Assignment Gestapo (6 page)

‘She doesn’t stand a chance,’ he said. ‘They’ll polish her off in no time. You ever seen what they do to traitors in this part of the world? They’re only half civilized, these people. They’re—’

‘Spare us the details,’ said the Old Man. ‘Do you mind?’

Stege suddenly laughed; bitter and reflective.

‘The enemy values treachery yet scorns the traitor . . . Schiller was quite right, apparently.’ .

‘Schiller?’ said Porta, blankly. ‘What the hell’s he got to do with anything? He’s dead, ain’t he?’

‘Oh, long since,’ said Stege. ‘Before you were born . . .’

‘You should have seen the way his tongue came out of his mouth,’ said Tiny, boastfully.

We turned to stare at him, thinking, naturally enough, that he was referring to Schiller. Not a bit of it, however: he was merely reliving his latest moment of glory with the steel wire, when he had strangled the NKVD man.

‘He had his hands round my neck, but I was too strong for him. He never said a word. Just choked and gurgled and made odd noises. They do that, when you really put the pressure on. They—’

‘Jesus Christ!’ said Heide. That’s all you seem to live for . . . sex and strangulation!’

‘Each to his own,’ said Tiny, pompously. ‘We’re here to kill, so I do it the way I like best. Let’s face it,’ he said, in eminently reasonable tones that forestalled all attempts at argument, ‘everyone’s got their favourite way of doing it.’

It was true, I suppose. We each had our own preferred methods. The Legionnaire was a devotee of the knife, while Porta was a crack shot with a rifle. Heide liked playing about with flame throwers, while for myself I was accounted pretty hot stuff with a hand grenade. Tiny just happened to enjoy strangling people . . .

¹
Siberian knives with a double-edged blade

²
The Führer thanks you

³
Heeresdienstvorschrift – Army Service Regulations

⁴
Understand

⁵
Mr.

⁶
Comrade

The crows objected most strongly when we came along and disturbed their feast. They had settled in a great black cloud on the corpses, and as Porta fired into their midst they rose up in annoyance, circled round our heads in a brief moment of panic and then flew off to the nearest trees, where they set up a harsh chatter of protest. Only one remained behind: it was entangled in a mess of intestines and was unable to free itself. Heide promptly shot it. We dragged the bodies inside and piled them up in heaps. Lt. Ohlsen came to look at our handiwork and began swearing at us. He insisted that we laid them out decently, in neat lines, one next to another
.

‘Some people,’ observed Heide to Barcelona, ‘are a bit funny about these things
.’

Grumbling, we nevertheless rearranged the bodies as the Lieutenant wished. But as for the officers who had been murdered in their beds, sprawled over the side in their silk pyjamas, with their throats cut, we left them to rot where they were. Dark patches of blood stained the floor, and the flies were already thick on the ground. In one room a radio was still turned on. A persuasive voice was crooning
:

‘Liebling, sollen wir traurig oder glücklich sein?’
(Darling, shall we be sad or gay?)

We sprinkled petrol over the entire garrison and retreated. Once outside at a safe distance, Barcelona and I tossed half a dozen grenades through the windows
.

From the other side of the hills, we heard the drunken singing of jubilant Russian troops
:

‘Jesli sawtra wouna,
jesli sawtra pochod,
jesli wrasrhaja syla nahrima,
jak odyn tscholowek’
(
When, tomorrow, the war arrives
. . .)

The Old Man looked in their direction, away across the hills in the misty distance; and then back at the burning garrison with its murdered men
.

‘
Well, there it is,’ he said. ‘That’s their war, that they seem so happy about
. . .’

CHAPTER TWO

Special Mission

W
E
caught up with the rest of the Company in a pine wood. Lt. Ohlsen was not, on the whole, very pleasant about our prolonged absence, and it was some considerable time before he was able to express himself in language that did not bring a blush of modest shame to our cheeks.

Over the next few days we had several skirmishes with parties of marauding Russians, and lost perhaps a dozen men in all. By now we were becoming fairly expert in the art of guerilla warfare.

We had with us six prisoners, a lieutenant and five infantrymen. The lieutenant spoke fluent German, and he marched with Lt. Ohlsen at the head of the company, all differences temporarily forgotten.

To compensate ourselves for having to drag prisoners along with us, we made two of the infantrymen carry the stewpot containing our fermented alcohol.

It was early in the morning – with the sun shining, by way of a change – that we spotted the chalet, a mountain hut with a balcony running round it, two German infantry men standing guard at the entrance. As we approached it, two officers came out and stood waiting for us. One of them, the more senior, was a lieutenant colonel, wearing a ridiculous monocle that kept flashing in the sun. He raised a hand in patronizing salute to Lt. Ohlsen, and as we moved up he looked us over with a condescending stare.

‘So you’ve arrived at last . . . I expected you some time ago I don’t ask for reinforcements unless I have need of them – and when I do have need of them, expect them straight away.’ His monocle moved up and down our ranks, glinting contemptuously. ‘Well, your men look to be quite an experienced band . . . one hopes that one’s confidence does not turn out to be misplaced?’ He removed his monocle, breathed, on it, polished it, screwed it back again and addressed himself to us over Lt. Ohlsen’s shoulder. ‘Just for the record, should like to make it clear from the start that we’re rather hot on discipline in this neck of the woods. I don’t know what you chaps have been up to out there, but now that you’re here you can start pulling your fingers out. Hm!’ He nodded, apparently satisfied that he had made some kind of point, and turned back to Ohlsen. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Lt. Colonel von Vergil. I’m in command here.’ Lt. Ohlsen saluted. ‘I sent for reinforcements some days ago. I expected you long before this. However, now that you’ve arrived, I can certainly use you. Over that way, on the edge of the woods. Hill 738. Enemy’s been rather busy there just lately. You’ll find the left flank of my battalion nearby. Make sure you maintain good lines of communication.’

‘Sir.’

Lt. Ohlsen saluted again, with two fingers to his helmet. The Colonel opened his eye and dropped his monocle.

‘Do you call that a regulation salute, Lieutenant?’

Ohlsen stood to attention. He clicked his heels together and brought one hand up very smartly. The Colonel nodded a grudging approval.

‘That’s better. We don’t tolerate slapdash ways here, you know. This is a Prussian infantry battalion. We know what’s what, and we maintain the highest standards. So long as you are under my command, I shall expect that you do the same.’ The Colonel placed his hands behind his back and leaned forward slightly, frowning. ‘What’s this foreign scum you’ve brought along with you?’

‘Russian prisoners, sir. One lieutenant and five privates.’

‘Hang them. We don’t keep that sort of trash round here.’

There was a moment’s pause. I could see Lt. Ohlsen swallowing rather hard.

‘Did you say –
hang
them, sir?’

‘Of course I said hang them! What’s the matter with you, man? Are you slow-witted or something?’

The Colonel turned on his heel and stalked back inside the chalet. Lt. Ohlsen followed him with his eyes, his expression grim. We all knew the Colonel’s type: an Iron Cross maniac, with not a thought in his head beyond that of personal glory and gratification.

The Russian lieutenant raised an eyebrow at Ohlsen.

‘So what happens?’ he murmured. ‘Do we hang?’

‘Not if I can help it!’ snapped Ohlsen. ‘I’d sooner stand by and watch that buffoon strung up!’

A window on the first floor was flung violently open by an NCO, and the buffoon himself looked out.

‘By the way, Lieutenant, one word of warning before you take up your positions: when I give an order, I expect it to be carried out immediately . . . I trust I make myself clear?’

‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Porta. ‘That’s all we needed. A bleeding Prussian nut . . .’

Lt. Ohlsen turned sharply on him.

‘Do you mind? There’s no need to make the situation worse than it already is.’

The Colonel’s Adjutant, a young pink-faced lieutenant, appeared at the door with orders from the Colonel that we were to take up our positions immediately . . . and to do so strictly according to the rule book. Whatever that may have meant. After years of fighting at the front, you pretty well make up your own rule book.

We reached Hill 738 and set about digging ourselves in. The earth was hard, but we’d come across harder, and it was better than endless footslogging across enemy-infested countryside. Tiny and Porta sang as they worked. They seemed exaggeratedly happy. ‘They’ve been at that bloody schnaps,’ said Heide, suspiciously.

Lieutenants Ohlsen and Spät were sitting in a dug-out with the Russian officer, talking together in low, urgent voices. Barcelona laughed.

‘I bet they’re giving Ivan the times of the local trains!’

‘So what?’ demanded Stege, fiercely. ‘Ohlsen’s not the type to go round hanging prisoners just because some pathological Prussian tells him to do so. He’ll see they get out all right.’

‘Surely to God,’ said Heide, incredulously, ‘he’s never going to let the bastards go?’

‘Go?’

‘What else can he do?’ said Barcelona. ‘If they’re still here this time tomorrow, old Barmy Bill’s likely to string them up himself – and the Lieutenant along with them.’

‘Serve him right,’ decreed Heide, self-importantly. ‘ He ought to obey the orders of a superior officer. That’s what he’s here for . . . In any case, I don’t go along with all this balls of taking prisoners. What’s the point of it, unless you want something out of ’em? And when you’ve got it, shoot the buggers . . . Prisoners are nothing but a sodding nuisance. You may have noticed,’ he added, smugly, ‘that
I
never take any.’

‘Sounds fine when you’re sitting here in your own trenches,’ allowed Barcelona, ‘but you can bet your sweet life you’d sing another tune if you were in the hands of the Russians.’

‘If ever I were,’ said Heide, with dignity, ‘I should take what was coming to me. And if they kept me prisoner instead of shooting me, I should think they were a load of damn fools . . . Only thing is, I don’t ever aim to be in the hands of the Russians.’

‘Big talk!’ jeered Barcelona.

‘Look—’ Heide turned on him, angrily. ‘How long have I been in the perishing Army? Nine years! And in all that time I’ve never been captured . . . and you know why? Because I’m a bloody good soldier, in a way the rest of you could never be in a million years!’ He faced them, challengingly. ‘I go according to regulations; right? I got a crease in my trousers, just like the book says – right? I got a proper knot in my tie, I got a parting in my hair – God help us,’ he even snatched off his helmet to display it! – ‘there’s not one little thing about me or my uniform that doesn’t go along with the rule book. You can laugh if you like, but it’s a starting point. You don’t start right, you’ll never make a good soldier. And when I decided to join the Army, I decided to do the thing properly. And I have, right from the very beginning. And I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what the blue blazes we’re supposed to be fighting for, I just do what I’m told . . . I’d kill my own perishing grandmother if I was ordered to. I’m a soldier because I
like
being a soldier, and what I like doing I like to be good at.’

There was a moment’s pause.

‘I don’t really see what all that has to do with taking prisoners,’ objected Stege.

‘Jesus, how thick can you get?’ demanded Heide, in disgust. ‘And you a student! Listen—’He leaned forward towards them – ‘I never went on to secondary school. Nothing like that, see? But take it from me, I know what I’m doing and I know where I’m going. And one thing I know for sure is, never take prisoners . . . How do you think I’ve managed to survive for so long? Why is it that I was made an N.C.O. after only five months, while you’re still only a Gefreiter after four years? Why is it that hardly any students end up as officers – whereas I’m going to become an officer in record time just as soon as the war’s over and I can get to start training? Why is it—’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Stege, growing bored. ‘I daresay you’re quite right.’

‘Of course I’m bleeding right! I don’t need a kid like you to tell me I’m right’ Heide sat back, satisfied. ‘I’m not letting those Russian bastards get out of here alive, don’t you worry.’

Stege jerked his head up again.

‘You touch them and I’ll go straight to Lt. Ohlsen!’

‘Try it! Try it, and see what he does!’ jeered Heide. ‘He can’t afford to lay a finger on me!’

Stege looked at him contemptuously.

‘I can only say thank God
I’m
not a model soldier,’ he remarked.

‘Ah, get stuffed!’ retorted Heide.

We had just finished digging when the first shell came over. We heard the familiar whistling sound as it went to earth somewhere nearby, then the shrill screams of a man in agony, and one of the new recruits leapt out of his hole and fell sprawling on the ground.