by Leo Kessler
`Just thinking where it is, sir,' the driver said hastily and slid behind the seat.
But he did not even have time to wait for a tip after the cab had pulled up in front of the four-storey building, which had once housed an art academy, and was now the home of the Reich Main Security Office.
Himmler, the Reichsführer SS, saw him almost at once. As usual the ex-chicken farmer who was now the most feared man in Europe was correct and exceedingly well informed. He accepted the flag, as if he had known all along that it was on its way, gave von Dodenburg a brief lecture on the inferiority of the Negro race, full of the anthropological jargon he had picked up in these last years, and then asked:
`Well, my dear Major, what do you want for this?' He gave von Dodenburg a wintery smile, but his dark eyes did not light up behind the thick lenses of his pince-nez. 'I am sure that Colonel Geier would not dispense with such a useful officer as yourself to bring me a flag, eh?'
The tall adjutants in their trim black uniforms, grouped behind the Reichsführer, allowed themselves a polite titter; it wasn't often that Himmler made an attempt at a joke. When he did, they knew he expected a reaction; and they obviously had no intention of being sent to the Russian front by a suddenly enraged Reichsführer.
`No sir,' von Dodenburg said. 'Colonel Geier has a request to make through me.'
`And it is?'
`The new recoilless rifle. The Colonel believes that the SS Parachute Battalion is being equipped with it. He would like as many as possible for Wotan. They would be ideal for the kind of terrain we are defending in Italy.'
Himmler frowned and looked down at the detailed list of the gold watches, teeth, wedding rings, etc., which had been 'collected' from the National Socialist concentration camps stretching now all over occupied Europe.
`He would, would he? And why should the Parachute Battalion sacrifice its weapons to the Wotan, may I ask?'
Von Dodenburg flushed, as the adjutants smiled at his discomfort. He wished suddenly he could get a few of them back with him in the battalion; he would show them what the war was really like. Especially the young captain to the left of Himmler’s chair, who was a magnificent physical specimen, just short of two metres in height.
`Because, Reichsführer, our need is greater than that of the Para Battalion. Our position is the key to the whole Cassino front. If Peak 555 is taken, then Cassino must fall - and, Reichsführer, I don't need to tell you what that would mean,' he added grimly.
`I take your point, Major,' Himmler said thoughtfully. 'I can understand your concern too, but my dear young man, you must not exaggerate the situation in Italy. In the Middle Ages, Germany's future was decided there once before because of our weakness and the damnable influence of the Catholic Church.
But since then the time has changed. We have that damned black Pope and his Curia in our hands like that. And we are no longer weak. No, von Dodenburg, even when we are faced with half the world in coalition against us. Think back to the days of the Old Fritz.' (2)
Von Dodenburg sighed and let the lecture descend upon him, full of historical allusions to previous centuries which had little or nothing to do with Germany's present perilous situation; but in the end, when von Dodenburg thought the Reichsführer would never stop, the Head of the SS broke off in mid-sentence and snapped:
`You shall have the weapons, Major. Wagner,' he turned to the big captain, 'take care of the matter with the Major, will you.'
`Reichsführer!' barked the captain at the top of his voice, as if he were back on the parade ground at Bad Toelz and not in the tight confines of Himmler's office.
Himmler picked up his fountain pen again.
`Ensure, Major von Dodenburg, that the recoilless rifles are used to the best advantage. We must prevent the barbarians ever reaching the sacred soil of the Reich. Mark that!'
`I will, Reichsführer,' von Dodenburg barked, hardly able to believe that he had pulled it off after all. 'Thank you, Reichsführer. Heil Hitler!'
A few moments later he was out in the dark corridor again, dwarfed by the bulk of the black-clad adjutant striding in silence towards the door. The guards clicked to attention and von Dodenburg handed his special pass back to the NCO in charge. It was only then that his escort spoke.
`Silly old bastard, isn't he?' he said in a warm cultivated voice quite unlike the parade ground bellow he had just used in Himmler's office. 'Sometimes I feel like going up the wall when he runs off at the mouth like that about history. And in reality, he doesn't know his chicken farmer's arse from his knobbly elbow.'
Von Dodenburg stopped and looked up at him in bewilderment.
`What did you say, Captain?'
Wagner steered him on gently but firmly.
`It isn't wise to stand and talk in this building, Major,' he said. 'The front is a great deal safer than Number Ten Prinz Albrecht Strasse for those who disagree with our beloved Reichsführer SS. Believe you me, though,' he grinned impudently, 'I have so far had the good fortune not to be sent to that place, which they tell me is exceedingly uncouth.'
`Exceedingly,' von Dodenburg said, flinging off the captain's hand. 'Now then, Wagner, what in devil's name is this all about?'
Wagner glanced hastily up and down the long corridor, dark where the windows were boarded up as a result of the RAF bombing raids. The cynical smile was still on his lips, but there was no hiding the anxious look in his eyes.
`The Vulture sent you here, Major, not only to collect a few artillery pieces, but also some information which is far more explosive than all the recoilless rifles in the Para Battalion's armoury.'
`And what is that supposed to mean?' von Dodenburg snapped, growing angry. 'Can't you speak plain German, man?'
`If I did, Major, my rather precious and somewhat handsome head would no longer be on these shoulders.' He raised his hand pleadingly. 'Pace, all will be explained in due course. Please have patience. Group Leader Schellenberg will brief you.' `And where will I find the Group Leader?'
Wagner dipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out a card. `Here.'
Von Dodenburg stared down at the visiting card with the two words 'Salon Kitty' engraved upon it in a rather florid style.
"Salon Kitty, what the devil's that?'
Wagner grinned.
`Salon Kitty,' he said casually, 'oh, that's our own private brothel, Major.'
Eight
Forage cap at the back of his neck, tunic ripped open, rucksack slung carelessly, his breath reeking of Korn, Schulze barged into the first queue of eager servicemen lining up for the whores' services.
`No naked lights within fifteen metres,' he bellowed joyously, 'or we all go up in flames!'
`Sodding SS,' a burly undersized Obermaat in the submarine service growled in a thick waterfront accent, 'take yer shitty turn like the rest of us. We've all got dirty water on our chests, you know, you SS hero!'
Schulze placed a big hand in the sailor's face and shoved. The Obermaat went staggering backwards and sat down suddenly in the Herbertstrasse's dirty overflowing gutter.
`I know, milord (1). But I wouldn't like to stick mine where you've had your dirty naval periscope.'
The garishly attired whores leaning out of the windows of the street of brothels, not far from Hamburg's Dammtor station where Schulze had descended in hurry five minutes before, laughed hysterically. Schulze threw off his cap with an expansive gesture and bowed.
`You'll be laughing on the other side of your faces, ladies, when you see what I've brought home for you from the front.' Drunkenly he yelled the traditional Hamburg greeting, `Hummel, Hummel!'
`Mors, Mors - arse, arse!' they screamed in delight.
Schulze turned to the handful of middle-aged Wehrmacht men standing in front of him.
`All right, you rear stallions, what about giving a front-line swine a break?' he chortled, doubling his fist significantly. 'I've limped here all the way from Dammtor. My need is great. You understand?' He spat on his knuckles slowly.
The Wehrm
acht men got out of his way hurriedly.
`Of course, of course - we understand'
`I knew you would,' Schulze grinned and slung his rucksack more firmly over his shoulder.
Inside, the house was obviously doing booming business. Fat middle-aged maids were running back and forth, carrying bottles and cigarettes. Whores in various stages of undress were moving up and down the dingy stairs, escorting eager or tired soldiers. Somewhere rusty bed springs were squeaking frantically.
`What's going on,' Schulze cried to the middle-aged Madam in the black silk with her dyed frizzed hair. 'On overtime or something? Or does the Führer need more cannon fodder?'
`Aren't you gonna take off yer pack?' the Madam asked sourly. 'You men haven't even got time to take yer boots off!'
`It's total war, mother. Everyone has got to make sacrifices, you know. I'll take my pack off afterwards. Now then, where's the girls?'
The Madam cupped her beringed fat hands round her mouth and shouted above the noise:
`Gerda, customers!' She turned to Schulze. 'That'll be ten marks and a mark for the Parisian.' (2)
`Only one!' Schulz exclaimed, as the girl emerged from the gloom, clad in a bra and red panties with black lacing. 'Here,' he pulled out a can of Italian coffee, 'give me the whole shitty packet! With the flanks that mare has got on her, I'll need half a dozen just to get her warmed up, won't I, my little cheetah!' he added, putting his big arm around the girl's ample breasts.
The Madam opened her mouth to protest, but when she saw the coffee, she hesitated.
`Real bean coffee?'
`Real bean coffee,' Schulze said airily, his fingers already fumbling with Gerda's left nipple. 'Picked every one myself.'
`All right.' The Madam shoved him the whole packet of Vulkan across the counter. 'But remember you pay extra for each additional jump!'
`And I thought this was the Red Cross! Come on, Gerda, show me the way to paradise, will you, and let me get through them pearly gates. I've been saving this up for over two months now and my tonsils are beginning to float.'
He followed her up the gloomy rickety stairs, admiring her long legs, clad in black silk stockings and told himself once again that women were excitement enough; why did men need war?
`Business is good, eh?' he asked.
`Always will be as long as you men want to have your dirty way with us women.'
They reached her room and the whore kicked the door closed with the heel of her shoe. Slipping off her red panties, she flopped on the brass bed which sagged wearily under her weight. In a routine voice, her eyes fixed on the flaking ceiling, her legs already spread, she said:
`Don't forget the Parisian - and get those dice beakers off! I have to pay extra for the sheets being laundered.'
`Wouldn't think so to look at the colour of them,' Schulze said without rancour, janking off his boots obediently. Tut get that tit-holder off. I want to have a feel at what I'm paying for. You know what Goethe said - "Feeling is everything"?'
`Screw Goethe! It'll cost you five marks more to feel my tits.'
He tossed a five mark piece on to the little bedside table. `Great crap on the Christmas tree - and this is what we're fighting for!'
Finally he was naked, but still holding his precious rucksack in his hand, Schmeisser machine-pistol slung over his muscular shoulder.
`Where can I put these?' he asked. 'I don't want anyone nicking them while I'm in the saddle.'
`Do you want me to tell you where to put them?' she said in a bored voice, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
`What about the cupboard over there?'
Suddenly the tired whore's voice was animated. She raised her body hastily.
‘Not there - I've got my private things in there, soldier!'
`All right,' he said easily. 'Don't wet yer knickers, cheetah.' He dropped the pack and the machine-pistol and pushed them under the sagging bed. 'Now then, get them pearly gates open. Here I come - and it's been a long, long time!'
Schulze was lazily guzzling Holsten beer from the bottle the whore had brought him as she bent over his body trying to rouse him once more, when the sound of heavy, steel-shod boots coming down the corridor disturbed his contentment. He took the bottle from his mouth and listened. The whore, her head close to his loins, continued with her labour of love. Suddenly the harsh stamp of feet stopped. A heavy fist hammered on the door.
`Open up,' an official voice demanded. 'Field Gendarmerie - open up!'
The whore started with fear.
`Go away,' Schulze shouted. 'I'm on my honeymoon - I don't want to be disturbed, do you hear - ’
His words were drowned by the sound of the door being kicked open. Two chain-dogs stood there, machine-pistols in their big hands, suspicious eyes taking in the little dingy room.
`Police,' the bigger of the two snapped.
`Don't bother to introduce yourself,' Schulze said. 'Just come on in and we'll make up a foursome.'
`You in the SS?' the question came from a cold-eyed man, in the long leather-coat and wide-brimmed felt hat uniform of the Gestapo, who had followed the MPs into the room. He indicated the blood group tattooed on the inside of Schulze's upper arm.
`That's right, the Wotan. And what gives a poor shitty-arsed front-line swine like me the honour of such noble company as yourself and your two toy soldiers there?'
`Shut up,' the cold-eyed Gestapo man snapped. Without permission, he picked up Schulze's stained tunic, automatically noting the breast covered in decorations, and fumbled in the pockets till he had found the soldier's pay book. He tossed it to the bigger of the chain-dogs. The latter glanced through it carefully, then handed it back to the Gestapo man with a shake of his helmeted head.
`Anybody else in here?' he asked in a flat, harsh voice.
`What the hell do you types think I'm giving in here – a fucking exhibition or something!' Schulze exclaimed indignantly.
But even as he said the words, he knew that there was something wrong. The look of absolute fear in the whore's faded eyes told him that; raids like this were an everyday occurrence in the Herbertstrasse. Why should she be so scared? The Gestapo man ignored the remark.
`Have a look in that cupboard, corporal,' he ordered the chain-dog.
`No.' The whore flung herself from the bed with surprising speed, her breasts shivering and thrust herself, naked as she was, in front of the door to the cupboard. ‘No,' she cried, 'I've got my private things in there. You've no right to search them.'
`The Gestapo has all the rights,' the civilian said. 'Besides what has a whore got that is private?' he added with a sneer.
The MP Corporal grabbed hold of the woman's arm and tried to force her away. But he was too confident. He did not anticipate what happened next. The woman brought up her knee sharply and crashed it into his crotch. He staggered back gasping, his false teeth bulging from his mouth with the shock and pain of the surprise blow.
`She kneed me,' he yelped unnecessarily. 'The bitch kneed me.
`Get the whore out of the way,' the Gestapo man ordered angrily. 'We haven't got all day!'
The chain-dog acted swiftly. He brought up the steel butt of his machine-pistol and crashed it into the whore's scarred stomach. She shrieked with pain and sank to her knees.
`Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing. After all she might be a whore, but she's a woman too!' Schulze said hotly, springing from the bed.
`Hold yer water,' the Gestapo man cried, his eyes gleaming now, confident that he was on to something, 'or it might be the worse for you! Now get that shitty door open will you - '
`You don't need to,' a youthful voice said as the door was opened from the inside to reveal a pale-faced youth of sixteen or so in the shabby Hitler Youth uniform worn by the Anti-Aircraft Auxiliaries. (3) 'And leave my sister alone. She had nothing to do with - '
He did not finish his words. The Gestapo man strode across the little room and slapped him brutally across the face, with a snort of rage.
&
nbsp; `Shut that mouth of yours, Hansen, or I'll shut it for you, before you ever reach Neuengamme.'
As the youth slumped against the wall, the Gestapo man slammed his fist deep into his solar plexus. Schulze stared at the strange scene taking place before his eyes in bewilderment. As the two chain-dogs pulled the youth upright, the tears of pain streaming down his deathly pale face, Schulze cried:
`Won't someone tell me what you lot are soddingly well playing at here!'
`Get your clothes on and get out of here, soldier, while the going's good,' the Gestapo man ordered, not turning round to look at the big soldier.
It was unfortunate for him that he did not; for by not doing so, he failed to see the sudden light of resolve beginning to dawn in Schulze's eyes. While the whore got to her feet moaning with pain and the MPs concentrated on their interrogation of the strange pale-faced youth, Schulze raced into his clothes, his mind made up.
`Excuse me,' he tapped the leather-coated Gestapo man on the shoulder.
`What the hell is it?'
`This!' Schulze smashed the beer bottle across his forehead and he went down without a sound, as if he had been poleaxed.
`You bastard,' the bigger chain-dog roared and leapt at the SS man.
Schulze side-stepped and threw a punch at him. He missed the MP's face and howled with pain as his fist struck the silver plate of office, the MP wore round his neck. The next instant he crashed to the floor, the MP's heavy weight on top of him. Together they rolled back and forth on the floor, each trying to get the upper hand while the whore and the bleeding youth threw themselves on the remaining chain-dog. From down below there was the sound of whistles being blown and the clatter of heavy boots.
Desperately Schulze grabbed hold of the chain-dog's thumb and twisted hard. The man's eyes bulged from his crimson face. He thrust his big hand, palm upwards, under Schulze's chin and pushed with all his strength, trying to break the SS man's hold. Schulze felt himself beginning to black out. A couple of seconds more and he knew he would be gone. Red stars were exploding in the rushing darkness before his eyes. Gasping frantically for air and exerting his last reserves of strength, he twisted. There was a dry snap like that of a twig breaking underfoot. The chain-dog screamed. His body went limp suddenly and the pressure on Schulze's chin eased. The SS man frantically wriggled free. The sound of the heavy boots was coming closer. With a grunt he brought his clubbed fist down on the base of the chain-dog's neck. His spine arched. His head flopped to one side. Schulze had knocked him out completely.