Reichenau lost count of the shattered and burning T-34’s left along the road to Velikiye Luki. The countryside was bereft of trees, blasted by tanks and Stukas or artillery duels between the desperate Russians and the hurried Germans. Beside the roads were the PzKpfw Is, their machine guns poked from slats that offered little visibility and even less protection; and the PzKpfw II’s, which featured better equipment and armor but had been vulnerable in the static warfare around Velikiye Luki. Reichenau quit counting after passing forty. He did not count the charred or bloated bodies, many still bearing their German helmets, limbs twisted, faces locked in agony.
His men’s war experiences were limited to shooting civilians and destroying the evidence. The sights heading east had them talking among themselves and pointing at the battle scenes. Some were overcome, vomiting off the side of their trucks, others collapsing into the truck bed, struggling to comprehend the remains of the battlefield. Reichenau was less affected. The horrors of the trenches of Ypres and the Marne had deadened his nerves toward the awfulness of war. He was pleased at the constant movement, far different than being trapped with the moldering bodies and their twin companions of rats and fleas. He noted the German troops who stood in the fields, guns ready as they directed Russians to collect the bodies for burial. It was less efficient than digging holes and bringing live victims to their graves.
The German carnage eventually died away as they approached the town and was replaced with the results of Wehrmacht efficiency. Russian soldiers lay in rows, likely the result of a mass charge that the Russians employed with frightening regularity. A few tanks and trucks sat along the road, burned and disabled, though there were none of the Russian monsters. Reichenau’s troops saw only Red Army soldiers, sacrificed for a rapidly dying cause.
The Wehrmacht command wanted a pacified rear so it could concentrate its forces on Moscow. Lebensraum had opened before his eyes and Reichenau was tasked with clearing the land of its occupants. The Einsatzgruppen followed the army from Latvia into northwest Russia. Reichenau’s arrival in Velikiye Luki which would be a transfer point for the Slavs, either east or to camps where they would eliminated. Colonel Schmundt delivered orders to Reichenau. He warned against soldiers mixing with the over ten million Russian civilians under Schmundt’s control. Reichenau did not have to do the math; Strauss and the others would be busy cleaning the land of the Slavic “infection.”
In Poland and Lithuania they used locals to cull the undesirables but in Russia they were surrounded by the undesirables. In Lithuania Strauss’ search and destroy missions had found the Jews and killed them while local militia handled resistance. Along the road to Velikiye Luki Reichenau and his men were alone, the army left only a hollow Police Division to support the Einsatzgruppen.
Reichenau had moved his men slowly, driving the Russians from their villages, focusing initially on the Jews then branching out to all civilians. He had been surprised to find blue eyed, blond haired Russians who were descendants of eighteenth century German settlers. Such oddities were protected and sent west for examination by SS geneticists and doctors. The captain recruited local auxiliaries and armed them with limited guns and ammunition then reveled in the results. The Russians threatened a scorched earth policy as they retreated, but it as Reicheneau’s detachment that perfected it. Their first week in Russia witnessed large swathes of territory cleansed for resettlement. The auxiliaries had proved adequate soldiers, taking the brunt of the violence while the SS cleaned up a few stubborn villagers.
The use of the auxiliaries displeased Strauss and the others, but they were soldiers and followed orders. As Russian stragglers spread the word of chaos and death, the civilians fled; the huddled masses collecting around railroad junctions like Velikiye Luki in the belief they would be transported to safety. Movement west meant much less than safety but Reichenau was uninterested in the details. He was order to empty villages and produce open spaces, his success earned him Berlin’s gratitude.
Not everyone had been as pleased. During the slow march toward Velikiye Luki Reichenau could not ignore declining morale. The constant sight, smell and taste of death, the women and children eliminated with impunity, had unexpected consequences. A couple of men had refused to kill, one deranged man holding his comrades at bay with his weapons. Strauss, though, knew how to handle such “cowards,” and disarmed them. The memory of the incidents haunted the captain even as he reminded his men removal of the Untermenschen was necessary for building an Aryan dominated Europe. In his reports to Schmundt he sought help. He required new men to spell those whose nerves gave way. The response from Germany was not to send troops but technology.
As the lead car halted, the captain saw the camp; the barbed wire area with the tents and structures of flimsy wood and scrap metal marked the presence of Russian refugees. The area stretched out of sight with wooden guard towers positioned at the corners. When his mobile headquarters halted, Reichenau approached the plain wooden building decorated with the swastika and an abundance of black clothed guards. He approached cautiously even as his soldiers hopped onto the dust and tried to adjust their legs to solid earth after a day of riding.
The door to the headquarters opened and out stepped a chunky black suited man. Reichenau squinted at the markings but could not read whether he was greeting a superior or subordinate. Instead the man stepped toward Reichenau, giving the full Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler,” he called out. “Major Zelewski.”
Reichenau offered salute in response and eyed the chunky man; his eyes burned with rectitude, black uniform muddy and crumpled, Iron Cross askew, death head’s cap tilted as if he had just come from a firefight. Zelewski offered his hand, sweat flipped onto Reichenau and his hand as they shook. The captain grimaced as the major jammed his shoulder with the force of his greeting, while the moist hand forced him to wipe his pants.
“We are with the mobile unit,” Zelewski said. “Would you like to see?” He pointed to the panel trucks beyond the headquarters.
“Yes,” Reichenau murmured without interest. He followed the major, who stomped through a mud puddle without flinching, eager to show off his killing machines that kept him free of the rigors of the Russian front.
Reichenau avoided the mud and followed Zelewski to the closest panel truck. Two men stood by, unsmiling. Zelewski waved them to open the doors and Reichenau faced an enclosure with steel reinforcement and two ominous looking nozzles on the ceiling.
The major hopped into the truck. He extended his arms to show width and mimed a jog to exhibit length. “We can fit seventy-five prisoners in here and within twenty minutes they are eliminated.”
“You are probably curious about how they work.”
Reichenau knew refusing was futile.
Zelewski pointed skyward. “The vents there,” he hopped and the tip of his finger brushed the vent. “They are connected to the exhaust system. Once the prisoners are locked inside, the system is switched on and the carbon monoxide goes from the engine to the rear. It is the best solution to a difficult problem.”
A difficult problem, killing seventy-five people as quickly as possible.
Zelewski’s mood darkened. “There have been problems. Some of the prisoners would take their shirts and jam it into the vent, the exhaust would seep into the cab. One of my men became sick but the prisoners paid the price.”
The major’s twisted his mouth, his eyes opened and closed then he smiled.
“We placed steel reinforced grills on the vents.” He hopped again and touched the vents. “That stopped them.” He walked to one of the doors and smacked it with the flat of his hand. “We had attempts to break out, some escaped, temporarily.” He beamed at the image. “The doors have been reinforced.”
Reichenau had seen the desperation of people in the open, machine guns cutting them down. Trapped in a steel tomb with dozens of others offered its own form of suffering.
The captain was not done. He hopped from the truck and waved to his men who closed the doors with
a clanking finality. Zelewski bounded to the front of the truck, his machine making him walk as if on air.
“The engines have broken on some of the machines, we had to wait for them to suffocate, and it slows down the process.” Zelewski shook his head. “The engines have been improved. We tested the trucks yesterday, ten times each with a full load, and they performed according to specifications.”
Ten tests, seventy-five apiece, two trucks. Zelewski patted the vehicle’s hood. “We should have a thousand of these in Russia before winter.”
A thousand times seventy five, times ten, math that would make even Strauss weak at the knees. Reichenau straightened. He thought about Strauss. This type of killing, so neat, so quiet, with little suffering beyond a few minutes of terror when prisoners realized death was coming from the vents, would not appeal to the corporal.
Zelewski was talking again. “And after your men have herded the prisoners inside, their job is over.” The major tipped his head. “You have Sonderkommando.”
“Yes.” Some were veterans of much killing, their minds numb to the task and the face they were only delaying their own extermination.
“They can clean the truck after removing the bodies. Your men can supervise the unloading.”
“That’s been a problem.”
Zelewski nodded. “Too many bodies, not enough room. We are working one that and have a solution.”
Reichenau waited for the eager major to explain.
“Cremation.” Zelewski frowned. “We have not developed mobile stations for that, but we are planning on building one here in Velikiye Luki as part of a camp to reduce numbers further.”
Reduce: simple, beguiling.
“Would your men like to see the vans?” The major pointed toward the barbed wire enclosure. “We have sufficient prisoners for more testing.” Zelewski smirked. “We are ‘training’ the Russians in self-sufficiency; they are digging cesspools.”
“I suppose they would.”
“Excellent, captain. I have heard of your unit. They strike terror in the hearts of the Russians and are a credit to the Reich.”
Reichenau ground his teeth. Strauss had become the focus of attention for visiting generals who asked to meet and have photos snapped with him. The burden of popularity had made Strauss grumble; blood lust not satisfied when forced to meet superiors rather than shooting the untermenschen.
“I am sure they all will be pleased with our invention.”
Reichenau did not know. Strauss was happiest when running panic stricken civilians into machine gun nests. There had been talk of flamethrowers, but their reach was limited and the necessary fuel was dangerous and heavy. “They are there,” he pointed only to find that most of his men had wandered over to the enclosure.
The captain approached Zelewski who was focused on preparing his vans for action. Reichenau had little interest in witnessing Strauss in action. He had been drawn to the sound of battle in the last war, eager to lock up with the enemy and to fight shoulder to shoulder with his men. In Russia SS gunfire marked the end not the start of action, and each time the results were the same. Reichenau saw his men grab several boys from the collection of prisoners as Strauss waved his pistol, pushing and screaming at them.
Spindly armed, heads oversized, the boys scuffled in the dirt as they were shoved toward their final resting place. Reichenau imagined some slight toward the corporal, likely catching his eye, a sign of insubordination. The captain stood, chewing on his lip, eyeing the prisoners who stood gripping the barbed wire fence.
They would never see the boys again. Reichenau heard the screaming, the insults, the threats, the laughter and the sounds of punishment. The three prisoners were surrounded by a circle of men, none of them armed to prevent the prisoner from seizing a gun. They would be grabbed, punched, slapped, kicked, beaten, bodies thrown together as the circle closed in on them. Some would attempt to break through; success would mean a quick death, a bullet from one of the men standing outside the ring. For most it was a long, painful journey of broken bones broken, gouged eyes, and torn flesh. Once the prisoners succumbed, their bodies were grasped at each and pulled apart. It was a game to see what group was left with what portion of the body. Afterward guns would be emptied into their heads, his men would return bloodied, bruised but invigorated. Killing the helpless seemed the strongest motivator, and there were millions of helpless in Russia.
“Is something wrong?” Major Zelewski asked. “You were shaking your head.”
“No,” Reichenau murmured. “Your demonstration may be delayed; my men have grabbed some of your prisoners and are teaching them a lesson.”
“Where are they?”
Reichenau pointed toward the rows of trucks, then watched Zelewski bound off toward them. He turned to find his sergeant talking to the wireless operator. The captain approached and noticed the triumphant look on this adjutant’s and radio man’s face.
“Yes?” He asked.
“Herr Captain,” his adjutant said. “We have received glorious news from the high command.”
Reichenau had heard more than his share of glorious news, and when it came from the high command it meant that a lot of men had been killed. “Yes?”
His adjutant looked over at the wireless operator who replied. “The general staff has announced Smolensk has surrendered. They have trapped over a million soldiers in the city. The war will be over soon, the Red Army is defeated.”
Reichenau could hardly disagree, but did not share his subordinate’s rapture at the announcement. The Russians continued to hold out in Minsk, fighting to the last man against hopeless odds. The same was true far to the south in Odessa, where a German and Rumanian army group had stalled. The Russians would simply not surrender because their cities were captured. Many more Germans would die moving east toward Moscow.
“The men should know,” the sergeant said. “Do you want me to inform them?”
“Yes, they should know, it will help morale; they are with the trucks, learning how to speed our task.”
The sergeant nodded. “Our task” had become their favorite euphemism.
Reichenau held up his hand to stop the sergeant. “Do not tell them the war is ending, I do not want the men to let up their guard. The Russians will fight to the end.” Even those in the rear had seen the Russian animal use suicide charges: a heroic act for a people who had no regard for human life, unlike the Germans.
The colonel watched his adjutant walk toward the trucks, then he looked over at his wireless operator. “Are you one of those young men who regret missing the war?”
The wireless operator looked startled. “Miss the war, sir?”
“The main fighting will be around Moscow. The Russians will fight like animals.”
The younger man, only twenty and the son of prominent family involved in shipping in Hamburg, wondered if the captain was trying to trick him. Few men sought assignment to the eastern front; the stories of Russian brutality convincing most that certain death awaited them. “Uh, no sir,” he said. “I believe we are fighting the war right here.”
Reichenau smiled wryly before he dipped his head and kicked the ground. “It is a different type of war, the extermination of the Slavs.”
The sergeant stiffened. Extermination was a word not used in describing the SS’ work. “They are enemies of the Reich.”
The captain did not respond. He had gone too far and sensed danger if he continued. Young men, such as the sergeant, were unprepared for the subtleties of language that were not taught at the Nazi controlled schools.
“Is something wrong Herr Captain?” The young man was puzzled and concerned about his commander who seemed to have grown older and more detached from his men, as they drove further into Russia.
“I can get you into the Wehrmacht, a fighting force. There will be much fighting over the next year.”
“No, Herr Captain, I am comfortable with my current posting.” Reading, decoding and sending wireless messages while at the front seemed
the perfect position. When he returned home as a loyal SS officer, his neighbors would respect him for taking more than a rear position but would never know that he was never in danger.
“Comfortable,” Reichenau echoed. “There are times that we must be uncomfortable.” He tilted his head, and tried to convey a message. “Not everyone is comfortable with the work we do here, some outside may misinterpret our mission.”
The young man drew up stiff. “I understand our mission. The Fuhrer has said that the German people need living space and we are providing that space, fulfilling the Fuhrer’s promise to his people.” He saluted.
“Yes,” Reichenau murmured. “You fully understand our mission.” He managed another wry smile. “Dismissed.”
27
June 6, 1940
Reilly sat with Colonel Tarkenov in the back of the captured Soviet GAZ truck bouncing along a dirt track. The truck’s bed was uncovered, leaving them hot and dusty. Oversized Balkenkreuz black crosses with white outlines had been crudely painted on the doors and a red Nazi flag was affixed to its roof to avoid friendly fire.
A German guard sat in the truck cab, his head occasionally poking through the rear window to eye the “prisoners” even as he visited with the driver. With the guard uninterested Reilly motioned to the fat Colonel. Tarkenov ignored him, the skin around his eyes bloated and making it impossible for Reilly to know whether he was awake or even alive.
“You can’t be sleeping,” said Reilly, having warmed to the Russian turncoat during their week together. “Feeling all right?”
“I was not sleeping,” Tarkenov grumbled. “My title is Colonel.”
“You were a colonel.”
“Da, but I will be a General in the new Belarus People’s Army.” Tarkenov emphasized the title. “I expect this will include many conveniences.”
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 38
