March Battalion (15 page)

'Of course.'

'You'll go down into history for this,' said Little John, earnestly. 'It's the only decent thing anyone's ever done in this place.'

Lindenburg smiled, rather wearily.

'You'd better take me back to my cell, hadn't you? And if I were you, I'd report the incident at once. It looks better that way. I don't want you to get yourselves into any sort of trouble.'

'You're probably right' Porta turned to Heide. 'Will you go and make the report while we take him back?'

'Like hell I will! I'm on duty, I can't leave my post'

'Little John-'

'Nothing to do with me,' said Little John, firmly. 'He's not in my wing. This is your pigeon, you deal with it.'

'He may not be in your wing, but you were the one who was supposed to be on guard duty in this corridor. And you were the one who saw him do it and made no attempt to stop him.'

'And you were one of the ones that helped drown the sound of the crime !' retorted Little John.

Heide suddenly snapped his heels together and puffed out his chest.

'I'm the senior man round here, and I'm ordering you to go and report the incident to Hauptfeldwebel Dorn.' He looked at Little John. 'Immediately, Creutzfeld!'

'Oh, get stuffed!' came the indifferent retort.

In the circumstances, there was little that Heide could do in the face of such flagrant disobedience. He could not physically force Little John into making a report to Dorn, and he knew from past experience that threats left him cold.

'Oh, for Christ's sake!' he exclaimed, irritably. 'What's your suggestion. Leave the corpse lying here to rot and say nothing to anyone?'

Little John shrugged his shoulders.

'Why not? What's it to us?'

'What about him?' Heide jerked his head towards Lindenberg, who was slumped in a chair and seemed quite uninterested in the whole affair. 'What do we do about him?'

'What do YOU do about him,' corrected Porta. 'You're the senior man round here, remember? It's up to you.' He slowly took out a cigarette and lit it, at the same time studying with interest a large printed card that said 'NO SMOKING' in bright red letters. 'Sorry, mate, but it looks like you're in the shit right up to your neck.'

'Put out that cigarette!' yelled Heide, pointing to the notice.

Porta ignored him. He turned earnestly to Little John.

'Glad I'm not a sergeant,' he said. 'Only gets you into hot water all the time. Take you and me, for instance. No responsibility. Treated like idiots. Never understand anything without it's repeated three times... Oh, it's a grand life, I tell you! But him--' He gestured towards Heide - 'him with his stripes and all! He's the one who carries the can, poor idiot.'

'Tell you what,' suggested Little John. 'Let's take Lindenberg back to his cell and then knock off for a game of pontoon. How about it?'

It seemed the best idea anyone had yet had. And yet somehow the corpse of Gustav Durer prayed on their minds.

'We're storing up trouble,' said Heide. 'I'm warning you.'

'You're the senior man... Give us another card.'

'We'll all be in this together when they find out.'

'Twist,' said Little John, imperturbably.

'They go mad when things like this happen--'

'And another,'

'It's all very well for you--'

'Now I'll stick.'

'I've got a good idea,' said Porta. 'Why don't we tell the Old Man what's happened and leave him to deal with it? Little John, you go and tell him right now.'

'Why me?' said Little John, suspiciously.

'Why not you? I'm not asking you to go and see Dorn, am I?'

'Just as well, because I shouldn't go ... Well, O.K., I'll tell him, but that's my lot. After that, you do your own dirty work.'

Little John disappeared. He was back a few moments later with both Alte and Barcelona Blum.

'This is bad,' said Alte. 'What the hell do you expect me to do? Where's Lindenberg now?'

'Back in his cell.'

'Back in his cell. O.K. None of you lot saw anything. None of you heard anything. O.K. Didn't know a thing about it until the prisoner came to find you. O.K. But what about the man who was supposed to be on guard duty in this section? How do we explain him away? Why wasn't he doing his job properly?'

Heide and Porta both turned to look at Little John. Little John spat briefly on the floor.

'No good asking me. I got the runs. Spent half the morning in the bog. That's where I was when Gustav got clobbered. Shitting in the bog.'

'I see.' Alte breathed deeply. 'That's very helpful. You've been to the M.O. about it, of course?'

'No. Completely slipped my mind.'

'That's a pity,' said Alte, drily. 'I rather thought that at - say - eight o'clock this morning, during the exercise period, you'd gone to see Obergefreiter Holzermann and that he'd given you some tablets to take for a stomach upset?'

'Eh?'

For a moment Little John looked puzzled; then, slowly, his face cleared.

'Yeah. You're right. He gave me some tablets and I swallowed the lot. I been in and out of the bog ever since.'

'They'll believe it,' said Alte. 'They'd believe anything of you... As for Porta, you I take it were up in Lindenberg's cell making a search during his absence ... Is that right? I like to get all the facts straight.' :

'Absolutely,' agreed Porta. 'Quite right. Making a search. That's exactly what I was doing.'

'And what about me?' asked Heide, anxiously.

'You... Yes. You were taking an inventory of the cutlery. Get hold of the old one and start copying it out again. Little John, get up to Lindenberg's cell and make it look as though a hurricane hit it. Tell him what's happening.'

'O.K.'

Little John hurried off, but turned back at the door.

'Here, just a minute - who's going to tell Dorn?'

'I am,' said Barcelona. 'No, no, don't thank me, I couldn't bear it! I already know I'm a saint.'

'You're a bloody fool,' said Little John, disappearing.

Hauptfeldwebel Dorn was sitting at his desk with his feet up and one of Major Divalordy's cigars clamped between his teeth. The Hauptfeldwebel liked cigars. Especially Major Divalordy's cigars. He liked the expensive aroma of the smoke and he liked the sense of social superiority that accompanied them. His desk was as usual piled high with letters and files. A book of pornographic studies lay open on his lap.

He ignored Barcelona's first tap at the door. It was obvious from the manner of the knock that it was not an officer out there, so according to his custom Dorn let him wait. Not until Barcelona's third attempt did he drawl a languid, 'Come in.'

Barcelona had barely entered the room when there came a further three rapid knocks on the door. Before Dorn had time enough to raise an inquiring brow, Porta was also in the room. He clicked his heels together and gave an abrupt salute.

'Stabsgefreiter Porta, sir, Fifth Tank Company, reporting on the Governor's orders.'

'What the hell for?' demanded Dorn.

'Orders to check all typewriters and other office equipment, sir.'

Dorn's mouth sagged slightly.

'Whose orders, if you please?'

'Colonel Vogel,' said Porta, with untruthful aplomb.

It seemed doubtful if the lie would ever be brought home to him. A variety of curious and unlikely orders were frequently issued by Colonel Vogel. No one was likely to check up on this particular one.

'Oh, very well, get on with it!' snapped Dorn. 'And don't take all day about it.'

Humming busily to himself, Porta dumped his bag of tools on the ground and began taking the typewriter to pieces. He unscrewed everything that was unscrewable, removed rollers and platens, pulled out yards of ribbon, poked here and pulled there and generally oiled everything in sight Dorn watched him with a sense of growing horror.

'I hope to God you can gut that thing back together

'So do I, sir,' agreed Porta, fervently. Dorn clicked his tongue against his teeth and turned to Barcelona.

'Well, Feldwebel? What do you want?'

'Sir,' began Barcelona, earnestly. 'Feldwebel Blom, sir. Following the orders given to me by my Section Chief - that is to say, Feldwebel Beier, sir - Feldwebel Beier being my Section Chief, sir--'

'For God's sake!' snapped Dorn.

Barcelona looked puzzled.

'Sir?'

'Speak normally, man! Get to the point, can't you?'

'Sir! Stabsfeldwebel Gustav Durer has been killed. He's in one of the rooms leading off the main corridor of Block 6... sir.'

Dorn's cigar quivered between his lips. He snatched it out and glared up at Barcelona.

'What's that you said?'

'Stabsfeldwebel Durer, sir. Strangled.'

'You're mad! Where did you get this absurd story from? Durer would never allow a thing like that to happen ... Who did it? Explain it to me!'

With a certain amount of barely concealed relish, Barcelona did so. Porta, meanwhile, examined each separate part of the dismantled typewriter in turn and kept one ear cocked for a suitable point of entry into the conversation. He waited until Dorn's questions became a little too probing for safety.

'Sir!'

Dorn swung round on him.

'Well? What do you want?'

'I've done the typewriter, sir. May I have a look at your desk, now?'

'What the devil for?'

'Colonel's orders, sir. He said to examine every--'

'Oh, very well, very well, if you must! Get on with it and stop interrupting me!' Dorn turned back irritably to Barcelona. 'Who was on guard at the time of Durer's - ah - murder?'

Barcelona shook his head.

'I don't know, sir.'

'Christ Almighty, if we go on like this the war's as good as lost!' Dorn thumped a fist on his desk and Porta gave an exaggerated start. 'Nothing but a bunch of saboteurs and traitors! In league with the prisoners, every single one of you! Going behind my back, neglecting your duties ... God knows I've been reasonable enough up until now, but this is the turning point. Mark me well, Feldwebel, this is the turning point!'

His cigar had gone out. He tossed it away and looked for another one in Major Divalordy's desk. An almost imperceptible chalk mark allowed him to check whether anyone else had had the temerity to open the drawer.

'Who promoted you to the rank of Feldwebel?' he suddenly demanded of Barcelona.

'When I was with the 36th at Bamberg, sir. The C.O. there, he-'

'Hm,' said Dorn, plainly not very interested. 'It's curious, Feldwebel, but you bear a strong resemblance to a badly cooked steak. Such things are fit only for swine and curs.'

'Yes, sir,' agreed Barcelona, placidly.

'Sir!' Porta reentered the conversation, his face abeam with happiness and goodwill. 'I've dusted all the drawers in your desk with talcum powder, sir. You can pull them in and out as easy as anything... Shall I do the Major's desk as well, sir?'

'Be quiet!' hissed Dorn. 'I'm sick of your everlasting prattle. Do the job you came for and then get out. I have more important matters to deal with.'

Dorn abruptly left the room and went off to find Alte and view the corpse.

'This is going to cost someone his life!' he declared dramatically. 'I shall not rest until I have uncovered the culprit. Not a moment's peace will there be in this establishment--'

'Actually,' said Alte, 'we already have the criminal. He's upstairs locked in his cell.'

Dorn glared at him and left the room.

In a way, he found that he was almost glad that Durer had been murdered: it was Dorn's chance to prove himself, to show his mettle, as it were. He took long involved statements from everyone who had been directly; indirectly, and even just very remotely connected with the affair. He checked and he double-checked. He adopted an attitude of lofty and judicial calm... until, that is, he came to interview Little John, and Little John defeated him. He totally lost his way in the rambling maze of Little John's discourse - what he had done, why he had done it; where he had done it, how he had done it; where he had been, where he had come from; who had said what and what he had said back and what he WOULD have said back if--

'Obergefreiter Creutzfeld!' screamed Dora. 'I am strongly beginning to doubt your sanity! Your proper place is in a lunatic asylum, not in the German Army!' He turned to Alte. 'Feldwebel Beier, get rid of this man. Give him some simple task to do and see that he sticks to it. But kindly ensure that I do not have to set eyes on him again! '

Ultimately, he interviewed Lindenberg in his cell. He threatened him with death and told him in no uncertain terms what happened to people who dared to lay hands on members of the Gestapo. Lindenberg sat silent throughout the tirade, then calmly told Dorn he might go to hell, adding by way of an afterthought that he had thoroughly enjoyed strangling Gustav Durer and wished only that he might do it all over again.

Very much shaken, Dorn left the cell. Quite obviously the man Lindenberg was a raving maniac. The authorities had had no right to confine him in a military prison. The personnel of Torgau could hardly be held responsible for the actions of a madman.

There now only remained the signing of certain documents, the filling in of certain forms in triplicate and quadruplicate, and Gustav Durer could be finally eliminated from the records. Dorn returned to his office in a thoroughly bad temper and slammed the door behind him.

'I say, anything wrong?' inquired a mildly reproachful voice.

Dorn bit back the oaths that automatically rose to his lips. He clicked his heels together.

'Heil Hitler! Did you pass a good night, sir?'

'Fair to middling, thank you, Dorn.'

Major Divalordy was an ex-insurance man from Innsbruck. He tended to confuse the army with his insurance company, and he treated Dorn with the same bone-headed amiability that he showed towards his colleagues there. It never crossed his mind that the Prussian professional soldier felt for him a profound scorn.

The Major smiled affably and stroked at the corners of his silky blond moustache.

'Well, how goes it? What's on the menu for today? Anything juicy to report?'

'More than you know,' thought Dorn, furiously.