by Jana Petken
Was the man off his head? Wilmot had wondered, when he’d been ordered to take out his platoon to lay mines in a sandstorm five minutes after leaving the medical corps station.
He stopped walking to observe the prisoners who were corralled on a piece of ground encircled by guards, vehicles, and barbed wire. The poor buggers were sitting under the midday sun looking broken and miserable. A shiver went up Wilmot’s spine. Reminded of his own time as a prisoner of war, he couldn’t help but pity the men. He’d like to think they’d be dealt with better than he’d been treated in Russia, but he’d seen his fellow Germans involved in too many gratuitous executions in the Russian campaign to be confident of civility in the desert. Maybe it would be different here without the SS death squads around. Maybe the prisoners would go to a German POW Stalag instead of a concentration camp. Perhaps they’d be sent to Italy. Ach, they aren’t my problem.
“Kick me again, and I’ll rip your foot off your bloody leg!”
Wilmot turned to his right, catching the English voice with the funny accent. A German Schütze from the 90th was hitting the man in the face with his rifle butt. The victim, however, was not taking the beating lying down and retaliated by wrapping his arms around the German’s legs trying to unbalance him.
The German and Italian guards didn’t move to join or stop the assault. Incensed, Wilmot began to weave in and out of the prisoners’ lines towards the man being battered by the rifle.
“Schütze, stop that, now!”
Ignoring Wilmot’s command, the German turned his rifle on the prisoner and fired.
Wilmot stomped to the Schütze and ripped the rifle from his hand. Visions of Russian guards shooting German prisoners infuriated him further, and without thinking where he was and in front of whom, he smashed the weapon’s butt against the soldier’s forehead.
The Schütze looked up at Wilmot from the ground, shaking his head to clear it.
“Stand over there by that truck, and don’t move from it until I come to you. Get up – move,” Wilmot grunted.
The Schütze’s victim lay on the ground, moaning. He was fortunate; the German had fired his weapon in anger without aiming, and his bullet had grazed the prisoner’s shoulder.
Wilmot helped the wounded man to his feet, then looked closer at the injury. “I’ll get a medic to sort that for you,” he said in English. “Where are you from, soldier?”
“Auckland, New Zealand.” The prisoner supported his injured shoulder by clutching his arm with his free hand, and then he gave Wilmot a bold stare. “Your English is perfect. Have you ever lived in England?”
Wilmot felt hundreds of eyes on him. The German and Italian guards, including an officer, were also observing the scene. “Right, you,” he changed his tone. “Don’t get into any more trouble … whatever it was you did. And tell the rest of your people to do as they’re told.”
“Where are you taking us?” the man dared to ask.
“Don’t ask questions, either. We don’t need to tell you anything.”
“Obergefreiter, kommen Sie!”
Wilmot turned to see his Leutnant waving him over. He approached with a reticent step whilst searching for an appropriate answer to the reprimand he was going to get. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a conversation in English with a prisoner. He’d given two of them cigarettes two days earlier, and his Leutnant had seen him on that day, too. Was the telling-off going to be for hitting one of his own men or for being kind to the enemy?
Chapter Eighteen
“Heil Hitler!” Wilmot said, saluting his Leutnant.
“Yes, heil Hitler. Do you speak English, Vogel? I mean, do you speak it well enough to understand everything a man might say in that language?”
Surprised by the question, Wilmot said, “I’m fluent, sir. I understand it and speak it as well as I do German. You’ve heard me speak it more than once. Why do you ask?”
“Do you write English well?”
“I do … as well as the next English person, I suppose.”
Before speaking further to Wilmot, the Leutnant called over the soldier who had shot the prisoner. The offending Schütze, with a cut to his forehead thanks to Wilmot, stood to attention before the officer while giving Wilmot a defiant glare.
“Gather around me, all of you!” the Leutnant shouted to a group of German soldiers who were close enough to hear what was being said. “In years to come, history will talk about our behaviour today, and I refuse to let it dictate that we were cruel and disrespectful to enemy combatants.”
Apparently, he hasn’t seen what the SS get up to in other countries, Wilmot thought.
“While under my command, you will follow the rules and regulations of the Geneva Convention, and you will not ignore them because of anger or bitterness,” the Leutnant ordered. “You will not shoot prisoners. You will not steal their food. You will not strike them or insult their flags. If I catch any of you mistreating the men in our custody, the whole platoon will be punished. We leave unwarranted violence to the SS in other battlefields far from here. Understand?”
The officer paused to stare contemptuously at the Schütze. “You think you’re the bigger person, shooting an unarmed man?”
“I was…”
“Shut up. I saw the whole thing, and there’s nothing you can say to justify what you did. Report to me in an hour. You’re on extra duties until I decide whether to report your behaviour to a staff officer. If it were up to me, I’d have you court marshalled today.”
“Yes, sir – and what of Obergefreiter Vogel hitting me?”
“You leave him to me. Hopefully, the gash on your head will remind you of your duty.”
The Leutnant then addressed Wilmot, “Do you have anything to add, Obergefreiter Vogel?”
Wilmot’s throat closed. He’d like to tell his men what it was like to be a prisoner under the whip of harsh captors, but he was still unable to talk about Russia without getting worked up. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to the men. “If you lot ever get captured by the enemy, pray you don’t get beaten up, starved to death, or shot. I’ve seen that up close. I know what it is to be those men sitting over there, looking scared witless. They are not animals … they are soldiers, fighting for their country. Show some damn respect for their ranks.”
His speech didn’t go down well. Cynicism sat in the eyes of the men staring back at him, but he didn’t care what they thought. He had rank and the support of his Leutnant.
“Dismissed,” the Leutnant told the men. “You, Vogel, come with me.”
After a long walk, the two men approached rolls of barbed wire, and behind them, the command tents. The Afrika Korps normally slept outside: on the sand, in the backs of trucks or under vehicles. Wilmot had never been this close to the luxurious-looking command posts.
The Leutnant gripped Wilmot’s bare forearm, halting the latter in mid-step. “If you ever strike a fellow German in front of prisoners again, I’ll have you in front of our commander on an even greater charge than the one that upstart Schütze back there will face. Understand, Vogel?”
Wilmot drew himself to attention. If that’s the total sum of my reprimand, I’ll take it. “Yes, sir … sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.”
“Stay here until I call for you,” the Leutnant ordered Wilmot before disappearing into a tent.
Minutes later, the officer returned and ushered Wilmot inside without an explanation.
Three men were standing around a table. Maps and other large sheets of paper with drawings on them were spread out and held in place by stones at the corners. Just before one of the men began rolling up the map, Wilmot caught a glimpse of it; riddled with pencil lines and circles and parts highlighted in red pen, it looked like they were holding an autopsy for the defeat they’d just suffered.
The men, two of whom were dressed in civilian clothes, had the typical intense gazes of the intelligence branch – maybe Abwehr, Army Intelligence. Why do they always have to wear suspicious glowers on their pug-like faces
, as if every person they met is guilty of treachery or deliberately letting down the Fatherland? The other man, a Hauptmann, appeared more curious than suspicious.
Wilmot’s resolve caved under their intense scrutiny, so he gave his best salute by clicking his heels together, stretching out a poker straight arm and snapping the words, “Heil Hitler,” precisely as he’d been taught to do at SS basic training camp.
“Obergefreiter Vogel. Your Leutnant has been telling us about your language skills,” one of the civilian-clothed men said.
“I am not a linguist, sir,” Wilmot replied truthfully. “I speak German and English, that’s it.”
The man who had spoken wore khaki shorts and a shirt that was not military issue. His sunglasses sat on his wiry white hair like a decorative band, and a black chain that one would normally see around a person’s neck was attached to their silver arms curled around the back of his ears. He was a strange-looking fellow, with a full beard and skin on his cheeks and forehead as tough as an old boot.
Wilmot’s face reddened. No one spoke. The three men were content to stare at him and his lovely scar, blackened by the sun. Should I ask why I’m here, or keep my mouth shut until someone asks me another question?
“Come, sit, Obergefreiter. You’re not in any trouble,” the same man said, breaking the silence.
“Thank you, sir.” Wilmot sat on a stool that sank into the sandy floor with his weight. He shuffled his still painful backside – contusions, apparently – then rested his hands on his thighs.
“Your Leutnant is impressed with your English proficiency.”
Wilmot looked up at the civilian. “My mother was from London … Kent, to be precise. We – my brothers and sister and I – spent our summers in England, so yes, I am comfortable speaking English. I also have an ear for its many accents, including the ones being spoken by the New Zealanders and South Africans we captured.”
“Sehr gut – das ist gut. We lost two translators three days ago. They were killed when their truck was struck by allied air fire. We are assigning you to our intelligence unit. You will assist us during our prisoner interrogations, among other duties.”
“I don’t know how to question…”
The man laughed at the suggestion, and Wilmot’s face reddened further.
“You will not be questioning anyone, Corporal. You’ll transcribe what the prisoner tells us in English and then translate it into German, word for word. You will also search prisoners’ belongings for intelligence materials and translate all written documents you find.” The man picked up a piece of paper with typed words on it. “Read this. Tell us if it is good English, or if it can be improved.”
Wilmot read through the three paragraphs, then said, “The level of English is intelligible, but it contains numerous inaccuracies that make it confusing. It’s not of a high standard, sir. It wouldn’t be clear to the person translating it to German, even if he were the one who’d written it in English to begin with. In paragraph two, for instance, he has written, I saw eighty-nine troops and vehicles. That doesn’t make sense to me. He hasn’t distinguished if it is eighty-nine troops or eighty-nine vehicles or, if both, how they are split.”
Wilmot looked from one man to the other. German intelligence used prisoners to go after information about Allied troop numbers, plans, supply depots, locations of forces or aircraft, and anything else they could think of to give them the edge over the enemy. He had seen beaten prisoners nursing injuries sustained from interrogations. He couldn’t think of a worse job for himself, but it was evident they had already decided to give him the post by the open way they were now nodding with satisfaction.
“We think you’re the right man, Obergefreiter. What do you say?” the same man who had last spoken asked.
Wilmot still hesitated – no, I don’t want this.
“Vogel? Answer the man,” the Hauptmann snapped.
Wilmot flinched and replied, “Thank you, sirs. It would be my honour.”
“Very well, collect your gear,” the Hauptmann said to signal that the interview was over. “You’ll be bunking in the command post area, and from this moment forward, you will not discuss your duties or share any information you might hear the prisoners give us, not even to the Leutnant who brought you here. I am now your commanding officer, and you’ll receive your orders directly from me. Go to the quartermaster for Feldwebel Wachtmeister epaulettes. You are now my staff sergeant, to replace the one I lost in the attack.”
Wilmot was stunned and, unable to find an appropriate response, nodded like a clown and stood to attention.
“Congratulations, Feldwebel Wachtmeister Vogel. That is all. Report to us at 1600 this afternoon,” one of the civilian-clad men said.
Wilmot clicked his heels and left the tent. Well, isn’t life one big surprise? he thought, walking back to his unit. He’d gone in there as a lance corporal and had come out as a staff sergeant with special privileges. He really was one lucky bastard.
Chapter Nineteen
Paul Vogel
Łódź, Poland
4 September 1942
In the Wehrmacht Command Headquarters, Paul spoke on the telephone to his superior officer, Oberstabsarzt Günter Mayer, who was currently on a visit to Warsaw.
The lengthy conversation was not going well. Paul’s new posting to Auschwitz, to take effect the following week, had been a terrible blow, and as an added torture, he was being ordered to visit the Chelmno extermination camp today. As his temper flared, he tried to curb his anger. To hell with his superior officer’s love of the word insubordination and to hell with Chelmno. He wasn’t going.
“… I’ll have no more of this defiance from you. Do you understand, Vogel?” Mayer said, after complaining about the problems confronting him in Warsaw.
“Sir, all I’m saying is that I’m in the middle of trying to organise the new mobile medical treatment centre in the ghetto. I have lost good people this past week, and the few remaining staff I have are trying to cope with the beginnings of a dysentery outbreak. Does it have to be today, sir? Do I really have to see what I’ve already witnessed at Brandenburg?”
“I don’t care how many times you’ve seen it, Vogel. You will go. This order didn’t originate from my office. Herr Bothmann, the Commandant of Chelmno, has personally asked to meet you. I’ve also had Kriminalinspektor Krüger on the telephone about it. He wants you to travel to Chelmno with him. He’ll be waiting for you at Radegast train station at 1500, and you had better not be late for him.”
Silence, then Oberstabsarzt Mayer continued, “Paul, I understand your reluctance. I agree with you. You should remain in the ghetto to deal with all the changes, but this is out of my hands…”
“Why does this Commandant –?”
“Don’t ask me why Bothmann and Krüger are determined to get you there, just obey your orders. Krüger can be a vindictive bastard when he wants to be. Paul – Paul, don’t make waves, you hear me? You know how much I rely on you, especially this week when I’m not in Łódź to run things.”
“I hear you, Herr Oberstabsarzt. Thank you, sir.”
Paul looked up at the wall clock – 1345 – he had little over an hour to get to the train station. He slumped in the desk chair, glad of a few minutes more to himself before having to give back the office to the Oberleutnant who’d let him use it. “Damn you, Krüger, what are you up to now?” he muttered.
Paul approached Fire Brigade Square where well over a thousand people were gathered. The Sperrle deportations were underway. The Gestapo and police had already removed over one thousand patients from the hospitals in the ghetto, including four hundred children from the paediatric centre. And during the next few days, Paul knew that the police and SS would systematically shut the schools and the rabbinate, as well as the other cultural institutions. The ghetto was preparing to become a massive labour camp, and anyone who couldn’t pull their weight was to be murdered.
The Jüdischer Ordnungsdiens, the Jewish ghetto police, and the Sond
erkommando, the ghetto political police, had sealed off the streets. After the hospitals had been evacuated, Paul had received news from a pale-faced Gert that the Reich had ordered the deportation of an additional twenty thousand Jews, including all children under the age of ten and all ghetto inhabitants over the age of sixty-five.
Paul foresaw the operation taking at least ten days to complete. Krüger had imposed a curfew, and he’d informed all remaining medical staff that they were not to treat patients during the deportation period. Doctors would get in the way, he had explained.
Paul lingered to observe the growing crowd of residents. They weren’t there out of curiosity, for nothing would tear them away from the long, shady line at the potato store or clothes distribution depots. No, he surmised they were there because they’d been herded like cattle.
The sun’s rays scorched the ghetto streets, biting through Paul’s uniform and making his brass buttons burn. It was exceptionally hot for September. He scowled as Chaim Rumkowski appeared on a podium behind a lectern. Unable to control his tears, weeping like a child, and opening and closing his mouth as if catching flies, the elderly man was, at first, incapable of speaking.
Paul had come to know the leader of the Judenrat as an aggressive, domineering man, thirsty for power, impatient, loud and vulgar, and intolerant of any dissension. His tone this morning, however, was soft and sorrowful, as he asked his fellow Jews to hand over their children.
“A grievous blow has struck the ghetto. They are asking us to give up the best we possess – the children and the elderly.”
The gasps from the crowd continued, as did Rumkowski, who became ever more fervent as his speech went on…
“… I never imagined I would be forced to deliver this sacrifice to the altar with my own hands. In my old age, I must stretch them out and beg … brothers and sisters, hand them over to me! Fathers and mothers … give me your children!”