by Sven Hassel
The major was obviously agitated. Burgdorf's sudden appearances always entailed a number of suicides.
"Herr General," the major clicked his heels together twice, "we have a Special Duties Tank Unit at the barracks in Via de Castro Pretorio. We can get a first class driver from it."
They walked together to the airport commander's private office. All other officers seemed to have vanished. Some people said, and not without justice, that he was the most powerful man in the army. One word from him and a general was no longer a general. Another word and a young leutnant could exchange his silver shoulder straps for a pair with braided gold, in record time. One thing was certain: no one was promoted without General Burg-dorf s approval.
The airport commander got the office-wallahs moving. It was as if a hurricane had swept through the building. Ten telephones began ringing simultaneously in the barracks in Via de Castro Pretorio. Ten men scribbled down the same order.
People whispered the name 'General Burgdorf in alarm, and an Oberleutnant and a major went and reported sick without waiting for further details. There was a general sigh of relief when it was realised that the general only wanted a car and driver.
Hauptfeldwebel Hoffmann nearly swallowed a rollmop the wrong way when, after baying some impertinence into the 'phone in his arrogant way, he discovered that he was speaking to the Depot Commander in person. His arrogant bark became a faint-hearted miaow. Fearing the worst, he listened to the strange order; then carefully he replaced the receiver and for a moment gaped in silence at the black instrument. Then he suddenly came to life:
"You wet bugger," he bawled at the clerk, "haven't you yet grasped the fact that General Wilhelm Burgdorf is here and requires transport? Pull yourselves together and get a move on, else you'll be on your way to the Eastern front before you can say bloody Robinson."
At that moment Major Mike and Leutnant Frick came in. Hoffman bawled out his report.
"Burgdorf! Phew!" Mike exclaimed. "Wants a car, does he? He shall have one and a driver. We'll give him more, the arrogant shit, because he's going through a dangerous area, where the little spaghetti boys might get the bloody good idea of blowing him up." He smiled satanically to Leutnant Frick: "What do you say, Frick, shall we give him my Kubel?"
Leutnant Frick laughed maliciously: "Splendid idea, Mike. And Porta to drive it."
Major Mike nodded enthusiastic agreement: "And Tiny as escort."
Hauptfeldwebel Hoffman blenched. Twice he asked for the wrong number. Somehow his tongue would not obey him. Major Mike and Leutnant Frick sat down on his desk and watched him with obvious enjoyment. Finally, he managed to get hold of the garage. Ten minutes later he retired to bed with a violent headache and dancing specks in front of his eyes. But before he went, he drew the sergeant clerk's attention to the fact that he had no knowledge of what had been ordered. Major Mike and Leutnant Frick preferred to get drunk and go underground till the danger was over.
Fifty men were out looking for Porta and Tiny. Both should have been in the garage servicing their vehicles, but in some mysterious way they had seemed to have got themselves transferred to other duties. Porta was discovered in the armoury where he was playing housey-housey with the quarter-master and Padre Emanuel, in the act of pulling in a jackpot. Tiny was traced to a backroom behind the canteen, where he had been hobnobbing with the canteen Unteroffizier and two girls from the kitchen. He was just buttoning his trousers, when they found him. He set off at a slow trot for the garage with an ammunition pannier on his shoulder. Catching sight of Porta in the distance, he shouted:
"We're to take a general for a drive. Visit a field marshal."
You could scarcely have called them fit for the parade ground as they drove off to fetch the general, and the airport commander got a shock when they reported to him. But General Burgdorf was amused. They were a type he liked. He gave them each a handful of cigars and did not even bother to look at the major.
They sped through Rome at a good seventy, Burgdorf's adjutant, a hauptmann, sitting with his eyes closed, wishing he could get out, but the general enjoyed the speed. He had seen at once that Porta knew his job, but even so he paled slightly when he heard Porta tell Tiny that the front axle was still dicky, so he must keep a look out for potholes. With less than an inch to spare they squeezed through between two trams in a shower of oaths and curses from the two drivers and passengers. They spattered a policeman with mud and made him jump for his life and convinced him that he should join the partisans that night.
The general listened with interest to Porta's and Tiny's conversation, admitting to himself that they were the toughest couple of drivers he'd ever had. He could hardly say that they seemed in any way impressed by driving a general. As far as he could understand they were planning the theft of a pig, which apparently was at Army HQ. That did not concern the general. He had not come to Italy to deal with petty misdemeanours.
Porta gave Tiny a detailed description of his favourite way of cooking black pudding. Once he even took both hands off the wheel to demonstrate what he meant.
With squealing brakes they pulled up before Army HQ in Frascata. A Luftwaffe leutnant almost fell down the steps in his eagerness, tore the door open and helped the general and his adjutant out. The general glanced at Porta and Tiny who had remained in their seats--most undisciplined!--then shrugged resignedly and began to mount the steps. They were too small game for him. The leutnant could not see what it was the general was laughing at, as they walked inside.
The Army Commander was in conference when Burg-dorf arrived. Three officers and two feldwebels sprang to their feet and rushed to help him off with his dusty overcoat, but Burgdorf waved them away.
"Would you like me to complain of the undisciplined behaviour of the two obergefreiters in your car?" the Leutnant asked servilely.
General Burgdorf smiled his dangerous smile.
"Leutnant, if I wish to criticise I would start with you. Your right breastpocket button is undone. And since when, leutnant, have infantry leutnants been allowed to wear spurs? Am I, an infantry general, wearing spurs? Kindly give my adjutant a report on your irregular dress before I leave. Have you been very long on the general staff?"
The leutnant stammered something incomprehensible. Before the war he had been a schoolmaster in some dreadful little village in the Eger mountains, where he was the terror of the twelve-year-olds. Burgdorf looked at him with a sneering smile.
"Have you a pistol?" he asked in an interested voice. "Jawohl, Herr General," the leutnant bayed, banging his irregularly spurred heels together.
"Splendid," Burgdorf smiled. "I'm sure you know what use to make of it. Good-bye, Herr Leutnant."
Those present were a shade paler in the face now. Burgdorf tapped a rittmeister on the shoulder with his cane.
"Will you tell the Army Commander that I want a talk with him in private."
"Herr General, unfortunately that cannot be done. Herr Generalfeldmarschall is in conference and not to be disturbed. We're planning the next attack and the defence of the Gustav line," the rittmeister added.
General Wilhelm Burgdorf laughed heartily and remarked that the rittmeister evidently did not realise that he was dealing with the most powerful man in the German Army. He then turned to an oberfeldwebel.
"Fetch my two men from my car." "Jawohl, Herr General!" bawled the Oberfeldwebel. "And," Burgdorf added thoughtfully, "tell them to bring their pistols."
Three minutes later Porta with Tiny at his heels rushed into the room with no little commotion. Burgdorf smiled wryly.
"Until further notice, you two brigands are my personal bodyguard. If I throw down my gloves, you shoot at everything and everyone."
"Ah, we know this, Herr General," Tiny said. "We did a trip once with a generaloberst and he gave the same orders. Only it was his cap he was to throw down."
Burgdorf preferred not to hear Tiny's remark. He turned to the rittmeister:
"Herr Rittmeister, I am in a hurry. I imagine it w
ill not have escaped you that we are waging a war. The army in Italy is only a tiny part of this war. Go to the Army Commander and report my arrival."
The rittmeister vanished hastily. Burgdorf paced up and down the floor, his hands on his back, his long leather coat flapping round his legs. He was no longer smiling. Porta and Tiny stood like statues one on either side of the double doors. They held their machine pistols under their arms; their ammunition pouches were open.
A moment later the double doors flew open with a bang and Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring stood in the doorway, tall, broadshouldered, dressed in grey Luftwaffe uniform.
"My dear Burgdorf, this is a surprise! I am at your service."
General Burgdorf smiled and gazed intently at the glowing end of his cigarette.
"Herr Feldmarschall, I am delighted to hear it. Then, we can soon be finished. Send your men away."
The officers present hurried out. But Porta and Tiny remained.
"Herr Feldmarschall, there are the craziest rumours in Berlin about what is going on here. Are you negotiating with the Americans? For example, about the withdrawal of the German troops in Rome? I mean, have you taken it into your head to make Rome an open city? We know that there is an American general in Rome."
"Impossible, Herr Burgdorf. If it were so, I should have known of it."
"It is not impossible, feldmarschall. But the question is, whether you know it and whether you have perhaps met this general?"
"I give you my word of honour, Herr Burgdorf, I have not."
"I believe you; but what about contact men?" Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring shook his head. His face had lost its healthy red colour.
"Is it true that the sacred relics have been removed from Monte Cassino? You must know what General Conrad is doing. The Allied broadcasting stations have been proclaiming from the housetops that a few days ago the Hermann Goring Panzerdivision was busy plundering the monastery. It is certainly plundering of which the Reichsmarschall is entirely ignorant, but perhaps your intelligence officers are asleep. In that case, I would suggest a drumhead court martial within the next half hour. We know in Berlin that Oberleutnant Schlegel from the Panzerdivision's HQ has conferred with Conrad, who has given the all clear for sabotage of the Fuhrer's order. The Fuhrer wishes that all that stuff in the monastery should be destroyed by the American bombardment. General Freyberg, the New Zealander, is demanding that American bombers smash the monastery, but our colleagues on the other side are not particularly keen on the idea. However, our New Zealand friend is a stubborn brute and no doubt in the end he'll succeed in getting that bit of rock split for him; in the meantime your damned general and an idiotic Oberstleutnant have spoilt our entire game. Can't you understand what we're aiming at, man? Just imagine the headlines in the gutterpress all over the world; Anglo-American gangsters destroy West's most precious Catholic relics! We even have commando troops ready to liquidate that old idiot Diamare. We can get them to smash the monastery, but the important thing for us is that the art treasures in it should go up in smoke at the same time. Freyberg is quite convinced that our agents are telling the truth, when they report that the monastery is being turned into an impregnable fortress, so just before they raze it to the ground, we shall see that we get a statement from the lot of black crows up there that there has never been a single German soldier inside it. From the point of view of our propaganda that will be of tremendous importance for us. The only good thing Schlegel's transport has done, is that the trucks have been photographed by Allied reconnaissance 'planes, which is grist to Freyberg's mill. Now we must ensure that every one of the relics is safe and sound. The Fuhrer is furious. Obergruppenfuhrer Muller is already in Rome. You have one foot in front of a court martial, Herr Marschall. The whole business has to be twisted so that you have known all about the damned transport; otherwise the entire world will accuse us of plundering. We cannot at this moment take too much of that sort of thing."
The Generalfeldmarschall's face was deathly pale. "I don't understand you, Herr Burgdorf." Burgdorf smiled a dangerous smile.
"I thought I had made myself quite clear. Do you wish to appear before a Court of Honour for High Treason, or will you yourself pluck these chestnuts out of the fire? Gruppenfuhrer Muller is in Via Tasso. He has no objection to landing a marshal in his net."
"This is slander, Herr General, the nastiest slander!" Kesselring exclaimed angrily.
"I believe you have got your ideas of the new age somewhat confused, Marschall. Germany is no longer imperial Germany. We are a national-socialist state. We shrink from nothing in order to reach our goal."
"The Fuhrer wishes this damned question of the Jews solved. I personally do not sympathise with all his political ideas, but I am a soldier and have taken an oath of loyalty just as you have." He banged his fist on the table top of Venetian mosaic. "If I am given an order, I obey it to the letter. I love children, especially babies, but if tomorrow I receive an order to kill all children under two in Europe, they will be killed without consideration for my personal feelings, and any of my subordinates who do not obey my orders exactly will be court martialled. We are aware of your religious convictions."
"Do you not believe in God, General Burgdorf?"
"What I believe in should not interest you. I am a soldier. I have been one since I was sixteen. A soldier's job is to wage war and war means killing. I have a suspicion that you are not fully aware of that. I warn you. At this moment, there are 36 generals in Torgau. We are shooting two of them early tomorrow. I have as you see, too obergefreiters with me. I got them an hour and a half ago from a Special Duties Panzer regiment in your army. These are men who would crucify Christ a second time, if they were ordered to do it and happened to lay their hands on him." Burgdorf went close up to Kesselring and menacingly brandished his fieldservice cap in front of the Generalfeldmarschall's pale face. "They would not hesitate to drag a Generalfeldmarschall behind the garbage bins and shoot him."
"Herr Burgdorf, I must give you notice that I intend to complain to the Reichsmarschall of your unheard of behaviour."
Burgdorf laughed, flexed his knees, thoroughly sure of himself.
"You don't think, surely, that I am here of my own volition? I came here on direct orders from the Fuhrer, and I am not alone. As for the Reichsmarschall, I would not reckon on help from that quarter. He fell out of favour some time ago. Between ourselves, the Fuhrer can't stand him. The Luftwaffe is altogether in the background these days. The Fuhrer regards it rather as a dud."
"My paratroopers are fighting like devils here in Italy. If they go on as they are, there won't be any survivors."
"The Fuhrer will shed no tears on that account," Burg-dorf said drily. "I can take you back to Berlin with me and put you in Torgau, where you'll slip quietly into eternity early one morning, for not preventing that business with Monte Cassino. At eleven o'clock tomorrow morning I have an important conference with two divisional commanders and a couple of regimental commanders concerning Operation Dog Collar, and woe betide you, Herr Marschall, if a single word gets to the Vatican. Oberfuhrer Muller has been stirring up the security service. We nave agents in the Vatican who report everything to us. We want to provoke Pius into protesting against the persecution of the Jews, and we'll get him to open his big mouth, be sure of that."
"Are you planning to arrest the Pope? That would be a crazy thing to do. You must be joking, Herr General!"
"It is deadly earnest. Do you think I have time to joke?"
"One cannot do it," the feldmarschall whispered hoarsely, nervously fingering his knight's cross.
"One can do much more," Burgdorf jeered. "It wouldn't be the first time in history the Pope has been taken prisoner."
"What do you hope to achieve by it?"
"The same as by liquidating the synagogues and Jews. Your job is to see that the orders issued by Berlin are carried out." Burgdorf rested his clenched fists on the Venetian table. "And you will shoot the Pope in the back of his head, if you are o
rdered to do so."
"But this is devilish," the marschall whispered.
"Am I to inform the Fuhrer of your opinion, when I make my report? Don't you know that the Fuhrer is beyond criticism? We have plenty of people who can take your place. The point, General, is this: Do you intend to fulfill your oath of loyalty or not? You are a believer. You swore it on the Bible?"
"Herr General, I do not break an oath."
"We did not expect you would, Herr Marschall. Berlin will be able to justify any liquidation of the Pope all right. Catholicism is the most dangerous obstacle in our path."
"One would think you came from Stalin, Herr General."
Burgdorf banged his shining boots with his long cane. The red stripes on his trousers glowed like blood.
"Our war is not a national war. If we lose, our role of great nation will be at an end, perhaps our very existence. That is why the war must be waged with a brutality and hardness, the like of which the world has never seen. We shrink from nothing. If there are officers in our ranks, who will not carry out Berlin's orders regardless, they and their families will be liquidated. When Berlin sends out the code word Dog Collar, your duty as commander-in-chief here is to ensure that it is carried out." Burgdorf looked thoughtfully out of the window. " 'Dog Collar' is veiled in darkness. It doesn't exist on paper." He smiled and struck his boot a powerful blow. "One thing the Kremlin and Prinz Albrecht Strasse have in common: both reckon on the bourgeois lack of imaginative judgement. A thing can be so huge that it appears quite incredible. It does not matter if a few sharp intelligences believe it, if the vast, stupid bourgeoisie fail to grasp it. When the truth does filter out, it will at once be dubbed a lie and so give the executants the glamour of persecuted innocence."
The generalfeldmarschall stared at Burgdorf with an expression as though he believed him sick in mind or else Satan's own adjutant.
"If we lose the war," he said with a break in his voice, "we shall be condemned by the historic truth in all its cruelty."