by Sven Hassel
All the prisoners repeat the address to imprint it in their memory: Margrethe Wagner, Hohenstrasse 89, Dortmund.
The General looks up at the frosted window. For a while he is silent. His thoughts are far away in Dortmund in Westphalia.
‘I have a feeling they are going to come for me today,’ he says suddenly, smoothing down his red tunic.
But they did not come to fetch the General that day.
The clock in the staff company tower struck eleven times. The whole prison gave a gasp of relief. Until 08.00 hrs the next morning is a long time.
‘Yard exercise, march, march!’ Whistles shrill through the prison blocks. A storm of noise and unrest raises itself from all sides.
Manacles clash. Keys jingle, and boots tramp. The redtuniced prisoners hop breathlessly along. The unlucky ones who fall are beaten remorselessly with rifle butts.
A machine-pistol barks wickedly and long. A prisoner who attempts to speak to one of his fellow wretches slumps down in a pool of blood. He is dragged like a sack back to his cell. His head bumps hollowly against the steps of the staircase.
‘Dirty dog, swine,’ the guards scream at him. They can think of nothing better in their fury.
A medical Feldwebel comes running with his Red Cross bag. He eyes the badly wounded prisoner wickedly.
‘Throw the shit on the floor,’ he snarls. ‘I’ll get enough life in the bastard, that we can carry him to the execution post!’
‘Don’t you dope him,’ says one of the guards morosely.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ answers the medical Feldwebel. ‘I’d cut his prick off if I had my way!’
All three laugh loudly.
The parade ground is filled with men. The condemned in their red uniforms mixed with ordinary grey-green prisoners, who feel like kings in comparison with the ’reds’.
‘Form up in column of threes,’ roars the Duty Feldwebel. ‘Column of route, forward march! Keep your bloody distance, you sacks! Let’s have a song!’
‘Ich bin ein freier Wildbrettschütz28
und hab’ ein weit’ Revier,
so weit die braune Heide reicht,
gehört das Jagen mir . . .
Ich bin ein freier Wildbrettschütz . . .’
Yard exercise always ends with various kinds of ‘bulldozing’, depending on the duty feldwebel’s humour.
The afternoon passes quickly. Slowly the long shadows creep across the parade ground and creep up the wall opposite the window. Evening comes, then night. Whispered conversations; voices that stammer fearfully. Their death hour approaches on rapid feet.
Breakfast is eaten in silence. Only a few have any appetite. From the clock-tower eight death strokes sound again.
Confident voices are heard echoing from the walls of the barracks and penetrating to each and every cell.
The execution squads march in step down the corridors. Heavy boots approach cell 109
The nine prisoners hold their breath. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed they stare at the door. They know that the squad has come to a halt just outside their cell. Heavy keys jingle. Startling as a gunshot the heavy key is pushed home in the lock. Click, click, it says, as it turns twice.
The heavy door flies open. A steel helmet gleams warningly from the door opening. Rifle butts scrape on the concrete. Silence, silence, waiting silence.
A tough face peers into the cell from under the helmet brim. Whose will be the name that comes from those thin colourless lips?
General Wagner takes a half-pace forward, his face like chalk. His lips are almost inky. The terror of death creeps icily up his spine. He is certain his name will be called.
The chemist and the Leutnant push themselves deeper into the alcove. The little Gefreiter stands behind the table, his mouth half-open as if he were about to emit a scream.
The door bangs shut. It was a mistake. The candidate to be taken to his death is in the cell next door.
A long ululating scream of terror tears the expectant silence apart. A body is dragged along the concrete floor of the corridor. Three of the iron bars of the window throw a shadow now. When the fourth appears as a pencil-thin line, it will be 11.00 hrs, and life can begin again.
The atmosphere becomes almost cheerful.
Now, now, thinks the Oberst. The shadow has almost reached the washbowl. Heavy, marching steps can be heard coming from the far end of the corridor. They approach rapidly.
‘They can’t possibly manage any more,’ whispers the Leutnant, staring in horror at the spot where the shadow of the fourth bar will appear.
‘We’ll soon see,’ answers the General, quietly, taking two steps towards the door.
The young Gefreiter begins to sob, spasmodically. Nobody pays any attention to him. Everyone is thinking of himself.
‘Come, shadow,’ implores Oberleutnant Wisling. It cannot be more than a few seconds to 11.00 hrs.
The marching steps approach pitilessly. No military boot in the world has the ominous sound of the German jackboot. It is built to inculcate fear and horror into those who hear it.
The marching feet pass by. A short way further along the corridor a sharp word of command is heard. The steps are returning. Crash! Crash! Crash! Exactly opposite cell 109 they come to a halt.
Something is wrong. The fourth shadow is plainly visible.
The prisoners glare at it, clutching at it as drowning men at a straw. After 11.00 they don’t take people. It’s never happened. Why should it happen today?
Strike clock, for God’s sake strike! Give us another day of life! Life is so short, one more day is a wonderful gift, even in prison.
The key jingles. The sound as it enters the lock is nerve-shattering. The sound a guard who is fond of his work can produce.
Even before the door swings open eleven strokes sound from the HQ Company clock-tower. The key is withdrawn from the lock. Orders forbid executions taking place after 11.00 hrs.
Sharp commands ring through the prison.
‘Shoulde-e-r arms! Le-e-ft turn! Qui-i-ck march!’ Crash! Crash! Marching steps recede and disappear down the corridor.
‘Lord Jesus Christ,’ pants the chemist, from his corner. ‘I’d never have believed a man could stand such things without losing his mind. Have they no pity for us at all?’
‘Pity does not exist in Germany,’ laughs the General, sarcastically. ‘But we can be sure of one thing, at least. One of us will be taken between 0.800 and 11.00 hrs tomorrow.’
‘Who?’ asks the Leutnant, in a quivering voice.
‘If you are a very brave man you can knock on the trap-door and ask,’ smiles the General. ‘But I can assure you that if it is you, you will not be able to walk to the post unaided tomorrow morning!’
‘The vile devils,’ whispers the Leutnant, furiously.
‘Devils,’ the General emits a jeering laugh. ‘And you have attended the War Academy! My dear young man they are no more devils than you or I. Merely a product of military education in the Third Reich. Be honest, now! Were you not an admirer of it, until you came to know the German court-martial system?’
The Leutnant bows his head and agrees silently with General Wagner. He could just as easily have been one of the guard officers here. Instead, by a trick of fate, he is a condemned prisoner.
Oberleutnant Wisling looks towards General Wagner. Is the man made of teak and iron he thinks? It was certainly he they were coming to pick up this morning. He has long since passed the normal time limit for wearing the red tunic, and he must be aware of it.
‘’34 was the last time I took part in the sharpshooter contest in the Morellenschlucht,’ remarks Oberst Frick, casually, looking up at the grey window. ‘It was in August and hot. We filled ourselves up with overripe morellos,29 which lay in a thick yellow carpet under the trees. The blast from the mortar bombs had knocked them down. We got stomach-ache ...’
The door opens with the usual crash, and a new prisoner in red enters fearfully.
‘Feldwebel Holst, 133rd Infantr
y Regiment, Linz, Donau,’ he introduces himself.
‘Oberst Frick, 5th Grenadier Regiment, Potsdam,’ smiles the Oberst, sadly.
‘The aristocrats with the pretty hats,’ says General Wagner, sarcastically. ‘I am not from such a high-class outfit. 11th Panzer Regiment, Paderborn.’
‘I’ve been to Paderborn,’ says the seventeen-year-old Gefreiter. ‘15th Cavalry Regiment.’ He clicks his heels. He is still speaking to a General, even though a demoted and condemned one.
‘Leutnant Pohl, 27th Artillery Regiment, Augsburg,’ the frightened young Leutnant introduces himself.
‘How formal we all are, suddenly,’ laughs Wisling. ‘Very well then: Oberleutnant Wisling, 98th Mountain Jäger Regiment, Mittenwald.
‘You’d know Schörner?’ asks the General. ‘He was, I believe, in command of your regiment?’
‘Yes, he was Oberstleutnant. He is now Generalfeldmarschall and not less hated than formerly,’ smiles Wisling, bitterly.
‘When we had sharpshooting trials in the Morellenschlucht,’ continues Oberst Frick, ‘hazing was forbidden. It was important that we were not nervous when our turn came. We enjoyed ourselves in the Morellenschlucht but only in the summertime. In the winter it was damnably cold and windy. It was as if the cold was coming all the way from Russia and in amongst those crooked trees.’
‘And now you are to end your life in the Morellenschlucht,’ comes drily from the General. ‘Did you know that in the Kaiser’s time they also used to execute soldiers there?’
‘No, I had no idea.’
‘It’s one of the most remarkable things about we Germans,’ sighs the General, apathetically. ‘We never know anything. We are a nation in blinkers. God knows how many innocent people have been shot in the Morellenschlucht,’
‘Does it hurt to be shot?’ breaks in the young Gefreiter, suddenly.
His fellow prisoners look at him in astonishment. None of them has considered the matter. The horror of death itself has been so overwhelming that nobody has thought about the possible physical pain involved.
‘I do not believe you will feel anything,’ answers the General, confidently. ‘A single bullet can kill instantly. The state is generous and gives you twelve!’
‘I don’t think they’ll ever shoot me,’ says the Leutnant, with a note of hysteria in his voice. ‘I’ll be sent to a specialist unit. I feel it in my bones. I know it. When they discover what my speciality is they’ll realise how useful I could be in a specialist unit! I give you my word I will visit your wife and give her your last message, Herr General. I look up to and admire you!’
‘Don’t do that,’ sighs the General. ‘It is a great fault in us that we Germans always need somebody to look up to and to kill for.’
The food wagon is heard rattling along the corridor. The clock strikes eight.
Orders, the rattle of weapons, screams and oaths, jangling of keys. Many are taken that morning. The prison buzzes with nervousness.
Now there are again three shadow bars on the floor. Soon the fourth will arrive. The door crashes open.
‘Paul Köbke,’ snarls the Feldwebel.
The chemist, who could not keep his mouth shut, gets to his feet.
‘No, no,’ he groans. ‘It’s a mistake. I’ve not been here very long. It must be you, Herr General!’
‘Shut up, Köbke,’ rumbles the Feldwebel irritably, taking a step into the cell. The General’ll get his turn, just like the rest of you. Today it’s your turn, and quick about it! Your travel group’s waiting.’ He pushes Köbke so that he falls into the arms of two Unteroffiziers who manacle his hands with practised ease.
‘See you soon,’ grins the Feldwebel, banging the door to.
The Fatherland has the right to demand that the people sacrifice everything for it. Therefore, I command that every person who is capable of holding a rifle be called, immediately, to the colours and sent into action against the enemy without consideration of age or health.
Adolf Hitler, 25th September, 1944
‘The devil take you,’ says the Old Man, angrily, as he enters the cellar and sees us lying there amongst all the bottles.
‘Not so loud,’ groans Tiny. ‘There’s a imp inside me bonce knockin’ in tent-pegs for all ’e’s worth!’
‘Dirty lot of swine,’ scolds the Old Man.
‘You’re dead right,’ hiccoughs Gregor. ‘It’s not right sitting down here in a damp cellar getting pissed’
‘Holy Agnes,’ drools Porta. ‘If we go on like this we’ll risk turning into alcoholic wrecks, and burnin’ up our livers!’
‘Oh my head,’ groans Barcelona, worn out. ‘Let’s go outside and see if they’ve declared peace while we’ve been drinking up the Red Army’s schnapps.’
The Old Man keeps on nagging at us and doesn’t stop until we turn in amongst the fruit trees and catch sight of a round helmet slowly appearing from behind the road-block.
A shot cracks and the helmet disappears. We throw ourselves down in the wet grass and take aim at the spot.
Shortly after another round helmet appears.
Heide’s automatic carbine spits fire and the helmet rolls down on the wrong side of the barricade.
It takes almost twenty minutes before the next helmet appears.
This time it is Porta who fires, the shot smashing the enemy soldier’s face.
Again a long period of waiting. Then another round helmet appears.
‘Are they piss-barmy?’ mumbles the Old Man, slapping his forehead.
As he speaks Tiny’s sniper’s rifle roars.
The helmet flies up into the air and falls rattling upside down.
After a while, when no more helmets appear, we sneak round behind the barracks.
There they lie, faces blown in.
We go through their pockets and provision pouches and slouch carelessly on again.
20 NSFO (Nationalsozialistischer Führüngsoffizier) = Nazi political officer.
21 Gefreiter von Dienst (German) = Corporal-in-charge.
† Gelobt sei etc (German) = Praise be, for that which makes hard.
‡ Iron Gustav = see March Battalion.
22 k.v. Kriegsverwendungsfähig (German) = fit for (war) duty.
23 (Freely) We’re marching merrily onwards;
Shit’s falling for all it’s worth!
We want to get back to Schlicktown,
For Deutschland’s the arse of the earth!
And the Führer’s all shagged out!
† Grofaz: Grösster Feldherr aller Zeiten = greatest military leader of all time, a jeering reference to Hitler.
24 Kriegsgerichtsrat (German) = JAG.
25 Heute etc. = Today we are red,
Tomorrow we are dead.
26 HKL (Hauptkampflinie (German) = The front line.
27 Geheime Staatspolizei (Gestapo) = Secret Police.
28Ich bin etc.: (freely) I am a free hunter
And roam far and wide.
O’er the heather-clad heath
A’hunting I stride.
I am a free hunter . . .
29 morellos = golden cherries.
THE EXECUTION
Chief Mechanic Wolf is holding court, at the large round table in No. 5 Company canteen, with his two snarling wolfhounds on either side of his chair, ready to tear anybody to pieces at the slightest sign from the Greater German Mafia boss.
The two Chinese bodyguards are placed, each on his stool, behind their master’s chair. They view everybody who enters the canteen as an enemy to be rendered harmless as soon as possible.
Round the table crowd a mob of admiring yes-men, Wolf’s temporary errand boys, who only remain in the garrison as long as it suits the big boss.
Porta stops and slaps his forehead in assumed surprise.
‘What, you still alive, you stinking piss-stall?’ he shouts, happily. ‘Anybody ever tell you, you look like a banged-up arsehole? Let’s have some air in this place. It smells like a sewer!’
‘You gonna take t
hat?’ asks an armourer, bending obsequiously towards Wolf, who is rocking his chair back in imitation of the big-shots he has seen in American films. He gives Porta an evaluating look, and does not feel in the least insulted. That is a luxury which can cost money, the only thing Wolf loves and respects. He is first and foremost a business man. You can spit right between his eyes, as long as you are willing to pay for the privilege.
Tiny grabs the armourer by the front of his tunic and lifts him up as if he were a rabbit to be slaughtered.
‘What the hell!’ screams the armourer, in terror, kicking his legs about.
‘Shut it, louse,’ growls Tiny, who is in the mood for breaking things, bashing people, ruining something or other, in short possessed of the normal, healthy impulse, to do something which other people will take notice of.
Chief Mechanic Wolf laughs with satisfaction at the prospect of this miserable grey day livening up. His sycophants laugh noisily with him. They simply daren’t do anything else.
‘You dare to lay hands on an Unteroffizier!’ shouts the armourer, trying to kick Tiny in the face.
Unteroffizier!’ grins Tiny, contemptuously, swinging him round in the air like a windmill. ‘You’re nothin’ but a bleedin’ rifle-fucker!’
‘Kill him,’ suggests Porta, philanthropically, emptying a large mug of beer in one long noisy gulp. He gives a pleased belch and orders a refill.
Cook-Oberfeldwebel Weiss comes rushing in with a P-38 in his hand.
‘Let go of that man,’ he shouts, pointing the pistol at Tiny. ‘Don’t imagine you’re still pissing about amongst the Eskimos and can carry on how you like. In my place there’s discipline, and particularly in my kitchen. Let go of that man! That’s an order!’
‘What man?’ asks Tiny, lifting the babbling armourer higher above his head.
‘The one you’ve got in your hands, bastard,’ roars the Oberfeldwebel, losing control of himself completely.
‘That ain’t a man, it’s a rifle-fucker,’ answers Tiny, swinging the armourer around in the air again.
‘Let him go,’ screams Oberfeldwebel Weiss, waving his pistol at the rest of us, as if he were shooing hens.
‘All right then,’ sighs Tiny, resignedly, and throws the armourer straight through the closed window so that glass and wood splinters fly around our ears.
