March Battalion (22 page)

Alte stayed three hours in the cell with the condemned boy. No one ever knew what he said to him, but certainly Heinz seemed more at peace with himself afterwards. Maybe he was just getting more accustomed to the idea of his own death, or maybe it was the Old Man's famous bedside manner, but all went well until the evening, and the visit of his parents.

They sat side by side, facing their son across a small table. On their right, standing by a pillar and doing his best to look like part of the stone work, was a prison warder. His presence was hardly noticeable, so well did he merge in with his forbidding surroundings. He listened, yet understood nothing.

Councillor Berner found it almost impossible to look his son in the eye. Frau Berner: sat sobbing into her handkerchief.

'Heinz-' She stretched out a hand across the table. 'Heinz we must all try to be brave about this.'

The eyes of the stone warder flickered slightly as he followed the movement of the woman's hand: was she attempting to pass something to the prisoner?

'Heinz--' She whispered his name softly. 'Heinz, my poor boy-'

'You must speak loudly and clearly,' intoned the warder in mechanical tones.

'Father, is it true?' Heinz leaned over towards Herr Berner, his eyes burning with a last-minute hope. 'Are they really turning down the appeal?'

Slowly, his father nodded his head.

'It's true, Heinz... As your mother says, we must all try to be brave. Remember one thing, my boy: some time, somewhere, we shall all be together again. Hang on to that. Never lose sight of it.'

'I'm so scared,' whimpered Heinz.

The councillor's lower lip trembled. He also was scared.

Heinz began suddenly to pour out a jumble of disconnected sentences, to which his parents listened in growing horror.

'The walk from the cell to the courtyard, that's the worst... Julius is a shit but give him a gun and he never misses - all be over before you know it... It's not like cancer. You'd be scared of cancer... or gas. It's a piece of pudding ... five past five tomorrow morning, I'll be better off, you'll see-'

'My God, his brain's gone,' thought the Councillor.

'Heinz,' said Frau Berner, gently, 'what are you talking about?'

Heinz looked at his mother with vacant bloodshot eyes.

'It's what they told me.'

'They? Who are they?'

'Friends of mine.'

'You mean - other prisoners?'

Heinz shook his head.

'No. The guards. Little John and the Old Man and all the rest of them.'

'They're your friends?'

'Yes.' A tear ran down the boy's face. 'And at dawn tomorrow they're going to shoot me.'

Frau Berner's face turned deathly pale. She swayed slightly, then quietly lost consciousness and slipped to the floor. Her husband, as he wrestled to get her back on the chair, wondered if the boy really were deranged. How could anyone call 'friends' those who were due to be his executioners?

The warder suddenly peeled himself away from the pillar.

'Time's up.'

Heinz and his father looked at each other. They stood up. The moment was impossible, there was nothing to be said. Heinz flung himself into Herr Berner's arms. For the first time in adult life, they embraced. The full horror of the final separation was upon them and it took two warders to pull them apart. The Councillor and his wife were flung into the corridor like sacks of flour. Heinz was led back to his cell. We collected him as soon as the coast was clear and smuggled him down to the guard room, where we filled him up with vodka and sent him back half doped to his cell.

Barcelona and I were on duty that night. The others went down to the town and returned at midnight, filled to the ears with drink. Little John, as usual, was obstreperous and had a tendency to throw furniture about and stick his fist through window panes. Lt. Ohlsen came down from his quarters to tell him to shut up, but it turned out that he was not in much better case himself. He had evidently drunk almost as much as Little John, and it was left to Barcelona and me to deal with the situation.

Not far from the prison, in an inn called 'The Red Hussar', Herr Berner and his wife were spending the night. Neither of them slept, nor even attempted to do so. They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, staring ahead with vacant eyes, listening to the clock ticking away the last few hours of their son's life.

In his cell, Heinz Berner paced ceaselessly up and down, stopping now and again to bang his fists against the door and to let out a loud, echoing wail of despair, the cry of a drowning man in the middle of a deserted ocean.

They woke us at four - those of us who had slept. The Legionnaire was sent off to the arms depot. At four-thirty a major of the garrison came to check that we were all prepared for action. He paid the prisoner a last visit.

'Try to keep a grip on yourself. Remember your training as an officer. All men have to face death one day. As a soldier it's your duty to face it bravely, without flinching. Make sure you don't fail in that duty.'

With these words of encouragement he closed the cell door behind him, leaving Heinz Berner alone to await his fate.

Lt. Ohlsen appeared in the guard room looking haggard. His steel helmet was gleaming, his buttons and buckles flashed like diamonds, but the man himself had no sparkle. Alte approached him and saluted. 'All ready, sir.'

Lt. Ohlsen nodded, but said nothing. He turned and led the way along the corridor to Berner's cell. We all followed him. Heinz was waiting for us, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. The Lieutenant laid a hand on his shoulder.

'It's time, Heinz. Try to have courage. We'll get it over as quickly as possible.'

Like a ghost, the boy sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, staggered to his feet.

'I have to tie your hands,' said Ohlsen, apologetically.

He held out a length of new white cord, and obediently, like a child having its gloves put on, Heinz placed his hands together and extended them towards us. His eyes were those of a man already dead. The Lieutenant looped the rope round his wrists, but before he could pull it tight the boy fainted. He fell so suddenly that it took us all by surprise. We stood stupidly, staring down at him, and I think every one of us had the same absurd hope in his mind:

'God, let it be a heart attack!'

Some men die easily, but Heinz Berner was not destined to be one of them. Lt. Ohlsen and Alte helped him to his feet. He recovered consciousness almost immediately. His mouth trembled. Suddenly he began to scream and shout, pleading with us, cursing us, begging us to spare him. There was nothing we could do. His control had snapped and not even Alte was able to get through to him. And what was there you could say to a boy of twenty about to face a firing squad? Particularly when you yourselves happened to be that firing squad.

We had to drag him bodily through the corridors and out to the courtyard. All the time he was crying and kicking. Porta's helmet was knocked off, Heide lost his rifle, I was punched in the ribs. For all of us, it was the final degradation of humanity.

From all sides we were assailed by loud cries of abuse. Men rattled their cell doors, whistled and shouted, stamped their feet, threw furniture about.

'Murderers!'

'Fascist swine!'

'Murderers!'

'Bloody murderers!'

Out in the courtyard it was a bright, crisp dawn. The air was sweet and fresh, the sky was dear. It was a day on which you were glad to be alive. I wondered whether it was easier to die on such a day, and I thought that for myself I should certainly prefer a brave show of weather for my send-off rather than the sad grey drizzle that had been Lindenberg's last view of the earth.

As we dragged him across the flagstones, Berner seemed to lose his last vestiges of sanity. His eyes rolled, foam specked his lips. It was a madman, now, who screamed and shouted. He was giving us a bad time, he was forcing us to live through a nightmare we should none of us be able to forget. But did one have the right to expect him to face such a death with any dignity?

With a desperate contortion of the body, our prisoner suddenly managed to slip his hands through the rope that bound them together. Before anyone could move, he had flung himself upon the Old Man, twining his arms and legs round him, clinging to him and screaming, screaming until I thought I should begin to join in.

'I don't want to die! I don't want to die! Help me, please help me, oh please help me! '

Lt. Ohlsen stood shocked and ashen-faced nearby. I had never seen him so visibly shaken. He was trembling, tears trickled unchecked down his face, he seemed in almost as bad a case as the prisoner himself. Alte was struggling with the boy, unable to detach him, unable to calm him. It needed four of us to prise him away, and in the middle of it all I suddenly vomited.

'You filthy bloody swine!' shouted Porta. 'Look what you've done to my bleeding boots!'

Little John, almost out of his senses, turned and clouted Porta on the side of the head. Porta promptly hit him back. It was a scene straight out of Bedlam.

On the far side of the courtyard appeared another firing party. Feldwebel Grun was in their midst, walking peaceably along between two guards, his roped hands held out before him. It was he who came to our rescue. He stopped in front of us and gravely regarded our prisoner.

'Don't be afraid,' he said. 'You're not the only one. We'll go out together in a blaze of glory, eh?'

I think it was surprise, more than anything else, that brought Berner to his senses. At any rate, he quietened down and for that we were all thankful.

We continued on our way across the courtyard. The Prison Chaplain now joined in the procession, walking behind us and solemnly asking the Lord to forgive us our trespasses.

The sun was up, filling the dim courtyard with a curious crimson light. Somewhere a blackbird was calling, and all about us were seagulls swooping and diving. It was a beautiful day to die.

Heide and the Legionnaire led Berner to the blood-spattered post, where so many other men had stood and waited for death. They attached the strap round his chest. Alte stepped, forward.

'Shall I cover your eyes?'

'Just help me,' whispered Berner. 'Please help me. I don't want to die.'

Lt. Ohlsen bit his lip and turned away. I saw Little John put a hand up to his face. I stared past him and watched the seagulls, listened to their agonizing shrieks and wondered what they had come for, why they were not out at sea. When I looked back again, Alte had tied the scarf round the boy's eyes and stepped back into line.

Feldwebel Grun, attached to the second blood-spattered post, refused to be deprived of his last glimpse of the world. He stood upright and alert, watching the preparations for his own death.

'Please help me!' cried Berner.

It was the despairing cry of a child. A child who knew it was calling in vain, who had long since given up all hope, but who nevertheless went on trying, in the belief; perhaps, that people could not ignore it indefinitely. And now it was Lt. Ohlsen who cracked under the strain. He suddenly covered his mouth with his hand, made a curious choking sound and hurried back across the courtyard. We none of us blamed him. It would have been up to him to give the signal for firing. On the whole, we thought the more of him for being unable to do it.

His place was taken, after a few moments' delay, by a stranger, a lieutenant quite unknown to us, from one of the motorized regiments. His right sleeve was empty - we understood he had lost an arm at Stalingrad. He was not more than twenty-five at the very most, and his chest was ablaze with ribbons and stars. We hated him on sight. It seemed to us that he was intruding, that he had no right to be joining in the ritual slaughter. It was our pain, which we shared with the victim, and he could have no part in it.

The Lieutenant either forgot or deliberately neglected the traditional 'last cigarette'. Perhaps he was wise. It would have prolonged the agony by another ten minutes and could serve no useful purpose.

'First group, right turn!'

We executed the movement with automatic military precision. Alte surveyed us critically but could find no fault in the final result. We stood in a perfect straight line.

'Eyes front!'

Of their own accord, my eyes fixed themselves upon the spot that marked Heinz Berner's heart. I was ready to do my duty.

In a room of the 'Red Hussar' two other pairs of eyes were fixed upon the clock. One minute to five. One minute to go.

The Lieutenant looked steadily across to the clock on the prison tower. He missed the slight upward movement of Little John and Porta's rifles. Even had he seen them, he would have attributed it to an attack of nerves and unsteady hands. In any case, it scarcely mattered. There were ten other rifles trained on the target.

The clock struck five. The command rang out through the still air.

'Fire!'

Twelve shots merged together into one sound. A long cry gurgled into silence and blood. The body of Heinz Berner went limp.

That was the end of another execution, and all the seagulls flew back to sea.

It all ended up, of course, by our being moved from Torgau back into the front line. Porta and Little John were to blame; they and a condemned man who managed to escape. During the course of the frenzied inquiry that followed, it was discovered that the prisoner had made use of tools which had undoubtedly been sent from the outside: a pair of scissors, a knife, the blade of a file. He had broken the lock on his cell door and made his way up to the roof, From the roof he had escaped over the outside wall with the help of a length of stout prison cord. It was only three days before he was due to be hanged.

Little John and Porta, who were on guard at the time - or supposed to be on guard --were immediately arrested and interrogated. They both remained obdurately stupid and at a complete loss to throw any light upon the incident. At the end of fourteen days the prisoner had still not been recaptured and the questioning was reluctantly abandoned.

We were all roundly abused by Colonel Vogel. An uncomfortable experience, even for war-hardened veterans like ourselves.