March Battalion (16 page)

He straightened up and began to bark out the events of the day in the best military manner.

'Stabsfeldwebel Gustav Durer has been strangled by one of the prisoners. Feldwebel Lindenberg. Obviously a lunatic. Death occurred only a short while ago, I have already completed an examination of the facts. The body has been left undisturbed in a room on Block 6-1 thought you might care to take a look at it. The typewriter in this office has been cleaned and overhauled on the orders of the Colonel. The drawers of the desks have been dusted with powder and may now be opened and closed without difficulty. In your in-tray, sir, you'll find two files that require your attention - rejected appeals. There is also an execution order that needs your signature, and a cutlery inventory you might care to look at... I think that's the lot, sir.'

Dorn stood stiffly to attention, watching the Major's reaction. He noted the sudden beads of sweat on his brow, and he was satisfied.

'I find this news most distressing. Really most distressing... Gustav Durer murdered! It seems scarcely credible ... That such a thing could happen in a civilized establishment ... Really, a most shocking business! Are you quite sure of your facts, my dear fellow?'

'Absolutely positive. The prisoner Lindenberg has confessed to the murder.'

'But why should he do such a thing in the first place? What could he possibly hope to gain by it?'

'I really don't know,' said Dorn, who in fact had not thought of inquiring into Lindenberg's motives. 'I think it very likely, sir, that he just couldn't stand the sight of the Stabsfeldwebel.'

'Really?' The Major twisted the ends of his moustache in rapid agitation. 'What an extraordinary state of affairs! I cannot myself say that I cared overmuch for Gustav Durer, but it hardly seems an adequate reason for murdering a person.'

'As I said sir, the prisoner is obviously a lunatic'

'Obviously. Obviously. But even so--'

Dorn enjoyed seeing the Major so obviously suffering. He leaned across bis desk and began efficiently laying out various letters and documents awaiting signature. The Major picked up his pen and wrote his name where Dorn indicated. He had, for the most part, no idea what he was signing. Without his adjutant to show him the way round, he would have been totally lost in this jungle. It was the greatest fear of his life that he should one day be alone in the office when the telephone rang. He would then be forced to answer it, and sooner or later it was bound to be one of Colonel Vogel's staff officers at the other end of the line. They never used the telephone except to complain, but worse than that, Major Divalordy could never understand a word that any of them were saying. They spoke in weird military jargon, of which the Major had as yet mastered only the most common of everyday phrases.

Dorn smiled and held out a pink file. He opened it with a servile flourish. The Major nodded his thanks, leant forward scrawled his signature at the foot of a page. It was a warrant that he signed so blithely, as he had signed many others before. He closed the file and handed it back, without ever seeing the thick Gothic print on the outside of the pale pink folder:

Feldwebel Hermann Lindenberg 43rd Infantry Regiment

Date of Decease.......

Delivered to Crematorium.......

Dorn collected up the signed papers and shuffled them together.

'There'll be forms to be filled in, sir, for Durer's death. Do you want to see to them or shall I?'

'No, no, I leave it all to you. You'll know what to do about it.'

The Major opened his drawer and took out a couple of cigars, one of which he handed to Dorn. They each had a glass of cognac from the bottle that was kept in the corner cupboard. The contents of this bottle had visibly diminished since the previous night. Both men noticed the fact; neither mentioned it.

'Poor chap,' thought the Major. 'He'll have needed something to buck him up after all that's happened.'

'They're all the bloody same,' thought Dorn. 'Tell you in public they don't touch either alcohol or women, while in private they do bugger all except whore and drink. Bloody typical.'

Dorn settled himself comfortably behind his desk. The day's post was brought in and he flipped through it and extracted one particular letter, tossing the rest into one of his many in-trays. The contents of the letter kept him happily occupied for some little while. Ultimately, and with obvious reluctance, he hid the envelope in his cache beneath the 'Volkischer Beobachter' and turned his attention to the forms that had to be filled in. At the, top of the page he wrote, 'Inquiry carried out by Hauptfeldvebel Dorn into the Death of Strabsfeldwebel Gustav Durer'. Under that, against the heading 'Cause of Death', he wrote the one word, 'Murder'. He sat and stared at it for several minutes, pleased with the effect, then gloatingly continued with the rest of the report. Who knew but it might not end up before S.S. Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler himself? Dorn already saw himself transferred to the Gestapo.

He was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone at his elbow. Somewhat abruptly, Major Divalordy left the room. Dorn sneered at his passing back, snatched up the telephone and snarled down it.

'Yes? Who is it? What do you want?'

'I want to know what the hell is going on in your section.'

It was the voice of Colonel Vogel. Dorn dropped the receiver in a panic and it clattered to the floor.

'Hallo? Is that you, Dorn? What the devil's going on? Are you still there?'

'Yes, sir.'

Nervously Dorn gave his version of Durer's death and his own handling of the affair.

'The whole thing sounds like a bloody botch up to me,' said the Colonel.

Dorn hastened to add that Major Divalordy was now in full possession of the facts and was dealing with the matter himself. The Colonel merely grunted and put the receiver down.

For a few moments Dorn sat stunned and immobile in his chair, but it was not long before he rallied and began doing a little telephoning on his own account. Having vented his wrath on subordinates all over the building he began to regain some of his lost confidence, and he walked out abroad to vent a little more wrath on anyone of a lower rank who might conceivably cross his path. To give himself the air of being on official business, he snatched up the contents of one of his trays and stuffed them haphazard into a brief case. Thus armed, he roamed the building in search of someone to terrorise.

At the end of the first corridor he was lucky enough to come upon a group of prisoners lethargically scrubbing the floor. He gave them a good five minutes of his time, rounded off his lecture by picking up their bucket of water and throwing it over them, and went on his way feeling a great deal happier with life.

As he rounded the corner he bumped into Major Divalordy, whose face, even in the dim prison light, was of a ghostly pallor. Dorn saluted stiffly. The Major shook his head. 'These are terrible times to be living. Terrible times, my dear fellow ... I've been called to the Colonel's office. Eleven o-seven I have to be there ... I fear this matter of Durer can scarcely have pleased him.'

Dorn made a vague noise indicative of sympathy and continued along the corridor to the arms depot, which was in the charge of Oberfeldwebel Thomas. Thomas was assisted by the Legionnaire, who in his turn, three days a week, was assisted by Little John. It was a good place to work in, the arms depot. Orders were to keep the doors locked and bolted from the inside. Almost any activity, therefore, could safely be indulged in on the right side of the doors. When Dorn arrived there was a game of cards in process. By the time Thomas had opened the door to him the cards had disappeared and both Little John and the Legionnaire were industriously cleaning equipment.

'You call this place an arms depot?'

Dorn let his gaze wander magnificently round it. He had no authority here, but it was always worth a try.

'It looks more like a rubbish dump than an arms depot.'

He kicked an empty cartridge box across the room and turned on Thomas.

'How would you like it if I were to make a report of all this - this mess, this - this chaos? Eh? I could, you know. If I felt so inclined I could make things very awkward for you with Colonel Vogel. I shouldn't like to, of course, but really, Thomas, I would advise you to pull your finger out and get things smartened up in here.'

'Suits me the way it is,' said Thomas, laconically.

There was a silence. Dorn nodded, warningly, and turned to go. As he did so, the Legionnaire's voice arrested him. 'Bit awkward, this bother about Gustav isn't it?'

'Don't talk to me about that!' snapped Dorn, his composure suddenly cracking. 'What a thing to happen! Bloody swine!'

'Who? Feldwebel Lindenberg, you mean?'

'Not at all. I was referring to Gustav Durer. What a damn fool thing for an experienced warder to do! Over twenty years in the service and then he gets himself strangled by some madman...'

'Very careless,' commented the Legionnaire. 'Of course, it could only happen in a place like this.'

Dorn's eyes glinted dangerously.

'Just what are you trying to infer? Are you attempting to insult me?'

The Legionnaire looked shocked. 'Good grief, no! I shouldn't dream of such a thing.'

'After all,' put in Little John, helpfully, 'it wasn't your fault it happened, was it? No one could blame you. It's just unfortunate it happened to happen in your section, if you see what I mean? Still,' he added, with comfortable philosophy, 'there always has to be a first time, doesn't there? That's what I say. There always has to be a first time. It could happen to the best of us. I shouldn't worry about it too much if I were you.'

Dorn suddenly realized that Little John was the same prattling nincompoop who had confused him earlier on. 'I thought I told you to keep out of my way?'

'That's right,' agreed Little John, with a ready smile. 'You said I was to be given simple tasks, being as I'm not up to tackling anything complicated... I'm cleaning the guns, sir.'

'Then get on and clean them!' roared Dorn. He marched out and slammed the door behind him. His sense of well-being, his personal satisfaction, had been shattered by that great cretinous oaf. Now he would have to start all over again.

He stormed off down the corridor, and it seemed to his suspicious mind that he heard loud bursts of uncouth laughter coming from behind the locked doors of the arms depot.

Katz and Schroder arrived at Torgau early in the morningdirect from Berlin. They walked side by side with purposeful steps, heads down, hands in pockets.

They left again some hours later. They were on their way back to Berlin, but something in their step was different. The stride was shorter, less buoyant, less assured; their feet seemed to drag, as if unwilling to move. Their heads were hanging dejectedly, their shoulders humped up round their ears.

'What a shit,' muttered Katz. 'A lousy stinking shit of a Colonel.'

'Artillery, at that.'

'And Army, not even S.S.'

There was a silence.

'You don't suppose.'

'What?'

'You don't suppose there's anything in it?'

'The Russian front?'

'Mm.'

Another silence.

'How could a lousy stinking shit of a Colonel have any influence? I ask you? It's not even as if he's S.S.'

Katz pinched his lips together.

'Lousy stinking shits of Colonels sometimes have more influence than you might think.'

'You reckon?'

'Could well be.'

They slouched on in silence towards the station.

What a shit!' said Schroder, bitterly.

E
ARLY
next morning, Feldwebel Lindenberg was led out to be shot. Little John and Porta accompanied him, one at each elbow.

Lindenberg was dressed in his own green uniform, but his head was bare, as laid down in the regulations. Little John and Porta wore steel helmets, which glistened malevolently in the cold grey dawn. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders and their heavy boots crashed uncompromisingly on the cobblestones.

The first platoon, under the command of Lt. Ohlsen, was already in place. Standing near the wall were a captain of the garrison with the Prison Chaplain and Medical Officer. On the far side of the courtyard, near a small doorway, two medical auxiliaries were waiting, seated on a stretcher.

Lindenberg glanced nervously about him. Until now, he had preserved his dignity. Was his courage going to fail him at the last moment? Out of the side of his mouth, Little John sent messages of encouragement.

'Keep your pecker up, mate. Don't give the buggers anything to gloat about. We're all on your side.'

Lindenberg managed a smile. He held his head high and stepped out defiantly on his way to the firing squad. When they arrived at the appointed place he calmly positioned himself, raising his arms for Little John to attach the strap that would hold him upright until the moment of firing. The captain approached him with a scarf to bind round his eyes, and Lindenberg shook his head.

'Take it away, I don't need that. I prefer to see what's going on.'

'As you wish.'

The captain hunched an indifferent shoulder and returned to his position by the wall. Lindenberg spat contemptuously at his retreating back. A moment of silence, then Lt. Ohlsen held up a hand. Lindenberg found himself staring into the barrels of what suddenly seemed to be thousands of rifles, all pointing directly at the small piece of white rag that had been pinned on his chest and marked his heart. It was a heart that beat so furiously, so erratically, that for a moment Lindenberg thought he might die of a seizure before their bullets could reach him. A burst of blind panic came upon him. He began to lose consciousness, felt his head swimming, felt the blood pounding in his ears, thought for a moment that the ground was coming up to meet him, only he was strapped upright and he knew it was impossible.