by Sven Hassel
‘All right, all right, don’t panic,’ said Porta, equably. ‘Plenty of time yet. No need to get your knickers twisted . . .’
As he spoke, he curled his finger round the trigger. There was one short, sharp crack and the unsuspecting sniper crashed down into the forest with half his head blown away. The Legionnaire nodded.
‘Good. Let’s have your book and I’ll mark it up.’
Porta handed over one of the little yellow notebooks that were carried by all the crack shots in the Army for the purpose of recording their scores. The Legionnaire marked up his latest success and flipped back through the preceding pages.
‘Not doing so badly,’ he commented.
‘I’ve got just as many with my steel wire,’ said Tiny, jealously. ‘And that takes a helluva sight more guts, let me tell you . . . no sitting about on your arse with your eye glued to field glasses – you got to be right out there in the thick of it, right up close . . .’ He nodded aggressively at the Legionnaire, and then, struck by a sudden thought, turned back to Porta. ‘Hey, what about his choppers?’
‘Never saw ’em,’ said Porta, regretfully. ‘The bastard never smiled . . . Why don’t we go take a look at him? Fifty-fifty?’
Tiny needed no second invitation. They went crawling off into the pine woods, risking their necks for the chance of some gold fillings.
Lieutenant Ohlsen was also taking the opportunity to stretch his legs.
‘Take over for a bit, will you?’ he said to Spät. ‘I’d better go and see what that old woman of a Colonel wants. Shan’t be away long.’
He leapt out of his hole and set off at a run away from the trenches, making for the comparative safety of the wooded area where the Colonel had set up his headquarters. A machine gun began spitting out a steady stream of luminous projectiles, but the man was obviously no expert and they fell short, landing harmlessly some way off.
Lt. Ohlsen arrived panting at the chalet and asked to see Colonel von Vergil. The Colonel showed some reluctance to be disturbed, but eventually, and with an air of indifferent boredom, condescended to hear Ohlsen’s report – which he himself had been demanding as a matter of urgency only a short time since. The seven officers with him listened with an equal lack of interest.
They were seated round a table, laid with a thick cloth and supporting a rich spread of food and wine. Ohlsen, feeling himself to be in some kind of wonderland, took in all the details as he talked: cut glass vases full of flowers; a shining crystal chandelier; blue porcelain crockery; batmen in white coats hovering respectfully at every elbow . . . For a moment his voice faltered, as he felt he must surely be talking in his sleep. It seemed hardly possible that vicious slaughter and luxurious dinner party could be taking place simultaneously, only yards away from each other.
As he faltered, Colonel von Vergil screwed in his monocle and took stock of this insolent lieutenant who had come hot foot from the fighting to interrupt his meal. He looked first at the thick crust of mud on his boots, then let his gaze move slowly up the filthy black uniform, creased and torn, and stiff with the accumulated dirt of several months’ hard wear in the front line. The death’s head insignia of the Hussars, yellowing and rusted, grinned mockingly at him; proclaiming without shame that it was a long, long time since it had been polished to the looking-glass shine laid down in Regulations. The soiled red ribbon of the Iron Cross ended not in a medal but in a fraying tattered fringe. The Iron Cross itself had been lost some time back when the Lieutenant’s tank had gone up in a sheet of flame. The left sleeve of his greatcoat was hanging by a few threads. The leather flap on his holster had been wrenched off. In place of an officer’s belt, he was wearing one that should have belonged to an ordinary common soldier. His right hand was black with congealed blood.
The Colonel let fall his monocle and turned away with his top lip curling in distaste. It was as he had always suspected: these officers one found at the front had no sense of style, no sense of rank. They were not the type of people one would care to know socially – obviously, or they would not have been at the front in the first place. The Colonel himself was there only through the grossest of mistakes and the most ludicrous bungling by some cretin in the Bendlerstrasse.
His regiment, the 49th Infantry, was both rich and aristocratic, and until now it had seen no front line action except for the occupation of Denmark and two days in France before the armistice. Life was easy, and life was opulent.
And then came the fatal day when the blundering idiot in the Bendlerstrasse had chosen to promote the Regiment’s commanding officer, Colonel von der Graz, to the rank of brigade general, and had sent him off with an infantry division to the Balkans. That was only the start of it. The full tragedy of the situation had not at once come home to the bereaved 49th, then happily installed at Breslau. For some time they had lived in the belief and hope that the Colonel’s successor would be chosen from amongst their own qlite. They had two lieutenant colonels who were due for promotion to full colonel, and the more venerable of these, whose connections were unimpeachable, had even gone so far as to announce in advance the changes he intended to make when he was in charge of the Regiment.:
The dream had been shattered one unforgettable Friday morning, at twenty minutes to nine – a time and date that were imprinted on the memory of every officer in the Regiment, for at twenty minutes to nine their new Colonel had arrived to take over. A Colonel whom nobody knew and whom nobody wanted. He had come straight from active service in Demjamsk. There was none of the dilettante about him: he was tall and craggy, and tough and outspoken, and he wore a patch over one eye.
Throughout that fateful Friday he roamed about the barracks with a black frown of displeasure gathered on his lined forehead, and his nose to the ground like a dog on the scent of trouble. One of the orderly room officers, seeking to ingratiate himself, struck on the bright idea of introducing the new Colonel to the Regiment’s wine cellar, which was famed for miles around, and which was stocked with sufficient delights to gladden the heart of any connoisseur. Perhaps the Colonel was not a connoisseur. At any rate, he merely picked up one or two of the dusty bottles, read the labels, raised a cold eyebrow at the officer and marched out without a word. It was that eyebrow, together with the total lack of comment, which really rattled the officer. An hour later he packed his bags and departed, anticipating what he felt to be a certainty.
It was late in the day before the Colonel ceased his wanderings and seated himself in his predecessor’s chair, behind the large acajou desk. The majority of the officers were already in the Casino, bravely attempting to carry on as usual, but the champagne tasted somehow different and the charms of gambling seemed suddenly to have vanished. The stormclouds were gathering about their heads, and they felt menace in the air.
And then the blow fell: the Colonel called his officers back to barracks. Most of them, in fact, had gone off for the weekend on a forty-eight hour pass extending from Thursday evening to any time on Monday. It was, perhaps, stretching things a bit, but it had long since been accepted as normal procedure in the 49th.
Having recalled as many of his officers as could be found, the Colonel then demanded to be told the exact total strength of the Regiment. This should have been kept daily up to date by reports from company commanders, but through some oversight – ascribed by the officers concerned to slackness on the part of the Hauptfeldwebels – it was many weeks since anyone had taken the trouble.
The Adjutant rang languidly round the various companies to see what the position was. His interest in the result was purely academic: he had an uncle who was a high-ranking staff officer in that part of the Army which still remained on German soil, and as far as he was concerned the new Colonel was of no more real inconvenience than a wasp in a jam jar. Noisy perhaps, but easily brushed aside.
With a slight smile on his lips, he reported back to the Colonel with the results of his telephone calls.
‘I regret to say, sir, that the exact strength of the Regiment canno
t at this moment be ascertained . . . The Hauptfeldwebels are all on 48-hour leave.’
The Colonel ran a thoughtful finger beneath the rim of his black eye patch.
‘Where is the Ordnance Officer?’ he asked.
The youngest lieutenant in the Regiment came up at a gallop. He saluted, breathlessly.
‘Lt. Hanns, Baron von Krupp, Ordnance Officer, sir.’
The Colonel looked at him a moment, then nodded slowly; and the way he nodded was rather sad and rather contemptuous.
‘So that exists here, too, does it?’ He grunted. ‘Well, Baron von Krupp, perhaps you wouldn’t mind checking that at least we have mounted a guard – or are all the sentries also on leave, I wonder?’
Lt. Hanns saluted again and turned to go, but as he opened the door the Colonel called him back and dropped another bombshell.
‘I want an accurate figure for the number of men at present in the barracks – and I’ll give you quarter of an hour to get it.’
The Adjutant smiled again, in his superior manner. He was pretty certain that the figure would prove to be only thirty per cent of that laid down by Regulations. It was many months since anyone had troubled about matters of such trifling importance. Breslau, after all, was not Berlin: no one ever came to Breslau.
Left with his officers, the new Colonel commented – politely enough, but not concealing his astonishment – on the fact that not one of them had a decoration from the front.
‘Oh, no, sir!’ said Captain Dose, rather shocked. ‘We’ve never been sent to the front, sir.’
‘Have you not, indeed?’ The Colonel slowly smiled, and it was a smile which chilled the hearts of his assembled officers. ‘Well, rest assured that that shall be remedied. You shall have your chance the same as everyone else. The war is not yet over . . . Before the night is out, I shall expect to receive from each one of you a request for transfer to active service at the front.’ He turned to the Adjutant, who was still suavely smiling. ‘I want you to send telegrams to every man on a 48-hour pass. All leave is cancelled forthwith. They are to report back to barracks immediately. And you can sign it in my name . . . I imagine you do know where these men can be found?’
The Adjutant just perceptibly hunched a shoulder. In point of fact, he had no idea where any of them were likely to be. The best he could do would be to send out men in search of them, which meant combing every bar and every brothel in the town. And that was likely to be a long and unrewarding task. He looked across at Captain Dose and decided to indulge in some buck-passing. Dose was known to be something of an idiot.
‘I think that’s your pigeon?’ he said pleasantly, and he picked up a sheaf of telegram forms and thrust them at the astonished captain. ‘Here. Send one to every man on leave. I presume you have their names and addresses?’
Too stunned to speak, Dose staggered from the room. He spent the rest of the night alternately looking up non-existent or out-of-date addresses in an address book and praying feverishly for a passing aeroplane to drop a bomb on top of the Colonel’s quarters.
Despite all his efforts, he succeeded in rounding up only nine of the I,800 men who had left the barracks.
On Monday, according to their habit, the remaining I,791 rolled up at various different times of the day, according as fancy took them, looking forward to a few hours of peace and quiet in which to recover from the debauches of the weekend. And for each man, a shock was in store: the entire barracks had been changed overnight from a free and easy and relatively luxurious hotel to a disciplined military establishment. On every officer’s desk was a terse note to the effect that the Colonel wished to see him straight away.
The youngest and least experienced dropped everything and ran. The more prudent put in a few telephone calls to see the lie of the land, and several of them at once fell gravely ill and were taken away by ambulance.
Amongst the former was Captain (Baron) von Vergil. Three hours after reporting back to barracks he found himself with orders to proceed to the Russian front. Promoted, it is true, to the rank of lieutenant colonel, but that was small comfort when he considered the probable horrors of front line warfare. Not only the danger, but more than that, the discomfort. He thought of lice and mud and stinking bodies and rotting feet, and it was almost too much for a white man to bear. He could have cried very effectively, had there been anyone likely to sympathize with him.
Eight days after the arrival of Colonel Bahnwitz, the 49th Infantry Regiment had disappeared, along with its famous wine cellar. Each officer had carried away his share of the booty. No one had left with less than two trucks full of wine, and the Baron had taken three.
And now here he was on the Eastern front, experiencing the harsh facts of warfare. In what must almost certainly have been record time he had succeeded in getting himself and his men hemmed in by the Russians. He had at once sent out furious appeals for help in all directions, and had been soothed and reassured: help was on its way. And now help had arrived, and what help it was! A tank company without a tank to its name; band of ruffians and scoundrels wearing filthy rags and stinking to high heaven. It was little better than an insult. Colonel von Vergil, after all, could not be expected to know that this band of ruffians, led by two tough and experienced officers, was a gift from the gods and probably his one chance of getting out alive. This one company, in fact, was worth an entire regiment of sweetly smelling, freshly laundered troops from a barracks at Breslau.
Colonel von Vergil sipped his wine and stared over his glass at the white ribbon fixed to Lt. Ohlsen’s left sleeve. On the ribbon were the words, ‘Disciplinary Regiment’, ringed with two mutilated death’s heads. The Colonel twitched his nostrils: the Lieutenant smelt of blood and sweat and looked as if he had not seen a bar of soap since the start of the war. The Colonel put down his wine and took out a cigarette to drown the stench of unwashed body.
‘Thank you for your report, Lieutenant.’
He paused a moment, lit the cigarette with a gold lighter and leaned back in his chair.
‘You are aware, of course, that according to Regulations each soldier—’ and here he leaned rather heavily and meaningfully on the word ‘soldier’–‘each soldier is obliged to clean his equipment and see to his uniform immediately after combat. In this way it will not deteriorate and should remain in much the same condition – allowing, naturally, for normal wear and tear – as when it was first issued. Now, Lieutenant, I think you’ll agree with me that one quick glance at your uniform is all that is required to convince anyone but a blind man that you have been almost criminally negligent in this respect. I am not at all sure that it could not even be classed as active sabotage . . . However—’ He smiled and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘In your case, I am prepared for the moment to be lenient and to take the view that it is more a question of fear and of personal cowardice that has led to this negligence on your part, rather than any deliberate attempt at sabotage. When a man’s nerve is gone, so I am told, he may well act in curious ways.’
Lt. Ohlsen’s face grew slowly scarlet – with rage, not shame. His fists clenched at his sides and his eyes glittered with a moment of fury. But he was too experienced a soldier not to have learnt self control. One word from this clown Vergil and Lt. Ohlsen could well find himself a dead man, and while dying for your country might still have a certain tatty glory clinging to it, dying for a fool like Vergil was just plain idiocy.
‘I’m sorry about my uniform, sir.’ The Lieutenant spoke stiffly, through half-closed lips. ‘The Company was sent out on a special mission three and a half months ago. We’ve been in continuous action ever since. Only twelve men survived from the original company, so I think you’ll appreciate, sir, that in the circumstances none of us has so far had much of a chance to sit down and polish our equipment or mend our uniform.’
The Colonel took another sip of wine and patted his lips with his white starched napkin.
‘Excuses are totally irrelevant, Lieutenant. Furthermore, I should wish to remind you that
when being interrogated you do not speak unless a question is put to you. I did not put a question to you . . . Should you wish to make any sort of observation, you should request permission to speak in the usual way.’
‘Very well, sir. In that case I wish to request permission to speak.’
‘Certainly not!’ snapped the Colonel. ‘Nothing you say can possibly alter the facts. Get back to your Company and never let me see either you or your men in that deplorable state again.’ He paused, looked across at Ohlsen with a triumphant gleam in his eye. ‘I shall give you until 10 a.m. tomorrow, Lieutenant, by which time I shall expect the matter to have been attended to. I shall come round personally to inspect you at that hour . . . And, incidentally, that reminds me of another matter that should have had your attention by now. Those Russian prisoners you had with you – have you got rid of them yet?’
Lt. Ohlsen swallowed, hard. He looked the Colonel straight in the eye.
‘Not yet, sir. No.’
The Colonel raised an eyebrow. He sat for a moment, tapping the ash from his cigarette and gravely staring into the ashtray.
‘Sabotage,’ he said at last, in a low, intense voice. ‘Sabotage and insubordination . . . But after all, we are human, Lieutenant. We give you once more the benefit of the doubt. Possibly we did not make ourselves sufficiently clear in the first instance . . . ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Lieutenant. That is an order. I shall expect the prisoners to have been hanged by then. I look forward to receiving your report in confirmation.’
Lt. Ohlsen licked his lips.
‘Excuse me, sir, but – I can’t just hang them – not just like that, in cold blood. They’re prisoners of war—’
‘Is that so?’ The Colonel seemed amused. ‘Whatever they are, Lieutenant, I believe that your first duty is to carry out the orders of your superior officers . . . not to question either the validity or the wisdom of those orders. I trust, for your own sake, that all is as it should be tomorrow morning.’ He waved his napkin as a sign of dismissal, turned back to the dinner table and picked up his glass. ‘Your health, gentlemen.’
