by Sven Hassel
Tiny was watching the whole show through a pair of field-glasses. He kept up a running commentary for our benefit.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re milling about all over the bleeding place . . . And fuck me!’ he added, in excitement. ‘There goes another of ’em! And another! There must be half the bleeding Army out there! Seems they can’t get away fast enough—’
At one point Porta made a move to fire, but the Old Man held him back.
‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘Let the poor sods go. Let them run, if that’s what they want. They’ll soon discover their mistake.’
Out of the arms of Berlin and into the clutches of Moscow. I wondered how many of them had the least idea of what it was they were running to.
A major of the Pioneer Corps suddenly came galloping up to us, his face aglow with fanatical fury.
‘What the devil are you doing?’ he screamed at Löwe. ‘Why aren’t you firing at them? Sweet Christ almighty, the rats are deserting!’
Before Löwe could even open his mouth to reply, the Major had hurled himself behind a machine-gun and was yelling ‘Fire! Fire!’ at the top of his frenetic, strangulating voice. From somewhere out in no-man’s-land a chorus of agonised voices started up, and the sounds of our firing brought Colonel Hinka on to the scene. He almost tripped headlong over the manic major behind his rattling machine-gun.
‘Who is that?’ he said irritably. ‘What is he doing down there?’ He turned impatiently to his ordnance officer. ‘Who is this man? Why have I not been told about him?’
The ordnance officer peered down cautiously at the Major.
‘I really don’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘I really couldn’t say who he is.’
‘Then take a look at his papers and find out!’ snapped the Colonel.
The Major sullenly left his post at the machine-gun, and even more sullenly handed over his papers. The sight of Löwe’s cool smile and the sound of Porta’s inane snickering doubtless did nothing to help the situation. The ordnance officer glanced briefly through the papers. He compared one photograph with another, scrutinised a couple of signatures and a dubious-looking stamp. He frowned, and turned to the Colonel.
‘Something fishy about all this, sir. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’d like to have these papers looked at more closely.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Major, outraged. ‘Are you daring to suggest that those papers are false?’
‘And what if they are?’ said the Colonel, crisply. ‘He is doing no more than his duty. What is one supposed to think when one discovers a complete stranger has suddenly marched in from God knows where and calmly assumed command of one’s company without so much as a “by your leave”? It strikes me as being a trifle bizarre, to say the very least. I could have you shot on the spot if I felt so inclined.’
The Major lost a little of his hectic flush. He wiped the back of his hand nervously across his mouth. Porta, as always quite incapable of holding his tongue, now bounded exuberantly forward to offer the Colonel his valuable advice.
‘Best to take no chances, sir! That’s what they told us in Ulm, sir. Shoot first and ask the questions afterwards, that’s what they always said. That was counter-espionage, that was. I took a course in it.’
‘So what the devil is that supposed to do? Make you some kind of an expert?’ snarled the Major. ‘Next thing I know you’ll be trying to tell me I’m a Russian spy in German uniform!’
Porta drew himself up to full height and bared his teeth.
‘It was the Reichsführer himself who said it was better by far to kill five innocent people than to let one guilty man go free.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ snapped the Major. ‘Can no one stop this cretin and his endless bibble-babble?’
The Colonel, who had been studying the man’s papers, now thrust them back at him.
‘Take these and return to your battalion,’ he said, coldly. ‘I shall be looking further into this matter at a more propitious moment. You have exceeded your authority and I shall expect a full explanation of your behaviour. Now go.’
The Major disappeared even faster than he had come. The Colonel picked up his binoculars and thoughtfully studied the frenzied, fleeing shadows that still came and went in no-man’s-land.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Carry on firing.’
Tiny shrugged a shoulder.
‘Mad as a bloody hatter,’ he muttered. ‘Wasting good ammunition on that load of creeps. Leave ’em to the Reds, I would. They’ll polish ’em off soon enough.’
Mechanically, without any enthusiasm for the task, we opened fire. Tiny loaded and reloaded like an automaton, whispering his usual sweet-nothings to each shell as he rammed it home. Tiny always addressed every single one of them as if it were an old and valued friend. He was by far the best loader we had. He was fast and accurate and apparently tireless. He could carry on for hours at a time without flagging. He might not have been too sure about two plus two equalling four, but he certainly knew how to handle a mortar.
‘Three-fifty metres,’ said the Old Man.
‘Prime, load, fire,’ chanted Tiny, as one reciting a litany. ‘Off you go, my sweetheart . . .’
Human remains were spouting into the air, but now the Russians had opened up with covering fire for the would-be comrades who were hurrying to join them. Grenades began bursting around us, uncomfortably close, and Porta swore and jammed his hat further down on his head.
‘Bloody Russians,’ he said. ‘Bloody Russian swine. You know they use women to fire those things? Must have biceps the size of bleeding footballs, that’s all I can say.’
An hour later, the barrage from both sides had petered to a standstill. Only a few of the deserters had successfully managed to leap out of the Nazi frying pan and into the Communist fire. A few had been recaptured and put under arrest. Many more lay mangled and dying in the churned-up mud of no-man’s-land. Meanwhile, there was hysterical activity all the way along the line, with telephones ringing non-stop and messengers dashing to and fro with their usual self-important fervour. Both Security and the Secret Police had been informed of the débâcle, and we settled back gloomily to await their arrival.
A lieutenant-colonel of the Gestapo was sitting in a corner with his head in his hands. His uniform was still new and shiny, but his face looked furrowed and aged before its time. Not only had twelve of his NCOs deserted with the WU contingent, but now they informed him that one of his captains also had defected. The lieutenant-colonel had pleaded with Hinka to report the captain as killed in action, but Hinka was stern and adamant.
‘You can have a word yourself with Security,’ he said, which of course was the very last thing that any man in his right senses would want to do.
A little before midnight, the Russians opened fire on the divisional HQ. Their range and direction were uncannily accurate. The ammunition dumps went up one after another. Tanks under camouflage were picked out with calm precision. It seemed obvious that someone on the staff must have succeeded in deserting and supplying the other side with much valuable information.
With the slow coming of a grey dawn, we awoke to a witch hunt of those WUs who either through choice or necessity were still with us. It was partly a form of reprisal; partly a desire to find a scapegoat, to demonstrate loyalty to the Führer and hatred of his enemies by striking down a few defenceless men. I saw Parson Fischer attacked in the middle of a prayer by an infuriated Sergeant Linge, who slashed him across the face with the rim of his helmet. I saw Oberwachtmeister Danz come running up to join in the fun. I saw him slam the butt end of his revolver into the Parson’s jaw and grind his face down into the mud with the heel of his boot. And then I saw the pair of them go rollicking away in search of new victims. Parson Fischer staggered to his feet with blood pouring out of his broken mouth and down his chin. It could have been worse. At least he was still alive. The lieutenant-colonel whose captain had deserted him had been found earlier on with his brains blown out.
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Later in the morning we were relieved by an infantry regiment. The ragged remnants of 999 battalion were rounded up and marched off to a nearby village, where they were eyed with much astonishment and misgivings by the troops already in occupation.
‘Prisoners,’ said one man knowledgeably to his neighbour. ‘That’s what they’ll be. Prisoners.’
‘Spies,’ said another.
It never occurred to them that these half-naked skeletons could possibly be their own countrymen; that this wretched collection of skin and bones had been sent from Germany to die. The Führer in his almighty wisdom and bountiful goodness would never allow such a thing.
The battalion was kept on the move through the village, and out of sight of the gaping soldiers, on for another six miles. They were brought to a halt at last, and were treated to a warm reception by a body of guards from Warsaw Security, with the forbidding insignia of the death’s head on their helmets. They were lined up and assaulted in the usual friendly fashion of the Security people. Anyone even slightly out of line received either a blow on the head or a bullet through the back of the neck from a P38. Those who fell to the ground were casually kicked unconscious and left to the mercy of the prowling dogs. There was a great deal of yelling and screaming and confusion, dogs barking, boots stamping, men shouting orders. All this was quite normal procedure.
After a bit, when the battalion had been suitably pruned and was apparently thought to be presentable, it was handed over to a major and two of Dirlewanger’s special companies. The Major instantly commanded the shivering dregs of 999 to take off their rags and to line up facing the wall with their hands behind their heads. Anyone who dared to move, he informed them, would be shot. It appeared from the subsequent reduction in numbers that a great many of them had so dared.
The Major continued calmly talking as the murderers of Dirlewanger continued with their task of selective weeding and hoeing. For almost an hour he talked. He described in glowing detail the various punishments they could look forward to if any of them departed from the rules and regulations by so much as a hair’s breadth. He cautioned them most emphatically against attempting to follow their erstwhile companions across the lines to the Russian trenches: the families of every man, wives, children, mothers and fathers, had been rounded up and were being held as hostages. Finally, he announced that those who were still alive might now put on their clothes preparatory to being transported to the 27th Tank Regiment. There they would find plenty of opportunities to die like heroes.
By now, probably even the prospect of standing knee-deep in mud with Russian mortars whistling through the air had begun to seem like a fairly pleasant way of passing the time. The survivors climbed back thankfully into whatever bits and pieces of clothing they could find, and were suitably impressed to discover that a fleet of lorries was waiting to convey them to their new destination. Unfortunately for them, however, the 27th Tank Regiment was still a long, long way ahead; and some were not destined to reach it. A secret tribunal had been held, and it had been somewhat arbitrarily decided that one man in three should be condemned to death without trial. It was to this that they were now being driven.
The lorries drew up at the appointed place and disgorged their sorry load. With bayonet and rifle butt the men were driven through an archway of soldiers armed with rods of iron towards the slaughterhouse. Some of them never even reached the slaughterhouse. It is truly amazing what mortal blows can be dealt by a thin sliver of iron in the hands of an expert. Of course, when a man is in the army, he kills by whatever method is demanded of him. One pretty soon became expert in most types of murder.
Those who had successfully run the gauntlet were herded down into the damp darkness of the cellars of a ruined building. The ground beneath was quickly ploughed into a glutinous mud. Water dripped from the ceiling. Sewer rats, made bold from hunger, scurried about, gnawing at the men’s legs. There was scarcely sufficient room to house so many bodies. The guards had to use their whips before the doors could be closed and bolted.
All day and all night the men were left to starve and suffocate. It was each man for himself, there was no place left for sentiment. The weakest were pushed under. Shortly after midnight the doors were opened and half a dozen names were called. The chosen few clawed and tramped their way to the exit. It must have seemed to them like a reprieve. The doors were forced shut behind them, and those inside heard the sudden burst of machine-gun fire.
And then there was silence, and they knew what it meant when a man’s name was called . . .
A strange collection of criminals this depleted band of brothers were. Some had been caught listening to foreign radio stations; some had dared to doubt out loud the ultimate victory; some had spoken their minds in a public place. Others had robbed, swindled, and murdered. Still others had been inconveniently committed to an ideal of non-violence. And now, one and all, they were waiting for death in a rat-ridden cellar.
Ten minutes passed. Once again the doors were thrown open, and another six men were called to face the machine-gun fire. By dawn, it was considerably more comfortable down in the mud of the cellar. There was plenty of room to move and plenty of air to breathe. Men even began feeling human, talking once again, and speculating as to whose turn it would be next time the door opened. One person put forward a theory that it was only those criminals wearing a blue or a red stripe who were being taken away. Instantly all those wearing green stripes heaved sighs of relief.
‘Yeah, I get the idea,’ said a murderer from Leipzig. ‘I get the drift. It’s only the politicians and the traitors they’re polishing off. And I reckon that’s as it should be. Why should Adolf go on feeding and clothing them that wants to betray him. Get rid of ’em, I say, and let the rest of us have our fair share.’
The green stripes began to grow quite complacent as time passed and still none of them had been called out. Prison mentality reasserted itself. They began stealing all they could lay hands on from the weak and the dead. One turned on Parson Fischer, who was still hanging limply on to life, and slapped him across his already bruised and bleeding face.
‘Why aren’t you praying, you lousy priest? Why don’t you get Him up There to come down and give us a hand?’
There was a sour laugh from the far side of the stinking cellar.
‘Him up There! Fat lot of good He’d be against the SS . . .’
Late in the afternoon, the doors opened for the last time and an SS captain addressed them from the threshold.
‘All right, listen to me, you load of swine! By rights you should all be dead by now. If I had my way, I’d take you outside and get rid of the whole damn lot of you. It’s the Reichsführer himself who’s decided to give you another chance to prove yourselves worthy of being allowed to go on living. I hope you’re feeling fit and strong, because you’re going to go on a long march to a spot where you won’t be tempted to run away and join the enemy. You’ll know where you’re going when you’ve got there, and not before. You’ll be marching without boots. The Bulgarian Army marches without boots, so why shouldn’t you? Those of you who do arrive safely will be supplied with whatever you need. If anyone falls behind on the way, he’ll be shot. And if there’s anyone who feels he’s not fit enough to march without boots, let him come forward and say so now.’
There was a tremulous silence, and then a man slowly advanced from the shadows of the cellar. The Captain watched him approach.
‘Well? What’s the matter with you?’
The man limped forward. His right foot was bloody and broken. It told its own tale.
‘My, my, that doesn’t look too healthy,’ said the Captain. ‘You should have had that seen to a long time ago.’
He called up an orderly and motioned him towards the man. The Dirlewanger Brigade had no doctors. All operations were carried out by the unskilled and fumbling hands of the orderlies, without the benefit of anaesthetics. They reckoned this toughened a man up.
‘So what do you think?’ murmured th
e Captain. ‘Will he be able to march?’
The orderly dug a probing finger into the raw flesh of the damaged foot. The man gave a scream of pain, and the orderly stood up, grinning.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. He’s quite unfit.’
The Captain pulled a sympathetic face.
‘It seems a shame,’ he said, ‘to have a casualty even before we begin. However, if the man can’t march, he can’t march, so let there be an end to it.’
A guard came in to the cellar. The unfortunate invalid was pushed to his knees and his head thrust forward. A shot rang out. That particular problem was solved.
‘So,’ said the Captain. ‘Is there anyone else who feels himself unfit to march?’
It appeared from the silence that everyone was in blooming health. But when the wavering column did finally set out on its journey, it left a long trail of blood behind it.
The survivors were delivered up to the 27th Tank Regiment shortly after midnight. They were thrown into a hovel to sleep, and the next morning were fitted out with arms and uniforms. Now they were all ready to die for their country.
That same evening we set off again for the front.
1 Wehrmacht unwürdig – those unworthy of service in the Army.
2 Politically undesirable.
‘He who takes oath on the Swastika must henceforth renounce all other loyalties.’
Himmler. Speech to Jugoslav Volunteers at Zagreb, 3rd
August 1941.
Two thousand Poles had been herded together in a barracks a few miles beyond the forests which border Warsaw to the north. The surrounding villages had been stripped of men and women; only small children remained.
‘Are there any among you who understand German?’ demanded Haupsturmführer Sohr of the terrified crowd.
He tipped his grey cap, with its sinister death’s head on the peak, down over his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of mid-afternoon sun. An old Polish man slowly shuffled his way towards him.