Court Martial (15 page)

His fellow prisoners look at him in astonishment. None of them has considered the matter. The horror of death itself has been so overwhelming that nobody has thought about the possible physical pain involved.

'I do not believe you will feel anything,' answers the General, confidently. 'A single bullet can kill instantly. The state is generous and gives you twelve!'

'I don't think they'll ever shoot me,' says the Leutnant, with a note of hysteria in his voice. 'I'll be sent to a specialist unit. I feel it in my bones. I
know
it. When they discover what my speciality is they'll realise how useful I could be in a specialist unit! I give you my word I will visit your wife and give her your last message, Herr General. I look up to and admire you!'

'Don't do that,' sighs the General. 'It is a great fault in us that we Germans always need somebody to look up to and to kill for.'

The food wagon is heard rattling along the corridor. The clock strikes eight.

Orders, the rattle of weapons, screams and oaths, jangling of keys. Many are taken that morning. The prison buzzes with nervousness.

Now there are again three shadow bars on the floor. Soon the fourth will arrive. The door crashes open.

'Paul Kobke,' snarls the Feldwebel.

The chemist, who could not keep his mouth shut, gets to his feet.

'No, no,' he groans. 'It's a mistake. I've not been here very long. It must be you, Herr General!'

'Shut up, Kobke,' rumbles the Feldwebel irritably, taking a step into the cell. The General'll get his turn, just like the rest of you. Today it's your turn, and quick about it! Your travel group's waiting.' He pushes Kobke so that he falls into the arms of two Unteroffiziers who manacle his hands with practised ease.

'See you soon,' grins the Feldwebel, banging the door to.

The Fatherland has the right to demand that the people sacrifice everything for it. Therefore, I command that every person who is capable of holding a rifle be called, immediately, to the colours and sent into action against the enemy without consideration of age or health.

Adolf Hitler, 25th September, 1944

'The devil take you,' says the Old Man, angrily, as he enters the cellar and sees us lying there amongst all the bottles.

'Not so loud,' groans Tiny. 'There's a imp inside me bonce knockin' in tent-pegs for all 'e's worth!'

'Dirty lot of swine,' scolds the Old Man.

'You're dead right,' hiccoughs Gregor. 'It's not right sitting down here in a damp cellar getting pissed'

'Holy Agnes,' drools Porta. 'If we go on like this we'll risk turning into alcoholic wrecks, and burnin' up our livers!'

'Oh my head,' groans Barcelona, worn out. 'Let's go outside and see if they've declared peace while we've been drinking up the Red Army's schnapps.'

The Old Man keeps on nagging at us and doesn't stop until we turn in amongst the fruit trees and catch sight of a round helmet slowly appearing from behind the road-block.

A shot cracks and the helmet disappears. We throw ourselves down in the wet grass and take aim at the spot.

Shortly after another round helmet appears.

Heide's automatic carbine spits fire and the helmet rolls down on the wrong side of the barricade.

It takes almost twenty minutes before the next helmet appears.

This time it is Porta who fires, the shot smashing the enemy soldier's face.

Again a long period of waiting. Then another round helmet appears.

'Are they piss-barmy?' mumbles the Old Man, slapping his forehead.

As he speaks Tiny's sniper's rifle roars.

The helmet flies up into the air and falls rattling upside down.

After a while, when no more helmets appear, we sneak round behind the barracks.

There they lie, faces blown in.

We go through their pockets and provision pouches and slouch carelessly on again.

20
NSFO (Nationalsozialistischer Fuhrungsoffizier) = Nazi political officer.

21
Gefreiter von Dienst (German) = Corporal-in-charge.

+
Gelobt sei etc (German) = Praise be, for that which makes hard.

++
Iron Gustav = see March Battalion.

22
k.v. Kriegsverwendungsfahig (German) = fit for (war) duty.

23
(Freely) We're marching merrily onwards;

Shit's falling for all it's worth!

We want to get back to Schlicktown,

For Deutschland's the arse of the earth!

And the Fuhrer's all shagged out!

+
Grofaz: Grosster Feldherr aller Zeiten = greatest military leader of all time, a jeering reference to Hitler.

24
Kriegsgerichtsrat (German) = JAG.

25
Heute etc. = Today we are red,

Tomorrow we are dead.

26
HKL (Hauptkampflinie (German) = The front line.

27
Geheime Staatspolizei (Gestapo) = Secret Police.

28
Ich bin etc.: (freely) I am a free hunter

And roam far and wide.

O'er the heather-clad heath

A'hunting I stride.

I am a free hunter . . .

29
morellos = golden cherries.

THE EXECUTION

Chief Mechanic Wolf is holding court, at the large round table in No. 5 Company canteen, with his two snarling wolfhounds on either side of his chair, ready to tear anybody to pieces at the slightest sign from the Greater German Mafia boss.

The two Chinese bodyguards are placed, each on his stool, behind their master's chair. They view everybody who enters the canteen as an
enemy
to be rendered harmless as soon as possible.

Round the table crowd a mob of admiring yes-men, Wolf's temporary errand boys, who only remain in the garrison as long as it suits the big boss.

Porta stops and slaps his forehead in assumed surprise.

'What, you still alive, you stinking piss-stall?' he shouts, happily. 'Anybody ever tell you, you look like a banged-up arsehole? Let's have some air in this place. It smells like a sewer!'

'You
gonna
take that?' asks an armourer, bending obsequiously towards Wolf, who is rocking his chair back in imitation of the big-shots he has seen in American films. He gives Porta an evaluating look, and does not feel in the least insulted. That is a luxury which can cost money, the only thing Wolf loves and respects. He is first and foremost a business man. You can spit right between his eyes, as long as you are willing to pay for the privilege.

Tiny grabs the armourer by the front of his tunic and lifts him up as if he were a rabbit to be slaughtered.

'What the hell!' screams the armourer, in terror, kicking his legs about.

'Shut it, louse,' growls Tiny, who is in the mood for breaking things, bashing people, ruining something or other, in short possessed of the normal, healthy impulse, to do something which other people will take notice of.

Chief Mechanic Wolf laughs with satisfaction at the prospect of this miserable grey day livening up. His sycophants laugh noisily with him. They simply daren't do anything else.

'You dare to lay hands on an Unteroffizier!' shouts the armourer, trying to kick Tiny in the face.

Unteroffizier!' grins Tiny, contemptuously, swinging him round in the air like a windmill. 'You're nothin' but a bleedin' rifle-fucker!'

'Kill him,' suggests Porta, philanthropically, emptying a large mug of beer in one long noisy gulp. He gives a pleased belch and orders a refill.

Cook-Oberfeldwebel Weiss comes rushing in with a P-38 in his hand.

'Let go of that man,' he shouts, pointing the pistol at Tiny. 'Don't imagine you're still pissing about amongst the Eskimos and can carry on how you like. In my place there's discipline, and particularly in my kitchen. Let go of that man! That's an order!'

'What man?' asks Tiny, lifting the babbling armourer higher above his head.

'The one you've got in your hands, bastard,' roars the Oberfeldwebel, losing control of himself completely.

'That ain't a man, it's a rifle-fucker,' answers Tiny, swinging the armourer around in the air again.

'Let him go,' screams Oberfeldwebel Weiss, waving his pistol at the rest of us, as if he were shooing hens.

'All right then,' sighs Tiny, resignedly, and throws the armourer straight through the closed window so that glass and wood splinters fly around our ears.

For a moment the Oberfeldwebel stands undecidedly, staring at the remains of the window through which the armourer has disappeared.

'Herr Oberfeldwebel, sir! Instructions carried out!' grins Tiny, saluting.

Weiss draws a deep breath, purple in the face. He opens and closes his mouth several times without a sound crossing his lips. He looks like a balloon from which the air has escaped.

'I won't have you spoiling my canteen,' he whines, tamely. 'Drink up your beer and pay at the desk. Sing good German songs, pray to God for victory and otherwise keep your mouths shut! If you don't abide by the regulations out you go on your ear!'

'Count on us, we're on the side o' religion,' Tiny assures him, putting his head out of the broken window to see where the armourer has got to.

The yes-men are chased away from the round table like
a
flock of sparrows from a newly sown kitchen garden.

'Deal the cards,' orders Chief Mechanic Wolf, amicably. 'Double stakes!'

Weiss pushes himself to a place at the table, and arrogantly demands cards.

'Who the hell invited
you
?' asks Porta, highly surprised, laying heavy emphasis on the '
you
.'

'Just you watch yourself,' warns Weiss, importantly. 'What
are you
then? I'm
a
whole lot above
a
shitty little Obergefreiter.'

Porta regards him condescendingly.

'Well, I'll be damned! Don't you know that I am of the same rank as the Commander-in-Chief, Obergefreiter Hitler?'

'Piss with all that,' breaks in Wolf, categorically. 'Deal the cards, Porta and you, Weiss, shut your face, or you'll be out on your arse, smartish!'

'Thrown out of my own kitchen?' shouts the Kitchen-General, excitedly. He looks as if he is ready to start something.

'Own? You don't
own
nothin',' states Wolf, with assurance.
I
ordered Hauptfeldwebel Hofmann to give you that kitchen because I reckoned you was one of mine. But maybe I'm wrong about that?'

'Course I am. I'm with you all the way,' crawls the Kitchen-General, sweat breaking out on him at the thought of going back to the ranks.

'Want more than four cards?' asks Porta with a crooked smile, as his hawk's eye catches Weiss letting a card disappear.

'If you should happen to be tryin' to twist us,' roars Wolf, with false pathos, 'then us two've been pals as long as neceesary, and you will be out of your nice warm kitchen an' into an icecold trench fightin' the good, but hopeless, fight for Fuhrer an' Fatherland, quicker'n knife!'

Weiss sulks. It is the end of the month, and his lack of money is catastrophical. He
has
to win a few hundred marks. He cannot let any more supplies slip out on to the black market. The Catering Officer has expressed surprise, three times now, at the pilferage rate. It will not take much more for his house of cards to collapse.

'You look as if you were thinking of Napoleon's hurdles race to Moscow,' grins Porta, examining Weiss's pallid face with savage pleasure.

Wolf wins the first two games and the three following. He is in noisy good humour.

'You wouldn't be cheating now, would you?' asks Porta, inquisitorially, looking greedily at the considerable pile of money in front of Wolf.

'I reject such insinuations with the contempt they deserve,' replies Wolf, arrogantly.

Gregor swears ill-humouredly. He has already lost a large amount. The Old Man is silent and nervous, having lost 200 marks he had intended to send home to Liselotte.

Weiss is on the verge of tears. He asks for a small shortterm loan. He is still optimistic that the piles of money in front of Wolf and Porta can be made to change owners.

Generously Porta pushes 500 marks over to him.

'Just sign this piece of paper, please!'

Weiss runs his eyes over the writing.

'Eighty per cent!' he howls, outraged, 'it's usury! How dare you make an offer like that to a higher rank, to a Chief Cook? Don't you know it's piss against regulations and a civil crime even?'

'Are we going to have a discussion on illegalities?' asks Porta with a crafty look in his deep-sunken eyes. 'What about an Oberfeldwebel who borrows money from ORs?'

'A kick up the arse and off go his bleedin' stripes,' whoops Tiny, taking the opportunity of secreting two cards. He regards Weiss's borrowed money as already his.

Weiss gives up and signs the note with a sour expression. He puts the 500 marks in his pocket quickly as if he were afraid someone would steal them.

Porta hawks noisily. A gob of spittle lands in a bucket by the door.