Comrades of War

by Sven Hassel

  ‘What the hell is the meaning of this? Aren’t we good enough?’

  ‘You can’t have anything from me, though I’m sure you are doing a brilliant job of what you’re hired for.’

  The Oberscharführer bent all the way over the bar counter and whispered with suppressed rage: ‘Five doubles, you disgusting pig, and right NOW!’

  The cat sneaked noiselessly behind the counter. ‘Do as the “Oberschar” tells you, or your wig will go up in smoke.’

  The sergeant with the game license got up and staggered drunkenly up to the bar counter.

  ‘Does someone want to fight!’ he hiccuped in a drunken drawl.

  The Oberscharführer looked at him indifferently and contented himself with spitting and hissing: ‘Clear out, you foot-slogger!’

  The sergeant swayed like a tree in storm. We all expected he’d fall over, but he kept his balance. He brought his face close up to the Oberscharführer. ‘I can see you’re badly in need of some massage.’

  The SS Oberscharführer hit only once – with the handle of his .38. The sergeant came down, blood streaming from his nose. He fell like a post.

  ‘That’ll do!’ Aunt Dora cried, putting down her white cheroot. ‘If you five won’t clear out of here awful fast, you’ll have a bigger row than you bargained for!’

  She picked up the cat’s sub-machine gun and placed it in his lap with an expression which brooked no contradiction. ‘This counter is not an armory. It’s a bar counter, meant for different things.’ She began feverishly dusting off the counter with a napkin and glanced toward the revolving door out of the corner of her eye.

  The Legionnaire was about to say something. He managed to bring out only a ‘Merde.’

  Aunt Dora hissed at him venomously: ‘Shut up and mind your own business!’

  ‘What the hell,’ the Oberscharführer exclaimed. ‘You filthy whore, we’ll know how to make eyes at you when you come up to us. We’re going to wreck this piss-box so thoroughly that the devil himself will envy us.’

  In his fury he kicked the unconscious sergeant in the face, so that his big head bandage fell off and a long fresh operation wound appeared. It had burst in several places and water oozed out. Red flesh could be seen. A drain fell out.

  A girl bent over the unconscious man. ‘Oh, Hans, poor Hans!’

  She had some trouble lugging him into the niche. The SS men laughed. The Oberscharführer shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Bring that baby along when we leave. He’s in for a shellacking. And now, those five doubles!’

  The Belgian coughed a warning by the door. Aunt Dora looked up and smiled brightly.

  In the revolving door stood a little man with striking features, dressed in a tight-waisted coat. A white scarf was wrapped about his neck several times. He wore white gloves and a light gray homburg. His eyes were another matter. Cadaverous and watery.

  Aunt Dora lit another cheroot, snapped her fingers, and said, ‘Good evening, Paul.’

  The little man nodded and said, ‘Heil Hitler!’

  As he walked forward a couple of steps, his pointed black shoes creaked. He put a cigarette into an extremely long silver cigarette-holder with an ivory mouthpiece.

  The SS men and all the guests looked at him in fascination.

  With his cigarette-holder he pointed at the SS Oberscharführer, who was now sitting on a tall bar stool, swinging one of his booted legs.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The Oberscharführer became confused. He didn’t quite know what to do. Jump up and reel off a report or just shout: ‘Shut up, you filthy swine, who do you think you are?’ He would have preferred the latter, but the barking voice sounded too familiar. It reminded him of the barracks and of the dark corridors at Police Headquarters. Something paralyzed him. Experience had taught him that behind ridiculous civilian rags the most unbelievable things could be concealed.

  He slid down from his stool, even though he didn’t much feel like it. He brought his heels together only partially, without a click. And the report was very unmilitary. He reported that he was making a routine razzia and had caught a shady-looking Schupo he suspected of desertion.

  The little man cast an indifferent glance at the policeman by the wall.

  ‘Your razzia order,’ he requested.

  The SS Oberscharführer shifted his feet. He blinked, as he always did when he couldn’t quite manage something.

  A hand in white kid glove, with long fingers resembling snakes, was held out insistently: ‘The order for the razzia, Oberschar!’

  ‘I don’t have any, Herr . . .’

  A surprised eye looked at him, a left eye in a pale gaunt face. The right eye, empty and watery, stared into nothingness. It was of porcelain. It wasn’t a very good imitation, but the little man was pleased with it. His victims always got so confused when they saw it and noticed its icy chill. It was quite as unfeeling and cold as the little man’s brain and soul.

  ‘What do you mean by that? Am I to understand that you don’t have any order for razzia, Oberschar?’ The question came out with an air of simulated surprise.

  ‘N – no, Herr . . .’ He seemed to be searching for a service rank. He still didn’t quite know whom he was dealing with.

  Only one person knew – Aunt Dora.

  He continued in a slight stammer. ‘We thought there was someone in this pigsty who needed an overhauling.’

  The little man pulled up the corner of his mouth for a smile, which looked more like a sickening grimace.

  ‘Who’re “we”? And what do you mean by “pigsty”? Because the only swine here is you, Oberschar, and you came here only a short time ago.’

  A long pause. Everybody was waiting for the answer of the Oberscharführer. Far away a couple of bombs were falling.

  ‘Well, have you lost your voice? I asked, Who’re “we”?’

  ‘The patrol, Herr . . .’

  Again the crooked smile.

  ‘Are you in command, Oberschar?’

  ‘Certainly, Herr . . .’

  ‘Indeed! That means you’re the one responsible for the misbehavior, which is both unlawful and incomprehensible. Self-appointed razzias and actions are punished with court-martial! Or, maybe you are of a different opinion, Oberschar?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘H’m. Indeed! You haven’t yet answered my question whether or not you have the responsibility.’

  The Oberscharführer swallowed and again shifted his feet. He had now brought his heels completely together and extended his fingers along the seams of his trousers. He had long ago realized that this little civilian was more important than he looked.

  Aunt Dora, who was cleaning glasses at the counter, was obviously delighted with the situation. The Legionnaire was muttering to himself.

  ‘SS Oberscharführer Brenner reports that the responsibility for the operations of the patrol is mine.’

  The little man raised his eyebrow. The living eye darkened slightly. The dead eye stared on coldly.

  ‘We’ll discuss this later at Headquarters, Oberschar! Now clear out and take your men with you.’

  ‘I would like to ask where I am to report, Sir.’

  The little man was walking around the premises and didn’t answer. After peering into the many small half-darkened niches where candles were fluttering, he pointed at the policeman, who was standing by the wall with his hands folded behind his neck.

  ‘Take that fellow with you, Oberschar!’

  The Oberscharführer turned on his heels at attention so that he always faced the little man in the black tight-waisted coat.

  ‘Where are we to report, Herr . . . ?’

  No answer. Seemingly, the little man hadn’t even heard the question. He stood by the bar looking at the bottles, which stood in serried ranks like a battalion on parade on the two low shelves under the mirror.

  Aunt Dora pretended she didn’t see him. He was rubbing stains off the counter. Trude, the girl from Berlin, poured out a large glass
of gin for him. He sniffed at it.

  ‘From Holland,’ he said, as if talking to himself.

  He played with the glass and looked pensively at the liquid as if expecting something strange to emerge. He hummed: ‘Jewish blood shall flow.’

  He put the full glass on the counter, turned it a couple of times, sniffed at it again and mumbled: ‘From Amsterdam. Keizersgracht.’

  He sniffed at the glass once more, nodded curtly and got up without tasting the gin. He walked rapidly toward the door. In passing, he laid his hand on Ewald’s shoulder.

  ‘Drop in to see me tomorrow at 12:10. You can get the address from your boss.’

  The pimp went deathly pale. He smelled trouble. The little man’s invitation was too cordial.

  In the door he turned to the Oberscharführer. ‘My name is Kriminalrat Paul Bielert, Central Security Officer, Department 4, II A.’

  Then he disappeared.

  ‘That’s our damn luck,’ the Oberscharführer mumbled, taken aback. ‘“Pretty Paul” himself.’ He looked at his housecarls. ‘That means “Good night, my dear!” Next stop: The central sector of the Eastern Front.’

  They kicked the policeman and struck him with their rifle butts as if it were his fault. They threatened the Belgian and spat after Ewald, but didn’t say a word to Aunt Dora. There was something they didn’t understand.

  They yelled at the policeman: ‘In case of escape we use our weapons.’ This was the last we heard of them.

  Aunt Dora gave a round of drinks to us all. Everybody could have what he liked. Most of us wanted doubles. We finished another dish of grilled chestnuts.

  The all-clear was sounded. The long shrieking sound of the sirens was heard all over the city. The streets rang with hooting and clanking from the turnout of the fire brigade. Blazing fires raged everywhere.

  A whiff of scorched flesh forced its way down into Wind Force 11. It could have been from burning cattle, but it was from people.

  The sergeant with the game license didn’t come to. He died in the arms of a girl who sold herself to get butter and coffee, at the moment of greater value than bars of gold.

  ‘Sacre nom de Dieu,’ the Legionnaire exclaimed. ‘What a riotous evening.’ He glanced at Aunt Dora, who sat beside us drinking gin and bitters. ‘Who’s Bielert, and how did you make his acquaintance?’

  ‘Curious?’ Aunt Dora smiled. ‘Paul Bielert is a big wheel at the Central Security Office here in Hamburg. Kriminalrat. His signature can retire a person for eternity without any legal forms, without asking either court or judge. Eventually they also made him an SS big shot. Sturmbannführer, or something.’

  ‘And you associate with someone like that?’ the Legionnaire exclaimed. ‘Phew!’

  Aunt Dora went on without heeding the interruption. ‘A long time ago when Paul didn’t yet amount to much – he was a petty villain in Investigation – I gave him a hand.’ She started picking her teeth with a long toothpick and continued. ‘Otherwise “Pretty Paul” would’ve lost his head, and he’d never have become a big shit who took care that others lost theirs.’ She was still busy picking her teeth. The chestnuts bothered her. ‘But of course I took my precautions.’ She laughed noiselessly. ‘When you have to deal with vipers, you make sure you have a good serum.’

  The Legionnaire stuck a pencil in his ear and scratched away fiercely. ‘Sacrebleu, you have something on the little shit?’

  ‘You bet your life I do,’ Aunt Dora said, weighting every word.

  ‘H’m,’ came thoughtfully from the Legionnaire. ‘I only hope it isn’t unhealthy. What if Pretty Paul should take it into his head to knock you cold, my lamb, so you wouldn’t know a thing any more? In his position I certainly wouldn’t think twice about it.’

  Aunt Dora blew away the smoke and again laughed. ‘Tell me, Alfred, do you think I’m a tender little thing from the sticks?’

  ‘Merde, of course I don’t. I’m not a dimwit. If you’d been a ninny you’d have been laid out a long time ago. But, Dora, that guy Bielert or whatever his name is looked like someone who wouldn’t stop at anything. For my part I’d hate like hell to know anything damaging about him.’

  Aunt Dora laughed heartily. I’ve never heard anyone laugh as heartily as that. ‘If someone should be stupid enough to step on my toes, all I know would rise from the grave. The executioner would get busy – he’d have to work overtime. Business would take quite an upswing. I’m dead sure I’ll survive this war. When Adolf has crapped out I’ll probably be standing all alone on the tower of St Michael’s Church with a couple of miserable little whores looking for customers.’

  She downed a glass of gin in one gulp, then ran her hands through her black wig.

  ‘What the hell do you really know about him?’ the Legionnaire asked.

  ‘It wouldn’t do you any good to know.’ She casually scratched one of her breasts.

  ‘Is it political?’ the Legionnaire pumped.

  ‘Naturally,’ Dora laughed softly. ‘Do you think murder and that sort of thing cuts any ice with the likes of them? But anything political is a good squeeze. When you whisper something political, Adolf loses his sense of humor completely.’

  We drank in silence.

  The policeman who had stepped down to rinse the smoke out of his throat was brought before a special court, where the whole matter was settled in twenty minutes. The judge, an old man, had pronounced thousands of sentences. He had been relieved of his work shortly after the assumption of power because he had displayed a little too much tenacity of purpose under the Weimar Republic. But he liked being a judge. You feel so wonderfully great when you sit lording it up there behind the tall desk. He pestered the new rulers in Berlin until eventually they gave him a post. When the war came, however, he had more work on his hands than he had bargained for. His wife read out most cases for him while he ate. Many of them he signed without having read even a single line.

  After the war he was pensioned and cultivated tulips and carnations in his little house in Aumühle. On the door-plate is written: Heinrich Weslar, ret. judge. ‘Ret.’ is tiny and almost unreadable, but ‘judge’ screams at you. The plate is of brass and is polished twice a day.

  He lives five minutes from the railroad station, close by the Bismarck Monument – in case someone would like to pay him a visit.

  The day he pronounced sentence on the poor Schupo he was extremely busy. Beside his carnations and tulips he had carnivorous plants as a hobby, and he just remembered that they ought to have had their flies an hour ago. Death could be the result if he didn’t get home in time.

  ‘In the name of the Führer the accused shall forfeit his life for cowardice and attempt at desertion, but in view of his long period of service in the civilian police, the Court will bar beheading and sentence him to be shot on the Army’s stand.’

  His ‘Heil Hitler’ came only half from within the courtroom.

  The fifty-year-old Schupo, with thirty years of service behind him, was led out by two prison guards. He sobbed and collapsed in the little corridor behind the court and so they had to carry him down to his cell. He was given a tranquilizing injection before they drove him by truck to Fuhlsbüttel.

  They tried to prop him up when they stood him before a butt in Putlos, but he kept on falling down. One of them thought he had already died from fright before the twelve carbine bullets went through his body.

  One of the police riflemen hit his face. It didn’t look pretty. It was too obviously suggestive of violence, something which didn’t belong on a court-martial stand.

  The police lieutenant who commanded the firing squad was fuming. He said it was a dirty trick to shoot in the face, especially since the man they had shot was a comrade.

  He went on giving them hell all the way to Hamburg.

  The detail was penalized with a regular turn of rifle duty, and two weeks later the men were sent by convoy to Poland to be thrown into the battle against the partisans. One dark night their company was sent out into the forests n
orth of Lvov. Two of the trucks got stuck. As they were busy digging them out of the sucking mire, flames suddenly shot up from the dark forest with the violence of an earthquake, countless small blue vicious flames. First they came from the left, then slantwise from the right. And later from directly in front.

  The whole thing lasted exactly fourteen minutes. Then it became quiet, apart from the crackling of fire in the burning trucks and the moaning of some wounded.

  Figures in peasant dress emerged. They kicked the killed and the wounded. Here and there a rifle or pistol shot popped.

  First Lieutenant Vassily Poloneff’s partisans vanished into the immense forests as quietly as they had emerged.

  All of the 175 MP soldiers annihilated were older men who for many years had plodded the streets of Hamburg, Lübeck and Bremen as obscure policemen. They hadn’t had the slightest suspicion that somewhere in the east there lived a young fanatic killer, Vassily Poloneff, First Lieutenant in Unit X 103 B of the Red Army and an expert in partisan warfare.

  The encounter had been brief and violent. Shortly afterward, the postman would bring a nice card to the bereaved: ‘First Sergeant Schulze or Meyer has been killed in action fighting for the Führer and for Greater Germany. The Führer thanks you.’

  Many would have liked to write in the newspaper, ‘With profound sorrow,’ but that was prohibited by the Party. A German woman must be proud when her husband is killed for the Führer. Likewise, the children have to be proud when their fathers are killed. A German isn’t merely husband, father, son, or brother, but first of all a soldier and a hero. That’s what he was born for. That’s what he lived for.

  Heil Hitler!

  To show sorrow was un-German. It could easily be interpreted as sabotage of the will for defense. Reading the death notice of one of the fallen, you couldn’t help blinking your eyes:

  ‘With pride we have received notice

  that our son, Lieutenant in the Reserves

  Heinz Müller

  born on May 3, 1925,

  of 44th Regiment of the Panzer Grenadiers,