The Twisted Patriot

by Pirate Irwin

  Sebastian was horrified at his story but saw little wrong in the route he had taken, only he was distressed at the extent of Herzog’s sense of guilt at what he had done and the measures he had gone to, to try and remedy them. Again he patted him on the back in an effort to console him, though it would take a lot more than that and he reasoned that while they were both fighting for the side they should really be opposing, Herzog’s decision had been taken out of guilt while his was borne out of the basest of reasons, to simply survive.

  “Herzog, how long have you been out here? A year and you are still alive, doesn’t that suggest to you that you are going through purgatory but ultimately you are going to fight your way through it and not just give up? You will be able to live with that, Herzog, because you have the instinct of the innocent that when all this shit is over and if Germany is the loser you will be of great need as an example of how bigoted racist ideals forces its intended victims into the harshest of decisions, and you will be able to release any residue of guilt remaining by speaking about those. For that alone, Herzog, you must battle through these days of inconsolable grief so you can achieve that – keep a target in your mind, not one of a man in the sights of your rifle but a longer one of what your life can be like in peacetime, for that is most important, and after all, conjures up positive images amidst all the negative actions we are forced to carry out every day we wear this uniform, or indeed any other one,” Sebastian whispered to him gently, and Herzog for the first time during their conversation smiled, forcing his frozen lips wide, which provoked them into bleeding but he sucked gratefully at the warm liquid as it dripped into his mouth like Jesus on the cross imbibing the vinegar hoisted to him by the Roman guard. Sebastian, while satisfied Herzog was not going to do something stupid, waited nonetheless for Berthold to return from his rounds of his fellow soldiers, and in good typical Berthold style he did not come back empty-handed. The ever-resourceful lance corporal had scrounged 10 cigarettes, half a bottle of vodka and a mouldy but what passed for edible half a loaf of brown Russian bread. This cheered up Herzog even more and Sebastian was thankful that it was the jocular Hanoverian with whom his Jewish friend was teamed up with rather than several of the others, who while good in the field lacked something in the personal touch when holed up as they were now. Another more selfish reason Sebastian stayed with Herzog was that his story had set him off again on thinking about his own and what was he doing wearing the enemy’s uniform, no matter who it was against. Would an excuse that he was merely doing what any normal person would have done after being arrested by the Gestapo, and presented with stark choices of life or death chosen the former, stand up? For him it still washed, but the sense of the water turning from soap suds into something rather more rank was growing.

  *

  “Rupert, you take your squad in on the left side of the village; Beckmann, you go to the right and I will bring my squad in through the centre,” ordered Eric, addressing Sebastian and the other platoon commander Lieutenant Siegfried Beckmann.

  This was to be their first proactive foray since the snows had melted and the sludge left behind which had made the roads practically impassable had finally disappeared, bringing the early spring sunshine onto their backs and turning their pallid gaunt faces into a healthier bronzed colour, though they would need a lot more rations to restore their physique to its previous fitness. However, urged on by more hysterical commands from Hitler and his nodding generals back in Berlin, who had no idea of the real level of battle readiness of their troops, field officers like Eric, who understood the situation far better than the fat cats back in the capital or indeed at headquarters miles behind the frontlines, found there was to be no questioning of them and they simply had to execute them to the letter. The Führer wanted Moscow taken before Christmas and all before it to be swept aside and laid waste, such was his fury at the failure to do so the previous year, though his attention was soon to be distracted by the symbolic nature of the city far to the south, Stalingrad. However, for the moment it was Army Group Centre who had attracted his unwelcome attention once again and thus it had fallen to Eric to take a small village north of the city of Tula, which lay less than a hundred kilometres from Moscow, and in which there were reported to be a large group of Soviet soldiers prepared to defend it to the last man. Eric had bravely suggested simply bypassing it, but it had been rejected. The Führer was intent on wiping out anyone that stood in his way and besides there was no need to rush, as Moscow was all but certain to fall as he had been assured by his top generals that it would require a mere mopping up operation, because villages such as the one Eric had been ordered to attack held the more organized groups of the Soviet Army, with what was left in Moscow being no more than a rabble. Eric had returned from his meeting with General von Pressner depressed and frustrated that not even a relatively independent minded man such as his commanding officer could see that such intelligence was probably way out of date and the thought that it would be a vital step on their progress to take Moscow was clearly some propaganda chief’s dreamt-up line back in Berlin. Still, he had been saddled with it and while he moaned privately to Sebastian, he did not let on to the rest of the company, Beckmann included, though he too was equally sceptical about the usefulness of taking the village as the intelligence he had gathered from a prisoner they had seized was that the place was virtually deserted and the only resistance they were likely to face were from some partisans who had retreated there during the winter months and possessed very little ammunition or weapons.

  The approaches to the village were well covered with thick foliage and trees which afforded those attacking an advantage although it also gave the defenders a useful cover for positioning snipers, but the most difficult stage would be on entering it because then it would be house to house fighting. That invariably took time and also usually heavy casualties on both sides as it was fought to the death with the defenders spurred on by their unwillingness to give an inch while the attackers were placed in the unenviable position of having no room for mercy as the slightest sign of charity could lead to them being killed even by a wounded enemy. This was not to say that certain members of the company didn’t relish the job of killing those damned Bolsheviks and Slavs, who were also part of the Untermenschen class, but to the large part it was just another day of senseless killing which had them going through the motions like automatons, barely requiring a briefing before they took up their positions, so inured had they become to the death that surrounded them and the lack of basic human qualities they had been brought up to observe and respect. Even the devout Christians among the men were now seeking less solace in their rosary beads or prayer at the end of the day or when the sun came up; there was nothing God could do about this, he hadn’t exactly saved many lives so far and appeared to be, like his Greek ancestor Zeus, prepared to sit on the sidelines casting his favour on one side first and then the other the next while enjoying the slaughter from above. If anything, the lack of spirituality in the Nazi regime had been the most effective part of their credo as it didn’t take long out on the Eastern Front to lose your faith. The Desert War and even the Western theatre had at least had a measure of chivalrous behaviour but this arena was devoid of any such feeling and inevitably it had an impact on the men fighting in it, ironically, given the atheist nature of the party this was of all their military expeditions “THE crusade” as they bid to wipe out Bolshevism.

  The company were about three miles from the village but as had been hoped, all three wedges made rapid progress to the edge of their target; the partisans if they were still there had not bothered to place any lookouts or snipers to hold up any attack. The village looked rather larger than they had been told and was in good shape, certainly on the outskirts, with tidy little stone cottages, surrounded by neat little gardens and various vegetable plots making it look to Sebastian’s eyes something resembling a little village in Cumbria and he thought what a pity this is all going to be destroyed by the end of the day. Having met no
resistance whatsoever, both Beckmann and Sebastian were at a loss as to what to do next as they could hardly batter down doors and spray the cottages with bullets nor use flamethrowers if all the buildings held were innocent villagers. Neither could they saunter down the main street like a liberating army just in case they were being lured into a trap and were decimated in the crossfire, so having consulted with Beckmann on the radio, Sebastian called in to Eric, as he was holding back ready to launch his attack once the enemy believed they had the other two wings beaten back.

  “Eric, it’s Sebastian here. We’ve met no resistance at all and Beckmann and I were wondering whether we should just return to you and press on to another village or go through it anyway, just in case there are enemy soldiers hiding out. What do you suggest?”

  Sebastian could hear the crackle over the radio and wasn’t certain whether Eric had heard him and was just about to repeat his request when his friend’s voice came on over the line.

  “Suggest you take the village in any case. Start door to door searches and shoot unless the inhabitant is deemed by you to be harmless,” rasped the order.

  Sebastian wasn’t certain he had heard him correctly, how on earth were they to tell who was harmless and who wasn’t; by gender, age, able bodied or not.

  “With great respect, Eric, how are we to discern who is and who isn’t?”

  “Use your judgement, Sebastian. You have been blessed with that, I thought, or so you always liked to boast. If you don’t think you can use it, then just shoot the whole bloody lot, nobody’s going to ask any questions if that happens, enough has already been done in this bloody war for one village not to matter a jot,” came back the reply which shocked Sebastian, not because of the order, as it was commonplace, even in the Wehrmacht, but that even through the bad line he could tell Eric was cracking. Eric had always tried to avoid these situations but then he had had Honigmann as his superior and he could console himself that he was just doing his duty as ordered, whereas now the onus fell on him fairly and squarely, and he had come to realize that he was no different to the cold professional types such as his predecessor. Sebastian groaned despairingly, mumbled his assent down the radio and relayed the order onto Beckmann, who said he was surprised and would ask Eric for confirmation as it was most unlike him, though he understood that it was a difficult call to make; given the lack of people around in the village, it could quite easily be a trap. Beckmann called Sebastian minutes later and confirmed that was indeed the order and he would start sweeping through his side of the village immediately. Sebastian replied he would start doing the same and brought forward his three flamethrowers and gave them their orders while assigning five men each to accompany them and left them in no doubt that it was flame first then grenades and finish it off with machine-gun fire. None, not even his most green recruit, questioned the brutality of the order, nodding blankly and running off with his little group to start the work and try and get it over with as quickly as possible. Sebastian himself felt reluctant to carry it out, thinking maybe he could hold off and wait for Eric to come forward and he could try and reason with him, but the tone of his friend had been such that he was more likely to be taken out and shot himself as an example. So having tried to relieve his nerves with a cigarette, he finally raised his arm and lowered it as a sign to the men to get going. He had kept Herzog, the radio operator and Berthold behind, along with another 10 men as a reserve and they followed at a distance the three groups up ahead as they went from one house to the next setting it on flames, but then the men up ahead stopped after several houses had been set alight and one from each unit came running back. All three looked bemused, informing Sebastian that none of the dozen or so cottages had held any occupants. Sebastian took off his cap and stroked his hair as he assessed the situation before calling Beckmann to ask him if he was encountering any sign of human life. He got a negative from his fellow Lieutenant and was on the point of ringing through to Eric when it became painfully clear they were not the hunters any more but the hunted, as fire came from behind him, dropping three of his reserve, followed rapidly by rockets hitting the buildings around him, mercifully not inflicting any other casualties. Sebastian ran for any cover he could find, along with Herzog, Berthold, the radio operator and the rest of his reserve while the trio who had run back to him made their way as best they could back to their respective groups of six. Sebastian called Beckmann, demanding whether he had come under attack, this time receiving a positive response and that he had already lost a third of the complement of his men. “Stay there, Beckmann,” ordered Sebastian, acknowledging with a grim smile the colourful reply to that statement of the obvious.

  Next he called Eric, urging him to bring his troops forward to relieve them but there was no reply and he ordered the radio operator, Private Becker, to keep trying while he tried to sort out some form of plan to get them out and help Beckmann at the same time.

  The incoming fire was incessant, making it impossible to get a runner to go round the disparate groups of his men holed up in their various hideouts and coordinate a response to the enemy. The only thing he could think of was to blast holes in the walls adjoining the houses and keep moving in the direction of the centre of the village and hope that they could reunite there, luring the enemy into the web as they too met with little resistance. He signalled to two of his reserves, Privates Schorner and Hagen, and gave them their orders to pass on to the others. Schorner tossed with Hagen for which side of the street they should take, with Hagen losing by having to get across to the opposite side. Sebastian ordered the other five reserves to cover Hagen as he ran helter skelter, zigzagging over the potholed earth covered street and thanks to them he made it while Schorner had the relatively easier task of making contact with the one group on their side of the street. Hagen made his way back to Sebastian to say they would meet in the centre while Schorner also got back safely. One unit on the other side of the street didn’t even make it into the next cottage as a rocket landed right in their one blowing them to pieces, but little by little the others inched their way through to finally make it to what passed for the centre of the village. There was still no sign of Beckmann, though Sebastian could hear firing going on at the other end of the village while the rocketing on his end had now died down and he prayed the Soviets had fallen for the idea that they had wiped him out. Becker prodded Sebastian and told him he had Eric on the line at last and that he was on his way, Sebastian nodded but was more concerned by the absence of Beckmann and decided he couldn’t wait for Eric’s Blücher-like arrival late on the scene and ordered Sergeant Kreisner to take a flamethrower and six men and try and make contact with the other platoon as radio contact had gone dead. Meanwhile Sebastian organized his defences against the attack that must be pending and thought how ironic that we are now defending the village against those who lived here and are doing their very best to level it; ah the beauty of war and its strange humour, he reflected. He placed half his troop on either side of the square and waited for them to arrive, which eventually they did and in none too intelligent a fashion as the shabbily dressed partisans, thankfully not regular soldiers, marched up the street as if they were the conquering army. Sebastian waited until they had assembled in the square before giving the order to open fire and a murderous combination of grenades and machine-gun fire and a couple of bazooka rounds hailed down upon their previous attackers, leaving them no room for escape as they desperately tried to exit but found no succour to their woes. It was all over in minutes as the hotch potch of women, men and children fell in their various dramatic and ghastly styles to the ground, some seeking comfort in holding onto their nearest companion as they greeted death together, almost as if there was consolation in that. Sebastian waited, though, to see if there had been a rear guard but soon realized that they had just been naïve and over confident at such an easy victory over the Fascists. Pity them and their arrogance, sneered Sebastian, but quickly pulled himself together as he recalled that Kreisner had not yet returned
and there was no firing coming from the other end of the village. Without radio contact he was deaf and blind and was loathe to send more men out to recoup those already gone just in case he lost them as well. Where the hell, more to the point, were Eric and his men, as it had been long enough for them to arrive. He called on the radio but there was no reply and he feared the worst though he refused to let the rest of the battered company see it, but he could feel that there was little support for them to come. All he had were 13 men left if Beckmann and his men were wiped out, plus Kreisner’s and Eric’s, to face whatever remained of the partisans from the other end of the village and they appeared to be much more professional than their dead comrades who lay scattered all over the square, like curled up leaves fallen from the autumnal trees, never to taste the glory of growing and blossoming in the warm sun of spring, though they would inevitably be replaced by year’s end just as these partisans would be, such had been the success of Hitler’s crusade against them – for Untermenschen they fought remarkably well, thought Sebastian sarcastically.

  “Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Here they come!” cried Becker excitedly. Sebastian looked sceptically at his radio operator but then stared in the direction he was pointing to and saw that Eric and Beckmann and Kreisner were indeed making their way towards them with the battered survivors of their respective platoons. Beckmann was badly beat up, that was for sure, while Eric had taken a bullet to the shoulder and Kreisner had only two of his men still with him. Beckmann was holding his left arm, though there was little use in that as it was completely shattered. It looked like the brave Lieutenant had got his ticket out of the war, lucky bastard, surmised Sebastian. Eric embraced him fondly and slapped him on the back saying there would undoubtedly be a promotion or better in the offing for him, but Sebastian shrugged him aside, concerned by the look in his friend’s eyes which had the look of many an officer and private he had encountered before. The man had cracked, he had not been mistaken, though he had hoped that his voice when he issued the orders hours earlier had been distorted by the radio. He would take him aside later but first he wanted the wounded taken care of and seeing that Eric was incapable of delivering such orders, he instructed the wounded to be laid out inside the little chapel that overlooked the square and for the medical orderly, the other two had been killed, to patch them up as best he could, making Beckmann the priority as he looked like he would die through loss of blood. Having attended to that, he sought out any extra provisions they could forage from the houses and arranged a partitioning of them. However, Eric, seemingly restored to his senses, ordered that they enjoy a victory feast for that was the least the men deserved after such a brave recovery. In taking the village they had bestowed honour on their company and with a much in the end greater cost to the partisans, as they had not allowed one to escape and it appeared had wiped out the local resistance. To Sebastian and indeed Herzog it was quite the reverse, for if this was to be the typical resistance put up by ordinary villagers, barely trained in the art of using a weapon, then the battle for Moscow promised to be a lot harder than Hitler back in his comfortable headquarters could have or would let himself imagine. While the villagers had little to lose in defending their villages, for to concede them was effectively the end of their lives anyway, the German army could not afford to be taking such a large proportion of casualties every time they attacked. Replacements were not infinite and with the option of drafting in Romanian army regiments in their place barely worthy of the name, the two outsiders of the company had reached the same conclusion – Moscow, and indeed the Soviet Union, would remain unconquered, or put another way, Germany was not going to win the war. That was an equally uncomfortable thought for both of them just as much as for the Aryan Germans as they came to terms with their own consciences.