Endgame (The Red Gambit Series Book 7)

by Colin Gee

  Medical specimens, clearly human, were laid out along the sleepers of the rail line, containing anything from dissected livers to whole foetuses.

  Everywhere there were pictures… ones that had been taken by correspondents attached to the 322nd Rifle Division when it stumbled across the awfulness that was Auschwitz on 27th January 1945.

  Wherever the eye looked, the awfulness and sheer barbarity of purpose was evident.

  It shook hardened men to the very core.

  The messages intended to divide the Camerone Division were everywhere, both written and visual.

  And divide they did.

  A veritable chasm opened up between the German and other legionnaires present, one that was punctuated by oaths and disbelief, by suspicion and hate.

  Haefali, the senior officer present, did the only thing he could do, and dispatched a message to his commander.

  Knocke stepped out of the Kfz 71, already sensing the pain in the men around him.

  He saluted the large group of officers that had gathered around the gates of what had once been known as Auschwitz II.

  Birkenau.

  A place that had clearly once been the closest thing to hell on earth.

  Intelligence reports had stated that during the Soviet occupation Auschwitz I had been used as a hospital, whereas Birkenau had been an NKVD prison camp, whose conditions were as bad as could be, probably no different to what it had been under Nazi rule but without the death chambers operating day and night.

  Intelligence also stated, and the evidence before their own eyes would confirm, that the local population had ravaged the area, seeking firewood from the huts and disturbing the mass graves in the search for artefacts and gold teeth amongst the human wreckage.

  The Soviets themselves had looted much of the I.G Farben machinery from the Buna Werke at Monowitz, known as Auschwitz-III.

  Knocke had read the report before, and refreshed himself on its contents as he drove to the camp, but was still unprepared for the desolation that awaited him.

  The Soviet ‘dressing’ was very apparent, and he took in the signs, immediately understanding their purpose and the challenge that now faced him.

  He noticed that the group had split into two defined sections; German and French legion officers separated as never before, separated by the place… the sights… the stories… association… the allocation of blame… anger…

  He understood why the message from Haefali had urgently requested him to come to this place on Christmas Day.

  His very division, perhaps the Corps D’Assaut itself, was at stake, as clearly these men, probably over eighty of his leaders, were visibly distraught and angered by the vision that had greeted them.

  “Gentlemen, Merry Christmas to you all… although such a greeting seems so very out of place in a place such as this. Come.”

  He boldly strode forward and swept through the divide between the two groups, deliberately leading them through the central arch under which the railway had carried its hundreds of thousands of victims during the Nazi Holocaust.

  The narrow way through the piled ashes brought them back in close proximity, but the absence of comradeship between the two groups was extremely noticeable.

  Tensions rose.

  The party walked on, past the medical specimens, each lighting gantry with its own special sort of horror dangling by a neck, the walk swiftly allowing the men to move apart into two distinct groups, until finally Knocke came to a halt at the central point between the infamous entrance and the distant ruins of what had once been the chambers where men, women, and children were destroyed by the regime for which many of those present had fought.

  Knocke had walked the extra distance so that he could compose himself, and prepare for one of the most important messages he had ever delivered.

  He stopped, turned, performed the trademark pulling down of his jacket, and gathered his men around him in a semi-circle.

  Albrecht Haefali had gravitated to his right side but Knocke felt a coldness between them like never before.

  “So, here we are… in this place… this… this abomination.”

  All around them were huts, some complete, others no more than a brick chimney rising from a bed of blackened timbers.

  To their right, the railway lines, side by side.

  As far as the eye could see there were bodies, placards, and the detritus of man’s unspeakable inhumanity, as prepared on the orders of Beria.

  Unwittingly, Knocke had gathered his men in the area where much of the selection process had taken place; where a simple push in one direction or the other spelt either a life of servitude and miserable living conditions or immediate death in the chambers.

  “Perhaps it is fate that brings us here… perhaps it’s something else entirely. I wish we were somewhere else because for me, as a German, this place will forever tarnish my country, long after the last holders of its experiences and memories are gone from this earth.”

  He looked around, seeing pain and contempt, depending on which group he looked at.

  “Our unit has been based on comradeship forged in the most desperate of circumstances… that of combat. Now, in front of my eyes, I see men… comrades all… who have trusted each other with their lives broken apart by the sights of this place… the understanding of what happened here… and our association wit…”

  There was a rumble from the German officers.

  “Yes… our association with this place and others like it.”

  He addressed the Germans directly.

  “We are associated with it, Kameraden, in the first place for no other reason than we wore the same insignia as those who oversaw this place. We cannot hide from that!”

  Knocke dropped his voice down to a normal one and continued.

  “I’ll not speak for you… none of you. I’ll just speak for me.”

  He turned his back on the group and swept his hands across the from left to right, from kitchen block, past dormitories, gas chambers, more dormitories until he dropped his hand back to his side.

  ‘Oh my god… I never imagined this to be… never thought… it could never be possible…’

  Knocke had prepared himself to heal the wounds caused by the awfulness of their surroundings and the uniforms he and his men once wore. He had simply not expected to find that he had wounds of his own that would need attention before he could address those of his men.

  “I knew of this.”

  He turned back and saw genuine horror and disappointment on the faces of all of his men; French and German alike.

  “No… not what it was… not what it did… but I was aware of its existence. I admit, I heard some rumours of its purpose, rumours I dismissed as propaganda by our enemies… set to cause discord… set to fire their armies and civilians to greater efforts against us.”

  He grabbed his jaw and wiped his hand slowly across his face.

  “Rumours… Mein Gott!”

  He closed his eyes and held back tears.

  Tears for those comrades who had died in defence of the cause that was capable of visiting such horrors upon fellow human beings.

  Tears for those who had perished in the frenzy of Nazi idealism.

  “How could I even have begun to believe them… at that time… eh? How could I ever have conceived that such monstrousness was actually being perpetrated?”

  He picked at the corner of his eyes where moisture had started to form.

  “What do you feel here?”

  No one answered and he hadn’t expected them to.

  “I feel nothing, save what is already in me. There’s nothing here to feel. It is almost as if this awful place has surrendered every single bit of emotion possible, leaving a nothingness that defies description. Can you feel that nothingness, Kameraden?”

  The silence remained unbroken, but each man could understand what Knocke meant.

  There was a vacuum in Birkenau; a space, an absence unlike any other in their experience.

  I
t was tangible.

  “God has deserted this place.”

  It was Haefali who had spoken.

  Knocke opened out his hands in acknowledgement of the statement.

  “In truth, I know nothing of God any more, Albrecht. He deserted me and mine many years ago. There’ll be some who speak of him here… but perhaps he has no place here… or perhaps he should always have a place here… I don’t know.”

  There were a few rumbles of agreement from the gathering, mainly from the French side.

  “I really don’t know any more. This place is beyond my wildest imagination… that my fellow man… my countrymen even… could bring this place into being.”

  He considered his next statement carefully.

  “This place was brought into being by sane minds. Qualified minds designed its machinery, professional minds devised its systems of work, skilled minds oversaw construction of its buildings, and railway lines… medical minds… there’s a thing, isn’t it?... Scheisse!... medical minds that we’ve always treasured as exceptionally intelligent… compassionate… caring… such men devised and conducted such vileness upon fellow human beings as to be unimaginable… right here… in this awful… so very awful place!”

  The silence was oppressive as he settled himself to speak further.

  “I don’t know how that happened. Maybe each of them in turn thought ‘I’m just doing my job’. Maybe they didn’t understand what they were actually part of, although those who designed the ovens cannot have that excuse… nor can a number of the other responsible parties.”

  Knocke wiped his hand across his face once more.

  “And then there are those who ran the camp, enforced its rules and practices, who were responsible for the day to day operation of something that we now suspect destroyed nearly a million people.”

  He touched his Knight’s Cross gently.

  “I once wore my old uniform with pride. The people that oversaw this horror wore the same uniform.”

  Again the German officers railed at his comments, forcing him to stop and hold his hands up for quiet.

  “Yes, kameraden… they did. That’s what the world sees, that what’s the world knows, so therefore it’s true.”

  He looked at the French officers very deliberately.

  “I am SS… was SS… this you all know. As far as I’m concerned, I fought an honourable war… as hard as I could… with every weapon at my disposal.”

  Again he turned around, displaying his back, inviting those behind him to look at what he was seeing.

  “Those who were stationed here were obeying their orders, but we all know that some orders simply shouldn’t be obeyed.”

  He wished he had the intelligence folder to use, simply as a prop to focus their attention, but it was still in the staff car.

  He produced his pistol instead.

  Brandishing the Walther P38, he suddenly realised their faces had taken on a collectively horrified expression.

  Knocke was suddenly carried away with the moment, and the pistol became more than a prop to his words.

  “Do as you are ordered or I’ll shoot you!”

  He pointed the gun at Haefali and spoke deliberately.

  “Herd those prisoners into the chambers or I’ll shoot you. Someone else will do your job anyway.”

  The pistol moved to Oscar Durand.

  “Choose those who’ll live and those who will die. Someone else will do your job anyway.”

  The next target was Ettiene Truffaux, a highly decorated French Major from Haefali’s regiment.

  “Pour the gas canister into the chamber or I’ll shoot you. Someone else’ll do it anyway.”

  The gun moved quickly to Felix Bach, ex-Totenkopf Division.

  “Execute those prisoners or I’ll shoot you. Someone else will do it anyway.”

  Knocke took a purposeful step closer.

  “Execute those prisoners or I’ll shoot you and you’ll have died for nothing more than principle.”

  The barrel of his weapon was now almost in Bach’s face.

  “Execute them or die! I’ll shoot you where you stand, you bastard! Execute them or die!”

  “Sir… Ernst!”

  Haefali’s hand gently took hold of Knocke’s arm and brought the weapon slowly downwards, allowing him to get a hold of himself, his attempt to reflect what might have happened having taken hold of him to such an extent that he had forgotten his surroundings.

  He holstered his weapon carefully and grabbed Bach by the shoulder.

  “My apologies, Felix. I really don’t know what came over me.”

  The tears were streaming down Bach’s face, his lip faintly twitching, which many put down to the fact that he had until recently had a close up view of the business end of a Walther pistol.

  Knocke held out his hands in supplication.

  “Apologies, kameraden.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve no excuse… it is no excuse, I think.”

  He changed direction quickly.

  “It is no excuse… not for me.”

  He patted Haefali’s shoulder by way of a thank you for his intervention, and moved around his officers, both French and German, as he spoke.

  “I would like to think that I possess enough moral courage… enough honour… enough human decency… that were I placed in the situation of being given one of those orders, I would refuse it… and accept the consequences.”

  He stopped at Durand and patted his back.

  “I think we all would, wouldn’t we, Oscar?”

  “Oui, mon Général.”

  Moving on, Knocke found himself by Truffaux and he extended his hand, tentatively grasping the man’s arm, being none too familiar with the new arrival.

  “We’d all like to think we would act with courage and decency if it came to it, wouldn’t we, Commandant Truffaux?”

  “Most certainly, mon Général.”

  “But each man will only know his resolve when the moment comes.”

  He returned to the front of his men and deliberately placed his hands on his hips.

  “I would like to think that I’d have the courage to stand by my principles and say no… even though not doing so wouldn’t spare a life… just extend it by a few seconds and deprive me of mine…”

  He shook his head.

  “…but I don’t know.”

  Knocke knew his words were going home.

  “It may be that I’d have acted as these men here did… sorry, some of these men, for I have no doubt that sadistic and cruel men were in the majority that ruled here.”

  “Had I been transferred here, might I now stand accused as the likes of Hoess, who was in command of this camp, stands accused.”

  “What I do know is quite simple really… and remember I’d heard rumours of this place, so I stand more guilty than those who knew nothing of the camps and their sinister purpose.”

  He relaxed his posture and scratched his thinning hair.

  “Yes, I’m guilty of wearing the same uniform as those who commanded here. I’m guilty of ignoring the signs, the rumours of the existence of places such as this. I’m guilty of being a soldier who fought for the regime that brought this into being. I’m guilty of being a German!”

  He addressed the German contingent directly.

  “Yes, I’m guilty of wearing the same uniform, which to me always meant membership of an elite force of soldiers who had no equals in combat.”

  “Yes, I ignored the rumours, but how could I have anticipated that this was all happening?”

  He caught himself up in a thought process and inadvertently spoke aloud.

  “Should I have anticipated this?”

  Knocke realised he had voiced his thoughts but set the moment aside and continued.

  “Yes, I’m guilty of being a soldier, but I fought for my country, as any man who loves it would do.”

  He nodded, more to himself than any of his audience.

  “Yes, I’m guilty of being a
German and that more than anything is what will haunt me now. For now being me is not about what I have done or achieved any more… it’s about my country and how it has been stained by the actions of those who were entrusted with its safekeeping… and who abused it and the world so badly.”

  “This will not define me… I’ll not let it define me. Nor will it define who I was, nor will it define those brave men who died wearing the same uniforms as the rabble who ran this camp.”

  “You all knew of the camps before this… when we came together to form the Corps… to form Camerone… and we forged a wonderful spirit, which is now risked by being here… and the Russian has been clever but… perhaps… correct in some way… for we can now understand more of the horrors of this place. By recreating it in an attempt to divide us, they have shown all of us the very pits of human existence… something we’ll always remember… and that will always affect the way our lives go forward from this day.”

  More than one man in the two groups had a tear roll down his cheek.

  “But I understand, kameraden. Being here makes everything less distant. There is a reality in this nothingness that will stay with all of us for as long as we live.”

  He gestured towards the Frenchmen with genuine affection.

  “You’re the same men you were before this day dawned.”

  He swept his arm across the German officers.

  “They’re the same men as well. Some of you owe some of them your lives… and the reverse is true, is it not?”

  There was mumbled agreement from many a mouth.

  “They’re not responsible for this, no more than any of you are responsible for the capitulation of France and the rise of Vichy.”

  That hurt a few of the listeners.

  “You all know that some things have happened during our time together that are regrettable. We all remember poor old Vernais and what happened afterwards. Our kameraden at La Petit Pierre and the price the communists paid for their behaviour? What our American friends did at Hattmatt, eh? But we understand and condone those things, even though we were involved.”

  He pointed at the gates, drawing everyone into turning around to examine the long brick structure.

  “We were not involved in that… any of it… none of us.”