by Sven Hassel
When the SD had come the first time to collect Lt. Ohlsen for interrogation with Bielert, they had taken one look at his battered face and swollen nose and laughed until they almost cried.
‘What’s happened to you, then? Fell down the stairs, did you?’
Stahlschmidt had earnestly explained that the Lieutenant was subject to bad dreams and had thrown himself out of bed in a fit one night, which only increased the general hilarity.
‘It’s an odd thing,’ remarked one of the Unterscharführer, wiping his eyes, ‘how many of your prisoners manage to fall out of bed . . . I wonder you don’t start tying them in at night. For their own protection, of course . . .’
On the wall of Ohlsen’s cell, a father had scratched a few pathetic lines to his son, bidding him farewell and commending him to the care of the world. Erich Bernert, Colonel, 15.4.40 . . . Lt. Ohlsen wondered what had happened to Erich Bernert, Colonel, and whether his son was old enough to be told about him. And then he fell to thinking about his own son, Gerd, whose mother and her family had placed him in a National Socialist Education Camp near Oranienburg. Lt. Ohlsen was very well aware that once he was dead the leaders of the Hitler Youth would lose no time in taking Gerd to one side and poisoning his mind against him. Probably they had already begun on the task. Your father was a traitor, your father was an enemy of the people, your father betrayed his country . . . Yes, and then there were his in-laws, the proud-faced stiff-necked Länder, who never had approved of him. He could hear Frau Länder’s voice, ringing out rejoicing, as she heard the news of his death. A traitor to his country, he had spoken out against the Führer, and in her mind he would be no better than a sexual pervert or a murderer. She would tell her smart friends all about him, in hushed tones over the afternoon tea cups. She would revile him for having brought such shame upon the family, and yet at the same time she would dine out on the story for weeks to come.
Lt. Ohlsen began to feel that he was already dead and forgotten. He no longer cared what became of him, he was not scared of death, he almost welcomed the idea as a release from pain; and yet it was hard to sit alone in his cell and think of the world outside, laughing and crying, fighting and playing, totally unaware of his existence. How easy it was to cease to be! How swiftly people forgot, how little they cared . . .
And then, one day, he had some visitors. The Old Man and the Legionnaire came to see him, and at once the curtain lifted and he was no longer a ghost, he was part of the world again. He might not be able to walk out and join them, but at least they had remembered him. And although, obviously, neither the Old Man nor the Legionnaire could set him free or change his ultimate fate, he knew now that his treatment would not go unrevenged. And that made it easier. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that those who had sneered at you, humiliated you, beaten you half to death, were themselves under sentence of revenge and never even knew it.
The little Legionnaire had looked upon all three of them, Stahlschmidt, Stever and Greinert, and the Legionnaire would remember. The Legionnaire always remembered.
Stever was present throughout the visit, and he found himself strangely troubled by the sight of the Legionnaire. He had tried, at first, to join in the conversation, but the Legionnaire had coldly rebuffed him. Swallowing this treatment, Stever had then handed round his cigarettes, even though smoking was strictly forbidden. They had all looked the other way without even saying thank you.
At the end of the visit, the Legionnaire had looked up at Stever with narrowed, calculating eyes.
‘You’re Stever – that right? And the big fellow in the office, the one with three stars on his shoulder, that’s Stahlschmidt? And your pal I saw you with before we came in – the one with the crooked nose – he’s called Greinert?’
‘Yes,’ said Stever, wondering why it mattered.
‘Good.’ The Legionnaire nodded his head and gave a most unpleasant smile. ‘Good. I shall remember that. I never forget a name – or a face . . . Good day.’
And he had strolled away down the passage singing a song under his breath. Just loud enough for Stever to catch the words: Come, come, come, oh Death . . .
Stever returned slowly to Lt. Ohlsen’s cell. The Legionnaire had upset him. There was something unnerving about the man. Stever sat down on the edge of the bunk and looked across at Ohlsen.
‘That little chap,’ he said, warily. ‘That little chap with the scars all over his face . . . he a friend of yours?’
Lt. Ohlsen silently inclined his head. Stever picked nervously at an ear lobe.
‘Nasty piece of work,’ he observed. ‘Looks like he’d knife his grandmother in the back for half a fag . . . Gave me the cold shudders, he did. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was some kind of a nut. Probably certifiable . . . I don’t know how an officer like you can bear to have him around you.’
Lt. Ohlsen shrugged his shoulders.
‘I don’t “have him around me”. No one “has the Legionnaire around him”. He’s what you call a loner . . . He’s only got one real friend, and that’s death.’
Stever shivered.
‘What do you mean, death? I don’t know what you mean. Is he a murderer or something?’
‘Upon occasion. If he feels like it. He has been known to kill those who offend against his own personal code of morals. It’s a bit different from yours or mine, you see. Not nearly so elastic, for a start. The Legionnaire won’t accept any excuses. He sets himself up as his own judge and his own executioner. That’s part of his moral code: a man shouldn’t sit in judgment unless he’s prepared to carry out himself the punishment that he decrees . . . and the Legionnaire always is prepared.’
Stever wiped a hand across his brow.
‘People like him shouldn’t be let loose. He’s enough to give you the creeping willies . . . I tell you, I’ve met some bastard types in the R.S.H.A. before now, but that pal of yours really takes the biscuit. Makes your flesh creep just to look at him.’
Lt. Ohlsen smiled.
‘He’s not pretty, I’ll grant you that. But I think he has a certain sort of charm, don’t you find?’
‘Charm be buggered!’ said Stever. And then, suddenly fearful: ‘Here, you don’t think he’s got anything against me, do you?’
‘Why ask me?’ said Lt. Ohlsen. ‘He doesn’t let me into his secrets. No one ever knows, with the Legionnaire, until it’s too late . . . You may have remarked something else about him, Stever: he walks like a cat. No sound at all. He wears rubber boots, of course, but ifs more than that. It’s a skill he’s acquired over the years. He could walk up behind you on a gravel path covered in twigs and bits of broken glass and you’d never hear him coming . . . until it was too late.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said Stever, rallying a little, ‘I don’t see that I’ve done anything to upset him. I’ve never seen him in my life before, and I’ve no wish ever to see him again.’ He took off his helmet, wiped his head, put the helmet back on. ‘I’m only an Obergefreiter,’ he said, fretfully. ‘It’s not up to me to give the orders round here. I’m just the poor cunt that has to carry them out.’ .
‘Of course,’ agreed Lt. Ohlsen, with a comforting smile. ‘You don’t have to explain. You don’t enjoy kicking people in the guts, but you have to do it none the less . . .’
‘Exactly,’ said Stever. He leaned forward. ‘I’ll tell you something, Lieutenant. It’s Stahlschmidt, he’s the dangerous one round this place. He’s the Stabsfeldwebel, he’s the big wheel. So if the little guy with the scars feels like carving anyone up, do me a favour and tell him to go for Stahlschmidt, will you? Marius Alois Joseph Stahlschmidt, that’s his name, and he’s a bastard. You’re quite right, Lieutenant: I can’t stand to see men beaten up and smashed to pulp. Specially not officers. But what can I do? I’m only an Obergfreiter. And as a matter of fact, I’m thinking of putting in for a transfer. I tell you, I can’t take this place much longer. Not only that, but it’s asking for trouble, ain’t it? I mean, some of the blokes that come here are let o
ut again. Not very often, but it does happen. And what about the ones that are sent off to disciplinary regiments? Stands to reason SOME of ’em are going to survive, doesn’t it? And one day they’re going to come back here, I reckon, looking for Stahlschmidt. And when that happens, I’d rather be somewhere else, thank you very much. I mean, they’re not to know that I’m just doing my job and carrying out my orders, are they? I mean, you didn’t until I told you, did you?’
Lt. Ohlsen gravely shook his head. Stever suddenly stood up.
‘Look, I’ll show you. I was transferred here from a cavalry regiment in Paris.’ He pulled out his military notebook and thrust it at the Lieutenant. ‘See that? The 12th Cavalry, I was. And then the lousy sods sent me to this shithole . . . I didn’t want to come, make no mistake about that. Only thing was, I didn’t have no say in the matter, did I? I’ve often asked for a transfer, believe you me, but what can I do, Stahlschmidt doesn’t want me to go, he’s got used to me and he needs me . . . like when he goes too far and clobbers people too hard and they the on him, he’s got to have me to give him an alibi. Be a witness, like. Explain how it was only in self-defence and all that crap.’
‘I see.’ Lt. Ohlsen handed back the notebook. ‘Tell me Stever, don’t you believe in a God?’
Stever looked alarmed, as if he suspected some kind of trick, some kind of double meaning.
‘No, not really. Can’t say I do.’
‘Have you ever tried saying your prayers?’
‘Well—’ He shuffed his feet, uncomfortably – ‘once or twice I did, yeah. When I was in the shit up to my neck and couldn’t see no way out, like . . . But I can’t say it does much good, myself.’ Stever buttoned his pocket and turned with sudden enthusiasm to Ohlsen. ‘Now, you listen here, Lieutenant. I’m going to take good care of you from now on. Now we’ve had this talk and we understand each other . . . You want something to read, maybe? Most officers seem to get a kick out of reading. Well, I’ll nick a few books from somewhere and let you have ’em. Only take care Stahlschmidt don’t see ’em, for Cod’s sake . . . As for Greinert, you don’t need to worry about him. He’s got his own cells to look after. This lot down here, they belong to me . . . And just before I go, Lieutenant, I got a little present for you. Brought it specially for you, I did. I’ve had one or two, but these’ll last you a few hours.’ He slipped a packet of cigarettes under the mattress on the bunk and winked con-spiratorially at Ohlsen. ‘You and me can be pals, eh? Only smoke ’em near the air vent, so’s the smell don’t hang around, there’s a good lad.’
He moved towards the door, and then turned.
‘We get our chocolate ration this evening. You like chocolate, Lieutenant? I’ll bring you my ration. I’ll put it behind the water tank in the bogs, then next time you go for a crap you can pick it up, O.K.? And you will speak to your pal about me, won’t you? Tell him what I said about Stahlschmidt being the bloke he really wants. I don’t need to tell you, Lieutenant, I’m risking my neck for you, what with the fags and the chocolate and the books and all. Even talking to you like this, I could be nabbed for it . . . But somehow I liked the look of you right from the first moment I saw you. Don’t you remember I winked at you behind Stahlschmidt’s back? Don’t you remember that?’
‘I can’t say I do,’ admitted Ohlsen.
‘Well, I did,’ said Stever. ‘And another thing: don’t you worry about me getting the wind up, or nothing like that. I’m not scared of nothing and no one. Anyone knows me’ll tell you that. I got my two Iron Crosses in Poland, and it was tough out there. Really tough. Talk about the Russian front, that’s got nothing on Poland . . . I was the only man in all the Company that got the Iron Cross. You tell your friend that. And tell him I haven’t always been stuck in this dump. I been at the front, as well. At Westa Plata, for instance. I wiped out a whole section single-handed. That’s as true as I stand here, so help me. I got the EKII14 for that. And in Warsaw I destroyed four air raid shelters full of partisans. I destroyed four air raid shelters single-handed with a flame thrower. Not a single one got out alive. That’s when they give me the EKI. So you see, I know what’s what, and I can’t be accused of not doing my bit. I was mad to get to Stalingrad, only the bastards wouldn’t let me.’
He opened the door, went out, turned and put his head back in again.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘This friend of yours with the ugly mug . . . he looks like the sort that would use a knife?’
Lt. Ohlsen nodded.
‘That’s right. He’s a dab hand with a knife, the Legionnaire . . .’
Stever slammed the door and tottered on weak legs down the passage to the lavatory. He ran the cold water tap over his head for a few minutes, feeling suddenly sick and faint.
Lt. Ohlsen, alone in his cell, contemptuously brushed the blanket where Stever had been sitting, then stretched out full length on the bed, his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling with a smile on his lips. The revenge had already begun and he himself was able to take a hand in it.
Stever left the lavatory with his hair dripping water and hurried back along the passage to Stahlschmidt’s office. He burst in without troubling to knock at the door.
‘Did you see number nine’s visitors, Stabsfeldwebel? Did you see that little guy with the scars? Did you see the look in his eyes? Did you—’
‘Calm down, Stever. Calm down.’ Stahlschmidt gazed across at his subordinate through eyes that had narrowed to two calculating slits. ‘I saw them, but there’s nothing whatever to worry about. They’re people of total non-importance. And as for the one with the scars, in my opinion he was quite obviously drunk. Stark raving drunk. I watched him going down the passage. He was singing some sentimental rubbish about death.’
‘Death?’ whispered Stever.
‘Well, either he was drunk,’ said Stahlschmidt, ‘or else he’s suffering from shell shock. I shouldn’t wonder if that was it. He was practically bent double under all the decorations he was wearing. These front line heroes are usually pretty unstable types.’
Stever wiped his sleeve across his forehead and sank into a chair.
‘I don’t know about unstable . . . sodding mad, if you ask me . . . and dangerous with it! That man is dangerous, you mark my word! Christ almighty, with a face like that, he ought to be locked up . . . Did you see that scar he had? Running right down his face? It kept changing colour, I swear it did! And his hands, I’ve never seen anything like them!’
Stahlschmidt shrugged his shoulders.
‘You have a very vivid imagination, Stever. They just looked like hands to me.’
‘Hands that were made for strangling,’ said Stever, hoarsely.
Stahlschmidt made an impatient noise somewhere down the back of his throat and picked up the visitors’ permit that was lying on his desk.
‘Willie Beier and Alfred Kalb,’ he murmured.
That’s it!’ cried Stever. ‘Alfred Kalb! That’s him, I recognize the name!’
‘All right, there’s no need to shout.’
Stahlschmidt sat down and examined the permit through his magnifying glass. His face suddenly twitched.
‘Take a look at that signature,’ he said.
‘What’s the matter with it?’ asked Stever, squinting slightly.
Stahlschmidt looked up in annoyance.
‘Obergefreiter Stever, I have always regarded you as a reasonably intelligent person. Not brilliant, but not altogether moronic. You do have a certain semblance of brain. If you hadn’t, I’d have had you sent packing to a disciplinary company long ago. However, that’s beside the point. The point is, I don’t like working with idiots. They dull the intellect and they slow the reactions. And if you’re going to start fumbling and muttering and scratching your arse every time I put a simple question to you, then you might just as well get out of here right now before I throw you out.’
Stever licked his lips, nervously.
‘Let me have another look,’ he begged. ‘I’m – I’m not quite myself tod
ay.’
He snatched up the paper and examined it under the glass. He turned it this way and that, he took it to the window, he closed each eye in turn, he almost stood on his head, but still he could see nothing very remarkable about the signature.
‘Well?’ said Stahlschmidt.
‘Yes!’ Stever laid down the paper and the magnifying glass and stepped back a pace. ‘Yes, now you come to mention it there is something rather odd about it. I’m afraid my eyes aren’t quite as quick as yours. I’d never have noticed it if you hadn’t pointed it out to me.’
‘Hm! It’s taken you long enough to get there. Either you need glasses or your brain’s starting to go soft . . . You’ll have to get to bed earlier at night. Have a good eight hours’ sleep and don’t drink so much. Make sure your bowels are in good working order.’
Stahlschmidt opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a bottle of whisky and filled two glasses.
‘Still, I’m glad you tumbled it in the end. The signature has almost certainly been forged. It’s a good thing you spotted it.’
Stever’s eyes widened. His hand, which had automatically been stretching out for the whisky glass, wavered a moment, then changed direction and picked up the permit once more. For the life of him he could still see nothing wrong with the signature.
‘Out of all the permits we’ve had in this office,’ continued Stahlschmidt, ‘have you ever seen one that’s been signed by Standartenführer Paul Bielert in person? Not printed or rubber stamped, but actually written by him in pen and ink?’ He shook his head. ‘Of course you haven’t! The Standartenführer wouldn’t so degrade himself as to sign his name in person to every fiddling farting little bit of paper that came his way . . . Even I don’t, so I’m quite sure he wouldn’t. Even I use a rubber stamp.’ Stahlschmidt looked up at Stever and his lips twisted in what might have been a smile. ‘And so do you on occasion, don’t you, Stever? A rubber stamp with my signature on it . . .’
‘Me?’ gasped Stever, in tones of outrage. ‘I’ve never done that in my life!’
