by Sven Hassel
‘Halt! Five minutes’ rest! The prisoner can sit down . . . Have you anything you wish to say?’
The General, an old man now, with palsied limbs and shrunken cheeks, stared unseeingly ahead out of eyes that were covered in a milky film. He had the air of a corpse enclosed in a diseased but still living body. Slowly he shook his head. His lips silently framed one word: no. He had nothing he wished to say.
Stever stared down at the General in contemptuous amazement. Was the man a complete fool? Where was the point of setting himself up in opposition to authority? What could he possibly hope to gain by it? Another half hour of suffering and he would be dead – and all for nothing, as far as Stever could see.
The five minutes came to an end. The prisoner was hauled to his feet. He made another two laps of the circuit and then pitched forward, head first, and lay still. Stever was on him in an instant, beating him wantonly about the head and shoulders, kicking at his feeble old legs, reviling him for being a fool.
Again the General staggered to his feet. Stever looked at him with hatred. Why couldn’t the old sod give up and die? Any more of this and there would be no sleep for any of them tonight. As it was, there were only three hours to go before reveille. He promised himself that the next time the General faltered he would give him such a blow as would finish him off once and for all.
The prisoner stood upright – or as upright as he could. His shoulders drooped, and the straps of the rucksack cut deep into them. He was trembling from head to foot. His helmet was askew, his white hairs were plastered in wisps over his forehead, and tears were streaming from his half-closed eyes. Painfully, he ran a swollen tongue round his lips, which were torn and bleeding. In a voice that was no more than a feeble croak, he gave Rotenhausen best: he had no complaints to make of his treatment and he wished to sign a declaration to that effect . . .
‘I assumed you would, sooner or later,’ said Rotenhausen, simply. ‘Everyone else does, so why not you?’ He took out another cigar and paused to light it. ‘I trust, by the way, that you are not sufficiently small-minded to regard this period of exercise as in any way being connected with your previous refusal to sign the declaration? That of course would be quite contrary to all my principles . . . The fact is, we do occasionally select a prisoner at random and put him through the hoop, so to speak – purely for his own good. It gives him a taste of what to expect in a disciplinary camp, and therefore a far better chance of ultimate survival . . . Why do you keep gasping like that? Are you thirsty?’
The General nodded.
‘Well, now you know the sort of thing you’re likely to have to put up with, don’t you? I hear that in Russia the men are expected to march for half a day or more without a drink.’
There was still a further twenty minutes to go before the stipulated two hours were up, and even though the General had capitulated Rotenhausen saw no reason to cut short the exercise period.
The old fellow set off yet again round the courtyard, with the faithful Stever plodding and prodding at his side. He weathered another ten minutes, and then, quite suddenly, he stopped and heaved and vomited blood. Stever butted him violently with his gun.
‘Get on, damn you! Get on!’
The final minutes of the drama were played out in slow motion, with the General dragging himself round the ring at the pace of a tortoise and Stever walking with him and meditating upon the possibilities of a sly blow that would put an end to all their miseries, allow the General to die in peace and himself to get some sleep.
Back inside the prison, the General collapsed. This time it took Stever almost five minutes to revive him. Rotenhausen ordered that he should remove his clothes and be taken for a shower, so Stahlschmidt and Stever led himaway between them, stripped him naked and held him beneath the cold water for ten minutes. They then put his clothes back on him, dripping wet, and marched him off to the office to sign his declaration. They had to hold the paper for him, and support his arm and hold the pen in his hand before he could do so. Rotenhausen watched in some amusement.
‘Why couldn’t you have signed it right at the beginning?’
The General seemed not to hear the question. He stared blankly ahead, and the light of life in his eyes was barely flickering.
‘I’m speaking to the prisoner!’ snapped Rotenhausen. ‘I expect an answer!’
The answer came, but it was both unexpected and involuntary: the General quite suddenly began to relieve himself, there in Stahlschmidt’s impeccable office, standing there unconscious with the urine running down his leg and on to the – carpet.
Rotenhausen gave a shout of indignation and jumped back. Stahlschmidt was almost beside himself. He forgot the presence of the Major and knew only that some filthy swine of a prisoner was daring to spoil his carpet He ran at the General, shaking him back and forth and pouring abuse over him. Stever stepped in with the truncheon and began methodically, and with a certain lack of enthusiasm, to beat the prisoner in the stomach and the back and across the shoulders. He was sick of the old man’s pointless resistance, he wanted him to die, quickly and quietly, and let them all get to bed. But still he made sure that he hit him only where no tell-tale marks would be left. He finally pushed the prisoner to the floor, bent him forward and rubbed his nose in the mess.
Major Rotenhausen shook his head.
‘This is a most disgraceful happening. To think that an officer could behave in such a fashion! You have my full permission to do what you like with him from now on, Stabsfeldwebel. I have totally lost interest. He is evidently not a gentleman. Only remember what I told you earlier: no traces. That is all I ask.’
Stahlschmidt clicked his heels together.
‘I’ll see to it, sir!’
Rotenhausen picked up the inspection register, wrote a few words in a large, plain hand and signed it with a flowing signature:
‘Inspection of garrison prison carried out. All in order. Prisoners due for transfer called for final interview: no complaints made.
P. ROTENHAUSEN
Prison Governor.’
He raised two laconic fingers to the rim of his kepi and left the office, very well contented with his night’s work. He went straight round to see his mistress, the wife of a lieutenant, who lived at Blankenese. While he was there, enjoying the delights of the house, Brigadier General von Peter quietly died.
Obergefreiter Stever launched a few languid kicks at the inert body, but it no longer moved. Stahlschmidt bent over it.
‘Thank Christ for that! Now perhaps we shall have a bit of peace.’
‘I thought he’d never go,’ grumbled Stever.
‘Pissing on my carpet! To think they make officers of pigs like that . . . The very idea!’ Stahlschmidt turned to Stever. ‘There’s no need to go spreading the story round the prison, by the way.’
Stever smothered a yawn.
‘I shouldn’t dream of it, Stabsfeldwebel.’
‘As well for you . . .’ Stahlschmidt waved a hand at the old grey body lying limp on the floor. ‘Get rid of that rubbish, I don’t want stinking corpses cluttering the place up. And tell that lieutenant in number nine to come and scrub my carpet. That’s the sort of work fit for an officer.’
‘What do we put in the report?’ asked Stever, carelessly picking up the Brigadier General by one of his legs.
‘I don’t know . . .’ Stahlschmidt scratched at his chest a moment. ‘Has he got any marks on him?’
Stever let the leg drop and closely examined the body.
‘A few bruises, that’s all . . . They could have come from anything.’
‘Good. I’m glad to see you know your job . . . What would you say to taking over from me when I leave?’
Stever goggled at him.
‘Are you leaving, Stabsfeldwebel?’
‘Not just yet awhile, but I shall be.’ Stahlschmidt flexed his arms and did a casual knees-bend. His long leather boots creaked impressively. ‘I aim to move on to Potsdam. To the garrison prison at Potsdam. And then
, my dear Stever, you’ll be able to have this lovely office all to yourself as your very own. How would that suit you?’
‘It sounds like a bit of all right,’ said Stever, ‘but could I get to be promoted?’
Stahlschmidt tapped the KV16I on his chest.
‘You, too, could wear one of these . . . You don’t have to go and beard the Russians in their den to get one, you know.’
‘No,’ said Stever, ‘but how could I – 1 mean, how would it – well, frankly, I don’t care too much for the idea of going off to a training school for two years just to learn how to be an N.C.O.’
‘Who said anything about going off to a training school? You don’t think I bothered with all that sort of nonsense, do you? Use your brain a bit and it’s not necessary.’
‘But how do you get round it?’
Stahlschmidt shrugged.
‘Impress people. Make your mark. Pressurize them. Take the trouble to learn by heart some bit of rubbish by Goethe or Schiller or some other daft old sod. Bring it out whenever you get the opportunity. Con people. Play the game right and you’ll get wherever you want . . . Like I’m going to get to Potsdam.’
Stahlschmidt laughed happily and flexed the muscles of his arms. Stever looked doubtful.
‘Easier said than done,’ he muttered.
Stahlschmidt smiled.
‘Some of us can, some of us can’t . . . Let’s get mat filthy corpse out of here. Go and find Gefreiter Hölzer, ask him to give you a hand. Arrange a suicide in the prisoner’s cell – you know the sort of thing, you’ve done it before.’
‘Stool by the window?’ said Stever.
‘That will do. And twist the old fool’s sheet round his neck and tie a knot . . . at the back of the neck, mind you. Not at the front. I knew a stupid bastard at Innsbruck made that mistake. Deserved a rope round his own neck, if you ask me . . . While you’re doing that I’ll give the M.O. a ring and tell him what’s happened. This time of night, hell sign a death certificate without even looking at the corpse.’
They had a quick glass of cognac from Stahlschmidt’s secret cupboard and then each went about his work. Stever and Hölzer carried the corpse out of the office and back to its cell, where they arranged a squalid and effective suicide.
At the door of the cell they paused and looked back at the hanging body.
‘Let’s wait outside,’ suggested Hölzer.
Stever laughed.
‘You know, it creases me . . . it really creases me when people start going on about heaven and God the Father and the angels and all that kind of crap. Look at him hanging there! Can you imagine a sight like that ever flying round heaven with a bare arse and a couple of wings and a halo and all?’
Hölzer shivered slightly.
‘Don’t tempt providence. Just lately, I get cold fingers all up my spine every time I see a bleeding priest in the street. I have to cross over the other side of the road, you know that?’
‘Superstitious clap trap,’ said Stever.
‘No, it’s not. It’s more than that. I’m not superstitious and I’m not religious, but I sometimes get the feeling that one of these days it’s going to be our number what turns up.’
‘So? We all got to die, haven’t we?’
‘Yeah, but not like that.’ Hölzer looked at the General’s limp body and looked away again. ‘That’s what I’m scared of. And we’ve had so many of ’em pass through here, I can’t help feeling it’s going to be like – well, like a sort of retribution, like.’
‘Ah, piss off!’ said Stever, closing the cell door.
‘I mean it,’ insisted Hölzer. ‘You know what, I was in a club down town the other day, I met these three guys from a disciplinary regiment what’s in Hamburg – tank corps or something. Real tough lot. Slit your throat as soon as look at you – and they very nearly did. Pissed to the eyeballs, of course. So just to amuse themselves, pass the time away, like, they tie a bit of rope round my neck and shove a pistol in my belly . . . Know what they said? They said, this is just a dress rehearsal. Next time it’ll be the real thing . . . And God help me, I believed them! I still do, matter of fact. And so would you, if you’d been there.’
Stever’s air of patronizing superiority had faded slightly at die mention of a disciplinary regiment. His hand went up and plucked nervously at his throat.
‘What were they like, these three? One of ’em wasn’t a little chap with a dirty great scar down his face, was he? Smoked fags all the time?’
‘Yes, he was,’ said Hölzer, astonished. ‘You know him?’
‘Yeah, he visited one of the prisoners just the other day. Nasty piece of work.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ agreed Hölzer, earnesly. ‘He put the shits up me, I don’t mind telling you . . . In fact, the whole place is beginning to put the shits up me. This prison, mis town, everything . . . There’s a club where I go – Aunt Dora’s place. You ever been there? Only just lately it’s been swarming with Bielert’s men. Like flies round a heap of turds. Dora don’t care, they can’t touch her, she’s well in with Bielert, but what about the rest of us?’ He moved close to Stever. ‘Last night, I opened my mouth a bit too wide – said something stupid to her, I was drunk, didn’t know what I was on about – and before I knew whether I’m on my arse or my elbow I’m being flung out of the door by a couple of Gestapo types.’
Stever forced a laugh.
‘Why? What’d you do to annoy the old cow? Not fucking enough?’
‘Come off it!’ protested Hölzer, indignantly. ‘I’m there every night of the week when I’m not on duty. I have a go at everyone, I do. Regulars and casuals. She gets her money out of me, I’m not fussy, so long as it’s the right sex. The end of last week, I tell you, I was so shagged I couldn’t hardly move . . .’
‘So what’s she bawl you out for? What’s your trouble? What’s all the bellyaching?’
Hölzer shrugged his shoulders.
‘I dunno. I reckon I just feel the writing’s on the wall. Every where I go I keep seeing these blokes from the 27th . . . they’ve got it in for me, I can feel it in my bones. To tell you the honest truth, I don’t think I can take much more of it. I’d sooner be at the front than here.’
Stever looked at him.
‘You gone bleeding mad?’ he inquired, mildly. ‘If you think those types from the 27th are like wild animals here in Hamburg, you just try imagining how they’d be at the front.’
‘They wouldn’t be at the front,’ muttered Hölzer.
‘Well, perhaps not that particular lot,’ agreed Stever. ‘But others just like ’em . . . or worse. And that’s the type you get out there, you mark my words. They’re bad enough when they’re back here in civilization, but stuck out there in the trenches with ’em you’d be a goner and no mistake. They’re psychopaths, the lot of ’em! Bleeding psychopaths running about with their pockets stuffed full of hand grenades and God knows what else . . . blow you up as soon as look at you . . . knife you in the back on the slightest provocation . . .’ He shuddered. ‘No thank you very much! I’d rather spend the rest of the bleeding war in this shit hole than get tangled up with a bunch of homicidal nut cases . . . The thing is, you see, you don’t want to let it get you down. Don’t take it to heart so much. I mean, the prisoners and all that . . . Whatever they get, they’ve asked for it. In any case, it’s none of your business. You just do what you’re told and don’t worry about the rest.’
‘Yeah.’ Hölzer heaved an almost rib-breaking sigh. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right . . . but I’m buggered if I know what to do about it. You ever walked round day after day feeling sort of – well – sort of sick with fear?’
‘What d’you mean, sick with fear? What kind of fear?’
Hölzer hunched a shoulder.
‘I dunno . . . fear of what’s going to happen next . . . it just gets worse and worse. Every day there’s some new horror I can’t seem to cope with. Like tomorrow, for instance . . .’
Stever wrinkled his brow.
> ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘That bloke in number twenty’s for the chopper . . . He’s quite a decent sort of chap, really. His family came to say goodbye to him the other day. I had to stand and listen to ’em all weeping and wailing over him . . . fit to make your stomach curdle. And then afterwards they ask me if there’s nothing I can’t do for him, if there’s nothing I can’t do to save him . . . Why pick on me? What can I do? What can I say?’
‘Nothing,’ Stever told him, firmly. ‘Not your job, is it? They want anything like that, they got to go direct to Adolf or Heinrich.’
‘That’s what I tell them. But even if they did it, what good would it do? No bloody good at all, and they know it and I know it . . . And night after night,’ said Hölzer, bitterly, ‘I drink myself silly trying to forget it all. I screw some bird until we’re both fucked out, then I booze until I’m paralytic, and then for a couple of hours I’m dead to the world and it’s like being in bleeding paradise, you’re unconscious, you don’t know nothing, you don’t have to watch blokes die or listen to kids screaming . . . and then it’s morning again and you’re back where you started, only worse . . . because it gets worse all the time . . .’
‘Listen, you got to watch it,’ said Stever, seriously. ‘You’re in a bad way, you are. You got to try to be logical about these things. There’s a war on – right? Whether you like it or not, you didn’t start it, so it’s no bloody good you worrying about it. Second, how many prisoners do we kill off per week? Half a dozen? Maybe less, maybe a bit more. But some weeks we don’t have any executions at all – right? Now, out at the front they’re killing off whole battalions in the space of an hour . . . all day and every day . . . and you think people are losing any sleep over it? Course they’re bleeding well not! And just remember this: most of them poor sods out in the trenches are there because they can’t bleeding well help it, because the bastards up at the top have sent ’em out there, but the scum we got locked up in these cells are here because they sodding well DESERVE to be here. They done something, they got to pay for it. So there ain’t no call for you to go weeping no crocodile tears over them.’