SS General (42 page)

"Why can't the fucking SS do their own dirty work?" grumbled Porta.

"They can't stand the sight of blood," explained the Legionnaire solemnly.

Nobody laughed. We were in no mood for laughing. Not even Heide really enjoyed being a member of a firing squad.

"Wonder who's going to cop it this time?" speculated Tiny.

"Whoever it is, I hope to God they don't start screaming and wailing," I muttered. "I can't stand it when they do that."

"Quite right," said the Legionnaire. "They should go bravely to their death and let us gun them down with a clear conscience."

I looked at him suspiciously.

"The self-pitying bastards!" he went on scathingly. "When my turn comes to die, I shall think of the poor firing squad."

"It's all very well," I said heatedly. "It's not as if we ask for the job."

"Eh, what about that old girl we had to do in that time?" Tiny put in. "That telephone one? Remember how she yelled and fought?"

"Will you for Christ's sake shut up!" The Old Man turned on us, his forehead gathered into a deep frown. "Let's get the job over with and stop bellyaching about it!"

We marched through the prison and came to a stop in the small patch of garden behind the governor's quarters. A large red star still stood guard over the door, and the letters NKVD still stared out at us; but the flag that flapped above our heads in the breeze was the Nazi one. Swastika and red star together. Both brought me out in beads of cold sweat.

In the middle of a flat patch of dry earth stood a wooden post, newly erected and creosoted. Leather thongs were attached to it; one to bind the ankles, one for the hips, one for the arms and shoulders. For the moment they hung limp, awaiting their first victim. The previous post and set of thongs had probably been shattered by flying bullets. It was said that they would last for about four hundred executions, but after that they had to be replaced.

A major was waiting for us, and saw fit to deliver himself of a pep talk.

"You men have been specially chosen for this task-- handpicked, you might say. I know it's not everyone's idea of fun, being in a firing squad, but we all have unpleasant duties to perform at one time or another and it's up to us, as soldiers, to carry them out to the best of our ability."

"We have been through it before," murmured the Old Man.

"Precisely!" The major stared at him. "That's why you've been picked for the job. It is, in its way, something of an honor."

"I see," said the Old Man.

The major squared his shoulders. "Just remember, when the time comes, that these swine are deserters. They let the side down and they deserve to be shot. Don't go feeling sorry for them. They ran out and left their men to die. Not only that, but any one of you caught firing wide, believe me, you'll be the next ones out there, tied up at that post. Aim for the heart and don't try any monkey business. Are you with me?"

"I catch the general drift of it, sir," said the Old Man.

"Yes, well, you just remember what I told you--no monkey business!"

He turned and walked away, across the dusty brown earth toward a sweet-scented lilac tree, where he was joined by two priests, one Catholic and one Protestant. We watched him until he was out of earshot.

"Big deal," said Barcelona sourly. "What's he think we are? Greenhorns?"

"We've been specially handpicked," Porta reminded him. "It is, in its way, something of an honor."

"An honor I could do without," grumbled Barcelona.

"I don't like it," said the Old Man. He shook his head. "I don't like the look of it--something screwy's going on."

A lieutenant came across and inspected our weapons and supply of ammunition. He put us through our paces, seemed satisfied, walked off and left us waiting.

We waited for almost an hour. Somewhere nearby, way up in a poplar tree, a woodpecker was industriously drilling a hole. The execution yard gradually filled with officers, who stood in little groups, smoking and talking, pacing up and down and tapping their feet. They seemed on edge and apprehensive, there was an air of uneasy anticipation in the governor's neat little garden.

The woodpecker completed his work and flew away. Two large black crows flapped slowly toward the abandoned tree, the frayed edges of their wings splayed out like fingers. They perched on the topmost branch and sat hunched up, side by side, waiting for the show to begin.

From the condemned block came four police constables. In their midst was the prisoner. His hands were tied together, and he was wearing a threadbare greatcoat. As we watched, the group disappeared behind a clump of lilacs and we lost sight of them for a few seconds. They came back into our field of vision, and we saw that the prisoner was a tall and imposing man, walking with an air of upright dignity despite his tied hands. As they came nearer, we were able to recognize him. A horrified murmur ran around the twelve of us.

"Augsberg . . ."

"General Augsberg!"

"The shitsl" muttered Porta, by my side. "The filthy dirty lousy shits!"

The group came to a halt before the major who had lectured us. They exchanged salutes. The major faced the condemned officer.

"SS Brigadenfuhrer Paul Augsberg, it is my duty to tell you that your appeal had been turned down by the commander in chief of the Fourth Army. You are therefore condemned to death for having left the combat zone at Stalingrad, and for having taken with you a body of men, all of whom were fit and able to face the enemy, and thus deprived the Sixth Army of troops needed for the defense of Stalingrad. Have you anything to say before you are executed?"

The general looked down at the major. "You poor naive fool!" he said contemptuously.

The major swallowed. He beckoned to the priests, but Augsberg waved them away. "None of that mumbo jumbo!"

He was led to the execution post. Expert hands secured the leather thongs.

"They can all go screw themselves," whispered Tiny. "I shall fire wide."

"So shall I," I hissed back.

"Me too," agreed Porta.

The major faced the firing squad. "Take aim--fire!"

Twelve shots rang out simultaneously. General Augs-berg's head fell forward onto his chest, but we could not see where he had been hit. The doctor, his stethoscope dangling around his neck, stubbed out a cigarette and walked forward. We saw him lift up the general's head. We saw his expression change. He didn't even trouble to use his stethoscope.

"The prisoner's still alive! The bullets didn't touch him!"

The major's jaw fell open. "Would you mind repeating that?"

"Certainly." The doctor straightened up. "I said, the prisoner is still alive. The bullets didn't touch him. I suggest you try again."

The major's tongue flickered snakelike over his lips. He turned on us, fuming. "Listen to me, you filthy swine! Any more of that and you'll be for the firing squad yourselves! And I mean that!" He drew in a deep breath, evidently controlling a wild impulse to lash out at us there and then. "Now, get on and do the job properly and don't waste any more time!"

Once again, he gave the order to fire. His voice was high and hysterical.

This time, twelve rifles were aimed directly at the square of red material pinned over the heart. We had made our futile protest, there was no point in prolonging the general's agony. If we didn't shoot him, others would; and would then shoot us in turn.

Two stretcher-bearers ran up with a pine coffin. They untied the dead body and dumped it inside, scattered sawdust over the bloody earth, picked up the coffin and disappeared behind the lilacs.

We were ready for the second execution. The group was already waiting in the shadow of the trees. Four guards and a lieutenant. Our lieutenant. Our young lieutenant with the woolly muffler, who had come all the way with us from Stalingrad.

This time the major dispensed with his monologue and came straight to the point. "You know what you're here for. Have you anything to say?"

The lieutenant shook his head.

"Do you want the services of a priest?"

"I want nothing. Just get on with it and let it be over quickly, that's all I ask."

The major waved him on to the execution post. He turned and glanced malevolently in our direction, as if to make sure we had heard the lieutenant's last wishes and would honor them. The lieutenant himself looked across at us and smiled. His eyes traveled around the group, resting briefly on each one of us. I felt terribly ashamed. There was nothing we could any of us do, yet I felt so ashamed. "Prepare to fire!"

I was trembling almost too much to take steady aim. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see where I was shooting. I had a faint hope I might hit the major. "Fire!"

Twelve loud cracks, and then silence. And then, from a long way off, the voice of the doctor, pronouncing the lieutenant dead. I opened my eyes and saw the two stretcher-bearers galloping off with their second coffin. Over by the wall, beyond the lilac trees, was a freshly dug ditch. In the ditch was General Augsberg, already covered in earth. The lieutenant now joined him, and they lay buried together, the latest in a long line of unnamed graves.

We had one more execution to face. We knew who it must be, even before we heard his frenzied screams of protest. He didn't want to die--but out on the steppe lay the bodies of five hundred men whom he had been unable to save. That was his crime, and for that he must pay with his life.

They dragged him kicking and fighting to the post. The major was having a bad day of it. These executions were a tricky business, and men like the doctor made no attempt to cooperate. Why couldn't the wretched fellow go off quietly, without all this fuss and bother?

The black cowl was handed over. The doctor's head was pushed into it and his accusing cries were muffled.

One of the execution squad suddenly fell forward in a faint, leaving only eleven of us to murder the doctor.

The Roman Catholic padre walked up to the faceless being in the black mask and attempted to soothe him with a prayer. The doctor now began weeping. "Fire!"

Eleven shots, and this time we made very sure we did not miss our mark. Since the doctor had to die, let it be over quickly.

Afterward, we were free for the rest of the day. They gave us a liter of vodka each and sent us off to drink ourselves into oblivion and forget the deeds they had forced us to do. But there are some deeds one cannot forget, some memories one cannot wipe out, and that day has remained with us ever since, violent and vivid in our minds. There are some things a man feels too guilty to forget.

We didn't know at the time, but found out much later, that even as we were shooting her husband, Frau Elizabeth Augsberg was opening and reading a telegram in Berlin:

BERLIN-CHARLOTTENBURG

IF YOU WISH TO SEE THE SOLDIER PAUL AUGSBERG FOR THE LAST TIME BEFORE HIS EXECUTION, WHICH IS DUE TO TAKE PLACE ON MAY 6, 1943 AT 0800 HOURS, YOU SHOULD PRESENT YOURSELF AT THE MILITARY PRISON OF KHARKOV, IN THE UKRAINE, ON MAY 5 AT 1900 HOURS. A VISIT OF TEN MINUTES' DURATION WILL BE ALLOWED. YOU SHOULD BRING THIS TELEGRAM WITH YOU.

(SGD) MANSTEIN--GENERALFELDMARSCHALL OB4--PANZER ARMEE.

General Augsberg would have been dead and buried by the time his wife had finished reading the telegram.

At fourteen SVEN HASSEL traveled around the world as a cabin boy on a freighter. In 1930 the unemployment situation in Denmark caused him to emigrate to Germany, where one could still find work. He enlisted in the German army in 1937 and was wounded in a cavalry regiment while fighting on the Polish Front. He was then transferred to the Second Tank Regiment which took part in the invasion of Poland in 1939. In 1941 he was sent into a disciplinary army regiment that fought in Russia under the worst conditions. He took part in military operations on all except the North African Front. Mr. Hassel is the author of three novels:
Gestapo, The Legion of the Damned, and S.S. General.

Scanned June 2004 by CaptainBen.