by Sven Hassel
‘It’s nothing,’ said Pluto.
We drove on in silence. The sun had come out really strongly now. There was warmth in it.
Someone started whistling.
‘Frük morgens, wenn die hähne krähen’.’
Some of us began humming. Suddenly we all stopped, and looked at each other confused. It was as if we had committed blasphemy in a cathedral full of praying people.
The lorry stopped. Paust shouted to the sentry:
‘Special detail from the guard company. One Feldwebel, one Unteroffizier, twenty men and two prisoners.’
The sentry looked into the lorry. A sergeant-major hanging out of the window of the guard-house shouted:
‘You are going to Area 9. Where the hell have you been? They’ve been waiting a long time for you there.’
‘You’re a joke, you are,’ said Paust.
Without waiting for an answer, we drove on along a sandy road which led past the barracks. Soldiers lived in this large training camp during their service. Houses and barns, empty now, stared despondently at the uniformed men who day in and day out were being trained to kill.
‘I hope they don’t eat up all the peas before we get back!’ complained Schwartz. ‘It isn’t every day we get something we like. Of course it had to be to-day we get detailed for this lot.’
Nobody answered.
‘My God, there’s a hare,’ shouted Porta excitedly and pointed at something in the shabby-looking heather.
We all stretched to look at the hare leaping away.
‘God help us! Real food under our eyes and we can’t get at it.’ Porta groaned.
‘Last time we had hare was in Rumania, in the barracks by the Dubovila river,’ said Pluto.
‘Oh, yes, that was the time I took that Rumanian baron for everything he’d got,’ grinned Porta.
The lorry stopped. Swearing, Paust jumped down:
‘Where is Area 9? This dope here has lost his way. This is the sports ground.’
Nobody answered. He unfolded a map and turned it round and round before he got his bearing. The lorry backed and stuck in the soft grass verge. Everybody had to get out and push. Only the prisoners stayed in the truck.
Indifferently, we flung our rifles to them.
‘You ought to get out to Russia, you,’ said Pluto into thin air. Nobody understood what he meant. ‘Then you’d learn to know something else apart from this rotten training-camp.’
‘We’ve had the peas,’ said Schwartz angrily.
‘I’ll spit on your peas,’ shouted Stege. ‘Eat your own gristle if you’re so hungry.’
‘Nobody asked your opinion, you bastard!’ Schwartz gave him back furiously.
It would have ended in a fight, but the lorry was now free and we had to jump in quickly.
Soon we stopped again. We were at Area 9. Paust shouted:
‘Detail, fall in!’
Nervously we jumped out and fell in before Paust. We had forgotten the prisoners. They sat in the lorry, half-hidden in the corner by the driver’s cab. A lieutenant from the military police had appeared and was swearing at them. Paust seemed in momentary confusion. Then he roared with a voice which echoed through the huge spruce trees in the background:
‘Prisoners, fall in, get a move on!’
The two prisoners all but fell out of the lorry and took their places as if apologetically at the end of the file we had formed, the girl behind the old NCO. The lieutenant’s face was red. He unnecessarily adjusted his broad officer’s belt and his pistol-butt.
‘Your word of command! What are you waiting for?’
Paust became more nervous, and with saliva at the corners of his mouth, he croaked:
‘Attention, eyes right!’
He turned round, heels clicking and reported all correct to the fat and beery MP officer.
The lieutenant saluted with a flourish. Then he turned about and withdrew with the onlookers into the background.
A military prosecutor in colonel’s uniform came across. He was followed by a staff-surgeon and others.
Paust leapt forward, clicked his heels and rattled off his report at the same time handing over some papers he had carried in a red cover.
‘The prisoners in the middle, two men behind,’ ordered the lieutenant.
With the minimum of movement the order was carried out.
Half-hidden by some bushes stood two long wooden boxes. We turned our eyes away from them.
The sun shone. Some of those with stars on their shoulders smoked. The rifles felt hot in sweaty hands. Stege played unconsciously with his sling.
The military prosecutor gave the papers to a major from the Panzer Grenadiers. He did not manage to get all the different coloured sheets in order at once. The wind teased him. In a falsetto voice he started reading out:
‘In the name of the Führer and the German people the specially convened military court under the Commanding General of Defence, Sector 6, has sentenced Irmgard Bartels, born April 3rd, 1922, telephone operator in Defence Sector 6, serving in Bielefeldt, to death by shooting. The prisoner is convicted of communication with an illegal communist organization and the distribution of leaflets dangerous to the State, to her colleagues in the exchange as well as in the barracks where her section was billeted.
‘Her confession in writing is witnessed by the prisoner. Court-Martial Counsellor Dr. Jahn, Major-General of the Police Schliermann and SA Gruppenführer Wittman acted as judges. The condemned prisoner is forever without honour and all her property falls to the State.
‘In the name of the Führer and the German people the specially convened military court under the Commanding General in Defence Sector 6 has sentenced Unteroffizier Gerhard Paul Brandt, born June 17th, 1889, serving with Artillery Regiment 76, to death by shooting. The prisoner refused to obey orders during guard duty in Stalag 6. Three times his company commander warned him of the consequences of disobeying orders.
‘His confession in writing is witnessed by the prisoner. SS Obersturmbannführer Dr. Rüttger, NSKK, Obergruppenführer Dr. Hirsch and Staff Court-martial Counsellor Professor Gortz acted as judges. The condemned prisoner is forever without honour and all his property falls to the State.
‘The guard commander from the depot of the 27th (Penal) Panzer Regiment has been detailed to carry out the execution. Clerical duty will be performed by Chaplain Curt Meyer. Staff-Surgeon Dr Mettgen will certify the execution completed. The military prosecutor Dr Weissmann, GE and Training Battalion 309, will see that the sentence is carried out according to regulations. The duty of notifying the prisoners’ relatives lies with Standort Prison 6/6 Paderborn. The burial following the execution will be carried out by Sonderkommand from Pioneer Battalion 57.’
He beckoned condescendingly to the MP lieutenant who stepped over to Paust and gave him orders.
‘Detail, right turn! Forward march!’
The sand was yielding under our feet. The girl stumbled, but Pluto grabbed her, and she recovered her balance. For a moment the firing-party broke step.
Round a bend in the road we came upon the posts we had expected to see: the posts the condemned prisoners were tied to. There were six of them: six ordinary thick fence posts, each hung with a piece of new rope in a ring.
‘Detail, halt!’ ordered Paust. ‘Order arms! Open order march! Front rank with the prisoners forward mar-a-arch!’
The Old Un gasped loudly. Ours was the leading rank. For a moment we hesitated. Then the ingrained discipline took effect. We tramped forward silently to the posts which once had been swaying trees the wind had played with, but were now awaiting the clasp of the dying.
We stood detached from the rest. Behind us silently waiting, stood the fine gentlemen and the remainder of the detail. It seemed as if we had been thrust apart from them. We were twelve ordinary people with two in the middle about to die.
What if we ran away? Or if The Old Un’s machine pistol barked backwards at those stars and cords? What then? There were only six posts here
, but in other camps there were more, more than enough for twelve men.
The Old Un coughed. The old man in the denims coughed. It was dusty.
‘Front rank halt!’ The Old Un said quietly. He mumbled something incomprehensible in which the word ‘God’ occurred. We knew they could not hear us behind.
The girl swayed, she nearly fainted. Pluto whispered between his teeth:
‘Courage, lass, don’t show the swine you’re afraid. Shout what you like. They can’t do anything more to you. Up the Red Front! Think of the ‘Red Flag’, if it helps.’
The Old Un pointed to me and Stege.
‘You two go with Grandad, and you, Pluto and Porta go with the girl.’
‘Why us?’ protested Stege quietly. But we started without waiting for an answer. Somebody had to do it. The others were glad it wasn’t them. They turned away.
The post was roughened at chest height. A reminder of the many times it had been used for this planned beastliness taking place in the name of the German people.
The nice new rope smelled of jute, but was a little too short. The old NCO pulled in his stomach to make himself thinner. It was a poor knot we made, and Stege wept.
‘I’ll shoot at the trees,’ he whispered, ‘listen pal, I can’t shoot at you.’
The girl started crying. She did not cry as women normally do. Her cries were like an animal’s bellows. Porta jumped back from the post, dropped his rifle, dried his hands on his trouser seat and picked up his rifle again. He doubled back to the main detail waiting some twenty paces in our rear.
We hurried away from the two bound figures at the posts.
An army padre with purple tabs and crosses on his collar instead of the usual eagle walked across to the tethered man and girl.
The girl was quiet now. The padre mumbled a prayer and raised both hands to the cloudless sky. He seemed to be trying to convince the invisible God that what was happening was just and proper in a world tormented by war.
The military prosecutor took a few steps forward and read out:
‘We make these executions to defend the State against the serious crimes which these two criminals have committed. The specially convened military court’s judges have sentenced them in accordance with paragraph 32 in the State penal code.’
He stepped back quickly. Paust was pale and he looked desperately out across the sandy wastes.
‘Detail, right dress! Eyes front! Load!’
The safety-catches clicked and the bolts rattled ominously.
‘Detail! At your target – aim!’
The butt pressed against the shoulder. The eye went along the barrel. Something white appeared over the foresight – pinned to each breast. Behind it a heart thumped, as yet still pumping blood through a living body.
Stege sniffed and whispered:
‘I’ll hit a branch.’
‘Detail … !’
The girl gave a pitiable whine. The squad swayed. The leather belts creaked. Behind us someone fainted.
‘… Fire!’
A sharp rolling thunder from twelve rifles and a jerk in twelve tank-soldiers’ shoulders. Two State-murders had been committed.
With wildly open eyes we stared hypnotized at our victims. They hung kicking in the ropes. The old NCO fell to the ground. The knot had broken. He kicked his feet and scratched with his nails in the sand on which a red patch was spreading.
The girl just managed to cry out: ‘Mother!’ A long rattling. ‘Mother!’
Four pioneers from the 57th hurried across to the posts. The staff-surgeon cast an indifferent glance at the two in their patched denims, then he signed some documents.
Far away, as in a trance, we heard Paust’s command:
‘Into the lorry!’
Stumbling like drunkards we found our places. Round Stege’s eyes and down his cheeks were tear stains. We were all white as milk.
We drove past the guard. None of them questioned us. None of us spoke. Only the engine roared unfeelingly as usual.
We reached the gravel heap where the prisoners-of-war worked.
‘It’s twenty past twelve, how time flies,’ stated Möller quietly.
‘We’ve had the peas,’ burst out from Schwartz.
‘You rotten animal,’ howled Stege and went for the unsuspecting Schwartz.
‘I’ll knock your teeth in, then you won’t manage to wolf peas again for bloody weeks!’
He sat on top of Schwartz who had gone down with a crash. He bashed him one in the face with one fist, while he tried to strangle him with the other. Schwartz was nearly dead when at last we got Stege away. He was frothing at the mouth and had to be held down by Pluto and Bauer.
Through the din we heard Paust shout:
‘For God’s sake cut out that row!’
Nobody took any notice of him. Everyone shouted. We reached the barracks and clambered out of the truck in a noisy heap.
‘The firing-party has leave for the rest of the day, but remember rifles and belts clean first,’ Paust told us.
We shambled past the staring recruits, just back from eating their dinners. As we reached our room Bauer shouted to Porta:
‘See you in the “Red Cat”!’
Porta turned on his heel and threw his rifle at Bauer while he roared:
‘What’s it got to do with you? You stupid animal! Mind your own business!’
By quickly side-stepping, Bauer just dodged the rifle and ran for his own room.
‘Somebody’s got nerves,’ a lance-corporal said, grinning.
He belonged to No. 2 Troop. Pluto swung his fist. It crashed into the NCO’s face. Pluto said:
‘And now somebody’s got a black eye, eh?’
5
‘Church parade’s a big laugh,’ said Porta.
‘You’ve just got to drone along beautifully and make it all complicated enough so nobody can understand. At every fifth word you say “cum spiritu-tuo,” then change to a happy, “Dominus vobiscum”. That always makes a good impression. Then swing the monstrance hard enough and the whole congregation is satisfied.’
Porta as Pope
We sat in the armoury and played pontoon. A considerable sum lay in front of Porta. He was the only one who had any luck.
Quartermaster-Sergeant Hauser, fed up with playing, had lost nearly 200 marks.
‘I’ve had enough. Bring the bottle,’ he growled angrily.
Decorated with a petrol label, it contained a mixture of cognac and vodka.
Hauser passed it on to Porta and then round the table. Loud belches soon thundered out.
‘That skinny one you were with last night,’ said Bauer to Stege, ‘where did you lassoo her? I thought she looked like Sergeant-Major Schröder’s wife.’ He added, convinced: ‘It bloody well was her! That wiggle bum can be recognized a mile off. If he discovers it, I wouldn’t like to be you!’
Stege threw himself back on to a heap of cleaning rags and roared with laughter.
‘That fat swine is rattling along in a cattle-truck between Warsaw and Kiev right now, so he hasn’t got much chance. And just because ‘Backside and Boots’ has punished him it doesn’t mean she’s got to be punished. It’s her birthday on Thursday too. She’s having a party. That means in good German I’m the star guest. At 9 p.m. the attack starts, and each of you must bring a girl as a pass. Mrs. Grass Widow Sergeant-Major has promised us the old man’s booze. The lady says he’ll never need it, that he’s so fat even a blind Russky can’t miss if he only hears him breathe.’
Porta hooted with laughter.
‘Yes, I was in the orderly-room when “Backside and Boots” gave him what for. Brandt and I nearly choked with laughter. He’s transferred to the 104th Infantry, and if he doesn’t get his block knocked off at the start, he’ll loose his fat in fourteen days and look like a fence post.’
Pluto stood up copying von Weisshagen:
‘Well, Hauptfeldwebel, things are not so well with you, what? We’ve been made fun of long enough by keeping you. On that
broad chest of yours there’s plenty of room for some decorations, don’t you think? That stupid swine answered: “Yes sir,” although he nearly dirtied his pants with terror at the thought of getting nearer the front than 300 miles. “Well, well,” went on “Backside and Boots” as he stared at him through his shining monocle. “Then we agree. I like to think my men are satisfied. You’ll soon be back with an Iron Cross. And maybe you’ll honour your old formation by getting a Knight’s Cross. And you want an opportunity to distinguish yourself in the field?” “Yes, sir,” sobbed the poor beast. He looked sick. “Good Hauptfeldwebel,” said the commander. “Then you’ll wish to be where things happen. So I have arranged for your transfer to the 104th. That’s the bravest regiment in the division. There you’ll have rich opportunities to show your soldierly qualities; qualities which we here have appreciated – until the other day when we, to our great regret, found you unable to distinguish between duty and leave, canteen and guard-room!” You should have seen him crawl out. He looked like a sick hen.’
‘Porta, come on, tell us a yarn,’ asked The Old Un.
‘Of course, my boy, but what? You can’t just say: “tell us a story”.’
‘Tell us one with a bit of spice in,’ answered The Old Un, easing himself comfortably against the armsracks.
‘So that’s what you want, you ungodly swine,’ Porta said austerely. ‘No, it’s Sunday to-day so we’ll have something decent. I’ll tell you a really uplifting and edifying story from my eventful life, about the time I acted padre, or pope as the Russians say, to Ivan.
‘It was when we were fighting in the Caucasus between Maikopf and Tuapse and Ivan was having fun with us and all those trees.’
‘My God, what a mess he made for us,’ grinned Stege. ‘Remember how even the biggest bulldozer went to pieces trying to shift those mahogany trees?’
‘Am I or you telling this story?’ Porta wanted to know. ‘After Tuapse we started on the dirt road made by the Georgian peasants in the Tsar’s time. Drove on as fast as we could and reached a lousy village which Ivan had named according to his taste: Proletarkaja, beautiful. And here, my boys, the whole boiling stuck. The old one with red stripes down his trousers, His Excellency Kleist, was no match for Ivan’s boys. We had to leave Proletarkaja, but before we left Ewald said to me—’