Doom Platoon

by Levinson, Len

  “Where are we going?”

  “Keep your mouth closed.”

  Deesing got out of bed and stretched. He was in a good mood because he had survived what he had considered to be certain death. He couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he was leading a charmed life.

  The guard marched him across the clearing, and Deesing sniffed the cold night air, smelling forests and gunpowder. He could hear battles raging in the distance. He thought about his home town of San Francisco, and wished he could be in one of those nice bars on Russian Hill, talking shit with some beautiful bitch.

  He entered the tent, and found himself facing Lieutenant Kruger.

  “Good evening, Private Deesing,” Kruger said.

  “Hi.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you, too,” Deesing replied before he had a chance to think about it.

  Kruger smiled, pleased to have become fluent with another American slang expression. Deesing expected a rifle butt to come down on his head at any moment.

  “Have a seat, Private Deesing,” Kruger said.

  “How come you know my name?”

  “We have already been through the identification papers you carry with you. We know all about you and Sergeant Mazursky.”

  Deesing sat, and Kruger introduced himself, offered a cigarette. Deesing accepted. Kruger proceeded to interrogate Deesing in much the same manner as he’d interrogated Mazursky, and like Mazursky, Deesing divulged only useless information.

  “I’m surprised by how little you know about your unit,” Kruger said chidingly.

  “I’m only a private. I don’t have to know anything.”

  “Your lack of initiative is quite surprising to a German officer. We expect more from our men.”

  “Then how come you’re losing the war?”

  “Losing the war?” Kruger raised his eyebrows. “We are not losing the war!”

  “Oh.”

  “We are winning the war!”

  Deesing nodded and smiled, because he didn’t want to give the appearance of being disagreeable. That might not be too healthy.

  “Right now, in case you’re interested,” Kruger said, his voice under control once more, “we are advancing on all fronts. Soon we’ll split your armies in half, encircle them, and annihilate them.”

  “Well, that’s war,” Deesing said philosophically.

  “Perhaps you don’t believe me?”

  “Sure I believe you. I mean, why shouldn’t I believe you?”

  “Good. I’m glad you’re so reasonable. By the way, what kind of name is Deesing?”

  “My father was Welsh, and my mother was German.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  Kruger smiled and removed his monocle. “Well, that makes you half German.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You’re an Aryan.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Congratulations.’’

  “Thank you.”

  “Why did your mother go to America.”

  “She was born in America. It was her grandfather who emigrated. Nobody knows why.”

  “It’s too bad he did. You’d be on the winning side now.”

  “Well, that’s life.”

  “Do you speak German?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What a shame.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s too bad you are forced to congregate with Sergeant Mazursky. He is a Pole, and they are an inferior people.”

  Deesing didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t consider Mazursky so inferior.

  “You don’t think so?” Kruger asked.

  “Oh yes. Certainly.”

  “Good. I’m glad that you still think like a German despite your pollution by American life.” Kruger looked at the guard. “Take him away.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Kruger looked at Deesing as the latter stood up. “Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The German soldier marched Deesing back to the tent, where Mazursky was snoring loudly. Deesing got into bed and thought about his empty stomach. He was very hungry, but had been afraid to ask Kruger for food because he’d wanted to get away from him. It was always best to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Never volunteer for anything.

  But that wasn’t doing his stomach any good. Deesing had been something of a gourmet in civilian life. He’d eaten at fancy restaurants whenever he could afford it, and at home he’d prepared elaborate meals for the girls he hoped to seduce. Finally he fell asleep.

  In the morning, Mazursky, Deesing, and some other prisoners were loaded onto a truck and driven away. They hadn’t had any breakfast. As the sun broke on the horizon Mazursky calculated that they were moving in a northeasterly direction, deeper into Germany. They passed German villages and farmlands, crossed the Rhine, and stayed on country roads. Around noon the truck turned a bend and straight ahead was a large barbed wire camp on a plain surrounded by mountains.

  The truck drove to the gate of the camp, and the prisoners were ordered by armed guards to get down. Then they were marched inside. There were rows of barracks on one side, an exercise yard, and behind a barbed wire fence, a number of administration buildings. Mazursky noticed that all the Germans in here wore the black uniforms of the SS, and a chill went up his back. He and the other prisoners were marched to the center of the yard, where a group of prisoners were already standing in ranks at attention. Mazursky’s group was lined up next to the others and ordered to stand at attention.

  One of the Army guards, a short husky man, addressed them. “This is the prisoner of war camp called Schwanditz. You will stand here at attention until you are dismissed. If any man leaves the formation he will be shot. That is all.”

  The guard marched to the administration section, an SS guard opened the gate, and he went into one of the buildings. A short while later the Army guard came out and left the camp with those soldiers who’d accompanied him in.

  Mazursky watched them go ruefully, because he’d rather be in the hands of the German army than the SS. He was hungry and he had a headache from his wound. The exercise yard was covered with tromped down snow and slicks of ice. He figured the temperature must be around 20 degrees, and his feet hurt from the cold. He wondered how long they’d have to stand there.

  Time passed, and his legs and back ached. Some of the prisoners who were more seriously wounded collapsed onto the snow. Nobody dared pick them up. Throughout the afternoon more trucks arrived with more prisoners. By late afternoon there were several hundred prisoners in the formation. SS guards with clubs and submachine guns circled around them like jackals. None of the prisoners had eaten that day.

  Near sundown, four SS officers were seen leaving a building in the administrative area, accompanied by eight guards. The SS officers came to a stop before the group of prisoners, looked them over, laughed and joked. Finally one of them, a colonel, stepped forward, his hands on his hips. He wore shiny black boots, and on his visored cap was the death’s head insignia of the SS.

  “Good afternoon, prisoners,” he said in a thick German accent. “I am Colonel Weber, the commandant of this camp. You are my prisoners. You are here because our counteroffensive in the west has changed the face of the war. The Allied armies are in rout before the might of the Reich. Those of you who could not run away fast enough are dead or in confinement. You did not prove to be very good soldiers, but that need not concern us here. You will sleep in those barracks behind you. You will be fed twice a day. You will do whatever work we tell you to do. If you give us any problems, we will kill you. If you try to escape, we will kill you. Anyone who strikes a guard will be killed. That is all. You may go to the barracks.”

  The SS men returned to their compound, and the prisoners broke formation and crossed the yard toward the barracks. Mazursky walked beside Dee sing. Both had their hands in their pockets and their heads down. They felt disoriented and demoralized.

  “Gee,
what a fucking place,” Deesing said.

  “I’m damn near starved to death.”

  “Me too.”

  “We’ve got to get the hell out of here somehow.”

  “How?”

  “There’s got to be a way.”

  They entered one of the barracks. It consisted of a small amount of floor space near the door, and a huge number of double bunk beds. The prisoners would be jammed in like sardines on them.

  An American lieutenant in the uniform of the Army Air Corps was sitting on the edge of his bunk as Mazursky and Deesing entered followed by other prisoners. He was a dark-haired man of average build, wearing a brown leather jacket and his visored flight cap. “Welcome to the fun house,” he said sardonically. “I’m Lieutenant Wells.”

  Mazursky and Deesing introduced themselves, as did most of the others. The newcomers were mostly soldiers, and the prisoners already in the barracks were a mixture of Air Corps and ground troops, but mostly Air Corps.

  “When do we eat,” Mazursky asked.

  “Oh, in a little while,” Wells replied. “I can tell you what’s on the menu already: bread and soup. It’s the same every night. In the morning it’s bread and hot water that’s been flavored with chicory, and they mix sawdust with the flour, so be careful you don’t get any splinters in your gums.”

  The newcomers crowded around the old-timers who were with Wells.

  “How long you been here?” one of them asked Wells.

  “Six months. I was in a bomber that was shot down near Frankfurt.”

  Mazursky walked away from the group and found himself a bunk on the other side of the room. Deesing followed him. Mazursky didn’t look very happy.

  “What’s wrong?” Deesing asked.

  “There’s something fishy going on here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Wells. If he’s been here six months on nothing except soup and bread with sawdust in it, he’s looking awfully healthy.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “He’s probably a spy.”

  “Maybe we should kill him.”

  “What good would that do? They’d just send in another spy. The way things stand, I don’t know how many of these are spies and how many aren’t. The only people I’m completely sure about is me and you. We’ve got to get the fuck out of here, Deesing.”

  “I’m for that.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll reconnoiter the area. There’s got to be a weak spot.”

  The door to the barracks opened and two prisoners came in, carrying a cauldron of soup. Behind them was a prisoner carrying a huge basket of bread. They set down the food near the opening of the door.

  “On every bunk there’s a bowl and a spoon,” one of them said. “Don’t lose them, because you won’t get anymore. All right, everybody line up and chow down!”

  The men formed a twisting line and passed in front of the prisoners with the food. As Mazursky neared the head of the line he was given a chunk of brown bread, and some soup that looked like muddy water. He and Deesing moved to their bunks and dined.

  “The fucking soup tastes like dishwater,” Mazursky said.

  “The bread is horrible.”

  “My boy, we’re not going to last long on this.”

  “Like you said, tomorrow we’ll have a look around.”

  “Yeah.”

  After the meal, the prisoners with the cauldron and basket returned to the mess, while the others licked their bowls and spoons clean.

  Suddenly the front door of the barracks burst open and three guards marched in. They carried clubs and submachine guns.

  “Hello American soldiers,” said a big burly one with a scar on his cheek. “I am your guard and my name is Corporal Blomberg. Soon we will put the lights out, and you will go to sleep. No one is permitted outside after the lights go out. If any of you are found outside, you will be shot. Understand?”

  “What if we have to go to the bathroom?” one of the prisoners asked.

  “You must go before the lights go out.”

  “What time do the lights go out?”

  “In two hours. You will be awakened early in the morning by the sound of a whistle. There will be a formation in front of the barracks. Then there will be breakfast. Then you will be marched to work. You are not here on vacation, you know. That is all. Have a nice sleep, and watch out for the bedbugs.” He laughed, and left with his companions.

  The men meandered out the latrine, which was a stinking hole in the ground with a roof over it, and returned to the barracks to sit around the little coal stove from which a slight bit of heat emanated.

  Wells was being very friendly, slapping other prisoners on their backs and telling jokes to cheer them up. He sat next to one of the prisoners, who was no more than eighteen years old.

  “Hiya feller,” Wells said.

  “Hello Lieutenant,” the soldier replied, uneasy in the presence of an officer.

  Well noticed the discomfort. “Relax. Take it easy. We’re all in this mess together, right?”

  “I guess so, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “O’Grady.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  “No kidding? I was in Philadelphia once on business. Nice town.”

  “I sure wish I was there now.”

  “I don’t blame you. What outfit were you with, anyway?”

  “Third Armored Division.”

  “A tanker, huh?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You were actually in a tank crew?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What was your job?”

  “I was a gunner, sir.”

  “Where were you captured?”

  “Near Ermsdorf, sir.”

  “What regiment were you in?”

  “The eightieth.”

  “Where were you headed when you were captured?”

  “We were on our way to . .

  Mazursky who happened to be a few feet away, smacked the private on the shoulder and smiled, interrupting him. “Hey soldier, you know better than that.”

  “Huh?” the private asked, surprised.

  “I said you know better than that.”

  “Better than what?”

  “You shouldn’t be talking about things like that. Why, the Germans might be right outside the door listening. You shouldn’t give out information that might be useful to the enemy in a place where the enemy might overhear you.” Mazursky turned his big brown eyes on Lieutenant Wells. “I’m surprised at you, sir, asking the boy questions like that.”

  Wells looked a little nervous. “I didn’t think there was any harm in it.”

  “Locations of military units and their probable direction might be useful to the enemy, don’t you think so?”

  “Perhaps you’re right, sergeant.”

  Mazursky stood up and raised his voice. “All you men be careful of what you say around here! Don’t say anything that might be of use to the enemy! A loose tongue might mean that some of your buddies might die!”

  Somebody laughed. “Aw, come on, Sarge. We don’t need any chickenshit here.”

  Mazursky looked in the direction of the voice. It was a light-haired corporal with the insignia of the Second Division on his shoulder. He was a little taller and broader than Mazursky, and Mazursky wondered if he was a spy too.

  “We’re all still in the Army,” Mazursky said. “We have to be careful of giving information to the enemy.”

  “Shit, Sarge. Nobody’s listening.”

  “You never know.” Mazursky didn’t like to call attention to himself this way, but somebody had to step forward and take charge.

  “I bet if we went outside right now, nobody would be listening.”

  “They might have a hidden microphone someplace, or worse than that, somebody in here might be a planted spy.”

  “Huh?” the corporal said not very convincingly, and in that moment Mazursky figured he was a spy.
>
  “I said anybody here might be a spy. None of us knows anybody else. It could happen.”

  The corporal stood up. “I think you’re full of shit, Sarge.”

  “I think you’d better respect these three stripes on my sleeve, soldier. We’re all still in the Army.”

  “Fuck you, Sarge.” The corporal smiled like a wise guy.

  “If we ever get out of this, asshole, you’re going to find yourself before a court martial for insubordination.”

  “Who are calling an asshole?”

  “You.”

  “You can’t talk to me that way!”

  “I just did, asshole.”

  The corporal looked around excitedly. “I’m sick of taking shit from you goddamn sergeants. We’re all prisoners now, and rank doesn’t mean anything as far as I’m concerned. Another word out of you, and I’m going to go over there and kick your ass.”

  “You and who else?”

  “Me and me alone.”

  “Anytime you feel froggy, go ahead and jump.”

  The Corporal stormed across the floor, his fists in the air. Mazursky raised his own fists and came out at him, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet. Mazursky had been a regimental boxer and won a few championships. They met in the middle of the floor. Mazursky bobbed and weaved, wanting the corporal to throw the first punch so he’d have the excuse to kick his ass.

  The corporal threw a left jab, and Mazursky ducked under it easily. When he came up, he threw a hard punch at the corporal’s stomach. The corporal doubled over, clutching his gut, and Mazursky hooked him hard twice, shot an uppercut that straightened him up, and then threw a haymaker that sent the corporal flying across the floor. Mazursky went after him like a wild man, and pummeled the corporal to the floor. The corporal lay bleeding from his mouth and nose.

  Mazursky stood over him, his fists at his side. “Is there anybody else who thinks he can kick the ass of a sergeant?”

  Nobody answered.

  “Anybody know this asshole corporal?”

  Most of the men shook their heads. Nobody stepped forward.

  Mazursky shrugged his shoulders and walked toward his bunks. “Then I guess the fucker is going to have to lay there.”

  Deesing slapped his on the shoulder. “Nice going, Sarge!”

  Mazursky grunted, because he didn’t think the going was so nice. If that corporal was really a spy, there’d probably be trouble tomorrow. Mazursky wished the fight hadn’t been necessary, but somebody had to stop the loose talk.