Court Martial (20 page)

'Three?' cries the Old Man, fearfully.

'I said it, three!' The Major shows his teeth in a snarling grin. 'They're to be shot one at a time, so there'll be no risk of having to do any of them over again. They all go to the posts at the same time. That's the easiest way. We'll take, 'em from left to right!'

'And the mercy shots?' asks the Old Man, with fear in his mind.

The Major looks at him searchingly for a moment.

'Feel it in your guts, do you, Feldwebel? Don't worry! I'll look after that part of it. You command the squad, no breaks between orders. Keep it moving! One clip to be issued to each rifle, reload and secure immediately after the first round has been fired. Then aim again. Understood?'

'Yessirl' answers the Old Man in a low voice, swallowing spittle.

Three powerful projectors are directed at the upright railway sleepers used as execution posts.

The Major throws two ropes to Gregor, who is to be the third member of the roping party.

'Should anything happen outside the normal programme,' says the Major, fiercely, 'this party is under
my
command, and if
I
give the order to fire you fire no matter if it's straight in the face of a chaplain or a General or whoever.' He takes a deep breath, wipes the slush from his brutal face and looks over towards the but again. 'You never know what witnesses can get up to!'

Two dark-grey Mercedes saloons, luxury cars with command flags on their wings swing across the heather. Their lights flicker over the ambulance-type personnel transport. Red and white general officer's tabs show in the melancholy twilight.

'Save us,' groans the Old Man, nervously. 'We
are
in good company. Who can we be sending off on the long trip this time?'

'
Nacht und Nebel
,'
37
answers Gregor, gloomily.

The Generals and those with them are conversing audibly. The aroma of expensive cigars wafts over to us.

The propaganda men take photographs. Flashes go off blindingly.

The spectators over by the but disappear. Some of them are laughing loudly. An Oberst lets a hip-flask go round.

The Major comes over and hands four pieces of white cloth to the Old Man.

'Here are the marks,' he
says
shortly. 'As soon as the criminals are tied to the posts you will hang these around their necks!'

'There are
four
?' the Old Man breaks out in confusion.

'There comes the fourth,' grins the Major, pointing to a prisoner transport-vehicle, swaying down the hill.

The Old Man goes pale. Four executions for one squad! That's a pretty rough assignment!

'What hellish weather,' says the Major, looking up at the threatening, low-hanging clouds. 'Has it been raining all the time out here?'

'Yes, Herr Major. Snowing and raining and still getting colder,' says the Old Man, looking out over the heath.

The Major pulls his coat-collar up around his ears, nods morosely, and watches the propaganda squad still taking photographs.

'
If
I wasn't responsible,' he says softly, 'I'd love to see you knock those pigs off.' He looks at his watch and turns to Heide. 'Now you do know how to secure them? In ten minutes time we'll be bringing on the leading actors!'

Why it will be in ten minutes time, he doesn't tell us.

The telephone inside the but rings.

'If they've decided to send any more,' says the Old Man in a low voice, 'they can get themselves another squad commander!'

'
En avant, marche
! No foolishness!' the Legionnaire warns him.

With long strides the Major returns from the hut.

'Securing party, quick march,' he orders in a loud voice.

Heide marches smartly over to the prisoner transport, a proper four paces behind the Major. He holds the two pieces of new hemp in his left hand as laid down in regulations.

'He's enough to make you sick,' says Gregor, with contempt, stuffing his ropes in his belt.

'Shouldn't we go too?' I ask, when Gregor stays where he is.

'Let him give the order again,' says Gregor. 'The slower we are the longer those poor sods stay alive!'

'I don't think they'll give you much thanks for that.'

'What the hell, you men? roars the Major, turning round when he finds that Gregor and I have not moved. 'Think it's bedtime, do you? At the double!'

We trot over in something resembling a double. I am carrying the ropes in my left hand. I daren't put them in my belt like Gregor.

The Major unlocks the back door of the vehicle with a special key. Two Pioneer Unteroffiziers stand off a little with Schmeissers cocked and ready.

The three prisoners sit chained to one another on the cross seat inside the vehicle. The floor is covered with a thick layer of sawdust. To one side lie three paper sacks of the kind butchers use to pack sides of meat in.

The door bangs to on the Major's finger and he lets out a wild string of oaths. The rain splashes from his steel helmet and streams down his leather coat.

'Bloody
shit
,' he growls irritably, twisting his body sideways through the door.

He unchains the three prisoners.

'Get out,' he orders hoarsely, almost pushing them.

The three condemned men tumble headlong out of the van and look about them nervously. The cold, raw air cuts through their thin red drill clothing.

I have difficulty in keeping from vomiting. Suddenly I am longing to be back at the front and away from all the hypocrisy of the safe zone.

The Major fetches the fourth prisoner himself. He is an elderly man, and pale as a corpse.

The Major is polite and servile.

'This way, Herr General,' he says, pointing to the execution posts.

We look curiously at the prisoner. A General to be executed! We straighten our backs.

Respect for such a high-ranking officer is deep within our bones.

Heide inflates his chest, lays his hand on the shoulder of the youngest of the prisoners and screams in a cracking voice:

'If you attempt to escape I shall use my weapon!' He cocks his gun noisily and waves it about.

'You crazy cunt,' whispers Gregor, spitting contemptuously.

Heide sends him a wicked look and raises the P-38 slightly. For a moment it looks as if he is going to shoot Gregor down.

'Can't you save your private battle until this is all over?' says one of the prisoners softly.

We recognise him. It is our Oberst from the Arctic front.

Heide bows his head and puts his pistol back in its holster.

Close together we cross the wet heather.

Curious eyes follow us from over by the hut. We can smell cigar smoke.

The propaganda party ready their cameras. They push for position, cursing one another.

I am walking alongside a Feldwebel from the
Luftwaffe
. Gregor and the Oberst are behind us.

'Go on, if you can, Herr Oberst,' says Gregor, shoving him gently. 'Run like the devil. It's only a hundred yards to the cherry trees and none of the squad'll aim to hit you!'

'You've got a lively imagination, Unteroffizier,' mutters the Oberst in a low voice. Where'd you have me run
to
?'

'What a lot o'
shit
,' sighs Gregor, dejectedly. 'Until today I
liked
the Army. Up the lot of 'em from now on! From now on it's me or them!'

'It'll be them,' smiles the Oberst, almost humorously.

'The bloody Army'll find out,' hisses Gregor furiously, kicking at a clump of heather which flies amongst the witnesses.

'Have you got a cigarette?' asks the
Luftwaffe
Feldwebel.

I light one and hand it to him. I offer him the packet.

'Nice of you, but I won't have time to get through it!'

It is strictly forbidden to give the prisoners cigarettes, but I couldn't care less. I can't even be bothered to look round to see if the Major has noticed. They can only give me six weeks inside and I'd probably live through it.

The Old Man sees the Oberst, goes over to him determinedly and presses his hand firmly.

'Get a move on,' shouts the Major, nervously. 'Let's get this over with!'

'That bastard ought to come over to us,' snarls Gregor, contemptuously. 'He'd soon be looking like a sieve.

'Backs to the posts,' orders the Major, kicking at the
Luftwaffe
Feldwebel's feet to get his heels close in to the post. Roughly he pulls the Feldwebel's arms behind the post.

'Tie here,' he orders me.

I vomit, all over his shiny boots. With a wild roar he jumps back.

'You'll
lick
those boots clean, as soon as we've finished here!'

With shaking hands I tie the Feldwebel's arms behind the execution post.

'Tighter,' shouts the Major, infuriated. 'What sort of a granny knot's that?'

He snatches the other rope from my hands, and ties the Feldwebel's feet himself.

'You're the wickedest bastard I've met yet,' says the Feldwebel, angrily, and spits straight in the Major's face.

'Are you mad, man?' screams the Major. 'This'll cost you - !' he stops, realizing that there is nothing he can do to the Feldwebel.

'You know, you're really funny!' says the condemned man, with contempt. 'Sooner or later somebody'll be tying
you
to a post!'

'That's where you're wrong,' snarls the Major, raging. 'That sort of thing only happens to nothings like you.' He turns on his heel and goes over to the next post where he helps Heide with the private soldier.

Then he examines the Oberst's bonds. Gregor has not tied him particularly well. He is obsessed with the idea of the Oberst making a run for it. The Major shouts and fumes at Gregor.

The condemned General he takes care of personally.

'Target cloths,' he shouts impatiently at the Old Man. 'Target cloths, man!' He is now so angry that he wants to do everything himself.

He snatches the cloths from the Old Man's hands and hangs them round the necks of the prisoners.

'Chaplain,' he shouts towards the witnesses, 'where the devil's he got to?'

The staff-chaplain comes tripping effeminately from the but with a Bible in his hand.

'What the devil do you think you're here for?' shouts the Major, at white-heat.

Nervously the padre drops his Bible, picks it up and wipes it off. He mumbles something incomprehensible to each of the prisoners. Then he stumbles back into the but as if wishing to hide himself.

'Ready, Feldwebel,' growls the Major, opening his pistol holster.

'Party! Ri-ight
dress
!' orders the Old Man, hoarsely.

Noisily they dress off. Tiny drops his rifle. He shrugs his shoulder and smiles apologetically to the Major who is red as a lobster.

'Eyes front! Standing aim!'

Another rifle rattles to the ground and the Westphalian falls forward, flat on his face.

'What a crowd of nervous old maids!' the Major rates them viciously. 'Weaklings! Pansies!'

'Fire!' orders the Old Man. The explosion sounds like an earthquake and shakes the entire Morellenschlucht.

The propaganda men's flash-bulbs go off like tiny streaks of lightning.

The infantry private sags against the ropes, his chest a mass of blood. The Westphalian lies unnoticed in the heather in a faint. The steel helmet has fallen from his head and is filling up with rain.

'Rifles -
load
!' orders the Old Man, looking away from the posts and out over the heath.

Locks rattle and a new cartridge is pushed home.

'Ta-ake
aim
!'

The spotlights turn on to the next post.

The Luftwaffe Feldwebel looks white as chalk in the sharp light. Even the blood-red drill of his prison uniform looks white.

'Fire!'

The rifles crash again, and the echo is thrown back from the earthwork at the opposite end.

The Feldwebel is tied so tightly to the post that he remains upright against it. His face looks horrible. A bullet has cut away part of his upper lip and smashed his teeth and gums.

The lights go off, and for the third time the command sounds through the rain.

'Load! Ta-ake
aim
!'

The fingers of light settle on the Oberst, who stares into them with a jeering smile on his face. In that blaze of light he cannot see his executioners.

'Forgive us our trespasses,' mumbles the chaplain, hypocritically.

'Fire!'

The shots roar.

The Oberst sinks forward, hanging like a broken branch against the ropes.

It is getting darker. The lights go out and the rain is getting heavier. The wind whirls withered leaves across the execution place.

Tiny curses, a long vicious oath out into the rain.

The Major turns his head sharply and looks at him.

Tiny merely shrugs his shoulders.

The JAG officer goes over to General Wagner and says something to him, inaudible to anyone else.

The Major gives a sign to the Old Man.

'Ta-ake
aim
!' orders the Old Man.

The lights go on again.

The General smiles proudly.

'Fire!' the Old Man's order cracks above the sound of the rain.

The rifle muzzles swing about. Four in a row is too much. The shots come raggedly.

The General screams. Not one shot has been mortal. A couple of rifles clatter to the heather. Two men have fainted.

The Major shouts hysterically.

'Fire! Fire!'

The Old Man looks at him uncomprehendingly, doesn't know what to do. The whole squad has gone to pieces.

Porta and Tiny turn on their heels and go quietly off, with their rifles across their shoulders, like two duck-hunters on the way home.

Some flashes cut the night.

'Turn off those lamps,' screams somebody or other.

An Oberstabsarzt arrives at the double. The badly wounded General cries out nerve-shatteringly.

'Do some bloody thing, then,' shouts Barcelona, beside himself.

The Major looks confusedly at him. He is deathly pale. Then he pulls himself together, tears the blue-black Walther pistol from its holster, runs to the post and presses the barrel against the wounded General's neck. There is no shot, only a click.