Casca 4: Panzer Soldier (12 page)

From the occupied and allied countries they came in the thousands; men, women and children. Transport that should have been used for the Wehrmacht was assigned to the
Deathshead Einsatzgrüppen
. Instead of men and munitions, human cargo. Langer and Teacher moved through the yards. Nausea filled them, their mouths tasting the bitter taste of vomit, barely held back. Truncheons were in widespread use as were pistols. The Germans were retreating, but they were making sure that they took with them all the human misery that they could. The final solution must be carried out. Jews, in their faces a strange mixture of fear and resignation, knowing where they were going, but not wanting to believe the unimaginable. By the hundreds they were pushed and packed into cattle cars until there was no room to stand. Mothers held their babies over their heads so they could breathe, but before the trains could unload, over half the people in each car would die of suffocation, or simply be crushed to death when they fell. SS guards, aided by enthusiastic Ukrainian police, went about their task in a businesslike manner, their faces devoid of any semblance of compassion or mercy; these were beasts who relished their work.

Sweat ran freely down Teacher's face, his eyes wide in their sunken sockets, skin waxy, pale,
his hands trembling. The schmeisser swung from its shoulder strap, bumping his leg with each step. "Carl," he half whispered hoarsely, his throat dry, "is this what we've become?"

A child cried, then silence. They passed a group of laughing SS and their Ukrainian counterparts standing in a huddle.

Teacher paused. "Carl, go on, I have something to do and I know you can't help me. Go on, you'll find your destiny later alone, as you always have."

Langer
stopped, face grim; the beginning look of killing gathered at the corners of his eyes. Teacher gave a gentle shove with his hand.

"No, Carl, this is the way I want it. You told me once that life is a great circle with no beginning or end. Well, my circle has turned long enough. It's time for me to make a new beginning. Please go on, get away from me, now is not the time for you, it's mine and if you don't go I can't do it."

Langer sighed deeply, put his arms around the shoulders of the thin, sad-faced man and hugged him farewell. Silent, he walked away, not looking back. He passed between a couple of cars and their cargos of pain out of sight.

Teacher unslung his submachine gun, pulled the cocking lever back slowly. His back straightened, he held the gun to his hip, barrel straight ahead. He moved to where the SS and their toadies were enjoying themselves. Stopping at about fifteen meters, he called out, voice crackling, "
Kamaraden."

The heads turned, curious at first at the intrusion. Then they saw the weapon pointed at them. "
Heil Hitler, Kamaraden." The Schmeisser spoke its rapid, flat, cracking chatter; the bullets smashed into the packed group, dropping them to the earth to twitch and die, wondering at their pain. They weren't supposed to be hurt, they were the ones who gave pain, not received it. Teacher emptied the magazine on full auto, spraying the twitching bodies until they were still.

He dropped the weapon to the dirt, reached into his coat pocket, took out a grenade, knelt down and pulled the pin, holding the lever tight, tears running down his face into his beard. He raised his eyes to the
gray skies. "God," he cried, "forgive me, God, that I didn't do this sooner."

Two SS
Sturmmen seeing him on his knees from the back, with his gun lying beside him, rushed to throw themselves on this traitor; they reached him seconds after he released the hammer; they grabbed him in time to participate in the dull thud of the grenade's explosion, and died with him. Teacher crumpled over on his back, stomach almost completely ripped out, eyes wide; but for the first time in years his face was calm; he found his way to end the pain.

When the firing started Langer hesitated, started to turn back,
then stopped again. No, this was Teacher's to do alone the way he wanted it. He had no right to interfere. The crump of the grenade going off told him it was over. He walked on out of the yards across to the road, where columns of men fresh from Germany were being herded up to the lines to fill gaps that couldn't be replaced with ten times their numbers. Bright young faces, full of confidence in the final victory. They knew the Fuhrer would triumph and they would show those who went before them how to fight; all it took was the proper spirit and faith.

Carl moved on, his feet automatically taking him in the direction of the fighting, his body moving under its own accord, following the built-in patterns of years of conflict; at times battle did ease pain and the Russians he knew were no better than the Nazis, so what difference did it make who he killed?

Another winter was here; snow was in the air. His greatcoat fluttered around his legs, the pack on his back tugged familiarly at his shoulders, giving a hot spasm of tension in the muscles between the shoulder blades. He walked with his eyes on the road, joining in with the masses moving up. The steady, kilometer-eating step of the professional took over his subconscious and moved him. All that day, faces picked at the corners of his mind. A sense of emptiness all too familiar walked with him. The road turned to slush with a cold drizzle falling which softened the ground, and the treads of armor and trucks turned it into boot-sucking slush. Still, he moved on to the distant sound of thunder. With the dark, the first snow came, soft, fat white flakes that floated gently, melting at first, then increasingly one added its whiteness to another until the ground was covered. The temperature dropped, the mud began to firm, the snow fell steadily, one inch, then another. Before midnight he stopped and took shelter in a burned-down tavern. The beams were still holding, made of oak hundreds of years old. Time had turned them almost into iron; charred and discolored they still held up part of the roof. Langer settled into a corner. There, sheltered from the snow, he built a small fire in a forgotten metal wash pan and hunched over it, the red glow bouncing off his face, the warmth pressing against whatever skin was exposed. He leaned over, to soak it in. Taking his blanket out of his pack he wrapped it around him; sitting Indian fashion, he nodded and slept fitfully, head bobbing and jerking up for an instant, eyes opening, then just as fast, shutting again. Several times the waning fire woke him to feed it and restless sleep claimed him again, only to plague him with dreams and doubts.

The soldier's mental clock pulled his head up, eyes open, fully awake. Just before dawn the night's snowfall had reached five inches and the road was gone, vanished under its covering; only the trees and brush lining the way showed where it lay under the blanket of white. Scrounging through the rubble he found another battered tin pot. Filling it with fresh snow, he sat it by his fire to melt and
warm him at the same time. Eating a ration, taking small bites of black bread, he held each bit in his mouth until it turned sweet and dissolved and he washed it down with a swallow of lukewarm ersatz coffee that tasted more like burned nut shells than anything else.

The Knight's Cross sparkled in the light of the fire as he took off his coat and tunic to wash in the melted snow water. Careful not to use too much of his remaining piece of soap, he gave himself what was known in less than polite circles as a whore's bath. Using a straight razor, he scraped at the stubble on his face, cursing at the tugs and nicks. Drying himself with one of his dirty undershirts, he redressed. A momentary flick of consternation ran across his face when he put the Knight's Cross back on. But what the hell did it matter.

Thousands of passing trucks and men pulled him out on to the road. The rusting hulks of burned vehicles and tanks, both German and Russian, were common; relics from last year's battles, rusting skeletons that gave a sense of foreboding to those who saw them for the first time. For Carl Langer, they weren't even there.

Shortly after noon he stopped to rest in the shelter of a burned MK IV. Leaning up against the rusting bogie wheels, he eased off his pack and lit up, holding his hand cupped over the match to keep the wind from blowing it out. He looked at the sky. It would be dark soon, now probably around five o'clock. He had a few more hours before packing it in; there was no rush, if he didn't move fast enough it was a sure thing the war could come to him. A passing
Kübelwagen with three men and a woman in it stopped beside him. The woman caught his eye. The fact that she had been worked over was obvious from the swelling around her left eye and bruised mouth. Her escorts were members of a special counter-guerrilla detachment of the SS. Tough looking men, still wearing the distinctive SS leopard camouflage field jackets and helmet covers. The leader of the group, a
Hauptsturmführer
with a broken nose and crystal blue eyes, beckoned him over with a wave of the hand.

The SS captain beckoned Langer to him with a snap of the fingers.
"Papers!"

Carl presented his
paybook and movement orders to the "Golden Knight" of the new order, standing at attention. He glanced through the documents and quickly took in the decorations Langer had around his neck.

"Good
enough, climb on, I have a job for you, it won't take long."

Langer knew better than to try and argue. Tossing his pack on the
Kübelwagen, he climbed into the rear of the vehicle with the woman and her guards; it was crowded but the best they could do.

The jeep ran down the road for a few
kilometers and turned on to a side road; headed into the trees for a couple of hundred meters and stopped. The
Hauptsturmführer
led the way up a narrow tree-lined trail to a log cabin. Standing back he let one of his men enter the door first; after all, one could never tell where one might find a booby trap, and enlisted men were expendable and easier to replace than officers. Once inside, one of the Sturmen built a fire in the rock fireplace, and stood by waiting for orders from his leader.

The captain pointed a gloved finger at Carl. "Sergeant, you will remain here with the prisoner until we return. We have to pick up a few more of the lady's compatriots being held for us further on. If she tries to escape, stop her any way you wish, but don't trust the treacherous bitch, she killed two
of my men earlier today and we only caught her when a rifle grenade knocked her out and those that were with her left her behind. And besides," he said in a comradely fashion, "she's a Jew."

With a snap of his fingers, his men headed for the door. He seemed to have finger snapping down to a science; it wasn't easy to do with gloves on. Before leaving, he turned once more to Langer and in an off-handed way added, "Oh, by the way, if you like, you may use her for your amusement. After we return and have time to question her, we're going to hang her anyway, so enjoy
yourself, comrade."

The sound of boots crunching their way off in the new snow soon diminished and they were left alone. Carl motioned for her to sit down in one of the two wooden straight-backed chairs at a plank table, careful to keep his weapons out of her reach. He had no idea about how dangerous a woman like this might be. He laid his pack down and sat in the other chair, taking a ration of black bread and a can of sardines out of his pack. He opened the tin and cut a slice of bread off and shoved them in front of her. "Eat! I'm not going to hurt you."

She warily reached for the food, her hunger overcoming her pride. She greedily stuffed the bread into her mouth, almost choking in her rush to swallow the food. Langer said nothing, just opened his canteen and handed it across the table to her. Choking, she swallowed a gulp of water, helping to force the coarse bread down her throat.

Softly, he spoke, "Take it easy, eat
slow." He leaned back away from the table, aware of her feelings of hate for all who wore a uniform. Knowing the fear and hatred that was boiling inside her, he gave her time to relax and take some of the edge off as she finished eating and took the last swig of water. She screwed the red cap back on to the canteen and sat back. The swelling around her eye took nothing away from the defiance and hate showing there.

In good German, her voice clear and strong, if a little shaky around the edges, she asked, "What now, hero? Should I take my clothes off so you can be paid for the food?"

Langer shook his head. "No, I'm not going to do anything to you." He lit up a smoke and noticed the gleam in her eye.

"Want one?" He passed the pack and some matches over to her. Lighting up she let the smoke drift up into her nostrils and inhaled deeply, then exhaled the smoke slowly.

"Are you a Jew?"

Her head jerked up straight, her back erect as that of a British sergeant major. "Yes! I'm a Jew."

He nodded his head. "I thought so; even though the headhunters said you were, you can't always believe those sons of bitches."

She looked at him carefully; was this some kind of trick? For him to speak out against his own kind like this.

"No, I'm not one of them in spite of the uniform. I'm a soldier, not a butcher; there's no love lost between me and the SS supermen, especially those of the Allegemeine, although I have to admit the Waffen SS troops are about as tough as any I have ever seen. But their field troops are not garbage like the SD and SA." He could see the doubt in her eyes; there was one way that he might get through to her. "
Mah sheem-Hah
?" He asked her name in Hebrew. Startled she looked back and answered, "
Shem meesh-pakht-teh Deborah Sapir. Hah-Eevreet-yoht Ah-Tenn
?"