March Battalion (20 page)

'But surely,' murmured von Grabach, intently studying the glowing butt of his cigar, 'he is in good hands here? I feel certain that you, of all people, would know how to put a hasty end to such treachery.'

Schroll's neck became red all over, up to his double chin and the lobes of his ears. He muttered a few incoherent words, then seized desperately on the first exit that presented itself: the telephone.

'Excuse me, my dear General! A most important matter that had completely slipped my memory.'

He spoke feverishly for some moments to Oberstintendant Schmidt, head of the Special Supplies Depot

'Incidentally,' he ended up, 'be so good as to send eight cases of cigars and six bottles of champagne over to my office as soon as possible. The same cigars as I had the other day. Will you give it your urgent attention? Thank you ... And by the way, Schmidt - that leave request you put in. I don't think you need have any worries about it. I'll see that it's passed.' He replaced the receiver and smiled confidently at von Grabach.

'The cigars are on their way. Be with you tomorrow. And I take it you won't find a case of champagne amiss? I suddenly remembered a consignment we've just had from France.'

They shook hands amiably. At the door, von Grabach turned.

'Let me have a full report on your traitor.'

'My traitor?'

'Have you forgotten so soon? Your Oberfeldwebel who talks of defeat... As soon as I receive your, report I'll deal with the matter personally. We've had instructions to come down very heavily on that sort of thing.'

The one general left the room; the other stayed behind, hot under his high collar. Von Grabach was well aware that in fact there was no traitor. The Commissar was equally well aware that he had fooled no one with his improvisation. Simply, he had made a tactical error. He had opened his mouth too wide, and von Grabach had found a new game to play. Cigars and champagne were not enough, he wanted to turn the screw and see what happened. Someone would plainly have to be sacrificed. Schroll called for his adjutant and settled back into his chair to think of a suitable lamb.

Stabsintendant Brandt, the General's adjutant, had been a bank clerk before the war. He was the soul of obedience and discretion, without an original thought in his head.

'Ah, Brandt,' said the General. 'We have a certain ober feldwebel attached to the Commissariat - he talks constantly of strategic withdrawals and the like. You know the one I mean?'

Brandt folded his smooth forehead into concertina creases. 'I believe so, sir.'

'Good. In that case, I want him put under immediate arrest.'

Brandt's eyes bulged in amazement from their sockets. 'Arrest him, sir? What for?'

'Defeatist talk. Undermining the morale of the troops. Such men are a threat to the entire German Army.'

'But sir, I dont believe he's ever spoken to any of the troops. About defeat, I mean. I've never heard him speak about defeat to anyone.' 'Strategic withdrawals?'

'It's hardly the same thing,' protested Brandt.

'It may not seem so to you, Brandt. To me they are synonymous. For all practical purposes, that is. It's all of a piece with the propaganda they put out from London and Moscow.'

Brandt frowned. He was not bent on arguing with the General on any matter of principle; he simply had a neat and well documented mind, a place for everything and everything in its place, and here were a few facts that were definitely not in their place.

'Excuse me, sir,' he said, in the firm but respectful tones of a clerk who had discovered an error in his superior's arithmetical calculations, 'but if you remember, there was an occasion when you yourself were in favour of the strategic withdrawal. That was at the time of--'

'That was quite different' Schroll frowned. 'The situation was different, the time was different It was at a different phase of the war altogether.'

'I see, sir.'

Brandt fell silent He was very far from seeing, but then it was not up to him to see. It was up to him to point out errors and inconsistencies, not to interpret them.

'About this oberfeldwebel,' continued Schroll. 'A certain person has taken a rather unhealthy interest in him. Unhealthy for him, unhealthy for us. Upon reflection, I think it might be best if he were to disappear rather suddenly. And his papers as well, of course.'

Brandt stiffened.

'Sir! Excuse me, sir, but that is quite impossible. It's against all the regulations. You can't just get rid of papers like that. Papers are necessary to the running of the entire Army. Where should we be without them? In a fine muddle! Maybe you don't realize it, sir, but--'

God damn it!' burst out Schroll, losing patience. 'Who do you think you are, Brandt, lecturing me like that? Do what I tell you, and you'd better make it snappy if you don't want to find yourself out in the trenches !'

General and adjutant stood facing each other mutinously. Btrandt's smooth, shiny face was full of reproach. 'Get and do it!' cried Schroll, turning away. 'I want that damned oberfeldwebel out of Berlin and on his way somewhere else within the hour!'

'Very good, sir. I think I could arrange a quick transfer to an infantry section in Greece.'

'Greece?' screamed Schroll, contemptuously. 'That's no good, you bloody idiot! There's only one place to send him, and that's the Russian front. When I say get rid of him, I mean get rid of him... Finland would do, I suppose. Anywhere, so long as it gets him out of our hair. As for the papers - do what you like with 'em. Burn 'em, stuff 'em up the chimney, stuff 'em anywhere you wish. I leave it entirely to you, but those papers have got to go.'

'Yes, sir,' said Brandt, weakly.

His safe, regulated world of filing cabinets and carbon copies had been toppled by a sudden earthquake. Make out false documents! Burn papers! He had never done such a thing in his life before. Papers were records, and records were the lifeblood of civilization. Brandt felt as if he was going mad.

He tottered from the room, and in his place the General sent for his ordnance officer, a young infantry lieutenant who had greatly distinguished himself on the battlefield and lost a leg in doing so. Schroll waved him into a chair. 'Sit down, Brucker. Make yourself comfortable. Cigar?' Brucker settled himself into the depths of an armchair and watched as Schroll paced back and forth, back and forth, tapping the palm of his left hand with a ruler.

'It's very difficult to steer a straight course through the troubled waters of this world ... Don't you find it so, lieutenant?' Brucker laughed, easily.

'I don't altogether care for your choice of metaphor, sir, but - yes, on the whole I would agree with you.'

The General paced a bit more, Brucker narrowed his eyes. What was the old devil planning now, in that mean little brain of his? Whatever it was, he could do nothing to harm Brucker. The Lieutenant had a brother in the S.S., and the brother had influence. If anything, it was rather Brucker who could harm the General.

'My adjutant,' said Schroll, abruptly. 'I find him to be quite astoundingly idle.'

'The man's a moron,' said Brucker.

'A moron! Yes, you've hit on the exact word.' Schroll turned eagerly on Brucker. 'I wonder - could you manage to get rid of him for me? Without any fuss or bother, you know. Without implicating me in any way. I should have to give every appearance of wishing to keep him here ... You understand me?'

Brucker looked at him coldly. Schroll gave a nervous neigh and began washing his hands in the air.

'The man gets on my nerves. I can't work properly with him around. I--'

'Say no more, General. I know what to do. There's an S.S. unit out in the Ukraine--'

'Excellent! The very thing! If you can bring this off, my dear boy, you'll be doing us both a favour. You'll find yourself promoted before the end of the month, I can promise you that.'

'Thank you, sir.'

Brucker trod thoughtfully from the room. Promotion interested hin not at all: he had his own means of obtaining it virtually whenever he wished. The fate of the adjutant left him unmoved: the man was a fool and deserved whatever was coming to him. But it would be interesting to find out what it was that he knew about the General. It was obviously something dangerous. Obviously something worth knowing.

Four hours later, a message came over the teleprinter to the effect that Stabsintendant Brandt had been transferred to a special unit in the Ukraine. General Schroll, with a fine show of indignation, spent twenty minutes raising heaven and earth to keep his adjutant with him in Berlin. When the reply came through that the order was 'from above', and when he discovered just how far above - right up towards the cloud-covered summit, higher than he had ever dreamed of climbing he ceased his efforts and sat back instead to mop his brow and wonder uncomfortably upon the influence wielded by the young Lieutenant Brucker.

Some time afterwards, von Grabach made inquiries about the oberfeldwebel who (so it now seemed to General Schroll) had started all the trouble.

'Transferred?' he murmured, on hearing the news. 'Your adjutnant also, I believe? How. very sudden!'

'They mess you about,' said the Commissar, vaguely. 'Of course, I daresay we could always get hold of him again if you think the matter really worth pursuing?'

General von Grabach only smiled and mentally raised his hat to his colleague. The man was quick off the mark, you had to give him that.

Later that same day von Grabach received two cases of cognac sent round from the Commissariat. General Schroll left for a well-earned rest in Baden-Baden.

The cognac had arrived shortly before lunch. At four o'clock in the afternoon von Grabach, in a state of complete euphoria, received a visit from a certain Councillor Berner. Had it not been for the cognac-coloured clouds surrounding him, he would never have consented to see the man in the first place. He gathered, through the haze, that Councillor Berner's son was at present lodged in Torgau Military Prison awaiting death by the firing squad. Councillor Berner, not unnaturally, was anxious that his son's life should be spared. He had come in person to bring the names of several influential relatives in support of his son's appeal for mercy.

The General listened to Councillor Berner's supplication and was unmoved. Then he listened to the names of the influential relatives and grudgingly agreed that something might perhaps be done. He nodded his head gravely from the Olympian heights of his power.

'I shall do my best for you, but understand that the matter is not entirely in my hands. Like anyone else, I receive my orders from above... If it were left to me, of course, I should have no hesitation whatsoever in upholding the appeal. Personally I am against all forms of violence and brutality. If I had my way I should abolish the death penalty altogether. However--' He shrugged a shoulder - 'discipline is discipline, as I think you will agree. One can but obey one's orders.'

The Councillor distractedly played the piano in the air as he talked.

'My son's crime was not committed against the State, you know, General. It was a crime of passion. The girl led him on. He was not altogether sane when he did it ... He's a good soldier. We can't afford to throw away men like that. Only save his life and give him a chance to prove his loyalty. Even if it means sending him to the Russian front, at least let him have a chance--'

'Yes, yes. I shall do my best, I do assure you.'

'May I rely on you, General?'

'I give you my word,' said von Grabach, his vision blurred by cognac. 'Your son's life shall be spared.'

There were celebrations in the Berner household that night. Champagne flowed, the telephone rang unceasingly. The Councillor told everyone who would listen that Germany should be proud of her generals: they were wise and humane and none could say otherwise. He wrote that same night to his son, telling him the news, and his heart overflowed with gratitude.

The particular wise and humane General in question lit up a cigar, poured himself a generous glass of cognac and sat back comfortably in the remote depths of an arm chair. All was well in von Grabach's limited but expensive world. He had passed a night of fantasy and excitement with Ebba von Zirlitz, and only the same morning he had heard that he had been granted a long rest period at Berchtesgaden. Life was treating him well. Perhaps he ought to make a small token effort and look at the rose-coloured folders that still lay on his desk. Between two puffs on his cigar he reached out a hand and clawed up the first of them.

'Lieutenant Heinz Berner, demoted to private. Prisoner, 2nd Section Cell 476, Torgau, Saxony. Condemned to death.'

The General thumbed listlessly through the pages. His eye skimmed over the words, but his brain did not absorb them. One rose-coloured folder was much like another, and he had seen a great many in his time. He flung down Heinz Berner and picked up Paul-Nicolas Grun. Identical. Von Grabach neither knew nor cared what crimes had taken them to Torgau. They were prisoners, they were condemned to death, and as far as he was concerned that was an end to the matter.

He threw the last of his cognac down his throat. He glanced at his watch. Time to go and supervise his packing if he were to leave for Berchtesgaden that same day. He picked up his pen and carelessly scrawled his signature across the two folders. Heinz Berner and Paul-Nicolas Grun had been finally condemned and nothing short of an act of God could save them. The Russians themselves could be knocking at the gates of Torgau, but Berner and Grun would still have to face the firing squad. Iron discipline. An order was an order. General von Grabach laid one file neatly on top of the other, with the air of one who has completed a good day's work. For a moment he was filled with a vague feeling of disturbance, which he traced, much later at Berchtesgaden, to Councillor Berner and a couple of reckless hours spent over a cognac bottle. Once traced to its source, the feeling of disturbance instantly disappeared and was replaced by one of annoyance. What right had the man Berner to come meddling in military affairs? He had extorted a false promise from General von Grabach, taking advantage of the General's temporary inebriation. Everyone knew the General's principles. Everyone knew that he was an iron disciplinarian, who never went against the findings of a court martial. The very idea of upholding an appeal was abhorrent to him. In any case, no matter what he may have said to the Councillor under the influence of cognac, it was too late now to stop the natural sequence of events that followed from his signing of the death warrant. War was war and others beside the Councillor had had to suffer the inconvenience of it.