SS General (39 page)

"The jerk!" he shouted. "If I'd known it was going to be this kind of trash . . ."

But then we picked up some crates of canned food and grew distinctly more cheerful, and when we finally stowed away ten crates of vodka, Porta's pride and self-importance knew no bounds.

"Just leave it all to me," he said, climbing back into the cab. "I know how to manage these things."

We pulled up in a narrow street where, with the help of a Russian deserter, a new-found crony of Porta's, we stacked all the food and drink in a cellar beneath a bombed building. As for the lorry, we simply drove it out of the village and blew it up with grenades.

"Let 'em think the partisans nabbed all the stuff," said Porta. "Or the Russians, if they prefer--just so long as it gets 'em off of our backs!"

We enjoyed our ill-gotten gains at leisure and never heard any more about the incident. All manner of wild rumors were flying about the town just at this time, and possibly everyone was too concerned trying to disentangle truth from fiction to pay any attention to a lost truck. It was said that the Russians had broken through on the north front and that fighting was now taking place on German territory. It was also said that there had been a "strategic withdrawal"-- which in any language can be taken to mean a headlong retreat. Something certainly was in the wind, for day and night there was a constant traffic along the Belgorod and Orel roads.

Before we had quite finished our secret supply of vodka, we were sent off on a training course: how to demolish tanks --we, the experts!

"Bloody nerve!" grumbled Porta. "I've demolished more tanks than they've had hot dinners!"

On our return to the barracks, we found the place in a state of upheaval. Everywhere, gangs of men were hard at work scrubbing, painting, pulling down, putting up, removing, replacing, stealing and secreting. Rumor now had it that we were to be sent back to Berlin.

"It could be true," said Gregor doubtfully.

"Then what's the point of all the spring-cleaning?" I demanded.

"And all the exercises and courses and lectures," added Tiny.

"Tell you what!" said Porta. "Bet you a dollar to a pinch of pigshit we're going to surrender. They're trying to lick the barracks into shape so's we'll all look like real Prussian soldiers when Stalin comes marching in!"

"Someone told me the other day," put in Barcelona eagerly, "that we're no longer at war with the West, and President Roosevelt and the King of England are coming to visit us ..."

A couple of months ago he wouldn't have dared repeat such a blatantly absurd rumor. But now, such was the atmosphere, so full of hopes and fears and general expectation, that some of us even began rather covertly to learn a few words of basic English.

Only one story was dismissed out of hand, and that was the rumor that Hitler was going to pay us a visit. President Roosevelt, yes; the King of England, yes; but Hitler? After a moment's stupefaction that anyone--even Heide, who had brought us the news--could be gullible enough to believe such nonsense, we broke into great gusts of delighted laughter.

"Bullshit!" roared Tiny.

"Perhaps he wants to see the ghosts of Stalingrad?" suggested the Old Man.

"All right," said Heide, tight-lipped. "All right, have a good laugh. Make fools of yourselves. You'll see . . ."

And, God help us, we did!

Two days later the rumor was confirmed. Hitler in person was said to be walking around the barracks--he was here! He had come! He was among us! Our Fuhrer, which art in Nova Bavaria . . .

Panic broke out and spread like wildfire. Officers ran in circles issuing lunatic commands; NCOs ran after them, issuing contradictory commands. Men grew irritable and fought each other as the confusion and uncertainty increased. He was not actually
in
the barracks--he was on his way to the barracks--he was approaching the barracks--he would be with us by midnight, he would be with us tomorrow, he would be with us next week--he had been and he had gone, he wasn't really coming . . .

Shortly before midnight we were all neatly lined up and waiting for something to happen. We were clean and attentive and polished to a high gloss. Two sergeants had been posted at the far end of the street to act as watchouts and sound the alarm.

Three hours later, wilting slightly, we were still at our posts. The officers were growing nervous, we were growing bored, and several men had taken the easy way out and collapsed.

And then the sergeants came running back with the news that he was coming, and seconds later three Hoesch trucks rattled into the courtyard and disgorged a horde of SS officers. The SS officers jumped out and ran about a bit and finally formed themselves into a cordon, pistols in hand. We watched their antics with some interest. At least they relieved the monotony.

After that came four more trucks, packed with LSSAH men.* They tumbled out after the SS officers and ranged themselves in two rows, with their MPIs held smartly at attention. It was such a neat maneuver that I felt like applauding or throwing popcorn, but I stood like a statue and merely swiveled my eyes to the right and met Porta's swiveling to the left. We exchanged snide glances.

*Hitler's personal guard.

After the trucks came a long line of vehicles containing yet more SS men. These began running in all directions about the courtyard, waving and hollering and making a great deal of noise. They charged up and down between our ranks, threatening us indiscriminately, as the fancy took them, with the Gestapo, Torgau, the gallows, the firing squad. We stared stonily ahead and did not flinch.

When they had calmed down and restored order among themselves, we were treated to a few moments' very pregnant silence. We all stood, waiting. In the near distance we heard a warning fanfare on a trumpet. One of the guards dropped his MPI with a tremendous clatter, and there was a ripple of smothered laughter. The SS men tightened their grip on their pistols. High up on the wall, a cat yowled loudly into the night.

Two special Mercedeses bowled through the gates and drove up to our commanding officer in a crescent of flying snow. From the first car stepped Field Marshal von Man-stein, followed by what seemed to be his entire staff. The number of medals on display was positively dazzling. Gold epaulettes were two a penny, monocles were so plentiful I thought some people must be wearing one in each eye, and the rattling of spurs and sabers sounded like an entire cavalry charge. From the second car stepped General Guderian, who was suffering from a severe head cold and had to keep touching his handkerchief to his nose.

The CO presented the regiment to him. He inspected us carefully, slowly, rather sorrowfully, with his great bag-like eyes staring at us over his drooping jowls and dripping nose.

General Guderian presented the regiment to Field Marshal von Manstein. He in turn prowled up and down and looked us over. I wondered if they would remove anyone who was too offensive to the eye, and if so, what they would do about Porta.

We went on standing, and waiting. No one would dare to collapse at this stage in the proceedings.

Outside in the street we heard a Russian woman crying her wares. She had fish for sale. Everyone, from von Manstein down, instinctively stiffened--the Fuhrer hated fish; four SS men rushed outside and bundled the old crone off.

More crowded SS vehicles drove into the courtyard, and there, in their midst, was the big black Mercedes in which Adolf Hitler sat enthroned. He stepped slowly out, flexing his legs and drawing his knees rather high as he walked. He always did that when he inspected the troops. It was like some weird ritual dance. All that could be seen of his face were his nose and his mustache; the rest was masked by the shadow of his helmet and the collar of his greatcoat.

"Men of the Second Tank Regiment," he began--we weren't the Second Tanks at all, but naturally no one dared put him right. "Men of the Second Tank Regiment, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart for all your courage and your gallantry! You are the pride of Germany! When the war is over and we are victorious, your country will reward you! In the meantime, be patient and loyal! Heil!"

"Heil Hitler!" we bellowed.

It was a relief to open one's mouth. We roared from the very bottom of our lungs.

Hitler walked around examining us, with his curious elevated leg movements. The generals followed behind. Now and again the Fuhrer stopped to pass a comment or to hold brief converse with some honored soldier. He didn't speak to any of our company, but he did pause before Porta and silently stare at him for several seconds. He seemed to find Porta morbidly fascinating. I wished I knew why. I felt an almost overpowering desire to join him in his contemplation of Porta's face, and hoped to God that Porta wouldn't forget himself and open his mouth.

In seven minutes precisely it was all over, and without shaking anyone's hand, Hitler climbed back into his Mercedes and was driven away. Three minutes later the courtyard was once again clear. The entire visit had lasted no more than ten minutes.

Not long after the Fuhrer had left us, we assembled in the latrines for a game of cards. We were all feeling disgruntled and in some way cheated. We had waited so long and seen so little! And what we had seen had been such a clown, such a dwarf, such a parody of what we had been expecting!

"Was that really him?" asked Tiny doubtfully. "Was it really him, or do they send someone else dressed up like him?"

"It was him, all right," said the Old Man.

"Jesus!" said Tiny, picking up his hand. "He's such a weedy little bastard, ain't he?"

Those who survived the fighting of the front line have no call to congratulate themselves. The real heroes are those who fell.

Adolf Hitler, March 19, 1945

On the morning of February 1, 1943, the following telegram arrived in Berlin from General Paulus in Stalingrad:

MEIN FUHRER! THE SIXTH ARMY HAS KEPT FAITH. WE HAVE FOUGHT TO THE LAST MAN, THE LAST BULLET, AS YOU ORDERED. WE HAVE NO MORE ARMS, NO MORE AMMUNITION, NO MORE FOOD. THE FOLLOWING DIVISIONS HAVE BEEN TOTALLY WIPED OUT: 14TH, 16TH AND 24TH PANZER DIVISIONS; 9TH FLAK DIVISION; 30TH MOT DIVISION; 44TH, 71ST AND 176TH INFANTRY DIVISIONS; 100TH RIFLE DIVISION. HEIL HITLER! LONG LIVE GERMANY!

At five thirty on the same day, the Sixth Army sent its last radio message:

THE RUSSIANS HAVE PENETRATED THE BUNKERS.

Lieutenant Wultz, the radio officer, then sent out the international signal "EL": there would be no more transmissions from that station. With a spade, he destroyed the equipment; with a pistol, he blew his brains out.

General Paulus, the reluctant soldier who had all along declared, "I have been given my orders, I can but obey!" now sought to dissociate himself entirely from current events.

"I want nothing to do with any of it," he told his chief of staff, who had come to him with the news that the Russians had once more offered terms for an honorable capitulation. "I wash my hands of the whole business. The idea of capitulation is repugnant to me and I shall accept no responsibility for such a course of action. I wish only to be treated as a private person. You may take over command of the Army and pursue what actions you think fit--and you may tell the Russians from me that I have no intention of crossing the town on foot! If they wish us to cooperate, let them behave like gentlemen. Let them provide transport for the use of myself and all my generals. But I leave it to you, Schmidt. I shall have nothing to do with any of it."

The Train

The station was like a thousand others in Russia. At the entrance a few faded spring flowers wilted in the pale sunshine. Outside the stationmaster's office lay a pile of horse dung. Everyone cursed it and everyone elaborately walked around it, but no one took the trouble to fetch a bucket and spade and remove it. It would probably stay there until it rotted away.

The platforms were full of peasants and chickens. Some had been waiting more than two days for their train, and to prevent the chickens wandering away, they had broken their feet. One man had a pig on a dog lead. It was a fine pig, fat and white, with a distinctive black head. It was called Tanya, and it occasionally answered to its name. We cast many covetous glances toward it, but not even Porta dared raise a hand against such an animal.

There was no shortage of trains, they arrived and departed ceaselessly, but hardly any of them carried passengers. By far the greater number were munitions trains traveling eastward. They were powered by two engines, one at the front, one at the rear; immense steam locomotives belching out clouds of gray smoke, their drivers and stokers black and sweating. These railroadmen were almost as familiar with violent death as we ourselves. The accident and sabotage rate was high and their work perilous in the extreme. Death could be lurking around every bend.

Occasionally a freight car was reserved for the transport of corpses, but the main priority was being given to the carriage of damaged field guns and other equipment back to Germany to be repaired by prisoners of war. One special track was reserved for Red Cross trains. They passed nonstop through the station every twenty minutes, filled with injured men.

We ourselves were en route to a convalescent center on the Black Sea. Porta told us it was the antechamber to paradise and kept up a mouth-watering description of the meals we would eat and girls we would sleep with. According to him, the streets were thronging with half-naked whores, and you had only to stroll about and take your pick. We were by no means sure that Porta had ever actually been to this resort, or, indeed, that he had ever even heard of it before; but we liked the vision he conjured up too much to risk premature disappointment by questioning him too closely.

There was, of course, no home leave for men serving at the front. We had to make do with a few days in a recuperation center as a sop to keep us quiet. The least that would get you home was to have both arms or legs blown off.

A hospital train chugged through. The crowds turned toward it and stood watching until it was out of sight. A peasant standing nearby sighed deeply and consulted the timetable for the hundredth time. It was dated 1940 and bore no relevance whatsoever to present conditions.