by Eric Meyer
“Would you like to shoot them yourself, Sir?”
He smiled. “I’m just a policeman, Hoffman, why would I do that? That’s a job for a soldier.”
But he didn’t argue very forcefully. I suspected that he was more policeman, than SD thug. The security services had a reputation for having both in its ranks, from the former SD leader Heydrich, an intellectual and sportsman, to Muller, the notorious head of the Gestapo department of the RSHA. Muller was the very personification of the Gestapo, murderous to anyone who fell foul of the Gestapo, he was known to be almost as vicious and ruthless with his own people. He had little allegiance to any political persuasion, other than the one that would give him career advancement. More than one party member had gone on record as stating that they could not understand how so odious an opponent of the movement could become head of the Gestapo. He had once referred to Hitler as ‘an immigrant unemployed house painter’ and ‘an Austrian draft-dodger’. Hardly the way to ingratiate himself with the leaders of the Third Reich, yet his tireless brutality had taken him to the very top of his profession. Muller would of course have shot the prisoners, probably tortured them first for fun.
We returned to the Kubi and drove on, keeping close to the trees so that we could duck inside at any time. For several kilometres, we saw no sign of any soldiers, neither the enemy nor ours. Suddenly, an artillery barrage bellowed out from within the trees about a kilometre in front of us. The distant ground suddenly boiled with tanks and men, our own Panzers were attacking, I felt like cheering. We hid in the trees and watched the glorious sight of an SS Panzer Regiment charging across the plain. They were accompanied by STuGIII assault guns and behind them dozens of other self-propelled guns and Sonderkraftfahrzeug 251armoured half-tracks. Das Reich Division was at last attacking in strength, putting a stop to the Russians being able to pick them off piecemeal with their constant harrying attacks. Thirty or more T34s raced out of the wood to intercept them and we could see the Soviet tanks in the southwest manoeuvring to join the battle. We were in a unique position to observe the action, on a low hill where we could see for several kilometres north, south and west. The Soviet artillery kept up a ferocious barrage, but so far failed to hit any of our tanks or half-tracks. The T34s joined in, but were equally unsuccessful. Our own tanks scored heavily, decimating the Soviet armour, the STuGIIIs kept up a furious rate of fire and our artillery, concealed in a distant wood, kept up a ferocious rate of counter battery fire that annihilated the Russian guns. For ten minutes the battle raged but it was one sided, we’d caught the Russians unprepared this time and even when their tanks joined in from the southwest there were not enough to turn the tide. A green flare burned brightly in the sky and the Russian survivors turned abruptly and headed east. Behind them they left more than half of their vehicles burned and broken on the battlefield, yet our own losses were light, no more than three tanks and a STuGIII destroyed. My platoon shouted with joy, I almost felt like joining in it was a redoubtable victory. I told the men to get into the Kubi and we drove across the steppe, straight for our own troops. I was counting on the distinctive shape of the Kubelwagen to protect us from itchy trigger fingers.
A Tiger commander, an Obersturmfuhrer, watched warily as we approached, I could see the co-axial machine gun keeping us covered.
“Who are you?”
I explained that we had been caught behind the lines. The presence of an SD Sturmbannfuhrer helped persuade him that we were genuine and I sensed the finger on the trigger of the machine gun relaxing.
“My congratulations on beating the Russians, it was very impressive,” I said to him sincerely.
“Thanks, but we’ll need to do more than this, they’ve retaken Kursk.”
We were all shocked. Kursk had been bitterly fought over, but our assumption was that it would only be a matter of time before we used it as a springboard for the renewal of the offensive east.
“So what was this lot all about?” I asked him.
“The Soviets had pushed a salient through our lines, they threatened to divide us. Before we can even think about Kursk we needed to re-unite our armies, now that we’ve beaten them back we can regroup to try and take Kursk again.”
So we had to do it all again. I was still new to this, but I knew that my platoon had been involved in the bitter fighting around both Kursk and Kharkov. The bitter disillusionment on their faces was a testament to the failure of our armies to make progress against the Soviet juggernaut. He gave us directions to Deutschland HQ and I thanked him, Voss drove us away in silence. Von Betternich leaned towards me.
“Hubris, Hoffman. Just when you think things are going well, the gods snatch victory away from you.”
“I thought it was the Soviets that did that,” I snapped back
He smiled. “Yes, of course, you are right.”
We drove on in silence. Soon we started to reach the first signs of our division, supplies, ammunition and replacements being rushed backwards and forwards. We stopped next to a Feldgendarmerie post and were given directions. Ten minutes later we drove into the temporary camp of SS Deutschland Regiment, the men scattered to the cookhouse to find food. Von Betternich disappeared into the radio tent, presumably to contact Berlin. Muller appeared, he was in a foul mood.
“Hoffman, where the hell have you been?”
I explained that we were heading for SS Der Fuhrer Regiment when we got caught in the Russian advance.
“That’s all very well, but we had our hands full fighting the Russians, as did Der Fuhrer, while you were messing around with that damn SD man. I’ve a good mind to charge you for dereliction of duty.”
“Look, Sir, I don’t want this assignment any more than you do. I’d much prefer fighting with the regiment, but the Sturmbannfuhrer insists that this mission is essential for the morale of the whole division. We’ve lost some good commanders, Sir, including our own CO.”
“To partisans, yes, they’re always active behind our lines. You know how I feel about this, I’ll speak to von Betternich later. Dismissed, Hoffman, get yourself something to eat.”
I went to the cookhouse and scrounged up a bowl of stew and some black bread, our division seemed to fight on the same fare every day. Mundt was still there with the platoon.
“What do we do next, Sir,” he asked me anxiously. “The men are not happy about this SD business, some of the other units are starting to haze them about it.”
I was tired of the whole business too, but I couldn’t admit it to an NCO. “Anything you can’t handle, Scharfuhrer?”
“Not yet, Sir, but it could get worse. They’re asking if our men are here to fight the enemy or to grass them up to the police.”
“It’s to be expected, I suppose. I think things are coming to a head, the CO is pretty fed up about losing half a platoon to the SD too. Give it a little longer, maybe we’ll be able to get out of it.”
Mundt nodded, but he was anything but happy.
In the late afternoon, Muller called me to his temporary office, which was a tent fastened to the side of his Horch armoured car. When I went in, von Betternich was already there. It was obvious that they had been arguing. The policeman nodded to me in a friendly way, Muller just glared.
“I want to clear this nonsense up once and for all,” he spat out. “This investigation is interfering with the smooth running of this unit, it’s got to stop and I want all of my officers available to fight. That includes you, Hoffman.”
“Sir!” I acknowledged.
“So Sturmbannfuhrer von Betternich, would you kindly find someone else to assist you and leave my men to carry out their duties, clear?”
“Of course it’s clear,” the SD man smiled. “But equally, of course, I have my own orders from Berlin.”
“Berlin is a long way from here. They have no idea of what kind of a war we are fighting.”
“I’ll make your feelings known to them, Sturmbannfuhrer,” von Betternich smiled gently.
Muller knew he was being played but
wasn’t sure how far he could go. I pitied him, he was honestly trying to maintain a fighting regiment under difficult conditions. As it happened, an unexpected arrival took the decision of how to cope with the SD out of his hands.
“Achtung!”
There was the sound of vehicle engines and he opened the tent flap to look out. A convoy of vehicles was coming through the snow, in the lead an armoured half-track flying a general’s pennant. A senior officer sat rigidly in the rear looking around at the camp. We all recognised the figure of Obergruppenfuhrer und General der Waffen-SS Paul Hausser, the commander of Second SS Panzer Corps. Muller’s face dropped as the vehicles braked to a halt and soldiers jumped out and took up position around the General’s car. Then he got out and waited for Muller to approach. He was a tall, immaculate man, wearing a general officer’s greatcoat with contrasting lapels. Even in the snow his jackboots gleamed, at his throat was the Knight’s Cross he had won during the Barbarossa campaign. Under the command of von Manstein, he was regarded as a superb officer and clever tactician, the right man to turn the campaign on the Eastern Front around. He was well-liked and widely known in Das Reich by the nickname ‘Papa’. Muller rushed up to greet him, clicked his heels to attention, right arm straight up in the salute.
“Heil Hitler, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer, this is an honour.”
Hausser casually returned the salute. I’m on an inspection of our front line troops, Muller, tell me, how is everything going?”
He took Muller by the arm and led him away in the direction of our vehicle park to look at our half-tracks. All around the camp, men were running to get into their units ready for inspection, pulling on jackboots and helmets and shouldering their weapons. Hausser’s entourage followed while he went around and looked at the vehicles, spoke to officers and men and generally made himself known to all of us. As much as anything, it was clearly a morale-boosting mission and it worked.
I was waiting with von Betternich next to Muller’s armoured car when the General and Muller came back. They went inside the tent and von Betternich was called in. I heard them talking in quiet voices for a short time, something about Kharkov, then the voices became heated. Finally, Hausser snapped out an order of some sort and they all went quiet again. After a few more minutes, the tent flap opened and Hausser emerged, said a friendly goodbye to the troops and drove off in his half-track. Muller called me into his tent with von Betternich.
“It seems that your platoon is to continue to assist the SD,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He nodded to von Betternich and gave him a half salute. “Sir.” Then he left.
I raised my eyebrows.
“It seems that the Reichsfuhrer has decided to promote me, Hoffman, I am now an Obersturmbannfuhrer.”
“Congratulations, Sir.”
“Thank you, yes. But I think my promotion is to facilitate this investigation more than for any reason of merit. Now, in the morning we will try again to meet Standartenfuhrer Werner Stettner, the CO of Der Fuhrer Regiment. Let’s hope the Russians do not get in our way this time.”
I went to rejoin my platoon, the men had rigged a series of lean-tos, that made our previous accommodation in the church at Korenevo seem positively luxurious. Mundt had made sure that I had a screened off shelter for myself, although I noted with amusement that it was furthest from the campfire that they had built. I decided to try and enjoy some of its warmth before I got some sleep. Merkel poured me a mug of coffee unasked. I was astonished. It tasted like coffee.
“Where the hell did you get this?”
They all looked away and I set my mind to thinking, who would have had access to real coffee on the Eastern Front in the middle of winter? Then it hit me, of course!
“I trust General Hausser can spare this?” I asked them. In the darkness, a soldier said ‘General Who?’ But I let it go. It was worth it for the coffee.
“What’s new, Sir?” Mundt asked. “Can we go back to being full-time soldiers again?”
“I’m afraid not, Sergeant. Not just yet. The Obersturmbannfuhrer wishes to visit Der Fuhrer Regiment in the morning.”
They raised their eyebrows when they heard his new rank.
“Maybe this mysterious shooter will put a round through his brain,” someone murmured.
That of course was always a possibility and was in part why we were escorting him. But in that case, it would be proved that one of our own people was doing the killing which meant that the mission really was fully justified. Why the hell couldn’t they leave aside their stupid squabbles until the war was over? The Russians wouldn’t leave me alone, that was for sure, but at least my own people could. That wasn’t too much to ask for, or perhaps it was. I almost wished for von Betternich to meet with an accident, at least a slight wound so that he could be recalled and leave me to continue with my military career. But somehow he seemed to possess a charmed life, a way of deftly avoiding the potholes that life put in his way. Perhaps it was what he had learned as a policeman. Or maybe within the Sicherheitsdienst.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I can give vent to my inmost feelings only in the form of humble thanks to Providence which called upon me and vouchsafed it to me, once an unknown soldier of the Great War, to rise to be the Leader of my people, so dear to me. Providence showed me the way to free our people from the depths of its misery without bloodshed and to lead it upward once again. Providence granted that I might fulfill my life's task-to raise my German people out of the depths of defeat and to liberate it from the bonds of the most outrageous dictate of all times... I have regarded myself as called upon by Providence to serve my own people alone and to deliver them from their frightful misery.”
Adolf Hitler April 1939
I was awoken in the morning with another mug of General Hausser’s excellent coffee. I buckled on my kit and rounded up the men ready to accompany von Betternich. Our Kubi was still serviceable, though very battered, and we piled into it ready to leave. The SD officer limped out, I noticed his lapels bore the badges of his new rank. He was reading through a sheaf of reports and barely waved a good morning to me. We drove off, Der Fuhrer was encamped only two kilometres away and we soon arrived in their headquarters, part of an old wayside railway station. A train was stationary in the siding, the engine steaming away in the cold air while soldiers worked to unload supplies of food and ammunition. We were shown into the CO’s office, obviously it had been the stationmaster’s in happier times. Standartenfuhrer Werner Stettner sat on a peculiar chair in front of the fireplace, a fire was blazing in the hearth and his orderly was throwing extra logs on the blaze. An adjutant was standing nearby, an Obersturmfuhrer, with a sneering expression on his face.
“Gentlemen, do come in,” he shouted to us.
Mundt waited outside the door with Merkel and Beidenberg while Voss stayed with the vehicle. Stettner was an interesting sight. A handsome, lean man of about thirty-five, his uniform was battered and well-worn. At his throat, a Knight’s Cross hung at a careless angle and he was unshaven. His feet were on a wooden stool warming at the fire, his jackboots on the floor. Next to him was a battle-worn MP38 together with a creased leather belt holding a pistol holster. The picture was clear, probably deliberately, he was a fighting soldier with little time for the formalities.
Von Betternich and I came to attention. “Heil Hitler,” we chorused.
Stettner just waved, as if Hitler was of no consequence.
“What can I do for the SD?” His expression was friendly enough, I noted.
My eyes were drawn to his chair, virtually a throne. It had an enclosed base decorated with carvings, the arms and back were also carved. All the woodwork was painted in gilt with rich, red velvet upholstery over the arms and back, though it was very worn and threadbare.
“We are investigating the untimely deaths of several senior officers,” von Betternich explained.
“There’s a war on, my friend. Doesn’t the SD know that?”
“Of course, Sir. May I h
ave permission to look at your unit’s movement records, perhaps I could speak with some of your men?”
Abruptly Stettner stood up, his expression was no longer friendly.
“Now listen to me. To the east, we are barely holding, Kursk has already fallen. SS Leibstandarte and some of our Wehrmacht units are defending Kharkov, but reports suggest that the Russians are trying to encircle us and take the city, which could mean the loss of two divisions of troops unless by some miracle they can get out before the Russians complete their manoeuvre. Der Fuhrer has orders to prepare to go to their assistance with other elements of the SS Panzer Corps. Now, you come here and tell me that you want to waste our time by inspecting my records and talking to the men. What would you say if you were me, Obersturmbannfuhrer?”
He’d picked the wrong man to reason with. “I’d obey my orders, Sir,” von Betternich said.
Stettner was silent for a moment, and then he nodded. “Very well, but not now, you’ll have to wait. You may return after the matter of Kharkov is decided and conduct your investigation then, not before. Clear?”
“Of course,” the SD officer said. “Thank you, Sir.”
We saluted and walked out of the office, I was astonished that the policeman had given up so easily. I should have known that he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“I got what I came for, Hoffman, don’t worry. After they’ve finished their little squabble over Kharkov we’ll be back and do as the CO suggested.”
I half smiled at his description of a little squabble, several armoured divisions, perhaps even two Soviet armies as well, manoeuvring to take or defend the city. I didn’t however give him the satisfaction of asking exactly what he’d got from this visit, he’d tell me when he wanted to, not before. Merkel was chatting to a Sturmscharführer, they seemed to know each other. We walked back to the Kubi.
“Merkel, you are a friend of that NCO?”