by Colin Gee
He waited until they had all turned back to face him before coming to the end of his words.
“Kameraden, what we are now involved in… responsible for… committed to… is ensuring that the horrors of this place are never repeated, no matter what. We, as legionnaires, are committed to that task, and together we will keep Auschwitz, Birkenau, and a hundred other awful places as memories, ensuring they are lessons learned, not models for the future.”
“The man opposite you is the same man he was yesterday. He’s your comrade and he’ll die for you as you would for him. Such men should not stand apart. They should stand together.”
He studied the two groups.
“So… stand together.”
Gradually, some movement started, and it was Durand who first extended his hand to Johannes Braun, with whom he had the best of relationships.
The rest followed suit and the rifts that had suddenly appeared faded, although not totally and some wounds might always remain, for Auschwitz-Birkenau was a place that would not fade in the memory of those who saw what it had to offer.
“We’re not responsible for this… but we must accept responsibility for it in a wider sense. Would that none of it had ever happened… but it cannot be undone. So we must all accept responsibility for what we can achieve in this place’s memory, for the memories of all those who died and suffered, and for guiding the future.”
His words had a keen edge and found the men’s hearts.
“Atten-shun!”
They sprang to the attention as Knocke about turned and offered the silent ground a formal salute, followed by the assembled officers and NCOs.
He moved back round to face his officers.
“Now, we must attend to the unfortunates here. First thing tomorrow… volunteers only… and make sure your men understand the enormity of the task ahead.”
He gave them a magnificent salute.
“Dis-miss!”
Knocke came to his senses, still stood in the selection area of Auschwitz-II, Birkenau.
His mind had become so wrapped up in itself that he had failed to recognise the departure of his officers.
All but one of his officers.
“Felix?”
“Oberführer.”
“Why are you still here? It’s Christmas. You should be celebrating.”
“You’re right.”
“I know I am, Now, say hello to your boys from me and…”
“No, you’re right. I should have said no.”
“Should have?”
“Yes. I should have.”
“You were here?”
“No, not here. Not here!”
“Where were you, Felix?”
“Majdanek, near Lublin. When I was wounded. I spent four months there waiting for my call up to Bad Tolz.”
Knocke had heard of Majdanek in much the same way as he had heard his present location; rumour, gossip, and the hushed whispers of men who knew they should speak no further.
“I did what I was ordered, no more, no less, but I did it… and I should have said no.”
“Mein Gott.”
“As you said, God has no part in these fucking places, Oberführer.”
He sobbed without tears.
“I was a coward.”
“No more than most would be, faced with choices like that.”
“No, you were right… there was only one choice.”
“You say that now, but at the time…”
“At the time I did what I was ordered, which is no fucking excuse… you said so yourself in so many words, Oberführer.”
“Felix, I…”
“No. I’m guilty… guilty of Majdanek, this place, all the awful places…”
“No, Felix, yo…”
“Enough, Oberführer. Our French comrades were right. We’re guilty and should be punished.”
“Stop this at once!”
The movement and the shot blended into one, and blood and brains splattered Knocke from waist to head.
Haefali appeared, running for all he was worth, followed by a few others who had been congregating on the other side of the entrance building.
Remarkably, Bach was not dead, despite the huge hole in his head, although his hold on life would not last much longer.
Knocke cradled the dying man, holding him close and whispering words of comfort, unsure if they could be heard or comprehended.
By the time Haefali arrived, gun in hand, Bach had joined the thousands upon thousands of other souls that had travelled from Auschwitz to wherever their God took them.
The new arrivals either spread out to find whoever had fired the shot or instinctively understood what had happened.
Knocke slid out from under the body and laid Bach gently to rest.
“He had blood on his hands, Albrecht. He told me that he served at a camp such as this. I fear my words brought him to this. I’m so sorry.”
Standing, Knocke was conscious of the spray of Bach’s vitals that covered him.
Haefali offered a handkerchief, which he gratefully accepted.
“We all have blood on our hands, Albrecht… the SS, Wehrmacht, the German people… Germany itself. When von Papen committed us once more to the fight against the spread of communism, he spoke quite clearly about atonement for our crimes.”
“I remember that speech, Ernst.”
“As do I. I wrote a bit of it down, but I never fully understood what he meant until today.”
Knocke fished in his tunic pocket and brought out his notebook as Haefali stood the circle of men down, ordering four to remove the body of their comrade.
He thumbed through the worn pages until he found what he sought.
He then read aloud, alternating between looking at the text and watching as Bach’s body was tended to.
“Crimes have been committed and those crimes must be atoned for by those responsible. There can be no other way. Regardless of whether you pulled the trigger, drove the tank, or stayed at home enduring the bombs, the German people have a collective responsibility to make amends for these excesses, to fully atone for our national actions before we can move forward as a nation without the burdens of our past.”
Having put the notebook back in its place, Knocke came to attention and saluted the corpse as it was carried away. Those not carrying Bach followed suit.
Within a minute Knocke and Haefali were alone in the gathering gloom of a winter’s evening, surrounded by the quiet of the ruined camp, accompanied only by the gentle whistle of the growing wind, and the smell of blood freshly spilt upon a ground already enriched by the blood of thousands.
Haefali broke the silence.
“Your words have done much, but I fear it’ll take much more for things to become whole again.”
Knocke took out his cigarette pack and checked himself, returning them to his pocket having thought better of the idea. It was somehow disrespectful in his eyes.
“I believe you’re right, Albrecht. For my part and, I suspect, for a number of my men, we may never be whole again.”
Haefali nodded, trying to put himself in the ex-SS officer’s position, and not liking what he imagined.
“Being here… in this awful place and armed with the knowledge of what went on here… overseen by my countrymen… actioned by members of the SS… well… it makes me want to stand in defence of everything that is weak, victimised…whatever… just be a soldier and stand up for what is right… not just my own country as a soldier… or for France as a legionnaire… but for all… for anyone and everyone… to make sure this fucking abomination can never ever happen again!”
Haefali extended his hand and gently placed it upon the shoulder of a man he had come to admire but who, at this time, was tarnished by association with the horrors around him.
“Auschwitz is not your fault, Ernst… I think we all know that… but it was the SS who ran this death camp… you and your men may not have served here, but it’s your collective responsibility, that’s clear…
so it’s also your responsibility to atone for it.”
Knocke extended his hand, patted the Legion officer’s side, and walked forward before turning around and facing Haefali.
“You’re absolutely right, Albrecht. But the Gods of War have denied me the opportunity to soldier, now that peace has descended on Europe. So I’ll have to find another way… another means by which I can do my utmost to make up for this… and to say sorry to all those who perished here.”
The Camerone commander came to full attention and saluted his friend, who returned the honour smartly.
Knocke then turned and offered another salute to the darkness of the ruined gas chambers.
As his hand remained steady at the peak of his kepi, he spoke a few words, words that would remain with Haefali until his dying day.
“For my soldiers, my people, and my country, I offer this apology and promise. This will never happen again whilst I draw breath. On my honour, I swear it!”
The two men held the salute for what seemed like an eternity, both making other silent promises that were for them to honour in their own way, before returning to the entrance, walking perfectly in step, to start repairing the damage to their beloved Legion.
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Chapter 182 - THE ELIMINATIONS
1107 hrs, Monday 30th December 1946, Marktplatz, Oberursel, Germany.
“That’s him.”
“Ja.”
“We just do it. Nothing fancy. There’s no kripos or soldiers that I can see… in fact… the only uniform I can see is that fat bastard on the junction… and he won’t catch us when we run. So… straight up… you watch, I’ll do it. OK?”
“Ja.”
“Do you ever say more than one fucking word at a time, Klaus?”
“Nein.”
“Fucking comedian.”
“Ja.”
Despite the fact that the two were about to take a man’s life in public, they had no qualms about it and were relaxed enough to go through an exchange they had done many times before.
They strolled casually out of their concealment and ate up the distance between them and their mark in slow confident steps.
Their mark was drinking coffee outside a small establishment that claimed to provide the best coffee in the town, which was true, mainly because it had a special link with nearby US army units, which kept it properly supplied.
The target brought his cup to his lips and brought his head upright, intent on finishing his drink, but instead bringing the approaching pair to his attention.
All his senses lit off in a moment, and he instinctively knew that they were coming for him.
As they instinctively knew they had been seen and recognised for what they were.
‘Where is Strauch?’
Three hands grabbed for weapons and found them.
“Die, you Nazi bastard!”
Shots mingled with screams as the three men sent bullets flying at each other.
The screams of the frightened were boosted by those of the injured, as confused people ran in all directions and some got in the way of bullets intended for others.
None the less, some of those shots fired found the targets for which they were intended, and the firing ended as abruptly as it had started.
Klaus would never utter another word, his face ruined by a single shot that struck the bridge of his nose and shredded the brain beyond.
His accomplice was coughing out the last of his moments as his lungs filled with blood, both having taken a round.
A woman who had run across the field of fire lay in soft repose, almost sleeping, except for the fact that she had no throat.
The café waiter was screaming in pain as his shattered elbow refused to stop moving.
A woman in the café suffered the double indignity of taking a bullet in her shoulder and being drenched in shattered glass, her screams less for the excruciating pain of her broken bone than for the clear sensation of broken glass ruining her eyes.
The fat policeman arrived, gun in hand, with nothing to shoot at but everything to bring under control.
He was helped by a local doctor who had sprinted from his practice with his bag in hand and started tending to those who were injured, some of whose injuries were simply sustained by falling over in the rush to escape.
The policeman started to make notes on what he saw and grabbed a journalist who arrived with a camera, allowing him close to the scene if he would take pictures for his report.
The camera fired its blinding flashes through the increasingly grey morning light, recording the bodies and the scene as directed by the policeman, who hadn’t always been old and fat.
More policemen and Kripos arrived, securing the whole scene.
The two assassins were quickly identified as communist sympathisers, known to the police, men who had served in the German Army but who resurfaced after the end of the war.
The identity of the third man was not known, he being devoid of any formal identification, which in itself was extremely unusual.
It was not until his photograph appeared in the newspapers that his name became known.
Reinhard Gehlen.
January 1947.
1947 started with either a fizzle or a burst of energy, depending on the people concerned.
Those in the Allied intelligence community were exercised by the murder of Gehlen, possibly by men who could likely be working under Soviet instructions.
That made the community both nervous and vigilant, and made the Germans bay for blood of any kind, but mainly that which lay in abundance to the East.
At home in the USA, the political situation had died to a murmur, occasionally rising to a shout as Truman refused to return industry to a peacetime footing, reasonably citing recent events from 1945.
The casualty count dropped to a trickle, mainly accidents on the road and in the air, or those caused by the intensive training that was the hallmark of the Allied peace… this time.
Elsewhere, the arrival of 1947 caused little fuss as the lines were now set and tensions, at least politically between the Western Allies and the USSR, and militarily across the board, were at an extremely and tolerably low point.
Above all it was the cold that calmed the situation throughout Europe. Although not as bad as the previous year, winter made itself felt and, even though late in arriving, bared its fangs to all comers.
0912 hrs, Thursday, 2nd January 1947, Dai Ichi Life Insurance Building, Tokyo, Japan.
“Morning, Lieutenant. Where’s the goddamned fire?”
“Good morning, Sir. Admiral Towers’ apologies, but he’s asked us to bring this to you immediately. He’s busy with other matters at the moment.”
MacArthur raised an eyebrow, drawing a response.
“He also felt that we were the best people to present this information to you at this time. This has been our baby from the start, Sir. You’ll understand, Sir.”
Waynes sorted out his folder, placing a copy of a most secret briefing in front of the General, whilst Takeo laid out a series of grainy and indistinct photographs next to some copies of Japanese documents, complete with translations.
MacArthur’s morning agenda had been shattered on the insistence of Towers, and he sure as hell hoped it wasn’t a fool’s errand.
“OK. What am I looking at here?”
“Sir, Admiral Towers has filled me in on what you already know, so I’ll cover what we have now learnt.”
He pointed at the documents.
“These are manifests which have just come to light. One of our investigative parties on the island of Okunoshima, where the Japanese had a poison gas facility.”
He pushed one under MacArthur’s nose.
“Dated June 6th last year, this is a receipt for three tons of compound seven and four tons of compound ten, signed illegibly, but reported as correctly stowed and secured, responsibility handed over to Special Weapons Detachment
officer, Combined Fleet special type submarine 402.”
“Special Weapons officer?”
“Sir, we believe that, given the nature of the facility giving up the items to be stowed, that compounds seven and ten are destructive gases.”
“Logical. Submarine 402?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Waynes promoted two grainy pictures to the front of the pile.
“These only came to us yesterday, Sir. They were taken by an agent in the Soviet Union on June 20th last year. I believe Admiral Towers mentioned Sovetskaya Gavan?”
MacArthur gave the naval lieutenant a look that sort of said ‘do you know how much shit I hear in a day, son’ but held his piece and simply nodded, especially as, for some reason, he suddenly remembered the conversation.
“Soviet boats undercover or something?”
“Yes, Sir… except they’re not. See here.”
The two images showed something, but MacArthur wasn’t totally sure what it was.
“Here is a picture we’ve doctored some. Drawn in the lines to emphasise the submarines.”
The third picture did just that.
“Big sons-a-bitches.”
“Yes, Sir. For scale, that is an AM class submarine. They come in at about three seventy-five feet in length. This one is probably a little over four hundred feet.”
“How does that compare to ours?”
“For perspective, one of our Gatos would be a little over three hundred feet long, Sir.”
“Big sons of bitches.”
“Beam wise, they’re big. Both types. One of ours sits about twenty-seven foot. Best guess by some experienced interpreters is that the biggest sub is slightly larger than the AM. They come in at about thirty-nine… which means the big sub is probably forty.”
“And the photos show three su…”
“No Sir!… apologies… no, sir… here… one… two … three… four… four submarines… two AMs and two Special type.”
MacArthur continued, airing his thoughts.
“There were five, and we pretty much know that one of our carriers put one down hard… and here we have the remaining four holed up in commie land… under cover… is this where you start talking about 731 and 516 again?”
