by Sven Hassel
Triumphantly Pluto peered into the bare cell before he ordered:
‘Good, prisoner. Go to bed, and stay there till you hear reveille.’
He walked out of the cell, banged the door shut, turned the huge lock twice and with exasperating slams shot the two bolts home.
Pluto loved the keys so much that he placed them on the table in front of him in the guard-room. He had often been behind bars himself, and for the first time in his life he was in possession of the keys of a cell. A little later with great delight he started ringing up all the other NCOs on duty in the company billets. He wanted to know the numbers on their nominal rolls. That was a privilege the guard commander was entitled to avail himself of. Every time he got connected to a company he inquired:
‘Your voice sounds sleepy. Have you been sleeping?’ (Of course they all had.) ‘I’ll consider if it is my duty to report to the orderly officer about these slips of yours. What’s that? “Who is talking?” The guard commander, of course. Who do you think?’
When he had talked to every one of the eight companies, he started at the beginning again. This time he asked the confused NCOs about the state of their sick-parades. Also for a list of the company’s arms and ammunition stores; the list to be delivered at the guard-room by 8 a.m. That gave the poor NCOs more than enough work for the night.
Tremendously satisfied with himself Pluto leaned back in the big chair, threw his enormous feet on the table and grabbed the pornographic literature. He was just about to light an opium-cigarette when two recruits came crashing through the door. Between them was a very excited figure in a flowered cotton dress, a scarf on its head and infantry boots on its feet.
‘Herr Guard Commander,’ announced one of the recruits. ‘Tank Gunner Niemeyer humbly reports that in the course of our patrol we arrested this person trying to scale the barracks wall by No. 3 Company billets. The person refuses to give any information and gave Tank Gunner Reichelt a killing punch in the face. His eyes and jaw have swollen dreadfully.’
Pluto blinked a little, but quickly pulled himself together. We had at once recognized Porta, Pluto pushed a chair forward and said with a smile:
‘Madam, will you take a seat?’
‘Shut your fat gob, or I’ll shut it for you!’ was Porta’s disrespectful answer to the newly promoted guard commander.
Pluto waved the threat aside and shoved Porta into the chair.
‘Excuse me, madam. Are you by any chance looking round for your husband? My name is Obergefreiter Gustav Eicken, guard commander, husband-collector, in whose sensitive hands the security of this barracks lies. Or perhaps, madam wishes something else?’ With a sudden movement he flung up Porta’s skirts so that his sharp knees were revealed in his long army underpants.
‘Ah, the latest in Paris fashions no doubt? Very charming, madam. Not every lady possesses such dainty things.’
Porta hit out drunkenly at the big broad-grinning docker, and missed. Abruptly he gave up the struggle.
‘God, I’m dry! Bring some beer.’
It all ended by us stowing Porta away in an empty cell. He was too tight to be transported to the company billet. He had been touring a series of shady pubs, from the ‘Red Rose’ to the ‘Merry Cow’. According to him he had had enough girls to last him for two years. In his manoeuvres with the last girl he had had his uniform stolen. The only things left of his kit were his long underpants and infantry boots. These he swore he wore in bed. Somebody had written with oil paint ‘Merry Cow’ on his bare bottom.
Pluto put him in the guard-book as in by 11 p.m., one hour before the night passes ran out. That at that time he had not yet been promoted to guard commander he completely ignored.
The remainder of the night we played pontoon with our prisoner’s money. As Pluto said, Reinhardt didn’t need money now.
Guard inspection by the orderly officer came at 8 a.m. and most of the twenty minutes were taken up by explaining what lay behind Pluto’s report.
When at last Lieutenant Wagner got the facts into his head, he fell nearly weeping into his chair and signed his name helplessly under Pluto’s long description in the guard-book of one of the most eventful nights in the depot’s tedious history.
The dangerous point for Wagner was that he had not heard the shot. He must have been either asleep or absent without permission. His knowledge of Colonel von Weisshagen convinced him that the latter had been sitting patiently for hours waiting for the report that he as duty officer, should have given at once in such circumstances either to the commandant or his adjutant. And it was now six hours since the rifle had been fired. Lieutenant Wagner would be posted to a combat-unit now as sure as eggs were eggs.
As the tragedy dawned on him, he opened and shut his mouth without uttering a sound. But he let out a bellow like a bull’s when Pluto smiling reported that the commandant had been well pleased with the patrol, and that this fact would have to be endorsed in the book by the orderly officer. Gnashing his dentures together, the broken Wagner staggered away to face what the day held in store for him.
4
One sunny morning we collected them from the prison. In a bumping lorry they took their last ride.
They helped by pushing the vehicle free when it stuck. They seemed to push their bodies forward to help the twelve bullets find their way.
It happened in the name of the German people.
State Murder
Porta was the last one to crawl into the big Krupp diesel lorry. The vehicle creaked and grated as the gears changed. We swung out from the company billet and made a short halt at the headquarters guard to collect the driving-permit.
On our way through the town we shouted and waved at girls. Porta started telling a dirty story. Möller asked him to shut up. A short but violent quarrel sprang up. It was interrupted as we drove into the infantry’s barrack square. We halted in front of the Standort guard-room.
Sergeant-Major Paust, in charge of our party, jumped out of the driver’s seat and rang the bell. Six of us jumped out and followed Paust into the prison’s reception office. Here we found a couple of pale infantrymen who served as prison warders. Paust disappeared into an office to get the papers from the infantry sergeant-major. He was a huge bald fellow with nervous twitches around his eyes.
Interested, Porta asked:
‘What do you fellows do in the can here to pass the time?’
‘I shouldn’t worry yourself, if I were you,’ ventured an old fifty-year-old corporal. ‘Your job in this profession lasts only for a moment. We work here day after day. We have known this lot for months. We’ve nattered with them for hours. They’ve sort of got to be friends. If only they were the last ones – but to-morrow there’s another batch due. And so it goes on. It’s just crazy.’
‘Karl, you talk too much,’ warned another middle-aged NCO. He pushed his friend aside and eyed us cagily.
Curiously, we looked round the small guard-room. Dirty cups and plates stood on the table. On one wall hung a blackboard with the names and numbers of the cells and the prisoners. Every name marked with green meant that its possessor was condemned to death. I counted twenty-three. Red marks denoted prisoners awaiting confirmation of their sentences by court-martial. There were plenty of them. Blue marks meant the prison-camps; there were only fourteen of these.
On the opposite wall hung two big photographs of Hitler and Keitel. They stared indifferently at the board with its record of the doom of human beings.
‘What the hell’s happened to them?’ Schwartz wanted to know. ‘It’s yellow peas for dinner to-day; if we’re late we’ll be gypped out of our rations and get landed with the left-overs.’
‘You’re a fine lot,’ said the elderly corporal. ‘Thinking of food when you’ve this job to do. I’ve been to the pisshouse twenty times since yesterday because I’m so nervous. And all you can think of is yellow peas, God help you!’
‘And why not, Grandad?’ grinned Porta. ‘Behave yourself. You foot-sloggers are too soft.’
‘Since when were you promoted to the class-conscious ranks of bastards with stars and cords and the right to order me about?’ Porta wanted to know.
‘You’re a swine,’ Möller said with finality.
‘That’s your opinion. Just wait till the musketry practices have finished, then I’ll tell you something, you mongrel.’ Porta smiled his evil smile and Möller carefully moved to the other side of the table.
The prison staff nervously made way for him. They seemed afraid to touch us.
The rattling of keys came from the office next door. A woman cried out.
Pluto lit an opium-cigarette and sucked voraciously. Stege kept looking down at his feet in their clumsy but unbelievably shiny ammunition boots. An infantryman sat at the table doodling nervously. The whole atmosphere was electric.
The ’phone rang. The senior NCO answered and stone-like he sat to attention in his chair:
‘Standorts prison, infantry barracks, Obergefreiter Breit here. Yes, sir, yes, the detail is here. Everything is ready. Certainly, sir, the family will be informed as usual. Nothing else to report.’
He replaced the receiver.
‘They are waiting for you at ‘Senne’, ’ he said over his shoulder.
‘By God, this is like a registry-office wedding, everyone is waiting,’ said Pluto. ‘I wish they’d hurry, then we’d get it over with before we get the jitters.’
No sooner had he spoken than the door opened. A girl from the army telephone service came in with a grey-haired NCO. They were both dressed in the denims used for barracks duty. They were condemned prisoners. Behind them came a cavalry sergeant-major and Paust with some papers under his arm. He tried to look unconcerned but his watery blue eyes blinked nervously.
The cavalryman looked up the register and asked:
‘If you have any complaints, speak up now.’
The prisoners said nothing, but stared wildly at the five of us standing with our steel helmets and rifles.
Without apparently understanding what they did, they signed the register.
Paust and the cavalryman shook hands as they said goodbye. We almost expected them to say ‘au revoir’ and thank you.
We filed out with the prisoners in the middle and got into the lorry.
The soldiers in the truck helped the girl politely inside although the old NCO was more in need of help.
‘Ready,’ cried Paust, and we started with a jerk. The guards at the gates stared frightenedly after the big diesel lorry as it swung with exploding exhaust out on the road towards Sennelager.
The first part of the journey we travelled in silence staring shyly and with curiosity at the two prisoners. Pluto broke the silence first. He offered them the packet of opium-cigarettes.
‘Have a fag, it helps.’
Both grabbed their cigarettes and smoked greedily.
Porta leant forward.
‘Why are you getting it?’
The girl let drop her cigarette and started sobbing.
‘Never mind, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ consoled Porta. ‘I only wanted to know how we stand.’
‘You are a stupid swine,’ shouted Möller and hit out at Porta. ‘What’s it got to do with you? You’ll get to know soon enough at ‘Senne’. ’
He put his arm round the girl’s shoulders.
‘Take it easy, sister. He’s a stupid lout who’s always poking his nose into affairs that don’t concern him.’
The girl wept silently. The engine droned. The lorry was climbing a steep hill. Paust looked at us from the cab window. We all sat smoking. The Old Un pointed to a heap of gravel at the roadside. Beside it stood a few prisoners-of-war and home-guards.
‘At last they’re mending the road. High time too. We always bump like hell on this stretch.’
Bauer wanted to know if Porta was coming to the ‘Red Cat’ that evening.
‘Both Lieschen and Barbara are coming. There’ll be fun and games all right.’
‘Of course I’m coming,’ said Porta. ‘But only till ten. Then I’m off to take part in the opening of a new whore-house in Münchener Gasse.’
An ambulance streaked howling past our slow lorry.
‘God’s sake, what’s happened now?’ The Old Un said.
‘There’s always something sinister about the siren of an ambulance,’ Bauer said uneasily.
‘Maybe a birth with complications,’ said Möller. ‘My wife had a haemorrhage when she had the second one. They rushed her into hospital. It was touch and go for her and the baby.’
‘Have you seen the new girl who’s arrived in No. 2 Company’s canteen?’ asked Pluto. ‘She’s quite a girl.’
At that moment the lorry drove into a deep rut in the road and we were all thrown in a heap. Furiously Porta shouted at the driver:
‘Can’t you see where you are going, you dim clot?’
The driver’s answer was drowned in the roar from the engine.
The sun had come out from behind threatening clouds.
‘The weather is clearing,’ said Stege. ‘It’ll be fine this afternoon. I’m off with a sweetie I met the other evening.’
Porta started laughing.
‘Why the hell do you always take your tarts out rowing? You must get damp seats. All the boats the old bastard hires out are half-full of water. You’d do better coming with me to Münchener Gasse. Bring the girl.’
‘Your heads are always full of girls,’ snapped Möller irritated.
‘Now listen here, your reverence,’ Porta’s voice sounded threatening. ‘Lately you’ve been bellyaching too much. We don’t interfere with your crossword puzzles or your cosy meetings with the chaplain behind closed doors. Have your fun and we’ll have ours. Soon we’ll be back at the front and then we’ll see what’s in you, you Schleswig bible-puncher.’
Möller shot up and furiously lashed out again at the tall, thin Porta. But Porta ducked and Möller’s hefty fist just missed him. Neatly, the Berliner hit Möller in the throat with the edge of his hand and Möller fell in a heap.
Stege pushed him away to make room for our feet.
‘It’s his own fault,’ said The Old Un. ‘Even if we must allow for his age. He could easily be the father of most of us. I’ll talk to him when we get back.’
‘I’ll grind his sour face one day,’ said Porta with a ferocious grin.
Pluto said he had heard we were to be transferred to a big tank factory where we should try out the new Mark VI tanks called ‘King Tigers’.
‘Your friend ‘Backside and Boots’ no doubt told you that,’ jeered Stege.
‘What the hell are you needling for all the time?’ Flaming with anger Pluto turned on Stege.
‘And you ask that, you fat Hamburger slob!’ exclaimed The Old Un. ‘Is this an ordinary firing-practice? Have you no feelings, man?’
To our astonishment the old NCO interrupted The Old Un.
‘Wouldn’t it be nicer if you all were quiet.’
The lorry turned off along a secondary road rutted by heavy lorries and tanks.
Möller stood up and withdrew as far from the rest of us as possible. He looked more sour than ever.
It was the young girl who broke the silence.
‘Has any of you a cigarette or an aspirin?’
We stared at her for a few seconds as she sat there in the old denim dress.
Stege handed her a cigarette. His hand shook as he lit it with the lighter he had bought in France three years ago.
Furiously we all searched our pockets.
Porta shouted forward to the driver:
‘Any of you got an aspirin?’
Paust pushed the sliding window open and mockingly growled. We could see all his strong white teeth:
‘The only tablet I have is in the magazine of my .38. That’s a sure cure. Who’s got a headache?’
‘The girl.’
Long silence. Then an embarrassed:
‘Oh.’
The w
indowpane was slammed. He chose to ignore Porta’s ‘Dirty dog!’
‘It doesn’t matter about the aspirin,’ said the girl apathetically. ‘It’ll soon go away.’
‘Will one of you do something for me?’ asked the old NCO. Without waiting for an answer, he went on: ‘I come from the 76th Artillery Regiment. Will you go and see Sergeant Brandt of No. 4 Battery? Tell him to make sure my wife gets my money. She lives with the wife of my eldest son in Dortmund. Will you do this for me?’ He turned to Stege:
Stege stammered:
‘Yes, yes, of course. What do you—?’ Pluto interrupted:
‘He’ll only make a mess of it, old chum. I have a pal in the 76th, Paul Groth, staff-sergeant. Do you know him?’
‘Yes, Staff-Sergeant Groth, I know him well. He’s in No. 2 Battery. Lost a leg at Brest-Litovsk. Remember me to him – the ‘gas-meter man’. That’s what I was before the war,’ he added.
The girl looked up with interest, life returned to her dead features.
‘Will you do something for me, too?’ she asked breathlessly of Pluto. ‘Give me a piece of paper, please.’
At least ten pencils and notebooks were handed to her. The Old Un pushed his way to her and gave her an army letter-card.
She wrote quickly and nervously, read the card through, sealed it and gave it to Pluto.
‘Will you send it for me?’
‘I’ll do that,’ he said shortly and put the letter in the pocket of his greatcoat.
‘You’ll get a bottle of Sekt if you deliver it personally,’ she said, nervously stammering, taking stock of the large docker in his oil-spotted tank battledress. He stood with his rifle in his hand, his steel helmet pushed back on his head, his legs splayed in their short shiny infantry boots. His black trouser-legs bulged like a pair of wide plus-fours. His short tunic, with the silver skull-badges on the lapels, was dragged down by the weight of his carelessly slung black leather bandolier heavy with the weight of the bullets peeping eagerly out of it.
‘I don’t want anything.’ It came with a stammer from the usually quick-witted fellow. ‘The letter is safe with me. I’m the best postman in the country.’
‘Thank you, soldier, I’ll never forget it.’
