The Bloody Road to Death (15 page)

Unteroffizier Faber will be responsible for the erection of the execution post. This will be collected from the Quartermaster’s Store at 09.00 hours
.

Major Schau will be informed of the time of execution at 09.00 hours. His wishes as to form of burial and advice to next-of-kin will be requested. He will then be taken, manacled hand and foot, to the padre for spiritual solace. The manacles must not be slackened or removed either during spiritual solace or during medical examination. The condemned will be at all times strictly guarded by two unteroffiziers armed with machine pistols
.

The Adjutant will give the order to tie the condemned man to the post. Stabsfeldwebel Albert will be responsible for six pieces of rope of length five feet being fastened to the rings of the post He will also provide a sighting cloth
.

The firing squad will parade in front of No. 2 Company cell block at 10.30 hours
.

The commander of the firing squad, Leutnant Schwarz, is responsible for movement to the execution square being carried out with strictest military order and discipline. Any kind of demonstration whatsoever will be suppressed immediately by the most severe means. Firearms may be used if the first warning is not obeyed
.

Whistling, mumbling and ocular signals are to be regarded as demonstrations
.

After the execution four men will remove the body, strip it, and place it unclothed in the coffin. The equipment of the executed man will be handed in to the Quartermaster, who will be responsible for repair of the uniform
.

Unteroffizier Buchner will be responsible for placing the coffin behind the protective wall at 10.4s hours. He will also be responsible for delivery of the coffin, after the execution, to the burial authorities at the cemetery, and will obtain a receipt The necessary documents will be obtained from the adjutant
.

Major Schau will be tied to the post by two ropes crossing the chest, two around the waist and two just below the knees. The ropes will be pulled taut
.

The padre will accompany the prisoner to the execution post and will recite an Our Father. He will then move four paces to the side and the commander of the firing squad will give the order
:

‘
Take aim!
’

The command: ‘Stand at ease!’ will not be given until the Medical Officer has declared the executed man dead. The firing squad will not march away until the body has been untied from the execution post and laid in the coffin. Two men from No. I Company will be detailed to remove all bloodstains. They will be equipped with cloths and shovels for this purpose
.

Feldwebel Reincke will be responsible for the cleaning of the execution post, and for returning it to store
.

From one hour before the time of execution and until the coffin has been removed and cleaning operations are completed, the execution square will be out of bounds to all personnel not employed on duties connected with the execution
.

Signed: Heinicke
Oberst and Commandant
Fortress Germersheim

1.
See
March Battalion
.

2.
Kalashnikov: Russian Mpi.

3.
Nagajka: Russian whip.

4.
HDV: Army Service Regulations.

5.
LMG: Light Machine-gun.

6.
GEFEPO: (Geheime Feldpolizei) Secret Field Police.

‘’Ow d’you feel without the bleedin’ stars?’ Tiny asks feld-webel Schmidt as they slant across the flat, marshy artichoke fields.

‘All right, all right, bighead,’ growls Schmidt surlily. ‘Mightn’t be all that long before you’re on the way to the jug yourself with no stripes up.’

‘So what?’ says Tiny carelessly, spitting into the wind. ‘Life with Barras
¹
is bleedin’ uncertain.’

‘Too right it is,’ sighs Carl moodily. ‘A week ago a feldwebel an’ today lower’n shit, an’ all for refusing to fire on a flock o’ soddin’ Greeks.’

‘Who was the twatt who made
you
a feldwebel?’ asks Porta, shaking his head and handing Carl a piece of mutton sausage. ‘Refuse to shoot a civilian, indeed!’

‘’E’ll learn to obey orders in Germersheim,’ grins Tiny maliciously.

‘I don’ believe it’s as bad as they say,’ mumbles Carl.

‘Been there?’ asks Porta looking at him out of the corners of his eyes.

‘No, I’ve got a clean sheet.’

‘You’ve shit on it now all right, my son!’ says Porta.

‘Ten years in the bleedin’ nick,’ shouts Tiny, joyfully.

Unimpressed, Porta cuts another slice from the long mutton sausage.

‘I can tell you a lot about Germersheim, that they don’t teach the kids in school.’

‘We’ve got some nice little stories about Torgau, Glatz an’ Fort Zittau, too,’ grins Tiny, taking a piece of sausage.

‘Bullshit the lot!’ Carl brushes it off, stubbornly.

‘You’ll be surprised,’ smiles Porta. ‘I’ve seen the toughest
nuts break like eggshells five minutes after they’ve clicked their heels in front of Hellhound Heinrich.’

‘You’re off to where the devil roasts chestnuts,’ shouts Tiny loudly, dropping an encouraging hand on Carl’s shoulder. ‘You barmy bleeder, you’re goin’ to be sorry you didn’ knock them Greeks off, son.’

They regain the Corinth road and try to hitch a ride on a convoy but nobody stops for them.

Tiny chatters on about his experiences at Germersheim.

‘I’ve drilled five bleedin’ hours on end, in water up to me bleedin’ neck, an’ that was under the personal command of Iron Gustav
²
. All I’d done was drop a full piss-pot on ’is ’ead, but ’e ain’t a bad bleeder really. ’E can crush your bleedin’ ribs in that fast it don’t even ’urt you while ’e’s doin’ it.’

‘Watch out for Hellhound Heinrich,’ says Porta with a quiet smile. ‘If he throws you in Cell 42. You go in goosestepping and come out mincemeat!’

‘Get into No. 3 Ausbildungskompagni
³
’ Tiny advises. ‘The Flea’s got that – Rittmeister Lapp. ’E ’ops round on tin legs what squeaks that much, you can ’ear ’im comin’ a bleedin’ mile orf. ’E’s stone bleedin’ blind, too, nearly, an’ that’s a good thing ’cos ’e ’ardly can tell who ’e’s talkin’ to ’arf the time.’

They reach Corinth late in the afternoon, and catch a goods train.

It’s raining in Athens when they arrive next morning, and the express to Salonica has just left. They get their orders stamped at the RTO and agree to take a look at the historic city now that they are there.

‘We’ve got three weeks,’ shouts Porta ecstatically. ‘Three bloody weeks with travel money and rations! Do you realize what intelligent men can do with all that?’

They look into every bar they come to.

Carl worries about missing the train.

‘Choke it orf, son!’ says Tiny. ‘We, your superiors, take full responsibility. You’re our prisoner an’ you’ll be in chokey soon-a-bleedin’-nough. Don’t forget that travellin’ time is part of your sentence and whatever ’appens to you with us is better’n
what ’Ell’ound ’Einrich’ll be dishin’ out to you when ’e gets ’is ’ands on you.’

‘He can’t forget he used to be a feldwebel and that two obergefreiters are now telling him what to do,’ says Porta under-standingly.

‘It’s difficult after ten years in the rank,’ sighs Carl apathetically.

‘Well, you’ll ’ave ten years in the nick to get used to it,’ grins Tiny.

‘You’ll learn there what obergefreiter stripes mean. It’s them ’as keeps the keys to the blocks!’

They go along Ermou Epmoy and reach Syntagma Place, the rendezvous of the Athenian upper class.

In a pavement restaurant outside the Hotel Grand Bretagne Tiny’s eye falls on an overfat gentleman balancing on a white iron chair.

‘Look at bleedin’ fatguts there,’ his shout echoes round the square. He inspects the fat man with interest. His buttocks hang down on both sides of the small chair seat.

‘He must weigh at least twenty stone.’ Porta thinks aloud, sucking his lower lip in between his teeth.

‘Thirty,’ guesses Tiny. ‘Put ’im up on a elephant an’ it’d go bleedin’ swaybacked.’

‘In the middle of a war with rationing and hunger everywhere,’ shouts Porta indignantly. ‘It makes me mad when I see things like that.’

‘He very much money. Many ship in Piraeus, many villa on islands,’ whispers a shoe-cleaner warningly.

A servile waiter spoons stewed bilberries on to the fat man’s plate. Another sprinkles sugar, and a third pours cream. They do not conceal the fact that they expect large tips.

‘Shit, see him
eat
,’ says Porta hungrily.

‘It’s i-bleedin’-moral,’ says Tiny, and grasping a spoon he smashes it down into the plate three or four times. Bilberries fly to all sides.

The fat millionaire falls over backwards, making noises like a railway-engine giving off steam.

All is confusion. Police-dog tags glitter from the other side
of the square. From the Ministry of War a combined German-Greek police patrol comes sprinting with drawn truncheons.

‘’Ell, no peace for the wicked!’ shouts Tiny, irritatedly, placing a boot on the fat man’s stomach and letting his weight come on to it.

‘You come,’ shouts the shoe-cleaner running in front of them down Miltropo Street. They cross a backyard and crawl through an open window into a room where some ladies are trying on dresses.

‘Gas inspection,’ says Porta helping the shoe-cleaner through the window.

When Tiny follows him the ladies begin to scream.

‘Take it easy,’ grins Tiny. ‘We’ll put off readin’ the meter till next time!’

‘Rotten whores!’ screams the shoe-cleaner, spitting on a picture of the King.

‘You
axe
a nice girl,’ says Porta, pinching one of the girls’ behinds.

She screams sulphurous curses at him. A piece of firewood flies past his head.

‘Women as swears an’ talks dirty, they’re the best,’ states Tiny with a knowledgeable air. ‘We ’ad one o’ them in Sanct Pauli. When she opened ’er mouth the shit flew. Everybody thought she was a real bitch because of that, but they was wrong. Cinderarse knew what she was doin’. She wound up marryin’ a baron an’ drivin’ to the church behind milk-white ’orses. We never see ’er on the Reeperbahn again, but the luxury pimps used to meet ’er in the top joints along the Alster an’ raise their ‘ats to ’er though she never condescended to reply. She’d got
that
upper-bleedin’-class she couldn’t even take a deep breath an’ shout arsehole after ’em. Just sniffed real loud, like a cow sniffin’ a bull in the arse. Them tough nuts from Sanct Pauli got that worked up they threw all their bleedin’ lids away so’s not to keep gettin’ shat on by ’er.’

They stood outside a travel bureau where
Kraft durchFreude
is advertising trips to Venice.

‘Hey, what about taking a trip to Venice and having a ride in a gondola?’ asks Porta, pointing at a colourful poster.

‘You out of your mind, or something?’ protests Carl, nervously. ‘We can’t go to Venice when we’re supposed to go via Vienna.’

‘An’ you been feldwebel in a 500-battalion!’ sighs Tiny, shaking his head despairingly. ‘Do as we order, man, for Jesus Christ’s sake! Nobody can blame the bleedin’ prisoner for the bleedin’ escorts’ travel arrangements. Who the ’ell can prove we don’t think Venice is a short-bleedin’-cut to the pokey? We didn’t get top marks in geography, did we now?’

They drive to the Acropolis in a horse-drawn cab.

‘Now we
are
here, we might just as well see the sights,’ considers Porta. ‘Here, where we are driving at this very moment, the legions of Rome once trotted along,’ he explains with pathos in his voice.

‘They still bleedin’ are,’ says Tiny unimpressed, pointing to two Bersaglieri laboriously ascending the hill with three girls.

‘Whoa mares, like a trip?’ cries Porta pointing invitingly at his flies.

The girls laugh and climb up into the waggon. The Bersaglieri snarl like hungry tigers whose meat has been taken from them.

‘Anything to see up there?’ asks Porta pointing to the Acropolis.

‘No much. Stones and broken steps you can break a leg on.’

‘Turn back,’ Porta orders the cabman. ‘
You
can tell us what
you’ve
seen, that way we won’t waste time.’

‘Do you fuck?’ asks Tiny. The girls prefer not to reply.

They stop at a tumbledown restaurant owned by the cabman’s brother. After the third bottle of wine, Tiny and the cab-driver dance the
tjaka
till the house shakes.

‘My ’usband ees at the front,’ says Sula, a dark-haired, very pretty girl.

‘Which one?’ asks Porta practically.

‘I do not know,’ she confesses.

‘’E ees an officer. Greek ’ero.’