March Battalion (21 page)

Von Grabach decided to make one magnanimous concession; he would arrange for the parents to pay a last visit to their son before he faced the firing squad. It was more than they deserved, but he was not inhumane, he was not unjust. He would grant them this one last favour, though God knows he would probably get little enough thanks for it. He thus dispatched a message to Berlin and put the matter from his mind, never to think of it again. His sleep was disturbed only by dreams, never by nightmares, and his conscience was at peace.

It was Frau Berner who opened the official communication from Berlin:

'If you wish to pay a final visit to the prisoner Heinz Berner, whose execution is fixed for 5 a.m. May 24, you should present yourself to the Kommandantur of Torgau Prison at 18.00 hours on May 23. This authorization is valid for four persons. The length of the visit is limited to ten minutes.'

Frau Berner, with no one to support her in this moment of crisis, gave a heartrending cry and crumpled to the floor. Frau Grun, on the other hand, mother of the other condemned prisoner, was in the middle of her twelve-hour day as a chambermaid at the Graf Moltke Hotel and could not therefore, afford the luxury of losing consciousness. She bore the news bravely, but the beds were ill-made that day and the floors ill-swept. They threatened to report her to the Inspector of Works Department, which would have meant immediate transfer to a munitions factory. Frau Grun shrugged her shoulders and seemed not to care where she was sent. Three months later, she killed herself, beneath an underground train at St. Paul's Station.

At Torgau we had all read the letter or heard the news and were convinced that Heinz Berner, by some miracle, had been granted a reprieve.

'Well, strike me rigid!' said Heide. 'I never thought I'd live to see the day. You're a lucky bugger, Heinz.'

Heinz Berner was beside himself with joy. He capered about the cell like a young carthorse, while the rest of us sat on his bed and discussed the wonders of the situation.

'Well, at least you're one of us now,' said Little John, smugly. 'And better for it, if you ask me. Who wants to be a bleeding officer, anyhow?'

Alte alone remained sceptical.

'It's too good to be true,' he said, when we had left the cell and were safely out of earshot. 'I don't see how his father could know about it when we haven't heard anything here. We should have had it over the teleprinter by now.'

'Anything's possible,' said the Legionnaire. 'Allah works in strange ways. I've seen this sort of thing happen before. When I was in the Legion, it was. One of the lads was saved right at the last moment. The reprieve came through literally seconds before he was due to be shot.'

Alte shook his head.

'I don't like it. I just don't like it. I only hope to God no one's being sadistic enough to pull the boy's leg.'

'It'll be O.K.,' said Porta. 'Take a bet?'

'I wouldn't care to bet on a man's life,' said Alte, gravely.

It was Barcelona who brought us the bad news. He came running from the Secretariat white as a ghost, scarcely able to speak. It took us some seconds to drag any sense out of him.'

'Tomorrow - at five o'clock - they're going to shoot him--'

A stunned silence fell upon us.

'Who?' I said, at last, although we all knew he meant Heinz.

'It's impossible!' cried Porta. 'They couldn't play a trick like that on him!'

'I've seen the papers,' said Barcelona. 'They're signed by a general. It's all fixed up for tomorrow morning.'

Again, that dreadful silence. We looked at each other, and there was horror on our faces.

'Poor sod,' murmured Alte. 'I just wish to God his old man had never written to him in the first place.'

'But he must have had the news from someone high up. He wouldn't be such a fool--'

'He thought he was going to be released tomorrow--'

'You wouldn't tell a person a thing like that unless you were sure--'

'Well, we're sure now all right Who's going to break the news to him?'

'I will,' offered Little John, unexpectedly. 'I feel sort of responsible for him. In an odd sort of way. I've never been able to stand that sort of officer, I've always loathed their ruddy guts. He's the first one I've ever come to terms with. I never thought the day would arrive when I actually felt sorry for one of he bastards.'

'He's only a kid,' said Porta.

I turned to look at Barcelona.

'Who's got to shoot him?' I asked, bluntly.

The reply was equally blunt; and brutal.

'Us,' said Barcelona.

'Christ!' Porta stared at him disbelievingly. 'They really pile on the agony, don't they?'

The Legionnaire held out a couple of cigarettes and handed them to Little John.

'Here. Give him these. A bit of opium won't do him any harm when the time comes. And I'll see what I can do about getting him a jab, as well.'

'I'll tell you something!' shouted Porta, suddenly, at the top of his voice. 'When the bloody revolution comes and it's our turn to shoot that lot I'm going to reprieve every last one of 'em and then change my mind again the day before they're due to be released. I'm going to make the sods suffer. I'm going to get them so screwed up--'

'All right, we heard you,' said Alte, wearily. 'No need to go on about it.'

Little John marched bravely off to see Heinz. The boy was reading a book, settled and happy for the first time since he had come to Torgau. He looked up and smiled as Little John opened the door of his cell.

'Hi, there! Come to let me out already?'

Silently, Little John shook his head. He held out a cigarette and Heinz laughed up at him.

'What's the matter with you? You look like a condemned man!'

He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and watched the smoke curling out of his nostrils.

'How soon do you reckon it'll be before I'm transferred to a disciplinary regiment? Straight away tomorrow, do you suppose?'

'No,' said Little John. 'I shouldn't think so.'

He turned his head and stared out of the small slit window high up in the wall. It was no use indulging in preliminary conversational skirmishing. He had a job to do, and the longer he left it the harder it would be, both for him and for Heinz. He turned back again, determined to break the news without any more ado. Heinz suddenly stood up and punched him amiably in the chest.

'You're a funny chap, you know, Little John! When I first came here I could hardly stand the sight of you. And now, believe it or not - though I'm anxious enough to go! - I think I'm actually going to miss you. God knows why, but there it is.'

'You won't miss me,' said Little John, roughly. 'I'm not worth missing. You'll be well out of it all, kid. Make no mistake about that.'

Berner's smile faded,.

'What is it?' he demanded. 'What's eating you all of a sudden?'

'Sit down and I'll tell you.'

Little John's voice was harsh and grating, but his sympathy was obvious. Berner sank obediendy on to his bed, his whole body tense with sudden alarm.

'What is it?'

'Simply this: they're not going to release you tomorrow. Or any other day.'

'What?'

Instinctively, Berner was back on his feet.

'You mean - they've turned down the appeal after all?'

'They never did anything else. It was a mix-up.'

'No! No, I can't believe it, you're lying! You're having me on!' Berner shook his head wildly from side to side. 'You've made a mistake, haven't you? Haven't you?'

'There's no mistake, Heinz. Someone had to break the news. I offered to do it.
^J

'You're mad!' yelled Heinz. 'I've got it here in black and white!' He groped under his blankets and pulled out the letter from his father. 'See! Read what he says - "we've managed to get a reprieve and I'm arranging for your transfer to a disciplinary regiment". You don't think my father would write
a
thing like that if it weren't true, do you? He's a councillor, he knows what he's doing. It's you who's got it wrong! There must be someone else with the same name!'

'I'm sorry,' said Little John. 'You've just got to face it, Heinz. I don't know where your father got his facts from, but the execution order's come through and it's all fixed up for tomorrow. I hate having to do this to you, but--'

Berner heard no more than the first couple of sentences. Before Little John had finished speaking he had slipped unconscious to the floor.

A priest came to the cell before the boy had fully recovered himself. He was a young man with the rank of Oberleutnant. He wore a grey field uniform, with the German eagle and the swastika on his breast and a crucifix round his neck. He hesitated at the entrance to the cell, and his eyes met those of Little John. The message of scorn and hostility was unmistakable. The priest glanced for a moment at the prisoner, then bowed his head and left the two men alone. Berner grabbed hold of Little John's hand.

'When is it for?'

'Tomorrow morning. Five o'clock.'

'I see... Who's going to do it?'

'We are.'

Abruptly, Berner let him go. The boy crumpled up at his feet and flung his arms round Little John's legs.

'Help me! Help me, for God's sake! It's worse now than it was before. I can't stand it, you've got to help me!'

'Take my revolver,' said Little John, quietly. 'Bash me over the head with it and--' He made a gesture. 'It's quicker and simpler that way, believe me.'

Berner sat back on his heels.

'Shoot myself? I couldn't, I wouldn't have the courage. You do it for me, Little John. Put a bullet through me now. You can tell them I was trying to make a bolt for it.'

Little John shook his head.

'I'd have done it willingly when you first came here. But I can't shoot down a friend in cold blood. I shan't even fire on you tomorrow, and neither will Porta. We never do.'

'But what happens if none of the others do, either?'

They will. They'll shoot straight and they won't miss. It'll be over before you know it... There wouldn't any point the whole lot of us refusing to shoot. We'd just be sent before a firing squad ourselves and they'd get someone else to do the job ... Look, why don't you have a word with Julius? He's scared stiff of authority, he'd shoot you down soon enough if you tried to make a bunk for it when he was here, Julius is a shit. He'd do anything to keep out of trouble. But don't ask me to do it. I couldn't... You understand? I just couldn't.'

Berner was crying, very quietly, his face hidden in his hands.

'I'll send the Old Man to see you. He'll talk to you. He'll do it better than me.'

Little John glanced round desperately, as if searching for help. His face suddenly cleared.

'Know what, Heinz? You might be a damn sight better off five minutes past five tomorrow morning than you are now. All these stories about heaven, they could be true. I mean, you don't know till you've tried, do you? A priest once told me you shouldn't fear death because you're always better off dead than alive. Well, it could be true.'

Heinz appeared not to hear these words of comfort. Little John tried a new approach.

'It's not death that's the trouble so much as the way you die. Take cancer, for example. Anyone'd be scared of that. Or paralysis. Or gas. Or things like that. But a firing squad!' He made an expansive gesture. 'Just a piece of pudding, me old mate! You won't feel a thing, I promise you. Like I said, Julius is a shit, but one thing I will give him: put a gun in his hand and he never misses.'

Again, the words had no visible effect. Little John pulled out his cigarettes and matches and tossed them on to the bed. It was an action that could earn him six months' hard labour if discovered.

'I've got to leave you, Heinz. I'm supposed to be on duty... Smoke the fags, I would. There's a couple of opium sticks amongst that lot. Have a drag on them tomorrow morning, it'll help you get through ... Ring the bell if there's anything you specially want. One of us'll come... O.K.?'

Berner said nothing, but continued silently weeping. Little John stood a moment regarding him, then left the cell. Out in the corridor he had an attack of sudden rage and aimed an almighty kick at a bucket full of water. There was pandemonium as the bucket clattered full speed ahead along the passage, crashing over the stone floor, bouncing off the walls. Then silence. Then Heide's voice, furious, from the floor below:

'What the bloody hell's going on up there?'

'Piss off and mind your own bleeding business!' roared Little John, by way of reply.

Heide prudently left it at that. It was asking for trouble to cross Little John when he was in that sort of mood.

After slouching about the prison in an aimless manner for some thirty minutes or so, Little John made his way to the guardroom and confronted Alte.

'You'll have to go and talk to Heinz. I promised him you would. I'm no good at explaining things, he needs someone like you.'

Alte looked steadily at Little John.

'What do you want me to tell him?'

'Oh, I don't know ... Whatever you think best. Something about Jesus and life after death and all that sort of crap.'

'Is he religious?' asked Barcelona, in astonishment. 'I never heard him ask for the Chaplain.'

'I don't know what he is, but he needs someone to talk to him,' persisted Little John.

'And just because you don't believe in it, it doesn't mean you mightn't want to hear all about it before you're due to go,' added Porta. 'In case it turns out to be true after all.'

Barcelona turned to the Legionnaire.

'Why don't you go and see him? You could tell him about Allah and his magic garden.'

The Legionnaire swung round on Barcelona, eyeing him with suspicion, evidently not sure whether he was serious or whether he was asking for a punch-up. Before he could reach any decision Alte was standing up and buckling on his belt. He reached out for his cap.

'All right, I'll go. I couldn't make a worse job of it than the priest. But I'll want a couple of you boys to keep a look out and make sure no one comes barging in.'

'Will do,' promised Porta.