Court Martial (14 page)

'The "small matter" was me! They treated me relatively gently. Everything was over in about an hour. Interrogation completed! One month later a ten-minute court martial and here I am!'

At 06.00 hrs there is a clatter of tin buckets in the corridor. A key raps loudly on the door. This is the signal to get out of bed and to pile mattresses.

Soon after, breakfast comes along. A slice of bread, a pat of margarine and a mug of thin, lukewarm ersatz coffee.

Then there is the waiting. The prison stinks of fear and terror. The minute hand on the tower clock moves in tiny jerks. The clock strikes eight times and exactly on the hour iron-shod heels sound in the corridor. Sharp orders are rapped out. Steel sounds on steel.

In the cells all talk ceases. Eyes stare fixedly at the grey doors. The first party has already been escorted away. Marching feet make echoes which disappear down the corridor.

A demoted assistant M.O. breaks down in heart-breaking sobs.

'Pull yourself together, man,' General Wagner scolds him, harshly. 'Crying won't help you. It will only make things worse. That sort of thing irritates the guards. It is too late for regrets now. You should have realised sooner that a nonentity of a naval surgeon like you cannot criticise Adolf Hitler unpunished. What would
you
have said if some criminal had called you a quack? Would you have laughed at the joke?'

A crushing silence falls on the cell. Close by the jingle of keys and shouted names can be heard.

The youngest prisoner in the cell, a Gefreiter only seventeen years of age, sneaks over to the door to listen. The red drill tunic, the robe of death, hangs loosely on him.

A former Leutnant sits petrified on the cot next to the General's and stares as if hypnotised at the door. Will it fly open any second now? Will a tough-looking face beneath the rim of a steel helmet call out one or more names?

He begins to sob, completely loses control of himself, and collapses into a shaking heap. He has gone through three weeks of waiting - every morning.

The General, who is old enough to be his father, looks at him for a moment.

'Stop that nonsense! Straighten up, man! Remember you're a soldier - an
officer
! Up with you, chest out, stomach in! Yes, it's foolish, but it helps! They taught it to you in school and in the HJ. Now you've a use for it! What's going to happen
will
happen. Crying won't make any difference!'

The Leutnant begins to scream. Horribly! Shockingly!

General Wagner grabs the chest of his tunic and slaps his face resoundingly several times.

'Stand up, man, pull yourself together!' he commands, sharply.

The Leutnant stands to attention. He is pale as a corpse, but collects himself. The glaze disappears from his eyes.

Outside the steps of the death squad can be heard approaching. They are not far away. Rattling screams are heard from a cell close by.

The post Feldwebel curses and scolds. 'I can't stand it,' whispers the chemist. 'I'll go mad!'

'What are you going to do, man?' asks General Wagner, mockingly. 'Throw yourself down in front of the firing squad? Tell them you are innocent and that they mustn't kill you?'

'Oh God, I wish they'd fetch me today,' groans the chemist, in despair. 'Then it'd be all over.' He gets up. His mouth is a red hole in his face. Before the others can get to him, he screams: 'Fetch me, you bloody murderers! Kill me! Shoot me, you Nazi bastards!'

They throw him to the floor, and cover his mouth with their bodies to muffle his screams.

They listen fearfully at the door. Will the guard come with their long staves? Noise in the cells is strictly forbidden. Screams count as noise.

Quite soon the chemist is quiet again. He sits down in a corner, his lips trembling like those of a terrified rabbit.

'If one of you should, against expectations, live through this,' says the General, softly, 'I would like to ask you to greet my wife, Margrethe Wagner, Hohenstrasse 89, Dortmund, from me. Tell her that I died well. It will be a help to her. Explain to her that everything I own is forfeit to the German state treasury. For this reason I could not even send her our wedding ring.'

All the prisoners repeat the address to imprint it in their memory: Margrethe Wagner, Hohenstrasse 89, Dortmund.

The General looks up at the frosted window. For a while he is silent. His thoughts are far away in Dortmund in Westphalia.

'I have a feeling they are going to come for me today,' he says suddenly, smoothing down his red tunic.

But they did not come to fetch the General that day.

The clock in the staff company tower struck eleven times. The whole prison gave a gasp of relief. Until 08.00 hrs the next morning is a long time.

'Yard exercise, march, march!' Whistles shrill through the prison blocks. A storm of noise and unrest raises itself from all sides.

Manacles clash. Keys jingle, and boots tramp. The redtuniced prisoners hop breathlessly along. The unlucky ones who fall are beaten remorselessly with rifle butts.

A machine-pistol barks wickedly and long. A prisoner who attempts to speak to one of his fellow wretches slumps down in a pool of blood. He is dragged like a sack back to his cell. His head bumps hollowly against the steps of the staircase.

'Dirty dog, swine,' the guards scream at him. They can think of nothing better in their fury.

A medical Feldwebel comes running with his Red Cross bag. He eyes the badly wounded prisoner wickedly.

'Throw the shit on the floor,' he snarls. 'I'll get enough life in the bastard, that we can carry him to the execution post!'

'Don't you dope him,' says one of the guards morosely.

'Wouldn't dream of it,' answers the medical Feldwebel. 'I'd cut his prick off if I had
my
way!'

All three laugh loudly.

The parade ground is filled with men. The condemned in their red uniforms mixed with ordinary grey-green prisoners, who feel like kings in comparison with the 'reds'.

'Form up in column of threes,' roars the Duty Feldwebel. 'Column of route, forward march! Keep your bloody distance, you sacks! Let's have a song!'

'Ich bin ein freier Wildbrettschutz
28

und hab' ein weit' Revier,

so weit die braune Heide reicht,

gehort das Jagen mir . . .

Ich bin ein freier Wildbrettschutz . . .'

Yard exercise always ends with various kinds of 'bulldozing', depending on the duty feldwebel's humour.

The afternoon passes quickly. Slowly the long shadows creep across the parade ground and creep up the wall opposite the window. Evening comes, then night. Whispered conversations; voices that stammer fearfully. Their death hour approaches on rapid feet.

Breakfast is eaten in silence. Only a few have any appetite. From the clock-tower eight death strokes sound again.

Confident voices are heard echoing from the walls of the barracks and penetrating to each and every cell.

The execution squads march in step down the corridors. Heavy boots approach cell 109

The nine prisoners hold their breath. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed they stare at the door. They know that the squad has come to a halt just outside their cell. Heavy keys jingle. Startling as a gunshot the heavy key is pushed home in the lock. Click, click, it says, as it turns twice.

The heavy door flies open. A steel helmet gleams warningly from the door opening. Rifle butts scrape on the concrete. Silence, silence, waiting silence.

A tough face peers into the cell from under the helmet brim. Whose will be the name that comes from those thin colourless lips?

General Wagner takes a half-pace forward, his face like chalk. His lips are almost inky. The terror of death creeps icily up his spine. He is certain his name will be called.

The chemist and the Leutnant push themselves deeper into the alcove. The little Gefreiter stands behind the table, his mouth half-open as if he were about to emit a scream.

The door bangs shut. It was a mistake. The candidate to be taken to his death is in the cell next door.

A long ululating scream of terror tears the expectant silence apart. A body is dragged along the concrete floor of the corridor. Three of the iron bars of the window throw a shadow now. When the fourth appears as a pencil-thin line, it will be 11.00 hrs, and life can begin again.

The atmosphere becomes almost cheerful.

Now, now, thinks the Oberst. The shadow has almost reached the washbowl. Heavy, marching steps can be heard coming from the far end of the corridor. They approach rapidly.

'They can't possibly manage any more,' whispers the Leutnant, staring in horror at the spot where the shadow of the fourth bar will appear.

'We'll soon see,' answers the General, quietly, taking two steps towards the door.

The young Gefreiter begins to sob, spasmodically. Nobody pays any attention to him. Everyone is thinking of himself.

'Come, shadow,' implores Oberleutnant Wisling. It cannot be more than a few seconds to 11.00 hrs.

The marching steps approach pitilessly. No military boot in the world has the ominous sound of the German jackboot. It is built to inculcate fear and horror into those who hear it.

The marching feet pass by. A short way further along the corridor a sharp word of command is heard. The steps are returning. Crash! Crash! Crash! Exactly opposite cell 109 they come to a halt.

Something is wrong. The fourth shadow is plainly visible.

The prisoners glare at it, clutching at it as drowning men at a straw. After 11.00 they don't take people. It's
never
happened. Why should it happen today?

Strike
clock, for God's sake
strike
! Give us another day of life! Life is so short, one more day is a wonderful gift, even in prison.

The key jingles. The sound as it enters the lock is nerve-shattering. The sound a guard who is fond of his work can produce.

Even before the door swings open eleven strokes sound from the HQ Company clock-tower. The key is withdrawn from the lock. Orders forbid executions taking place after 11.00 hrs.

Sharp commands ring through the prison.

'Shoulde-e-r
arms
! Le-e-ft
turn
! Qui-i-ck march!' Crash! Crash! Marching steps recede and disappear down the corridor.

'Lord Jesus Christ,' pants the chemist, from his corner. 'I'd never have believed a man could stand such things without losing his mind. Have they no pity for us at all?'

'Pity does not exist in Germany,' laughs the General, sarcastically. 'But we can be sure of one thing, at least. One of us will be taken between 0.800 and 11.00 hrs tomorrow.'

'Who?' asks the Leutnant, in a quivering voice.

'If you are a very brave man you can knock on the trap-door and ask,' smiles the General. 'But I can assure you that if it is you, you will not be able to walk to the post unaided tomorrow morning!'

'The vile devils,' whispers the Leutnant, furiously.

'Devils,' the General emits a jeering laugh. 'And you have attended the War Academy! My dear young man they are no more devils than you or I. Merely a product of military education in the Third Reich. Be honest, now! Were you not an admirer of it, until you came to know the German court-martial system?'

The Leutnant bows his head and agrees silently with General Wagner. He could just as easily have been one of the guard officers here. Instead, by a trick of fate, he is a condemned prisoner.

Oberleutnant Wisling looks towards General Wagner. Is the man made of teak and iron he thinks? It was certainly he they were coming to pick up this morning. He has long since passed the normal time limit for wearing the red tunic, and he must be aware of it.

''34 was the last time I took part in the sharpshooter contest in the Morellenschlucht,' remarks Oberst Frick, casually, looking up at the grey window. 'It was in August and hot. We filled ourselves up with overripe morellos,
29
which lay in a thick yellow carpet under the trees. The blast from the mortar bombs had knocked them down. We got stomach-ache ...'

The door opens with the usual crash, and a new prisoner in red enters fearfully.

'Feldwebel Holst, 133rd Infantry Regiment, Linz, Donau,' he introduces himself.

'Oberst Frick, 5th Grenadier Regiment, Potsdam,' smiles the Oberst, sadly.

'The aristocrats with the pretty hats,' says General Wagner, sarcastically. 'I am not from such a high-class outfit. 11th Panzer Regiment, Paderborn.'

'I've been to Paderborn,' says the seventeen-year-old Gefreiter. '15th Cavalry Regiment.' He clicks his heels. He is still speaking to a General, even though a demoted and condemned one.

'Leutnant Pohl, 27th Artillery Regiment, Augsburg,' the frightened young Leutnant introduces himself.

'How formal we all are, suddenly,' laughs Wisling. 'Very well then: Oberleutnant Wisling, 98th Mountain Jager Regiment, Mittenwald.

'You'd know Schorner?' asks the General. 'He was, I believe, in command of your regiment?'

'Yes, he was Oberstleutnant. He is now Generalfeldmarschall and not less hated than formerly,' smiles Wisling, bitterly.

'When we had sharpshooting trials in the Morellenschlucht,' continues Oberst Frick, 'hazing was forbidden. It was important that we were not nervous when our turn came. We enjoyed ourselves in the Morellenschlucht but only in the summertime. In the winter it was damnably cold and windy. It was as if the cold was coming all the way from Russia and in amongst those crooked trees.'

'And now you are to end your life in the Morellenschlucht,' comes drily from the General. 'Did you know that in the Kaiser's time they also used to execute soldiers there?'

'No, I had no idea.'

'It's one of the most remarkable things about we Germans,' sighs the General, apathetically. 'We never know
anything
. We are a nation in blinkers. God knows how many innocent people have been shot in the Morellenschlucht,'

'Does it hurt to be shot?' breaks in the young Gefreiter, suddenly.