Assignment Gestapo

by Sven Hassel

  ‘You do,’ agreed Porta, solemnly. ‘That’s a very lovely idea. I like it. It takes a big-hearted bloke like you to think of it . . . Matter of fact, I’m not at all sure the whole Company doesn’t owe it to her . . .’

  Together they finished off the schnaps and threw the bottle overboard. Porta laid out his hand with a flourish across the Feldwebel’s backside.

  ‘Full house,’he said, simply.

  It was late when they arrived back at the barracks, so they parked the truck and left the body in the back. It was there for almost a week before anyone remarked upon it.

  A couple of days later, shortly after the Regiment had received orders to prepare for departure, a small detachment of new troops was marched across the courtyard. A group of us were standing by the windows, watching them, and quite suddenly the Old Man turned and shouted to the Legionnaire.

  ‘Hey, Alfred! Come and have a look at this!’

  The Legionnaire pushed his way to the front of the group and stared in the direction of the Old Man’s pointing finger.

  ‘Well, by all that’s wonderful!’ He laughed and punched the Old Man joyously in the ribs. ‘If it isn’t our old friend the Stabsfeldwebel! Let’s say hallo to him.’

  They opened the window and hung out, waving and shouting. Stabsfeldwebel Stahlschmidt looked up. He evidently recognized them at once, because even from that distance I could see him turn pale. The man marching at his side was Obergefreiter Stever. He took one quick look and turned away again with eyes full of dread. He was a man who has lived to see his nightmares come true.

  Porta stuck his head out of the window, between the Legionnaire and the Old Man, and gave a shout of derisive welcome.

  ‘You just made it! We’re pulling out of here soon . . . another couple of days and you might have missed the train!’

  The column marched on. In the centre was a man with a trumpet. On the green collar of his tunic could still be made out the marks of the black SS badge which had been ripped off. He looked up as he passed the window, and his eyes rested with brief hope on Porta and then turned downwards again.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I said. ‘A friend of yours?’

  Porta smiled.

  ‘Just a business acquaintance,’ he murmured.

  Hauptfeldwebel Edel treated the newcomers to his usual warm welcome with a speech full of threats, full of abuse and hatred and withering scorn.

  ‘Anyone will tell you,’ he roared, ‘that to them as I like I’m as mild as a bleeding lamb and as sweet as sugar . . . Unfortunately, there aren’t that many people I like . . .’

  The new troops were left in no doubt as to his feeling towards them. He put them on ablutions for the rest of the week, with a warning that if the lavatory pans were not polished to a high gloss at least twice a day he would see to it personally that someone suffered for it.

  Colonel Hinka strolled up as Edel came to the end of his introductory speech. He smiled benevolently all round, and for a moment the hearts of the new men lightened.

  Edel swung round, clicked his heels together and smartly saluted.

  ‘Sir!’ Hauptfeldwebel Edel, sir, 5th Company, with twenty new recruits.’

  Hinka cast his eye over them and laughed softly to himself. There seemed, on the face of it, no very good reason for him to laugh, and the twenty new recruits found their hearts automatically sinking again. Colonel Hinka raised his head and looked across at the members of the 5th Company who were hanging from the windows enjoying the scene. He smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Hauptfeldwebel. Get them warmed up a bit, will you? Make them feel at home . . . I think we’ll put—’ He looked again at the windows, and his smile broadened – ‘I think we’ll put Kalb in charge of them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Edel turned in search of the Legionnaire, but he had already left the room and was at the door. He walked across to the Colonel and they exchanged salutes.

  ‘Twenty new recruits . . . we’ll need to make them feel at home, get them used to our ways and so on . . . haven’t got much time, but do the best you can . . . think you’ll be able to manage it?’

  The Legionnaire ran his eyes calculatingly over the twenty anxiety-ridden men.

  ‘No doubt about it, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Let us just introduce ourselves and then I’ll leave them in your hands.’

  Slowly, graciously, the Colonel moved through the ranks of the new troops. He was followed officiously by the Hauptfeldwebel, smoothly and silently by the Legionnaire. Hinka paused before Stahlschmidt.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Stalschmidt, sir. Stabsfeldwebel—’

  Hinka glanced through the papers he was holding.

  ‘You’re from the garrison prison? Never been to the front before . . .’

  ‘No, sir, I couldn’t, I—’

  The Colonel held up a hand and silenced him.

  ‘Don’t bother yourself with excuses, they’re no longer necessary. It won’t be so very many hours now before you see some fighting. I’m afraid your palmy days are over, the time has come for you to make a real contribution to the war effort. We shall see how you take to it.’ He looked back at the papers and frowned. ‘So . . . The reason you were sent to us was that you were found guilty of ill-treating the prisoners in your charge?’

  ‘They’ve got it all wrong, sir.’ Stahlschmidt spoke in a hoarse undertone, very much aware of the little Legionnaire lurking like a beast of prey in the background. ‘It’s all a mistake, sir, I never did anything like that, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t be capable of it—’

  ‘That’s all right, Stabsfeldwebel. You don’t have to explain. Everyone who is ever sent to us claims to be here by mistake. It’s quite the accepted thing, I assure you.’

  The Colonel passed on. Edel passed on. The Legionnaire stood a moment, staring up coldly at Stahlschmidt. At last, rubbing a finger thoughtfully up and down the scar on his face, he gave a slow smile and walked on without a word.

  Hinka had now paused in front of Stever.

  ‘Another from the prison? They must have been having quite a purge down there.’

  Stever gave a sickly smile.

  ‘It was all very unfortunate, sir . . .’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’

  The Colonel nodded and passed on. Edel passed on. The Legionnaire paused.

  ‘Go and find Obergefreiter Porta. Tell him I sent you. He’ll know what to do with you. I’ve already had a word with him. He knows all about you.’

  Stever was too terrified to move. He stood staring at the Legionnaire, mesmerized by the long, livid scar, by the deep-set eyes, by the firm, hard mouth.

  ‘Well?’ The Legionnaire raised an eyebrow. ‘I gave you an order. I suggest you carry it out.’

  He moved on in the Colonel’s wake, not troubling to look back and check that Stever left the ranks.

  Hinka had stopped now before the ex-SS driver. He gestured towards the trumpet.

  ‘You play that thing, do you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I used to be a bugler in a cavalry regiment, sir. SS Florian Geyer.’

  ‘Did you, indeed? And what brings you to the front line with us?’

  Kleber swallowed painfully and dropped his eyes.

  ‘Theft, sir . . . and dealings on the black market.’

  ‘What did you steal?’

  Kleber grew hot and flushed.

  ‘Er – potatoes, sir. Potatoes and sugar.’

  ‘Potatoes and sugar . . . Rather stupid of you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hm. Well – it’ll do you good to see some fighting. Take your mind off food, perhaps.’

  One by one the newcomers were scrutinized. Each of them eyed the Colonel with awe, Edel with apprehension, and the Legionnaire with something approaching naked terror. At last the Colonel saluted and turned away, followed by Hauptfeldwebel Edel, and they were left alone with the Legionnaire.

  He at once tipped his kepi over his left eye (in his imagination, it was still
the white kepi of the Foreign Legion) and stuck an illicit cigarette in his mouth. He lit it and spoke without taking it from his lips.

  ‘Listen to me, you load of lousy bastards. You’re new here and you don’t know the ropes, but there’s one person I advise you not to cross – and that’s me. I’ve served with the French Foreign Legion. I’ve done three years with a special battalion, at Torgau. And now I’m here, and so are you, and all I can say is God help the lot of you!’

  The Old Man watched from the window as the Legionnaire marched his little band of unfortunates away in the direction of the furthest and most secluded exercise yard, where he could do with them as he wished. The Old Man grunted.

  ‘Well, that’ll keep him happy for a bit . . . This is something in the nature of a personal revenge, as far as he’s concerned. The Legionnaire doesn’t forgive in a hurry . . .’

  He worked hard with his new recruits. For over three hours he kept them at it, running barefoot up and down the hard stone of the courtyard, out into the mud, crawling on their hands and knees, half drowning in the thick, glutinous earth, jumping over the ditch, back into the mud all those who failed to make it, mud up to their ears, mud in their eyes, mud in their mouths. And the Legionnaire working as hard as any of them, encouraging them with oaths in French and German, sweating as he ran up and down behind them, the eternal cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Don’t think I’ve got anything against you!’ he yelled at them. ‘Far from it, I’m only doing my duty, I’m only thinking of your own good . . . a few weeks with me and you’ll be able to stand up to any amount of this sort of thing! Down on your knees, that man over there . . . down, I said, DOWN! Never mind the blasted mud! Swallow the stuff, eat the stuff, what’s it matter? Get through it first and worry about breathing afterwards!’

  Colonel Hinka was standing nearby, leaning wearily against a Tiger and watching as the Legionnaire put his men through their paces. Alfred Kalb had come through a harsh school – starvation, the Legion, Torgau, the 27th Tank Regiment – he had fought the war on many fronts and he had survived. A man had to be tough to survive. The Colonel laughed and shook his head. He did not envy the sweating, struggling men in the Legionnaire’s capable hands.

  ‘Right, let’s get running again!’

  The Legionnaire seated himself on an upturned packing case. He set them running up and down the courtyard, into the mud, back up the courtyard, back into the mud. His voice grew hoarse with shouting and he brought out his whistle and taught them how to respond to it.

  ‘One blow – that means you run. Two blows – down on the ground on your bellies. Three blows – jumping with your feet together. Right? Right. Let’s give it a try.’

  They gave it a try for another hour. The men began to wilt, bot the whistle was as fresh as ever.

  ‘O.K., that’ll do.’ The Legionnaire looked them over with a critical eye. ‘God knows how you’ll make out at the front, in that condition. You won’t last five minutes . . . Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. For your own good, mind. I shouldn’t really waste the time on you, but it breaks my heart to see you like this . . . So for your own good and to toughen you up, we’ll have a final hour’s marching . . .’

  The twenty new men were dispersed amongst various barrack rooms round the camp. Stahlschmidt was moved in with us. We gave him a cupboard and he began putting his belongings away. He was silent and sullen and his face was awash in a permanent sea of sweat. He was stretched out on his bed when the Legionnaire came in. The Legionnaire walked straight across to him.

  ‘There’s something I want to say to you, Stahlschmidt. That show I just put on out there, that was entirely for your benefit. And there’ll be more to come . . . The rest of them, I don’t know and don’t care about. It’s you I’m interested in. It’s providence has brought you here to us, and I aim to take every advantage of it’

  Stahlschmidt sat up, still sweating. He gnawed at his Sower lip.

  ‘Listen, Kalb, I know you’ve got it in for me because of what happened to your lieutenant, but it wasn’t my fault they executed him, for God’s sake!’

  ‘It was your fault he’d been kicked around and ill treated and half killed before they even got him up there!’ The Legionnaire pushed Stahlschmidt back against the wall, one hand gripping his throat. ‘Unfortunately we haven’t yet been able to lay hands on the bastard that runs the show. He was clever enough to get you sent here, out of harm’s way, while he still sits smug on his backside twiddling his thumbs in his office . . . I refer to Bielert, in case you hadn’t realized. His turn will come, don’t you worry, but right at this moment it’s your turn, and I’m going to make me best of a bad job and work out my feelings on you . . . If you don’t die at my hands, Stahlschmidt, it’ll be the Russians that get you. Either way you’re going to be put through the hoop until you’re screaming for mercy . . . and there isn’t any mercy at the front, Stahlschmidt.’

  He suddenly crashed the Stabsfeldwebel’s head hard against the wall.

  ‘Stand up when you speak to me! That’s one of the first things you’ve got to learn!’

  Stahlschmidt stood up. The Legionnaire stepped back a pace, looking at him through narrowed eyes, then grunted and walked off to his own bunk. As soon as he was safely out of the way, Stahlschmidt raised a foot and gave a mighty kick of defiance at a nearby pair of boots, then collapsed once again on to his bed. Unfortunately, the boots he had chosen to kick belonged to Tiny, who was sitting up cross-legged on a bunk stuffing a sausage into his mouth.

  As Stahlschmidt’s head met the pillow, Tiny was upon him. With a loud shout of wrath, he grabbed Stahlschmidt by the shoulder, pulled him round to face him and sent a fist crashing into his jaw. A volley of blows was heard, a series of thuds and a scream of protest from Stahlschmidt, who presently rolled off the bed and lay twisting and groaning on the ground at Tiny’s feet. Tiny rolled him over on to his stomach, jumped up and down a few times on his back, then kicked him disdainfully into a heap under the bed. He clambered back into his own bunk and picked up a couple of bottles of beer, which he opened with his teeth and from both of which he began to drink at the same time – a feat of which no one but Tiny was capable. He tossed the empty bottles contemptuously upon the moaning Stahlschmidt, who was painfully pulling himself to his feet. Stahlschmidt promptly collapsed again.

  A new era had begun for the Stabsfeldwebel: an era of hard work and danger, when it was he who received all the blows.

  Late in the night, full of beer and goodwill towards each other, Porta and Rudolph Kleber walked together up the steep, winding path of Landungsbrücke towards the School of Navigation behind the Military Hospital. At the top of the hill was a bench. They sat down side by side and were silent a while, listening to the muted night sounds of the city.

  ‘Well, all right, if you play as well as you say you do,’ remarked Porta, at last, ‘you’ll be O.K. But I’m warning you, old Hinka’s the very devil to please. You got to be really spot on – know what I mean?’

  ‘Let me show you. Just let me show you!’

  Kleber reverently brought out his silver trumpet from its case. He licked his lips a few times, took the instrument up to his mouth and regarded Porta sideways, from the corner of his eyes.

  ‘I was with one of the very best regiments,’ he said. ‘Real pukka, it was. I played at Nuremberg for the grand parade. I played at one of Adolf’s banquets. I played—’

  ‘Sod the boasting, get on with the performance!’ snarled Porta.

  Kleber stood up. He took a deep breath and raised the trumpet to his lips.

  A cavalry fanfare rang out over the dark town.

  Porta sat picking his nose, determinedly unimpressed.

  Kleber followed up with an infantry fanfare. He turned to Porta and spoke impatiently.

  ‘Well, all right, what do you want? What do YOU suggest I play?’

  Porta stifled a yawn.

  ‘Search me . . . Depends what you know, doesn’t
it?’

  ‘I could play you a blues.’

  ‘Couldn’t have that,’ said Porta. ‘Unpatriotic. The blues is a Yank thing. We’d go straight to the nick if anyone heard you.’

  Kleber drew back his lips in a challenging sneer.

  ‘That trouble you?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Porta. ‘But don’t crucify it, that’s all I ask. I’m always meeting people say they can play the blues and haven’t got the least idea.’

  ‘Just listen to me,’ said Kleber. ‘Just shut up and listen.’

  The silvery-brass bray of the trumpet blared deep into the night. Kleber knew well the risk he was running, but he was at heart a musician and the moment was all that mattered. He arched his back, pointing the trumpet up at the sky, up at the stars, and the sound rose wailing into the darkness. Some clouds sailed apart and revealed the moon, and the moon was reflected in the silver trumpet.

  Porta nodded.

  ‘That’s not bad,’ he said. ‘You can give us some more of that.’

  The sound burst exultantly upon the sleeping town. It could not help but call attention to itself. It was not long before a police constable appeared, puffing as he toiled up the hill. Kleber advanced reproachfully upon him, frowning, daring him to interrupt. The policeman stood a while, catching his breath. He held his head on one side, listening to the music.

  ‘Memphis Blues,’ he said. He walked over to Porta. ‘Memphis Blues . . . well, it’s a long time since I heard that.’

  He took off his helmet, wiped a sweating bald head with his handkerchief and sat down on the bench.

  Two girls came wandering up the hill, lured there by the magic of Kleber’s trumpet. Kleber was playing as if his very life were at stake. His audience sat in silence.