by Sven Hassel
Olja is still breathing. He presses the muzzle of the carbine against her neck. A shot crashes. The skull splinters. Pieces of bone and brains spatter the room.
Porta looks at me. We say nothing but we are agreed on what is to be done.
Noisily they leave the hut.
A little white dog comes rushing around the corner. The cigarette-holder man kills it with a couple of blows from the butt of his carbine and kicks the body inside the hut.
‘It would be best to kill the child,’ he says when they have gone a little way. ‘If the Germans come he could identify us, you know.’
‘You are right,’ says the leader. ‘Do it then!’
The cigarette-holder man laughs his dry, rasping rattle of a laugh. It tails off in a gasp as he almost runs up against our Mpi muzzles.
‘Hi, there!’ says Porta, pleasantly, tipping his yellow hat to them.
‘Ooh!’ comes in astonishment from the cigarette-holder man.
‘Booh!’ laughs Porta.
‘We have Ausweis16 says the leader, nervously. ‘We are employed by the SD17.’
‘Like fuck you have,’ answers Porta, brutally, splashing him without warning across the face with his Mpi, The sight tears his cheek open.
I press my weapon into the pit of the cigarette-holder man’s belly, and snick the safety off.
‘Take it easy now, chum, or I’ll blow your guts out through your back for you.’
Like all killers he fears death greatly.
‘What are you up to?’ asks the leader, wiping the blood from his face.
‘Guess!’ laughs Porta roughly.
‘Shall we tell him?’ I ask.
Porta spits in the leader’s face.
‘You have Ausweis, you say! Employed by the SD, you say! You’re our friends, you say!’
‘Indeed we are,’ says the cigarette-holder man fervently, Panic terror is in his eyes.
‘Good, good! says Porta with a terrible grin. ‘Were you also friends of the two dear departed inside there?’
‘Traitors, they were,’ says the leader. ‘Communists, Soviet spies.’
Porta whistles in surprise.
‘And you two fixed their waggon for them? Sorry, sonnies, it won’t work. We’ve been following you boys all night. One thing, you two certainly know how to run a good exciting, dramatic liquidation-scene. Five stars you get from this reviewer.’
‘We were only obeying orders,’ stammers the cigarette-holder man, nervously.
‘Orders?’ sneers Porta. ‘Get your kicks from obeying orders, do you? See here, kiddies, we get paid for murdering. Paid by the German state, see? They’ve given us stripes on our arms and tin on our chests for it. We’re good at it, you understand! Now usually we only do it for money, but you boys you’re SD and you’re our friends. So for you we do it for nothing. Won’t cost you a penny to get your guts shot out. And by experts, too!’
We hear marching boots and the rattle of equipment coming up the path. The unit is on the move with the Old Man in the lead. I look quickly at Porta. He nods slightly.
‘On your way, friends,’ he says to the two executioners. ‘If you can really run you can save yourselves yet.’
They seem not to understand us for a moment. Our expressions are friendly. We seem to intend them well. Quickly, they turn on their heels and are off at full speed.
‘So long, boys!’ shouts Porta, tipping his cylindrical, yellow hat.
Our Mpi’s rattle. The two men fall and roll down the path.
‘What the devil’s going on,’ shouts the Old Man at our backs. He sees the bodies. ‘What’s all this?’ he asks, threateningly.
‘Couple of the heathen,’ grins Porta. ‘They’d just murdered a wife and husband. We ordered them to halt, but they wouldn’t. They ran and we opened fire, according to the manual.’
The Old Man looks at us suspiciously.
‘If you’ve fixed up a phony “attempted escape”, I’ll get you two a summary!’
Tiny gets up with a short laugh and shows us three gold teeth.
‘You fixed them up proper, all right. Nearly cut ’em in two. They must’ve been bleedin’ barmy to make a run for it!’
The boy is still sitting by his father’s body running his hand over the dead man’s hair. His hands are covered with blood.
‘I’m all alone now. Where must I go?’ he repeats the words automatically, stonily.
The Old Man picks him up and comforts him.
‘You’ll come with us!’
We bury the parents behind the house. We search the hut, but there is nothing worth liberating. There is not much water either. Two goatskins partly full.
‘They must have got water from somewhere,’ says the Legionnaire thoughtfully and continues the search.
We try to question the boy but he seems as if paralysed and will only repeat, ’I’m all alone now. Where must I go?’
We come up again on to the dreadful open stretches of rock and stones. In a kind of clearing we find the bodies of five Bulgarian soldiers. When we touch them they fall to dust.
‘Thirst!’ says the Old Man, laconically.
‘Deserters, most likely. Tired of war and all that shit,’ considers Porta.
Tiny looks for gold teeth. There are none.
‘Lefs get on!’ screams Buffalo desperately. He has become strangely thin lately.
The medic is going round the bend.
‘Finished! Finished!’ he keeps mumbling.
We are worn-out from thirst, and can only march a few miles at a time. After every break it takes rifle-butts to get us moving again.
A 500 is bitten by a scorpion and dies in terrible convulsions. Fearfully we stand around and watch him die.
During a rest period on the fourth day we are shocked by a pistol shot. The medical orderly has shot himself. He lies with his head in a pool of blood. The blue flies have already accepted the invitation to dinner.
‘That’s one way,’ says Gregor, in a death-rattle of a voice.
‘No silliness, now,’ whispers the Old Man, hoarsely.
We cannot summon up the strength to bury the medic. The red ants are quick on the job and will soon clear him away. In the course of a few days only a uniform and a skeleton will be left. We remove the bolt from his carbine, stick it muzzle down in the ground, and place his helmet on the stock.
‘Let’s get on,’ slurs Barcelona. He is using a rifle for a crutch. One of his feet is terribly swollen and gives off a stench of rotting meat.
In the afternoon Tiny and the white-haired ex-oberst begin to quarrel.; They look like a couple of birds getting ready to fight.
The oberst fires. The bullet burns across Tiny’s throat.
The Legionnaire lifts his Mpi and shoots the oberst down. He lies back down again quietly as if nothing had happened.
The oberst falls to his knees, both hands pressed to his stomach. Blood pours over his hands.
‘Murderers!’ he groans and falls forward on his face.
The little boy laughs suddenly. High and shrill. For a moment we look at him in surprise. Then we begin to laugh too.
The oberst lifts his head. His face is twisted. He looks for all the world like the clown in a circus. We laugh croakingly, like a group of maniac crows. The Old Man is the only one not laughing. He is watching the dead oberst as if he cannot understand what is going on.
‘The general died at goddam dawn!’ Buffalo screams madly, and kicks at the oberst’s head.
We never know who cuts the head off. Tango is about to kick at it when a burst from an Mpi smashes into the ground close to his feet.
‘Enough o’ that,’ snarls the Old Man, pressing a new magazine into his Mpi.
We come to our senses, and drop down where we stand. When the Old Man moves us on again four of us have died in their sleep.
Our feet feel as if we were walking on broken glass. In the afternoon we find a cactus, the juice of which is drinkable. The Legionnaire knows it from his time in the desert.
We feel so refreshed we march five miles more before having to rest again.
Porta marches in front of me, mumbling strangely to himself:
‘Snipe should always be allowed to hang. Plucking of feathers must be carried out with great care. The skin must on no account be broken. Wings can be chopped off. Allow the head to remain. The stomach muscle must be removed. The little villains often fill themselves up with sand. This does grit between the teeth when they are eaten but the rest should still be left inside the bird. Now tie a thin slice of fat around each beast. A little salt and pepper, and into the hot oven with the whole flock. For the Holy Elizabeth’s sake do not, whatever you do, allow them to remain there more than eight minutes. The sauce should be thinned carefully with just a smidgin of water. The rest is done at the table over a tiny spirit-burner. A pat of butter and two spoonfuls of cognac is not a bad thing. The cognac should be allowed to burn itself off. The burning cognac and butter give the little monster the true aroma.’
He marches along in silence for a while. Then he licks his lips and throws a glance upwards at the blazing sun.
He marches as if he were completely alone. Then: ‘I hope the hare has been allowed to soak for at least two hours in brandy and red wine. The onions we put into the butter. Eight ounces of pork, cut into large strips, should then be lightly boiled. Up then comes our swift-footed beast. Turn him nicely so that he is properly browned all over. A small handful of flour is then cast lightly on to the body. The whole must then be allowed to roast for a short time. Three glasses of red wine, a little soup, one clove of crushed garlic, and if you do not wish to incur the wrath of the Holy Mother of Kazan, do not forget the salt and pepper. Now allow the great runner to roast in the oven for about an hour, while the greens are being prepared: Ten ounces of mushrooms must be chopped as finely as if they were to be strewn upon the delicate breasts of a young virgin. Add to this: Chives chopped small. Then we must prepare the browned chopped onions. We remove the skin from eight seedless tomatoes and press them well. A little rosemary on top, and we choose our wine. For dessert I would choose Hamantaschen which your Jew consumes with delight at the great feast of Purim.’
‘What on earth are you drivelling about?’ I ask in wonder.
‘I was just fixing up a meal for myself in my well-appointed kitchen!’
‘Shut up, will you,’ says Gregor, with tears in his voice. ‘I’m nearly dying of hunger!’
‘If we ever get home again,’ says Porta, stopping for a moment. ‘I would recommend to your attention a dish of pike in butter-sauce, or perhaps blue trout, but you must make quite certain that the fish is served straight from the water in which it has been boiled and with the true Hollandaise sauce. For a second course you will not be disappointed if you decide on mutton ragoût prepared in the French style. This must however be served on earthenware.’
‘Between these courses you could take some Burgundian snails, in their own natural juices. They sharpen the appetite. If you choose the mutton you must, of course, finish the meal with crêpes flambées.’
‘One more word out of you and I’ll blast your bloody chops off,’ roars the Old Man, aiming his Mpi at Porta, who is just about to explain which wine he would choose for his recommended menu, and why.
A Fieseler Storch spots us. The pilot circles above us several times. We lie spread out on the top of a plateau, in a state of complete exhaustion.
The Old Man shoots off all our signals ammunition.
A couple of hours later the Storch is back. It drops skins of water to us.
The following day we have strength enough to continue our march.
An armoured column finds us. We can hardly manage to pull ourselves up on to the lorries which carry us to Corinth. We spend a few days in the infirmary. The little boy is taken over by the Greek authorities. We never know what becomes of him. The unit offered to adopt him, but the NSFO18 turned the idea down with a sneer. Adopt an untermensch? Permission not granted.
Once you have carried out an order for the SD you are tied to us for ever. Have you understood me? For ever . . . No one leaves the Security Services alive.
SD-Obergruppenführer Heydrich to SS-Hauptsturmführer Alfred Naujock,
April, 1936
The time is a little past eleven o’clock on the morning of a warm summer Sunday in 1944.
The streets of Essen are empty and deserted. An alert has been signalled. Everyone is in the cellars. No, not everyone! From Rottstrasse an SS-patrol emerges. Mouse-grey uniforms, and silvery death-heads shining in their caps. In front of them walk two thirteen-year-old boys with hands folded on the back of their necks.
The patrol turns down Kreuzekirch Strasse. A little way down the street they wheel in to a bombed yard.
‘Stand over there!’ commands the SD-undersckarführer, jerking the muzzle of his Mpi towards a soot-blackened wall.
The boys go over to the wall and stand against it They let their arms sink to their sides. Eyes, deeply sunk in skull-like faces, stare in terror. They are both quite small and terribly thin.
‘Faces to the wall!’ screams the unterscharführer in a shrill, penetrating voice. ‘Hands on your necks!’
The SD-men take a few paces to the rear, and lift their Mpig’s.
The boys begin to sob. They press themselves against the wall as if security were to be found there.
‘Stop!’ cries a voice, suddenly. A well-dressed civilian rushes across the yard.
‘What do you want, here?’ asks the scharführer, slowly lowering the muzzle of his Mpi.
‘Are you mad? You cannot shoot children like this!’
‘We can’t eh? We can, and we can do more than that, too!’
‘But they are only children!’ says the civilian, in an urgent tone.
‘Don’t bother me,’ answers the scharführer. ‘Looting during an air-raid is punishable by death on the spot I couldn’t care less if they were babies in arms’
‘I am Professor Kuhlmann, Oberstabsarzt and Superintendent of Support Hospital No. 9 here in Essen.’
‘Well now!’ grins the scharführer, looking round at his men. ‘None of us reporting sick just now, doctor.’
‘I forbid you to shoot these children! Do you understand me, Herr Scharführer?’
‘Forget the “Herr” part,’ the scharführer replies, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes. He lifts his Mpi and presses the muzzle of it into the professor’s stomach, ‘Now listen to me, you sad sack. To me you’re just a dumb civvy, and I’m orderin’ you to clear out of here, and quick!’
‘I order you to let those children go,’ shouts the professor, going red and white by turns.
‘I’m counting to three’ snarls the scharführer, ‘If you ain’t gone by then you’ll be keepin ’em company. One . . .’
The professor moves backwards, slowly, step by step.
The scharführer smiles with satisfaction, and brings his attention back to the two boys at the wall. Their thin bodies shake with convulsive sobs.
‘Fire!’ he shouts. The command echoes round the yard.
Five Mpi’s bark!
The boys collapse to the ground. A great pool of blood forms under them, flooding over the concrete of the yard.
The professor runs from the place, his hands pressed tightly over his ears.
The SD-men swing their Mpi’s carelessly back on to their shoulders, and march noisily out of the yard. They have done no more than carry out orders.
1. Kübel: Heavy-duty, rough country troop transporter.
2. Blitzmädel: Telephone girls.
3. Kraft durch Freude: Nazi holiday organization.
4. 500’s: Penal troops.
5. Mpi: Maschinen-pistole (German): Submachine-gun.
6. LMG: Leichtes Maschiriengewehr (German): Light machine-gun.
7. Junos: A popular cigarette.
8. Grease-gun: slang for the German submachine-gun Model 40.
9. Morellenschlucht: Military execution square in Berlin.
/> 10. Gekados (Geheime Kommandosachen): Secret command documents. of thorns and dry, tightly intermeshed, ghost vegetation.
11. See: SS General.
12. SMG: (Schweres Maschinengewehr): Heavy machine-gun.
13. HKL: (Hauptkampflinie): Main front line.
14. There were two legionnaires,
Michel et Robert,
who deserted the fort,
made a break for le mer.
No more on patrol will they strive,
Nor stand guard at their post in this life.
There were two legionnaires,
Michel et Robert.
Adieu, mon général,
Adieu, Herr Leutnant • • •
15 And if I do wrong why then I can say,
As always ‘’twas the Fatherland’s order today’.
It is so good, and to soldiers appealing.
For innocence is such a wonderful feeling.
16. Ausweis: Identity cards.
17. SD (Sicherheitsdienst): Security Service.
18. NSFO (Nationalsozialistischer Führungsoffizier): Political (Nazi) officer.
THE FLEAS
Two bodies swing gently to and fro in the warm breeze. Dry beams creak.
No. 2 section is sitting under the gallows throwing dice. Tiny throws a worried glance upwards.
‘’Ope them two dead bleeders don’t fall down on our ’eads sudden-like!’
None of us knows who has strung up the German general and the Russian woman captain. Everyone and everything in this village has been killed. Even the cats and dogs. The company has been sent out on a mopping-up operation. This village was already a ghost-town when we arrived in it this morning.
The corpses have begun to smell in the heat.
There is a larger gallows set up behind the school building. Two partisans and an SS-man from the Mussulman Division swing from it. The Mussulman is still wearing his grey fez. A great number of civilians dangle from the branches of trees in the woods.