by Paul Grant
Next thing the machine guns started up. Somebody had got twitchy and now all hell had let loose. I could have happily strung Fiebig up at this point. There was no time to spit out the expletives that were on the tip of my tongue. We were pinned down, out in the open with two prisoners and a huge fireworks display going on over our heads. The whip and whine of the bullets was getting closer.
Suddenly, one of the prisoners started to make a run for it. Amazingly, as he was still blindfolded, he managed to head towards his own lines. In all the commotion, we had taken our eye off the ball. I glared across at Meissner who had allowed his prisoner to escape. He shrugged his shoulders and took cover. His look told me he didn’t want to risk his neck retrieving the prisoner and, frankly, neither did I. With a constant stream of tracer and machine gun fire zipping in both directions, I didn’t fancy his chances.
The distinctive pump of mortar fire started up. The first salvo landed a little too close to our position for comfort. Now I was only concerned about saving our own necks. The second prisoner made a bolt for it. Their fate wasn’t my concern. I was far too angry that our mission had been compromised. Next to me, Wiebke’s Schmeisser chattered. I watched without real feeling as both of the blindfolded prisoners toppled like a pair of pins. I flashed Wiebke a disapproving look. He shrugged with complete indifference. It was harsh on his part, but we had learned to act first and ask questions later. I still had a momentary feeling of unease at the act. Tomorrow, or the day after, the two would be found shot in the back whilst bound and blindfolded.
After ten minutes or so the firework display calmed down. I was able to make my way forward and enable safe passage back to our position. I was raging mad about the botched operation and I let the immaculate Lieutenant Fiebig know my feelings in no uncertain terms. During my confrontation with Fiebig, I’d conveniently forgotten about the demise of the two Russian prisoners. We had become hardened to all the bloodshed. We regularly ignored the accepted conventions of war, and that was the same on both sides. That said, I still felt uncomfortable about what Wiebke had done.
CHAPTER 2
SEPTEMBER 1942, BERLIN
Ulrich Schultz could feel the excitement running through him. It wasn’t every day an eleven-year-old boy got to stand at the top of the Friedrichshain flak tower. He wasn’t enjoying the view over the city. He was staring wide-eyed at the massive 128mm ‘Dora’ anti-aircraft gun. He would dearly love to be here when the guns were blasting the Tommy planes from the sky. He couldn’t wait to tell his dad about this. He knew better than to mention it to his mother.
‘Right, boys, I think you’ve seen enough now. Time for you to get off the roof,’ Günther’s father said.
‘Can we come back tomorrow?’ Ulrich asked, half-pleading.
‘Sorry, Uli, I’d be on a charge if they knew you had been up here. Now, come on. Be gone!’ Günther’s father clapped his hands and went to chase them. The boys squealed with laughter as they headed for the stair well and down into the concrete bunker below.
On the stairs, they dodged the Russian prisoners carrying the giant-sized shells to the roof.
‘Last one to the bottom is a Stalin-lover,’ Günther shouted over his shoulder.
Ulrich, a couple of years younger than his friend, was still in awe at what he had just seen, and was, therefore, not quite as fast as Günther. He had pestered Günther to ask his father, a Lüftwaffenhelfer corporal, to allow him to see the giant flak guns first-hand. After days of nagging, he had eventually relented and the boys, especially Ulrich, were grateful he had. He could only imagine what his friends at school would say.
Eventually they reached the bottom of the five-storey tower and sprinted out into the trees surrounding it. Ulrich turned to take in the huge green monstrosity, reaching more than thirty metres into the sky. It looked like a giant castle from another time. It made him feel small and insignificant. He couldn’t believe only minutes before he’d been standing at the top of it.
Günther stood next to him, slightly taller. ‘I’ll be able to help dad up there in a couple of years.’
‘Two years is ages away. The war will be over by then,’ Ulrich said.
‘Did your dad write home recently?’
Ulrich felt his stomach grip. His father had been away fighting in Russia for so long now he’d almost forgotten what he looked like.
Eventually, he said, ‘He’s in Stalingrad, now.’ The longing to see him almost overshadowed the pride he felt in his father. ‘I hope he’ll get leave soon.’
Günther clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, we’d better be heading home, otherwise your mother won’t let you out again.’
‘Yeah, whatever you say.’
They started off over the park towards Lichtenberg. Ulrich saw a group of older boys approaching, some dressed in the uniform of the Hitler Youth (HJ). He felt his heart sink when he saw, among the group, Horst Stinnes.
‘Well, look who it is - shitty pants Schultz.’ The other boys laughed at Horst’s jibe. He was fourteen years old and as big as a man. So much so, his HJ shorts looked slightly ridiculous on him. Ulrich hated the boy with a passion.
‘Still hiding under your mother’s coat-tails?’
Horst Stinnes was in front of him now, poking him hard in the chest. The other boys surrounded them, laughing and sneering. Ulrich looked around helplessly; he couldn’t see Günther anywhere.
‘What do you want Horst?’ Ulrich tried to wriggle his way out of the circle.
‘Just a minute, little one. It’s about time you were joining us boys in the HJ. You need to do your duty for the Fatherland. Isn’t that right, lads?’
Horst’s mob shouted in agreement.
‘Leave me alone, Stinnes.’ Ulrich tried to struggle free from Horst’s grip, but he was far too strong.
‘Are you too good for the HJ, is that it?’
Ulrich didn’t know what to say. His mother had always prevented him from joining, just like she had stopped him being evacuated to the KLV camp when the bombs started falling.
Horst’s hold was getting tighter and Ulrich’s arm was starting to hurt.
‘Come on, all these boys want to know why you’re different to them. Why don’t you want to do your bit for the Fatherland?’
Ulrich couldn’t help losing his cool. ‘At least my dad’s fighting the Russians. What does your dad do?’
The crowd went silent, except for one or two small sniggers. Horst turned in the direction of the laughter and scowled. Looking back at Ulrich, his eyes were full of anger. Suddenly, Horst grabbed his throat and started to squeeze. ‘Say that again, you little pipsqueak.’
Ulrich felt himself struggling for air. He started to thrash his arms in protest, but Horst wouldn’t give up; his face was flush with anger.
Ulrich could feel himself becoming faint. He had to do something otherwise he felt like he would choke. He summoned up all his energy and took a mighty swing with his right foot, connecting just right with Horst’s bare knee. It did the trick, as Horst let go and started hopping around in pain. Ulrich saw his chance and fell to the floor, scrambling through the array of legs in an attempt to get away.
He was nearly free of the crowd, when a strong arm pulled him back into the middle of the scrum. When he turned around, Horst was over him. He didn’t have time to react to the mighty fist which struck his jaw. He fell to the floor, where the wind was taken out of him by a heavy boot to the stomach. He did his best to get to his feet, his head still ringing from the first punch, but he couldn’t. The kicks kept raining down on him.
Ulrich was hardly aware of the shout that came. He was barely conscious of the fact that the crowd had cleared and the punishment had stopped, but he didn’t remember much more than that.
***
Maria Schultz had never felt this angry. For sure, there was the time they’d daubed the crudely painted star on Rachael Stein’s door, but this was her flesh and blood. This was her boy. Maria wasn’t a violent woman, in fact, quite the opp
osite, but right now she didn’t feel responsible for her actions, especially if she came across the Stinnes’ boy. He was nothing but a bully and she intended to tell his mother just that. When Helmi had brought Ulrich up the stairs, all bloody and beaten, Maria could have wept. Now, she felt only anger.
She’d tried at Horch’s butchers, but she wasn’t in the queue there. Frau Liebke, from her apartment block, had tried to engage Maria in their usual pleasantries, but Maria held up her hand and said, ‘Not now, Frau Liebke. Have you seen Ina Stinnes?’ She had shaken her head, seemingly shocked at Maria’s short manner. Maria was finally pointed in the direction of the bakers and that’s where she headed.
She spotted Ina Stinnes near the front of the line, two other women huddled around her, feeding off the gossip, no doubt.
‘We need to talk, Ina.’
Ina Stinnes narrowed her eyes. ‘I was talking to my friends here before you rudely interrupted.’ She turned back to her cohorts and carried on as if nothing had happened.
‘We can do it here in front of everyone if you prefer.’ Maria’s voice was harsh and grabbed the attention of the sizeable queue.
‘I am not leaving the line, Frau Schultz. Say what you have to say, I have nothing to hide.’
Maria didn’t care. She hated Ina Stinnes’ ways; the way she spied on the whole block, the way she spread gossip about well-meaning folk. And then, there was her son.
‘Your bully of a son has beaten my boy so badly he can barely open his eye.’ There were gasps from the women nearby. She was just getting warmed up. ‘I don’t need to remind you my boy is only eleven years old.’
There were sharp intakes of breath from the gathered crowd. This was something to lighten an otherwise mundane task.
Ina Stinnes appeared flustered for a moment. ‘Horst is a good boy, he wouldn’t do anything like...’
‘Horst is nothing but a big bully, Ina. Nobody else will say it to you, but I have no problem in saying it as it is.’
‘My Horst is in the Hitler Youth...which is more than I can say for your son.’
Ina looked up and down the line for some moral support.
Maria hated the Hitler Youth. She hated the Nazis. The Golden Pheasants wined and dined on fine food, while people like her husband fought their dirty war for them. She knew she had to keep her views to herself, but sometimes she just couldn’t help it.
‘Well, if that’s what they teach boys in the Hitler Youth, my son will never be a part of it.’
The women in the queue gasped again. Maria Schultz turned on her heel and stormed away.
CHAPTER 3
NOVEMBER 1942, STALINGRAD
By November it had become clear to us that the battle for Stalingrad wasn’t going to be won anytime soon. During the previous month, we’d launched numerous attacks to eradicate the remaining pockets of resistance on our side of the Volga. We couldn’t believe the Russians still had anything left to give, but they had. They may have lived like rats, but they fought like lions. Now we were getting pinned down, not moving, constantly harassed by Ivan’s night-time raids. Rattenkrieg (rat war) we called it. It was pretty apt. The fighting was entrenched, attritional, often hand-to-hand. All the things we couldn’t afford it to become. With memories of the harshness of the previous winter, I was worried about the coming one, especially now the temperatures had plummeted. Even though one day seemed to merge into the other, I do distinctly remember the day in early November when Fiebig was blown into our homemade bunker on the icy chill. I recalled it because he was bearing good news for once.
‘Two passes for ten days leave.’ He held the papers up like he was Father Christmas. Our relationship hadn’t improved since the early days in Stalingrad; if anything, it was worse. The men were taking bets that one of the Russian snipers would eventually catch up with him. He wouldn’t have been missed, if they had.
Seeing there was little response from the group, he gave up, no doubt uncomfortable so close to the action. ‘The two lucky men should present themselves at front line HQ in an hour.’ He dropped the papers next to me and was gone.
For a moment nobody spoke. It was one of those times when the men were wide-eyed with need and want, desperate to get home, to have a break from the strains of battle, even if it was only for a short time. Unfortunately, two leave passes into seven men didn’t fit.
‘Imagine the girls!’ Marz said, his mind already back home.
‘Never mind the girls, what about a hot bath and some decent food?’ Koegel said.
‘A long smooth pilsner for me,’ Scharner added to the suggestions. ‘I can almost taste it.’
I was thinking of Maria and the other comforts of home, but didn’t say anything. It had been a month before the invasion since I’d seen my family. Eighteen months to be precise. I was no different from the other men around me; we all wanted to go home, only our reasons differed.
‘I don’t know why you’re so excited, Marz. You were the last to go on leave, so you’re at the back of the queue,’ Wiebke said peevishly.
Marz was on his feet, the girls immediately displaced in his mind by his enmity for Wiebke. ‘That’s crap! None of us have been on leave for months.’
Marz was right. It had been so long, I couldn’t recall the last leave among us.
‘I specifically recall after Smolensk last winter, you were given leave,’ Wiebke persisted.
‘That was convalescence. I had a gunshot wound and frostbite.’
‘Frostbite? Don’t you mean your dick was falling off after a trip to the brothel,’ Scharner piped up.
It brought a smile to Marz’s face. ‘No, that was the time before,’ he quipped.
The men cackled, momentarily side-tracked from the subject at hand.
Silence fell again and I looked around the cramped and musty bunker. The men were looking to me to take the lead, just like they did in battle. If they were expecting me to remember who had last been on leave, they were going to be disappointed.
‘We’ll draw lots,’ I said, eventually.
Wiebke was about to chip in, but I cut him down. ‘No more bickering. I haven’t got a clue who went on leave last and frankly, it was that long ago, I don’t care.’
I hastily tore up an old newspaper and scribbled the numbers on it. With that job done, my helmet came off and I threw in the screwed up pieces of paper, rolling them round as I did. Wiebke looked on sulkily whilst the rest of the men eagerly formed a queue. Marz was at the front, hovering over me like an expectant child on his birthday.
I looked up at him. ‘You can go last,’ I said.
‘Last? That can’t be right...’ Marz looked like he was about to cry.
The other men saw the funny side.
‘All right, let’s get this over with. Koegel, you first. Scharner, Meissner, Schram...’ Each of the men took a piece of paper in turn, the place now in silence, apart from the rumbling of heavy guns away to the South of the city.
There were three options left when I offered my helmet to Wiebke. He scowled at me, before taking his number. Marz was almost beside himself by the time he had his chance to choose. Now he had his turn, he wanted to think about it.
‘Come on, take your pick, man. We haven’t got all day,’ I said, shaking the helmet.
In spite of the cold, I could have sworn a bead of sweat had formed above his lip. He carefully reached in and took one, before quickly discarding it in favour of the other. There were sharp intakes of breath. I took the remaining piece of paper.
‘Right, numbers 1 and 2 take the passes,’ I said. ‘No arguments.’
Now they had their destinies in their hands, nobody wanted to take the final step and actually look at their number. It was like they were content to retain the excitement and uncertainty rather than being let down. It was understandable. I felt exactly the same.
Marz was looking into his hands as if he held a bar of gold. Koegel was the first to check. He immediately screwed up the paper and threw it on the ground in disgust. S
charner tossed his head back in a flurry of expletives and withdrew to his makeshift bunk. Two down. Schram checked his number and a wide smile broke out on his boyish features; he was going home. That left only one golden ticket. On checking his number, Meissner closed his eyes for a second and then withdrew from the bunker. He wouldn’t be seeing his two young children any time soon. Venturing out into the cold voluntarily was not a thing we did often. It betrayed his state of mind.
That left three of us. Wiebke launched his paper across the bunker squealing, ‘It’s a bloody fix. Rigged.’ His look cut through me, like I’d set the whole thing up. I hadn’t, because I’d already checked my number. I knew I wouldn’t be going home this time. No Maria. No kids. No Berlin. It felt like shit. I almost felt like it would have been better not to have had the chance to go.
Marz was unwrapping the paper, his eyes wide like a madman. When he saw the number he started dancing a jig around the room. He couldn’t help himself, but I knew it wasn’t the best thing to do in the circumstances. Some of us could control ourselves but not others. On the second lap, Wiebke stuck out his foot and upended him. Just when I thought they were about to start all over again, something happened which stopped us all in our tracks. Meissner had just stepped back into the bunker, no doubt to check on all the commotion.
‘I want you to take my pass.’ Schram offered his paper to Meissner. Meissner stood in the bunker entrance looking incredulous for a moment.
‘Why?’
‘I have nobody to go home for. My mother, yes, but I can see her another time. I am a young man, with plenty of other chances for leave. You have your children. Go and see them,’ Schram said.
Meissner didn’t move.
‘Come on, I’m serious. Take it.’
Schram pushed the paper into his hand. Meissner just shook his head slightly. I could see a tear in his eye as he took it from him. Knowing how we all felt about even the merest whiff of leave, what Schram had just done meant an awful lot. Some might even have doubted his sanity. It certainly put the petty squabble of Marz and Wiebke into perspective. In fact, I could see a strange look in Marz’s eye, like he’d somehow been affected by Schram’s act of humanity.
