by Sven Hassel
‘Couldn’t be more complicated, I should think,’ considers the Old Man, lighting up his silver-lidded pipe.
‘I have heard,’ continues Porta, ‘that it’s even better with a nail in the champagne cork. It should be one of the square kind with ridges on it, but it can only be done of course with bints who have not got piles.’
‘An arsehole can be used for a lot of things,’ grins Tiny, blissfully. The Jew furriers boy, David in ’Ein ’Oyer Strasse could, usin’ a tinwhistle, play the opening of Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles with his arsehole. But it ’ad to be just after we’d filled up with pea soup.’
‘With his arse?’ asks Heide, doubtfully.
‘Course,’ says Tiny, proudly. ‘That Yid boy David could ’ang on to ’is wind long as ’e wanted. Once ’e drove the coppers down at David’s Station ’arf barmy by goin’ round with a police whistle up ’is arse. They arrested all the ventriloquists in the Reeperbahn, thinkin’ it was them as was imitatin’ police whistles. Some way or other we’d got into an exhibition of paintings and goin’ down a narrow corridor the Yid lets off a rip-snorter of a fart so all the paint fell off the paintings an’ made ’em into valuable functionalistic works of bleedin’ art!’
‘My wife’s made a terrible fool of herself,’ says the Westphalian, pulling out a letter. ‘She’s pregnant and doesn’t know who she’s got the prize from.’
‘She must bloody know,’ says Heide in disgust. ‘All German women know who the father of their children is.’
‘You must have been born in a gasworks and mixed in a bucket with a hole in it,’ the Westphalian says, irritably. ‘Try pushing your arse up against a circular saw and pointing out afterwards which of the teeth it was that tore the cheeks open.’
‘Is your wife one of that kind?’ sniffs Heide, contemptuously.
‘Of course she is,’ says the Westphalian, proudly. ‘Think I’d marry a homebody who could only have it off with a broom-handle?’
‘Soon be Christmas again,’ says the Old Man, thoughtfully, and lights his pipe again. He is having difficulty in keeping it going. ‘It seems more than a century since I spent Christmas at home with Liselotte and the nippers.’
‘Maybe we’ll have as crazy a Christmas as we had last year,’ says Porta, expectantly. ‘Somebody or other’s sure to hit on something quite mad.’
‘Yes, something always happens at Christmas,’ laughs Gregor, heartily. ‘I’ll never forget once when I was with my General. I didn’t spend it with him, of course. I was sent over to the Unteroffizier mess. It wasn’t boring by any means. In the middle of the meat course Feldwebel Berg, the Divisional Chief Clerk, pulled out his P-38 and pointed it straight between his eyes so that everybody could see he really meant to be on his way for ever and ever. We who were close to him could see he’d taken the magazine out. He was a great man for a joke, that Chief Clerk was.
‘“Good-bye, comrades,” he shouted, and pressed a couple of beery tears out of his eyes. “Give my regards to the Führer,” were his last words. Then we heard a bang and half his face flew over and landed in the lap of our Chief Mechanic, looking like a used carnival mask. Feldwebel Berg was well-known for his carelessness. He’d taken the magazine out all right but forgotten there was one up the spout and that was too bad for him. The cartridge case landed in my pudding. I’ll never forget the silly look on his face, just before he slipped under the table.’
‘New Year usually costs a few lives, too,’ puts in Tiny. ‘I was in Bamberg last year. What a new Year’s Eve we fixed up! We’d a bloke with us was dumb as the droppin’s of a cow, and ’im they’d set to look after the explosives store. Pokin’ about there ’e’d turned up some of them old signal bombs as looked just like Brazilian cigars. You lit ’em same road, with a match or a live coal. The first of ’em ’e threw out the window just before dinner. It wasn’t that easy to light ’em so the Kitchen Feldwebel’d give ’im a cigar. ’E got it goin’ an’ lights the next bomb all right. After a bit ’e went amok an’ was throwin’ bombs out of the windows for dear life. Then things went wrong for ’im, drunk as ’e was by now. Out of the window went the cigar an’ into ’is mouth went the bomb. The whole bleedin’ mess was covered in blood an’ bits o’ flesh. The explosives dope stood there a bit swayin’ without a ’ead. Then somebody shouted “’Appy New Year” an’ ’e laid down on the floor.’
‘Smoked his last cigar then, hadn’t he?’ remarks Porta drily and pours himself an extra large schnapps.
In a loud voice he begins to sing:
‘Liebe Leute, wont’ Ihr wissen,36
was einem Fähnrich einst gebürte,
ja, für die Nacht ein schönes Mädel
oder fünf and zwanzig Flaschen Bier ...’
The witnesses by the hut stretch their necks like hens who have caught sight of a hawk.
The padre is on his way over to us, but when he has got halfway he gives up and turns back.
It is almost completely dark when a Kübel, followed by a lorry and a closed troop-carrier, rumbles down the hill.
Three MPs in a motorcycle and sidecar follow in the rear.
‘Here they are,’ says Porta, stretching his neck like a goose who gets a sight of the farmer’s girl coming to feed him.
‘Devil take ’em,’ grumbles the Old Man, viciously, pulling at his equipment. ‘lip on your feet. Helmets on! Get hold of your rifles! Into threes! Get a move on now! That goddamned Major might chase us all the way down the Morellenschlucht! Look at your bloody self, Tiny!’
‘Look?’ asks Tiny, in surprise, with his steel helmet on the back of his neck. ‘I know I ain’t pretty, but I never ’ave been!’
‘Get your equipment and your helmet on straight,’ shouts the Old Man, angrily.
The talk between the witnesses over by the but stops. Everybody stares at the vehicles which have stopped a little way into the heather.
‘Party, atten-tion!’ orders the Old Man and salutes the Major.
‘Everything in order, Feldwebel?’
‘All in order, sir!’
‘Have the propaganda people and the rubbemeckers arrived?’ asks the Major, looking over towards the hut.
‘No, Herr Major, I’ve not see them.’
‘Bastards,’ snarls the Major, spitting angrily. ‘The condemned men are here now. They’ll drop dead of fear if we keep them sitting alongside their own coffins, waiting! What a bloody day!’ He shivers in the cold rain, and points at the lorry. ‘The lights are in there. Get ’em set up, on the double, Feldwebel! We’ve got three of them to turn off!’
‘Three?’ cries the Old Man, fearfully.
‘I said it, three!’ The Major shows his teeth in a snarling grin. ‘They’re to be shot one at a time, so there’ll be no risk of having to do any of them over again. They all go to the posts at the same time. That’s the easiest way. We’ll take, ’em from left to right!’
‘And the mercy shots?’ asks the Old Man, with fear in his mind.
The Major looks at him searchingly for a moment.
‘Feel it in your guts, do you, Feldwebel? Don’t worry! I’ll look after that part of it. You command the squad, no breaks between orders. Keep it moving! One clip to be issued to each rifle, reload and secure immediately after the first round has been fired. Then aim again. Understood?’
‘Yessirl’ answers the Old Man in a low voice, swallowing spittle.
Three powerful projectors are directed at the upright railway sleepers used as execution posts.
The Major throws two ropes to Gregor, who is to be the third member of the roping party.
‘Should anything happen outside the normal programme,’ says the Major, fiercely, ’this party is under my command, and if I give the order to fire you fire no matter if it’s straight in the face of a chaplain or a General or whoever.’ He takes a deep breath, wipes the slush from his brutal face and looks over towards the but again. ‘You never know what witnesses can get up to!’
Two dark-grey Mercedes saloons,
luxury cars with command flags on their wings swing across the heather. Their lights flicker over the ambulance-type personnel transport. Red and white general officer’s tabs show in the melancholy twilight.
‘Save us,’ groans the Old Man, nervously. ‘We are in good company. Who can we be sending off on the long trip this time?’
‘Nacht und Nebel,’37 answers Gregor, gloomily.
The Generals and those with them are conversing audibly. The aroma of expensive cigars wafts over to us.
The propaganda men take photographs. Flashes go off blindingly.
The spectators over by the but disappear. Some of them are laughing loudly. An Oberst lets a hip-flask go round.
The Major comes over and hands four pieces of white cloth to the Old Man.
‘Here are the marks,’ he says shortly. ‘As soon as the criminals are tied to the posts you will hang these around their necks!’
‘There are four?’ the Old Man breaks out in confusion.
‘There comes the fourth,’ grins the Major, pointing to a prisoner transport-vehicle, swaying down the hill.
The Old Man goes pale. Four executions for one squad! That’s a pretty rough assignment!
‘What hellish weather,’ says the Major, looking up at the threatening, low-hanging clouds. ‘Has it been raining all the time out here?’
‘Yes, Herr Major. Snowing and raining and still getting colder,’ says the Old Man, looking out over the heath.
The Major pulls his coat-collar up around his ears, nods morosely, and watches the propaganda squad still taking photographs.
‘If I wasn’t responsible,’ he says softly, ‘I’d love to see you knock those pigs off.’ He looks at his watch and turns to Heide. ‘Now you do know how to secure them? In ten minutes time we’ll be bringing on the leading actors!’
Why it will be in ten minutes time, he doesn’t tell us.
The telephone inside the but rings.
‘If they’ve decided to send any more,’ says the Old Man in a low voice, ‘they can get themselves another squad commander!’
‘En avant, marche! No foolishness!’ the Legionnaire warns him.
With long strides the Major returns from the hut.
‘Securing party, quick march,’ he orders in a loud voice.
Heide marches smartly over to the prisoner transport, a proper four paces behind the Major. He holds the two pieces of new hemp in his left hand as laid down in regulations.
‘He’s enough to make you sick,’ says Gregor, with contempt, stuffing his ropes in his belt.
‘Shouldn’t we go too?’ I ask, when Gregor stays where he is.
‘Let him give the order again,’ says Gregor. ‘The slower we are the longer those poor sods stay alive!’
‘I don’t think they’ll give you much thanks for that.’
‘What the hell, you men? roars the Major, turning round when he finds that Gregor and I have not moved. ‘Think it’s bedtime, do you? At the double!’
We trot over in something resembling a double. I am carrying the ropes in my left hand. I daren’t put them in my belt like Gregor.
The Major unlocks the back door of the vehicle with a special key. Two Pioneer Unteroffiziers stand off a little with Schmeissers cocked and ready.
The three prisoners sit chained to one another on the cross seat inside the vehicle. The floor is covered with a thick layer of sawdust. To one side lie three paper sacks of the kind butchers use to pack sides of meat in.
The door bangs to on the Major’s finger and he lets out a wild string of oaths. The rain splashes from his steel helmet and streams down his leather coat.
‘Bloody shit,’ he growls irritably, twisting his body sideways through the door.
He unchains the three prisoners.
‘Get out,’ he orders hoarsely, almost pushing them.
The three condemned men tumble headlong out of the van and look about them nervously. The cold, raw air cuts through their thin red drill clothing.
I have difficulty in keeping from vomiting. Suddenly I am longing to be back at the front and away from all the hypocrisy of the safe zone.
The Major fetches the fourth prisoner himself. He is an elderly man, and pale as a corpse.
The Major is polite and servile.
‘This way, Herr General,’ he says, pointing to the execution posts.
We look curiously at the prisoner. A General to be executed! We straighten our backs.
Respect for such a high-ranking officer is deep within our bones.
Heide inflates his chest, lays his hand on the shoulder of the youngest of the prisoners and screams in a cracking voice:
‘If you attempt to escape I shall use my weapon!’ He cocks his gun noisily and waves it about.
‘You crazy cunt,’ whispers Gregor, spitting contemptuously.
Heide sends him a wicked look and raises the P-38 slightly. For a moment it looks as if he is going to shoot Gregor down.
‘Can’t you save your private battle until this is all over?’ says one of the prisoners softly.
We recognise him. It is our Oberst from the Arctic front.
Heide bows his head and puts his pistol back in its holster.
Close together we cross the wet heather.
Curious eyes follow us from over by the hut. We can smell cigar smoke.
The propaganda party ready their cameras. They push for position, cursing one another.
I am walking alongside a Feldwebel from the Luftwaffe. Gregor and the Oberst are behind us.
‘Go on, if you can, Herr Oberst,’ says Gregor, shoving him gently. ‘Run like the devil. It’s only a hundred yards to the cherry trees and none of the squad’ll aim to hit you!’
‘You’ve got a lively imagination, Unteroffizier,’ mutters the Oberst in a low voice. Where’d you have me run to?’
‘What a lot o’ shit,’ sighs Gregor, dejectedly. ‘Until today I liked the Army. Up the lot of ’em from now on! From now on it’s me or them!’
‘It’ll be them,’ smiles the Oberst, almost humorously.
‘The bloody Army’ll find out,’ hisses Gregor furiously, kicking at a clump of heather which flies amongst the witnesses.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ asks the Luftwaffe Feldwebel.
I light one and hand it to him. I offer him the packet.
‘Nice of you, but I won’t have time to get through it!’
It is strictly forbidden to give the prisoners cigarettes, but I couldn’t care less. I can’t even be bothered to look round to see if the Major has noticed. They can only give me six weeks inside and I’d probably live through it.
The Old Man sees the Oberst, goes over to him determinedly and presses his hand firmly.
‘Get a move on,’ shouts the Major, nervously. ‘Let’s get this over with!’
‘That bastard ought to come over to us,’ snarls Gregor, contemptuously. ‘He’d soon be looking like a sieve.
‘Backs to the posts,’ orders the Major, kicking at the Luftwaffe Feldwebel’s feet to get his heels close in to the post. Roughly he pulls the Feldwebel’s arms behind the post.
‘Tie here,’ he orders me.
I vomit, all over his shiny boots. With a wild roar he jumps back.
‘You’ll lick those boots clean, as soon as we’ve finished here!’
With shaking hands I tie the Feldwebel’s arms behind the execution post.
‘Tighter,’ shouts the Major, infuriated. ‘What sort of a granny knot’s that?’
He snatches the other rope from my hands, and ties the Feldwebel’s feet himself.
‘You’re the wickedest bastard I’ve met yet,’ says the Feldwebel, angrily, and spits straight in the Major’s face.
‘Are you mad, man?’ screams the Major. ‘This’ll cost you – !’ he stops, realizing that there is nothing he can do to the Feldwebel.
‘You know, you’re really funny!’ says the condemned man, with contempt. ‘Sooner or later somebody’ll be tying you to a post!’
Then he examines the Oberst’s bonds. Gregor has not tied him particularly well. He is obsessed with the idea of the Oberst making a run for it. The Major shouts and fumes at Gregor.
The condemned General he takes care of personally.
‘Target cloths,’ he shouts impatiently at the Old Man. ‘Target cloths, man!’ He is now so angry that he wants to do everything himself.
He snatches the cloths from the Old Man’s hands and hangs them round the necks of the prisoners.
‘Chaplain,’ he shouts towards the witnesses, ‘where the devil’s he got to?’
The staff-chaplain comes tripping effeminately from the but with a Bible in his hand.
‘What the devil do you think you’re here for?’ shouts the Major, at white-heat.
Nervously the padre drops his Bible, picks it up and wipes it off. He mumbles something incomprehensible to each of the prisoners. Then he stumbles back into the but as if wishing to hide himself.
‘Ready, Feldwebel,’ growls the Major, opening his pistol holster.
‘Party! Ri-ight dress!’ orders the Old Man, hoarsely.
Noisily they dress off. Tiny drops his rifle. He shrugs his shoulder and smiles apologetically to the Major who is red as a lobster.
‘Eyes front! Standing aim!’
Another rifle rattles to the ground and the Westphalian falls forward, flat on his face.
‘What a crowd of nervous old maids!’ the Major rates them viciously. ‘Weaklings! Pansies!’
‘Fire!’ orders the Old Man. The explosion sounds like an earthquake and shakes the entire Morellenschlucht.
The propaganda men’s flash-bulbs go off like tiny streaks of lightning.