Court Martial

by Sven Hassel

  We go over them quickly and take what is usable. A few are still alive. The forest runner looks after them. With a wicked grin of hate he places the muzzle of his weapon between their eyes and fires. Their skulls break up like eggshells. They are Siberian troops and have plenty of fine-cut machorka in their pockets. Smoke soon scents the air around us. Their water-bottles are filled with vodka.

  Porta guesses they have just been issued their weekly ration. We discover it to be Thursday, Ivan’s vodka day. Perhaps they were half-drunk when they got here. It could explain the absence of scouts and the way they went headlong to meet their deaths.

  They have photographs of their families in their wallets. We sit on the bodies, soon frozen stiff, and discuss the photographs. The ones we don’t like we flip away on the arctic wind, but the young sweethearts and wives we keep. We cut the men away. They only disturb our fantasies about the women.

  Shortly after midnight all hell breaks loose. Automatic weapons spit death from every angle. In long snow-capes and on short skis they come rushing at us. Even their faces are covered by white snow-masks. It is like being attacked by an army of ghosts. As suddenly as it started it is over. In many places the snow is blotched red with Finnish and German blood. Wounded men babble heart-rendingly, but we are too worn out to bring them in, and it is not long before the icy cold puts an end to them. Death comes quickly north of the Arctic Circle.

  The battle group is shrinking. Far more than half the number are the wounded we are dragging along with us. Our strength ebbs away hour by hour. We begin to drop the wounded and let them lie. They only hold us back. The spirit of comradeship of which we sing is not worth much to a dying battle-group in the Arctic.

  Many put an end to their lives with a bullet.

  The Oberst bends over his adjutant, a young Leutnant, lying in the snow. Both his eyes have been blasted by explosives. He closes the lids of the dead man’s eyes and walks silently, his face impassive, along the rows of groaning soldiers.

  Sanitältsgefreiter Krone, the former chaplain, kneels by the side of Leutnant Kraus. In a clear voice he prays to God for mercy.

  The Oberst stops for a moment and looks at Leutnant Kraus, whose skin is already the parchment colour of death. His teeth seem to project strangely from between his purple lips, which are pulled back in a canine snarl. The hero’s death is not a particularly beautiful one, thinks the Oberst, bitterly. It hardly resembles the fantasies of the war-correspondents.

  Shortly after, he collects the officers of the battle-group around him. They arrive one by one. Leutnant Linz from No. 1 Company, Hauptmann Bernstein from No. 2, Leutnant Paulus from No. 3, Oberleutnant Wisling from No. 4, Major Pihl from No. 5, Leutnant Hansen from No. 6. Last to arrive is Leutnant Schultz.

  ‘Let us sit down, gentlemen,’ says the Oberst, with a gloomy expression. He throws a brief glance at their faces. He knows which of them he can count on, and which of them would prefer to spit in his face. ‘Gentlemen,’ he begins, tiredly, ‘I have ordered you to come here to discuss the future of this group. I can, of course, order whatever I feel to be the proper action. That is why I am in command, and you must obey my orders. Protests are considered as mutiny and in the situation we find ourselves that means a drumhead court martial and immediate execution. This is the case, not only in our own army, but in all others.’

  He pauses, blows away some snow from the lock of his Mpi, and listens for a moment to the muffled groans coming from the igloo in which the wounded have been placed.

  ‘In my opinion, our situation is completely hopeless. Our ammunition is about to run out. So is our strength. Over half of the group’s personnel are wounded. If we continue as we have been doing, we shall all soon be dead. Under these circumstances I do not wish to give my next order until I have discussed our situation with you, but you must understand that whatever your opinions may be, the final decision is still mine. I am not attempting to cover myself.

  ‘I know what my responsibilities are, and I am thinking, first and foremost, of the wounded, who are suffering most terrible pain. Many of them have gangrene, and we have no drugs, no bandages, nothing at all with which to help them. It is very doubtful that we will be able to get through to our own forces. The scouting party which has just returned to us has informed me that there are large bodies of Siberian infantry in front of us. We must also reckon on the presence of an armoured sledge battalion. If we split the battle group into three there is a small possibility of our being able to fight our way through.’ He pauses again, and smashes the butt of his Mpi into the snow. ‘But without the wounded, it must be understood!’

  An angry murmur goes up from the assembled officers.

  ‘Leave the wounded, by God?’ shouts Leutnant Schultz, the youngest of them, who has been steeped in the ethic of heroism.

  ‘I am speaking, Leutnant Schultz!’ snarls the Oberst, rebuffing him angrily. ‘You may have your say when I have finished. We can also stay here, extend our igloos to build up a hedgehog position, and hope that our own forces will come to get us. But that I feel to be a vain hope. My personal opinion is that HQ have long since written us off.’

  ‘What about an SS-regiment?’ asks Leutnant Schultz, childishly hopeful.

  ‘If you are in touch with the Commanding General, Herr Leutnant, you may suggest your idea to him,’ sneers the Oberst. ‘Perhaps you would inform him at the same time where he can find an SS-regiment!’

  ‘SS-Gebirgsdivision-Nord is in Finland,’ says Leutnant Schultz, triumphantly.

  ‘True, but they don’t know where we are,’ snarls the Oberst, irritably, ‘and even if they did know they would not come to fetch us! We are in a catastrophic situation. The Finnish soldiers seconded to us have disappeared in the course of the night. They know that their only chance is to fight their way through in small groups.’

  ‘That’s desertion,’ screams Leutnant Schultz, furiously.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ smiles the Oberst, condescendingly. ‘The Finns are not under German command. None of them have taken the oath of loyalty to the Führer. Ten kilometres east of us there is a Siberian ski-battalion. It is a heavily over-strength battalion and it will very soon attack and destroy us.’ He polishes his monocle, thoughtfully, with a snow-white handkerchief. ‘I suggest to you that we leave the wounded here with a few volunteers to look after them. This may sound unfeeling, even brutal, but is the only chance for the remainder of the group. To stay here and fight would be suicide. And as soon as the fighting was over the wounded would be shot out of hand. Wounded men are always troublesome and particularly enemy wounded. If we leave the wounded here with an unteroffizier, who has orders to make contact with the Russians as soon as the battle group has departed, there is a possibility that the Russian commander will not order them to be executed in cold blood.’ He sits down heavily on the snow, and points at Leutnant Schultz whose frost-bitten face is now a coppery-red. ‘Now it is your turn, Herr Leutnant. I shall be pleased if you have a better plan to suggest!’

  White-hot with stifled rage the young officer gets to his feet and stares at the Oberst with contempt and hate in his eyes.

  ‘What you suggest is the filthiest thing I’ve heard of in my life,’ he says, harshly. ‘To leave our wounded comrades to the mercy of the Bolsheviks is not only treason, but deliberate murder. You talk all the time of saving the group, getting through, as if that means something. Fighting is what means something! Fighting as our German forefathers fought. Most of us will be dead before the Final Victory, but that is unimportant. As long as some of the best live to see it. The cost of that victory will be the greatest price ever demanded of a Fatherland, but a thousand years from now they will look up to those of us who have paid it. You call yourself a German officer. I call you a cowardly wretch. Until this minute I have regarded you as an honourable German soldier who did his duty, respected his oath to the Führer and knew what that oath entailed. I see now that I have been bitterly in error. But I swear to you that as long as I can lif
t a weapon, your filthy suggestion will not be carried out. If it is it will be over my dead body. I promise you, too, that I shall see to it that you answer to a court martial, if we get back.’

  ‘Are you finished?’ asks the Oberst, matter-of-factly. He turns to the No. 2 Company O.C., Hauptmann Bernstein, who remains seated and throws out his arms resignedly.

  ‘Herr Oberst, what am I to say? I await your orders. Whether or not I agree with them is of no importance. I shall carry them out.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asks the Oberst, with a resigned smile.

  ‘It is, sir. I cannot see that there is anything to add.’

  ‘Major Pihl, what is your opinion?’

  The Major stands up. He is a line officer. That is obvious. He bobs up and down, arrogantly, from the knees, as is the habit of Prussian Guards officers.

  ‘Herr Oberst, I do not understand you,’ he trumpets. ‘Have you thought your suggestion through properly? That is, nevertheless, no affair of mine. I agree with Bernstein. You give the orders, we carry them out without discussion.’ Straight-backed, he sits down alongside Hauptmann Bernstein. He lights a cigarette and appears to take no further interest in the proceedings.

  Leutnant Linz from No. 1 Company jumps noisily to his feet, clicks his heels loudly three times and gives the Nazi salute.

  ‘Do you no longer use the Prussian salute, with your hand to your cap?’ asks the Oberst, smiling, ‘or do you think you are with the SS, Herr Leutnant?’

  The tall, thin Leutnant goes red in the face, and kicks shyly at the snow. A lump of it flies into Major Pihl’s lap.

  ‘Leutnant Schultz has already said what I have to say, sir!’ He clicks his heels again three times and this time salutes in the regulation manner. He takes a seat next to Leutnant Schultz as if seeking safety there.

  Leutnant Paulus from No. 3 Company is next. He gets up without unnecessarily theatrical gestures, like the slow-moving Frisian he is. He neither salutes nor clicks his heels.

  ‘Herr Oberst,’ he begins, in his slow deep voice, ‘I have commanded a company of your regiment for fourteen months now. I know you are not what Leutnant Schultz has accused you of being. I believe that you have not arrived at your decision without long and deep consideration. I am not able to decide whether it is right or wrong. I am under your command and await your orders.’ He sits down beside Hauptmann Bernstein, who presses his hand in silence.

  Little Leutnant Hansen from No. 6 doesn’t much want to state his opinion. Inside he agrees with the Oberst, but he has spent seven months in Torgau for a slight offence and if there is anywhere he does not want to see again it is Torgau. He glances at Leutnant Schultz, who is watching him with ice-cold eyes.

  ‘Well, Herr Hansen,’ the Oberst presses on. ‘What is your opinion?’

  ‘Herr Oberst, I do not like your suggestion. The enemy will merely kill all the wounded with a few Mpi bursts, and I’d like to know who’ll volunteer to stay behind with them. You can’t order soldiers to give themselves up. Have you forgotten Lemberg, where they liquidated hundreds of wounded with a shot in the neck and crucified the priests on the doors. You can’t leave comrades to that sort of fate. I must say no to your suggestion, Herr Oberst.’ He sits down again on the snow and avoids Oberst Frick’s eye. He knows his answer was a cowardly evasion, but Torgau looms, like a brutal threat, in his thoughts.

  The last to reply is Oberleutnant Wisling from No. 4 Company.

  ‘Sir, I am in complete agreement with you. You have no other choice. In your place I would give the order, and if anyone complained I would convene a drumhead court martial for him. Whether you agree or not, orders are to be obeyed. Any recruit knows that!’

  ‘Another cowardly, traitorous swine,’ shouts Schultz, indignantly.

  ‘In your position, Herr Oberst,’ continues Oberleutnant Wisling, ignoring Schultz’s hate-filled shout, ‘I would myself remain with the wounded. Otherwise you will have to defend yourself in front of a German court martial. The result of that can be in little doubt.’

  ‘Thank you, Wisling, it takes guts to state your opinion as you have done, but I do not fear a German court martial, I shall know how to defend my decision, if it comes to that.’

  Oberleutnant Wisling shrugs his shoulders. Oberst Frick gets to his feet and adjusts his monocle.

  ‘It has been informative hearing your opinions, but they have not changed my decision. I will not allow soldiers under my command to be slaughtered to no purpose. As commanding officer it must be my chief duty to bring as many effective men back as possible. Dead soldiers are of no value.’

  ‘Running away from these untermensch!’ screams Leutnant Schultz into the arctic night, placing his hand theatrically on his pistol holster. ‘Is there nobody who puts duty to Führer and Fatherland first? Every German soldier has sworn an oath to risk his life where it is required. Millions of brave soldiers have already given their lives for the Führer. To stay alive, is that your only object, Oberst Frick? God be praised there are only a few of your kind. For the sake of the army you must retract your order. Let us build a hedgehog defence position, and fight the Bolsheviks, kill as many as we can before we ourselves are killed. We owe this to the Führer and the magnificent ideal he has given to the German people.’

  ‘The discussion is closed,’ states the Oberst, decisively. ‘The wounded will remain here. The group will march off in one hour’s time, No. 5 Company leading. Schultz, you will take the rear with the heavy company. And I am sure I do not have to tell you that from this moment failure to obey my order means a court martial on the spot. I will have no protests. Is that understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ comes half-audibly from Leutnant Schultz.

  The Sanitäts-Gefreiter, the former chaplain, and two ski-troopers with frost-bitten feet volunteer to stay with the wounded.

  Soon after, the group marches off. The last thing we see is the chaplain standing on a snow hillock waving to us.

  About an hour later we hear the chatter of machine-guns behind us. Some say they can hear screams. We were never to know what really happened to the wounded and the three volunteers.

  A rattling noise makes us dive for cover.

  ‘Panzer,’ shouts Porta, going like a bullet into a snow-drive.

  Orange lightning flashes across the desert of snow. The report that follows is short and flat.

  ‘Tank-gun,’ groans Heide, in tenorr.

  ‘Merck, alors, they must be mad,’ says the Legionnaire. ‘Tanks cannot be used here!’

  ‘You’ll soon be wiser, my old sand-flea,’ laughs Porta, sarcastically, tying hand-grenades together to make an explosive charge, as he speaks.

  ‘Ivan can do things you’d never believe. Just wait! Your tongues’ll fall straight down out of your German arseholes when you find out what Ivan really can do!’

  On the far side of the frozen river some ghostly black boxes are crawling slowly along. The noise leaves us in no doubt of what they are. The howling of the tracks and the infernal roar of the engines makes our blood freeze with fear.

  Two, three, five T-34s rattle towards us through the snow. They slide sideways down the ice-covered slope to the river. For a moment we nourish the vain hope that they will turn over but they continue out on to the ice with a deafening din, whipping up the snow in clouds behind them. In silhouette they are almost beautiful. A T-34 attacking over an open field of snow is an impressive sight. Like some great, lithe carnivore. All its angles are rounded and smoothed down, so that it is almost a pleasure to see what human hands can create from the harshness of metal.

  We grab hand-grenades and tie them in bundles. It is the only weapon we have against tanks.

  I pull one leg up under me and get ready to jump. The trick is to jump at the right moment, just when you are inside the tank’s blind-spot. I tense myself like a cornered animal which can only save itself by killing its attacker. Courage has nothing to do with it. Sheer terror, fear of death, is what drives us to the desperate attempt of attack
ing a T-34 with nothing but a bundle of grenades and an Mpi.

  The leading T-34’s machine-guns sputter wickedly at us.

  A squad which has tried to run for it goes down under the concentrated fire. Not all are killed. A Feldwebel stops, lifts his arms to the heavens as if in a last prayer, rolls forward and then lies still on the snow.

  Another squad runs zigzagging across the ice. A T-34 catches up with them and we hear bones and weapons crunch under its broad tracks.

  The tank revolves on the spot crushing their remains into the hard packed snow. Blood splashes up its sides.

  ‘Keep down,’ rages the Old Man.

  Two T-34s rock up over the ridge in front of us. The closest of them swings its machine-gun a little to the left.

  ‘The swine’s got you in his sights.’ I think and can almost feel the gunner’s eye on me. ‘If he fires you’ve had it.’ I know what it is like inside those damned ‘Tea saloons’, as we call the T-34s.

  The front gunner is sure to be an experienced tankman, who knows it’s not clever to waste too much time in thinking about what to do. Keep doing something and keep doing it quickly is the watchword.

  ‘Shoot everything you see in front of you, never mind what it is?’ That is the order imprinted on every tankman’s consciousness.

  ‘If you want to stay alive forget you’re human. If you can’t shoot ’em, mash ’em with your tracks!’

  I jump up, slide down the ice-smooth slope and land in a soft snowdrift. Porta comes sliding down after me.

  ‘The devil,’ he pants, readying his bundle of grenades, ‘This lot stinks of Valhalla and a short life!’

  The leading T-34 stops with a jerk.

  We hold our breaths in expectant fear. Tanks only stop when they are going to fire their gun. With tensed faces we wait for the short, wicked thud, and the roaring of the explosive shell which will tear us to pieces. They can’t have missed seeing us. The observation slits in a T-34 are very good. Much better than in our own tanks.

  The muzzle report is deafening. Flame shoots from the long-barrelled gun. A wind hot from the jaws of hell blows over us. There is a nasty plopping sound in the snow only a few centimetres from us.