The Bloody Road to Death (10 page)

‘They must have got water from somewhere,’ says the Legionnaire thoughtfully and continues the search.

We try to question the boy but he seems as if paralysed and will only repeat, ’I’m all alone now. Where must I go?’

We come up again on to the dreadful open stretches of rock and stones. In a kind of clearing we find the bodies of five Bulgarian soldiers. When we touch them they fall to dust.

‘Thirst!’ says the Old Man, laconically.

‘Deserters, most likely. Tired of war and all that shit,’ considers Porta.

Tiny looks for gold teeth. There are none.

‘Lefs get on!’ screams Buffalo desperately. He has become strangely thin lately.

The medic is going round the bend.

‘Finished! Finished!’ he keeps mumbling.

We are worn-out from thirst, and can only march a few miles at a time. After every break it takes rifle-butts to get us moving again.

A
500
is bitten by a scorpion and dies in terrible convulsions. Fearfully we stand around and watch him die.

During a rest period on the fourth day we are shocked by a pistol shot. The medical orderly has shot himself. He lies with his head in a pool of blood. The blue flies have already accepted the invitation to dinner.

‘That’s
one
way,’ says Gregor, in a death-rattle of a voice.

‘No silliness, now,’ whispers the Old Man, hoarsely.

We cannot summon up the strength to bury the medic. The red ants are quick on the job and will soon clear him away. In the course of a few days only a uniform and a skeleton will be left. We remove the bolt from his carbine, stick it muzzle down in the ground, and place his helmet on the stock.

‘Let’s get
on
,’ slurs Barcelona. He is using a rifle for a crutch. One of his feet is terribly swollen and gives off a stench of rotting meat.

In the afternoon Tiny and the white-haired ex-oberst begin to quarrel.; They look like a couple of birds getting ready to fight.

The oberst fires. The bullet burns across Tiny’s throat.

The Legionnaire lifts his Mpi and shoots the oberst down. He lies back down again quietly as if nothing had happened.

The oberst falls to his knees, both hands pressed to his stomach. Blood pours over his hands.

‘Murderers!’ he groans and falls forward on his face.

The little boy laughs suddenly. High and shrill. For a moment we look at him in surprise. Then we begin to laugh too.

The oberst lifts his head. His face is twisted. He looks for all the world like the clown in a circus. We laugh croakingly, like a group of maniac crows. The Old Man is the only one not laughing. He is watching the dead oberst as if he cannot understand what is going on.

‘The general died at goddam dawn!’ Buffalo screams madly, and kicks at the oberst’s head.

We never know who cuts the head off. Tango is about to kick at it when a burst from an Mpi smashes into the ground close to his feet.

‘Enough o’ that,’ snarls the Old Man, pressing a new magazine into his Mpi.

We come to our senses, and drop down where we stand. When the Old Man moves us on again four of us have died in their sleep.

Our feet feel as if we were walking on broken glass. In the afternoon we find a cactus, the juice of which is drinkable. The Legionnaire knows it from his time in the desert. We feel so refreshed we march five miles more before having to rest again.

Porta marches in front of me, mumbling strangely to himself:

‘Snipe should always be allowed to hang. Plucking of feathers must be carried out with great care. The skin must on no account be broken. Wings can be chopped off. Allow the head to remain. The stomach muscle must be removed. The little villains often fill themselves up with sand. This
does
grit between the teeth when they are eaten but the rest should still be left inside the bird. Now tie a thin slice of fat around each beast. A little salt and pepper, and into the hot oven with the whole flock. For the Holy Elizabeth’s sake do not, whatever you do, allow them to remain there more than eight minutes. The sauce should be thinned carefully with just a smidgin of water. The rest is done at the table over a tiny spirit-burner. A pat of butter and two spoonfuls of cognac is not a bad thing. The cognac should be allowed to burn itself off. The burning cognac and butter give the little monster the true aroma.’

He marches along in silence for a while. Then he licks his lips and throws a glance upwards at the blazing sun.

He marches as if he were completely alone. Then: ‘I hope the hare has been allowed to soak for at least two hours in brandy and red wine. The onions we put into the butter. Eight ounces of pork, cut into large strips, should then be lightly boiled. Up then comes our swift-footed beast. Turn him nicely so that he is properly browned all over. A small handful of flour is then cast lightly on to the body. The whole must then be allowed to roast for a short time. Three glasses of red wine, a little soup, one clove of crushed garlic, and if you do not wish to incur the wrath of the Holy Mother of Kazan, do
not
forget the salt and pepper. Now allow the great runner to roast in the oven for about an hour, while the greens are being prepared: Ten ounces of mushrooms must be chopped as finely as if they were to be strewn upon the delicate breasts of a young virgin. Add to this: Chives chopped small. Then we must prepare the browned chopped onions. We remove the skin from eight seedless tomatoes and press them well. A little rosemary on top, and we choose our wine. For dessert I would choose
Hamantaschen
which your Jew consumes with delight at the great feast of Purim.’

‘What on earth are you drivelling about?’ I ask in wonder.

‘I was just fixing up a meal for myself in my well-appointed kitchen!’

‘Shut up, will you,’ says Gregor, with tears in his voice. ‘I’m nearly dying of hunger!’

‘
If
we ever get home again,’ says Porta, stopping for a moment. ‘I would recommend to your attention a dish of pike in butter-sauce, or perhaps blue trout, but you must make quite certain that the fish is served straight from the water in which it has been boiled and with the true Hollandaise sauce. For a second course you will not be disappointed if you decide on mutton ragoût prepared in the French style. This
must
however be served on earthenware.’

‘Between these courses you could take some Burgundian snails, in their own natural juices. They sharpen the appetite.
If
you choose the mutton you must, of course, finish the meal with crêpes flambées.’

‘One more word out of you and I’ll blast your bloody chops off,’ roars the Old Man, aiming his Mpi at Porta, who is just about to explain which wine he would choose for his recommended menu, and why.

A Fieseler Storch spots us. The pilot circles above us several times. We lie spread out on the top of a plateau, in a state of complete exhaustion.

The Old Man shoots off all our signals ammunition.

A couple of hours later the Storch is back. It drops skins of water to us.

The following day we have strength enough to continue our march.

An armoured column finds us. We can hardly manage to pull ourselves up on to the lorries which carry us to Corinth. We spend a few days in the infirmary. The little boy is taken over by the Greek authorities. We never know what becomes of him. The unit offered to adopt him, but the NSFO
¹⁸
turned the idea down with a sneer. Adopt an
untermensch
? Permission
not
granted.

Once you have carried out an order for the SD you are tied to us for ever. Have you understood me? For ever
. . .
No one leaves the Security Services alive
.

SD-Obergruppenführer Heydrich to SS-Hauptsturmführer Alfred Naujock,
April, 1936

The time is a little past eleven o’clock on the morning of a warm summer Sunday in 1944
.

The streets of Essen are empty and deserted. An alert has been signalled. Everyone is in the cellars. No, not everyone! From Rottstrasse an SS-patrol emerges. Mouse-grey uniforms, and silvery death-heads shining in their caps. In front of them walk two thirteen-year-old boys with hands folded on the back of their necks
.

The patrol turns down Kreuzekirch Strasse. A little way down the street they wheel in to a bombed yard
.

‘
Stand over there!’ commands the SD-undersckarführer, jerking the muzzle of his Mpi towards a soot-blackened wall
.

The boys go over to the wall and stand against it They let their arms sink to their sides. Eyes, deeply sunk in skull-like faces, stare in terror. They are both quite small and terribly thin
.

‘
Faces to the wall!’ screams the unterscharführer in a shrill, penetrating voice. ‘Hands on your necks!
’

The SD-men take a few paces to the rear, and lift their Mpig’s
.

The boys begin to sob. They press themselves against the wall as if security were to be found there
.

‘
Stop!’ cries a voice, suddenly. A well-dressed civilian rushes across the yard
.

‘
What do you want, here?’ asks the scharführer, slowly lowering the muzzle of his Mpi
.

‘
Are you mad? You cannot shoot children like this!
’

‘
We can’t eh? We can, and we can do more than that, too!
’

‘
But they are only
children!’
says the civilian, in an urgent tone
.

‘
Don’t bother me,’ answers the scharführer. ‘Looting during an air-raid is punishable by death on the spot I couldn’t care less if they were babies in arms
’

‘
I am Professor Kuhlmann, Oberstabsarzt and Superintendent of Support Hospital No. 9 here in Essen
.’

‘
Well now!’ grins the scharführer, looking round at his men. ‘None of us reporting sick just now, doctor
.’

‘
I forbid you to shoot these children! Do you understand me, Herr Scharführer?
’

‘
Forget the “Herr” part,’ the scharführer replies, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes. He lifts his Mpi and presses the muzzle of it into the professor’s stomach, ‘Now listen to me, you sad sack. To me you’re just a dumb civvy, and I’m orderin’ you to clear out of here, and
quick!’

‘
I order you to let those children go,’ shouts the professor, going red and white by turns
.

‘
I’m counting to three’ snarls the scharführer, ‘If you ain’t gone by then you’ll be keepin ’em company. One
. . .’

The professor moves backwards, slowly, step by step
.

The scharführer smiles with satisfaction, and brings his attention back to the two boys at the wall. Their thin bodies shake with convulsive sobs
.

‘
Fire!’ he shouts. The command echoes round the yard
.

Five Mpi’s bark!

The boys collapse to the ground. A great pool of blood forms under them, flooding over the concrete of the yard
.

The professor runs from the place, his hands pressed tightly over his ears
.

The SD-men swing their Mpi’s carelessly back on to their shoulders, and march noisily out of the yard. They have done no more than carry out orders
.

 
1
. Kübel: Heavy-duty, rough country troop transporter.

 
2
.
Blitzmädel:
Telephone girls.

 
3
.
Kraft durch Freude:
Nazi holiday organization.

 
4
.
500’s:
Penal troops.

 
5
. Mpi: Maschinen-pistole (German): Submachine-gun.

 
6
. LMG: Leichtes Maschiriengewehr (German): Light machine-gun.

 
7
. Junos: A popular cigarette.

 
8
.
Grease-gun:
slang for the German submachine-gun Model 40.

 
9
. Morellenschlucht: Military execution square in Berlin.

10
. Gekados (Geheime Kommandosachen): Secret command documents.
of thorns and dry, tightly intermeshed, ghost vegetation.

11
.
See: SS General
.

12
. SMG: (Schweres Maschinengewehr): Heavy machine-gun.

13
. HKL: (Hauptkampflinie): Main front line.

14
. There were two legionnaires,
Michel et Robert,
who deserted the fort,
made a break for
le mer
.
No more on patrol will they strive,
Nor stand guard at their post in this life.

There were two legionnaires,
Michel et Robert.
Adieu, mon général,
Adieu, Herr Leutnant
• • •