Assignment Gestapo

by Sven Hassel

  The room where the trials took place was as usual filled from floor to ceiling. All the public benches were occupied by soldiers, who came not for vicarious thrills, nor through a wish to learn, nor out of academic interest, but purely and simply because they were ordered to be there. The witnessing of military trials was held by those in authority to have a beneficial effect upon servicemen.

  Gefreiter Paul Baum of the 3rd Alpine Regiment, white and terrified, was waiting to hear his fate. The court had retired to deliberate.

  The Prosecutor rearranged his papers, preparing for the next case. He had already lost interest in the trembling Gefreiter.

  Counsel for the defence sat playing with his gold propelling pencil. With his elbows on the table, he was twisting the lead in and out, and his thoughts were far from the courtroom. He was thinking of his mistress; and not so much of his mistress but of the meal she had promised him that night. A meal of beef and sauerkraut. Mistresses were ten a penny these days, but meals of beef and sauerkraut were something of a luxury.

  A female shorthand-writer sucked the end of her pen and thoughtfully regarded the ashen Gefreiter: a sad, squat, peasant type, with thick features and great red hands. She could never sleep with a man like that. Not if all the rest were killed, she couldn’t. She would sooner retain her virginity.

  The peasant Gefreiter sat staring at the floor. He began to count the boards with his feet: condemned to death, not condemned; condemned to death, not condemned . . . He finished up with an unfavourable verdict and for a moment he grew stiff with terror. Just in time, he remembered that there were more floorboards beneath the bench. He felt cautiously with his feet. Three of them . . . that made ‘not condemned’. Feeling slightly happier he raised his head and looked across to the white-painted door in the corner of the court. Through that door would come the three judges when they had decided on his fate. He sat with his eyes screwed tightly shut, willing them to listen to the verdict of the floorboards.

  The whole of the proceedings against this boy of eighteen had taken no longer than ten minutes. The President of the Court had asked a few laconic questions. The Prosecutor had spoken a great deal and Counsel for the Defence had contributed one speech of a few seconds’ duration:

  ‘Law and order must, of course, be maintained at whatever cost, without regard for human emotions or human frailty. Nevertheless, I would ask the Court to show indulgence and understanding towards my client in this difficult situation in which they find themselves.’

  From the point of view of military ruling, the case against the Gefreiter was cut and dried. There were no loopholes, no grounds for argument, and Counsel for the Defence made his brief speech and sat down again to dream of his beef and sauerkraut.

  The Gefreiter was growing too nervous to sit still. He shifted up and down the bench, clattering his feet, tearing at his finger nails, clearing his throat. Why didn’t they come? Why didn’t the white door open? How much longer would they keep him in suspense?

  And then it occurred to him – if they were taking so long to decide, it could surely mean but one thing? They were unable to agree on his case. And where there was disagreement, there was hope. That was why there were three judges, to make sure that the decision did not rest solely upon the whims and fancies of one man. Each prisoner must be given a fair chance.

  In their antechamber, the three judges sat back in their easy chairs drinking kirsch. Kriegsferichtsrat Burgholz was coming to the end of a very funny story. They had been exchanging stories ever since they had retired to discuss the case. But the case was hardly worth discussing and none of them had even bothered to listen to the evidence. Their verdict had been decided for them in advance.

  After half a dozen glasses of kirsch they reluctantly decided to return to the courtroom.

  The white door opened.

  The Gefreiter began shaking violently. The crowded ranks of soldiers craned their heads for a better view.

  The President and his two fellow judges seated themselves with due majesty, smelling strongly of kirsch, behind their horseshoe table. The President delivered their verdict: found Guilty of desertion and sentenced to death by shooting.

  The Gefreiter swayed forward in a faint and was jerked upright by the rough grip of a court Feldwebel.

  The President calmly continued his speech, rejecting in advance any appeal that might be made against either the verdict or the sentence. He then patted his brow with a perfumed handkerchief, threw a quick glance of indifference at the condemned man and turned to the next case.

  Number 19 661/M.43H, the State versus Lt. Bernt Ohlsen. The Gefreiter was led away and Lt. Ohlsen was sent for. The stage management was good and the show was being run with a precision to be proud of.

  Obergefreiter Stever threw open the door of Ohlsen’s cell and called him out.

  ‘You’re wanted!’

  ‘Why? Is it time?’ Lt. Ohlsen walked slowly to the door, feeling as if his stomach had suddenly collapsed.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Stever, cheerfully. ‘You’re on next. Room 7, under Oberkriegsferichtsrat Jackstadt. He’s a fat stinking pig, if ever there was one,’ he added, by way of a snippet of interesting information. ‘He’ll be one of the first to go when the wheel’s turned full circle.’

  Stever pushed Ohlsen along the corridor and down the stairs, where he was taken in charge by two military policemen outside the entrance to the courtrooms. Stever walked away, humming. Lt. Ohlsen was handcuffed and marched off through the long tunnel that led to room number 7. On their way they encountered the Gefreiter, making the return journey. He was screaming and struggling, and it required three men to hold him in check.

  ‘Will you flaming pipe down and stop bawling?’ shouted one of his guards irascibly. He fetched him a cuff round the ear. ‘Who the devil d’you think you’re impressing, anyway? Certainly not me, I’ve seen far too much of it already. In any case, what the hell, you’ll probably be far better off where you’re going than stuck here with the rest of us.’

  ‘Just think,’ added another, twisting the Gefreiter’s arm behind his back, ‘little lord Jesus is probably all ready and waiting for you. Probably got a party going in your honour. What’s he going to think when you turn up in this state? Bloody ungrateful if you ask me!’

  The boy suddenly caught sight of Lt. Ohlsen, and in spite of bis guards he fell to his knees and called out to him.

  ‘Lieutenant! Help me! They want me to die, they’re going to shoot me, I was only gone two days, I swear it was a mistake! It was a mistake, I didn’t mean it, oh God, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it! I’ll do anything they want me to, I’ll go to the Russian front, I’ll learn bow to fly a Stuka, I’ll go down in a U-boat, I’ll do anything, I swear I will! Oh, Mother of God,’ he babbled, tears making rivers down his cheeks, ‘Mother of God, help me, I don’t want to die! Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler, I’ll do anything they want me to, but let me live, please let me live!’

  He lashed out with arms and legs and succeeded in throwing one of his guards to the floor. The other two closed in on him and he screamed penetratingly as he struggled.

  ‘I’m a good National Socialist! I was in the Hitler Youth! Heil Hitler, Heil Hitler, oh, God, help me!’

  He disappeared beneath three heavy bodies. There was the unpleasant sound of a head being thumped against the stone floor, and when the guards picked themselves up and continued on their way through the tunnel they were dragging an unconscious Gefreiter behind them.

  Lt. Ohlsen hesitated a moment and turned to watch.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ One of his own guards jabbed him in the back, pushing him forward. ‘The court’s not going to wait all day, you know.’

  Lt. Ohlsen shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Getting squeamish?’ jeered the guard.

  ‘Call it that if you like . . . but that was a child they were dragging along by his hair just now.’

  ‘So what? He was old enough to know what he was doing, wa
sn’t he? They let one off, they got to let them all off, and before you knew it the whole bleeding Army’d be up and away.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Ohlsen turned to look gravely at one of the men. ‘Do you have any children of your own, Oberfeldwebel?’

  ‘Sure I got children of my own. I got four of ’em. Three’s in the Hitler Youth and one’s at the front SS regiment – Das Reich.’

  ‘I wonder how you’d feel if one day he was dragged out to be shot?’

  The guard laughed.

  ‘That’s not very likely to happen. He’s an SS Untersturmführer. Safe as bleeding houses.’

  ‘Even houses fall down in war time.’

  The man frowned.

  ‘What d’you mean by that remark, then?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘And suppose I don’t like?’

  Lt. Ohlsen shook his head, wearily.

  ‘Please yourself. All I know is, I can’t stand to see them drag kids like that away to the slaughter house.’

  ‘Well, if I was you, mate, I’d save all your pity for yourself, because the way things are going you’re likely to need it.’ He nodded significantly and tapped the holster of his pistol. ‘And no talking once we get in there, eh?’

  Lt. Ohlsen took his place in the courtroom with an air of apparent indifference, and his trial began. Dr. Beckmann, the Prosecutor, turned to him to ask whether or not he intended to plead guilty to the charges brought against him.

  Lt. Ohlsen stared down at the floor. It was polished to a high gloss and he experimentally slid a foot across it to test whether it was slippery.

  Slowly he raised his head and looked across at the three judges behind their horseshoe table. Two of them seemed to be asleep. The President, enthroned on his big red chair, was lost in contemplation of a fly buzzing round the lamp. Admittedly it was no ordinary common or garden house fly. It was a cleg, or gadfly. A blood-sucking fly. Not very pretty to look upon, but doubtless very interesting from an entomologist’s point of view.

  Lt. Ohlsen drew his gaze away from the gadfly and turned slowly towards the Prosecutor.

  ‘Herr Oberkriegsgerichtsrat,’ he began, respectfully, ‘since I’ve already signed a full confession for the Secret Police, your question is surely superfluous?’

  Dr. Beckmann pinched his thin lips together in a sarcastic smile. He stroked a blue-veined hand caressingly over his pile of documents.

  ‘Perhaps the prisoner will be so kind as to leave it to the court to decide whether or not a question is superfluous?’

  ‘Oh, by all means,’ agreed Ohlsen, with a slight lift of the shoulders.

  ‘Very well, then. Let us leave aside for the moment the crimes of which you are accused in the indictment.’ The little doctor turned and addressed the judges in a loud high-pitched voice. ‘In the name of the Führer and of the German people, I beg leave to add to the list of crimes of which the prisoner is accused those of desertion and cowardice and in the face of the enemy!’

  The two sleeping judges opened their eyes and looked round guiltily, dimly aware that they had missed something. The President gave up his contemplation of the gadfly. Lt. Ohlsen sprang forward.

  ‘That’s a lie! I’ve never been guilty of either!’

  Dr. Beckman picked up a sheet of paper and smiled slyly into it, sucking in his cheeks and making them more hollow than ever. This was the type of combat in which he excelled: a quick barb, a surprise attack, a well-placed arrow.

  ‘I’ve never in my life even thought about desertion!’ shouted Ohlsen.

  Dr. Beckmann inclined his head.

  ‘Let us study the matter together. That is, after all, what we are here for, is it not? We are here to prove either your innocence or your guilt. If, of course, you are able to prove the accusation to be false, then you will be allowed to walk out of here a free man.’

  ‘Free?’ murmured Ohlsen, raising a cynical eyebrow.

  What is a free man? Had there ever been such a person, in his lifetime, in Germany? Certainly there was none now, in the Third Reich. From new-born babies to old men on their death beds, Germany was a nation of prisoners.

  ‘Naturally,’ went on Dr. Beckmann, leaning menacingly across his table, ‘if you are proven guilty your fate will be very different.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Ohlsen.

  The President nodded his head in approval. Dr. Beckmann turned back to the judges.

  ‘With the court’s permission, we will disregard the aocusations contained in the original indictment in order to concentrate on the fresh charges that I have brought. These charges were made possible only this morning, when I received certain documents—’ He held up a bulky bundle – ‘from the Secret Police Special Service. The facts contained therein are quite clear, and if I may be allowed to question the prisoner for a few moments I believe I shall be able to convince the court that there is no necessity for a preliminary investigation.’

  The President nodded again.

  ‘Very well. The court gives its permission. We shall disregard the charges in the indictment and you may proceed to question the prisoner.’

  Dr. Beckmann made a servile inclination and swung round to Lt. Ohlsen.

  ‘On 2nd February, 1942 you were the officer commanding the 5th Company, 27th Tank Regiment? Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you please tell the court where you were then fighting?’

  ‘I will if I can remember.’ Ohlsen stared ahead, frowning, at the enormous photograph of Hitler behind the President’s chair. Not a very inspiring sight. ‘It was probably somewhere near the Dnieper,’ he said, at last. ‘But I couldn’t swear to it. I’ve fought in so many places . . .’

  Dr. Beckmann tapped a thin finger on the table.

  ‘Somewhere near the Dnieper. That in fact is correct. Your division had been sent to the Wjasma Rshew area. You had received orders to take up a position with your Company near Olenin, to the west of Rshew. Are you able to remember?’

  ‘Yes. The division was on the point of being surrounded. The 19th and 20th Russian Cavalry Divisions had outflanked us on the south, and more of them were coming up on the north.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ said Dr. Beckmann, crisply. ‘The court is not in the least interested in hearing of the activities of the Russians. And as for your Division being surrounded—’ He looked up at the gallery, full of high-ranking and powerful officers – ‘since the Division is still in existence this seems to me a highly unlikely story.’

  A loud murmur was borne down from the gallery. It was, of course, accepted teaching that no German armoured division could ever be surrounded by the troops of an inferior nation such as the Russians. Doubt was therefore at once cast upon the veracity of Lt. Ohlsen’s version of the facts. Dr. Beckmann smiled upwards to his audience.

  ‘Tell me, Lieutenant, are you able to recall that period of the war with any clarity?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  ‘Good. Let us see if we agree with each other . . . You had received an order, verbally, from your commanding officer Colonel von Lindenau, to occupy a position near Olenin because the enemy had at one point broken through and there was now a gap in the defences. That gap, to be precise, was along the railway line two kilometres to the east of Olenin—’

  ‘Which railway line?’ asked one of the judges.

  It was not of the least importance and he had no interest whatsoever in the answer, but it created a favourable impression if one asked a question every now and again.

  ‘Which railway line?’ repeated Dr. Beckmann, for once at a loss.

  He tore furiously through his papers, muttering, ‘Which railway line’, to himself in tones of disgust and impatience.

  Lt. Ohlsen watched him a while.

  ‘Actually, it was the Rshew-Nelidowo line,’ he said, helpfully.

  Dr. Beckmann turned with an irritable gesture.

  ‘The prisoner must speak only when he is spoken to!’ he snapped. He look
ed towards the judges and bowed. ‘It was the Rschew-Nelidowo line,’ he told them, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘A branch line merely.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Lt. Ohlsen, ‘but in point of fact it was the main line from Moscow to Riva.’

  A suspicion of colour entered the Doctor’s pale pinched cheeks.

  ‘I have already explained to the prisoner,’ he said, ‘that he must speak only when spoken to.’

  Lt. Ohlsen pulled a face.

  ‘Just as you wish, but I thought we should have the facts right’

  ‘We do have the facts right! The line in question may have seemed of large importance to you, but in our eyes it is totally insignificant.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ persisted Ohlsen, ‘it’s a pretty outstanding branch line that has two tracks and runs for about 1,000 kilometres.’

  ‘We are not interested in how far it runs nor in how many tracks it has,’ replied the Doctor, tapping on his documents. ‘If I say it is a branch line, then rest assured that that is what it is. You’re in Germany now, you know; not in some Soviet bog. And here in Germany we have very different standards from those obtaining in Russia . . . But let us pass over this wretchedly unimportant railway line and return to the facts! You received an order from your commanding officer to take up your position to the east of Olenin, and you were told that nothing –I repeat NOTHING, neither God nor the devil nor the entire Red Army – was to shift you from that point. You were to dig yourselves in there and make sure of your position both in front and on both flanks. Is that correct?’

  Ohlsen hunched his shoulders and muttered some words too low to be heard.

  ‘Yes or no!’ cried Dr. Beckmann. ‘Will the prisoner please answer!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ohlsen.

  Dr. Beckmann smiled triumphantly.

  ‘Very well. So having established agreement on the orders you received, we may now go on with the tale in order to give the court an example of your extraordinary cowardice and failure to do your duty . . . Your company was fighting as infantry, but it was by no means an ordinary company that you commanded. It was a company which had been very much reinforced – you may correct me if I am wrong. Obeying written instructions, a section of tanks fitted with anti-tank guns had been sent to you, and also a section of sappers armed with both light and heavy flame-throwers. Perhaps you would care to tell the court in your own words what the exact strength of your company was at that time?’