March Battalion (19 page)

Von Grabach pulled a sour face at the thought of them. He turned to the window and gazed out, watching an asthmatic tug boat slowly pulling a string of barges through the sluggish waters of the canal. His thoughts returned pleasurably to Frau von Zirlitz. He really must remember to send a note to his friend, the General commanding the division to which Captain von Zirlitz belonged. There must be no chance of the gallant Captain arriving home unexpectedly. Scenes could lead only to unpleasantness, and it would be disastrous if the echoes reached as far as Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Certainly no sane man would consider it a crime to be found sleeping with the wife of an officer who was fighting at the front - indeed it was perfectly natural and only to be expected - but unfortunately some of the men who held the reins of the Third Reich could not, in the General's opinion, be considered as sane.

He turned back from the window and began pacing again, up and down on the thick pile carpet. The General's office, as befitted his rank and station, more resembled an elegant drawing-room than an office. It was here, at his delicately carved writing desk, that he signed the death warrants of the prisoners in Torgau. But for the moment his mind was not on death warrants it was on Ebba von Zirlitz in her pink silk panties.

His dream was terminated by the arrival of his staff officer, who pointedly placed two rose-coloured folders on the writing desk.

'Sorry to bother you, sir. These have just come in. A couple of appeals from Torgau. One we've seen before - an infantry feldwebel, charged with desertion. The other's new - an artillery lieutenant, found guilty of murder.'

'Thank you, Walther, just leave them there. I'll take a look at them later, if I have the time. I wish they wouldn't keep pestering us with these constant appeals, they know full well we never let them go through.' Complacently the General pulled out his gold cigarette case. 'Others might, but we're made of sterner stuff, Walther. Sterner stuff. These miserable creatures don't deserve pity. They've committed their crimes, they must pay for them. An iron discipline, Walther: I practise what I preach ... Here, have a cigarette. I think you'll find them to your liking, they came from America via the Red Cross.' He laughed, merrily. 'What wouldn't I give to see their faces in Washington if they knew where their precious cigarettes had ended up!'

'Thank you,' said Walther, with a faint smile.

The two men stood side by side at the windows and watched a company of new cavalry recruits swinging past, singing lustily as they went.

'Good lads,' murmured the General. 'Damned good lads. The youth of Germany, Walther. The youth of Germany ... God bless 'em!'

'Yes, indeed,' said Walther, echoing the general's fervour. 'I was watching them training only yesterday. It does your heart good to see such enthusiasm - every single one of them ready to die for the Fuhrer.'

'The Hitler Jugend.' Von Grabach inhaled deeply and with an air of personal satisfaction. 'Tell me, Walther... to change the subject: have you been along to the gypsy quarter recently?'

'I was there only yesterday evening, sir.'

The General made a strange whinnying noise of anticipation.

'Anything - interesting? Anyone you could - ah - particularly recommend?'

'I would say not, sir.'

Walther shook his head, regretfully, and the General let out his breath on a long sigh. 'There's no shortage of women, of course, so long as you're not too choosy. But no one I should care to recommend to you personally, sir. Not quite up to your class, if you know what I mean?'

'A pity. I trust your judgment in these matters, Walther ... By the way, have you ever met an Ebba von Zirlitz in your travels?'

There was that in the General's tone which indicated to the alert Walther that the question was not altogether as casual as it sounded. He hesitated.

'Ebba von Zirlitz?' Carefully, he considered her. 'I can't say I recall the name. Am I likely to have come across her anywhere?'

'Possibly not. In any case, no matter.' The General waved his cigarette through the air. 'It's not important. I merely inquired on behalf of a friend of mine. He has a penchant for the lady.'

Walther joined in the General's laugh, while metaphorically thumbing his nose. What an old fool! Almost everyone knew Ebba von Zirlitz. He himself had been to a party with her only a couple of months before, and he knew for a fact that at least a dozen men had already been through her.

'All right, Walther. That'll be all for now. I'll send for you if I need you.'

The General dismissed him and turned back to the window, to his silent contemplation of the inner vision of Ebba in her panties. Slowly and luxuriously, his mind began to strip her naked but the General fortunately managed to put a stop to it before things had gone too far. Breathing lustily through his heavy nostrils, he turned back to his writing desk, picked up one of the rose-coloured files, flung it down without even looking at it and reached out for the telephone.

'Ebba? Is that you, my little love? It's Claude here... just counting the hours, my sweet, until tonight.'

He sent a loud slopping kiss down the line to her. Ebba laughed gaily.

'Don't forget that fur you so rashly promised me!'

'You shall have it, my pet. Never fear.'

For the next three days the rose-coloured folders lay untouched and forgotten on General von Grabach's writing desk. They were joined by others, from other prisons, until at last there was a little pile of them. Each file represented a condemned man and his friends or family, all anxiously waiting for news. Each file represented days, weeks, perhaps months of endeavour and sacrifice - constant visits to those in authority, endless train journeys from far distant places, letters, telephone calls, tears and humiliation. A man's sister had sold her body; a man's father had sold his soul. Wives and mothers and sweethearts had left their homes and taken up work in Berlin factories, to be near at hand and able to pursue their endeavours with more vigour. Families had parted with precious possessions in the hope that bribery might work where personal supplication had failed. It was a long, heartbreaking battle before the right to appeal could be won, but when at last the appeal was approved and had gone through for consideration by those at the top - what then? Only waiting. Day after day, waiting for news that never came, knowing that you had done all that was possible and that the matter was now out of your hands.

Out of your hands and into those of General von Grabach. But the General was a busy man, he had no time to spare for minor matters. A large notice had been pinned to his door: 'ENGAGED. ON NO ACCOUNT TO BE DISTURBED.' Even Walther saw him for no more than a few minutes each day. Sometimes he had time only to say 'good morning' or 'good evening' as the General hurried in and out of his office. The fact was, as Walther well knew, that the affair von Zirlitz was prospering. It had been helped along by the arrival of the promised fur - a sable, supplied by the Head of the Commissariat from a stock that had been confiscated during the course of an S.S. inquiry. The confiscated furs were designated for the troops fighting on the eastern front, but none ever reached them. In Berlin the higher-ranking officers had the pick of the bunch for their wives, their girl-friends and their mistresses. The rest went on as far as Poland, where the occupying army shared them out amongst themselves. The troops in the trenches went cold, but who should worry?

The Head of the Commissariat took one fur for himself and one for his friend the General,. He had no special love for the General, but he did believe in keeping up a good relationship with those who might one day prove useful to know.

'You must find your work very absorbing?' he hazarded.

'Oh, it's well enough in its way,' agreed the General, more interested in picking his teeth with a silver toothpick than in discussing the intricacies of his work. 'Something new always turning up. Keeps you on your toes all right.'

He leaned back in his comfortable chair and sipped his cognac contentedly. The Head of the Commissariat had one of the most elegant offices in all Berlin; more elegant, even, than the General's own.

'Fine cognac,' he commented.

'Not too bad, is it?' agreed the Commissar, complacently. 'It was requisitioned in France for hospital use ... I sent one of my feldwebels off to Spandau yesterday. Caught the fellow stealing.' He gazed across at the General. 'I hope the court martial takes as serious a view of the matter as I do. Such men must be made an example of. In my opinion, a death sentence would not be out of place.'

'Rest assured. It shall be seen to. I personally shall keep an eye on the man's case.'

'I wish you would. I find there is an unwholesome disregard to discipline creeping into the Service these days.' 'Not from my quarter, I can promise you that. Iron discipline is my creed. I practise what I preach... Only the other day a member of my own staff came back from leave three days late. He attempted some garbled excuse, but I'm not a man for half measures. All or nothing, it's the only way. The country has no use for layabouts and parasites.'

'So what did you do about it?'

'Why, I called in the Military Police and told them to arrest him. Suspected desertion. I've asked for the death penalty. Paragraph 1133, clause 9.'

The General rubbed his hands together and hopefully edged his empty glass towards the bottle of cognac.

'Where would the country be if we let people come and go as they pleased? Before you knew where you were whole regiments would be bowling off home whenever they felt like it.'

'Quite so, To my way of thinking, the Military Code is far too indulgent. How many times does one hear of the death penalty being commuted and some useless wastrel sent off to idle away the rest of the war in a so-called "disciplinary" battalion?'

'Speaking for myself,' said von Grabach, 'I can tell you that I very rarely uphold appeals for clemency. I might almost say never.' He picked up his second glass of cognac. 'At this very moment, for instance, we have a case of persistent refusal to obey orders on our hands. A young captain from an infantry, regiment. The chap's got some pretty powerful relatives, and frankly it's causing us no end of a headache, one way or another. The matter's due for hearing in three weeks' time. However, I shall not allow myself to be swayed by any outside pressures. I firmly believe in imposing the death penalty whenever and wherever the law makes provision for it. I mean to say, it makes a mockery of the whole idea of discipline if you let these people get away with things all the time ... Matter of fact, in this particular case I've already prepared the necessary documents.'

'Before the hearing?' The Commissar looked, for a moment, almost shocked. 'You mean, the verdict's known in advance?'

General von Grabach laughed, airily.

'I wouldn't put it quite like that,' he said, with a certain amount of condescension in his voice. 'But the court martial (almost always passes the sentences we ask for. Those who sin against the state must pay the penalty no matter who their relatives are. I am swayed by no one. I do my duty as I see it, and none shall deflect me from my course - except, perhaps, the Fuhrer himself and Heinrich Himmler,' he added. 'But I can assure you that they are iron disciplinarians both. We are cast in the same mould. I am proud to be as I am... You see this cross?' He fingered the decoration round his neck. 'You know why they gave me this, General Schroll? Because I run my service efficiently. Because in 99 cases out of a hundred I demand the death penalty. The Feldmarschall himself said to me, "War needs men who are hard, and such men must be rewarded". I think you'll agree with me that any moron is capable of fighting on the front line. But when it comes to doing my job--' He shook his head, wearily, as if at times the responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders - 'ah, then it's a different matter. Not just a question of signing papers, you know. You need a definite cultural background. A good grip of psychology. Understanding of human nature. A lifetime's experience of dealing with people--'

'How right you are, my dear General. There is none of the sinecure about your job - or, indeed, about mine. To be honest with you, I myself have been sadly out of sorts just lately. Overwork, you know. And the strain ... The doctor advises at least six weeks in Baden-Baden if I'm to avoid a complete breakdown ... I suppose you know of no addresses down there?'

Von Grabach screwed up his eyes and followed the smoke of his cigar as it coiled up to the ceiling.

'Baden-Baden?' He took a sip of cognac and rolled it thoughtfully round his mouth. 'I must say you have an excellent taste in cigars! If you ever lay your hands on any more of them--'

'You like them? I'll send you round five boxes first thing tomorrow.'

'Really? How perfectly delightfull. How very generous of you.' The empty cognac glass was once again pushed hopefully towards the bottle. 'Baden-Baden. Now let me see... I do have one or two addresses I could let you Have. I'll send someone round with a list for you tomorrow.'

'I should be most grateful. By the way--' General Schroll picked up tile bottle of cognac and leaned forward confidentially - 'have you heard the rumours that are going round Berlin? That our troops in the Caucasus have been routed? If it's true, then it certainly makes one wonder if the final victory is to be achieved quite as--'

He was interrupted by General von Grabach sitting bolt upright in, his chair and banging down his glass.

'I beg your pardon, sir? One hesitates to believe the evidence of one's own ears! May I inquire if you are in any doubt as to the final outcome of the war?'

'Not at all!' cried the Commissar, his neck already growing red above the collar of his uniform. 'My dear General, I wonder at you for even suggesting such a thing ... It is simply,' he continued, with desperate improvisation, 'that here, in the Commissariat, we have an oberfeldwebel who is rather too much given to pessimism. I myself have overheard him speaking defeatist claptrap on more than one occasion. I abhor that kind of thing, as you well know. This rumour about the Caucasus was the last straw: I decided then and there that he must be got rid of.'