by Sven Hassel
One morning Oberst Frick and Oberleutnant Wisling are called for. Escorted by four soldiers they are taken to the court and each of them is locked into a closet.
Before they are taken into court they are allowed a short interview with their defending officer, a friendly, elderly Oberstleutnant.
‘I can’t do much for you,’ he smiles, pressing their hands. ‘But the rules say I have to be present. And as you know we have a great reverence for good order and correctness.
‘Is this a preliminary hearing?’ asks Oberst Frick, hopefully.
‘What a sense of humour,’ laughs the Oberstleutnant, loudly. ‘Preliminary hearing? Not part of the procedure and particularly in cases such as yours. Everything is quite clear, and the result has been decided long ago. I’d be very much surprised if your sentence hasn’t been signed by the Kriegsgerichtsrat24. You have disobeyed an order of the Führer’s and have confessed to having done so! I would like to see the defending officer who could do anything for you! Do you smoke?’ he pushes a gold cigarette-case towards the Oberst. ‘The court will convene at ten o’clock.’ He looks out of the window. Rain is pouring down. ‘The prosecuting officer wants you hanged. But I suppose you know that? I shall attempt to get the verdict changed to a firing-squad. In view of your many decorations I believe I shall succeed. There is still some respect for that sort of thing although we are beginning to get prisoners who have been awarded the Knight’s Cross. Unbelievable only six months ago. Good God, look at you! Have you had no opportunity to shave and straighten up your uniforms? You look as if you had come straight from the trenches. It will make a bad impression on the chairman of the court.
‘We can neither shave nor wash,’ remarks Oberleutnant Wisling, dismally.
‘I’m sorry,’ says the Oberstleutnant. ‘Everything’s going all to hell. Sometimes we have up to twenty death sentences in the course of a single day. Yesterday it was three generals. Don’t think I like it! But I have to! And I’m a soldier!’ He slaps his leg. It sounds hollow. False. ‘The Kiev Cauldron,’ he smiles, sadly. ‘I had a battalion in a motorised infantry regiment.’
‘Line officer?’ asks Oberst Frick, without interest.
‘Yes, indeed,’ sighs the Oberstleutnant, ‘there soon won’t be any of us left.’ He looks out again, at the rain whipping against the windows. ‘Take more than Grofaz to win this war.’
‘A tragedy,’ says the Oberst, quietly.
‘Tragedy? Why?’ asks the Oberstleutnant. ‘We Germans are like hungry dogs, running after a sausage dangling in front of our noses. We keep biting at it, but we never get hold of it!’
‘How long will the legal proceedings take?’ asks the Oberst nervously.
‘Ten, at most twenty minutes. They’re busy people. And there are a lot of cases to get through today. Yours isn’t particularly difficult. If regulations didn’t require it, it would hardly be necessary for you to come into court. A guard Feldwebel could have told you what the result would be days ago.’
‘Then we might as well go back to our cells now and do without all this theatrical business,’ considers Oberleutnant Wisling.
‘No there you’re wrong. You forget regulations. No German transgresses regulations. Regulations and paragraphs are a necessity of life,’ says the defending officer, seriously.
A military policeman opens the door and clicks his heels with a sufficiency of noise.
‘Let’s get it over with then,’ sighs the defending officer, rising to his feet.
The courtroom is as cold as the board of officers. From the wall, Adolf Hitler stares down on the accused. It is not promising. It is as if the large portrait is alive and sends out an emanation of pitiless self-justification.
The prosecuting officer takes his seat at a little table to the left of the chairman. He spreads a few documents out in front of him. Not many, but enough for a sentence of death.
The three officer judges enter. They give the Hitler salute.
The prosecuting officer starts to scream straight away. It is what is expected of him. His face goes purple. His voice rises to the highest octave.
‘These traitors,’ he roars, ‘have attempted to sink a knife in the backs of our fighting men in the front line. They have committed a monstrous crime. They are not merely traitors, but also common murderers, who have handed over wounded German heroes into the hands of the Soviet untermensch, and this infamous crime they have committed merely to save their own miserable lives. They have also attempted to persuade other German soldiers into taking part in their criminal activities. When their sick suggestions were refused, this scoundrelly Oberst ordered these brave Germans to take part in the crime and to leave the wounded like a heap of offal. I demand that both the accused be sentenced to death in accordance with paragraph 91a: Defiance of orders and aiding the enemy, paragraph 8, sub-paragraph 2: Treachery against the people and security of the state, paragraph 73 and 139, sub-paragraphs 3 and 4: High Treason. I do not request the taking into consideration of paragraph 149: Desertion. I regret that there is no heavier punishment than the death penalty. In this case it is too humane.’
The three judge-officers doodle on the paper in front of them unconcerned with hiding the fact that they find the trial boring, and only attend to the prosecutor with half an ear.
The prosecuting officer sits down and gives a smiling nod to the defending officer.
The defending officer turns over his documents for a few moments. Then he gets to his feet slowly, pulls down his tunic, brushes a well-manicured hand over his grey hair, and smiles a comradely smile at the prosecutor and the presiding officer.
‘I ask the court to take into consideration the accused officers’ decorations and the attention to duty shown in their previous service records. I ask the court to consider their crimes with mercy.’ He sits down again, avoiding the Oberst’s reproachful glance.
‘Do the accused wish to make any statement in their defence before sentence is passed?’ asks the Kriegsgerichtsrat, looking impatiently at his watch.
Obertst Frick rises and begins to explain the hopelessness of the situation in that Arctic hell.
‘You are wasting the court’s time,’ the Kriegsgerichtsrat cuts him off, sharply. ‘Did you or did you not leave wounded German soldiers at the mercy of Russian troops, yes or no? Did you give the order for your unit to withdraw, yes or no?’
The Oberst realises that it is impossible to combat this kind of cold logic.
‘Yes,’ he replies, sitting down heavily.
‘And you,’ the Kriegsgerichtsrat nods at Oberleutnant Wisling, ‘stated clearly that you were in agreement with your Commanding Officer?’
‘The whole proceedings are a mixture of truth and falsehood, an infamous juggling with the facts,’ screams Wisling in a piercing voice. ‘I refuse to recognise this caricature of a court! It is a slaughterhouse! Any respectable judge would be ashamed to sit in it!’
‘Sit down and be quiet! You are the worst villain we have ever had in this courtroom,’ shouts the prosecuting officer, sulphurously, purple in the face.
The Kriegsgerichtsrat nods and whispers for a moment to his two assisting officers. In a low, pleasant voice he begins to read from a document which has lain in front of him throughout the trial:
‘For cowardice, contempt of the Führer, the Commander-in-Chief of the Greater Germany Army, aiding the enemy and sabotage of orders, the accused, Oberst Gerhard Frick and Oberleutnant Heinz Wisling, are condemned to death by shooting. Their rights, civil and military, are lost to them for life. Their entire property is to be confiscated on behalf of the state. Both of the accused are reduced to the rank of rifleman and all decorations they may have received are withdrawn from them. The sentence to be carried out as soon as possible. The accused are permitted, in view of previous bravery, to seek pardon from the General High Command, Defence Area III, Berlin/Spandau.’ The Kriegsgerichtsrat removes his gold-rimmed spectacles, looks at the condemned men with icy indifference, and gives a sign to the
military policemen at the door.
With practised movements the shoulder-straps and decorations are ripped from the condemned men’s uniforms. Last the eagle on the right breast.
‘Lead them out,’ snarls the Kriegsgerichtsrat, flapping his hands as if he were waving away two flies.
‘You blokes were lucky, remarks one of the MPs, when they are back in the cellar again.
‘Lucky? How do you mean?’ asks Oberleutnant Wisling, blankly.
‘You’ve been allowed to apply for a pardon,’ grins the MP Unteroffizier, amusedly. ‘That’ll keep you alive for a few more days, even weeks maybe. Otherwise you’d have been knocked off within the next two days. We’re a bit short of room in the cage, so we carry out orders as soon as we get them! Well, you’ll probably have plenty of time to think about things. The responsible general is somewhere in Russia just now, so it’ll probably be some time before he gets your application and who’s to say he’s got the time to bother with it when he does get it? He’s sure to have more to worry about than you two heavenly tourists, and by the time your papers get back who knows what the hell mightn’t have happened here? Things are moving fast these days. Ivan’s gettin’ a move on!’
‘Heute sind wir roten25
morgen sind wir toten.’
he murmurs, softly. ‘Infantryman Frick and Infantryman Wisling reporting back from court martial,’ he reports to the duty Unteroffizier, cracking his heels together.
‘I presume they are not reporting for release?’ grins the duty Unteroffizier, sarcastically, marking a large red cross beside their names in the guard report book. The death sign.
‘In a way, yes,’ answers the watchdog, jovially. ‘Nappers off, and down to the moles!’
‘Children, children,’ says the duty Unteroffizier, handing them a cigarette apiece, ‘be glad that you have been allowed to apply for pardon. Otherwise you’d have been given a post to lean on tomorrow morning already. We’re collecting a large party of tourists together. Don’t tell me us Prussians aren’t a humane lot. Hold your hands out, lads. You have to have irons on. That’s regulations. Those who have lost the right to carrying heads on top of their shoulders, have to be chained up.’
Wisling nods tiredly. The truth is beginning to soak through to his brain. His stomach contracts and his mouth fills with bile.
‘There’s a bucket over in the corner,’ says the duty Unteroffizier, who knows the symptoms.
Wisling gets to it in time, and throws up.
Early the next morning they are taken from their cells and chained tightly to one another with their hands behind their backs.
The lorry is full of prisoners, sitting crosswise in the back. Two muscular MPs with Mpis at the ready, climb up on to the tailboard. They shout at the least movement amongst the prisoners.
At the Air Force Law-courts, at Tempelhof, they pick up three airmen and a flak-soldier. One can see the three are officers, by the finer material of their uniforms. Their decorations and shoulder-straps have been removed.
They continue through Berlin, past Plötzensee, where the State Executioner is busy every day with his guillotine.
The lorry rumbles over Alexander Platz. Police headquarters is blackened with smoke.
They pick up two condemned SS officers at the SS barracks Gross-Lichterfelde.
‘Come on get your arses moving! We’re in a hurry!’ the watchdogs shout, angrily helping them up with blows from their Mpi butts.
The prisoners stare longingly at the streets, full of people hastening along. A tram rattles round a corner. The clang of its bell sounds like the music of freedom.
‘Where are they taking us?’ whispers Oberst Frick to the prisoner alongside him, the demoted naval officer.
‘Shut up, swine,’ screams an MP from the tailboard, ‘or I’ll knock your teeth down your throat!’ He lifts the muzzle of his Mpi, as if he were ready to carry out his threat on the spot.
The lorry bumps and shakes its way over the uneven paving. Burned-out ruins grin up at the rain-filled clouds. Several are still smoking from the night’s fires. Everywhere bodies are being dug from the caved-in cellars.
Heavily-armed SS patrols sneak through the smoke-blackened streets on the watch for looters. If they catch any they are given short shrift. They carry ropes with them and there are plenty of lamp-posts in Berlin.
A group of women outside a butcher’s shop gaze inquisitively after the lorry, which has to take to the pavement to avoid a bomb crater in the middle of the road.
The watchdogs on the tailboard seem to enjoy the trip. Escorting prisoners is considered a light job. It is a duty like any other duty, like training recruits, delivering ammunition, or clothing and equipment. Some get guard duty for years outside GHQs, barracks, depots and airfields. Countless soldiers fight at the front as infantrymen, artillerymen, tankmen. Shoot, kill, execute in one way or another.
The MPs escort prisoners. A much pleasanter job than slogging around in mud-filled trenches.
Oberleutnant Wisling watches them through half-closed eyes. He is thinking again of escaping. It would be easy enough to tip those fat, self-satisfied policemen over the tailboard and run for it, but the problem was to get to the tailboard. He would have to get over three benches. The prisoners were closely packed and the watchdogs would have shot him down without compunction before he got past the first of these. He thinks of crawling under the benches between the legs of the other prisoners, and begins to slide down to the floor of the lorry. His neighbour understands immediately what he is trying to do and covers him, but it is harder than he expected to crawl with his hands handcuffed behind his back. He has only reached the second row when the lorry swings through the barred gates of the Gross Deutschland Infantry Regiments’ barracks. This has been converted to a military prison because all the regular prisons are packed. Even though Germany is second only to Russia as the country in the world which has the most prisons, there is now a shortage of them. But since there is also a catastrophic shortage of recruits the authorities are able to use the empty barracks for the purpose. Nothing is impossible to God and the German nation.
The lorry stops with a jerk, and the prisoners fall from their benches. This saves Wisling from being discovered. He is almost weeping with disappointment when fellow-prisoners help him to his feet.
‘Out of it, you villains,’ scream the MPs swinging their Mpi butts, brutally. ‘Double up, you bastards! Think you’re in a rest-home, do you?’
Everywhere, screams and shouts, threats and oaths. Above everything the guards must be tough with prisoners. Otherwise the pleasant life in barracks may soon be over. It’s only prisoners who’re getting the rough end of the stick, anyway, and they’re the scum of the Third Reich.
They rush, chains jangling, across the parade ground. The dust whirls up around their hurrying feet.
‘Double up, double up, one-two, one-two!’ screams the MP Feldwebel, swinging his long wooden stick at the nearest of the prisoners.
A few old infantrymen peer inquisitively from the open windows. Not because there is anything new in this sight, but something out of the way just might happen.
Oberst Frick falls forward and smashes his face into the parade ground dirt, unable to break his fall with arms chained behind his back, but kicks and butt-strokes soon bring him to his feet again. A prisoner in a military gaol in Germany learns amazingly quickly the way to get to his feet again without using his hands. With shouts and screams they are chased round the parade ground. Yet another prisoner falls on his face and smashes his head into a sharp rock. He receives a deep slash in his forehead, and blood pours down over his face.
‘Up, you rotten sack!’ roars the MP Unteroffizier, giving him a brutal kick. ‘Who the hell ordered you to lie down? Double man, double you dog! You can lie down when we’ve filled you with lead, you swine!’
An MP-Leutnant with a lipless mouth receives them. He is hardly more than a boy, with down still on his cheeks. But his eyes shine with fanaticism. A Himml
er product of the worst type.
The Oberst looks at him with foreboding. From bitter experience he knows that these half-grown boys are the worst. They are afraid of not appearing tough enough and go head-long at everything and everybody merely to anaesthetise their own fear.
‘Who are you?’ asks the youthful Leutnant in a dangerous voice, pointing at one of the wretched prisoners in the ranks.
‘Major von Leissner, 460th Infantry Regiment.’
With all his weight behind the blow the Leutnant strikes the older officer full in the face, so that he sways for a moment as if about to faint.
‘What is your name?’ howls the Leutnant, his voice breaking.
‘Infantryman von Leissner!’
Again the clenched fist crashes into the face of the demoted Major, who is old enough to be the Leutnant’s grandfather.
‘Herr Leutnant, you sad sack! Can’t you see my rank? Fifty knees-bends! Double to it!’
‘Infantryman von Leissner, Herr Leutnant, fifty knees-bends as ordered!’
The Leutnant struts on to the next man as if the episode with the Major had never occurred.
The next prisoner also feels the Leutnant’s fist. He always finds something to provide him with a reason. The prisoner may shout too loudly, or not loudly enough, or has answered incorrectly. When he has been through the ranks there is not one of the prisoners without a bloody face. Then he places himself in front of the ranks, and claps his gloved hands together gently.
‘Those who are entitled to apply for a pardon, two steps forward, march!’ he screams in a high, boyish voice. He counts them and compares the tally with his list. ‘Block 4,’ he orders, brusquely.
A party of snarling Unteroffiziers moves them to Block 4. They fall on the prisoners like hungry beasts of prey. Hysterical commands, roars and screams echo around the barrack blocks.
The young Leutnant struts like a cockerel around the remainder of the party. Those who do not have the right to apply for pardon!
‘Enjoy the sun,’ he jeers at them. ‘Tomorrow morning we’re going to blow the rest of you out of this world! Any man due to get shaved by the big razor, step forward!’
