Crack of Doom (20 page)

Herbig grinned. "One chance in a thousand. You always did know what you were doing." He stuck his thumbs in his belt. "I'm not going. Try it yourself."

Kolodzi raised his eyebrows. "You mean you refuse?"

"I most certainly do."

"In that case," said Kolodzi, "this is an order."

"You've no right to give that order."

"No right!" Kolodzi looked at him. "Didn't they teach you in the Hitler Youth what an order is?"

"It's nothing like this. This isn't a proper order, it's a piece of personal spite."

"Oh, yes? Schmitt ordered me to send someone with a signal as soon as we ran into partisans."

Herbig felt himself being driven into a corner. "When Schmitt gave that order," he retorted fiercely, "he naturally didn't know how things were going to look here. I mean, it all depends on the situation."

"Nothing depends on the situation," said Kolodzi. "You've been in the army long enough to know that with an order nothing depends on the situation. Did they ask what the situation was at Turka when they gave orders we should hold our positions, although we hadn't any ammunition left?"

"That was different," said Herbig lamely.

"You won't get far that way," Kolodzi grinned. "Where do you think we'd be now if anybody could refuse an unpleasant order by saying he regarded it as personal spite? Attack! What? Personal spite, I won't do it! Go on patrol? Personal spite, I object! Hold a position? Personal spite again, refused. What do you say to that?"

"You're twisting things around. The circumstances are quite different."

"Think so? You're against deserting, aren't you? Now why? Because they've given us orders to win the war? And when we don't win it, that's refusing an order, isn't it?"

"There's a limit. . . ." Herbig muttered between clenched teeth.

Kolodzi abruptly calmed down. "Ahl—that's just what I was driving at!"

"If we should lose the war," Herbig interrupted furiously. "That would be a sort of higher power. But if I desert, there's no higher power about it. It's sheer disloyalty to the others."

"If you put a bullet through your brain, and I don't, does that make me disloyal?"

"For every man who deserts, others are bound to get killed."

"Bound to? Who says they're bound to? What's to stop them from deserting as well?"

"It's pretty sad that you don't know the answer yourself."

"Their conscience, I suppose," said Kolodzi with deep scorn. "Their conscience stops them. Your conscience, my conscience. We have a conscience about not saving our skins, while the people at the top haven't the least conscience about letting whole armies be wiped out. That's just. . . ." He broke off, overwhelmed by these ideas which, without his knowing it, had been boiling up inside him for years. Seizing Herbig fiercely by the coat he dragged him over to Vohringer's body and pulled the blanket off the dead man's face.

"Let's get this clear once and for all," cried Kolodzi.

"You may think that was my fault, but let me tell you
you've
got him on your conscience—him and all the others who are still to go. Main thing is
you're
still alive; main thing is, you can go on blubbering about loyalty and don't have to worry about their families. Why should an idiot like you bother to think what this means for somebody's wife? But I'm fed up with you now, and unless you're outside in two minutes I’ll damn well shoot you myself. So beat it."

Herbig tottered back white-faced. He stopped in the middle of the room and did not move even when Kolodzi leveled the tommy-gun at him. "Are you going or not?" panted Kolodzi. Herbig saw his finger curl over the trigger. But he did not stir from the spot, and merely said: "You've lost your mind. But you'll have to shoot me before I let myself be killed by the partisans just because you don't like my face."

"Your face!" Kolodzi sneered. "Why not? How many men do you think have croaked in the army just because somebody didn't care for their face? Quite legally and quietly: a hopeless patrol, an outpost duty, a rearguard action. No one will ever know. Oh yes, you can do that in the army. Anyone who likes killing people need only become an N.C.O., and he can put away all his men one after the other, without causing the slightest stir. He needn't lift a finger himself."

"Just like you," said Herbig.

"Just like me? Nobody can ever accuse me. . . ."

"Perhaps I can," suggested a voice.

Kolodzi looked toward the door, where the red-haired M.P. was standing. He went up to him and asked: "And what's biting
you?"

"I'll tell you that later."

"Why not now?"

The Redhead looked across at Herbig, who stood with a wooden expression on his face. "Lucky I heard all that," he said to Herbig, before answering Kolodzi. "Because later there'll be a few more listening."

"I see," said Kolodzi, and without stopping to think punched him in the face; the Redhead toppled back into the passage. Before he could get to his feet again, Kolodzi was on him, and this time caught him on the head so that he sailed several yards down the passage. Rushing after him, Kolodzi found himself impeded by the gun. He dropped it, and at that moment saw the second man, who came rushing out of the other room with Vohringer's tommy-gun in his hand. Kolodzi chased up to him and caught hold of the gun by its barrel. But the Fat One was stronger than the Redhead and defended himself fiercely. Kolodzi got a blow on the nose which made the blood spurt. Infuriated by the pain, he let go of the gun and hammered with his fists at the face before him. Suddenly there was a crack behind him which sounded as if a piece of rotten wood had snapped. He swung around to find the Redhead lying on the ground, his pistol at his side; Kolodzi noticed the thin trickle of blood flowing slowly down from his head. A yard away Herbig stood motionless, holding his tommy-gun like a club. Their eyes met.

Kolodzi bent over the Redhead and hastily examined him. "You've smashed his skull."

"He was about to shoot you in the back," Herbig said tonelessly. He looked at the butt of his gun and wiped it on his white camouflage trousers, where it left a red streak. "I didn't mean to kill him. It all happened so fast."

"You don't have to apologize to me," said Kolodzi. The Fat One stood in the doorway, gazing at the dead man in horror. Contemplating him Kolodzi wiped the blood from his nose and said over his shoulder: "He's the only one who can tell people it was us."

"That's true," said Herbig. He stepped to Kolodzi's side, and they both looked at the Fat One, who stared back at them with an ashen face. His lower lip sagged, and great beads of sweat emerged on his forehead.

"If I knew we were getting out of here," observed Kolodzi, "I'd say it was better he wasn't left to tell anyone anything."

"You can't gag him."

"No, I can't. But I can't get used to the idea that a fellow like you should be hanged by the very people you've always stood up for so much."

"They won't hang me."

"Well, you may get extenuating circumstances, I suppose, but that depends on what this bastard says. And they won't worry about whether you believed in final victory or not, or what a fine soldier you were. They'll simply hang you and won't bother much about the fact that the others will have to fight just that much more hopelessly without you." He broke off to look again at the Fat One, who had been listening to the conversation with an expression of terror on his face.

"We must get rid of the man," Kolodzi said firmly. "We're both in this mess up to our eyes."

"Perhaps the fellow will hold his tongue," said Herbig.

As though the Gestapo man had been waiting for this, he now came running over to them, and in a voice shrill with fear said: "My word of honor, I give you my word of honor. . . ."

"To hell with your word of honor," answered Kolodzi.

"May I be struck dead. . . ." the Fat One began.

"I wish you were," Kolodzi interrupted. "Now I'm going to tell you something. I don't know when the partisans will come. Probably they're waiting till a few dozen more roll up. We can't deal with them on our own, but our men are at Szomolnok, and you're going off now to fetch them. The exercise will be good for your figure . . . shut your mouth," he said sharply, as the Fat One was about to interrupt. "Your chances of getting through are ten times better than ours of surviving the night in this hole."

Kolodzi turned to Herbig. "Post yourself at the window."

"Is he leaving through the door?"

"Yes." He took the Gestapo man by the arm. "You must go over there to the right. When you're past the car, you've made it."

"I won't do it," said the Fat One horrified.

"You can choose between that and a bullet from me."

"They'll shoot me into little bits. . . ."

Kolodzi ignored the man's continued whimpering and went into the room where Herbig was. "Don't you fire a shot."

"What d'you mean? Shouldn't I give him covering fire?"

"The partisans will do that much more efficiently," Kolodzi said with a meaningful smirk and returned to the Gestapo man. "Now jump to it."

"I can't," the man said desperately. His bruised face with the unhealthy bloated skin was distorted. "You swine want to kill me."

Losing patience, Kolodzi seized him by the coat. "If we'd wanted to kill you we'd have done it long ago. I'll break every bone in your body if you make any more fuss."

The fat man dug his knee hard into Kolodzi's stomach and tried to get the tommy-gun up. Kolodzi swiftly thrust him back on the wall. Grasping the barrel of the gun, he pressed the muzzle against the Fat One's neck, and felt for the trigger. The man screamed in terror and began thrashing about him like a madman. His bulky shapeless body seemed transformed into a machine gone berserk, against which Kolodzi could do nothing except try and protect his face and body from the terrific rain of blows. Even then he would have been overpowered, had Herbig not been drawn by the noise, and rushed into the fray. The two of them struck at the fat Gestapo man till they had him on the floor.

Kolodzi wiped the blood off his face, feeling a deep disgust. It had been an unfair fight. He had never met an adversary who had battled like the fat man. "Nothing to be proud of," he said to Herbig, who leaned panting against the wall.

Herbig shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I don't know-after all, those guys are trained for it. Besides, they keep their muscles fueled. Just look at him. No one could put on that amount of fat with the muck we get."

They watched the Fat One moving his head. He groaned, and made two attempts to get to his feet, but fell back both times. Finally Herbig held out a hand and pulled him up.

"What do we do next?" asked Herbig.

"I swear to you. . . ." the Fat One groaned. There were tears in his eyes.

"My God!" said Kolodzi in disgust.

Herbig grinned lamely. "I read once that all fat people are sentimental." They looked helplessly at the weeping man.

'T can't do it," said Herbig. "I'd rather risk getting hanged." His eye fell on the Redhead, from whose battered scalp blood was still trickling. Suddenly he felt sick and went white-faced from the room.

Kolodzi took hold of the Fat One and pulled him so close that their faces nearly touched. "If you mention a word of this I'll get you. Some time or other, but I'll get you, remember that."

The Fat One started once more: "I give you my word of honor. . . ." Kolodzi made a gesture as if to hit him on the mouth. Then he released him, picked up Vohringer's gun which had fallen on the floor during the melee and threw it over to the fat man. "Watch out at the bedroom window, and don't dare move a foot away."

"You can rely on me," said the fat man, wiping the tears from his face. "You won't regret this." His battered face worked painfully.

After watching him run off into the bedroom, Kolodzi joined Herbig. Kolodzi saw that he had pulled the blanket off Vohringer's face and was looking at him. "What the devil are you doing?" he snapped. He put the blanket back and walked over to the window. "Still nothing," he said impatiently, after a glance at the street.

"I think it's best after all if I went to Szomolnok," said Herbig suddenly.

"You do, do you? Then why did you make such a fuss just now? What's come over you all of a sudden?"

"I'm feeling damned queer," Herbig admitted.

"Not half so queer as you'd feel with a rope around your neck. Since when have
you
been squeamish?"

"I don't know myself. I got too much to think about. It's all because of this blasted sitting around."

"We'll soon do something about that," said Kolodzi. He looked out for a second, then took his tommy-gun and fired a magazine at the right window of the house opposite, where he thought he saw faces. "Just to wake up those crafty bastards." With two quick steps he was away from the window, waiting. After a minute had passed without the fire being returned, he pushed his cap back from his brow and said: "Well, what d'you know?"

"I know I can't stand this much longer," said Herbig.

In the doorway the Fat One appeared, his face grey with fear. "Was it you shooting?"

"The swine has left his window," said Herbig. He made for the Fat One who turned in alarm and disappeared again. "The swine," Herbig repeated, resuming his position at the window. "And for a swine like that you can get hanged." He stopped abruptly. By the time he had his finger properly on the trigger of his tommy-gun, Kolodzi was already shooting away at his side. They did not worry about the fact that they were standing at the window without cover. As if by a pre-arranged plan, they each fired at a different target, Kolodzi at the window and Herbig at the man who came running across the street, but now stumbled, fell on his knees and collapsed in the snow. The longish object which he had been holding in his hand exploded with a loud report. While the rear end of it hid the man's body in a fiery cloud of smoke, its cylinder-shaped point sailed high over the street, disappeared on the right of the house, and then there was a booming crash as if a bomb had hit. Herbig and Kolodzi jumped away from the window. They looked at each other. Kolodzi said: "I'd give a lot to know where those bastards got a German mortar-bomb from."