets between themselves if the mannikin had any lips. His mouth was a thin line which literally disappeared in his hard-lined face made unsightly by a duelling scar. His ice-cold blue eyes dominated the brutal face. When you were up in front of the little commandant you became cold with fright as he addressed you in velvet tones while his cold unfeeling eyes sucked your stomach out. They were a cobra’s eyes, Oberstleutnant von Weisshagen’s eyes, commandant of the 27th (Penal) Panzer Regiment’s depot. Nobody could remember ever having seen a woman in Von Weisshagen’s company and small wonder. Any woman in his presence would have become stiff as a board when his eyes pierced her. When he was thrown out of the army at the end of the war he was a certainty for a governorship of an institution for particularly difficult prisoners. The man simply did not exist it seemed, whom he could not destroy or shape at will.
One other spectacular thing about this man. He always carried his revolver-holster unbuttoned, the more easily to reach the evil shining black-blue Mauser 7.65. His batmen (he had two) said he carried as well a Walther 7.65 with all six bullets filed down to dum-dum heads. His riding-whip, hollowed, hid a long thin swordstick. He would whip it out in a flash from its beautifully plaited leather-covering. He knew he was hated and feared and had taken precautions against any persecuted wretch who might become desperate and light-headed enough to attack him. Naturally he was never sent to the front, his connections in high places saw to that. His red-haired mongrel, ‘Baron’, was a complete fairy tale in himself. The dog was included in the army list of the nominal roll of the depot and several times was degraded in front of the whole battalion. The adjutant, as proper in such circumstances, read out the punishment in the orders of the day. Somehow the dog never rose above the rank of corporal. At the moment he was a lance-corporal and locked in a cell as a penalty for dropping excrement under his master’s desk.
Tough sergeant-majors sweated blood when Von Weisshagen’s gentle voice whispered over the telephone about something they had overlooked. Less than five minutes after a man had dropped or lost a piece of paper in front of the company billets the commandant would know about it. Sometimes we were convinced that his gruesome eyes were able to see through walls, he was so well informed about everything that happened. He always imposed the strictest sentence among the thousands of rules the Third Reich had crammed into military law. Gentleness and mercy were to him sure signs of weakness and portents of the world’s destruction. He loved giving nerve-racking orders to all his subordinates, privates as well as officers. He would sit behind his huge mahogany desk decorated with a miniature flagpole flying the armoured corps standard soldered on to a base fashioned from a hand-grenade. He would stare at one of the soldiers standing to attention in front of him and suddenly shout out:
‘You, jump out of the window!’
God forgive the soldier who hesitated to run to the window, fling it open and start climbing out. The office was on the third floor. At the last moment the little officer’s voice would say:
‘Good, good, get away from that window!’
Or he would come into a room silent as a cat (his boots were rubber-soled). The door would open, and, in a voice mild yet like a whiplash, he would say:
‘Now then, hand-stands!’
The name of anyone unable to stand on his hands was carefully taken note of in the little grey-covered book he carried in his left breast-pocket. He wrote in beautiful script, using the culprit’s back as a table. Next day the poor devil would get a week’s punishment drill.
Pluto and I were chatting as we strolled carelessly on our long tour round the barracks area. Pluto had a cigarette in his mouth. It was short enough for him to tip backwards into his mouth – a trick at which he was adept – should sudden concealment be necessary. He kicked the lock of an ammunition box. To his great delight it opened. This would cause great trouble for No. 4 Company next day when we reported the lock out of order.
Behind the parade halls he spat out his microscopic butt-end. It landed on the dry grass. We stood awhile hoping that the grass would burst into flame and lighten the monotony of our patrol.
We walked on with slow measured steps. Our fixed bayonets blinked with evil flashes. We had not gone far when someone shot up in front of us. At once we both knew it could be nobody but Colonel von Weisshagen. He looked like a black teacosy in his hat and overcoat.
Pluto bellowed the password: ‘Gneissenau’, and it rang all over the depot. Then there was a silence for a few seconds until Pluto roared again:
‘Obergefreiter Eicken and Fahnenjunkergefreiter Hassel, detailed for sentry-duty carrying out patrol in the barracks area. According to regulations the papers of the Herr Oberstleutnant are required for inspection.’
Silence.
The leather coat rustled. One small gloved hand shot between the upper buttons and was quickly withdrawn. The next moment we were staring into the muzzle of his pistol. His well-known bland voice whistled at us:
‘What if I fired now?’
At the same moment a shot cracked from Pluto’s rifle, the bullet whined over the commandant’s head knocking his hat off. Before he could recover from his surprise my bayonet was at his chest. Then Pluto placed his bayonet-point intimidatingly against the mannikin’s neck. We took his pistol.
‘The Herr Oberstleutnant is required to put up his hands, or we fire!’ he said silkily.
I nearly started giggling. It sounded completely insane: ‘The Oberstleutnant is required to put up his hands.’ Only in the army could anyone behave so like an idiot.
I pressed the bayonet firmly against his chest just to show him how eagerly we were carrying out our orders.
‘Nonsense,’ he snapped. ‘You both know me. Get your bayonets down and get on with your patrolling. Later I’ll require you to make out a report about the shot fired.’
‘We do not know you, Herr Oberstleutnant. We only know that we have been threatened with a firearm during sentry-duty. We ask the Herr Oberstleutnant to accompany us to the guard-room,’ Pluto answered with merciless politeness.
Slowly we moved towards the guard-room despite heavy threats from the commandant. But we kept out bayonets at the ready.
Our entry into the guard-room caused great commotion. Reinhardt who had been sleeping, sprang up and arranged himself in the required position of attention at the three regulation paces in front of the commander. In a shaking voice he shouted:
‘Attention!
Unteroffizier Reinhardt detailed as guard commander humbly offers his report to the Herr Oberstleutnant: the guard consists of twenty men. Five on sentry duty with rifles. Two patrolling. Under arrest four prisoners. One Gefreiter from No. 3 Company on two days’ detention. One tank gunner and one Obergefreiter from No. 7 Company on six days’ detention. All three for staying out without night passes, And one Gefreiter dog on three days’ detention for dirtying the floor. Report humbly to Herr Oberstleutnant that nothing special has occurred!’
With great interest the Oberstleutnant studied the purple-faced Reinhardt:
‘Who am I?’
‘You, sir, are the commandant of the depot of the 27th (Penal) Panzer Regiment, Oberstleutnant von Weisshagen.’
Pluto gleefully announced to Reinhardt:
‘Herr Guard Commander! Obergfreiter Eicken, leader of the barracks patrol consisting of two men, humbly reports that we arrested the Oberstleutant behind No. 2 Company’s parade-hall. As we got no answer to our challenge, and on request of papers were threatened with a pistol, we fired according to standing orders a warning shot from my rifle, model 98. The prisoner’s hat was blown off and holed by the bullet. We disarmed the prisoner and led him unwounded to the Herr Guard Commander. Humbly awaiting further orders.’
Silence, long velvet silence.
Reinhardt gulped. This was beyond him. The commandant looked inquiringly at him. Everybody waited, but silence reigned. The blood came and went under the skin of Reinhardt’s baboon face. Everyone waited for the bumpkin to speak. At last the commandant lost his patience, his bland voice sounding faintly hurt as he addressed the unhappy sergeant:
‘We know now that you know me. You are the guard commander. The security of the 27th Regiment’s barracks lies in your hands. What do you order, Unteroffizier. What are you going to do? We can’t stand here all night!’
Reinhardt did not know what on earth to do. His eyes rolled in desperation. We could almost hear him search for an expedient. On the table the pillow and greatcoat were silent witnesses to his illegal sleep. They did not escape his attention either. His eyes came back to Pluto and me with the commandant between us. All three of us waited with badly concealed glee for what the base-hero would order. Fickle fate had suddenly against his will given him more power than he cared for. Before him stood a human being, an ordinary human being with a body, two legs, two arms, a face, eyes, ears, teeth made like all other human beings, but – a large but – a sinister but – this particular being wore a black leather coat, patent-leather boots, Sam Browne and gold stars on plaited silver shoulder-tabs. To Reinhardt he was God, Devil, World, Power, Death, Life, everything connected with destruction, torture, promotion, degradation and, last but not least, he was able to pronounce the few words which could send a certain Sergeant Reinhardt to a battle unit. Behind that, under its ghostly snow, waited the Eastern Front. Whether he was now to escape such a fate or not depended entirely on his not offending his God standing before him smiling mockingly.
Slowly Reinhardt’s brain connected with his tongue and now bluster took over. Bellowing like a bull he roared at Pluto and me:
‘Are you both mad! Release the Herr Commandant immediately. This is mutiny!’
A more relaxed and even satisfied expression shone on his face as he went on:
‘You are under arrest! I’ll call the orderly officer at once. You’ll pay dearly for this. You must excuse them, Herr Oberstleutnant.’ He addressed the commandant and clicked his heels together: ‘They are only two stupid animals from the front. I’ll see to it that a report is made out right away. Of course this is a court-martial offence …’
The commandant practically hypnotized the room with his eyes. This was better than he had hoped for. Just his opportunity to make one of his dreaded examples.
‘Well, Unteroffizier, that’s what you think!’ He brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his big coat lapels as he received his pistol and holed cap from Pluto, who was openly grinning.
Without a sound the commandant walked on his rubber-soles across to the table, he pointed to Reinhardt’s improvised bedclothes and ordered into thin air:
‘Get it away!’
Ten recruits as well as Reinhardt flew forward to carry out his command. The coat and pillow disappeared like magic.
Slowly the commander unbuttoned his coat. His little grey-covered book came out from his left breastpocket. Ceremoniously dusting himself, he brought out his silver pencil with a flourish. The book was placed on the table at the angle prescribed in the junior schools when lessons in hand-writing are being given. As he wrote he thought out loud:
‘Unteroffizier Reinhardt, Hans, serving with No. 3 Company, detailed as guard commander under special circumstances, was found improperly dressed on duty. His tunic was unbuttoned. His belt with pistol was beyond his reach, so it would have been impossible for him to use his own firearms in an emergency. This violates Regulation No. 10618 of April 22nd, 1939, concerning guard duty. Furthermore Army Regulation No. 798, same date and year, was grossly violated as he was found sleeping on the table in the guard-room. Still further, he used the army’s greatcoat as a blanket. At the same time an instruction issued by Oberstleutnant von Weisshagen as a Depot Order on the 16th June, 1941, has been broken. It concerns the identification of persons found in the barracks area after 10 p.m. The guard commander takes no decision on such an occasion but sends instead for the orderly officer.’
With a jerk he turned to the gaping Reinhardt:
‘Well, Unteroffizier, anything to report?’
Reinhardt was dumbstruck. The commandant adjusted his belt and polished his monocle on a snow-white handkerchief. Then he snapped:
‘Obergefreiter Eicken and Fahnenjunkergefreiter Hassel! Take Unteroffizier Reinhardt to the cells! He is under arrest for gross indiscipline on guard duty. The matter will go forward as evidence for a courtmartial. To-morrow he shall be transferred in custody to the 114th Grenadier Regiment Standorts prison. Until relieved of duty Obergefreiter Eicken will serve as guard commander. The patrol carried out their orders correctly and with zeal.’
On his silent feet, he walked out of the guard-room.
‘Come along,’ Pluto grinned at Reinhardt. ‘Any attempt to escape and I use my bayonet!’ At the same time he noisily brought his rifle to the ready.
All three of us marched down the passage to the cells. Pluto enthusiastically dangled the big bunch of keys. The dog from cell No. 78 caused Pluto to bellow:
‘Shut up! Silence after 10 p.m.!’
With unnecessary noise we shot the bolt back from cell-door No. 13 and pushed Reinhardt in.
‘Undress, prisoner, and put everything on the bed,’ ordered Pluto taking great pleasure in his role as prison warder.
A few minutes later the broad-chested Reinhardt stood before us as God had made him. A fat peasant of no consequence, robbed of the cords and ribbons without which he was what he had been created: a bewildered, thick-skulled farm labourer.
Pluto was determined to carry out every regulation in the book.
‘Prisoner, bend forward,’ he ordered, aping Sergeant-Major Edel’s roar.
As carefully as any scientist he studied Reinhardt’s upturned behind.
‘The prisoner has nothing concealed up his backside,’ he established with delight.
He then examined the ears of the lost and gaping Reinhardt and announced gleefully:
‘Prisoner, do you know the regulation concerning personal cleanliness? This hayseed doesn’t know how to shovel the muck out of his ears. Write: the prisoner was found on arrest to be in an extremely dirty condition. His earholes were bunged up with filth.’
‘Do you expect me to write as you say?’ I wanted to know.
‘By God I do! Aren’t I guard commander? Haven’t I got responsibility for the prison register?’
‘Oh shut up, you stupid swine,’ I replied. ‘As far as I am concerned I don’t mind putting your tripe down, but you’ll sign it.’
�
��Yes, sure. Why make all the fuss?’ said Pluto.
We examined Reinhardt’s uniform miscroscopically. His address book was read through. Pluto was also very interested in a round packet of cigarettes. He sniffed one or two. Then he bawled:
‘The prisoner is bloody well in possession of opium-cigarettes! Shall I take care of them, you criminal? Or shall we make out a report? Then you can hear what the court-martial has to say about an NCO who carries narcotics about with him. Well, what do you want done?’
‘Bloody well keep them, and stop blowing yourself up any bigger,’ answered Reinhardt bitterly.
‘Quiet, prisoner, and don’t get fresh. Otherwise we’ll have to see what the regulations say about obstreperous and difficult prisoners. When you address me it’s ‘Herr Guard Commander’. Remember that, you cow-pat!’
Grinning, Pluto stuffed the packet of opium-cigarettes into his pocket. Then he gathered up the fallen hero’s effects. Everything except his underwear and uniform went into a bag. Pluto pointed to the list I had made out from his dictation:
‘Sign here as witness that all your belongings are here. There’ll be no nonsense then when in the distant future they turn you loose.’
Reinhardt wanted to check the list, but Pluto cut him short:
‘What the hell, do you imagine you’ll be allowed to study in prison? Just sign, at once. Then dump your rags outside the door so we can shut you in as the commandant ordered. What a bloody cheek!’
Without protesting Reinhardt did as he was told.
‘If you want to use the bucket do it now,’ announced Pluto.
‘No, Herr Guard Commander,’ came reluctantly from Reinhardt. He stood stark naked under the little cell window.
‘I hope not for your sake,’ said Pluto, ‘and God forgive you if you ring during the night. We want peace to think over the serious events which happened tonight.’
‘Certainly, Herr Guard Commander!’