Reign of Hell (10 page)

‘OK, this is it,’ hissed Weiss. ‘Let’s get a move on before the crowd arrives. It only wants a few more of ’em to get the
same idea into their heads, and this place is going to be packed out like a pleasure park on a Sunday afternoon . . . Come on, let’s shift!’

His companion hesitated. Before they could move, a couple of WUs from a neighbouring shellhole crawled across to join them. Weiss clicked his tongue impatiently.

‘Well? Are you coming or aren’t you?’

Under the dubious eyes of his companions, he took a leap forward into no-man’s-land. He landed in a crater, fell flat on his stomach and was gone from sight. Seconds later, Sergeant Repke arrived. He looked at the three remaining men and frowned.

‘What’s going on round here?’ He put his field-glasses to his eyes and peered suspiciously into the mist. ‘There were four of you a moment ago. Where’s the fourth one gone?’

The three men exchanged fearful glances.

‘He hasn’t gone anywhere, Sergeant—’

‘We’ve been together all the time—’

‘Just the three of us—’

‘Together—’

Repke coldly ignored them. Finding nothing in the gathering gloom of the mist, he shouldered his M.PI and strode off, without a backward glance, to inspect a nest of machine-gunners. The three men wasted no more time. Repke would be back again for sure, and they had no intention of hanging about to be questioned further on the subject of Weiss and his disappearance. Jettisoning their arms, they dashed helter-skelter into the rain towards the north.

The artillery of both sides had now started up again. The earth shook beneath the pounding of the heavy guns, and shells exploded right and left. We waited, immobile.

‘Let ’em have their fun,’ said the Old Man, dryly. ‘They’ll wear themselves out before very long.’

The drizzling mist had turned to a steady downpour. A wind blew up, and within seconds we were soaked to the skin. The distant hills occupied by the Russians gradually faded to a dark blue haze as night began to fall. It was a grand evening for deserters.

Staff Sergeant Wolte was standing with Bugler and Treiber, a couple of WUs. He was staring fixedly towards the Russian lines. Bugler looked at Treiber, and they both looked at Wolte and nodded at each other.

‘Sergeant,’ said Bugler, in a suitably humble tone of voice, ‘excuse me troubling you like this, but do you happen to know if we’re likely to get anything to eat today? It’s not that I’m bothered on my own account, of course. It’s just that my belly’s rumbling so loud I reckon they can hear it half a mile off.’

Sergeant Wolte slowly turned to regard the pair. He pushed his helmet to the back of his head.

‘Well now,’ he said, ‘why ask me? Why not nip across and ask the Russians? They seem to know more about it than we do. You heard what they said, didn’t you? Over there you can have all the food you want. Why not go across and get it?’

Treiber nervously fell back a step, his mouth sagging slightly. It seemed almost as if Wolte was giving them an open invitation to go and join the enemy, though that would have been impossible. Wolte was a good Nazi. He believed in the Party and the Führer. Wolte would never contemplate desertion.

Bugler swallowed a few times before replying.

‘You’d shoot us,’ he said, thickly. ‘You’d shoot us down the minute we moved.’

‘You think so?’ Wolte let his eyes rove back again towards the Russian front lines. ‘Who knows what I might or might not do? I might even join you. The more that turn up, the more inclined they’ll be to give us a decent welcome . . .’ He suddenly stretched out an arm and pointed. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look over there. Four more of your companions waiting for the off . . . Suppose we were to join forces with them? If things went against us and it looked as if we weren’t going to make it, we could arrest the four of them and bring them back here with us. Who could possibly dispute the fact that we had gone out in pursuit of them?’

Bugler looked uncomfortable.

‘Yeah, that’s all very well,’ he said. ‘That’s all very well, but somehow I don’t reckon we’d get much of a welcome from the Reds if we turned up with a Nazi in tow. They’re not fools, are they? They’re not bleeding stupid. Even if you tore all that crap off your chest, all them badges and things, they’d still know you wasn’t one of us.’

‘You think I haven’t already considered that? You think I haven’t already made provision?’ Wolte smiled; a tight little smirk of self-congratulation. ‘I have taken very good care to supply myself with two sets of papers: one for everyday use, and one for emergencies . . .’

There was a grudging pause.

‘So. All right.’ Bugler hunched a shoulder. ‘So you’ve got false papers and they’re not going to find out you’re a Nazi. So perhaps it might be worth giving it a try. But there again, perhaps it might not. I mean, how do we know they were speaking the truth? How do we know they’re going to keep their word?’

‘We don’t,’ said Wolte. ‘It’s as simple as that. You never do know, with the Russians. One minute they’re slapping you on the back and toasting you in vodka, the next they’re sticking the muzzle of a Nagan into your mouth. It’s a chance you have to take.’

‘Well, in that case,’ said Bugler, ‘I’m not sure that I want to take it.’

‘I shouldn’t worry too much about it.’ Wolte tapped a finger against the small canvas satchel which was slung over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got one or two little goodies in here which I fancy Ivan will be only too pleased to get his hands on. With this lot in his possession, he can wipe out the entire German front line at a blow. I reckon that should be enough to earn his gratitude.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘But what?’ Wolte gave a short crack of laughter. ‘If it’s me you’re scared of, you might bear in mind that I’ve said enough already to get myself hanged. Surely that’s sufficient proof of sincerity.’ He paused. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘one word of warning before we set off. No funny stories about
Sennelager. It really wouldn’t be worth your while. Because if you shop me, just remember that I can always shop you in return. The Russians don’t care for the criminal classes any more than the Nazis do. If they ever got to hear of your past records, it would be straight down the lead mines for you two. So no telling tales out of school. All right?’

Bugler hesitated.

‘I guess so,’ he said, resentfully.

Wolte turned to his companion.

‘And you?’

‘I’m game,’ said Treiber.

‘Good. In that case—’ Wolte held out a hand. ‘Let me have your papers.’

There was a momentary flicker of doubt, and then, with obvious misgivings, they passed them over. Wolte selected a couple of blank pages and on them he scrawled the letters ‘PU’.
²
From his canvas satchel he took a rubber stamp on which was the Colonel’s signature. He carefully printed it below the handwritten letters; and then for good measure added the word ‘Buchenwald’. He handed back the papers, and a broad smile of relief spread over Bugler’s face as he examined the Sergeant’s handiwork.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘That’s fine. Buchenwald, eh? That makes me feel a whole lot safer.’

Wolte stowed away his rubber stamp.

‘Let’s get cracking,’ he said. ‘It’s now or never.’

The journey across no-man’s-land was surprisingly swift and simple. Our men put their heads down and ran like stags. Almost before they knew it they had reached the first of the Russian trenches. They tumbled into them with their hands held high, and a crowd of others soon followed. It seemed that the whole wide stretch of land between the two armies was suddenly filled with violent activity. Russian propaganda had done its job well.

Tiny was watching the whole show through a pair of field-glasses. He kept up a running commentary for our benefit.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re milling about all over the bleeding place . . . And fuck me!’ he added, in excitement. ‘There goes another of ’em! And another! There must be half the bleeding Army out there! Seems they can’t get away fast enough—’

At one point Porta made a move to fire, but the Old Man held him back.

‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘Let the poor sods go. Let them run, if that’s what they want. They’ll soon discover their mistake.’

Out of the arms of Berlin and into the clutches of Moscow. I wondered how many of them had the least idea of what it was they were running to.

A major of the Pioneer Corps suddenly came galloping up to us, his face aglow with fanatical fury.

‘What the devil are you doing?’ he screamed at Löwe. ‘Why aren’t you firing at them? Sweet Christ almighty, the rats are deserting!’

Before Löwe could even open his mouth to reply, the Major had hurled himself behind a machine-gun and was yelling ‘Fire! Fire!’ at the top of his frenetic, strangulating voice. From somewhere out in no-man’s-land a chorus of agonised voices started up, and the sounds of our firing brought Colonel Hinka on to the scene. He almost tripped headlong over the manic major behind his rattling machine-gun.

‘Who is that?’ he said irritably. ‘What is he doing down there?’ He turned impatiently to his ordnance officer. ‘Who is this man? Why have I not been told about him?’

The ordnance officer peered down cautiously at the Major.

‘I really don’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘I really couldn’t say who he is.’

‘Then take a look at his papers and find out!’ snapped the Colonel.

The Major sullenly left his post at the machine-gun, and even more sullenly handed over his papers. The sight of Löwe’s cool smile and the sound of Porta’s inane snickering doubtless did nothing to help the situation. The ordnance officer glanced briefly through the papers. He compared one
photograph with another, scrutinised a couple of signatures and a dubious-looking stamp. He frowned, and turned to the Colonel.

‘Something fishy about all this, sir. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’d like to have these papers looked at more closely.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Major, outraged. ‘Are you daring to suggest that those papers are false?’

‘And what if they are?’ said the Colonel, crisply. ‘He is doing no more than his duty. What is one supposed to think when one discovers a complete stranger has suddenly marched in from God knows where and calmly assumed command of one’s company without so much as a “by your leave”? It strikes me as being a trifle bizarre, to say the very least. I could have you shot on the spot if I felt so inclined.’

The Major lost a little of his hectic flush. He wiped the back of his hand nervously across his mouth. Porta, as always quite incapable of holding his tongue, now bounded exuberantly forward to offer the Colonel his valuable advice.

‘Best to take no chances, sir! That’s what they told us in Ulm, sir. Shoot first and ask the questions afterwards, that’s what they always said. That was counter-espionage, that was. I took a course in it.’

‘So what the devil is that supposed to do? Make you some kind of an expert?’ snarled the Major. ‘Next thing I know you’ll be trying to tell me I’m a Russian spy in German uniform!’

Porta drew himself up to full height and bared his teeth.

‘It was the Reichsführer himself who said it was better by far to kill five innocent people than to let one guilty man go free.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ snapped the Major. ‘Can no one stop this cretin and his endless bibble-babble?’

The Colonel, who had been studying the man’s papers, now thrust them back at him.

‘Take these and return to your battalion,’ he said, coldly. ‘I shall be looking further into this matter at a more propitious
moment. You have exceeded your authority and I shall expect a full explanation of your behaviour. Now go.’

The Major disappeared even faster than he had come. The Colonel picked up his binoculars and thoughtfully studied the frenzied, fleeing shadows that still came and went in no-man’s-land.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Carry on firing.’

Tiny shrugged a shoulder.

‘Mad as a bloody hatter,’ he muttered. ‘Wasting good ammunition on that load of creeps. Leave ’em to the Reds, I would. They’ll polish ’em off soon enough.’

Mechanically, without any enthusiasm for the task, we opened fire. Tiny loaded and reloaded like an automaton, whispering his usual sweet-nothings to each shell as he rammed it home. Tiny always addressed every single one of them as if it were an old and valued friend. He was by far the best loader we had. He was fast and accurate and apparently tireless. He could carry on for hours at a time without flagging. He might not have been too sure about two plus two equalling four, but he certainly knew how to handle a mortar.

‘Three-fifty metres,’ said the Old Man.

‘Prime, load, fire,’ chanted Tiny, as one reciting a litany. ‘Off you go, my sweetheart . . .’

Human remains were spouting into the air, but now the Russians had opened up with covering fire for the would-be comrades who were hurrying to join them. Grenades began bursting around us, uncomfortably close, and Porta swore and jammed his hat further down on his head.

‘Bloody Russians,’ he said. ‘Bloody Russian swine. You know they use women to fire those things? Must have biceps the size of bleeding footballs, that’s all I can say.’

An hour later, the barrage from both sides had petered to a standstill. Only a few of the deserters had successfully managed to leap out of the Nazi frying pan and into the Communist fire. A few had been recaptured and put under arrest. Many more lay mangled and dying in the churned-up mud of no-man’s-land. Meanwhile, there was hysterical activity
all the way along the line, with telephones ringing non-stop and messengers dashing to and fro with their usual self-important fervour. Both Security and the Secret Police had been informed of the débâcle, and we settled back gloomily to await their arrival.