Authors: Sven Hassel
Tiny's forehead puckered in a puzzled frown. "Salute our officers, sir?" He held out the buckets of water. "It's just I can't do two things at once, sir. I can't run backward and forward carrying water for the cook
and
salute every Tom, Dick and Harry what crosses my path. I mean, I'd like to, sir, but it just ain't possible. Specially when this here is water for the officers' soup, sir."
"Private Creutzfeld, I consider that a gross impertinence! As your commanding officer I do not rank alongside every Tom, Dick and Harry! I resent the implications! Report to me at 1300 hours tomorrow and I shall teach you a few elementary good manners."
"Sorry, sir," said Tiny, with a regretful shake of the head. "I'd love to come, I would, really, but I'm already booked. Got to be with Colonel Hinka at 1230." He took a step nearer the lieutenant and spoke confidentially. "I don't know whether you've met the colonel, sir, but he's not a man I'd care to disappoint. Know what I mean? And after all, a colonel
is
higher than a lieutenant, sir. It says so in Regulations."
"In that case, you can make it eight o'clock tomorrow morning!"
"OK," agreed Tiny. "I guess I can manage that, sir."
As the lieutenant opened his mouth to censure Tiny for this new piece of impudence, a deep, calm voice spoke from behind.
"Good evening, Lieutenant Pirch. Glad to see you're making the acquaintance of the Fifth Company."
The lieutenant swung around, red-faced. Colonel Hinka smiled blandly at him. "Everything going all right?"
"Oh, yes, sir, thank you, sir! Heil Hitler, sir!"
"Heil Hitler," responded Hinka amiably. He jerked his head at Tiny. "Off you go with your water, before the cook starts shouting for it."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It's for the officers' soup, sir."
Tiny put down one of his buckets, gave a brisk salute, picked up the bucket again and hurried off. Lieutenant Pirch stared after him with narrowed eyes.
"So, Lieutenant!" Hinka turned to him with a pleasant smile. "You've come to take over the Fifth Company, have you?"
"Sir!"
Pirch stiffened, and Hinka's smile stiffened simultaneously.
"A word of advice, Lieutenant, before you start digging yourself in; we're in Russia now, you know, not Germany. We're in the trenches, not in barracks. A salute may do wonders for your ego, but it's not going to save a man's life." He nodded severely. "The Fifth Company's a good bunch. Make sure you look after them well, they're worth a hundred lieutenants or colonels."
"Yes, sir."
Hinka strolled casually away, leaving Lieutenant Pirch with an uneasy feeling that the war was not all it had been made out to be.
The Prince of Bentheim Tecklenberg, President of the Association of German Aristocracy, today announced his association's wholehearted support of National Socialism and its policies on race. In particular, he laid stress on the fact that all the members of the Association could trace their Aryan descent back as far as the year 1750, and in some cases even further.
January 19, 1935
A black Mercedes coupe drove slowly past the peaceful villas of the Berlin suburb of Dahlem. The car pulled up outside one of them and the SS driver leaped smartly from his seat and held open the rear door for Obergruppenfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich. Heydrich stepped elegantly from the car and made his way up the trimly clipped path toward the house.
It was a white, two-story building, set back some way from the road. Flowers and fruit trees scented the path up to the front door. The garden gate had a grille across it but was not locked, and Heydrich gave a smoothing pat to his immaculate gray uniform and walked straight through.
The owner of the house, Admiral Canaris, head of the Information Service, was stretched out in the sun on a wicker-work chaise longue. Nearby sat his wife, a pretty, dark-haired woman with bright eyes and an intelligent face.
As Canaris caught sight of his unexpected visitor, he pulled himself into a sitting position and stared across the lawn, one hand shading his eyes from the sunlight. "Heydrich!" he muttered. "What the devil does he want?"
"A social call?" his wife suggested, eyes also assessing the approaching figure.
"That man that doesn't pay social calls."
"Business?"
Canaris shrugged and made a face.
"You think it means trouble?"
"It always means trouble when he's around."
"In that case, we must just make him welcome and hope for the best."
Creasing her face into a polite smile, Frau Canaris left her chair and walked forward to meet the Obergruppenfuhrer. Her husband, visibly apprehensive, had risen from the chaise longue and stood watching.
"Herr Obergruppenfuhrer, this is an unexpected surprise!" Frau Canaris held out a hand and greeted their guest with every sign of pleasure. "Do please sit down. May I offer you a drink? We have some very good brandy."
"Thank you, that would be most acceptable."
Heydrich inclined his head and smiled. He shook hands with Canaris. The two men sat down in the sunshine while Frau Canaris fetched the brandy. It was very hot on the lawn. The air was still and stifling, the flowers wilted, the trees drooped and Canaris perspired. Only Heydrich in his pearl-gray uniform looked cool and fresh.
"You must find this weather very tiring?" suggested Frau Canaris, lightly fanning herself with a magazine.
"To tell the truth," said Heydrich, "I scarcely ever notice the weather. Rain or shine, it's all the same when one is embarked on a sea of work and troubles." He turned his head slightly and looked at Canaris. The admiral met his gaze squarely.
"I confess I am a martyr to the weather." Frau Canaris leaned back in her chair with a charming and apologetic smile. "Extremes of heat and cold affect me greatly."
"Just as well we're not all made the same," said Hey-drich politely. "For myself, I am too occupied with tedious affairs such as this one in Dusseldorf to pay very much attention to the climate." Again he looked at Canaris; again the admiral returned his gaze.
"You're up to date with the latest developments, of course?" Heydrich continued smoothly. "My men were to have arrested a certain Count Osterburg--I don't know whether you're acquainted with him?"
There was a sharp, involuntary intake of breath from Frau Canaris. Heydrich raised an inquiring eyebrow, but she had already recovered herself and was all poise again.
"And have they not been able to do so?" she asked, with sympathetic interest.
Heydrich raised a second eyebrow to join the first. "My men always do what they set out to do, my dear lady."
"Oh, I'm sure--it was just that I gathered--from the way you spoke--'they were to have arrested'--I thought perhaps ..."
"Quite so. They were and they shall." Heydrich smiled and turned back to Canaris. "The strange part of the story is that the man has now turned up in Rome. He's been seen there on several occasions in the company of one Angelo Ritano. Correct me if I'm wrong, Admiral, but is not Ritano a member of your staff?"
"He could well be." The answer came evenly. "I don't, of course, know the name of everyone who works for me. But if you wish, I can always have inquiries made."
"Not worth the trouble," said Heydrich. "I can do it quicker myself."
"It would be no trouble, but if you're really in that much of a hurry . . ."
"I am always in a hurry," said Heydrich. "The Fuhrer expects prompt results and a high standard of efficiency. It is as well, I find, to give him what he wants." He laid aside his glass and stood up. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the head of the Gestapo."
He trod silently down the neat garden path, out through the gate and into the waiting Mercedes. Canaris and his wife looked at each other without speaking.
Farewell
to
the Colonel
One cold morning, in the middle of a snowstorm, Porta and I were given the task of transporting Colonel Hinka to the airfield at Gumrak. The colonel had been the only man to escape from a blazing tank, throwing himself out seconds before it exploded, and he was seriously injured.
When we reached the airfield, we found hundreds of other wounded men waiting to be carried out of the hell of Stalingrad and taken back to some sort of sanity. There were three airplanes standing by, engines ticking over and crew anxious to be off, but there were many more men than there were places. A medical officer was running dementedly to and fro among the snow-covered stretchers, tending to men who were on the point of dying, pointing out those who should be given priority, those who must be left behind, running in ever diminishing circles and frequently contradicting himself. Colonel Hinka was twice designated as a priority case and twice the order was countermanded, until at length Porta could stand it no longer.
"This is worse than useless." He jabbed me in the ribs and jerked his head at our stretcher. "Keep an eye on him, I won't be long."
"Where are you going."
Porta closed one eye. "See a friend of mine--see if I can't get things moving. We'll be here till the end of the war otherwise."
I shrugged my shoulders and squatted on my hunches by the side of the unconscious Colonel Hinka. Porta's friends were legion, and they were all on the fiddle. I guarantee if we had ever been lost in the middle of the Sahara desert, Porta would have found an acquaintance peddling black-market water and stolen camels.
A quarter of an hour later he turned up with an Oberfeldwebel wearing flying gear. The Oberfeldwebel was wringing his hands and looked unhappy.
"All right, don't keep nagging at me!" he was saying. "It'll be OK, I've already told you--those papers would be enough to guarantee safe passage for a china doll, never mind a stinking colonel! Just use 'em and shut up--you open your big mouth too wide and it's curtains for both of us. And don't you forget what I've done for you, either!"
"I won't," promised Porta. "But do me a favor, just stop bleating. You make me nervous, jittering about like that."
The man moved confidentially closer. "And when do I get paid?"
"As soon as I know these papers are genuine."
Porta bent down and stowed them away in the colonel's inside pocket. He then changed the number of his division, attaching a new one to the colonel's wrist.
"What's that going to do?" I asked.
"Wait and see," advised Porta. He looked over his shoulder at his nervous friend. "It had damn well better do something!" he said threateningly.
Ten minutes later the manic medical officer came back. He glared down at Hinka, then us at us. "I told you before, get that man to the dressing station. It's no good hanging about here, he won't be going off today."
"Excuse me, sir," said Porta firmly, "but it's special orders, sir. The colonel has to be got off."
"Look here, Corporal, it's no damn use your arguing with me! I don't give a tinker's cuss for your special orders, I'm the one who makes the decisions around here, not even the Fuhrer has any say in it! Now get that man out before I lose my temper."
"Oh, very well, sir," said Porta. He bent down and took the colonel's papers from his pocket. "Could you just tell me what the time is, sir?"
"Ten-thirty, and don't ask damn fool questions! Just do what you're told and hurry up about it."
"Yes, sir." Porta stood stolidly with a pencil in his hand, noting down the time. "May I just have your name, sir, before you go? Not meaning to be impertinent, sir, but I was specially told to take the name of anyone what sabotaged these special orders. And to write down the time and all. It's not my doing, sir, it's an Army matter, it's nothing to do with me."
"Show me those wretched orders!" The MO snatched the papers away from Porta and looked briefly through them. I was astonished to see an immediate change of attitude. He was grudging, but respectful. "All right." He handed back the papers. "Get him on a plane--but if you've been pulling a fast one, Corporal, God help you! I haven't the time to check up on you now, but I'm warning you--I never forget a face!"
We picked up the stretcher and marched off at a fast trot to the first airplane due to leave.
"I don't know what was in those papers," I panted, "but if he finds out you've been conning him, there'll be hell to pay."
"He won't find out," retorted Porta scornfully. "He'll have forgotten all about it this time tomorrow."
"Don't you be so sure, he had a very funny look in his eye."
"Balls!" said Porta. "You can get away with murder if you know how. I once told someone that Heydrich was my mother's uncle--I got enough free gas to make me an oil millionaire."
"First I heard of it," I grunted.
We had just stowed the colonel away inside the belly of the plane when a lieutenant colonel came running up with a slip of paper in his hand. He flung himself at the cockpit with a pitiful bleat. He looked to be in perfect health, and he hadn't a mark on him. Not even a strip of adhesive tape for decency's sake.
"Wait for me!" he panted. "I've got a place on that plane! It's from the Fuhrer himself!"
He thrust his slip of paper into the pilot's face, but the pilot promptly pushed it back again. "Sorry, sir, we've no room for anyone else. This plane is reserved for the wounded, and my orders are to take off as soon as I've got my quota."
"But the Fuhrer . . . this is from the Fuhrer!"
The pilot looked at him pityingly. "They're out of date, sir. Those orders were canceled three days ago. Too many deserters from the combat areas."
"Deserters! Are you calling me a deserter?"
"You don't look to be wounded, sir."
The colonel dropped his piece of paper and made an angry move toward the pilot. Porta at once swept up the paper and read it.
"He's right," he said. "This is direct from the Fuhrer." He looked sternly at the pilot. "Fancy treating a German officer like that! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. He's probably wounded somewhere it don't show." He tapped his extra stripe, nodded and winked. "I can't ignore a thing like this. I wouldn't be doing my duty as a corporal, would I?"