SS General

Germany has had the good fortune to find a leader capable of bringing together the forces of the entire country to work as a collective body for the common prosperity.

Daily Mail,
London, October 10, 1933

Sunday June 30, 1934, was one of the hottest days Berlin had ever known, but it has gone down in history as one of the bloodiest. Long before sunrise on that day, the city had been surrounded by an unbroken cordon of troops. All roads leading in and out were closed, guarded by the men who served under General Goering and Reichsfuhrer SS Himmler.

At five o'clock on the morning of June 30, a large black Mercedes, with the inscription "SA Brigadenstandarte" on the windshield, was stopped on the road between Lubeck and Berlin. Its important occupant, a brigadier general, was ordered out at gun-point and thrown into the back of a police wagon. The driver, SA Truppenfuhrer Horst Ackermann, was bluntly advised to move himself, which he did at top speed. He regained Lubeck and made his report to the chief of police, who at first refused to attach any credence whatsoever to the story. Upon the Truppenfuhrer's insisting, the man could think of nothing more constructive to do than pick up the telephone and seek help and advice from his old friend the head of the Criminal Police. Both of them had been members of the SA, the old guard of the National Socialist assault troops, but the previous year, along with all the other police officers in the Third Reich, they had been transferred to the SS.

"Well, what do you think?"

There was an uneasy silence from the telephone.

The chief of police tried a new tack. "Grunert? Are you still there? It's hardly likely they'd dare lay hands on one of the SA's best-known officers, is it?"

Another silence.

"Is it?" he repeated nervously.

This time there was a cynical laugh from the other end of the line.

"You think not? In that case, I suggest you leave the telephone a moment and take a quick look through the window
--
you're behind the times, my friend! I've known this was coming for the past few months and more. All the signs were there, for anyone who kept their eyes and ears open-- Eicke's been far too active for far too long, something had to break. Not only that, they cleared the camp at Borgemoor a while ago, and you're not trying to tell me they'd let a place like that stay empty for very long? Not on your life! It's been taken over by Eicke's SS boys and they're already prepared for full-scale murder down there."

The brigadier general, Paul Hatzke, found himself shut up in a cell at the former cadet training school of Gross Lichterfeld, now used as a barracks for Adolf Hitler's personal troops. He sat on a pile of bricks and calmly smoked a cigarette, his legs in their long black cavalry boots stretched out before him, his back against the wall. He was put out at his unceremonious treatment, but he saw no reason to fear for his safety. He was, after all, a brigadier general and commanded fifty thousand troops of the SA. He was also an ex-captain of His Majesty the Emperor's own household brigade. He was far too prominent a man for anyone to touch.

Outside the tranquility of his cell, the world seemed to be in temporary uproar. Men shouted, doors banged, footsteps thudded impatiently along passages and up and down staircases. The SS men who had arrested the brigadier general had muttered something about a revolt.

"Nonsense! No such thing!" Hatzke had dismissed it impatiently. "Any talk of a revolt and I should most certainly have had word of it. It's all a ridiculous mistake."

"Of course, of course," they had murmured soothingly. "That's all it is--a ridiculous mistake."

Hatzke tore open his fourth pack of cigarettes and raised his eyes to the small barred window high up in the wall.

A revolt! Arrant nonsense! He smiled to himself. All other considerations apart, the SA didn't possess sufficient arms to attempt a revolt. On this point at least he was well briefed.

On the other hand, looking back to the 1933 revolution, it was only to be expected that the two million members of the SA should not be altogether satisfied with the treatment they had received. Not one of the prerevolution promises made to them had been kept; not even the most basic promise to find them work. Some, indeed, had been given jobs in the police force, but their ranks were inferior and their wages were lower than the unemployment benefit paid in the days of the Weimar Republic. But while it was certainly true that the men were disgruntled and bitter, from that to an open declaration of war was something else again. Especially war against the Fuhrer. If the SA were ever to rise up, it would sooner be against the Army of the Reich, the number one enemy of the workers.

Hatzke suddenly stubbed out his cigarette and held his head to one side, listening. Was that the sound of gunfire he had just heard? A truck started up somewhere outside, its engine coughing; a motorcycle screamed past; a car backfired --or was it a rifle shot? He could not be sure, but the idea unnerved him. Gunfire in Berlin on this hot summer's day? It made no sense. Men were going on leave, preparing to meet their girls, lying in the sun . . .

The palms of Hatzke's hands grew damp. He clenched his fists. This time there could be no mistake. He could not indefinitely pretend that the sharp crack of rifles was the backfiring of a car. And there it went again--and again. Outside, the truck was still trying to pull away. It had been joined now by a recalcitrant motorcycle. The thought crossed Hatzke's mind that they could have been planted there deliberately, in an attempt to mask the sounds of gunfire; a shudder of anticipation shook his body. What was Himmler's band of thugs up to this time? You couldn't shoot men on mere suspicion. Not in Germany. Among the savages of South America, perhaps, one might expect that sort of brutality. But not even among the barbaric Russians--and certainly not in Germany.

Another salvo of shots. Hatzke leaped to his feet, his upper lip awash with perspiration. What the devil was going on out there? They surely weren't conducting exercises in this weather?

He took an agitated turn about his cell. Could there after all be some truth in this absurd story of an SA up-rising? But God in heaven, that was sheer madness!

He tried to arrange his pile of bricks so that he could stand on them and see through the window, but there were not enough for a double row and they collapsed as soon as he put his foot on them.

The firing went on. It was regular and deliberate, meeting with no opposition. It was obvious, now, that this was no exercise. It sounded to Hatzke suspiciously like a firing squad.

He leaned back against the wall, wondering, not for the first time, what evil lay behind the gathering forces of the SS. That sick dwarf, Himmler, for example; vain, irritable, and highly dangerous; reputedly a homosexual--why did the Fuhrer tolerate him? What plans had he in mind for him? What dark and unsuspected purpose was the man going to serve?

Hatzke turned to face the door as he heard footsteps along the corridor. They came to a halt outside his cell. The key turned in the lock. He found himself confronted by an SS Untersturmfuhrer and four soldiers, their steel helmets glinting in the gloom of the corridor. They were all members of Eicke's division, the only division in the SS to wear brown uniforms instead of the familiar black and not to carry the letters "SS" on their collars.

"About time too!" Hatzke faced them furiously. "Someone's going to be in trouble for this day's work, let me tell you! When General Rohm gets to hear about it . . ."

The Untersturmfuhrer said nothing; merely cut across Hatzke's words by yanking him out of the cell and pushing him along the corridor, flanked on either side by soldiers. He himself strode behind, his spurs clinking and his leather boots creaking. He was a mere boy, scarcely twenty years old. His hair was thick and honey-colored; his eyes were blue, fringed with long blond lashes. He had the face of an angel, with soft childlike contours and a chin that was baby-smooth. But hatred stared naked from the beautiful blue eyes, and the wide mouth was set hard as granite. They were like that, in the SS: the flower of German youth turned systematically into efficient killing machines.

The great gray buildings of the barracks were washed by brilliant sunshine. Hatzke and his escort marched across the hot paving stones of the courtyard, where not long since children of eight years old had been accustomed to drill. In these same barracks, for years past, children whose destiny was war had been prepared to take their places as uncomplaining cannon fodder in the Army of Imperial Germany. All the best families of the Reich had their fading sepia photographs of boys of seventeen, dressed up in their heroes' uniforms and departing in all their false and glittering glory for death in the trenches of World War I France. They died as they had lived, according to the rule book. And who knew but that death might not indeed have been welcome after eight years of training and torture in the courtyards of Gross Lichterfeld?

Hatzke marched on past the stables, now filled not with horses but with weapons. The sound of revving engines was very close. He stopped and turned to his escort. "Where are you taking me?"

"To see SS Standartenfuhrer Eicke," the man said curtly. "I shouldn't try anything, if I were you. It won't get you anywhere."

The brigadier general grunted and walked on. Time to see about the lack of respect later. For the moment it was sufficient to reflect that for whatever reason they had arrested him, he would at least be guaranteed a fair trial. Men were not shot without a fair trial in Germany. That was what the regulations laid down, and Germany was a country that lived according to the regulations. The Fuhrer himself had declared that henceforth there was to be an end to democratic disorder and the start of strict regimentation. Every man should know his rights, and those who attempted to sabotage those rights would pay dearly for it.

They left the stables behind them and soon came to a small courtyard, enclosed by high walls. In former days it had been reserved for cadets under arrest. Inside this courtyard were the truck and the motorcycle responsible for the distracting noises. The truck was a large Krupp, a diesel, and the brown-clad SS driver was sitting smoking behind the wheel. He stared without interest as Hatzke and his escort appeared.

In the center of the courtyard was a group of officers. At the far end was a platoon of twelve men, in two rows of six. The first row were on their knees, their rifles held at the ready; behind them stood the second row, rifles at their sides. Not far off stood a couple more platoons, patiently awaiting their turn in the slaughter. Twenty executions only, and then you were relieved. That was the regulation. Twenty executions --Hatzke tried to turn his eyes away, but the scene held his attention despite himself. He had to look back again.

A man in the uniform of the SA was lying face downward on the damp, red sand. On his shoulder was the gold epaulette of an Obergruppenfuhrer. His body was just sufficiently twisted for Hatzke to glimpse the lapel of his jacket. It was red; the red lapel of a general. Hatzke found himself trembling. He turned his head away and wiped a hand across his brow. It was cold and clammy.

An SS Hauptsturmfuhrer, a sheaf of papers in his hand, walked up to Hatzke. He did not trouble himself with any preliminary courtesies. He merely consulted his papers and barked out the one word, "Name?"

"SA Brigadenfuhrer Paul Egon Hatzke."

He was ticked off on the list. He stood watching as at the far end of the courtyard two SS men picked up the dead general and slung his body into a cart.

The Hauptsturmfuhrer tucked his papers under his arm. "Right. Down to the far end and up against the wall. No shilly-shallying, please, we've a lot to get through."

Until that moment Hatzke still had not believed it could be true; and had certainly not believed it could ever happen to him. He turned on the man in sudden, abject terror. "I want to see Standartenfuhrer Eicke! I'm not going anywhere until I've seen him! If you think . . ."

He stopped short as he felt the hard butt of a pistol being dug into his kidneys.

"That's quite enough of that. I'm not here to talk, I'm here to carry out my orders. Besides, shouting will get you nowhere."

Hatzke jerked his head around, seeking somewhere-- somehow, from someone--a grain of hope or pity. But the faces he saw beneath the steel helmets were merciless in their very indifference. And the wall at the far end of the courtyard was splashed with blood, and the sand was crimson and a thin red stream was gurgling along the gutter and into the drain.

"I'm warning you," said the Hauptsturmfuhrer. "I've got a schedule to keep to."

Someone slapped Hatzke hard across the face and tore open half his cheek with the sharp edge of a ring. As he stood there, the blood splashed down onto his collar and his gold epaulettes, and he knew with a clarity that amazed him that this was indeed the end. His own end, and the end of a vision that had dreamed up a socialist state where the word justice should at last have some meaning. Heydrich and Goering had gained the upper hand and Germany was lost.