by Sven Hassel
‘Opened fire?’ answers Henckel, nervously, looking at his watch in astonishment. ‘There’s six minutes yet, sir!’
‘Are you mad?’ screams the Chief of Staff, his voice cracking. ‘You damned fool! The time is exactly 05.10 hours. I have had to wait several minutes getting through to you. You are the most useless sod I’ve ever had to do with. You, you, you.…’ The Chief of Staff cannot find expressions strong enough to express his opinion of his Divisional Fire Controller. ‘Hauptmann Henckel, do you know what has happened?’ he asks, at last, in an icy voice. ‘All three panzer regiments have rolled, and the infantry is attacking. No power on earth can stop them. Wait…’ his voice is suddenly cut off. Only a distant buzzing can be heard on the line.
‘Hello, hello, hello!’ screams Henckel, furious and afraid at what might happen as a result of his time error. His eyes roll wildly in his head. He looks around desperately. All his arrogant self-confidence has deserted him. ‘Wait …’ the Chief of Staff had said. What did he mean? Wait at the telephone? Or was it the beginning of a threat of what he could expect to happen to him for failing in his duty? No it couldn’t be that! It must be that he should wait for a new call!
‘What’s up?’ asks Leutnant Rothe, uneasily, staring at Henckel in fear.
‘My watch is slow,’ says Henckel, tonelessly, staring at it blankly. ‘We should have opened fire several minutes ago! The tanks are already attacking!’
‘We should have opened fire?’ asks Rothe, emphasising the ‘we’. ‘You, sir, should have given the order to open fire! Not Leutnant Hassow, and not me! But how could your watch be wrong? Surely you all synchronised your watches before leaving Division? It’s standard procedure!’
‘I was asleep on my feet,’ Henckel admits, in a dead voice. ‘Must have missed it!’
‘Good God!’ cries Hassow, shocked.
‘You must have known that you hadn’t synchronised your watch with the rest of the staff!’ Rothe puts in, in a reproaching tone.
‘I remembered it as soon as I was outside,’ sighs Henckel, wiping the sweat of fear from his forehead.
‘Why didn’t you go back and do it then?’ asks Hassow, blankly.
‘My watch has always been exact to the second!’ answers Henckel, darkly.
‘But not this time,’ says Rothe, in a dry voice. ‘Expensive minutes, those!’
The telephone jangles again.
‘Joint line to all artillery units, sir!’ says Henckel’s telephonist, handing him the receiver.
Henckel stares for a moment at the instrument in the man’s hand. What in the world is he to do? His head feels empty. ‘Wait …’ the Chief of Staff had said. Of course. He meant I was to wait until the joint call came through.
‘Take the bloody ’phone, man!’ shouts Rothe, disrespectfully. ‘The guns are waiting for your orders!’
‘Orders?’ mumbles Henckel, confusedly. He stares numbly at Leutnant Rothe. He tears open his stiff uniform collar, and bares his teeth in a death’s-head grin. ‘Give me another vodka,’ he orders, hoarsely. Greedily, he snatches the filled glass from die Feldwebel’s hand. ‘I’ll show ’em!’ he thinks. Resolutely he grabs the telephone connecting him to all units. He takes a deep breath. His eyes begin to shine eagerly: ‘Target number one! Open fire!’ he roars into the mouthpiece. He grins horsily, as he replaces the receiver. ‘Jüterburg training, understand! Know what it’s all about!’
‘That was a clear and firm decision,’ cries Leutnant Rothe, in amazement. ‘Ought to wake ’em up all right on both sides of the front!’
Every gun in every unit tilts its barrel, the black muzzles pointing up at the darkness of the winter sky.
The gunners stand ready with lanyards in hand. Gun commanders stand tense, listening for the battery commander’s order. The ‘Nebelzoerfer’ crews are in their dug-outs behind the batteries, fingers on firing-buttons, ready to despatch their deadly rocket. Second-hands seem to race madly round. It is very quiet, a sinister-seeming silence reigns in the pitch-black winter morning.
The silence is broken by a terrible roar. With a single deafening crash the guns open up! They send their shells in salvoes into the dawn. The terrain is lit up by the intermittent flash of exploding projectiles. Flames begin to dance out there.
The morning is filled with a roaring, crashing, thundering howling. As if a continuous line of express trains were rolling across the sky. The noise of the guns threatens to split the eardiums of the men in the Fire Control Post. A long, sinister organlike sound makes itself heard through the thunder of the guns. It rises to a nerve-shattering howling scream.
‘“Nebelwerfers”,’ mutters a Feldwebel, with fear in his voice.
‘Heavenly Father!’ moans Leutnant Rothe, throwing a frightened glance out over the terrain.
‘If I wasn’t seeing it, I wouldn’t believe it! Both heaven and earth are ablaze! God help the poor devils who’re on the receiving end of that lot!’
A wild, ungovernable feeling of gladness fills Hauptmann Henckel, as the fire of the heavy howitzers shakes the Fire Control Post. The heavy roar of the 320 mm guns hurts the ears, and sends shudders of fear running up and down the spine.
The grey winter morning is lit up like the sunniest of summer days. All round the horizon the muzzle-flashes of guns can be seen. The crash of exploding shells goes over in the noise of the firing in one long roar of sound. Shell after shell thunders from the gun muzzles.
Sweating gunners push the heavy shells in on the loading rails. Then ram in the various loads.
In the distance a wall of fire dances. As if the earth is spewing up an inferno of flame. Each thunderous salvo is followed unbelievably quickly by the next, in one long continuous, stormy, roll of thunder.
The howling and roaring of the shells becomes even more insupportable. The surface of the earth is splintered like glass. Buildings collapse like houses built of playing cards. Multi-coloured flames shoot up towards the heights. Blast waves press human bodies into the boiling, bubbling slush. On the horizon the fire-fly flashes of the guns dance. The specialist batteries are brought into the battle. A new sound cuts through the thunder of gums. Incendiary shells fall, splashing burning, liquid flame out to all sides. Even the air seems to have caught fire.
Hauptmann Henckel lights another Russian cigarette, with a self-satisfied air, and sips a fresh glass of vodka. He feels pleasantly relaxed. His sleepiness has gone away. ‘This is fine,’ hethinks. A good, firm decision. He slaps the Signals private condescendingly on the shoulder. At a great moment like this one loses nothing by showing the lower ranks a little friendliness, he feels.
The shrilling of the field telephone interrupts his pleasant meditation. With a pleased smile on his face he takes the instrument, satisfied that he has done what was expected of him. ‘Child’s play, really,’ he thinks. Trained in it hundreds of times at Jüterburg Artillery School.
‘Fire Controller here!’ he barks, harshly, into the mouth-piece, setting his face in severe folds.
‘That you Henckel?’ comes the controlled voice of the Artillery Commander, Oberst Grün.
‘Yes, sir! Henckel here!’
‘You gave the order to open fire?’
‘Yes, sir!’ answers Henckel, proudly, certain that praise and the promise? of the Iron Cross are to follow.
There is a short, noticeable pause. The Oberst’s calm voice comes again.
‘When did you give the order to open fire, Henckel?’
‘Exactly six minutes ago, sir?’ replies Henckel, happily.
‘Six minutes ago! I see! And you gave the order to all units?’
‘Of course, sir! The Chief of Staff thought my watch must be a little slow!’
‘Is that so, Hauptmann Henckel?’ The Oberst emphasises Hencke’s rank sharply. That emphasis alone should have been a warning to Henckel.
‘I was sure the Chief of Staff was wrong, sir. I trusted my own watch, which has never let me down, and gave the order to open fire by it. You could sa
y, perhaps, that I made a snap decision, sir,’ Henckel laughs, assuredly.
‘ You made a snap decision!’ says Oberst Grün, with a noticeable pause between each word. ‘What were the Chief of Staff’s orders to you, when you spoke to him on the telephone? What was his last word?’
Henckel’s blood seems to freeze to ice in his veins. He feels as if he would like to throw down the telephone and run. Run away over the steppe. Run over to the Russians. To be hidden and forgotten in a concentration camp until the war is over. He feels as if death itself is on the other end of the telephone line.
‘The Chief of Staff’s last word, sir? That was — Wait!’ he stammers. Suddenly he understands everything.
‘Yes! Wait!’ screams Oberst Grün, wildly. His former calmness has disappeared completely. ‘Wait! Wait! You impossible fool! Wait! Do you realise what you have done? The panzer troops and the infantry attacked at the time ordered. No power on earth could stop that. As they drove through the first assault target, you, you opened fire! Six minutes too late!’ he roars. ‘You smashed our own assault troops into the ground! You took a snap decision! You’ve massacred our own men! The Russian artillery couldn’t have done it more effectively! I don’t know what they must be thinking over there! Your clever snap decision has blown the whole Army Corps to hell! You admit hearing the Chief of Staffs clear order? Wait?’
‘I must have misunderstood him, sir,’ comes weakly from the miserable Fire Controller. ‘I thought I was to wait by the telephone!’
Oberst Grün takes a few deep breaths. If Henckel had been with him he would have strangled him.
‘Wait at the telephone!’ The Oberst laughs, coldly. ‘Do you think you’re an errand boy? Jüterburg recommended you as Fire Controller. They’ll pay for that! Listen closely Hauptmann Henckel. I don’t want any more misunderstandings. You will immediately hand over your command to Leutnant Rothe. Don’t interfere with anything, whatever happens! Place yourself under arrest, and sit in a corner and wait for the adjutant, who is on his way to your post! Hand over your pistol to Leutnant Rothe! Remember you are under arrest! Don’t try to take the easy way out with that pistol!’
‘I am an officer, sir,’ Henckel defends himself. ‘Allow me to take the consequences of this terrible occurrence myself, I am an officer!’
‘Yes, more’s the pity,’ snarls Oberst Grün. ‘But you will be surprised when you hear what the infantry commanders think of you. The Panzer Regiment’s C.O., Oberst Hinka, has just been on the telephone to me. He wants your head! You’ve murdered two thirds of his regiment. But I want you in front of a court-martial. You impossible fool! Give me Leutnant Rothe!’
Silently Henckel hands the telephone to Leutnant Rothe.
‘Yes sir!’ he sap, and, Tes, sir!’ and again, ‘Yes, sir!’ He replaces the receiver quietly.
Petrified he stares at Hauptmann Henckel, who is sitting on a stool with his head in his hands, rocking his body from side to side.
‘Rothe, I have been relieved,’ he says, tonelessly. ‘I am under arrest. You are in command. Here is my pistol.’
‘Those were the Oberst’s orders,’ mumbles Rothe, unhappily. ‘But, but! What has happened?’
‘We fired on our own troops! I massacred the whole Corps!’
‘God have mercy on you,’ cries Leutnant Hassow, in horror.
‘Rothe, help me! Give me back my pistol,’ begs Henckel, stretching his hands out, pleadingly.
Leutnant Rothe looks at him, uncertainly, and is about to hand him his pistol, when the door crashes open and the adjutant storms in. His usual, cynical smile wreathes his lips.
‘Well, well! And here we have the great fire control specialist from Jüterburg!’ he shouts, sneeringly, as his eyes M on Henckel. ‘The Divisional Commander is longing to meet you again, and tear strips of hide off you! Why the hell couldn’t you wait for the order before you opened fire? Even the slaves know enough not to open fire six minutes late! My God, but what a mess you’ve made of everything! I hope you’re away from the division before the infantry and panzer officers get hold of you. They’ll pull your guts up through your throat!’
‘It wasn’t my fault! It was a misunderstanding,’ mumbles Henckel, despairingly, bursting into tears.
‘You’ll have a time explaining that one when you’re in front of a court-martial,’ laughs the adjutant, coldly. ‘Your one chance is the head-shrinkers. If they don’t save you, you’ll be shot ten times over!’
‘Give me my side-arm,’ begs Hauptmann Henckel, catching at the adjutant’s arm.
‘Like that, wouldn’t you?’ laughs the adjutant, jeeringly. ‘I never before wanted to see a man go before a court-martial. Where you’re concerned it’s my dearest wish!’
Shortly afterwards Oberst Grün arrives with two MP’s and an Oberinspektor from GEFEPO3.
‘Remove him!’ orders Oberst Grün, with loathing. ‘The very sight of him sickens me!’
Handcuffs click around Hauptmann Henckel’s wrists. He leaves the Fire Control Post hanging between the two stalwart MP’s like a bundle of rags above a pair of staggering riding boots.
Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land.
Siegfried Sassoon
The OGPU captain slid from the chair and landed in a sitting position, with legs wide apart, in the middle of the large pool of blood. His dark glasses had slipped down on his nose, and his eyes were crossed weirdly. His cap, with its blue band and large red star, was hanging crookedly over one eye. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, blood running down it and dripping from his fingers. With his right hand he fumbled for his Nagan. He got hold of it, lifted it, and sniggered. In the enclosed space the shot sounded like a howitzer going off in a ballroom.
Porta whirled, and shot on the turn. All four bullets went home into the OGPU officer’s body, making it jerk spasmodically. His cap fell off and rolled across the floor. Strangely his glasses rode up his nose and back into place.
Porta and the Russian’s guns went off again simultaneously. A large blue vase splintered to pieces, water streaming out over the floor. Porta’s pistol clicked, and the OGPU captain sniggered again.
‘Job tvojemadj!’ he whispered, and lifted the Nagan.
Porta kicked out at it, but slipped in the blood and slid across the floor.
Again the Russian sniggered. A rattling sound came from his throat.
Porta lay on the floor, and stored, paralysed, into the muzzle of the Nagan.
Tiny leaned across the desk. He had to lie on his stomach to press the muzzle of his 08 against the OGPU officer’s grey, crew-cut hair. He pressed the trigger. The officer’s head exploded like an overripe water-melon. Brains, blood and bone spattered the ceiling and ran down the walls. The dark glasses sailed through the air and landed by the door. A prisoner in a grey smoking jacket crushed them under his boot.
‘Hurra!’ shouted the prisoners. One by one they went over and kicked the dead OGPU officer’s body.
1 OKH: Oberkommando Haer: Army GHQ.
2 Es geht etc. (freely translated)
3 GEFEPO: Geheime Feldpolizei (Field Secret Police).
4
OGPU Prison
‘Gear ready?’ asks the Old Man, looking down the position.
‘Open your ears, now, you soaking sacks, you, and don’t interrupt. The section follows up, right straight behind the barrage. It’ll sweep everything away in front of us. If the artillery hasn’t smashed in the positions and softened up the opposition, then we roll up what’s left with grenades and automatic weapons. The first few minutes after the barrage lets up, the neighbours won’t know whether to shit or get off the pot! So we take him fast, and pull the ring of his arse up over his ears. See that funny-looking bush over by the bushy-topped tree, there?’ He hands Porta his binoculars, but the odd-looking bush can be seen with the naked eye. It has the shape of a horse sitting down.
‘What about the funny bush, then?’ asks Gregor, taking the binoculars from Porta.
‘They�
�ve got a 50 mm gun there, depressed to ground level,’ explains the Old Man, puffing away at his silver-lidded pipe. ‘300 yards further back there’s an 80 mm group, dug in. Women. But make no mistake. They’re pro’s from a line brigade. So blow ’em away! Leave ’em, and they’ll have you from behind before you can say Jack Robinson!’
‘We’ll blow ’em to hell and gone!’ says Porta, decisively.
‘A bit in front of the bushy-topped tree,’ the Old Man goes on, ‘there’s four dead ’uns lying. See ’em? You can use ’em for cover while you’re waiting for H-hour. If the opposition there see any movement they’ll think it’s the bodies getting thrown about by blast.’
‘What about if these ’ere bints in uniform, ain’t fooled though?’ Tiny breaks in. ‘If they get the idea them bodies are full o’ German life, what then?’
‘You get yourselves a pass to the Heavenly Kingdom, don’t you?’ declares the Old Man, snappishly. ‘You won’t be able to go either forward or back from that position!’
‘Its gonna be some trip. Enough to make an ostrich sweat blood!’ mumbles Gregor, doubtfully. He examines the terrain carefully with the binoculars. ‘But those lads certainly picked a good spot to turn up their toes. They might have had us in mind when they did it!’
‘This rotten army, man! It gets its money back all right!’ says Albert, sourly. ‘Even when you’re dead an’ gone they still ain’t finished with you!’
‘They chase us, all right. Fast as a bucket of hot shit,’ says Barcelona. ‘Kick up the arse, one on the side of your head, and keep your trap shut!’
‘Peace you get, nearly, when you’re cold and stiff, man!’ continues Albert, indignantly.
‘When you’re six feet under, pushin’ up the daisies, they get the violins’n flutes out, and start singing your praises,’ sneers Porta, throwing out his arms widely. ‘When you’re alive they don’t sing your praises. Only when you’ve been dumb enough not to get out of the way, when a bullet’s coming at you and’ve got yourself killed!’