Reign of Hell (11 page)

A lieutenant-colonel of the Gestapo was sitting in a corner with his head in his hands. His uniform was still new and shiny, but his face looked furrowed and aged before its time. Not only had twelve of his NCOs deserted with the WU contingent, but now they informed him that one of his captains also had defected. The lieutenant-colonel had pleaded with Hinka to report the captain as killed in action, but Hinka was stern and adamant.

‘You can have a word yourself with Security,’ he said, which of course was the very last thing that any man in his right senses would want to do.

A little before midnight, the Russians opened fire on the divisional HQ. Their range and direction were uncannily accurate. The ammunition dumps went up one after another. Tanks under camouflage were picked out with calm precision. It seemed obvious that someone on the staff must have succeeded in deserting and supplying the other side with much valuable information.

With the slow coming of a grey dawn, we awoke to a witch hunt of those WUs who either through choice or necessity were still with us. It was partly a form of reprisal; partly a desire to find a scapegoat, to demonstrate loyalty to the Führer and hatred of his enemies by striking down a few defenceless men. I saw Parson Fischer attacked in the middle of a prayer by an infuriated Sergeant Linge, who slashed him across the face with the rim of his helmet. I saw Oberwachtmeister Danz come running up to join in the fun. I saw him slam the butt end of his revolver into the Parson’s jaw and grind his face down into the mud with the heel of his boot. And then I saw the pair of them go rollicking away in search of new victims. Parson Fischer staggered to his feet with blood pouring out of his broken mouth and down his chin. It could have been worse. At least he was still alive. The
lieutenant-colonel whose captain had deserted him had been found earlier on with his brains blown out.

Later in the morning we were relieved by an infantry regiment. The ragged remnants of 999 battalion were rounded up and marched off to a nearby village, where they were eyed with much astonishment and misgivings by the troops already in occupation.

‘Prisoners,’ said one man knowledgeably to his neighbour. ‘That’s what they’ll be. Prisoners.’

‘Spies,’ said another.

It never occurred to them that these half-naked skeletons could possibly be their own countrymen; that this wretched collection of skin and bones had been sent from Germany to die. The Führer in his almighty wisdom and bountiful goodness would never allow such a thing.

The battalion was kept on the move through the village, and out of sight of the gaping soldiers, on for another six miles. They were brought to a halt at last, and were treated to a warm reception by a body of guards from Warsaw Security, with the forbidding insignia of the death’s head on their helmets. They were lined up and assaulted in the usual friendly fashion of the Security people. Anyone even slightly out of line received either a blow on the head or a bullet through the back of the neck from a P38. Those who fell to the ground were casually kicked unconscious and left to the mercy of the prowling dogs. There was a great deal of yelling and screaming and confusion, dogs barking, boots stamping, men shouting orders. All this was quite normal procedure.

After a bit, when the battalion had been suitably pruned and was apparently thought to be presentable, it was handed over to a major and two of Dirlewanger’s special companies. The Major instantly commanded the shivering dregs of 999 to take off their rags and to line up facing the wall with their hands behind their heads. Anyone who dared to move, he informed them, would be shot. It appeared from the subsequent reduction in numbers that a great many of them had so dared.

The Major continued calmly talking as the murderers of Dirlewanger continued with their task of selective weeding
and hoeing. For almost an hour he talked. He described in glowing detail the various punishments they could look forward to if any of them departed from the rules and regulations by so much as a hair’s breadth. He cautioned them most emphatically against attempting to follow their erstwhile companions across the lines to the Russian trenches: the families of every man, wives, children, mothers and fathers, had been rounded up and were being held as hostages. Finally, he announced that those who were still alive might now put on their clothes preparatory to being transported to the 27th Tank Regiment. There they would find plenty of opportunities to die like heroes.

By now, probably even the prospect of standing knee-deep in mud with Russian mortars whistling through the air had begun to seem like a fairly pleasant way of passing the time. The survivors climbed back thankfully into whatever bits and pieces of clothing they could find, and were suitably impressed to discover that a fleet of lorries was waiting to convey them to their new destination. Unfortunately for them, however, the 27th Tank Regiment was still a long, long way ahead; and some were not destined to reach it. A secret tribunal had been held, and it had been somewhat arbitrarily decided that one man in three should be condemned to death without trial. It was to this that they were now being driven.

The lorries drew up at the appointed place and disgorged their sorry load. With bayonet and rifle butt the men were driven through an archway of soldiers armed with rods of iron towards the slaughterhouse. Some of them never even reached the slaughterhouse. It is truly amazing what mortal blows can be dealt by a thin sliver of iron in the hands of an expert. Of course, when a man is in the army, he kills by whatever method is demanded of him. One pretty soon became expert in most types of murder.

Those who had successfully run the gauntlet were herded down into the damp darkness of the cellars of a ruined building. The ground beneath was quickly ploughed into a glutinous mud. Water dripped from the ceiling. Sewer rats,
made bold from hunger, scurried about, gnawing at the men’s legs. There was scarcely sufficient room to house so many bodies. The guards had to use their whips before the doors could be closed and bolted.

All day and all night the men were left to starve and suffocate. It was each man for himself, there was no place left for sentiment. The weakest were pushed under. Shortly after midnight the doors were opened and half a dozen names were called. The chosen few clawed and tramped their way to the exit. It must have seemed to them like a reprieve. The doors were forced shut behind them, and those inside heard the sudden burst of machine-gun fire.

And then there was silence, and they knew what it meant when a man’s name was called . . .

A strange collection of criminals this depleted band of brothers were. Some had been caught listening to foreign radio stations; some had dared to doubt out loud the ultimate victory; some had spoken their minds in a public place. Others had robbed, swindled, and murdered. Still others had been inconveniently committed to an ideal of non-violence. And now, one and all, they were waiting for death in a rat-ridden cellar.

Ten minutes passed. Once again the doors were thrown open, and another six men were called to face the machine-gun fire. By dawn, it was considerably more comfortable down in the mud of the cellar. There was plenty of room to move and plenty of air to breathe. Men even began feeling human, talking once again, and speculating as to whose turn it would be next time the door opened. One person put forward a theory that it was only those criminals wearing a blue or a red stripe who were being taken away. Instantly all those wearing green stripes heaved sighs of relief.

‘Yeah, I get the idea,’ said a murderer from Leipzig. ‘I get the drift. It’s only the politicians and the traitors they’re polishing off. And I reckon that’s as it should be. Why should Adolf go on feeding and clothing them that wants to betray him. Get rid of ’em, I say, and let the rest of us have our fair share.’

The green stripes began to grow quite complacent as time passed and still none of them had been called out. Prison mentality reasserted itself. They began stealing all they could lay hands on from the weak and the dead. One turned on Parson Fischer, who was still hanging limply on to life, and slapped him across his already bruised and bleeding face.

‘Why aren’t you praying, you lousy priest? Why don’t you get Him up There to come down and give us a hand?’

There was a sour laugh from the far side of the stinking cellar.

‘Him up There! Fat lot of good He’d be against the SS . . .’

Late in the afternoon, the doors opened for the last time and an SS captain addressed them from the threshold.

‘All right, listen to me, you load of swine! By rights you should all be dead by now. If I had my way, I’d take you outside and get rid of the whole damn lot of you. It’s the Reichsführer himself who’s decided to give you another chance to prove yourselves worthy of being allowed to go on living. I hope you’re feeling fit and strong, because you’re going to go on a long march to a spot where you won’t be tempted to run away and join the enemy. You’ll know where you’re going when you’ve got there, and not before. You’ll be marching without boots. The Bulgarian Army marches without boots, so why shouldn’t you? Those of you who do arrive safely will be supplied with whatever you need. If anyone falls behind on the way, he’ll be shot. And if there’s anyone who feels he’s not fit enough to march without boots, let him come forward and say so now.’

There was a tremulous silence, and then a man slowly advanced from the shadows of the cellar. The Captain watched him approach.

‘Well? What’s the matter with you?’

The man limped forward. His right foot was bloody and broken. It told its own tale.

‘My, my, that doesn’t look too healthy,’ said the Captain. ‘You should have had that seen to a long time ago.’

He called up an orderly and motioned him towards the man. The Dirlewanger Brigade had no doctors. All operations
were carried out by the unskilled and fumbling hands of the orderlies, without the benefit of anaesthetics. They reckoned this toughened a man up.

‘So what do you think?’ murmured the Captain. ‘Will he be able to march?’

The orderly dug a probing finger into the raw flesh of the damaged foot. The man gave a scream of pain, and the orderly stood up, grinning.

‘I’m afraid not, sir. He’s quite unfit.’

The Captain pulled a sympathetic face.

‘It seems a shame,’ he said, ‘to have a casualty even before we begin. However, if the man can’t march, he can’t march, so let there be an end to it.’

A guard came in to the cellar. The unfortunate invalid was pushed to his knees and his head thrust forward. A shot rang out. That particular problem was solved.

‘So,’ said the Captain. ‘Is there anyone else who feels himself unfit to march?’

It appeared from the silence that everyone was in blooming health. But when the wavering column did finally set out on its journey, it left a long trail of blood behind it.

The survivors were delivered up to the 27th Tank Regiment shortly after midnight. They were thrown into a hovel to sleep, and the next morning were fitted out with arms and uniforms. Now they were all ready to die for their country.

That same evening we set off again for the front.

¹
Wehrmacht unwürdig – those unworthy of service in the Army.

²
Politically undesirable.

‘
He who takes oath on the Swastika must henceforth renounce all other loyalties
.’

Himmler. Speech to Jugoslav Volunteers at Zagreb, 3rd
August 1941.

Two thousand Poles had been herded together in a barracks a few miles beyond the forests which border Warsaw to the north. The surrounding villages had been stripped of men and women; only small children remained.

‘Are there any among you who understand German?’ demanded Haupsturmführer Sohr of the terrified crowd.

He tipped his grey cap, with its sinister death’s head on the peak, down over his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of mid-afternoon sun. An old Polish man slowly shuffled his way towards him.

‘I speak some words, sir. I can perhaps be of help to you.’

‘Good. Tell your people to form themselves into three rows. Tell them to link hands, and when I give the order to march, tell them to go towards the woods, leaving at least ten yards between each row.’

‘And what must I tell them to do when they are in the woods, sir?’

‘Tell them to – pick strawberries. The fruit is excellent at this time of year.’

Faithfully, unquestioningly, the old man translated this strange order. The worried faces of the people gradually relaxed. They formed up obediently into their three rows, linking hands and laughing as they did so. Strange people, these Nazis! Rounding up two thousand men and women only to go and pick strawberries in a wood! None of them knew, because no one had seen fit to tell them, that the wood had been laid with mines by Polish resistance workers.

The first column set off, hand in hand and still smiling slightly with relief. The few laggards, the few who felt instinctively mistrustful, were urged forward by SS men armed
with rifles. The SS men kept pace with the column. They themselves had as yet no knowledge of the mines. They only knew that a few days ago they had been condemned to death and that they had now, suddenly and unaccountably, been offered free pardons. It was not up to them to reason why.

The old man was in the centre of the first column. He was clutching the hands of his two sons, one on either side of him. He trod with care, expecting that at any moment the ground would open up under his feet. He knew the Germans. He knew that he was marching to his death. He stiffened himself as they reached the edge of the wood, and suddenly, as if instinctively, the whole column came to a standstill. The SS guards ran up and down behind them, firing their guns into the air and kicking people forward. Reluctantly, the mass shuffled onwards.