S.S. GENERAL 

by Sven Hassel 

Prologue 

Germany has had the good fortune to find a leader capable of bringing 
together the forces of the entire country to work as a collective body for the 
common prosperity. 

Daily Mail, London, October 10, 1933 

Sunday June 30, 1934, was one of the hottest days Berlin had ever known, 
but it has gone down in history as one of the bloodiest. Long before sunrise 
on that day, the city had been surrounded by an unbroken cordon of troops. 
All roads leading in and out were closed, guarded by the men who served 
under General Goering and Reichsführer SS Himmler. 

At five o'clock on the morning of June 30, a large black Mercedes, with the 
inscription "SA Brigadenstandarte" on the windshield, was stopped on the 
road between Lübeck and Berlin. Its important occupant, a brigadier general, 
was ordered out at gun-point and thrown into the back of a police wagon. The 
driver, SA Truppenführer Horst Ackermann, was bluntly advised to move 
himself, which he did at top speed. He regained Lübeck and made his report 
to the chief of police, who at first refused to attach any credence whatsoever 
to the story. Upon the Truppenfuhrer's insisting, the man could think of 
nothing more constructive to do than pick up the telephone and seek help and 
advice from his old friend the head of the Criminal Police. Both of them had 
been members of the SA, the old guard of the National Socialist assault 
troops, but the previous year, along with all the other police officers in the 
Third Reich, they had been transferred to the SS. 

"Well, what do you think?" 

There was an uneasy silence from the telephone. 

The chief of police tried a new tack. "Grünert? Are you still there? It's hardly 
likely they'd dare lay hands on one of the SA's best-known officers, is it?" 

Another silence. 

"Is it?" he repeated nervously. 

This time there was a cynical laugh from the other end of the line. 

"You think not? In that case, I suggest you leave the telephone a moment and 
take a quick look through the window—you're behind the times, my friend! I've 
known this was coming for the past few months and more. All the signs were 


there, for anyone who kept their eyes and ears open— Eicke's been far too 
active for far too long, something had to break. Not only that, they cleared the 
camp at Borgemoor a while ago, and you're not trying to tell me they'd let a 
place like that stay empty for very long? Not on your life! It's been taken over 
by Eicke's SS boys and they're already prepared for full-scale murder down 
there." 

The brigadier general, Paul Hatzke, found himself shut up in a cell at the 
former cadet training school of Gross Lichterfeld, now used as a barracks for 
Adolf Hitler's personal troops. He sat on a pile of bricks and calmly smoked a 
cigarette, his legs in their long black cavalry boots stretched out before him, 
his back against the wall. He was put out at his unceremonious treatment, but 
he saw no reason to fear for his safety. He was, after all, a brigadier general 
and commanded fifty thousand troops of the SA. He was also an ex-captain of 
His Majesty the Emperor's own household brigade. He was far too prominent 
a man for anyone to touch. 

Outside the tranquility of his cell, the world seemed to be in temporary uproar. 
Men shouted, doors banged, footsteps thudded impatiently along passages 
and up and down staircases. The SS men who had arrested the brigadier 
general had muttered something about a revolt. 

"Nonsense! No such thing!" Hatzke had dismissed it impatiently. "Any talk of a 
revolt and I should most certainly have had word of it. It's all a ridiculous 
mistake." 

"Of course, of course," they had murmured soothingly. "That's all it is—a 
ridiculous mistake." 

Hatzke tore open his fourth pack of cigarettes and raised his eyes to the small 
barred window high up in the wall. 

A revolt! Arrant nonsense! He smiled to himself. All other considerations 
apart, the SA didn't possess sufficient arms to attempt a revolt. On this point 
at least he was well briefed. 

On the other hand, looking back to the 1933 revolution, it was only to be 
expected that the two million members of the SA should not be altogether 
satisfied with the treatment they had received. Not one of the prerevolution 
promises made to them had been kept; not even the most basic promise to 
find them work. Some, indeed, had been given jobs in the police force, but 
their ranks were inferior and their wages were lower than the unemployment 
benefit paid in the days of the Weimar Republic. But while it was certainly true 
that the men were disgruntled and bitter, from that to an open declaration of 
war was something else again. Especially war against the Führer. If the SA 
were ever to rise up, it would sooner be against the Army of the Reich, the 
number one enemy of the workers. 

Hatzke suddenly stubbed out his cigarette and held his head to one side, 
listening. Was that the sound of gunfire he had just heard? A truck started up 


somewhere outside, its engine coughing; a motorcycle screamed past; a car 
backfired —or was it a rifle shot? He could not be sure, but the idea unnerved 
him. Gunfire in Berlin on this hot summer's day? It made no sense. Men were 
going on leave, preparing to meet their girls, lying in the sun . . . 

The palms of Hatzke's hands grew damp. He clenched his fists. This time 
there could be no mistake. He could not indefinitely pretend that the sharp 
crack of rifles was the backfiring of a car. And there it went again—and again. 
Outside, the truck was still trying to pull away. It had been joined now by a 
recalcitrant motorcycle. The thought crossed Hatzke's mind that they could 
have been planted there deliberately, in an attempt to mask the sounds of 
gunfire; a shudder of anticipation shook his body. What was Himmler's band 
of thugs up to this time? You couldn't shoot men on mere suspicion. Not in 
Germany. Among the savages of South America, perhaps, one might expect 
that sort of brutality. But not even among the barbaric Russians—and 
certainly not in Germany. 

Another salvo of shots. Hatzke leaped to his feet, his upper lip awash with 
perspiration. What the devil was going on out there? They surely weren't 
conducting exercises in this weather? 

He took an agitated turn about his cell. Could there after all be some truth in 
this absurd story of an SA up-rising? But God in heaven, that was sheer 
madness! 

He tried to arrange his pile of bricks so that he could stand on them and see 
through the window, but there were not enough for a double row and they 
collapsed as soon as he put his foot on them. 

The firing went on. It was regular and deliberate, meeting with no opposition. 
It was obvious, now, that this was no exercise. It sounded to Hatzke 
suspiciously like a firing squad. 

He leaned back against the wall, wondering, not for the first time, what evil lay 
behind the gathering forces of the SS. That sick dwarf, Himmler, for example; 
vain, irritable, and highly dangerous; reputedly a homosexual—why did the 
Führer tolerate him? What plans had he in mind for him? What dark and 
unsuspected purpose was the man going to serve? 

Hatzke turned to face the door as he heard footsteps along the corridor. They 
came to a halt outside his cell. The key turned in the lock. He found himself 
confronted by an SS Untersturmführer and four soldiers, their steel helmets 
glinting in the gloom of the corridor. They were all members of Eicke's 
division, the only division in the SS to wear brown uniforms instead of the 
familiar black and not to carry the letters "SS" on their collars. 

"About time too!" Hatzke faced them furiously. "Someone's going to be in 
trouble for this day's work, let me tell you! When General Röhm gets to hear 
about it . . ." 


The Untersturmführer said nothing; merely cut across Hatzke's words by 
yanking him out of the cell and pushing him along the corridor, flanked on 
either side by soldiers. He himself strode behind, his spurs clinking and his 
leather boots creaking. He was a mere boy, scarcely twenty years old. His 
hair was thick and honey-colored; his eyes were blue, fringed with long blond 
lashes. He had the face of an angel, with soft childlike contours and a chin 
that was baby-smooth. But hatred stared naked from the beautiful blue eyes, 
and the wide mouth was set hard as granite. They were like that, in the SS: 
the flower of German youth turned systematically into efficient killing 
machines. 

The great gray buildings of the barracks were washed by brilliant sunshine. 
Hatzke and his escort marched across the hot paving stones of the courtyard, 
where not long since children of eight years old had been accustomed to drill. 
In these same barracks, for years past, children whose destiny was war had 
been prepared to take their places as uncomplaining cannon fodder in the 
Army of Imperial Germany. All the best families of the Reich had their fading 
sepia photographs of boys of seventeen, dressed up in their heroes' uniforms 
and departing in all their false and glittering glory for death in the trenches of 
World War I France. They died as they had lived, according to the rule book. 
And who knew but that death might not indeed have been welcome after eight 
years of training and torture in the courtyards of Gross Lichterfeld? 

Hatzke marched on past the stables, now filled not with horses but with 
weapons. The sound of revving engines was very close. He stopped and 
turned to his escort. "Where are you taking me?" 

"To see SS Standartenführer Eicke," the man said curtly. "I shouldn't try 
anything, if I were you. It won't get you anywhere." 

The brigadier general grunted and walked on. Time to see about the lack of 
respect later. For the moment it was sufficient to reflect that for whatever 
reason they had arrested him, he would at least be guaranteed a fair trial. 
Men were not shot without a fair trial in Germany. That was what the 
regulations laid down, and Germany was a country that lived according to the 
regulations. The Führer himself had declared that henceforth there was to be 
an end to democratic disorder and the start of strict regimentation. Every man 
should know his rights, and those who attempted to sabotage those rights 
would pay dearly for it. 

They left the stables behind them and soon came to a small courtyard, 
enclosed by high walls. In former days it had been reserved for cadets under 
arrest. Inside this courtyard were the truck and the motorcycle responsible for 
the distracting noises. The truck was a large Krupp, a diesel, and the brown-
clad SS driver was sitting smoking behind the wheel. He stared without 
interest as Hatzke and his escort appeared. 

In the center of the courtyard was a group of officers. At the far end was a 
platoon of twelve men, in two rows of six. The first row were on their knees, 
their rifles held at the ready; behind them stood the second row, rifles at their 


sides. Not far off stood a couple more platoons, patiently awaiting their turn in 
the slaughter. Twenty executions only, and then you were relieved. That was 
the regulation. Twenty executions —Hatzke tried to turn his eyes away, but 
the scene held his attention despite himself. He had to look back again. 

A man in the uniform of the SA was lying face downward on the damp, red 
sand. On his shoulder was the gold epaulette of an Obergruppenführer. His 
body was just sufficiently twisted for Hatzke to glimpse the lapel of his jacket. 
It was red; the red lapel of a general. Hatzke found himself trembling. He 
turned his head away and wiped a hand across his brow. It was cold and 
clammy. 

An SS Hauptsturmführer, a sheaf of papers in his hand, walked up to Hatzke. 
He did not trouble himself with any preliminary courtesies. He merely 
consulted his papers and barked out the one word, "Name?" 

"SA Brigadenführer Paul Egon Hatzke." 

He was ticked off on the list. He stood watching as at the far end of the 
courtyard two SS men picked up the dead general and slung his body into a 
cart. 

The Hauptsturmführer tucked his papers under his arm. "Right. Down to the 
far end and up against the wall. No shilly-shallying, please, we've a lot to get 
through." 

Until that moment Hatzke still had not believed it could be true; and had 
certainly not believed it could ever happen to him. He turned on the man in 
sudden, abject terror. "I want to see Standartenführer Eicke! I'm not going 
anywhere until I've seen him! If you think . . ." 

He stopped short as he felt the hard butt of a pistol being dug into his kidneys. 

"That's quite enough of that. I'm not here to talk, I'm here to carry out my 
orders. Besides, shouting will get you nowhere." 

Hatzke jerked his head around, seeking somewhere— somehow, from 
someone—a grain of hope or pity. But the faces he saw beneath the steel 
helmets were merciless in their very indifference. And the wall at the far end 
of the courtyard was splashed with blood, and the sand was crimson and a 
thin red stream was gurgling along the gutter and into the drain. 

"I'm warning you," said the Hauptsturmführer. "I've got a schedule to keep to." 

Someone slapped Hatzke hard across the face and tore open half his cheek 
with the sharp edge of a ring. As he stood there, the blood splashed down 
onto his collar and his gold epaulettes, and he knew with a clarity that amazed 
him that this was indeed the end. His own end, and the end of a vision that 
had dreamed up a socialist state where the word justice should at last have 


some meaning. Heydrich and Goering had gained the upper hand and 
Germany was lost. 

Very calm, very dignified, Brigadier General Paul Egon Hatzke walked across 
the courtyard and took up his position against the blood-splashed wall. With 
arms crossed and head held high in defiance, he awaited his death. 

The firing squad raised their rifles. Hatzke looked across at them with neither 
fear nor hatred, but a kind of patient resignation. He felt himself to be a martyr 
in a great cause. As the rifles fired in unison, he shouted out his final words on 
earth, "Long live Germany and Adolf Hitler!" and crumpled up into the warm, 
welcoming sand. The next SA officer was already being brought into the 
courtyard. 

The slaughter continued throughout the day and well into the night. Word was 
sent to Eicke that the men who were dying, the men who had been his former 
comrades, were one and all expressing a wish to speak with him. He waved 
his hands impatiently. He was a man with a mission, he had no time to 
indulge in- sentimental farewells. 

"Get rid of them! Just check their names and get it over with! They're there to 
be shot, and the quicker the better." 

The furies and follies of that day were not quickly forgotten in Germany. It was 
those massacres of June 30 which accelerated the rise to power of a trio of 
men: Himmler, vain as any peacock and hitherto a totally unknown 
bureaucrat; Heydrich, a disgraced naval officer; and Theodore Eicke, a 
publican from Alsace. 

Fifteen days later the soldiers who had formed the firing squads, together with 
all but four officers, were thrown out of the SS—a total of six thousand men. 
Before the year was out, thirty-five hundred of them had been executed under 
various trumped-up charges. It was an idea of Eicke's, a final clean sweep, as 
it were, and it was loudly applauded by an appreciative Goering. Those who 
survived were packed off to the waiting camp at Borgemoor where, for the 
most part, they were simply left to rot. According to Goebbels, Minister of 
Propaganda, they had met their death while quelling the SA revolt, and 
Rudolph Hess even went so far as to hold them up to the public as brave men 
and martyrs. 

The Führer, of course, had known all along of the plans for the massacre. He 
had taken care to remove himself to more pleasant surroundings on that hot 
summer's day, and even as the murders were being carried out, Adolf Hitler 
was enjoying himself as a guest at a wedding party at Gauleiter Terboven's 
house in Essen. 

1 

The Bridge 


Somewhere on the road before us lay Stalingrad, and we stopped the tank 
and stepped out into the open air to have a look. We recognized the town in 
the distance, by the thick clouds of smoke that still hung overhead, the thin 
wisps that still curled upward into the mists. It was said that Stalingrad had 
been burning since August, since the dropping of the first German bombs. 

There was not much joy in looking ahead; there was nothing lying in wait for 
us there but death and destruction. There was no joy at all in looking back; 
what had passed was a nightmare best forgotten. So we stared down instead 
toward the far-off river, the silver ribbon of the Volga, where the dancing rays 
of the autumn sun made shining rings on the water. And for a short while we 
were almost hypnotized into believing that the present could last forever, and 
the past could be wiped out and the future avoided. 

But the tank that had borne us through the past was a solid reality at our side, 
waiting to carry us on into the inevitable future, and there could be no escape. 
For four months we had lived in that tank—slept in it and eaten in it, fought 
our battles in it, both with each other and with the enemy—until we had 
become as much dependent on it as a tortoise is on its shell. The only times 
we had ever come to a halt were to take on more fuel or more ammunition, 
and even then the supplies had been brought to the doorstep while we sat 
and waited in our steel burrow. Small wonder we had long ago begun to hate 
each other more than we hated the Russians! Within the four walls of the tank 
there were perpetual warring factions, feuds and bloodbaths and petty 
squabbles which ended in a man half dead or at the least disfigured for life. 
The latest victim was Heide. He and Tiny had come to blows over a missing 
hunk of stale black bread, and when the rest of us had lost patience with two 
bodies crashing into us and kicking us and raining stray blows on our heads, 
we intervened in the matter ourselves and passed judgment against Heide, 
with the result that he was condemned to travel the next fifty miles lashed to 
the outside of the rear door. It was not until he dropped unconscious, 
saturated in carbon monoxide, that we remembered his presence and hauled 
him back to safety. 

All day long the tank rumbled on toward the Volga. Shortly after sunset we 
made out the shape of another tank, stationary at the edge of a wood. A man 
was sitting on the turret, calmly smoking a cigarette and contemplating the 
smoke as it rose into the dusk. Both he and the tank seemed marvelously at 
peace with the world. 

"Must have caught up with the rest of the company at long last," said 
Barcelona. 

"Thank God for that." The Old Man shook his head wonderingly. "I'd begun to 
wonder where the bastards had got to. These Russian maps are impossible, 
they all seem to be at least a hundred years out of date." 

We moved slowly up to the edge of the wood and Porta pulled to a halt a few 
yards from the other tank. Joyfully we pushed open the observation slits and 
allowed the fresh night air to penetrate the sweaty hell of our prison. 


The Old Man hoisted himself out into the open and called across to the 
unsuspecting smoker. "Hi, there! I thought we'd never make it, we've been 
looking for you all over the place. What the hell have you been up to?" 

He was about to jump down to the ground when the other man tossed away 
his cigarette, made a dive for the hatch and disappeared inside the tank like a 
fox going to ground. 

"It's the Russians!" yelled the Old Man. 

As he fell back among us, we prepared for combat. We were lucky; the 
enemy, lulled no doubt by the calm of their surroundings, must have taken the 
opportunity for a nap. Even before they had managed to swing their cannon 
around to face us, we had sent an S grenade, superexplosive, straight into 
their turret. At that range we could hardly miss. The tank was transformed 
instantly into an active volcano, throwing up great chunks of mutilated men 
and machinery and belching black smoke and yellow flames into the dusky 
sky. 

Carefully now, with observation slits closed and ears and eyes on the alert, 
we nosed our way forward in a wide detour. 

"Enemy tanks ahead!" 

Porta once again pulled to a halt. Several yards ahead, tucked away at the 
side of the road, were nine T-34s. They looked peaceful enough, expecting no 
trouble, but their guns were all turned in our direction. The Old Man hesitated. 
The Russians had obviously not spotted us yet, but they were almost certain 
to do so if we turned about and retraced our path. 

"OK." The Old Man nodded at Porta. "Start her up again, full-steam ahead. 
We'll just have to try and bluff our way through." 

He opened the hatch and peered out. In the gloom of the approaching night 
his helmet looked not unlike its Russian counterpart. He was gambling on the 
chance that the enemy were not expecting any German tanks to be in the 
vicinity. 

As we moved forward, it occurred to me that no one but a complete cretin 
could fail to notice the difference between the sound of our engine and that of 
a T-34, but possibly the Russian crews were tone-deaf. In any event, they 
made no hostile gestures, merely waving at us, giving us thumbs up as we 
passed. The Old Man responded graciously, while we sat and sweated inside. 

An hour later and we appeared to be approaching civilization. Isolated 
houses, then little knots of them, and finally long straggling rows were sure 
signs that we were coming to a town. We drove past a railroad station, where 
a freight train stood roaring and puffing, and then drove through to the town 
center. The place was crawling with enemy tanks and soldiers, but in the 
darkness and the general confusion we passed unnoticed. As we slowly 


emerged on the far side, a policeman waved us down and yelled at us to give 
way to an armored car containing some general in a hurry. We obediently fell 
back and allowed him to pass. 

Not far out of town we found ourselves tagging onto the end of a column of 
Russian tanks. Under their protection we moved past a battery of antitank 
guns and only parted company, quite reluctantly on our part, when we came 
to a crossroads, the Russians going straight on while we turned off for 
Stalingrad. 

The roads were full of traffic. We had not gone far before we had once again 
to run the gauntlet, passing along the length of a column of stationary T-34s. 
They let us go by without comment, and we guessed that their crews were 
snatching what sleep they could before being pushed once more into battle. 

Next we came on an infantry battalion, footslogging it along the road. They 
resentfully broke ranks for us, but our passage was punctuated by oaths of 
such vehemence and vulgarity that they might almost have known us for the 
enemy we were. 

Another detour, to avoid taking the road through a forest, and we were at last 
on the way back to our own lines. 

Three days later the company had reached the banks of the Volga, twenty-
five miles north of Stalingrad, and there was an uncontrolled scramble down 
the slopes to fill our canteens. It looked as though everybody wanted to claim 
the privilege of being the first man to taste the Volga. 

It was, at this point, about fifteen miles across from bank to bank. The scene 
looked peaceful and pleasant enough, with a small tugboat pulling a string of 
barges behind it and not a tank or a soldier in sight, apart from ourselves. 
Suddenly, as we splashed about on the bank, a battery of 75s went into 
action. Great spouts of water rose into the air and the unfortunate tug began a 
frenzied zigzag in an effort to avoid the worst of the onslaught. It might as well 
have saved its energy, it stood no chance whatsoever. Shells fell fore and aft, 
to right and to left of it, and finally, and inevitably, one landed amidships and 
the little tug snapped in two like a matchstick. The barges floated erratically 
on, a flock of silly sheep without their leader, and the 75s picked them off at 
will. Ten minutes later and the river was peaceful once again. Had it not been 
for the wreckage still floating on the surface, the little tug and its charges 
might never have existed. 

Stalingrad was still burning. Even at this distance the pungent odor of roasting 
flesh and cinders, of brick dust and ash, was nauseating and made us retch. It 
was a smell that clung to our hair, to our clothes, to our very skin, and it was 
to be with us for months afterward. 

We had seen many cities burn, but never a city that burned like Stalingrad. 
The sight and the smell of Stalingrad, voraciously devouring itself as it roared 


headlong toward its own death, was something that etched itself deep into our 
memories, and none who experienced it could ever forget. 

The company dug itself in opposite the hills of Mamaev, where an entire 
Russian staff was entrenched in a network of old grottoes. During the night 
our heavy mortars bombarded the face of these hills, keeping up a constant 
barrage, hour after hour. Whenever they fired short, the blast of their high-
explosive grenades almost tore us bodily from our dugouts. Tanks went into 
action, but without any success. The bombardment renewed its fury and the 
14th Panzer Division was finally sent in and managed to push ahead through 
the grottoes and sweep them clean with flamethrowers, assisted by small-
arms fire. No prisoners were taken. Any men captured were killed outright. 
Any who attempted to surrender were slaughtered before they had time to 
speak. It was the sort of bloodbath the SS might have enjoyed, but for most of 
us it was a sickening and degrading exercise in murder, forced upon us by 
one of those uncompromising orders from the top, which made wild beasts 
out of human beings and merely incited the Russians to return outrage for 
outrage and swear to fight to the death rather than give in. 

Summer had given way to autumn, and autumn was now giving way to winter; 
slowly at first, so that we scarcely noticed the creeping cold and only 
complained bitterly of the incessant rain which fell in torrents from the gray 
skies and turned the ground into one vast, squelching bog that sucked at our 
boots as we marched through it. It rained for three weeks without stopping. 
Men and uniforms began to acquire a greenish tinge. We stank of mold, and 
clumps of furry white mildew sprang up overnight. We were given a special 
powder, which we ritually sprinkled over ourselves and our equipment, but it 
had no noticeable effect. 

After the rain came the cold, and the first of the nightly frosts. We were still 
forbidden to wear greatcoats, not that many of us had a greatcoat left to wear. 
They had either been lost in the course of a battle or deliberately discarded 
back in the summer, when we had been fighting on the steppes in 
temperatures of a hundred in the shade. Deliveries of winter uniforms were 
promised regularly from day to day, but they never came. Instead, they sent 
us more troops, truck loads of reservists older than God and probably unfit 
even to run for a bus, or raw recruits with beardless faces and innocently 
shining eyes. They came to us to fight in the hell of Stalingrad, fresh from their 
training schools and barracks. They had no notion of what war was about, but 
they had been pumped full of propaganda and a determination to die for a 
useless cause. They flung themselves straightaway into the fighting, into the 
gaping mouths of the Russian guns. There was nothing to be done in the face 
of such ignorant heroics. Their misplaced zeal took us all unawares and we 
could only stand back and listen to them die, as they lay limbless and 
moaning on the ground or hung screaming on the barbed wire, handy targets 
for enemy sniping practice. 

That first mad suicidal gesture was enough to knock all the spirit from the few 
who survived. Propaganda was thrown back where it belonged, on the trash 
heap, and reality took over. They walked about with glazed eyes and 


defensively hunched shoulders, treating the enemy with the respect they 
deserved and placing the value of their own lives far higher than any 
spectacular death for Adolf Hitler and the Fatherland. Nevertheless, they 
didn't grumble, these babes in arms and old men who had been forced to 
volunteer for active service. They were still Germans, and Germans were too 
proud to whine. They suffered the discomforts of the battle without complaint, 
and went on dying stoically. 

We had been promised one day of leave for every twenty recruits we 
managed to salvage from the field of slaughter, but it was a dangerous game 
and for the most part we resisted the temptation. More men were lost as they 
squelched through the mud in search of survivors, slipping on pieces of raw 
human flesh and tripping over mildewed bodies, than were ever recovered. 
The Russians were on the lookout for such rescue attempts and they had an 
unnerving tendency to release a barrage of fire at the least sound. Seven of 
our own men were lost this way, and from then on, the rest of us turned our 
backs on the lure of extra leave and let others chase after the mirage if they 
would. 

The net slowly tightened around Stalingrad, where three Russian armies were 
said to be trapped. "The greatest victory of all time!" screamed the 
propaganda machine, but we no longer cared for victory. All we wanted was 
to save our own skins and see out the end of the war. Only Heide showed any 
signs of enthusiasm. 

"You just wait!" he told us, with a fanatical excitement that left us totally 
unmoved. "After Stalingrad—Moscow! We'll be there, you see if we're not!" 

"Fuck Moscow," grumbled Porta. "Moscow can go and screw itself for all I 
care." 

I think Porta probably spoke for all of us. Heide was something of an 
exception, and his views could never be taken as representative of any but 
the lunatic fringe. 

The Italian Eighth Army had requested of the German High Command the 
privilege of being the first to enter Stalingrad, which was fine by all of us. 
Whether the Italian troops were so pleased is, of course, something else 
again, but as far as we were concerned, the Spaghettis were welcome to all 
the honor and glory they liked. Strangely enough, the Rumanians also 
stepped in and demanded pride of place, so we simply sat back smugly and 
waited for them to fight it out between them. 

"Who the hell cares?" said Porta. "Who the hell cares who takes the fucking 
place so long as it's not us?" 

"It's odd, though," mused Barcelona. "The Spaghettis don't usually go in for 
the death and glory stuff." 


The countryside for miles about became suddenly thick with Italian and 
Rumanian troops. We used to watch from our dugouts as long columns of 
men swung past, singing as they marched to Stalingrad. 

One day, while we were still waiting for news of victory, we were given a 
mission behind the Russian lines. It was a little matter of blowing up a bridge; 
a bridge that was essential to the enemy supply line and so well camouflaged 
that our planes could not spot it from the air. We were casually informed that 
although it would be the devil's own job planting the explosives owing to the 
bridge being guarded day and night with as much loving care as if it were the 
Kremlin itself, the stickiest part of the mission would be to reach the thing in 
the first place. 

"We've only got to crawl across a bog," said the Old Man sourly. "Miles and 
miles of goddamn bog on our hands and knees!" 

I thought he was exaggerating. I thought the bog would probably turn out to 
be a mud patch the size of a large duck pond set in some generally harmless 
area of fens and marshes. No such luck. It took us several days to cross it, 
during which I discovered that a Russian bog is one of the most treacherous 
bastards you could ever wish to meet. 

In the first place, each of us had to carry forty-five pounds of dynamite in a 
container anchored to his chest, which in itself was enough to make life a 
misery. In addition, we traveled by night and spent the day shivering in the 
bushes and within forty-eight hours we were up to our knees in mud and 
water. All around us were inviting tussocks of coarse grass, but these were 
treacherous and we stuck to the path way—a trail of tree trunks, just wide 
enough for one man sunk a foot and a half beneath the surface. We had to 
fee our way blindly, and God help anyone who slipped. The bog was waiting 
on either side, thick and brown and evil, ever greedy for prey. And not only the 
bog, but a variety of man-made traps strewn along our path by the thoughtful 
enemy. Push an overhanging branch to one side, and the ground suddenly 
opened up beneath your feet; pull on it and you found yourself split in two by a 
concealed bayonet. Catch hold of an innocent-looking creeper to help 
maintain your balance and the chances were you'd set off a whole flight of 
arrows, enough to kill an entire column of men. One particularly nasty trick 
was to plant poisoned bayonets along the side of the path at one of its 
narrowest points. These were bayonets that had been dipped in a dripping 
mass of putrefying flesh; one scratch while you concentrated on remaining 
upright and passing safely by was enough to give a man tetanus. 

No wonder our nerves were on edge. No wonder Gregor went berserk and 
hurled a grenade at an impudent frog that leaped croaking hideously from the 
reeds and gave us all the fright of our lives. 

The sound of the explosion rang across the marshes. Terrified, we crouched 
down and waited for something to happen. A matter of seconds and we heard 
voices, a motor being started up, the grinding of tank tracks. 


Porta, who was in the lead, turned and whispered, "Ivan's spotted us." 

"Let's get the hell out!" urged Gregor. 

We looked at him pityingly. Out where? Out into the bottomless marshes that 
lay all round us? Straight on along the path toward the waiting Russians? 

The olive-green nose of a T-34 appeared, questing and sinister among the 
trees. The cannon swung round and pointed out over the marshes, over our 
heads. They fired three shells and then very slowly, very quietly, with the 
minimum amount of fuss, the heavy vehicle began to roll down the banks 
toward the edge of the bog. We watched, horrified but thankful, as it slipped 
ever nearer the waiting brown waters. For a moment it rallied and we thought 
it might hold firm, but then in a final burst it performed a mad elephantine 
zigzag, turned turtle and disappeared. Seconds before, there had been an 
enemy tank; now there was only a thick sucking and thubbing as the bog 
smacked its lips contentedly together. 

Some figures in brown appeared among the trees. They crept cautiously 
down the bank in, search of their lost companions, exclaiming and pointing. 
Barcelona turned his submachine gun on them and we sat hunched up in the 
reeds awaiting developments. There was a brief silence, and then a short, 
stocky sergeant appeared from the shelter of the trees and called out to the 
men behind him to get cracking with a peremptory "Davdï, davdï!" 

They came tumbling out and Barcelona opened fire. The first to fall was the 
sergeant. For the rest, some ran back into the trees and others crumpled up 
and lay still. After it was over, we lay still ourselves, crouched in the stinking 
brown waters, not daring to show our heads. 

And hour passed. Another hour began. The boredom and the discomfort were 
growing intolerable, but at last the enemy tired of waiting and struck blindly 
into the heart of the marshes. A second tank was sent to investigate. 
Ponderously it positioned itself among the trees; slowly and silently it pointed 
its flamethrower in what was roughly our direction. A fierce tongue of fire shot 
out and looped across the marshes. It just missed us, but the heat was 
intense. They had two more tries. The marshes were ablaze all around us as 
we squatted deeper in the muddy waters, catching our breath and trying not to 
cough. They would surely not miss if they made a fourth attempt. 

There was a pause. Porta cautiously peered out through the reeds. A brown-
helmeted figure had hoisted itself out of the turret and was staring out across 
the marshes, peering about to see what damage had been done. 

Porta raised his flamethrower. Those of us who could see what he was doing 
could scarcely bear to watch; if he missed his target and gave away our 
position, we should all be done for. 


I held my breath and kept my hands over my eyes until the shattering sound 
of an explosion forced me to look up. It was the tank. Porta's shot had landed 
true and the entire vehicle was in flames. 

We picked ourselves up, cramped and stiff, and continued on our way. Porta 
was still in the lead, testing every inch of the path before him, Tiny one pace 
behind with his heavy revolver at the ready, on the watch for snipers. We 
knew from experience that no one could touch the Russians in the art of 
camouflage, and some of their men had apparently! endless patience and 
powers of endurance. A Siberian we ha once encountered had been capable 
of remaining at his post at the top of a tree for twenty-four hours at a stretch, 
becoming so much a part of his hiding place that even the birds ha accepted 
him and had gone to roost on his shoulders. 

Suddenly, without any warning, Porta dropped to his knee in the water, his 
head alone above the surface. He signaled to the rest of us and we dived 
instantaneously, pulling out our respirators and clamping them over our 
mouths. Our camouflaged helmets were all that remained visible. For ten loo 
minutes, which seem more like ten long hours when you're submerged in filthy 
water, we remained hidden. Nothing happened. It was either a false alarm or 
the danger had passe by. Either way, such incidents were trying on the nerve 

After another mile or so, our eyes were caught by most curiously enchanting 
bird. Green and yellow, perched on a rotten branch, it performed a little' dance 
of welcome intended no doubt to intrigue and invite. It wagged its tail from 
side to side like a dog, laid its head on the ground an its rump in the air like a 
courting pigeon, whistled a tune an rolled its bright button eyes at us. That 
bird was there for purpose. A trap for the unwary. But we were too long in the 
tooth to take beautiful performing birds at their face value. We knew that 
somewhere nearby the enemy was in hiding, waiting for us to take the fatal 
step. 

Porta ducked under the water and slowly waded forward. Only the faintest of 
ripples betrayed his presence. The little Legionnaire dived after him, his knife 
clenched tight between his teeth. The rest of us sank down and watched. 

Porta reached the bird and gently surfaced. A quick loo around, a hand 
stretched out—and on the instant, two shadows rose up ahead. Two shadows 
dressed in green uniform But before they could carry out their task, Porta had 
turned his gun on the one and the Legionnaire had planted his knife in the 
other. The bird, released from its role of decoy, rose squawking into the air 
and flapped off toward the nearest trees. 

"Christ almighty!" said the Old Man, straightening up. "What a life!" 

He took a step forward, his foot slipped and he swayed sideways. As he did 
so, he instinctively threw out his hand to save himself, clutching at the nearest 
clump of vegetation. 

"Watch it!" screamed Barcelona. 


He caught the Old Man just in time and they lurched back together onto the 
path. Trembling, Barcelona pointed to the bushes at the side. We saw a 
couple of wires disappearing snakelike into the water and curling under the 
tree trunks. We could only guess at the explosive that was packed away down 
there. 

"Jesus, what a life!" repeated the Old Man, wiping the sweat off his forehead. 
"What a fucking awful life!" 

A few hours later we softly approached a hut improvised from branches and 
balanced on one of the firmer areas of the marsh. We had spotted it from a 
distance and kept careful watch, detecting no sign of enemy activity. Inside 
the hut we discovered five of the partisans, three men and two women, who 
based themselves in the marshland and disguised their faces with hideous 
green masks whenever they went on operations. These particular five were in 
no state to offer any resistance. The vodka bottle had obviously been 
circulating and they were lying in a heap with their arms around one another 
and their mouths wide open. We disposed of them quickly and callously and 
threw their bodies into the marsh, then spent the night in the hut disposing of 
the remains of their vodka and a case of dried fish we found there. 

The following day we arrived at our objective: the bridge that we were to blow 
up. It was a big, heavy, unexpectedly imposing bridge. The prospect of 
destroying it was quite daunting, and I began to wonder whether our journey 
might have been a waste of time. 

Halfway across, snug in his box, stood the sentry. He was leaning back 
smoking, his rifle propped negligently at his side. As far as we could see, the 
reports had been wrong and the bridge was guarded by only the one man. On 
the other hand, it was strong enough to defeat the most determined of 
sabotage efforts and it was so well camouflaged that it would certainly have 
been invisible from the air. 

As we watched, a column of tanks and light trucks rolled across. The sentry 
stubbed out his cigarette, snatched up his rifle and stood to attention until they 
had passed, when he at once relapsed into his daydreams. He lit another 
cigarette and the air became alive with the sharp smell of the pungent 
Russian machorka tobacco. I guessed that, like us, this man was quite 
indifferent to the outcome of the war if only he could be left in peace to follow 
his own life. He was not young. They had probably dragged him away from 
his farm or his village to come and strut and pose on their ridiculous bridge 
night after night, and he made a sad figure, with his drooping Chinese-style 
mustache, his fur bonnet, his long crumpled boots and his thin summer tunic. 

"Look at that," whispered Tiny gleefully. "Fancy wearing a thing like that in this 
weather! He's either crazy or they're just as badly off as what we are—you 
can have boots or a coat, but not both. Sorry, pal, but you'll just have to take 
your choice." 


We crawled along in the darkness, underneath the bridge, fixing up the 
explosives. It was a long and tedious job, with the Legionnaire doing more 
than anyone. He seemed able to see perfectly well in the dark, and he swung 
like a monkey from one arch to the next. We finally withdrew to a safe spot 
and listened to Tiny and Porta arguing about which of them should be allowed 
the privilege of pressing the plunger. 

Another column of trucks came across the bridge. They were preceded by a 
jeep flying a red flag, and Porta looked at them longingly. "Ammo trucks! Let's 
blow 'em up along with the bridge!" He looked appealingly at the Old Man. 
"Think of the show it would make! Come on, don't be a spoilsport! I'm game if 
you are." 

"Shut up and sit down," said the Old Man curtly. "I have no wish to be blown 
to kingdom come for the sake of a pretty firework display, thank you very 
much." 

We waited until the bridge was clear, and then crept away to the shelter of 
some rocks. Dawn was drifting across the sky in feathery pink trails and I felt 
sorry about the unsuspecting guy in the sentry box. Tiny and Porta were still 
having words on the question of precedence. I don't know which of them 
finally set the thing off, but the noise was shattering. Seconds later my 
eardrums were still ringing, the sound still banging from side to side of my 
head. I picked myself up and looked toward the bridge—and then looked 
again. The damned thing was still there! The main supports had been blown 
clean away and the metal superstructure was a twisted heap, but the bridge 
itself, the actual span of the bridge, had been dropped bodily into the water 
and now lay only a few feet below the surface. It was a ruined bridge, 
certainly; but still, at a pinch, a very usable bridge. 

Gregor let out a shrill hoot of laughter and went running across it, with the rest 
of us following, singing and shouting and splashing like a crowd of punch-
drunk loons. 

"We've sunk the bridge, we've sunk the bridge!" chanted Gregor. 

At no point did the water rise above our knees! 

"So what the fuck do we do now?" demanded Porta. 

"We pull ourselves together and get the hell out," said the Old Man grimly. 
"I've got a feeling this place is going to attract a lot of attention any minute 
now." 

Even as he spoke, we heard the sound of men's voices, and we dived of one 
accord into the cover of the trees. At least we were going back by forest and 
not by marsh, which was a comfort—but only a scanty one, because in a 
matter of hours we were hopelessly lost. We trailed up and down, in and out 
of the trees, across streams and along little twisting paths that came to dead 
ends. In all that time we met no one, and when at last we came to a clearing 


and saw an old fellow chopping wood outside a hut, we were in no mood to 
bother with evasive action. Instead, we pushed Porta forward as our best 
interpreter, and he gave the old boy an amiable one-toothed grin of 
unparalleled villainy and addressed him in Russian. 

"Good day, tovaritch!" 

The little old tovaritch slowly lifted his head. He was so old, it almost hurt to 
look at him. His skin was parched, the wrinkles scored so deeply that they 
were like gaping ravines, but his eyes were a bright, clear blue as they looked 
Porta wonderingly up and down. 

"Ah, it's you, is it?" he said, letting fall his ax. "And where have you been all 
these months?" 

Porta is fortunately a natural liar. He doesn't have to stop and think about it, 
he marches right in with both feet. 

"I've been away at the war, remember?" he said, very cocky and sure of 
himself. "And where've you been hiding, Grandpa? The Jerries are back 
again, didn't you know that?" 

"Ah, yes?" The blue eyes flickered thoughtfully over the rest of us and back to 
Porta. "How's your mother getting on?" 

"The old lady's fine," said Porta. 

"Good, good—I like to hear of old friends. Have you killed many Germans?" 

"A fair number," said Porta modestly, and he held out a pack of machorkas. 

The old man shook his head. "Army tobacco," he said deprecatingly. 

He picked up his ax and turned back to his wood without another word. Porta 
hunched his shoulders and we went on our way, tramping blindly through the 
pine trees. 

A couple of hours later we found ourselves back at the bridge, which was now 
a noisy hive of activity. 

"This is futile," declared the Old Man. "To hell with playing follow-my-leader in 
the woods, I'm going to take a chance and follow the river." 

There was a very real risk of bumping into Russian troops, but by this time we 
were all past caring. We had half suffocated in the stinking marshes, risked 
our lives crawling about underneath a bridge that refused to die, walked our 
legs to stumps among the pine trees, and wanted only to return to the 
comparative safety and comfort of our own lines. 


Two days later, under the protection of whatever blessed saint it is who looks 
after those who have come to the end of their tether, we staggered home 
again and the Old Man made his report—"mission accomplished"—without 
either batting an eyelid or troubling anyone with tedious explanations. As he 
said, he didn't want to upset them. And besides, we had blown up the bridge 
as we had been told, and it certainly wasn't our fault if it had come down 
again—in one piece. 

The winter was now really closing in, and we experienced the first blizzards of 
the season. We still had no greatcoats, and we had to pad our uniforms with 
newspaper and pieces of cardboard and other junk to keep out the worst of 
the razor-sharp winds. Rations were dropped to us by parachute. No new 
troops arrived and orders came through that we were on no account to waste 
ammunition. Food was cut down daily. Men were starving and freezing, and 
the first cases of frostbite were already being reported—some induced 
deliberately, in a final, despairing attempt to be relieved from the hell of the 
Russian front. Two men in our own company were found to be sleeping in wet 
socks and were summarily executed in the Tatar Forest. 

Not even Heide spoke now of the Great Victory of Stalingrad, and the 
propaganda machine had been ominously silent for some weeks. 

 

The SS Standartenführer, with a pleasure that he did not trouble to conceal, 
tossed the top-secret telegram onto the table and nodded at SS 
Sturmbannführer Lippert. 

"Take a look at that, Michel. What do you say to it?" 

Lippert picked up the telegram. A smile slowly crossed his face. "It looks as if 
we're in business at last!*' 

"Dead right we are." Eicke picked it up again and reread it. "Well, those 
bastards in the Army have had it coming to them, it was only a question of 
time. The Führer's a reasonable man, but he can't be expected to tolerate 
traitors in his midst . . ." 

The large Porsche bearing Eicke's standard pulled slowly out of Dachau and 
turned off toward Munich, with Eicke and Lippert lolling in the back seat. They 
stopped on the way to pick up Hauptsturmführer Schmausser, and at 1500 
hours exactly the three SS officers arrived at Stadelheim prison in Munich. 
They were taken at once to the office of the governor, Herr Koch, and without 
troubling themselves with any tiresome preliminaries, demanded that the 
prisoner General Röhm be delivered up to them. 

Koch regarded the three men distastefully. It was plain that they had been 
drinking, and he was not at all sure how to deal with them. He began 
uncompromisingly by ignoring their demand for Röhm, banging his fist so hard 
on his desk that his inkwell overturned, and ordering them to leave his office 


and his prison forthwith, unless they themselves wished to be detained in one 
of his cells. He then set back to await developments. 

For the next few minutes the ball was tossed back and forth over the net—
Eicke demanding Röhm, Koch refusing Röhm—with neither side gaining any 
advantage. Finally, to settle matters, Koch picked up the telephone and rang 
straight through to the Minister of Justice. The Minister of Justice heard the 
story with a sense of mounting indignation and personal outrage, until he 
could almost be seen to grow purple in the face and to be on the verge of an 
apoplectic fit, at which point Eicke leaned across the desk and snatched the 
receiver away from the unsuspecting Koch. 

"I may as well inform you straight away, Minister," he snarled into the 
telephone, "that I am here on the personal orders of the Führer. I have no time 
to waste bandying words with petty officialdom, and if I meet with any more 
attempts to sabotage the Führer's instructions I don't need to remind you that 
there are always plenty of free places waiting to be filled at Dachau!" 

He thrust the receiver back into Koch's still outstretched hand. There was a 
long, trembling pause before the minister spoke. Koch nodded, his face white 
and furrowed. He dialed another number, and without a word to Eicke, gave 
instructions to the prison staff to allow the three SS officers access to Röhm. 

SA Stabschef Ernst Röhm was sitting on a low wooden bench in cell 474, 
staring into space. He was naked from the waist up, but it was airless in the 
tiny cell and he was perspiring heavily. 

Eicke smiled at him and held out a friendly hand. "How goes it, Ernst?" 

Röhm hunched a shoulder. "Not so good," he said. "Not so good." 

Eicke sat down beside him on the bench. "Warm in here, isn't it?" He jerked a 
thumb toward the window. Through the small pane of speckled glass could be 
seen the cloudless sky blue of that hot June of 1934. "Even worse out there," 
he said with a grin. "Half the dames are going about without any underwear; 
you walk up the stairs behind them, it gets you in a muck sweat!" 

Röhm attempted a smile. He patted his face with a torn and dirty 
handkerchief. "Have you come for me, Theo? Has the Führer heard I've been 
arrested?" He looked searchingly at his old friend. "I don't even know what I'm 
supposed to have done. Some of the guards have been talking about a 
revolution, I can't make head or tail of it. What revolution? Has there really 
been any revolution? Has the Army gone and done something stupid?" 

Eicke pulled a face. He removed his helmet, carefully wiped it, put it back on 
again. The death's head insignia stared straight up at the ceiling. 

"You shouldn't worry yourself with prison gossip," he advised. "You've more 
important things to think about right now." 


"I just want to know what I'm doing here!" snapped Röhm. "I want to know if 
the Führer's heard about it." 

"Oh, he's heard all right," said Eicke soothingly. "It was the Führer who told 
me to come along and see you. He told me to give you this." He pulled out his 
revolver and laid it carefully on the bench between them. "One thing nobody 
can deny about the Führer, he's always loyal to his old friends. Even when 
they're in trouble, like you are, Ernst. Especially when they're in trouble like 
you are—you know what I mean?" He patted the revolver. "He's giving you a 
way out, Ernst. Be best if you took it" 

Röhm stared uncomprehendingly at Eicke. Without refocusing, his eyes 
slipped away from his friend and down to the revolver. A big black revolver 
glistening with grease. Slowly it grew clear to him; it swam into focus. 

"But that's madness!" he said. His eyes snapped back to Eicke. "That's 
madness, Theo, and you know it! I've always been one of the Führer's 
loyalest followers. I've put the Party above everything, above my wife, above 
my children, above myself—I've sacrificed everything I've got for the Party." 
He suddenly caught hold of Eicke's shoulders and began shaking him. "Didn't 
I save the Führer on two occasions when the revolution looked like crushing 
us? Didn't I? Didn't I save him at Stuttgart? When you and all the others ran 
off and left him, and Wollweber and his Communists were having it all their 
own way—wasn't it me who stayed behind and rescued him?" 

"Yes, yes," said Eicke soothingly. He removed the prisoner's frenzied hands 
from his shoulders and stood up. "Unfortunately, my poor Ernst, you have a 
tendency to live in the past. The Führer is concerned only with the present. All 
I know is that you've been expelled from the Party and are no longer regarded 
as—ah—one of the faithful, as it were." He smiled and smoothed down his 
uniform. "Out of deference, I shall now retire and leave the final arrangements 
to you. All I ask is that you don't make things more difficult than you have to—
we are, after all, old friends, are we not? And I can promise you that this really 
is the best way out. Look— you can see for yourself the way the wind is 
blowing." 

From his pocket he pulled out a page of the Völkischer Beobachter and 
handed it to Röhm. In the largest type the printer could provide were the 
words: STABSCHEF RÖHM ARRESTED. FULL SCALE PURGE OF SA ON 
ORDERS OF FÜHRER: ALL TRAITORS MUST DIE! 

Röhm looked across at Eicke, his face white and his eyes blank with disbelief. 

"If this is true—" He waved a despairing hand and for a moment he faltered 
and seemed unable to go on. "If this is true, then it means the man's nothing 
but a murderer—it means you're all insane—it means it's all been for nothing." 

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," returned Eicke cheerfully. "Don't be naive, Ernst. 
You know as well as I that you risk your neck when you start playing politics. 
You today, me tomorrow—who knows? As far as I'm concerned, we're all 


playing our luck, and yours has just happened to run out a bit sooner than 
mine . . ." 

He raised his hand in farewell and went out to the corridor, where Lippert and 
Schmausser were waiting for him. 

"Well?" said Lippert. 

Eicke shrugged. "Give him time. The idea's hardly sunk in yet." 

They gave him fifteen minutes, but not a sound was heard. It was cheerless 
and stuffy in the prison corridor and the three SS men began to lose patience. 
Eicke went back into the cell and frowned with annoyance; Röhm was still 
sitting on his bench, and the revolver was still lying untouched by his side. 

"All right," said Eicke. "You don't feel like cooperating, so we'll have to do it 
the hard way. It makes no difference to me; I just thought you might prefer to 
die with dignity." He picked up the revolver and gestured at the prisoner. 
"Come on, on your feet, let's get it over with." 

A little unsteady, Röhm staggered upright. He placed himself against the wall, 
directly beneath the window with its dirty pane of glass and its mocking 
glimpse of the free blue sky. Eicke raised his arm and coldly took aim. 

At the last moment, Röhm cried out, "Mein Führer! Mein Führer!" 

Eicke watched dispassionately as his old friend and colleague sank slowly to 
the floor, his back leaving a damp mark as it slid down the wall of the cell. He 
walked over to look at him. Röhm was not quite dead. Three months ago he 
had been one of the most powerful men in Germany, one of Hitler's closest 
friends, and now he lay twisting and moaning on the filthy floor of a Munich 
prison cell. Eicke turned him over with the toe of his boot. Agonized eyes 
stared up at him. Calmly he pointed his revolver at the man's temple and blew 
half his head away. 

2 

Journey by Sled 

For some days now, life at the front had settled into a routine which, for the 
old hands, was at least tolerable if not exactly luxurious. For the newcomers, 
of course, it probably seemed like hell on earth, but they either learned quickly 
or not at all. When the enemy machine guns started up, you got down and 
you stayed down, a simple fact of life with which we were so well acquainted 
that we did it as a reflex action, without being consciously aware that we were 
under fire. We had even grown accustomed to heavy shelling and accepted it 
as a matter of course. We could hear the shells as they were fired and had 
almost learned to predict with accuracy where they would land. The new boys 
thought we were mad, and we watched pityingly as they either frightened 
themselves into hysterics or got their heads blown off. 


All night long we would play blackjack, in a stable where Porta and Tiny were 
serving a rather futile jail sentence. We were not officially allowed in, of 
course, but the whole place was falling apart and it was easy enough to bash 
a hole in the rotting wood and climb through one at a time when the guard 
was not looking. They had lashed the two prisoners to one of the feeding 
troughs to stop their escaping—a notion which gave us all the biggest laugh 
we had had in years. The idea of anyone in their position wishing to escape 
seemed like one hell of a joke. Nothing to do but sleep all day and play cards 
all night—what more could a soldier want? Mind you, it was only very recently 
that they had begun to treat prisoners with such civility. Until a short while 
before, a man was stood against a tree trunk, his hands tied together, for 
twelve hours at a stretch. Three hours off, twelve hours against the tree trunk, 
and this in all weathers, in all conditions, for a total of two hundred hours. You 
took good care not to get caught in those days. 

Tiny and Porta were undergoing punishment for having come to blows with 
one of the baggage masters, and they were now bemoaning the fact that they 
were due to be released the following day. 

"Should've bust him up good and proper," said Tiny ten times a night. "That 
way they'd have given us at least three months." 

"Don't worry," said Porta. "I'm working on it. Next time we'll make damn sure 
of it." 

"Yeah, we'll make a good job of it next time." 

"You bet we will! It only beats me why everyone else don't try it on." 

"Perhaps we ought to make a roster?" I suggested. "Take it in turns, so we 
can all have a bit of rest?" 

The two prisoners at once closed ranks and stared at me with intense dislike 
and suspicion. 

"You want a rest?" said Porta. "Then it's up to you to go and get it. This is our 
pigeon. You keep your nose out of it." 

"They'd smell a rat," said Tiny jealously. "You go poach on someone else's 
ground." 

"All right," I said. "Keep your shirt on. It's not my fault if I do something wrong 
by mistake and they nab me for it, I suppose?" 

They went on looking at me, their eyes narrowed. 

"You watch it," said Porta at last. "You just watch it, boy!" 

There was the sound of footsteps outside the stable. The Old Man glanced 
through the dust-covered windows. 


"Changing the guard," he said. "It's time we were off." He gave me a dig in the 
ribs. "How about some coffee, eh?" 

It was always me. Because I was the youngest, it was always me who had to 
go and fetch their stinking coffee from the field kitchen. I was not only the 
youngest, I was also a cadet officer, but that made no difference, I still had to 
do all the fetching and carrying and be cursed by the cook, who lived in a 
permanent rage and had a particular hatred of anyone who was likely to better 
himself. 

On the way back I tripped over an unexploded bomb and spilled most of the 
coffee. That meant I was reviled by Heide as well as by the cook. 

"What's this?" he shouted. "Half a cup? Where's the rest gone? Down your 
greedy gullet, I bet!" 

"Piss off!" I said. "Go and get your own lousy coffee if you don't like the way I 
do it! People leave goddamn great bombs lying about all over the place, what 
am I supposed to do?" 

At that, they all turned on me, shaking their fists and their half-empty mugs of 
coffee. I trailed back to the kitchen, where the cook threw a spoon at me and 
told me, in totally unrepeatable language, to go screw myself. I finally had to 
bribe his assistant before I could get a refill, and even then there wasn't 
enough to go around and I was the one who had to suffer. Naturally. Being 
the youngest. There weren't any privileges attached to being young in the 
Army. 

The next day saw not only Tiny and Porta's release, but also the order to 
prepare the motorized sleds to take a new contingent to the front line. In 
addition, we had some mail, but the Old Man was the only one of our group to 
receive a letter. It was from his wife, who drove a No. 12 trolleybus in Berlin. 
As soon as the Old Man had finished it, we passed it around among 
ourselves. 

Dear Willi: 

Why don't you write to us more often? No news for eight weeks and we're all 
so worried about you. Not a day goes by but you hear someone else you 
knew is dead, there are now five pages in the paper, all death columns. 
Everyone on edge all the time, and last week I had an accident. Am going to 
see if I can't change jobs to be a conductor, driving makes me so tired now we 
have to do twelve hours at a stretch. They can't get the labor is the trouble, 
there's such a shortage of people. No men anywhere, only ones that aren't fit, 
all the rest are gone. Hans Hilmert was killed at Kharkov. Two men from the 
Party came and told Anna, when she fainted they had to take her to the 
hospital. They've got the children in care. All of us on the block wanted to look 
after them but it's the Party decides everything these days. You remember the 
Sockes who came to live next door? He was badly wounded in Greece, 
they've told Trade as soon as he's a bit better they'll send him home to Berlin. 


I don't know, though, I wonder. Jochem is doing very well at school, his old 
one was bombed and now he's at a new one. The whole building went and 
half the children were killed. They were digging all night long; I was nearly 
crazy, but thank God, Jochem was OK. The ones that were left, they have to 
go to the school at Grünewald. It means I have to get up an hour earlier, but 
Gerda, Ilse and me are taking it in turns. They have to change three times and 
it's very confusing so they can't manage it alone. I told you about the girl who 
disappeared back in September? They've now found her body in the grounds 
of the zoo but not yet her murderer. I have ha< your snapshot done larger and 
in color so now you are with us all the time. When will you get some leave? 
haven't seen you for more than a year. Where are you' It's awful not knowing, 
that's the worst. Everyone is talking about Stalingrad, I hope you're not there, 
it sounds like hell. Hohne, the boy on the fourth floor, that is, came home on 
leave but after two days he had a telegram say ing to go back to his regiment. 
He'd only just left and the police came for him, his wife is half mad not 
knowing what's happened. She spent a whole day at the Kommandantur 
trying to find out but nobody will tell her This war is cruel, it's so hard on 
everybody, men fight ing and the women not knowing and even the children 
getting killed. They've just cut down the rations again Last week I heard they 
were selling horsemeat under the counter in Tauenzienstrasse, but I got there 
too late, it was all gone. Tomorrow I'm going to try at Moritz Platz see if I can 
get some without using coupons. The children need meat, it's not for myself, I 
wouldn't care for it Willi please look after yourself, because what would we do 
without you if you never came back? The sirens have just gone again, it'll be 
the English, they always come between five and eight. We've had three days 
without them but I knew they'd be back. Can't leave us alone, it seems. 
Please write to me soon, we all send our love, 

Liselotte. 

P.S. Don't worry about us here, we're quite all right, only we wonder where 
you are. 

We read Willi's letter lingeringly and lovingly. Mail was scarce in our part of 
the world and we shared it in much the same way as we shared cigarettes. A 
letter to one of us was a letter to all. And besides, the burden of a letter from 
home was almost too much for one man to bear by himself. We were all 
greedy for news, yet whenever it came it unsettled us. 

We prepared the sleds and moved out as darkness fell. An icy wind was 
cutting across our faces and whipping the frozen snow into great peaks. We 
heard the guns boom out at Yersovka, where they were bombarding 
Stalingrad. Rumor had it that an entire Russian division was pinned down in 
Rynok, and that a factory on the Isle of Barricady had been destroyed. Rumor 
also had it that the 100th Infantry Division and the Rumanian 1st Tank 
Division had been destroyed. For the most part, we stolidly disbelieved 
everything we heard, good or bad. It was, however, a fact that the 2nd 
Rumanian Infantry Division had bumped into the Russians a few days back 
and in their panic-stricken retreat down the banks of the Volga the majority of 
them had been shot by advancing German troops and their bodies left where 


they fell, to discourage any more such displays. Their commanding officer had 
been hanged by his feet outside the Spartakos factory and was still rotting 
there on public view. 

Tired and irritable, and so cold that we felt our very blood had frozen, we 
moved ahead with the sleds. We had to be at the front with the reinforcements 
by eleven o'clock, before the Russian artillery started up. The bastards were 
so regular, you could set your watch by them. We knew eleven o'clock was 
the deadline, but it was hard going across Selvanov and Serafimovitch and 
you had to be constantly on the alert that you weren't heading into the 
Russian lines at sixty miles an hour and not able to stop until you were well 
and truly in their midst. 

We traveled thirty-five men to a sled. The one carrying the ammunition was 
third in the column, that being the least vulnerable position for the most 
vulnerable of the sleds. Lieutenant Wenck was traveling with the ammunition. 
Officer though he was, we regarded him with more respect and less scorn 
than most of his kind. In fact, we almost paid him the compliment of treating 
him as one of ourselves, he had been at the front so long. 

Porta was, as usual, in the lead. He was as good as a mine detector any day, 
he seemed almost to sense the presence of those little surprise packages the 
partisans were in the habit of leaving for us everywhere they went. Tiny sat by 
his side on the front seat, manning the machine gun, a pile of grenades near 
at hand. Gregor and I were crouched behind Porta, the MG pointing skyward, 
ready for any attack that might be launched by Russian infantrymen in the 
area. 

It was no joyride, being in a motorized sled driven by Porta. The thing 
weighed three tons and he flung it up and down, from side to side, with the 
same recklessness as if he were in a car at an amusement park. We shot up 
hills like fireballs from the cannon's mouth and fell straight down the other 
side, landing with a spine-jarring crash on the ground. Porta laughed so much 
that he several times lost all control and we tore through the snow at seventy 
or eighty miles an hour, the wind cutting across our faces as we clutched the 
sides of the sled and prayed, our faces green with suppressed vomit. 

"Wheeee!" shouted Porta, as the sled launched itself into space from the 
summit of a fairly steep hill. 

We held our breath and closed our eyes as we waited for the crash. Tiny and 
Porta roared with exhilaration and the sled hit the hard-packed snow and 
bounced up again. 

"This is the last time I ever travel with you, you brainless bastard!" sobbed 
Heide, almost choking with rage and panic. 

Porta merely flung back his head and laughed. Even as I watched, he took 
both hands off the wheel and gave his attention to a bottle of vodka he had 
with him. I turned in despair to Gregor. 


"He's drunk," I said. "We shall all be killed." 

Gregor was hanging onto the MG for dear life. "I'd rather be killed than suffer 
this much longer," he muttered through clenched teeth. 

Porta laughed again, rather wildly, and had another swig from his bottle. We 
had all been given supplementary rations of vodka, a liter each, before we left, 
but Porta, in his usual manner, had ended up with three times more than 
anyone else. 

"Where exactly are we going?" inquired a young and rather superior NCO, 
who had recently joined us and was fresh out of training. 

"To the war, my young friend, to the war!" The Legionnaire, who was the only 
one apart from Tiny and Porta who seemed unmoved by the crazy cavortings 
of the sled, patted the boy condescendingly on the back. "You shall see action 
at last," he promised him. "You shall see men risk their lives and their sanity 
for little bits of tin to hang on their chest; except that most of them will end up 
with little bits of wood to stick in their graves instead." 

"Yes, yes, I know all that!" said the boy, frowning with impatience. "But where 
are we going?" 

"You'll see soon enough. Don't be so eager. Wait till you get there, you'll 
probably wish you'd never come." 

"What do you mean by that?" The boy turned on the Legionnaire, his blue 
eyes narrowed. He was a model of National Socialist soldiery; eager as hell to 
come to grips with the wicked Communist bogeymen and quite unable to 
picture the degrading butchery that it entailed. "I'm not scared of a load of 
lousy Communists!" 

The Legionnaire looked at him and slowly shook his head. "You may not be 
scared now, kid, but you'd damn well better be later on—because that's the 
only way you're likely to survive. Don't underestimate the enemy, they're not 
quite the little paper dolls they made them out to be at home." 

Contemptuously the boy turned his back on the Legionnaire. I sat watching 
him and wondering how long he was likely to last. 

It took us four hours of Porta's switchback driving to reach the rear positions. 
The temperature was way below freezing point, and although we were packed 
with newspaper, we still shivered in our thin capes. 

There was no fresh snow on the track here, it was a river of ice and the sled 
zipped along the surface, which was exhilarating on level ground and heart-
stopping on slopes or sharp corners. We tore down the side of a steep hill, 
narrowly missing a boulder which would have chopped us to bits, and found 
ourselves approaching a hairpin bend at almost a hundred miles an hour. 
Below us lay the charred remains of the stricken village of Dobrinka. The 


slightest error of judgment by Porta and we should be thrown hurtling into 
space toward the jagged brick ruins which waited for us on either side of the 
track like so many open mouths. 

"Hold tight!" yelled Porta. "This could be it!" 

It was only too clear that the thick-headed idiot was enjoying himself. The sled 
shot screaming around the bend, rising vertically into the air as it did so. Men 
were flung about like skittles, and a young recruit lost his grip and was tossed 
out into the road, where the following sled ran over him. By the time we 
regained the horizontal and sorted ourselves out, the incident was over and 
forgotten. It seemed a silly way to go, to meet your death falling out of a sled, 
but probably no more pointless than treading on a land mine or running into 
the face of an enemy machine gun. 

Porta was singing a song, apparently indifferent to all the obvious dangers. 
We had survived the hairpin bend, but we were now running down into the 
village and the track was full of twists and turns. Just the spot for a few well-
placed mines; we had already passed a couple of burned-out lorries. 

The heavy sled went bucking and rearing on its way. It needed only one small 
hidden obstruction and we should all be blown sky-high. Everyone except 
Tiny—nursing his machine gun in the front seat—curled into a protective ball, 
head between knees, arms hugging legs, prepared for a crash landing. 

The last bend brought us into the village. A sudden movement caught Tiny's 
attention. A fugitive figure in white had slipped out of one of the ruined huts. It 
raised its arm in a throwing action—and in the same moment Tiny's machine 
gun opened up. The figure was tossed, legs flying and arms waving, into the 
air. The grenade intended for us missed its mark and exploded harmlessly by 
the side of the track. Porta took his foot off the brake and the sled bounded 
forward again. Gregor and I exchanged haggard glances, and I wiped the 
perspiration from my forehead. 

"Jesus, it's cold," whined Gregor. "It's enough to freeze the balls off a brass 
monkey. I've never been so cold in my life. I don't know how they can expect . 
. ." 

"Aw, quit moaning!" snapped Tiny. "What fool invented these goddamn coffins 
on skates anyway?" 

"A German colonel," said Heide, always very well informed on such matters. 

"Yeah, it would be," said Tiny in disgust. "Trust a nincompoop colonel!" 

"I bet he's never had to travel in one," added Gregor vindictively. "Not in the 
freezing perishing cold without so much as a . . ." 

"Mine!" roared Porta. 


We spun around, eyes wide and staring. There it was, some way ahead of us, 
an innocent white hump in the middle of the track, the size and shape of an 
inverted meat pie. Some way ahead, but we were gaining on it fast. Porta 
slammed on the brakes and the sled reared up and almost did a backward 
somersault. It crashed down to earth, veered sideways and shot back into the 
path of the mine. It should have stopped by now, but instead, it raced straight 
on; the hydraulics had evidently given way, and we were tearing toward the 
mine at insane speed. 

"God almighty!" The Old Man stared ahead at approaching death, his hands 
tightly clutching the guard rail. Gregor and I clung to the MG as if it were a life 
raft. Behind us, the new recruits sat white-faced and uncomprehending. We 
knew what these mines could do, we had seen them rip the bottom of a sixty-
ton Tiger, but what did the partisans and their constant booby traps mean to 
new troops, fresh out from Germany? They had not yet seen the twisted, 
broken bodies of men who had been blown up. 

"Jump!" yelled Porta over his shoulder. 

We flexed our muscles, preparing for the last moment, when we should have 
to take the plunge. Better to risk multiple fractures than sit tight and wait for 
the world to explode. 

I stared hypnotically at the inverted meat pie as we rushed down on it. It was 
a favorite trick of the partisans to steal out at night, dig a hole in the ice, 
deposit a mine and pour in some water, which soon froze over, leaving 
scarcely any trace of what lay beneath. To anyone else, it might have been a 
stone; only a cunning old fox like Porta was able to spot it in time and know it 
for the death trap it was. 

"Jump!" he now screamed again, and without taking his eyes off the track, he 
reached out with one hand and gave a tremendous push at the nearest 
recruit, who fell overboard with a shrill yell of fear. Heide dived headfirst into a 
snowdrift. Tiny turned around, picked up two terrified boys by the scruff of 
their necks and hurled them bodily into space, then threw himself after them. 
The rest of the recruits clung anxiously to the handrail, not fully understanding 
the danger that was now only seconds away from them, but understanding 
only too well the kind of accident that could befall anyone fool enough to jump 
off a vehicle moving along at sixty miles an hour. 

"Enemy aircraft!" shouted the Old Man, as he hurtled over the side. 

By some miracle, it worked. It seemed that they could understand enemy 
aircraft. Probably it had been part of their training. At any rate, they jumped! 

Gregor and I abandoned our precious MG and disappeared together into the 
snow. I landed like a bullet only inches away from a telegraph pole. I sat up, 
feeling nauseous. Another fraction to the right and my head would have been 
crushed like an eggshell. A helmet would have saved me, but we had largely 
given up wearing them, finding that the advantage of having a protective layer 


of steel on top of one's head was more than outweighed by the disadvantage 
of impaired sight and hearing. 

Porta made one final attempt to brake by using the clutch, but it had no 
perceptible effect. The sled was now almost on top of the mine. At the very 
last second Porta gave a despairing wrench at the wheel and the sled slewed 
away in the opposite direction, but we had no time to sit back and applaud, 
nor to mop our brows with relief, nor to check our casualties, for the second 
sled was approaching fast. We rushed into the road, waving our arms and 
screaming at Barcelona, who was driving. 

"Mine! There's a mine!" 

Too late. They were too close on our tail and hadn't a chance of pulling up. 
Barcelona applied the brakes with all his force, but the sled merely upended 
and burst into flames as the mine exploded beneath it. 

The third sled, the one carrying the ammunition, was taking desperate evasive 
action, but it was out of control and the wreckage of the second sled was 
scattered in its path. It went plowing through it, through the flames and across 
the writhing, screaming bodies, turned two clumsy somersaults and then itself 
exploded. Lieutenant Wenck was propelled up into the air like a human torch. 
We ran to the spot, but the body that fell back into the snow was a twisted, 
grinning parody of a human being, and it died before we could reach it. 

Slowly the noise of the explosions died away; slowly the whirling debris came 
to rest. Pieces of broken machinery and torn chunks of human flesh sank 
down into the melting snow. We found Barcelona lying some way off, where 
he had been thrown by the first explosion. He was alive but unconscious, with 
his uniform in ribbons and a huge hole in the side of his chest. We patched 
him up as best we could and carried him carefully back to the road, where a 
medical orderly had already set up a first aid post. As we laid Barcelona 
gently in the snow, our eyes were drawn to a sight that was almost too 
horrible to contemplate. And yet it compelled you to look; you looked until you 
felt sick with disgust and torn apart with horror, and still your eyes refused to 
turn away from the mangled mess that lay trapped beneath an overturned 
sled. A young soldier, half crushed, half destroyed, yet incredibly and horribly 
still breathing. 

"Oh, my God," muttered the Old Man, putting a hand over his eyes. "Oh, God, 
let him die." 

Appalled as I had never been before, I stood with the rest staring down at the 
infinitely pathetic, infinitely repulsive thing that only seconds before had been 
a human being. It lay with its lower half beneath the sled, the crashed 
remnants of its chest still heaving as some sort of life struggled on within it. 
Where the face had been was now only a patchwork of blood and skin and 
black, gaping holes. Empty eye sockets, and a cavity for a nose; mouth and 
chin both blown away; tongue torn out, one eye hanging from a strip of loose 
flesh ... 


To turn one's head away and vomit seemed an act of disloyalty to a fallen 
comrade. To walk away and forget seemed a desertion. So I remained staring 
at my post, willing the man's heart to stop its senseless beating and thus 
relieve me from my self-imposed task of watching over another's agony. 

I became slowly aware that Gregor had pulled out his revolver. I wished I had 
pulled mine first and that we had finished the job. 

"Don't," said the Old Man. "Don't do it." He shook his head and gently 
removed the gun from Gregor's hand. 

"But we can't let him go on in that state—he'll die anyway—and even if he 
lives," babbled Gregor, clutching at the Old Man's arm, "he won't look like a 
human being again." 

"Never say that," said the orderly, bending down by the man's side and 
beginning patiently on the task of reassembling all the scattered components. 
"Everyone has a right to live. He'll pull through, if he's got the will." 

"But his face—" whispered Gregor. 

The orderly took out his syringe. "They'll patch it up. There's a special hospital 
near Baden-Baden—just outside the town. Plastic surgery, they call it. They 
can put him together again." 

Gregor looked disbelievingly at the pitiful mess that had been a human face. 

The orderly bit his lip as he gave the injection. "Well— perhaps not quite the 
same as before," he admitted. "But at least they're alive—and they keep them 
all together, see? Don't let them go out of the grounds or anything like that. It's 
better for morale." 

There was a silence. 

"Whose morale?" I said. I jerked my head at the mutilated man. "His? Or 
everyone else's?" 

"Don't ask me," muttered the orderly. "It's a top secret establishment, that's all 
I know." 

The Old Man glanced across at some of the recruits, who were huddled in a 
terrified bunch, watching. 

"Go on, take a good look," he told them bitterly. "That was a man, lying down 
there. Did they ever tell you that was how it was going to be? Did they ever 
tell you that was the sort of sacrifice they expected of you? Not a good quick 
death but something you have to suffer for the rest of your life So if any of you 
survive the slaughter, you just make damn sure you tell your sons, when you 
have any, that that's what war is all about—human beings like lumps of raw 
flesh on the butcher's shelf." 


We piled the wounded onto the remaining sleds and set off once more toward 
the front line. Barcelona had regained consciousness and was muttering 
feverishly and occasionally crying out as he lay at the bottom of the sled. We 
did our best for him but the blood had already soaked through the bandages. 

We had only just pulled out of the village when the Russian artillery started 
up. The Legionnaire glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock. Just like always. 
What should we do without them?" 

As soon as we arrived, we carried Barcelona to the field hospital and bribed 
one of the doctors to take particular care of him. We visited him the next day. 
He was lying in bed with a face grayer than the coarse gray sheets, he had a 
drain in his chest and he was feeling pretty sorry for himself. By his bed lay 
his food rations, which he had not the strength to eat: an egg, some sausage, 
and an orange. Tiny's eyes went back time and again to the plate, until finally 
he could contain himself no longer. 

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked. 

Barcelona shook his head weakly from side to side. 

"Well, in that case—" Tiny stretched out a great greedy claw and snatched up 
the food. "It's silly to leave it for some other bastard to pinch." 

"That's all right," whispered Barcelona, as the sausage disappeared into 
Tiny's mouth. "You can have it—and the orange," he added, as Tiny began 
ripping off the skin with his teeth. 

"What about your reefer coat?" Tiny wanted to know cramming bits of orange 
into his mouth. 

He looked at it longingly. He himself had only his thin camouflage jacket over 
his regular tunic, and we all knew that if Barcelona should die, one of the 
medical orderlies would certainly appropriate his coat. A good thick reefer like 
that was worth more than its weight in gold. 

"What about it?" said Tiny. "You don't need it while you're in here. Why can't I 
just borrow it?" 

"No!" 

Barcelona was far too weak to shout, but the intended vehemence of his 
protest was obvious. He turned his eyes on us so imploringly that the Old Man 
gave Tiny a sharp kick in the leg and told him to shut up. 

As we left, we had a quick whip round and made Barcelona a present of all 
our opium cigarettes and two liters of vodka. If he was going to pull through, 
he would need something to sustain him. We pushed them safely under his 
pillow when no one else was looking and waved him goodbye. 


When we' went back the following day, we were told that Barcelona had been 
transferred to a hospital in Stalingrad. 

"Son of a bitch!" shouted Tiny. "Now they've both gone —him and his jacket! 
What a couple of shits!" 

 

All that we have hoped for, all that we have worked for, has now become 
reality. We have not only a well-ordered state, but also, in Adolf Hitler, a 
leader we will follow to the very end. 

Pastor Steinemann, August 5, 1933 

SS Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, seated behind his desk, stared 
thoughtfully across at Standartenführer Theodor Eicke, who was sprawled in 
an armchair, seemingly unaware of his gaze. 

After a moment Himmler pushed back his chair and stood up. Shoes creaking, 
he walked across to the window and looked out at the white wastes of Prinz 
Albrecht Strasse, where the first snow of the winter was still untrodden. He 
frowned, cleared his throat, placed his hands behind his back and turned to 
face Eicke. 

"I hope for your own sake, my dear fellow—" He paused, and gave a grim, 
warning smile. "I hope for your own sake that what you've just told me is true." 

"Reichsführer!" Eicke's exclamation of protest rang out almost mockingly. He 
seemed very sure of himself. "The old bitch quite definitely had Jewish blood 
in her—and more than a few drops, too. At least a quarter Yid, I should say. 
I've suspected it for a long time, I just never Had the proof until now. But in 
any case, you've only got to look at the family schnozzle, it sticks out a mile!" 

He flung back his head in a great burst of laughter. Himmler, nostrils pinched 
and eyes closed, took a dee breath and counted to ten. This man Eicke 
irritated him every time he opened his mouth. His language was coarse and 
his sense of humor bordered on the moronic. 

"Very well. I shall have to take your word for it. You have nothing else to 
report? In that case, I shall wish you a very good day. Heil Hitler!" 

The minute Eicke had left the room, Himmler seated himself once more at his 
desk and picked up the telephone. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the 
papers Eicke had left with him, "Send Obergruppenführer Heydrich to me—at 
once!" 

Heydrich arrived a few seconds later, padding silently into the room. He was 
more wild beast than man, with the elegance, cunning and cruelty of a lynx. 
Himmler watched as he crossed the room, and Heydrich, ever on the alert for 
danger, returned his gaze out of hooded eyes that gave away no secrets. 


"Take a seat, Obergruppenführer." 

Heydrich inclined his head and settled himself in the chair that was still warm 
from Eicke's presence. His blue eyes were deep and chill and his light gray 
uniform, pressed to knife-edge precision, gave off a faint odor of horses. 
Every morning, from five o'clock to seven, Heydrich was in the habit of taking 
a ride with his mortal enemy, Admiral Canaris. 

Himmler removed his pince-nez, polished the lenses, rubbed the bridge of his 
nose. The two men looked at each other across the desk, and it was Himmler 
who broke first, under the pretext of replacing his pince-nez. He settled them 
back on his nose and began leafing through Eicke's papers. He spoke without 
looking up. "Tell me, Obergruppenführer —what exactly was it that was 
written on your grandmother's tombstone?" 

Almost imperceptibly, Heydrich stiffened. And then laughed. His lips parted in 
amusement, but the chill blue eyes narrowed to slits. "Her name, for one 
thing," he said. "Her name was Sarah . . ." 

"I'm told," Himmler interrupted him, "you went to some lengths to have the 
tombstone removed." 

"Removed?" echoed Heydrich, raising his eyebrows. 

"Why should I do such a thing, Reichsführer? It cost a great deal of money." 

"Which is doubtless why you have now had it replaced —but without the name 
of Sarah, curiously enough." 

There was a silence. 

"This name—this Sarah," suggested Heydrich. "Has it ever appeared on the 
tombstone of my great-grandmother, Reichsführer?" 

Himmler stared at him across the table. Heydrich sat calmly in his chair, an 
expression of alert curiosity on his face, and it slowly came to Himmler that 
this, his most competent of generals, was also his most dangerous. He 
decided, for the moment, to let the matter drop. "All right, Heydrich. You can 
go. We'll forget it for now." 

Heydrich smiled an inward smile of triumph and trod silently over to the door. 
He also had his weapons, but they were not yet for public display. The time 
was not ripe. 

3 

Porta's Breakfast 


Sergeant Lutz kicked open the door so hard that I thought an earthquake had 
hit us. We were wakened every morning by his hideously rasping voice. 
"Wake up, you lazy jerks! Rise and shine, out of bed, put some vim into it!" 

This morning, it was even worse than usual. For one thing, it wasn't so much 
the morning as the middle of the night; and for another, he had a special 
message for Porta, myself and Tiny, which he relayed in a gloating bellow. 

"You—you—and you! Report immediately to the CO And when I say 
immediately, I mean immediately. For special duties, no less, aren't you the 
lucky ones?" 

"Go fuck a duck!" was the only reply to be heard, from the depths of Porta's 
blankets. 

"I'm warning you!" barked Lutz. "Any more of that and I'll have you up on a 
charge!" 

Tiny shot up in his bed and fixed Lutz with one frenzied, red-rimmed eye. 
"What the hell's the matter with you? You got a flea up your ass or 
something? Can't you see we're trying to sleep?" 

Porta let loose one of his celebrated, reverberating farts and lay in bed 
sniggering. "Wrap that one up and take it to the CO with my compliments!" 

Lutz breathed very deeply. "I'm not telling you again," he said nastily. "But 
you'd better get a move on. You'd just better get a move on, or I'm warning 
you—you'll be up on a charge of refusing to obey orders." 

He slammed out again, happy at the havoc he had wrought. The air was full of 
obscenities, but we reluctantly wriggled out of our warm blankets into the 
freezing blasts of the extreme early morning. Lutz was a bastard and as good 
as his word, and being had up on a charge of refusing to obey orders could 
well prove to be worse than the orders themselves. 

Porta sat up, cursing, and deftly picked off a flea that was crawling over his 
thin chicken chest in a vain search for blood. He crushed it between finger 
and thumbnail and shot it across the room. 

"Screw the lot of 'em!" he declared. "I can't do nothing without my breakfast." 

"You've got a hope," I said. "Breakfast at this hour of the night?" 

"Don't you worry!" Porta jumped out of bed and into his uniform in one 
perfected movement. He advanced on the door, doing up his buttons. "Don't 
you worry, I'll get some breakfast out of the bastards if it's the last thing I do." 

Tiny and I hurried after him, half dressed and anxious, pulling on boots and 
jackets, determined not to miss our share. At our own field kitchen there was 
nothing doing. Porta stood and bawled his head off, with no result. 


"Swine! You call that cooperation, do you? You call that cooperation? Let your 
pals go off into the godawful freezing cold without so much as a cup of 
coffee? Well, God rot the balls off the lot of you, that's all I can say!" 

Actually, he said a great deal more, accompanied by much spitting and a 
variety of oaths, until the happy notion struck him that the Third Company's 
cook owed him some money, and we trotted off behind him to batter the 
unfortunate man awake. We were stopped on the way by Lieutenant Welz, 
who seemed to think we were reporting for duty. 

"There you are!" he said tersely. "And about time too!" 

"Aw, give it a rest, Ulrich!" Porta pushed the lieutenant in the chest and moved 
him contemptuously aside. "Just because you've gone up in the world, you 
think you can shove your old buddies around, eh? We know you don't mean it, 
we know it's all show, so come off it, for Chrissake." 

"Obergefreiter Porta, this isn't the first time I've had to tell you that under 
Paragraph 165 .. ." 

"OK, OK, take it easy," said Porta peaceably. "You'll wear yourself out before 
you reach puberty, the way you're carrying on." He put a hand over the 
lieutenant's mouth. 

"You forgotten that day I pulled you out of a shell hole? You forgotten I risked 
my life for you? Your lousy bones'd still be rotting there if it weren't for me, 
right?" 

The lieutenant jerked his head away. "I've repaid you for it." 

"What? Slipped me a few stinking marks now and again? You call that 
repayment? I call it more like bribery and corruption. You can't win, Ulrich, I 
can run rings around you and you know it!" 

We walked on toward the Third Company, with Lieutenant Welz trailing 
slightly behind. Porta dragged a sleep-ridden but meekly unprotesting cook 
from his blankets and we gathered around to watch as he brewed us up some 
coffee on a spirit stove. Even Welz, temporarily forgetting his rank and the 
particular circumstances, accepted a cup and found the time to put away a 
thick ham sandwich. The cook, meanwhile, had succeeded in negotiating 
another loan from Porta, at some phenomenal rate of interest. 

Half an hour later, we reported for duty. Colonel Hinka was waiting for us. "So! 
You've deigned to put in an appearance, have you? Very good of you, I must 
say. I was beginning to think I should have to come and fetch you myself. All 
right, all right, Obergefreiter, don't waste time with fanciful excuses, I've a job 
for you to do. Come and take a look." 

He spread a map over his table and we jostled each other with a show of 
great eagerness, trying to atone for our unpunctuality. 


"Now look, the thing is this—it's essential we know exactly what the enemy is 
up to. We already have information about a tank unit up here at point X. What 
I want to know is what they've got hidden away between point X and 
Yersovka, down here. In other words, I want you three men to take a good 
look at the enemy buildup between these two points. Get the idea?" 

He turned to us with his most enchanting smile. I smiled back and wondered 
sourly why he had chosen us for the task. 

Porta scratched his chest. "Jesus, it's a good thing that coffee was strong," he 
muttered. 

Hinka ignored Porta and turned back to the map. "I've already warned our 
infantry. You can cross at this point here." He jabbed a finger on the map, and 
we all peered anxiously down at it. "Now, I suggest you check your watches. 
The time is exactly 0145 hours. I want you back here again within six hours, 
reporting to me by 0800 at the latest." He smiled again. "All right? If you're 
delayed by more than half an hour," he said pleasantly, "it'll be a court-martial 
for each of you. Any questions?" 

"Yes, sir." Porta stopped scratching his chest and stood to attention. "I should 
like to ask how far the enemy lines extend. According to the Führer, they go 
all the way from the Black Sea up to the north coast. Well, it seems to me we 
couldn't possibly get up to the north coast and back in six hours and then . . ." 

Hinka held up a hand. "Don't push your luck, Obergefreiter! Do you never 
listen to a word I say?" "Yes, sir, but . . ." 

"Between point X and Yersovka. No more than three miles at the most. No 
one's talking of going all the way to the Black Sea. Don't be more stupid than 
you can help." 

The night was black and moonless and it was beginning to snow. We were all 
three agreed that a rest was required before we set out, and we accordingly 
crept into the shelter of a thick clump of bushes and passed around a bottle of 
French brandy I had recently picked up. 

"Where'd you get it?" demanded Porta jealously. I shrugged. "General HQ. 
You'd be amazed the stuff old Paulus has stashed away there." 

"Not really," said Porta, who never allowed himself to be amazed by anything. 
"That's the way it goes—the higher you are, the more you get away with. I 
guess it's always been like that. You know that war they had in China?" "What 
war?" demanded Tiny suspiciously. "What's it matter?" Porta wrinkled his 
forehead. "Some lousy war. Some lousy rebellion. Half the fucking world had 
to go and stick their noses in and send their troops over there." 

"The Boxer Rebellion," I suggested. "That's it," agreed Porta. "That's what I 
said. Well, anyway, there they were, fighting all over this goddamn desert. 
And it seems like the Chinese desert ain't too well provided with luxuries—


know what I mean? No booze, no grub, no dames—damn all. So one day 
they come across this great slob of a colonel feeding his face off the fat of the 
land—huge great chunks of roast meat, lashings of the stuff, and the best cuts 
and all. Know what it was? When they took it off him and looked at it, you 
know what it was?" "No," said Tiny. "What was it?" 

"Camel?" I said vaguely. 

"Camel!" Porta gave a scornful laugh. "Bird, that was what it was—roast bird. 
Human bird—Chinese human bird. Seems he'd taken her along for the ride, 
lost one sort of appetite and found another. So he cuts her up and pops her in 
the stewpot. Easy!" 

"I'd like to see you faced with it," I said. "You'd go bats, wouldn't you? Trying 
to eat it and stuff it at the same time." 

Porta grinned evilly. 

Tiny snatched the brandy away from me. "All this yakking—I haven't had my 
eight hours' sleep. I don't work so good without I get my eight hours." He 
downed a few mouthfuls of brandy and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Why 
couldn't the stupid bastard ask for volunteers, eh? There's always a gang of 
'em lusting after their Iron Cross. Why pick on us? What have we done to get 
in his hair?" 

"Oh, stop bellyaching!" said Porta. "It's an honor, that's what it is. You ought to 
be proud of it." 

"Yeah, big talk!" jeered Tiny. "Only right at this moment I got gooseflesh, and 
it ain't just because I'm cold. You know they got the lousy Siberians out there 
somewhere? You fancy being nailed to a tree and used for target practice like 
they done to that patrol from the Second Tank Regiment?" 

"Shove it," said Porta curtly. "What's the time?" 

I looked at my watch. "Quarter past one." 

"OK, come on. Let's get cracking." 

Tiny moaned and clutched protectively at the empty brandy bottle. "Why can't 
we spend the night here and cook up some hogwash to satisfy him?" 

Porta turned and hissed in his ear, "Because when the bastards found out 
we'd been lying, we'd be for the high jump, that's why! Now get off your great 
fat ass and get a move on!" 

Yawning and muttering, Tiny staggered to his feet. We left our own lines and 
crept forward into no-man's-land. It was fortunate the night was so dark. Even 
Tiny's vast bulk merged into the background, while Porta, snaking a few 
paces ahead of us, might not have been there at all. Nevertheless, we used 


what cover there was, slinking along by the side of bushes, taking care to 
make no sound. 

As we approached the Russian lines, I became aware of a faint, unidentifiable 
clicking somewhere to our right. I stood still, straining my ears. The sound 
came again. It was rather like a gas mask case knocking against a rifle. Porta 
turned and moved back a few paces, his hand making an imperative gesture 
to me to get down and stay down, which I relayed to Tiny, a few feet behind 
me. We sank into the snow and waited. I saw Porta crouch behind a bush and 
raise his submachine gun. 

Tiny's hand gripped my arm. "What's the stupid jerk doing that for?" 

"Christ knows," I muttered. 

"He fires that and we'll all be done for." 

No more than a few yards away, five solid black shapes emerged from the 
shelter of a thicket and began treading single file through the snow. They 
were Russians, but too big and bulky in build to be the dreaded Siberians. 
They passed very close to us. I could hear the thud of their boots and the 
swish of the snow. I held my breath, wondering if they would notice our tracks, 
but, thank God, it was too dark. They moved on, straight across our path, and 
I felt Tiny relax at my side. 

As we got to our feet, Porta farted; a sharp crack like a gunshot. The sound 
traveled clear and fast through the still night air, and Tiny and I were 
straightaway back on the ground. 

"For crying out loud!" I protested. "Another one like that and we'll have the 
whole of the Red Army down on us!" 

"I can't help it," said Porta with dignity. "It's the way I'm constituted. I've always 
been like it. The least bit of excitement and it goes to my bowels." 

"Well, just try and control it!" I snapped, in no mood to humor his physiological 
weaknesses. "It's like a goddamn cannon going off!" 

"Stick a cork up your ass," suggested Tiny. 

"Germany's secret weapon," I said sourly. "The human champagne bottle. 
Turns his back on the enemy and wipes out whole regiments at a fart." 

"Oh, cut it out!" snarled Porta. 

We crept on toward the river. We were almost on top of the Russian trenches 
now and had to crawl on our hands and knees. We could see the enemy 
machine guns looming up ahead, and Porta got caught on some barbed wire 
and exercised his ear-splitting physiological weakness for so long as we tried 
to rescue him that Tiny lost his nerve and threatened to cut his throat if he 


didn't stop. It was as much as I could do to prevent full-scale combat on the 
spot, and I whispered myself hoarse telling them to keep their raucous voices 
down. 

We yanked Porta free at last, only to stumble almost immediately on an 
enemy battery, where a sentry demanded to know the password. We froze 
into horrified silence. Finally, for want of anything better, Porta shouted back 
an obscenity. The sentry promptly replied in kind. We stood there, waiting to 
be shot, but nothing happened. Either the Russians were in the habit of using 
pornographic passwords, or the sentry had been so insulted that he could no 
longer be bothered with us. In any event, after a few more seconds' hesitation 
we moved on into the darkness and were allowed through with no more 
questions asked. 

Another ten minutes and we were nestling together in a deep, dark shell hole, 
Tiny shading the flashlight with one hand while I held the map and Porta 
licked the end of a pencil stub and laboriously marked in all the Russian 
positions between point X and Yersovka. Our mission was completed. It was 
now only a question of returning safely to our own lines. 

We stayed in our shell hole a while, sharing our last cigarette between the 
three of us, huddling into our coats and listening to the silence. Occasionally it 
was broken by the distant sound of gunfire, but for the most part the night was 
still and untroubled. The snow had stopped falling and the sky was 
crisscrossed with searchlights. We were reluctant to leave the comfort of our 
nest, but the colonel had given us six hours and we had in any case to beat 
the dawn if we wanted to survive. 

We moved off again into the treacherous night. With the velvet-black sky 
above, and the thick untrodden snow underfoot, deadening all sound, we 
could run into an enemy patrol at any moment and never even know what had 
hit us. We came at last to a point where the trail forked. After a short 
discussion, we turned to the right, but about a mile farther on I drew to a halt 
and looked reluctantly about me. 

"What's up?" demanded Porta impatiently. 

"I'm not sure—it's just a feeling, I may be wrong, but I don't think this is the 
right direction." 

"Balls!" said Porta. "We looked at the map, didn't we?" 

"Sure we looked at the map." 

"What is it, then?" 

"I don't know," I repeated. "It just doesn't feel right." 


Tiny shuffled his feet in some anxiety. "All fucking roads are the same, they all 
lead to the graveyard in the end, so let's get a move on and shut up yakking 
about it." 

We got a move on. We proceeded uncertainly for perhaps another hundred 
yards, when this time it was Porta who stopped. He stood rubbing his eyes 
and staring ahead. "Well, well, well!" he said. "Either I'm seeing things or this 
map's been rigged. Keep calm, you two, don't hang on to my shirttails like 
that, it'll all come right in the end." 

"What the hell are you driveling about?" grumbled Tiny. 

"Don't mind me," said Porta. "I'm going gaga." He grabbed Tiny's arm. "You 
see that great big wood over there?" 

Tiny and I both looked in the direction he was pointing. The wood was 
unmistakable. 

Tiny nodded. "So what? I seen a wood before." 

"Not one like that you haven't—that's a wood that ain't there. Not marked on 
the map, see? Don't exist—sort of a mirage." 

"Hang on," I said. "Let's have a gander." 

We spread the map out and shone the flashlight over it. 

"It's there, all right," I told them. "See? We've taken the wrong path. We 
should've gone left back at that fork. If we'd have gone left, we'd have come to 
this little river here— takes us straight back to our own lines." 

"So what do we do now?" Tiny wanted to know. 

"Search me," I said, folding the map. "I'm a stranger here myself." 

"You mean we're lost?" demanded Tiny. 

"That's about the size of it," I said. 

Tiny turned to stare incredulously at Porta. "You've lost us!" he said. "You 
stupid great oaf, you've gone and lost us!" 

"I knew we were on the wrong road," I said. "I told you it felt wrong." 

"Lost in the middle of fucking nowhere," said Tiny. "You'd lose your noodle 
given half a chance, wouldn't you? You'd lose your balls if they weren't in a 
bag. You'd lose your . . ." 

"Shut up moaning!" hissed Porta. "You had your chance to look at the map 
the same as the rest of us." 


"What d'you figure's our best bet?" I said. "We can either go back to the fork 
and start again or try to get back this way." 

Leaving Tiny to drone on to himself in a disgruntled monotone, Porta and I put 
our heads together and studied the map. We opted in the end for the wood; 
time was running out, and the trees at least offered a refuge should we still be 
wandering around at dawn. 

"Good thing you guys got me with you," said Porta, smug as usual. "You 
never know what interesting information we might unearth in this here wood. 
Just imagine old Hinka's face if we managed to . . ." 

"Pipe down!" I said urgently. "I've got the feeling we're not alone in here." 

A few yards ahead, through the trees, could be seen a faint light. 

"Russians!" whispered Tiny. "What'll we do? Go and have a look or steer clear 
of 'em?" 

"Best take a look," said Porta. "See how many there are. Hinka might be 
interested." 

"Screw Hinka," muttered Tiny. 

Porta ignored him. He gave me a slight push. "Sven, you take the right. Tiny, 
the left. I'll carry straight on. See you. back here in fifteen minutes." 

It was Porta who returned with the news. "It's OK, we can manage 'em. Far as 
I can see, they're all sleeping their heads off. Bit farther on there's a half-track 
armored personnel carrier. Looks to me like they're using it as a sub-radar 
station." 

"You're not suggesting we go in and mop them up?" I looked at him, horrified. 
"If that's a radio truck, you can bet your sweet life there'll be a staff HQ 
somewhere around. And where there's staff, there's sentries. And where 
there's sentries, there's trouble. And . . ." 

"So what?" said Porta. "All I'm interested in is getting my hands on that truck." 

"Take the truck?" 

"Why not? Take the truck and scram with it." 

"Which way?" 

"Way we come. We got transport and we got all the time in the world." 

"And how about that battery we had to pass? We fooled 'em once, it's not 
going to work a second time." 


"Why not? Who's to know? You see one of your own trucks going by, you 
don't stop and wonder if the enemy's inside it." 

That, at least, was true. We separated once again and went off on another 
reconnaissance trip. Twenty minutes later we reassembled to exchange 
reports. 

"Nothing," said Tiny. "I've combed the whole eastern sector. Nothing there." 

Porta looked at him suspiciously. "You sure?" 

"Course I'm sure! What do you take me for?" 

"The biggest con in the whole stinking company!" snapped Porta. He turned to 
me. "How about you?" 

"Well, apart from nearly tripping over four guys having a snooze by the side of 
the truck, I didn't see a thing." 

"That's not so bad," said Porta. "I found a couple snoring their heads off inside 
a tent* and four more in a pillbox tucking into some grub." 

"That makes ten of 'em altogether," I said. "And what's the betting the rest of 
the battalion's not far away?" 

"All right, no need for the jitters," said Porta equably. "We've been in worse 
holes than this before now. And I'm not letting that truck slip through my 
fingers. Slog home on foot when we could ride back in style? Not on your life!" 

"Come on, let's get started," agitated Tiny. "I'll clobber the pair in the tent." 

We split up yet again and crept back into the trees. As I crawled toward the 
half-track radio car, one of the men in the pillbox stuck his head out and 
shouted across to the four who were asleep on the ground, at which all hell 
broke loose. The four men picked themselves up and made a dive for the 
radio. Before they could reach it, Porta had hurled a clutch of grenades across 
the clearing and the ground exploded beneath their feet. Seconds later, and I 
heard the angry chattering of a machine gun somewhere among the trees 
behind us. A few grenades lobbed in that direction and the gun was silenced. I 
saw Tiny advance on the tent. From the pillbox came the crackling of an MPI. 
I tore the pin out of a grenade and hurled it across the clearing. The tent went 
up in flames. Porta advanced on the pillbox. The grenade exploded and two of 
the occupants were killed outright. The other two survived uninjured and came 
stumbling out with their arms held high above their heads. Tiny and I had 
them trussed up in no time, while Porta shouted triumphantly at us from the 
truck. 

"What did I tell you? A piece of pie! One private car and two prisoners—what 
more could you want?" 


It suddenly occurred to him what more in fact was to be had. He left the truck 
and dived down into the pillbox, yelling at us to follow. We pushed the 
prisoners ahead of us and found Porta already tucking in to the remains of a 
hearty meal. Tiny and I eagerly helped him clear the plates and finish off a 
bottle of vodka, while the prisoners looked on sullenly. 

"Here, what's all this garbage?" asked Tiny, picking up a briefcase. He pulled 
out a sheaf of papers and studied them upside down with illiterate interest. 
"What's it all about, d'you suppose?" 

Porta took the papers from him and glanced through them. "Letters," he 
announced importantly. "Dispatches-secret documents. This here's a note 
from a general. Sent to another general." He frowned. "The one that sent it 
must be quite a big noise. I guess the other's just a little fellow." 

"How do you make that out?" I demanded. 

"Easy. Read what it says: 

MY DEAR STEICKER, 

I SUGGEST THAT AS A MATTER OF URGENCY YOU SELECT ONE OF 
YOUR MOST CAPABLE STAFF OFFICERS AND HAVE HIM 
TRANSPORTED TO BERLIN TO LET THE FÜHRER KNOW FIRSTHAND 
THE IMPOSSIBLE POSITION IN WHICH WE FIND OURSELVES AFTER 
THE RUSSIAN BREAKTHROUGH AT KALTSCH. 

YOURS VERY SINCERELY, 

SCHMIDT. 

Porta looked at me triumphantly. "Get it?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean," I agreed. 

"I don't," said Tiny. 

We tried to explain to him. A really big noise—a field marshal, for instance—
could well address a subordinate as "my dear Steicker" and sign himself "your 
very sincerely." But just let the subordinate try the same tactics with the field 
marshal and his name would soon be mud! Tiny scratched his head and said 
he supposed so, but something still seemed to be bothering him and it was 
obvious that he wasn't convinced. 

"It's a matter of psychology," explained Porta earnestly. "Yeah, but . . ." 

"Listen to this one," I said. "This couple weren't exactly in love, were they?" I 
read it out: 

TOP SECRET 


GOLUMBISKAYA, NOVEMBER 16, 1942 

TO: GENERAL SEYDLITZ 

REORGANIZATION OF THE FOLLOWING IS URGENTLY REQUIRED: 
16TH AND 24TH PANZER DIVISIONS; 3RD INFANTRY DIVISION; 100TH 
ARTILLERY; 76TH, 113TH AND 384TH INFANTRY DIVISIONS. KINDLY 
ATTEND AND EXPEDITE MATTER. 

HEIL HITLER! 

"Very cold," said Porta, drawing in his breath. "Very nasty atmosphere. Cut it 
with a knife." 

"Listen," said Tiny, "I don't understand. Why's he going on about the 16th, 
eh?" He looked at us, round-eyed. "That's us, that is. That's us he's talking 
about." 

"Jesus, he's right!" said Porta, gathering all the papers together. "What's Ivan 
doing with our letters?" He shook his fist at the silent prisoners. "What're you 
doing with other people's mail?" 

"No wonder we don't get none," grumbled Tiny. "The bastards must've 
knocked off a whole sackful." 

Porta looked across at the prisoners with a gleam in his eye. "I bet we could 
make 'em talk easy enough. How about it? Just give me five minutes alone 
with 'em . . ." 

"To hell with that," I said, making for the exit. "Let's concentrate on getting 
back home. Take the letters with us. Hinka can have himself a ball with 'em." 

We pushed our prisoners into the truck, closed all the observation slits and 
nosed our way out of the woods, back toward the fork where we had gone 
wrong. There was more activity on the road now. We passed several Russian 
convoys, but no one attempted to stop us. On the other hand, the Germans 
gave us a very hot reception as we attempted to cross back into our own 
lines. 

"Stupid bastards!" cried Tiny, already busy with the cannon. "They're asking 
for trouble, carrying on like that!" 

"We're the ones that are asking for trouble!" I retorted, holding on tight as the 
truck bucked and swerved. "We'll be lucky if we get back in one piece." 

Porta somehow managed to plow through unscathed. With a magnificent 
flourish, he pulled up directly outside the command post, literally at Colonel 
Hinka's feet. He jumped down and saluted. "Obergefreiter Joseph Porta 
presenting his report, sir! Mission successfully accomplished." 


Hinka stared past him openmouthed at the truck. "Where the devil did this 
thing come from?" He waved a hand the red star on the turret. "What's been 
going on?" 

"Nothing, sir." Porta turned his puzzled gaze from Hinka to our vehicle. "You 
mean the truck, sir?" He shrugged. "We were running a bit behind schedule. 
We needed it to get back on time." 

"But where in heaven's name did you get it?" 

"Well, it was like this, sir." Porta tried unsuccessfully to stand to attention while 
containing a familiar rumble in the region of his bowels. 

Hinka clicked his tongue impatiently. "Well? I'm waiting!" 

"Well—it was a sort of accident, really, sir. We was in this wood, you see. You 
know what Russian woods are like, they go on for miles, and like I said, we 
were running behind schedule." He looked vaguely at the truck. "We just sort 
of bumped into it. It seemed like a good idea—oh, and incidentally," he added, 
turning back again to the colonel, "we've brought along a couple of prisoners 
with us, sir. And a stack of mail." 

"Mail?" barked Hinka. "What mail?" 

"German mail, sir. We figure they must've pinched it from us. The prisoners, I 
mean." 

Hinka frowned. "Are you serious, Obergefreiter?" 

"Oh, yes, sir." Porta jerked his head at Tiny. "Fetch 'em out and let the colonel 
have a gander at them." 

The prisoners were hauled into the open by Tiny and deposited in front of 
Hinka. A gaping lieutenant came forward to untie their hands. 

"Good God!" said Hinka. He stood staring at them, his eyes bulging from their 
sockets. 

Porta looked the prisoners up and down with an air of pride. He nodded 
approvingly. "They're the genuine thing, sir." 

Hinka passed a hand across his eyes. The strain of such prolonged staring 
was obviously beginning to tell. I found myself wondering if the man had 
actually ever seen a Russian before. 

Porta seemed also to be experiencing doubts. "Your real genuine native," he 
said earnestly. "Your real honest-to-good-ness . . ." 


"Yes, yes," said Hinka. He took a last look at the prisoners and dragged his 
eyes reluctantly away to look at Porta instead. "Tell me, Obergefreiter, are you 
aware of the rank of these men?" 

"They're your real genuine Russians," began Porta in a defensive bleat. He 
glared at the prisoners. "They had this bag of mail, sir. Our mail—German 
mail! When we was in Torgau, that was a very serious offense, that was. 
Swiping mail. I mean, you could ..." 

"Obergefreiter!" Hinka thundered. 

Porta looked up at him in surprise. "Yes, sir?" 

"These—gentlemen—whom you have captured—you are obviously not aware 
that one is a lieutenant general and the other a colonel!" 

There was a moment's uneasy silence. I saw Porta's Adam's apple move 
slowly up his scrawny throat and bounce back again. As one in a dream, he 
turned on his heel and saluted. 

Tiny stood watching him with his mouth agape. He looked wonderingly at the 
prisoners—at the lieutenant general he had kicked in the shins, and the 
colonel he had punched in the stomach—and slowly he, too, saluted. 

As for me—well, I hadn't actually used physical violence on either of them. I 
hadn't actually abused them. I'd only tied their hands up and threatened to 
shoot them and shoved them about a bit ... 

Quietly, I sunk my neck into my shoulders and slipped away unnoticed. 

 

We swear to you, Adolf Hitler, that we shall keep faith. 

August Wilhelm, Prince of Prussia, 1933 

SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, head of the RSHA,* stormed 
angrily through the corridors of No. 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse, abusing all those 
who had the temerity to cross his path. He reached his own office, kicked 
open the door, strode past his astonished adjutant and snatched up the 
telephone. "Schellenberg! I want to see you up here immediately!" 

Without waiting for a reply, he slammed down the receiver again. 

*Bureau of State Security. 

“Sir—“ began the adjutant. 

Heydrich ignored him and pressed a button on his desk. The response not 
being instantaneous, he pressed it again, keeping his finger on the buzzer. 


The loudspeaker crackled and a coarse, grating voice filled the room. 
"Gruppenführer Müller, Gestapo." 

"Müller!,What's the matter with you? Wake up! I want to see you in my office 
straightaway." 

The adjutant bit his lip and slunk silently from the room. Heydrich threw 
himself into the depths of a leather armchair, crossed his legs and began 
drumming his fingers on his thigh. There was a rap at the door. An ordnance 
officer announced the arrival of SS Gruppenführer Müller of the Gestapo and 
SS Brigadenführer Schellenberg of the Security Service. 

Schellenberg was the first to enter. He was, as usual, dressed in civilian 
clothes, in a discreet gray suit. Gestapo Müller bustled behind, eager and 
anxious, his big red face on its thick neck bobbing awkwardly above his 
uniform. The ex-mailman from Munich had never yet learned how to wear his 
clothes with the elegance required of a German officer. 

Schellenberg, relaxed and smiling, saluted easily. Müller, rather more 
clumsily, followed suit. 

"So very very nice to see you both," said Heydrich from the depths of his 
armchair. "I trust you had a good night's sleep? It's a luxury that's denied 
some of us, but I'm glad you manage to make the most of it, gentlemen." He 
narrowed his eyes and looked across at the two officers. "You!" He suddenly 
shot out a hand and pointed at Müller. "While you were snoring under your 
great overstuffed quilt this morning, I was at the receiving end of a 
complaining telephone call from the Führer. Not very pleasant, as you may 
possibly imagine. It delayed my morning ride by over half an hour." He 
breathed deeply. "The Führer was very angry, Müller. And he vented his 
anger on me—me, you understand! It seems I am to be held personally 
responsible for your intolerable sleeping habits! You choose to lie abed, while 
I am abused by the Führer on account of it. Tell me, Müller, at what hour did 
you put in an appearance this morning?" 

Müller swallowed noisily. "At eight-thirty, Obergruppenführer." 

"Eight-thirty! You're in the Gestapo now, Müller, you're no longer delivering 
mail in the streets of Munich. What do you think this war is—a joyride? We 
can't afford to carry passengers, Müller. Anyone who chooses to sleep while 
the rest of the world is working is a highly dispensable commodity—there are 
plenty of other mailmen, both in and out of Munich, who would be only too 
pleased to walk into your shoes." 

Müller's fat red face seemed on the point of bursting in two like an overripe 
tomato. It crossed his fuddled mind that life had really been far simpler and 
happier in Munich. 

Heydrich's voice barked on. "The Army Secret Service has intercepted a 
telegram that was sent by the Belgian ambassador in Rome to his Minister for 


Foreign Affairs. In that telegram, Müller, were set out our entire plans for the 
invasion of Belgium and Holland. What do you have to say about that?" 

At this point, Schellenberg suavely intervened. "Pardon me, 
Obergruppenführer, but we have known for some time of the existence of that 
telegram. In fact, as I recall, it was first brought to our attention on the very 
day our troops crossed the Dutch border." 

Heydrich inclined his head in Schellenberg's direction. "Thank you, 
Brigadenführer. I was aware of that. However, if you will allow me to say so, 
there is all the difference in the world between your department knowing of it 
and the Führer coming to hear of it. You understand me?" 

Schellenberg smiled. "Perfectly, Obergruppenführer. Forgive the interruption." 
He hesitated a moment. "May one ask what the Führer intends to do about 
it?" 

"Who can tell?" Heydrich hunched a shoulder. "Everything is always ultratop 
secret at that end, as you very well know. The Führer doubtless lays his plans 
much as we lay ours." Heydrich turned back to his savage attack on Müller. 
"Well? How about you, Herr Sherlock Holmes? What information do you have 
on our little nest of traitors? Admiral Canaris—Ambassador Ulrich von 
Hassel—Oberburgermeister Goedler—Generalmajor Oster—General Beck—
to name but a few. What can you tell me about them?" 

"Obergruppenführer—" Müller shifted heavily from foot to foot, washing his 
hands in the air and sweating uncontrollably. 

"For God's sake try to keep stilll" snapped Heydrich. 

The head of the Gestapo obediently rooted himself to the spot. "I can assure 
you, Obergruppenführer, that all these traitors are followed night and day by 
my men." 

"All of them?" 

"All of them, Obergruppenführer." 

"Mm-hm—" Heydrich gazed down at his fingernails. 

"And Sturmbannführer Axter from your division 111/2? Is he 

one of those on watchdog duty?" 

"Oh, yes," said Müller eagerly. "Oh, yes, he is, indeed! All my men are 
trained—they are all told—I make quite sure . . ." 

"Precisely;" agreed Heydrich. "But to return to this man Axter. You doubtless 
receive daily reports from him?" 


"Er—yes," allowed Müller, rather more cautiously. "Yes, that is so. All my men 
are instructed . . ." 

"You will therefore have heard from him within the last twenty-four hours?" 

"Er—no." Müller shook his head miserably, and began washing his hands 
again. "No, as a matter of fact I haven't, Obergruppenführer. But the man shall 
be punished for it! I shall see to it personally. Such behavior is most unusual, 
my men are always most punctual, most efficient, most . . ." 

"I'm sure they are," agreed Heydrich. "But I fear the miscreant Axter is beyond 
reach of all punishment. He was killed last night in the Morellenschlucht and 
his body has been disposed of." 

"But . . ." 

"The man was a spy," said Heydrich curtly. "Did you never check up on his 
background? Did it never occur to you that anyone who had served two years 
on the Führer's staff and suddenly switched his loyalties to the Gestapo might 
bear a little investigation on your part?" 

"I always check on all my men, Obergruppenführer." 

"Evidently not well enough. I suggest that in future you do your own 
homework. I cannot always be expected to play nursemaid. In the meantime, I 
leave it to you to answer any awkward questions that may be raised about the 
man's death. Do you suppose you could at least be trusted with that?" 

"Oh, yes, Obergruppenführer, you leave it to me, I'll deal with that, I assure 
you." 

"Let us hope so. And now, about this business in Rome. Tell me what you 
know of it. As head of the Gestapo, you presumably have up-to-date 
information? 

"Er—yes. Well—" Müller put a hand to his mouth and closed his teeth over his 
index finger while he sought for words. "We knew, of course, about the 
telegram. And we knew the agent who sold the information to the Belgians." 

"Really?" said Heydrich pleasantly. "I congratulate you, Müller! What did you 
do about it?" 

"Well—unfortunately—we weren't able to discover very much until it was too 
late. But the agent's well out of the way by now. You needn't worry about that, 
Obergruppenführer. No, indeed!" 

"Your men took care of him? Brought him in for questioning?" 

"N-no—not exactly. The fact is," said Müller, in a burst of confidence, "the 
man was killed in a car accident on the Via Veneto!" "I see." 


"We did what we could. It was hardly our fault if he walked across the road 
without looking . . ." 

"One moment." Heydrich held up a slim and shapely hand. "You say you have 
dealt with the agent. But have you yet dealt with the agent's contact, I 
wonder?" 

Müller opened his mouth to speak, but Heydrich cut across him. 

"Obviously not," he snapped. "Do I have to think of everything around here?" 
He stared piercingly at the unhappy Müller, then turned to Schellenberg, who 
had been listening to the scene with a whimsical smile on his lips. "I think from 
now on it might be as well to keep a special eye on our friend Admiral 
Canaris. I heard this morning that the Führer has entrusted him with the task 
of discovering the traitor in our midst—the man who sold the agent the 
information in the first place." 

"Ludicrous!" muttered Schellenberg. "It does strike one," agreed Heydrich, "as 
being dangerously close to appointing a wolf to look after one's sheep, but 
there you have it, gentlemen. Let us make what use we can of the 
opportunity." He gave a narrow-lipped smile. 

"Canaris!" Schellenberg shook his head as though even now he could not 
believe it. 

"Canaris," confirmed Heydrich. "Of all people! It did occur to me, 
Brigadenführer, that since you are on good terms with the admiral, it might be 
as well if you—ah— flung him a few choice scraps to pass on to trie Führer? 
Perhaps we might even furnish him, very discreetly, with one or two assistants 
from your department? For instance, you have a secretary in Section IV/2/B—
married to an officer, with a brother in England. She might do rather well —
you follow me, I take it?" 

Schellenberg nodded gravely. 

"At the same time," continued Heydrich, "we must naturally do all we can to 
help the admiral lay his hands on the traitor. That is your pigeon, Müller. And 
any more incompetence from your department and you can prepare to pick up 
your mailbag and start tramping the streets of Munich once again. Do I make 
myself clear?” 

4 

The Battle of Krasny Oktyabr 

Several days later we arrived at a position to the northeast of Stalingrad, 
before the large naval steelworks factory called Krasny Oktyabr ("Red 
October"). For some months past, this area had been the scenes of many 
clashes between German and Russian troops. Two enemy regiments were 
holding out in the steelworks and had so far refused to be dislodged. The 


factory itself was now a tangled mass of twisted girders and fallen brickwork. 
Repeated bombardments from German artillery had blown huge holes in the 
walls, and the smell of death and demolition was rampant; a mixture of brick 
dust and charred human flesh. The ruins were full of rats. They had grown big 
and bold, they were the size of large tomcats, and they were scared of no 
man. We, on the other hand, were absolutely terrified of them. According to 
Heide, it was only a question of time before we had an outbreak of the plague, 
and we hurled grenades at them indiscriminately every time we caught sight 
of the loathsome creatures in our makeshift position. To hell with demands 
that we save ammunition; plague-carrying rats were worse than Russians any 
day! 

We had been in the area for almost a week when one morning the Old Man 
was called to see the company commander, Captain Schwan. He was away 
for some time and we sat grumbling and speculating while he was gone. 

"Just take a little trip around the enemy lines and see how it's going, there's a 
good fellow!" Porta turned and spat in disgust. "Always us, ain't it?" 

"It oughta be someone else's turn," said Gregor piously, "It's time they picked 
on someone else." 

"Who are you kidding?" I demanded. "Who had to go off last time to see what 
the stinking Russians were up to? Not you, as I recall!" 

"Yeah, and who came back with a pissing general tucked under his arm?" 
jeered Gregor. 

At this point the Old Man returned. He beckoned grimly to Heide, and the rest 
of us fell silent as they moved away together. 

By straining our ears and quite shamelessly eavesdropping, we could just 
make out what was being said. 

"Tell us the worst," challenged Heide. "They want us to press on alone and 
take Moscow single-handed?" 

"Almost as bad," the Old Man told him. "It's that dirty great bunker in front of 
the steelworks. The one that's been causing all the trouble." 

"What about it?" 

"It's got to go." 

Heide waited a moment before saying, "What do you mean, it's got to go? 
You mean we've got to get rid of it?" 

"That's about the size of it," said the Old Man almost apologetically. 

"What did I tell you?" Porta spat out at the rest of us. 


"How?" Heide was coldly demanding. "How the hell are we supposed to get 
rid of a filthy great bunker?" 

"You're to take your group up to it while we cover you with machine-gunfire. 
As soon as you reach the foot of the bunker, stuff as many grenades as 
possible through the loopholes, sit back and wait for it to go bang. You'll also 
have five magnetic charges for the doors. OK?" 

From the look on Heide's face, we gathered that it was far from OK. We were 
inclined to agree with him. 

"The doors?" he repeated stiffly. 

"Yes, the doors—things that open and shut. All right?" 

"No," said Heide. "It's not all right." He looked frostily at the Old Man. "I never 
heard such a crackpot idea in all my life! How the hell are we supposed to 
stuff grenades through the loopholes when they're about six feet above our 
heads? Give us some stepladders and we might have a go, but we're not 
goddamn acrobats!" 

"Well, that's your problem," said the Old Man. "How you do it is entirely up to 
you. I'm just passing on the orders: get out there and blow up that bunker." 

For a moment the two men stood glaring at each other, then Heide swore 
briefly, turned on his heel and came back to the rest of us. We knew there 
was nothing he could do, just as he knew that the Old Man would already 
have protested on our behalf at the futility of such an order. 

"All right, 2nd Group, fall in behind me!" 

Heide shouldered his submachine gun, jerked his head and set off without a 
backward glance, his lips pressed tight together. We snatched up our 
weapons and hurried after him along a track that had once been a road and 
was now a macabre confusion of derelict houses, burned-out motor vehicles 
and tanks, shell craters, piles of rubble and human remains. The corpses that 
lay everywhere were those of civilians, not soldiers. All of them were horribly 
mutilated. In a bucket of water floated the severed head of a child; the eyes 
still stared in sightless stupefaction toward heaven. I found myself stumbling 
on through the ruins with the image of that head bouncing before me, until I 
put a foot straight into the putrefying remains of a human torso and found 
other things to think about. 

A few yards ahead of me, Porta suddenly stopped and shouted to Heide, 
"Hey! I've found the ideal spot!" 

Heide looked around. "What the hell are you babbling about?" 

I caught up with Porta and saw that he had discovered a shell hole partially 
covered with fallen timber and concrete. 


"I can set up the machine gun," declared Porta, promptly doing so. "Just the 
right place for giving you the maximum cover." 

"Oh no you don't!" screamed Heide, wheeling across to us. "Pick that damn 
thing up again and get a move on! I'm the one that's in charge! You stop when 
I say, and not before." 

At that moment the bastards caught sight of us from the bunker and opened 
fire. Heide was blown on top of us as the blast caught him, and we fell into 
Porta's shell hole together. 

"See what I mean?" said Porta. "It's the ideal spot." 

Heide pulled himself up and straightened his battle-dress. "Two seconds to 
get out," he told Porta curtly. "You're not out by then and I report you." 

"Do what you like," said Porta cheerfully. "I'm staying put." 

"Sergeant!" 

It was Captain Schwan's voice. We peered out and sawhim running toward us 
through the rising dust. Heide and I scrambled from the shell hole. Porta 
turned back to his machine gun. 

"What are you waiting for?" panted Schwan. 

Heide threw a black look at Porta and opened his mouth to complain, but he 
wasn't fast enough; Porta leaped in first. He saluted smartly and gestured at 
the machine gun. "All set up, sir, ready to give cover." 

"Good man." Schwan nodded approvingly at Porta and turned to Heide. "Off 
you go then, Sergeant!" 

Heide had no option. With rage and hatred in his eyes, he sprinted up the 
track, stumbling furiously over the rubble, too angry even to notice the 
screaming shells and bullets raining down on us from the bunker. 

And since Heide had gone, we in turn had no option but to follow. I shot after 
him with Gregor and Ponz running unhappily at my side. Ponz was a naval 
gunner who had recently joined the company after a disastrous incident on 
the Don in which he had been his ship's sole survivor. He rolled his eyes 
despairingly at me as we raced along, surrounded by falling shells. 

It was a question of reaching the bunker before its occupants found the range. 
I tripped over a pile of bricks, picked myself up, rushed on, fell again, 
stumbled to my feet. I felt as if all the breath had been squeezed out of my 
body. I had a sudden cramp in my side, needle-sharp pains plunged through 
my left lung, my heart battered desperately against my ribs and the blood 
pounded and thundered in my ears. I fell for the third time and lay sobbing in 


the snow, fighting for breath. We were almost at the bunker now. Just that 
final leap across . . . 

A boot came crashing into my ribs. Mercilessly, again and again. A maniac 
voice yelled at me, "Get to your feet, you sniveling rat! Get up or I'll shoot 
you!" 

"Leave me alone, I can't!" It was my own voice, screaming hysterically. I 
hardly recognized it. 

Heide thrust the butt of his submachine gun against my ear. "Get up and jump 
or I'll kill you on the spot!" 

Porta's machine gun went into action and the bullets sprayed out over the 
surface of the bunker, embedding themselves in the walls. Porta was great 
with a machine gun. You could rely on Porta. 

I crouched, ready to spring. I didn't want to jump, I was scared rigid, I knew I'd 
never make it, the air was awash with bullets between us and the bunker. The 
only trouble was, I was even more scared of Heide. Heide was a fanatic, and 
a sadistic bastard into the bargain, and when he said he'd shoot, he meant it. 
On the other hand . . . 

"Get going!" 

He jabbed me in the kidneys with his sub. Sobbing with fear, I bunched my 
muscles together and launched myself into the bullet-ridden air. I was the first 
man over the ditch, but within a. second the others were with me. Ponz was 
by my side, with the pouch of grenades. He was making an odd snuffling 
noise. I glanced at him, my nerve suddenly restored, and realized that he was 
now in the state I had been in on the other side of the ditch. 

"Do what you damn well like!" he whimpered at Heide. "My war's coming to an 
end right here in this ditch! Fuck the Führer and fuck the Fatherland and fuck 
the pissing Reich!" 

"And fuck the Navy, too!" roared Heide. 

Amid a sea of bullets, the rattling of machine-gunfire and the bursting of 
shells, they stood and glared at each other. Staring up at the shattered walls 
of the steelworks, it slowly dawned on me what it would mean if the factory 
fell. This place was Stalin's pride and joy. With Red October gone, what would 
he have left? 

I became suddenly aware that Heide had abandoned Ponz and gone 
bounding up the slope toward the bunker. This was perhaps the most 
dangerous moment yet. The slope was steep and snow-covered and 
crisscrossed by enemy fire. I watched Heide spring to safety at the foot of the 
bunker and crouch there exultantly. One of us, at least, had made it. 


I turned to the shivering sailor. "You coming, or not?" 

"Don't make me laugh!" 

It was all he would say. I shrugged my shoulders and threw myself at the 
slope. Bullets zipped across my path and buried themselves all around me in 
the snow. I rolled panting into the shadow of the great bunker. Its massive 
concrete walls rose menacingly above us. Those inside must feel so safe, 
while we skirmishing figures outside were so minute and unprotected, so 
relatively powerless. 

I pressed myself hard against the foot of the wall, seeking some temporary 
shelter. 

"What's the matter with you?" jeered Heide. "Got the wind up?" 

"I'm not the only one," I muttered. "Damn fool idea this was!" 

Heide held out his hand. "Never mind that. Where are the grenades?" 

"I don't know," I said. "It's not my job to carry them. I'm not a goddamn 
packhorse." 

"Who the hell's got them then?" 

I suddenly remembered. "He has." I pointed back down the slope, to where 
Ponz was still cowering in the ditch. "He's got them." 

"You mean you came up here without any grenades?" Heide stared at me 
aghast. 

"You mean you did," I retorted. 

"It's not my job to carry grenades!" 

"And it's not mine, either! They were given to him, it's up to him to bring them!" 

"To hell with that!" shouted Heide in a frenzy. He grabbed me by the collar 
and shook me. "You go right back down there and get them! What the hell are 
we supposed to do up here without any grenades?" 

I tore myself away. "Let someone else fetch them!" 

"I said you!" bellowed Heide. "You're the best man we've got with a grenade, 
and I'm ordering you to go down there and get them!" 

"And I'm telling you to go screw yourself!" I bellowed back. I waved a hand in 
the direction of the terrified sailor. "Why can't he bring them up here? I'm not 
risking my neck going all the way down there and back again. You must be 
out of your mind!" 


Heide gave me a look of maniacal hatred, then turned abruptly and shouted 
down at Ponz. "Hey! You there! Ponce, or whatever your name is—get a 
move on out of that hole!" 

As the sailor simply withdrew farther into the protection of the ditch, Heide 
opened fire. The effect was instantaneous. With one bound, the man was up 
the hill and at our side. Without the grenades; in his anguish, he had 
abandoned them in the ditch! With a howl of rage, Heide lashed out with his 
foot and sent the man rolling back down the slope. 

"You get those grenades up here on the double!" 

Ponz lay cowering and whining in the ditch. "You fired at me! You could have 
killed me." 

"That was my intention! I'm sorry I missed, I'll try again." 

Gregor and the Legionnaire had crept around to join us. Ponz gave a wild 
shriek as Heide opened fire, and came skittering up the hill with tears rolling 
down his cheeks and the pouch of grenades bumping at his side. We 
snatched them from him and began feverishly to concoct our own brand of 
homemade bombs: a clutch of four grenades secured to a bottle filled with 
gasoline. 

"OK, Sven." Heide pointed to the nearest loophole, which looked to be about 
five miles above my head. "I'll cover you while you chuck it in." 

"What, me?" I said aghast. 

"I said you, didn't I?" 

"Yes, but how the hell can I?" 

"Don't ask me," said Heide indifferently. "I didn't think up the idea, I only have 
to make sure it's carried out." 

I stared up at the loophole, a good ten or eleven feet above the ground. 

"You're the expert," said Gregor. "You've always been a wow with grenades." 

I glared at him venomously. Heide jerked his head at me, and unwillingly I 
moved out into the open. A machine gunner posted high up behind one of the 
factory walls at once began plastering me with bullets. The air around me 
buzzed like a swarm of lusting wasps. I took aim, opening my chest wide to 
the enemy fire, drew back my arm and flung the grenades up toward the 
loophole. There was not sufficient strength behind my arm. The angle was 
wrong. The bomb crashed into the wall a couple of feet below the loophole 
and bounced down to the ground at our feet. I was scarcely aware of Heide 
hurling himself at me, knocking me off balance and into safety as the thing 
exploded. My arm was wrenched almost off my body by the force of the blast. 


I was quite hopeful for a moment, but when I felt it, it appeared still to be 
attached. 

"Idiot!" snarled Heide. "They've spotted us now!" 

I sat resentfully on the ground, massaging my shoulder. 

Heide kicked at me with his boot. "Up!" He gestured at me. "Only one thing for 
it. You'll have to stand on my shoulders and stuff the thing through the hole 
that way." 

I stared up at him, horrified. Heide was mad. Stark raving mad. I had always 
half suspected it. 

"Come on!" He snapped his fingers at me as if I were a well-trained dog. "Let's 
get the thing over with." 

Beyond the shadow of the bunker wall the fury was still raging. Despite 
Porta's ceaselessly accurate machine-gunfire, the Russian guns were still in 
action. 

"Look," I said, trying to be reasonable with the demonic Heide, "I think 
someone else ought to have a go. My arm's been almost torn off my body, 
and I don't . . ." 

"Liar!" Heide gripped me by my injured shoulder and hauled me to my feet. 
Tongues of red-hot fire raced down the right side of my body. Heide slapped 
me this way and that across the face until I felt dizzy, and then he stepped 
back and clasped his hands together. "Right! Shove your foot in there and get 
up." 

I had no alternative. There never was any alternative in this godawful war. 
Heide was far stronger than I, he would kill me without a moment's hesitation 
if I again refused to obey his orders. And no one would blame him. I looked 
around hopelessly at the others. Ponz was sniveling against the wall, Gregor 
was glaring aggressively at me. Only the Legionnaire gave me a faint wink 
and grin of encouragement. 

I swallowed some bitter-tasting liquid that had come into my mouth, placed my 
foot in Heide's hands and swung myself up onto his shoulders. Gregor passed 
up the grenades. Heide took a few paces backward into the enemy fire and I 
stretched up toward the loophole. But as I stuffed the grenades inside, the 
butt of a rifle appeared and bolted them out again. I lost my balance, grabbed 
at Heide's head, collapsed completely and brought him down with me. 
Together we rolled, in a flurry of snow, right down the slope to the ditch. 

"You did that on purpose!" screamed Heide. "You lousy filthy coward, I'll have 
you shot for this!" 


I jerked my head around and saw his eyes, red-rimmed, burning with the 
desire to kill. I saw his lips drawn back over his sharp white teeth, I saw a 
speck of foam at the corners of his mouth. I saw the gleam of metal in his 
hand and I didn't stop to plead with him. I jumped out of the ditch and 
bounded back up that cursed slope with Heide howling like a wolf behind me. 
I flung myself gasping between Gregor and the Legionnaire just as Heide's 
knife rebounded off the wall above my head. Heide stopped dead in the 
middle of the gunfire, halfway up the slope, with bullets shaving the very 
stubble off his cheeks. He raised a clenched and threatening fist toward the 
impregnable bunker. "You just wait, you bastards! I'll get you yet!" 

He made a sudden dive at the wall and succeeded in running halfway up it in 
his rage. He fell panting onto his back in the snow, picked himself up and 
made a second furious assault. By some miracle, he found a foothold, a brick 
that had moved position very slightly and projected perhaps an inch beyond 
its companions. It was enough for the maddened Heide. He clawed upward 
with both hands and gripped the barrel of the gun that was sticking out of the 
loophole. Around his neck, attached by a lanyard, he was carrying a mine. If 
he were to slip and accidentally wrench out the fuse mechanism, he would be 
blown to bits. 

"The man's mad," declared Gregor shortly. 

"He's a bloody Nazi!" I retorted. 

The Legionnaire stared upward, shaking his head in reluctant admiration. 
"Both mad and a Nazi," he agreed, "but a damn good soldier for all that." 

Heide freed one arm and pulled the lanyard over his head. With his other 
hand he gripped the rifle, bending his body underneath him so that his boots 
pressed against the wall. Very calmly and coldly he pushed the heavy mine 
through the loophole. In another moment he was back on the ground at our 
feet, springing up instantly and setting off at a run, yelling at us to follow him. 

We took the opposite direction and had scarcely turned the corner of the 
bunker when the door swung open and a bloodstained figure stumbled out. In 
one swift movement the Legionnaire smashed his submachine gun in the 
man's face, rammed his knee into his guts, tossed him to one side and rushed 
through into the bunker with Gregor and me behind him. We crouched down 
in a corner, surrounded by boxes of ammunition. Somewhere up above, on 
another floor, we heard the ceaseless pounding of the heavy guns. 

"Hey, you!" Gregor beckoned to Ponz, who was hovering at the entrance. "Go 
and find Heide and tell him we're in! And make it snappy or he'll start chucking 
more mines about the place; God knows he's crazy enough!" 

"Oh, all right, if I must." 

Ponz turned unhappily away, took one step forward and walked straight into 
Heide. He gave a horrified yelp and tried to sidestep. 


Heide pushed him inside to join the rest of us. "What's going on? Why aren't 
you upstairs killing Russians?" He glared around and singled me out for 
special castigation. "Sitting down here with your thumb up your ass and your 
brains in neutral! That's not going to get you anywhere, is it?" 

He jabbed his finger into my chest. "You want to be an officer! All right, show 
us what you're made of. Get up that ladder and have a look around!" 

This time I didn't protest. I went up the ladder like a spring lamb, eased open 
the trap a few inches and peered through. I was surrounded on all sides by 
sleeping Russians. On their helmets I could see the dreaded letters NKVD. 
That was more than enough for me. I closed the trap and scuttled back down 
the ladder. 

Heide was waiting for me, his hands on his hips. "Well? I didn't hear any 
shooting. What happened? You just said hallo and came straight back again, 
did you?" 

I pointed wild-eyed up the ladder. "NKVD," I hissed. "Thousands of 'em!" 

Heide frowned. He snatched up a handful of grenades, pulled out the pins, 
pushed me aside and went tearing up the ladder. The trap was thrown back 
with a clatter, the grenades went in and Heide flung himself down again even 
faster than he'd gone up. Seconds later there was a series of shattering 
explosions. We waited for them to subside, then Heide moved forward. "Right, 
let's get up there." 

This time it was the Legionnaire who led the way. As a matter of precaution, 
he sprayed the whole area with bullets before we stepped through the trap, 
but there seemed to be no sign of life. Heide's grenades had done their work. 
It looked like a slaughterhouse up there, all blood and carcasses. 

As we stood on the threshold, I became aware of a cautious movement 
somewhere to my left. I spun around in time to see a Russian lieutenant 
crouched down and aiming his heavy revolver. I jumped aside and the bullet 
scraped the edge of my helmet; in that very moment Gregor opened fire and 
the man fell back with his face a red mass of pulp with no features. 
Somewhere else an arm was raised to fling a grenade, but the Legionnaire 
moved in with his bayonet. These men were wounded, but we had to wade 
through the blood searching for signs of life and extinguishing it wherever we 
found it. A Siberian will fight to the death. We had once watched one of our 
own men get his head blown off as he bent down to offer water to a wounded 
Siberian. Since that day, we had taken no chances. 

As I led the way up the ladder to the next floor, the trap above my head was 
cautiously eased back and an enormous Mongol face thrust itself forward. I 
froze in horror to the spot, pressing myself against the wall. The face 
remained where it was, the slit eyes narrowing in terrified amazement as they 
saw what was coming up the ladder. For perhaps a couple of seconds we did 
nothing but stare at each other, and then my right arm shot out, apparently of 


its own volition, my fingers plunged deep into the man's flared nostrils and I 
hooked him forward, over the edge of the trap. He crashed to the floor below, 
where Heide stood waiting for him. 

There was no time now for a slow and careful ascent. There were sounds of 
frenzied activity above us, and I hurled a couple of grenades through the trap 
and flung myself back down the ladder. They exploded before I could reach 
the bottom, and the force of the blast lifted me high into the air and tossed me 
across the floor in a limp heap. 

For a few moments I lay semiconscious in a pool of someone else's blood. By 
the time I found the willpower to sit up and look about me, the dust was 
beginning to settle and the great bunker was silent. Gregor was drinking from 
a flask he had taken from a dead Russian gunner. The Legionnaire was sitting 
on the floor, smoking. Ponz was leaning against the wall looking dazed and 
vacant. And Heide— Heide was solemnly washing himself in a bucket of icy 
water! Scrubbing the grime from his hands and face, sponging down his 
uniform, cleaning his nails, combing his hair, polishing his equipment. Five 
minutes' hard labor and he was restored to his normal model self, the perfect 
Prussian soldier with every last hair in place and even his toenails clean and 
shining. 

The Third Company were called up to hold the bunker. In peacetime it had 
been used as a workshop for prisoners, and down in the cellars, beneath the 
foundations, we found a large number of bodies. Some had green circles 
sewn onto their uniforms, indicating that they had been political detainees; 
others had black, for various criminal offenses. All had been shot in the back 
of the head. 

Before the Third Company arrived, we combed every inch of that bunker in 
search of booby traps. The Siberian NKVD were possessed of a fanaticism 
that made even Heide seem a placid and peaceable soul, and we came 
across several lethal packages planted above doorways and beneath 
floorboards. We were terrified of the Siberians. They gave no quarter to 
anyone, not even to their own side, and were rarely content to dispose of their 
prisoners by shooting; they more generally tortured them to death. If you were 
unfortunate enough to fall into their hands alive, the most lenient treatment 
you could expect was to be hung naked out of a window, attached by wire 
cords around the ankle. It took a man six hours to die that way, and that was 
comparatively easy. 

Now that we had taken the bunker, the next step was to move on to the 
steelworks themselves. A light artillery company moved up and were soon 
settled in with their howitzers. When twenty-four of those things went off in 
unison, it sounded like the end of the world. 

Our first few attacks were strongly repulsed. The Siberians came out and 
fought us with everything they had; we kicked and clawed each other in 
nightmare hand-to-hand combat, we twisted bayonets in each other's guts, we 
blew each other up with grenades and shells, the white snow became crimson 


with spilled blood and men fought ankle-deep in the mush of human flesh. 
And still the Siberians held firm. After each attack we had to fall back again, 
with the loss of a few hundred more men. 

On the ninth day, we intercepted one of their radio messages: 

KRASNY OKTYABR, KRASNY OKTYABR---CALLING BASE. WE ARE STILL 
UNDER ATTACK AND FOOD SUPPLIES ARE EXHAUSTED. CAN'T HOLD 
OUT MUCH LONGER. REQUEST PERMISSION TO SURRENDER. 

This was encouraging news. If the dreadnought Siberians were willing to talk 
of giving in, we knew they must be in an even worse state than we ourselves. 
Needless to say, the reply they received was categorical: in no circumstances 
were they to surrender, now or ever; they were to carry on the fight like the 
good Soviet soldiers they were and rise above the animal demands of their 
bellies for food. 

Another five days of futile fighting, another few hundred lives thrown away, 
and still the starving Siberians kept us from the door. But their radio appeals 
were growing increasingly desperate; they had now run out of water as well 
as food and many of their men had killed themselves rather than go on. Back 
came the answer, uncompromising as before: 

RUSSIAN SOLDIERS, THE TIME HAS COME TO PROVE YOURSELVES! 
SHOW YOURSELVES WORTHY TO BE MEMBERS OF THE GREAT RED 
ARMY! HAVE FAITH AND FIGHT ON, STALIN HAS NOT FORGOTTEN 
YOU! ON NO ACCOUNT ABANDON YOUR POSITIONS. 

They held out for another three days. Even with the psychological advantage 
of knowing their plight, we still could not break them. And then came their last 
radio message: no more ammunition, request permission to surrender. And 
the canting reply as before: 

COMRADES, THE SOVIETS SALUTE YOU! THE WORKERS ARE IN YOUR 
DEBT! FIGHT ON! PERMISSION TO SURRENDER IS REFUSED. A 
RUSSIAN SOLDIER NEVER SURRENDERS. 

Shortly before midnight, they came for us. Rushing toward us in a final futile 
fling, bayonets fixed to their useless rifles, wave upon wave of them were 
butchered by our machine-gunfire. Those that managed to break through 
fought like wild beasts, with a strength and a fury that our own men could not 
match. The Siberians were starving, half mad with thirst, certain to die one 
way or another. They had nothing to lose any more, they had already lost it, 
and the first ferocious horde that ran through the machine-gunfire and fell 
upon us with their bayonets took us by surprise. A Russian officer came at me 
from the side. I swung around to face him, lashed out in a panic, kicked him to 
the ground and stuck my bayonet deep into his abdomen. Still he found the 
strength to lunge at me. I looked down at the glittering eyes in the gaunt face, 
and the naked hatred unnerved me. With a savage cry of fear, I tore out my 
bayonet and slashed at his face until the features were obliterated and the 


light had gone from the glittering eyes. Afterward I felt ashamed, but when we 
finally broke through into the great hall of the factory and saw numbers of our 
own men hanging naked by their ankles, I felt a vicious glow of satisfaction for 
my revenge. 

Under the great silent machines of the steelworks Russian soldiers lay dead 
or dying. We shot all those who were still breathing. They watched as we 
came, and made no attempt to plead with us. They knew it was useless. One 
or two, still able to crawl or to drag themselves about the floor, killed 
themselves before we could reach them. They flung themselves from the 
windows or down the elevator shafts. 

By evening the battle was over and the vast factory of Krasny Oktyabr was in 
our hands. And yet it seemed a sour victory. Much as we hated and feared 
them, the Siberians had earned our respect; in the final analysis, they had 
been beaten not so much by superior forces as by circumstances. From then 
until the end of the war their heroic resistance was often to be cited as an 
example to others in tough spots: "Remember Krasny Oktyabr! If they could 
do it, so can you." 

Relaxing in the sudden anticlimax that evening, we lay about on the factory 
floor, stretched out on benches or leaning against machines. Porta was 
listlessly thumbing through a newssheet. 

"What's happening in the rest of the world?" asked the Old Man, clamping his 
teeth on his empty pipe. 

It was always difficult, after a few weeks of intensive fighting, to drag your 
mind back to the realities of the general situation and remember that your little 
sector of the war was only one piece of the jigsaw; that other fronts existed, 
that men were fighting in other countries, that your particular victory did not 
mean an end to the hostilities. 

"Well, what's going on?" the Old Man asked again. 

"Fuck all." Porta screwed the newssheet into a ball and threw it at him. "Same 
as always. The Navy's sunk practically every enemy ship on the high seas 
and England's had it." 

"I don't get it," Gregor frowned. "Month after month they tell you that. Ever 
since Poland they've been saying it: England's had it—England's washed 
up—England's on her knees. Then why the hell can't the stupid bastards 
throw in the sponge and put an end to it all?" 

"Just what I say," chimed in Tiny eagerly. "What's the point of carrying on? 
They haven't got no ships left, have they? Their ports have all been bombed 
to smithereens, their planes are all out of date and they're running short of 
manpower, so what's the point of carrying on?" 

"Pigheadedness, I guess," said Gregor sagely. 


"Just plain stubborn," agreed Tiny. 

"I wonder how it is," the Legionnaire twisted his lips in a sardonic grin, "that 
the RAF can keep on bombing German towns night after night in their out-of-
date planes with their shortage of manpower?" 

"Don't ask awkward questions," said the Old Man. "Listen, here's a bit might 
interest you." He had straightened out the newssheet and spread it over a 
workbench. " 'At Stalingrad, our boys are fighting valiantly. The men of the 
Sixth Army will go down in history as true heroes of the Fatherland. God is 
with us! The soldiers of Stalingrad are fighting with faith in their hearts and 
Bibles in their hands. . .' “ 

He was cut short by Gregor making sounds of vomiting and Tiny shouting an 
obscenity. 

The Old Man shrugged his shoulders. "I just thought it might amuse you," he 
said mildly. 

We were not left long in peace. Captain Schwan soon called all the section 
leaders together and gave them new sets of orders, and minutes later we 
were being turned out once again into the cold. 

For us, it was a question of mounting guard at the monstrously ugly and 
sinister GPU building, where General Paulus and his staff were playing war 
games in the safety of the cellars. While the rest of us fought and bled and 
died, they sat smoking and drinking and sticking colored pins in maps of 
Russia. Those pins represented us; they represented men who were weary 
and wounded, half starved, suffering from frostbite, appalled by the constant 
slaughter, living in a state of unrelenting terror. But to Paulus and his staff we 
were just so many pins stuck in a map, and as they sat smug in their shelters 
and juggled with our lives, we struggled through the bitter Russian night, 
hurrying to mount guard over them. 

We moved single file along the Street of the Revolution, where most of the 
houses were still standing. There were gaps here and there, a few walls 
blown down, a few windows smashed, but on the whole the street had been 
spared the worst excesses of war. There had been no heavy bombardment, 
only a few stray shells, and the people had continued to live in their homes, 
although there was now a straggling line of refugees carrying away their 
household goods and transporting their wounded on mattresses and in carts. 
Now and again a child would appear and sidle up to us begging for food. God 
knows we had little enough for ourselves, but we generally managed to find a 
spare crust of bread for them. 

A small boy suddenly darted out of a ruined building and ran straight up to 
Tiny, snatching at his hand and staring up appealingly. "Mr. Soldier! Will you 
be my father?" 


Tiny looked down at the child in some perplexity, and the child looked gravely 
back, hopping and skipping by his side to keep up with Tiny's giant paces. His 
head was half hidden beneath a German infantry helmet, and in one hand he 
was clutching a Russian saber. 

Tiny bent down and swung the boy up onto his shoulder. "OK, little 'un, if 
that's what you want." He and the child grinned amiably at each other. "How 
old are you anyway?" demanded Tiny. "I ought to know, oughtn't I? If I'm 
going to be your father." 

The boy shook his head. "I'm quite old," he said. "Nobody's ever told me, 
really, but—" He suddenly hooked an arm around Tiny's neck and looked at 
him out of large round eyes. "Mr. Soldier, would you like to be my sister's 
father, as well?" 

"Now that's quite a suggestion!" said Tiny, swinging the boy back to ground 
level. "Where is she?" 

"I'll go and get her!" cried the boy. "Just stay here and I'll go and get her!" 

He shot off again up the road. At that moment someone threw a grenade. 
Probably a lone Russian soldier hiding out in one of the ruined buildings. We 
flung ourselves to the ground and covered our heads and the sound of the 
explosion roared up the narrow street. When we stood up again, Tiny's newly 
acquired son was nowhere to be seen. All that was left of him was a German 
infantry helmet and a Russian saber, side by side at the center of the blast. 

After two days of guard duty at the GPU building, we were transferred to an 
infantry barracks and Porta was promoted from lance corporal to corporal. 

"Well, I'll be damned!" declared Sergeant Franz Krupka, seeing the additional 
stripe on Porta's sleeve. "Going up in the world, aren't we? We'll be a field 
marshal before we know where we are." He flipped a finger at the new stripe. 
"How about a round of drinks, eh?" 

"That's a damn smart idea," said Porta acidly. "What do you suggest we 
drink? Melted snow? I haven't seen a bottle of anything for weeks." 

Krupka glanced over his shoulder and then back at Porta. "You want to know 
where to get hold of some?" 

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, I'm asking you—you want to know where to get hold of some? Because if 
you do, I can tell you. Only keep it under your hat if you want to hang onto that 
nice new stripe." 

"You think I was born yesterday?" jeered Porta. 


"I was just warning you. Don't let it go any further. It's that fat bastard Wilke, 
he's managed to swipe four crates of vodka from somewhere." 

"Four crates?" Porta's little glass-bead eyes opened themselves wide in 
greedy astonishment. "Christ almighty, with one of those inside me I could 
finish this war single-handed! How did that turd get hold of 'em?" 

Krupka hunched a shoulder. "Damned if I know. He didn't tell me, and I didn't 
ask." 

"Quite right too." Porta pulled out a pencil stub and began briskly to make out 
a list. "Let's see, one crate of vodka —I don't suppose we can hope for more 
than one, so we don't want to divide it too many ways. Just you and me, and 
the Old Man and Gregor—and Tiny and Sven and the Legionnaire—" He 
hesitated. "And Heide, I suppose. I'd just as soon be without him, but what 
can you do? He'll only blow his top if we have a binge and don't invite him." 

"That makes eight altogether," said Krupka. "If we can get hold of some beer 
and mix it in with the vodka, it should be enough to get stewed on." 

"Some of us," said Porta, "get stewed more quickly than others—I'm thinking 
of Tiny. One drink and he's rolling about like a pig in shit with his legs in the 
air—and that reminds me," he added obscurely, "the Legionnaire owes me a 
pack of cigarettes." 

"Yeah, well you make a note of it and see you get 'em back before we go into 
action again," advised Krupka. "That bastard Pinsky—you know Pinsky? Well, 
he's dead now. God himself blown up by a shell a couple of weeks ago. Owed 
me three packs of grifas,* the swine. I won't never see them again, will I?" 
Krupka shook his head broodingly. "I told his section they ought to take over 
his debts now he's gone, but they weren't having any." 

Porta sucked in his breath. "It's disgraceful," he said. "A man oughtn't to be 
allowed to go into battle in that condition. Not owing money and suchlike, he 
oughtn't. We ought to have accountants out here." 

"I'll tell you one thing," said Krupka darkly. "I've learned my lesson. No more 
lending from now on. I've been too softhearted with people, they've taken me 
for a ride. But no more! Not even if they offer me a hundred percent interest. 
The game's not worth the candle." 

"Hundred percent?" said Porta, his eyes at once inflating. 

*Opium cigarettes. 

"You mean to tell me there really are mugs that'd be dopes enough to give 
you a hundred percent?" 

"They damn well ought to give a hundred percent!" roared Krupka. "When you 
think of the risks you have to run —never knowing if you're likely to see the 


color of their money. You know what?" he said incredulously. "A few months 
back I helped an officer out of trouble when he was on his beam-ends. Now 
you'd think you could trust an officer, of all people, to behave like a 
gentleman, wouldn't you?" He turned and spat. "Not on your life! He only goes 
and throws himself under a T-34, of all things! On purpose, mind you. He 
done it on purpose. That's what really gets me. My money be damned, just so 
long as he could pick up his stinking Iron Cross." 

"What a shit!" said Porta in disgust. "Times are very hard," grumbled Krupka. 
"Very hard indeed." 

Porta went off in search of Wilke, the big fat cook with the four precious crates 
of vodka. He was engrossed in stirring a pot of greasy water, which would 
later be dished up to us under the guise of soup. 

"Hi, Wilke!" Porta slapped him amiably on a shoulder. "Heard the latest, have 
you?" 

"Latest what? I'm not interested in the latest. It's all lies, all of it." 

"Have a cigarette," said Porta. He pulled out the solid gold case he had 
removed from the body of a dead general. "You'll need one when I've told you 
the news." 

"To hell with the news! I'd rather stand here and stir my soup and think of my 
hotel. The news can get on by itself.* "What hotel's that?" 

"The one I'm going to build after the war. I'm planning it. It's got—" 

"Save your breath," Porta sneered. "You'll be six foot under ground by then, 
along with the rest of us—new top secret orders came through yesterday. I 
managed to have a gander at them—never mind how, that's my business. But 
you know what they said? The German Army's going to fight to the last man 
and the last bullet—that's as true as I stand here. Top secret instructions from 
the Führer himself." 

Wilke spat into his stewpot and stirred vigorously. "It's all lies," he muttered. 

"You think so?" Porta looked at him thoughtfully, then moved closer and 
hissed into his ear, "As a matter of interest, what would you say to the chance 
of getting out of it? Eh? Out of Russia? Out of the war? Back home in an 
airplane, to a nice cushy job." 

Wilke turned to look at Porta. "What would you say?" 

"I'd say, lead me to it! Seriously, though, and don't let it go no further—I was 
with the CO yesterday, and while I was there I heard a very interesting bit of 
news." 


"He told you himself?" jeered Wilke. "Takes you into his confidence, does 
he?" 

Porta shook his head, with a smile of superior amusement. "You'd be 
surprised the contacts I have—you get to meet people when you're a corporal, 
you know. Anyway, to tell you the truth, I didn't take too much notice at first. I 
mean, you don't, do you, when you don't stand to gain nothing personally? It 
was only afterward I got to thinking. I thought of all the pals I've got that are 
cooks. All the cooks that are here in Stalingrad. It's them it concerns." 

"What are you getting at?" demanded Wilke. 

"Don't believe me if you don't want to," said Porta generously. "But I've heard 
they're looking for a really good cook, with war experience and all, like what 
you've got, to take over the catering section at the Military Training School in 
Stettin." 

Wilke's flabby jaw dropped open. His double chin trembled. He stole a cowlike 
glance at Porta, then turned back to his ruminative stirring. 

"You was one of the first I thought of," continued Porta. "I mean, you and me 
have been through a lot together, one way and another. You remember that 
time at Paderborn?" he said affectionately. "When I found out you was 
cheating us on the rations? You remember how I covered up for you? Well, it 
was the least I could do for an old pal. I couldn't stand by and watch them 
drag you off to Torgau, could I?" 

Wilke suddenly banged down his spoon. "Oh, for God's sake, don't bring that 
up again! As if I haven't repaid you over and over!" He snorted. "Old pal, my 
ass! You're nothing but a blackmailing son of a bitch!" 

"I've been called worse," said Porta equably. "But anyway, how about going 
back to Stettin to be a teacher, eh? Better than this hellhole, ain't it?" 

Wilke licked his puffy lips. Everyone knew Porta for a thief and a cheat and a 
liar. It was absurd to believe even a quarter of what he said. And yet, there 
was always a first time. 

"Look," he said earnestly, "you know I'm a married man with two kids, I can't 
afford to take risks. Is it true or isn't it, this story about them wanting a cook 
from Stalingrad?" 

"It's as true as I stand here," said Porta solemnly. "I only wish to God / was a 
cook—but as I'm not, I had a word with a pal of mine in Personnel and took 
the liberty of giving him your name. If anyone can finagle it so you get the job, 
it's him." 

Wilke stood gaping. "You gave him my name? Just like that? For free?" 


"Nothing's for free in their horrible world," said Porta. "You know that as well 
as I do. But he didn't ask much, only a crate of vodka. As far as I'm 
concerned, it's just a friendly gesture. I don't want nothing for it. Not for putting 
in a good word on behalf of an old pal. Wouldn't be reasonable, would it?" 

Wilke chewed frenziedly at his thumbnail. He could already hear the throbbing 
engine of a JU-52, waiting to take him home. 

"Only thing is," went on Porta, opening the lid of a saucepan and peering 
inside, "don't say a word to no one or you'll blow the whole thing. It's top 
secret, see? Morale's pretty low back home and old Adolf's suddenly realized 
the way to win the war is to keep men's bellies filled. So now there's this great 
panic on to start training more cooks." 

"But why come all the way to Stalingrad?" protested Wilke with a final fling of 
common sense. "There must be a thousand cooks in Stettin." 

"Sure there are," said Porta. "But how many will have had your experience? 
It's not many cooks that can survive in a place like Stalingrad. Anyway, I just 
thought I'd mention it. If you're not interested, I'll offer it to someone else. Old 
Richter, for example. He'd be willing to pay a mint for a nice safe billet like 
that." 

"Willing to pay?" repeated Wilke. "I thought you said you were doing it for 
nothing?" 

"I am," agreed Porta. "It's my friend in Personnel what demands payment—
not that you can blame him. He's one of the few men around this place really 
knows what's going on, and believe you me, things are getting pretty 
desperate—know what else he told me? On account of we've lost so many 
men, there's not going to be no more going sick nor nothing of that sort. Don't 
matter if you got both your legs blown off, they're going to send you right back 
into the front line. The way they look at it, a man with no legs is just another 
mouth to feed, so he might as well go and get himself killed by the enemy and 
save someone more useful getting a bullet through the brain. It makes sense, 
I suppose." He pulled a face. "What we've been through so far ain't nothing to 
what's going to come." 

Wilke passed a trembling fat hand over his head, which was bald and 
perspiring. It was said in the company that his hair had fallen out through 
constant worry about how best to cheat the men out of their rations. Wilke 
was known as the meanest, fattest and most dishonest cook in the whole of 
the Germany Army. 

"I'll tell you something else," said Porta, putting a consoling arm around him. 
"Even cooks are going to have to fight from now on—God's truth! No more 
messing about with the stewpots, you'll find yourself running along in the mud 
with the rest of us—except it'll be even worse for you, being a sergeant. 
They'll probably put you in charge of a machine-gun section. That's enough of 
that, though. I can't stand gossiping with you all day, I've got other things to 


do. They keep a man very busy when he's a corporal." He patted Wilke on the 
shoulder and walked off, turning back again as he reached the door. "So I'll 
tell my friend in Personnel you're not interested, right?" 

"No!" Wilke hurried across to him, all his fleshy folds flouncing up and down 
as he moved. "Of course I'm interested, I'd be a fool not to be!" 

"Well, that's what I thought," agreed Porta. "I thought anyone who'd stay on to 
fight Russians when he could be cooking in Stettin must be a bit of a dope." 

"And you can fix it for me?" demanded Wilke breathlessly. 

"I'll have a word with my friend in Personnel and he'll see to it you get the 
job—oh, and I'd better take him his crate of vodka, or the jerk's likely to squeal 
on us." 

"Vodka?" Wilke moved back a pace. "Where would I get vodka from?" 

"Search me," said Porta frankly. "I was a bit curious about that myself, to tell 
the honest truth, but I won't stick my nose in, I'll just take the one case and 
keep my mouth shut." 

"You must be crazy!" gasped Wilke indignantly. "I can't lay my hands on a 
crate of vodka just like that!" 

"Very well." Porta raised a cold eyebrow, he paused a second, then turned on 
his heel and left the room. He walked singing down the steps, "There's a 
bullet that's coming this way, for me—or for you—I couldn't say . . ." 

Behind him, he heard the patter of agitated footsteps. "Don't be so hasty!" 
cried Wilke. "Come back a moment and let's discuss terms." 

"Not discussable," said Porta. "I already told you what they are. Just say yes 
or no and stop wasting my time." 

"Yes!" screamed Wilke. His puffy fingers pawed at Porta's arm. "I'll give it to 
you straightaway." 

He had hidden the vodka beneath an old tarpaulin. Porta looked the crate 
over suspiciously and took out every single bottle and held it up to the light 
before he was satisfied. 

"Take it and go," said Wilke, pulling back the tarpaulin. "And make sure it's my 
name and no one else's you give to your friend." 

"You bet," said Porta. He humped the crate onto his shoulder and strode back 
to our quarters with it. "Feast your eyes on that!" he told the astounded 
Krupka. 


"You got it?" said Krupka. "You actually got it? I've been trying to lay my 
hands on some of that stuff for the past two months." He looked wonderingly 
at Porta. "How'd you manage it?" 

"Trade secret," said Porta, tapping the side of his nose. "Bit of the old 
psychological warfare stuff. It always gets "em." That evening we drank 
ourselves silly. Krupka was the first to go under, followed quickly by Gregor. 
Tiny staggered about on top of the table, minus his boots and most of his 
uniform, flapping his arms in the air and making buzzing noises. He seemed 
to be under the impression he was an airplane. 

"Yell for help!" he called down to us. "Yell for help and I'll come and rescue 
you!" 

We all yelled for help at the tops of our voices, not quite sure what game we 
were playing but interested to see what would happen. 

Tiny leaped off the table with a wild scream. "Hold on, I'm coming!" He 
bounced off the Legionnaire and crash-landed on the floor. 

We all turned to look at him. 

"Why didn't anyone tell me the water was frozen solid?" he complained, sitting 
up and holding his head. "I could have had a nasty accident." 

Shortly afterward, he passed out. 

Meanwhile, those of us that still survived went on steadily drinking. Porta sat 
cross-legged on the floor and solemnly raised his rifle to his lips. The barrel 
was filled with a revolting brew of vodka, oil, powder and beer. The object was 
to swallow it without bringing it all straight up again. If he could keep it down 
for a long as five minutes, it would be chalked up as a victory. I never 
discovered whether he did or he didn't, because of my own immediate urge to 
go to the window and spew. 

When I returned, I saw the Old Man running around the room making wild 
chopping motions in the air with a hatchet. Heide was kneeling on the floor, 
embracing one of the table legs. 

"You're my friend," he was whispering to it. "My one and only friend." 

Porta had taken off his tunic and was slobbering over his new stripe. The 
Legionnaire was holding a conversation with himself in French. I myself felt far 
better now that I had vomited. I felt happier than I had in a long time. The last 
thing I remember was laughing so hard that I fell on my face. 

The only living creature not to get drunk was Porta's cat. It was a big fat black 
creature, suspiciously sleek and well fed, and it had taken up residence with 
Porta the first day we arrived at the barracks. It now sat on its broad bottom in 
the middle of the room, swishing the tip of its tail and regarding us all out of 


scornful green eyes. Porta threw a bottle at it, but the cat just sneered and 
began genteelly to groom itself. 

"I hate that cat," said Porta between clenched teeth. "God, how I hate that 
cat!" 

 

Obergruppenführer Heydrich, in response to a summons, knocked at the door 
of Himmler's office and entered even before the thin voice of the Reichsführer 
had said "Come in." 

"Obergruppenführer," began Himmler without preamble, "I am told that you 
have a file containing the personal details of every single man in the Party, in 
the SS, and in the Army. Is this true?" 

"Certainly, Reichsführer. Insofar as I am responsible for both the internal and 
external security of our country, I feel it to be no less than my duty." 

"Quite so." Himmler gave him a frozen smile, which Heydrich graciously 
acknowledged with a slight dip of the head. "I wonder if by any chance you 
have a file containing my personal details as well?" 

"It's more than likely, Reichsführer, but of course I couldn't say for certain 
without checking. You'll understand, I don't have the time to read through 
every file for myself. I see a person's details only when it becomes necessary 
that I should do so—if a person draws attention to himself in any way." 

"Of course." 

"As a matter of fact," Heydrich leaned back comfortably in his chair, "it Was 
my opposite number in Moscow who gave me the idea of a comprehensive 
filing system. I must say it seems to work admirably." 

"I'm sure it does," murmured Himmler. 

The two men smiled at each other. There was a pause. 

"Tell me," said Himmler, "what news from the Vatican?" 

Heydrich lightly hunched a shoulder. "I'm surprised you should ask me, 
Reichsführer. I imagined you would be far better informed on the Vatican than 
I am." 

"Oh? And how, may I ask?" 

Heydrich allowed a fleeting frown of puzzlement to brush across his forehead. 
"General Bocchini—the Italian chief of police—you'll pardon me, Reichsführer, 
but I understood he was a close friend of yours?" 


Under the desk, Himmler tapped a foot with annoyance. His relationship with 
Bocchini was not one that he wished to broadcast. "So! Your comprehensive 
filing system from Moscow really does work. I congratulate you." 

"Thank you, Reichsführer. But one point I confess has puzzled me. I am most 
curious to know why you should have sent the general that piece of old wood 
three weeks ago?" 

"Old wood?" Himmler's eyebrows went up, one after the other. "That was not 
old wood, Obergruppenführer, that was a log from Wotan's oak tree. I've had 
experts searching all over the place for it, it took them the better part of a year 
to find it for me. I sent it to the general as a token of our friendship." 

"I see." Heydrich nodded pensively. "In that case—I fear you won't be too 
pleased when I tell you that the general was very much put out by your 
gesture. To him it was none other than a piece of firewood. He was strongly 
inclined to believe you were insulting him." 

"The man's a fool!" said Himmler sharply. "I hope to Christ he didn't throw it 
away?" 

"Oh, worse than that," murmured Heydrich. "He put it on the fire and set light 
to it." 

Under the table, Himmler's foot tapped itself into a frenzy. Breathing heavily, 
he leaned over toward Heydrich. "Tell me, Obergruppenführer, do you by any 
chance have a file on Bocchini?" 

"I have a file on everyone," said Heydrich simply. 

"Good. In that case, I want you to make arrangements for Bocchini's dossier 
to be brought to the Duce's notice. Very discreetly, of course. He mustn't 
suspect where it's come from; I take it there is plenty of—ah—incriminating 
evidence against our Italian friend?" 

"Oh, plenty," said Heydrich with a smile. "More than sufficient for your 
purposes, Reichsführer." 

5 

The Young Lieutenant 

Porta and I were servicing the machine gun. We had had two days of 
comparative calm and were waiting uneasily for the storm to break again. 

"I'd like to know what the hell they're brewing up down there." The Old Man 
jerked his head in the direction of the Russian lines. "Something's going on, 
you can bet your sweet life." He turned back to Porta and me. "How much 
ammunition have you got left for that thing?" 


"Five thousand rounds and that's the lot." 

"Well, I suppose it'll keep us going for a bit," the Old Man said fatalistically. 

"So long as the Russians don't suddenly run wild," I said. 

"What about those reinforcements they were supposed to be sending us?" 
grumbled Gregor. "Where have they got to? They should have been here 
days ago." 

"Reinforcements!" Porta gave a cynical snort. "That's a myth if ever there was 
one!" 

"You mean there aren't going to be any reinforcements?" 

"Of course there ain't! That was just a lot of bull to keep us quiet for a bit." 

"Then what do we do?" faltered Gregor. 

"We either get out of this stinking hole by our own efforts or else we commit 
mass suicide. It's as simple as that. But it's no good sitting on our backsides 
waiting for something that ain't never going to turn up." 

Gregor looked at him blankly. "You're crazy," he muttered. "We haven't a 
hope in hell of getting out of here by ourselves. Besides, they wouldn't 
sacrifice a whole army just like that." 

"Who says they wouldn't?" jeered Porta. 

"It stands to reason," protested Gregor. "A million men! They couldn't afford it. 
Hitler would have to be a raving nut..." 

Porta said nothing; just raised an eyebrow. Gregor broke off in confusion.. 

"In any case," I said, "it's not a million men any more. Not by a long chalk it 
isn't. Only a few hundred thousand." 

"Yeah, and what's a few hundred thousand more or less?" said Porta. "The 
Sixth Army's a dead duck and Hitler knows it. He might just as well make a gift 
of us to the enemy and get on with something more profitable elsewhere. 
Paulus won't do nothing about it, he always was a flabby bastard." 

"I don't believe you," said Gregor stubbornly. 

"All right, have it your own way." Porta turned back to the machine gun. "But 
I'm telling you, they've turned us into goddamn Wagner heroes whether we 
like it or not. They've made a balls-up, see, and it's us what's got to pay for it. 
It'll look good in the history books, won't it? In fifty years' time, when they can 
turn around and talk about a million men in the Sixth Army laying down their 
lives for the fucking Führer—yeah, I can see it all now," said Porta bitterly. 


"Filthy great books with gold leaf all around the edges and pictures of Hitler's 
heroes lying about in the snow with their guts hanging out . . ." 

"Lay off it," said the Old Man. "I think something's going on down there." 

We turned to look in the direction of the enemy lines. 

"Seems the same as usual to me," said Porta indifferently. 

The Old Man shook his head. "They're up to something. I don't know what it 
is, but I can smell trouble." 

It was true that the Old Man had an instinct in such matters. I turned back to 
the machine gun and began frantically reassembling it. 

The Old Man jerked his head at Gregor. "Go and tell Captain Schwan I think 
the enemy's preparing to attack." 

"OK." 

Gregor loped off, and Porta calmly sat back and lit a cigarette. "What's the 
rush? Nothing's happened yet." 

"It will," said the Old Man. 

Porta glanced at his watch. "Ten thirty? Not on your life!" 

At 1300 hours on the dot, the Russian batteries opened up in earnest. The 
ground began quaking beneath our feet and Gregor dived in a panic into the 
nearest bunker. 

"This is it!" he yelled. "They're coming over!" 

Porta and I remained in the trench with the machine gun. I knew we were just 
as safe down there as in the bunker, yet it never felt as safe and I always 
yearned for a protective layer of concrete above my head. Porta gave me an 
encouraging grin, and the black cat appeared from nowhere in a great hurry 
and came running up to us with its tongue sticking out of its mouth. 

The first heavy Haubitz shell landed just in front of the trench, covering us in a 
spray of earth and shrapnel. 

"Here comes the next one!" shouted Porta. 

Captain Schwan snatched up the field telephone and began speaking rapidly 
to Colonel Hinka, explaining that we were under heavy fire and that he 
expected the enemy to launch a full-scale attack at any moment. He 
requested artillery support, but as usual, Hinka refused to be impressed by 
the urgency of the situation. 


"All right, all right, Captain, let's not lose our heads over a few stray shells. 
Wait and see how it goes. They'll probably quiet down again in a minute." 

"But if they don't, sir . . ." 

"If they don't," said Hinka calmly, "we shall review the situation. If it gets any 
worse, I can let you have a section of light artillery." 

"But . . ." 

The line went dead. Schwan slammed the telephone down and swore. He 
snatched up his revolver, stuck his knife down the side of his boot and ran off 
along the communication trench. 

Inside the bunker men sat and waited for the enemy to come. This was the 
worst part of all—waiting. Not knowing what to expect, nor when to expect it. 
Whether it would be five minutes or five hours. Tiny was playing his mouth 
organ, as he always did at such moments. His large, booted foot tapped out 
the measure, but no one listened to him. The Old Man leaned against the 
wall, sucking on his empty pipe. The Legionnaire was chewing a matchstick. 
Gregor was gnawing a broken fingernail. 

When the attack came, it came suddenly, unexpectedly, just as it always did. 
No matter how long you sat and waited, it always took you by surprise. There 
was a loud explosion and the solid bunker shuddered. Another, somewhere 
outside. Then a whole series of explosions, some very nearly direct hits. 
Inside the bunker there were pockets of calm and occasional bursts of panic, 
when men fought to get out and had to be restrained. 

Very suddenly the bombardment ceased and the silence seemed sinister and 
unnatural, so that men held their breath and wondered what new horrors were 
about to be launched upon them. The Old Man pushed his pipe into his 
pocket, helped himself to some hand grenades, picked up his submachine 
gun and called to the second section to follow him. 

Out in the trenches it was like a lunar battlefield. The scene was stark and 
desolate, the ground torn into craters, the snow gray and dirty and the sky 
bleak. We dug ourselves in as best we could and settled down for yet another 
waiting period. 

They came at us suddenly, in waves, one after another, endless and 
inevitable as the tides washing the beaches. To us, in our ruined trenches, 
they were a vision from hell. An invincible sea of soldiery, howling as they 
plunged forward behind their gleaming bayonets. 

I heard Captain Schwan's whistle, followed instantly by the massed chorus of 
our machine guns. The first wave of Siberians fell beneath the onslaught, but 
the second and third waves rushed on, pitilessly trampling their torn and 
bleeding comrades into the snow. They used the corpses to throw onto the 
barbed wire, massing them up until they formed a bridge. 


A smell of sulphur wafted into the trenches, burning men's throats and lungs. 
We pulled on our gas masks and turned back to the approaching enemy. 
Porta was firing the machine gun like an automaton. From left to right, from 
right to left, back and forth, back and forth. It was comforting, almost hypnotic 
in its regularity. I felt that Porta was immortal, that no bullet, no shell could 
ever stop him firing that gun. 

A hand grenade came straight for us, heading into the trench. I acted 
instinctively, plucked it out of the air and hurled it back over the top. But there 
was no time to congratulate myself, for now the machine gun was in 
difficulties. Porta the automaton was still in working order, but the gun itself 
was not. The breech mechanism was blocked by a bullet, and since the 
special tool for removing such obstacles had long ago been lost, stolen or 
sold, we had to dig it out ourselves. It was not until the gun was firing again 
that I realized it had been red-hot and that I had badly burned one of my 
hands on it. 

"Watch it," I told Porta, spitting on the burn and waving my hand in the air. 
"There's only another 1500 rounds left." 

"They're there to be used!" he retorted. 

I turned and grabbed some grenades, ready for the moment when we should 
run out of ammunition, but now the Siberians had broken through farther 
along the lines and we had to pick up the machine gun and make a dash for it. 
I stumbled along with the tripod on my shoulder and my head directly beneath 
the muzzle. After a few yards we threw ourselves to the ground and took up 
firing positions again, but then for the second time the gun became blocked. 
We couldn't stop to put it right, we abandoned it on the spot and continued the 
fight with the first weapons that came to hand. I fixed my bayonet and plunged 
forward. I had acquired a Russian rifle that was far better than our own 
outmoded 98. Porta had snached up a stray shovel and bashed it straight into 
the face of an oncoming Russian. Nearby I caught a glimpse of Tiny. He 
seemed to have disdained all mechanical aids and to be using only his feet 
and his fists. As I rushed past him, I saw him snatch up two Russians and 
bang their heads together, but I was unable to stop long enough to see the 
outcome. 

The trenches were awash with blood. Mangled bodies, both Russian and 
German, lay at the bottom or hung over the sides. The air was full of shouts 
and cries and screams of agony. All up and down the narrow trenches men 
were locked together, fighting and killing each other. 

The attack lasted some hours and was then quite suddenly brought to a halt. 
We never knew what lay behind the order, but it gave us a desperately 
needed respite. The two sides parted company and sat back to lick their 
wounds and to count their dead, but out in no-man's-land men still lay writhing 
and moaning. The smoke still rose wraithlike into the air. the new silence was 
still occasionally torn apart by the screams of dying men. 


We pulled off our gas masks and quenched our thirst with great handfuls of 
snow. The snow was dirty, men had bled in it, spat in it, trampled in it, but our 
throats were dry as sandpaper and every time you swallowed, it was as if you 
had a razor blade in your gullet. 

At the foot of the trench there was a tangled crush of bodies; some dead, 
some still dying. We threw ourselves down among them, too exhausted to 
care. The enemy could attack again at any moment, but in the meantime it 
was every man for himself and to hell with the weak and the wounded. The 
Old Man appeared, with his inevitable pipe. Porta produced some opium 
cigarettes and handed them around. Gregor and Tiny came up from opposite 
directions, and shortly afterward we were joined by the Legionnaire. He was 
covered in blood, yet he seemed unhurt. 

"Been sticking pigs?" suggested Gregor. The Legionnaire gave him a look of 
withering distaste. "Some damn fool officer got a bayonet stuck in his neck. 
Jesus, what a mess! Like a goddam geyser, blood spouting out all over the 
place. It went all over me." 

The whole of our group had survived, but Captain Schwan had disappeared. 
We found him several hours later, lying on bis back with his belly ripped open 
and his intestines torn out. Nearby, with half his head gone, was Porta's friend 
Franz Krupka. We had to bury everyone, Russians and Germans alike, in the 
same grave. We dug a shallow pit, bundled the bodies in pell-mell, packed 
them with snow and planted rifles alongside. We had neither the time nor the 
energy to give them a more seemly graveyard. 

The regiment was withdrawn to be re-formed. In our company alone we had 
lost sixty-eight men, and at first we thought our fat friend Wilke was among 
them, because the field kitchen was now being run by someone else. 

"Hallo, there!" said Porta, surprised. "Where's Sergeant Wilke gone? Don't tell 
me a stray shell got him at last?" 

"No, he went off this morning in a plane with General Hube." 

"He what?" said Porta. 

"Went off in a plane. Back to Germany, the lucky bastard." 

"You're joking!" Porta tossed his head in an attempt at bravado, but we could 
see that he was shaken. "Where's he really gone?" 

"I told you, didn't I?" said the man irritably. "What's the matter with you, you 
deaf or something? I told you, he's gone back home." 

Porta's jaw dropped open and his cigarette fell to the ground. He stooped 
unsteadily to pick it up. He had the look of a man who has just been punched 
in the face. 


"By the way," continued the new cook, "you don't happen to know a guy called 
Joseph Porta, do you? Wilke left a parcel for him. Said he was the best pal 
he'd ever had. I don't know what he was talking about, but I've got the parcel 
right here. If you meet this Porta fellow, you might tell him to come and pick it 
up." 

Porta staggered away without another word. It was the first time I had ever 
seen him at a loss. While the rest of us settled down to sleep, Porta walked up 
and down feverishly muttering to himself, and not until the Legionnaire 
threatened to put a bullet through him did he come to his senses. He went 
striding out to see the new cook, and with grunts of relief we closed our eyes 
and lost consciousness. But scarcely five minutes later, Porta was back again. 
He banged something down in the middle of the floor, and we were resentfully 
back into wakefulness. 

"What the hell's going on?" snarled the Legonnaire. He shot upright and saw 
Porta. The great scar down the side of his face glowed bright red with anger. 
"It's you again!" He sounded incredulous. "I told you once, you're asking for 
trouble!" 

He snatched up his revolver, but before he could fire, Porta had held up a 
restraining hand. "Just take a gander at this bit of loot," he suggested. 

The Legionnaire peered forward suspiciously. "What is it?" 

"Vodka." A blissful smile painted itself across Porta's face. "A whole crate of 
vodka." 

There was a stunned silence. The Legionnaire slowly put his revolver away 
and staggered out of bed. 

"Where did it come from?" demanded Tiny, digging his knuckles into his eyes 
and blinking. 

"My friend Wilke," said Porta nonchalantly. 

"Your friend Wilke?" 

"Yeah—I did him a good turn. Got him a ticket back to Germany." 

We looked at him; six pairs of eyes, all disbelieving. 

"How?" asked the Old Man bluntly. 

"Well, that's the trouble," confessed Porta, with a frown. "I don't know how—I 
only wish I did, I'd do the same for myself!" 

Some time later, when Porta was wandering around inebriated with a bottle in 
his hand, he bumped into a new lieutenant who had recently joined us. The 
lieutenant was young and zealous. Newly hatched from his egg and still with 


some of the yolk behind his ears. He and Porta had not crossed paths before. 
The lieutenant stood back, evidently awaiting some sign of respectful 
acknowledgment from Porta. Porta stared up at him from little glittering eyes 
that were full of frank condescension. 

"You! Corporal! Don't you know what the Führer's orders are?" 

Porta opened his eyes wide. "Sorry, sir. He hasn't been able to give us any 
orders since the enemy tore him in half yesterday evening. We buried him in 
one of the trenches." 

The lieutenant stiffened. "Are you trying to be funny, Corporal? Are you 
deliberately insulting your Führer?" 

Porta clicked his heels together and saluted with the hand that was holding 
the bottle. "Certainly not, sir. I wouldn't dream of it, sir." 

"Then what the devil do you mean by saying that you buried the Führer in one 
of the trenches?" 

Porta looked innocently into the tight-lipped face of the lieutenant. His blue 
eyes slowly cleared. "Oh, you mean that Führer, sir!" 

"Who did you suppose I meant?" 

"I thought you meant our Führer, sir. Captain Schwan, who was killed last 
night. When you said the Führer's orders, I thought you was referring to the 
captain." Porta smiled brightly. "He was the only one around here ever gave 
us any orders, sir. We wouldn't have taken them from no one else." 

The lieutenant stretched his neck out of his collar and swallowed in a 
somewhat strangulated fashion. "What are your duties in the company, 
Corporal?" 

"Well, a little bit of everything, really. I'm in charge of the third section just at 
the moment." 

"Then may God preserve us, that's all I can say! Which cretin promoted you to 
be a section leader?" 

"Sir," said Porta earnestly, "it doesn't give me no pleasure to have men under 
my command. It's what I call a duty more than a pleasure. But orders is orders 
and everyone knows that us corporals is the backbone of the German Army. 
Officers, if you'll forgive the liberty, sir, because I'm only saying what's the 
truth, but officers is just sort of icing on the cake— if you'll pardon the 
expression," he added ingratiatingly. 

"Not meaning to be rude, sir, but where'd we be without us fellas?" 

"I'm warning you, Corporal! You'd better watch what you're saying!" 


"But, sir ..." 

"The Führer himself—the Führer Adolf Hitler—" The lieutenant broke off and 
glared at Porta. "Stand to attention when I speak of the Führer!" 

"All right, sir. Can I just put this bottle down? It makes it easier when you're 
not holding a bottle in your hand." 

"You have no right to be holding a bottle in your hand! You have no right to be 
gorging yourself on drink! False courage is forbidden!" 

"Jeez," said Porta. 

He was an expert in officer-baiting. From a safe distance we sat and drank 
and watched the fun. 

The young lieutenant drew himself up very straight and his pale cheeks 
acquired a hectic purple flush. "Corporal! It is the solemn bounden duty of 
every German citizen, man, woman or child, soldier or civilian, to have the 
strong red blood of pride running through his veins!" 

Porta stood blinking. The lieutenant gulped some air and came down to a 
more mundane level of speech. "From now on," he said pettishly, "I shall be 
the one to give the orders. You understand? You're under my command now, 
and I suggest you remember it. I'm a stickler for discipline! The men under me 
must be as strong as Krupp steel! No slacking, no backsliding!" 

"I couldn't agree more," said Porta. "May I go now, sir?" 

It was not a good day for the new lieutenant. A couple of hours later he was 
foolish enough to cross swords with Tiny. The two men were hurrying in 
opposite directions. Tiny was carrying a bucket of water in either hand, on his 
way to the field kitchen. He had his head down, and the lieutenant was riffling 
through some papers. They jostled each other as they passed. Some of the 
water slopped over the side of the buckets, and Tiny swore aloud as he went 
on his way. The lieutenant stopped and looked back, to see what ill-mannered 
oaf was daring to swear at an officer. 

"Hey, you, soldier! Don't you salute your officers in this part of the world?" 

Tiny continued stolidly walking with his buckets. This was not the first officer 
who had joined us fresh out of training school and thought the war could be 
won by a smart salute and a row of brass buttons. 

"You!" screeched the outraged lieutenant. "It's you I'm talking to! You with the 
buckets! What's your name?" 

Tiny paused, then turned politely toward the officer. As Porta often remarked, 
if you wanted to survive in this war, you had to play along with them to a 
certain extent; you had to humor their whims and their odd flights of fancy. 


"The name's Creutzfeld," said Tiny. "And if I'd realized it was me you was 
shouting at, I'd have stopped straightaway, sir." 

"Well, now that you do know, you might care to answer my question." 

"What was that, sir?" 

"I asked you whether you don't salute your officers in this part of the world!" 

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 
Obergruppenführer 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 Obergruppenführer. Her husband, visibly apprehensive, 
had risen from the chaise longue and stood watching. 

"Herr Obergruppenführer, 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 Düsseldorf 
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 Führer 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. 

 

6 

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 Führer 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 Führer 
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 Führer . . . this is from the Führer!" 

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 Führer." 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?" 

"That is quite correct." The colonel looked at him, more than a little stunned. 
"You certainly wouldn't." 

"I guess it's my duty to call in the MPs," said Porta. "They'll soon have the 
matter sorted out." 

"You just do that," agreed the pilot with a broad grin. "I'd be interested to see 
their reaction." 

I noticed that the colonel's agitation had perceptibly increased. He suddenly 
caught Porta by the shoulder, leaned forward and whispered urgently to him 
and the pilot. "No need to go to the Military Police, you know. No need at all. I 
don't want to get anyone into trouble. There is a war on, this is a time of stress 
. . ." 

"But orders from the Führer!" hissed Porta. 

"Never mind the Führer, what about twenty thousand Reichsmark? Twenty 
thousand for a seat on the plane. How about it?" 

"Scram!" The pilot stretched out a hand and gave the colonel a shove. He fell 
back into the arms of Porta, who jerked him away, stuck out a foot and tripped 
him into a snowdrift. 


"Go and get your head blown off!" shouted the pilot. "Then come back and try 
again! You might stand a better chance next time!" 

At that point a couple of MPs arrived. They at once clapped heavy hands on 
Porta. 

"All right," one of them said, "you've cooked your goose, soldier! Attacking an 
officer?" 

The two of them slowly shook their heads, savoring the situation. 

Porta glared at them. "Attacking a deserter, more like! That bastard's just 
offered us twenty thousand marks for a place on the plane—and not a scratch 
on him!" 

The colonel picked himself out of the snowdrift and gestured arrogantly 
toward Porta. "Arrest that man! He used violence on an officer of the Reich!" 

"Shove it," said Porta, imperturbable as ever. He held out his piece of paper. 
"Take a gander at that. He tried to tell us it was an order from the Führer. We 
was only doing our duty." 

The two men took one look at the paper and turned scarlet with rage. 

"An order from the Führer?" screamed one of them. "Three days out of date 
and you're still trying to use it? When you're not even wounded?" He turned to 
his companion. "Arrest this officer on a charge of attempted desertion!" 

The colonel was led away, gray-faced and stumbling. I shook my head as I 
watched. 

"I don't know that I blame him," I muttered. "Who wouldn't give it a try if they 
thought they stood a chance? He might have got away with it." 

"He might, but he didn't." 

"But at least it was a possibility," I argued. "That's more than we've got, stuck 
here in this hellhole." I looked solemnly at Porta. "We'll never get out alive. 
You know that, don't you?" 

Porta shrugged his shoulders. "Live for today, kid. Screw tomorrow. We'll 
make it yet, if we keep our heads." 

"Like hell!" I said. 

The first plane was preparing to take off. A horde of wounded men were 
milling around it, begging, crying, screaming, some on crutches, some 
supported by friends, some crawling through the deep snow on hands and 
knees. It was like some infernal Lourdes, all the sick and the lame praying for 
help, but God the airplane was going off without them. They swarmed around 


the cockpit, flung themselves at the doors, beat with their fists on the side of 
the fuselage. A place on the plane meant a chance of survival; to be left 
behind, a wounded man on the Russian front, meant almost certain death. 
The MPs beat them back with the pitiless butts of their revolvers. There was 
nothing else they could do. All three planes were filled to overflowing with the 
torn and bleeding bodies of the most seriously injured. I had seen men 
mummified in bandages, men with mutilated stumps where their hands and 
feet should have been, men with no features, men with no arms or legs. There 
was no room for anyone who still had sufficient strength to drag himself 
weeping across the airfield. Radio equipment, dressings, ammunition—all had 
been jettisoned to make room for a few extra bodies. Any more weight and 
the planes would be in jeopardy. 

The first one was moving ponderously forward along the runway. Porta and I 
stood watching, praying that it would be able to get off the ground. It gathered 
speed, reached the end of the path and rose heavily into the air in a cloud of 
snow. It skimmed low over the hangar, then flew in a wide arc and 
disappeared into the gray skies. 

"They've got no radio," I said. "What do they do if they run into trouble?" 

"Jesus," said Porta, "doesn't anything good ever happen in your dreams?" 

The second plane moved along the runway. We watched it rise into the air. 
Just as it seemed to have taken off successfully, it suddenly bucked and 
reared, dropped like a stone onto its belly and exploded. It was all over within 
seconds. 

I looked at Porta. "I'm not a pessimist," I said. "I'm just a realist." 

He turned and walked away without another word. I stayed to watch the third 
plane just miss crashing into the barbed wire enclosure and then followed 
him. 

He was waiting by the side of the amphicar in which we had transported the 
colonel. As he saw me coming, he pointed silently at an inert gray mass in the 
snow. I stopped to examine it. It was the lieutenant colonel who had tried to 
buy a place on the plane. 

"My God," I said, shaken. "They got rid of him quickly." 

"justice is pretty swift in this part of the world," said Porta wisely. 

"So is injustice!" I retorted. I pushed the dead figure out of the way with my 
boot. "I wonder exactly how many men they've executed in this zone?" 

"Oh, hundreds," said Porta casually. "If not thousands; a guy I was talking to 
the other day told me they'd done away with eight hundred and fifty in his 
company alone." 


"He must have been exaggerating," I protested. 

Porta cocked an eyebrow at me. "Sez you!" 

We got in the car and drove slowly down Litvinov Street toward Red Square, 
where some cellars had been turned into a temporary hospital. After seeing 
the colonel safely onto an airplane, our orders were to collect a crate of 
dressings for the regiment. In the makeshift hospital there was a repellent 
stench of blood and excreta, vomit and dirt and rotting human flesh. Men lay 
in rows on the floor for lack of beds, the dying and the dead cheek by jowl. 
The only lights were from candle stubs. I had hardly moved two paces forward 
before I tripped over a corpse and fell on top of a wounded man, who shrieked 
in agony. 

"Get the hell out of here!" roared a Feldwebel, who was lying at my feet with a 
bandage over one eye. "We're full up, there's no room for any more." 

"What's the matter? Where are you wounded?" I picked myself up and saw a 
doctor staring at us hostilely from beneath his mask. 

"Nowhere," I said, and I felt guilty that I was still in one piece. "We've come to 
pick up some dressings." 

"Fourth door to the left. Watch where you put your feet." 

"Yes, sir." 

"And stand to attention when you talk to an officer! We're still at war, you 
know!" "Yes, sir." 

Porta and I saluted and hurried along to the fourth door on the left. There 
were bodies even in the dank stone corridors, it was impossible not to tread 
on them as you pushed your way past. The medical orderly to whom we 
handed our requisition order read it through with a stony face. "Bandages?" 
he said at last. "Dressings?" he said. He shrugged his shoulders. "I can give 
you a bundle of newsprint, if you like. We don't use dressings any more." We 
looked at him wonderingly. 

"Morphine?" He tapped a finger on our list. "You're sure you wouldn't like an 
entire operating theater while you're about it?" 

"Not unless it says so—" began Porta dubiously. The man gave a short 
scream and thrust the requisition at us. "Take it and go, and don't come 
pestering me with any more damn fool demands! Bandages! Morphine! What 
do you think I am, a goddamn magician? Santa Claus? Christ almighty, you 
people make me sick! Go back to your regiment and remind them, with my 
compliments, that we're at Stalingrad. Nobody sends us any dressings or 
bandages any more. Nobody sends us anything any more. We're on our own 
from now on." 


"But look here—" said Porta. 

"Look my ass! Can't you get it into your great thick skull that as an army we 
don't exist any more? It's no damn good coming whining to me for help; I can't 
give you what I haven't got, can I?" 

We knew he was speaking the truth. We had seen those effigies of men lying 
on the ground, we had smelled the blood and the foulness. We knew there 
was nothing he could do for us. 

We left the hospital and drove empty-handed away from the town. About half 
a mile out we were stopped by an idiot wearing a white fur coat and waving a 
rifle. We pulled up and a lieutenant demanded to see our papers. 

"We're on our way back to our regiment," said Porta. "Just taken our colonel 
to Gumrak." 

"OK." He handed back the papers. "Sorry, but we need you here for the 
moment. Hide your car under those trees over there and grab yourself some 
grenades." 

We were scarcely in a position to argue. We did as he said and tagged onto 
the end of a section commanded by a Feldwebel. 

I turned to a lance corporal by my side. "What's going on here?" I demanded. 

"Court-martial commando," he grimaced. "Take a look at that pit behind you." 

I did so; it was full of bodies. I remembered what Porta had said about the 
eight hundred and fifty executions in one company alone, and I began to 
wonder if it had been an exaggeration after all. 

"Grisly business," said the lance corporal disparagingly. "And that's only one 
morning's work. It's no picnic." 

"I believe you," I muttered. 

Minutes later an infantry battalion arrived, full-steam ahead, magnificently 
equipped and very sure of themselves. The maniac with the rifle and the white 
fur coat stepped into the middle of the road and waved them down, and again 
the lieutenant moved forward to ask his standard question. "Where are you 
going?" 

"We've got orders to reassemble farther on along the Don." 

A major stuck his head out of one of the leading cars and spoke impatiently. 
The lieutenant shook his head. "Sorry. All orders canceled. No one to move 
out of the area. You'll have to stay here with us for the time being." 


"We'll do no such thing!" barked the major. "How do I know the orders are 
canceled? No one told me about it." 

"I'm telling you now." The lieutenant took out his revolver and leveled it at the 
major. "You either do as I say or I have you shot as a deserter. The choice is 
yours." 

The major bit his lip. He climbed slowly from his car, and the lieutenant 
beckoned to one of his men. "Helmer, show the major where to go." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Look, I don't know what all this is about," began the major, "but I can . . ." 

"It's about desertion." The lieutenant stared at him coldly. "I've already told 
you, the choice is yours. If you want to stay and argue, by all means do so. If 
not, I advise you to get out of the road before the Russians come through in 
their T-34s." 

For six hours Porta and I stayed at our posts. During that time there was a 
steady flow of would-be deserters, all of them held up by the fur-coated 
gentleman, interrogated by the lieutenant and either persuaded to stay or sent 
to the firing squad. Rank was no protection and neither were papers nor 
orders. There was to be no taking the easy road out of the horrors of 
Stalingrad. 

At the end of six hours we were relieved of our duties and allowed to proceed 
on our way—not through any special favors, but simply because it was 
discovered that we were carrying orders marked with the stamp of the High 
Command, and even the fanatical lieutenant had come to the conclusion that 
they must be genuine. 

Porta, uncaring as ever, whistled inappropriate songs as the amphicar 
bounced along the road to Kuperossnoye. I sat by his side trying to sleep but 
so cold that I kept shivering and waking myself up. It was pouring with snow, 
and on two occasions the vehicle came to a full stop and we had to dig 
ourselves out. On either side of the road the drifts were piled higher than the 
telegraph poles. 

When we were still some way off from Kuperossnoye, we overtook a cavalry 
column. The horses were slipping and dancing on the ice, and Porta and I 
looked at them in astonishment. 

"Where the hell did they come from?" demanded Porta. "Walking steaks! 
What I wouldn't give for a nice bit of horse's ass!" 

It did seem rather incredible that some men were starving, while others rode 
around on food supplies. The horses skidded and whinnied, their breath 
billowing out into the cold air. We heard the creaking of saddles and the 
tinkling of bits, and we smelled the hot horsy smell of hay and damp leather. 


We moved on past the cavalry and drew level with the artillery, coming toward 
us with the cannons of their field guns pointing skyward into the falling snow. 
After the artillery it was the engineers, with their bulldozers and mechanical 
shovels. 

Porta and I exchanged puzzled glances. 

"Reinforcements?" I said. "All that lovely new equipment?" 

"Don't seem possible," said Porta. 

There was a silence. 

"Rumanians?" I said. 

"Could be." 

"Well, what else?" 

Porta simply shrugged. 

For two hours we drove past the oncoming columns. There must have been at 
least one division, if not more. We waved amiably to them, and sometimes 
they waved back. Quite suddenly Porta pulled the amphicar to a screaming 
halt. 

"What the hell are you doing?" I cried, clutching at the dashboard with both 
hands. 

In the middle of the road, directly ahead of us, stood an officer. He was 
holding up a placard on which was written the one word: STOP. Porta 
wrenched the wheel round and we went spinning off into some woods at the 
side of the road. 

"What the hell ..." I began. 

"Russians!" he yelled. 

And now I heard them howling behind us. 

"Stoi! Stoi!" 

Shots cracked all around us as Porta took the amphicar bouncing in a crazy 
slalom through the pine trees. A couple of miles farther on, he pulled up and 
turned to the back seat. 

"Here!" He tossed a Russian helmet at me, a furry object with a red star on 
the front. "Put this on your head and hope for the best. Good thing I spotted 
that bastard was a Russian, eh?" 


I crammed the helmet on and gestured frenziedly at Porta. "Let's get out of 
here, for God's sake!" 

We folded over the collars of our coats, hugged our Russian MPIs to our 
chests, peered out from beneath our furry helmets—and kept a good supply 
of hand grenades on the seat between us, just in case. 

A quarter of an hour later we hit the main road again. It was still full of enemy 
columns on the march. 

"Rumanians!" said Porta, and gave a short, cynical laugh. 

We reversed back into the woods, scouted around until we came to a side 
road, drove a couple of miles, and found ourselves brought to a sudden halt. 
The engine coughed and muttered a few times, then faded into an obstinate 
silence. 

"Shit and fucking disaster!" I screamed, diving through the door. "Let's leave 
the stinking thing and go on by foot!" 

"Don't be a fool," said Porta calmly. "Wouldn't get nowhere if we did that." 

He opened up the hood and peered in at the engine, while I stood by clutching 
the MPI and gnawing at the inside of my cheek. A Cossack division appeared 
and swung past us up the road, horses steaming, hooves clattering, bits and 
stirrups singing. The soldiers were chanting rhythmically. All very romantic, 
but I could have done without it just at that moment. I watched impatiently as 
Porta carefully wiped the spark plugs, examined the carburetor and the 
ignition. On a sudden impulse I tugged the death's head emblem from my 
lapels and trampled it into the snow. Porta looked at me in momentary 
amazement, then, catching on, followed suit. Those emblems had caused the 
death of many a soldier in the tank regiments; we were too often taken for the 
thugs and sadists who served in Eicke's hated "murder" division. 

"I'm damned if I know what the point of that was," reflected Porta. "They'll 
shoot us anyway if they get their hands on us." 

"I just feel happier without it," I muttered. 

Porta shrugged. "Can't say it bothers me." 

A corporal from an artillery regiment suddenly stepped toward us from a 
copse on the other side of the road. I clutched nervously at the MPI, while 
Porta continued his examination under the hood. 

"Zdrastye!" said the corporal cheerfully. 

"Zdrastye!" We answered his hello with a great show of bonhomie. 

He circled slowly around the vehicle, eyeing it with interest. 


"Hitler mashina," he told us with a big grin, and he caught the front wheel an 
almighty kick and roared with laughter. 

"Da," I affirmed weakly. 

"Khorosho?" 

"Da, khorosho," I nodded, managing to stutter that yes, it was good. 

The corporal laughed again and gave Porta an amiable thump on the back. 
He leaned over to look at the motor. 

"Yalovo,"* he commented, straightening up and wiping oily fingers down his 
coat. 

*"Dry." 

I stared vacantly and nodded my head a few times. I hoped he would take me 
for an idiot and ignore me. He turned to Porta and began talking at him at 
great speed, waving his arms up and down and pulling faces. While I watched 
him closely for signs of aggression, Porta bent over his engine and threw in 
the odd da or nyet (no) at what I could only hope and pray were appropriate 
intervals. After a while Porta put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a packet 
of grifas. He offered them to the corporal, whose big pumpkin face split open 
in a beam of delight. 

"Where did you get those?" he asked, in a Russian which I could just about 
grasp. 

"Yeniseisk," said Porta promptly. 

I wondered if Porta knew where Yeniseisk was, because I certainly didn't, but 
the reply seemed to satisfy the corporal. He nodded and smiled. 

"Yeniseisk, eh? That where you come from?" 

"Da," I said obediently. 

"I wondered what your accent was. I'm from Chita myself. I don't mind where 
a man comes from so long as it's not Moscow. If there's one thing I can't 
stand, it's a Muscovite. Talk like squawking farmyard animals. Can't 
understand a word they're saying. But Yeniseisk—I never met anyone from 
there before. Almost like foreigners!" He grinned at us. "I'll forgive a man 
anything as long as he's not from Moscow. We should have killed all the 
bigheaded bastards in the Revolution." 

Porta and I responded to this theory with a positive chorus of das, and at that 
providential moment the engine came to life again. We waved our hands at 
the corporal, jumped into the car and shot off in a great hurry. 


"Thank the Lord we didn't . . ." 

The words were only half out of my mouth, suspended as it were in midair, 
when the car stalled again. 

Porta flung open the door and stepped out. "We're stuck in a goddamn drift!" 

The corporal came running up to us, throwing his arms above his head and 
laughing. "Horses are better than cars in this weather!" he roared. 

He seemed to think he had made a huge joke, so Porta and I nodded and 
grinned and nudged him in the ribs, and he nudged us back, and we all 
started cackling together. 

The corporal was the first to recover. "Come on," he said briskly. "There's 
work to be done—Germans to be killed! Let me give you a hand." 

We all three pushed. Straining and heaving and grunting, as the wheels spun 
around and the car remained still. 

The corporal suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. "Wait there! I'll be back!" 

He ran away up the road and disappeared into the trees. 

"Where's he gone?" I said nervously. 

"He's gone to get help," said Porta, with a wicked smile of delight at our 
predicament. "He's going to bring all his little pals back to give us a shove." 

"Let's leave the stinking thing!" I urged. "We'll never get it moving before they 
come back." 

"Don't panic," said Porta, calmly seating himself behind the wheel. "Give us 
another push and see what happens." 

"Did you understand everything he was saying to you?" I panted as I set my 
shoulder to the back of the car and heaved. 

"Are you kidding?" Porta grinned. "I didn't understand him any more than he 
understood me—so what? You don't expect to, in a country this size. Some of 
'em practically speak different lingoes. Mind you, it's just as well I didn't say 
we came from Chita! I almost did, and then I hit on Yeniseisk instead." 

"Where is Yeniseisk?" 

"Haven't the faintest idea," said Porta happily. 

"Is it a real place?" 

"How should I know? It seemed to satisfy him all right." 


From farther up the road, I heard the crunching of boots on snow and the 
corporal's raucous voice. "Davaï! Davaï!" 

"They're coming back!" I yelped. I glanced over my shoulder. "Dozens of 'em!" 
I added, as three men emerged from the trees. 

At that moment the car shot forward and I fell headlong into the snow. I heard 
the corporal's merry hoot of laughter. Porta opened the door and shouted at 
me to get a move on if I didn't want to be left behind. As I flung myself into the 
moving vehicle, the corporal galloped alongside us. 

"Dosvidanya!" he screamed. "Dosvidanya!" 

"Goodbye to you too," I muttered, slamming the door. 

A few miles farther on we again hit a long column of enemy troops. At one 
point we were waved aside to let a staff car go past. I sat and jittered while 
Porta drove steadily on. We were approaching a crossroads, where a 
lieutenant general was watching the troops march past. 

"For God's sake," I said, "let's get shot of this damn thing and carry on by foot. 
A German vehicle sticks out like a sore thumb." 

"Stick out even more if we suddenly dumped it in the ditch," said Porta 
reasonably. "Don't worry, they'd never think a couple of Jerries would have 
the nerve to drive around in a VW in the middle of a crowd of enemy troops. 
They'll just take us for two of their own men that have swiped a Kraut car." 

Porta drove past the lieutenant general with a defiant flourish. I noticed his 
head whip around and stare after us, but Porta's optimism proved well 
founded and we were allowed to continue without interruption. 

About a mile farther on we turned off into the Bolyov gorge, in an attempt to 
leave the main road once and for all, but we were waved back again by a 
couple of furious military police, and we didn't stop to argue. 

As we drew near to the Volga, we found the road blocked by two overturned 
trucks, and we were allowed to make a diversion down a side street. We 
reached the end of the street, and instead of swinging us back to the main 
road, Porta took the opposite fork. We were pursued by the frenzied shouts 
and cries of a group of soldiers, and I stared at Porta in horror. "What are they 
saying? Are they coming after us?" 

"I shouldn't imagine so." He laughed, removed his Russian helmet and tossed 
it into the back of the vehicle. "They were just telling us to be careful—we're 
heading toward the German lines!" 

Our own side didn't exactly welcome us back with open arms. They viewed us 
with the deepest suspicion and met us with a warning barrage of artillery fire. 
Even when they had calmed down sufficiently to hear our explanations, they 


seemed not to believe us. They kept saying, "But where have you come 
from?" and, "How the hell did you get through?" until I began to wonder if it 
had all been worth it. Finally, and very grudgingly, they took their fingers off 
the trigger and hauled us along to their company commander, who held us 
two hours for questioning before giving us permission to rejoin our regiment. 

"I should have got us a couple of seats on that plane," said Porta bitterly. "I 
could have, you know." 

"I don't doubt it," I said. 

"I could have thumbed my nose at the lot of 'em. Let 'em stew in their own 
stinking juice. I could have, if I was that sort of person." 

"Which, of course, you're not," I said. 

Porta glared at me, not sure whether I was being sarcastic. 

"I could have," he said again. "I'm telling you!" 

"Well, don't keep on about it!" I snarled. "I already said I believed you! Just 
shut up and give your ass a chance!" 

We arrived back at our own lines thoroughly disgruntled with each other, and 
our tempers were made no sweeter by the realization that we were not even 
going to receive a heroes' welcome from our own buddies. The regiment was 
in a panic and no one could be bothered with us. They couldn't have cared 
less whether we were there or not. Field telephones were buzzing and 
messengers were dashing about every which way. 

"What's going on around here?" said Porta angrily. "Everything falls to pieces 
the minute I turn my back. It's always the same." 

"Don't see what you could have done if you had been here," the Old Man told 
him. "The Russians have broken through in several places and all hell's been 
let loose." 

"See what I mean?" Porta turned to me bitterly. "I should have got a seat in 
that plane. Left 'em to stew in their own juice." 

 

Let us seize power now, and let us keep that power no matter what means we 
must employ to do so. 

Joseph Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda, to Ernst Thaelmann, January 3, 
1932 


Two horsemen were trotting briskly down a path in the Zoological Gardens—
the Tiergarten—which was deserted at six o'clock in the morning. They were 
Obergruppenführer Heydrich and Admiral Canaris. 

"It is an interesting idea," said Heydrich, turning to his companion. "Don't you 
think so?" He looked straight ahead, between his horse's ears, a smile on his 
lips. "Dress up a group of prisoners in Polish uniform and organize an attempt 
on the radio station at Gleiwitz—what could be more amusing?" He turned 
again to Canaris. "And what could give us a better excuse for launching an 
attack on Poland?" 

"I have my doubts," Canaris frowned. 

"On what grounds?" Heydrich laughed. "Not moral scruples, I trust?" 

Canaris shook his head. "Moral scruples hardly enter into it, do they? Since 
no one is in the least likely to accept them as a valid ground for objection." 

"So?" 

"So—" Canaris hunched an uneasy shoulder. "I can't see it coming off, that's 
all. It doesn't seem to me that you'll be able to keep it a secret for very long. 
Using prisoners— they're bound to talk." 

"No need to worry on that score, my friend. None of them will survive the 
operation." 

Canaris turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "I thought you were calling 
for volunteers? Promising them their freedom in exchange?" 

"Purely as bait," murmured Heydrich, slightly reproachfully. "Naturally we can't 
be expected to keep our promise. It would be the height of folly, and sabotage 
the entire operation—as you yourself have just pointed out. And in any case, 
Admiral, I believe I am not wrong in saying that the idea actually originated in 
your department?" 

"In my department, yes. But not altogether with my approval." 

"Nevertheless, the affair is reverting to you, is it not? It will be carried out 
under your auspices?" 

"No. There you are for once misinformed, Obergruppenführer. My department 
will have nothing to do with the operation." 

The admiral urged his horse forward into a canter, leaving Heydrich staring 
thoughtfully after him. For a few moments he continued to trot, rising and 
falling with the motion of the horse, frowning as he tapped his boot with his 
riding crop. Canaris slowed down again to a walk, and Heydrich caught up 
with him at the end of the path. 


"May one know why, Admiral? I was under the impression that the Führer 
himself had already approved the idea?" 

"That is so." Canaris inclined his head. "However, as I told you just now, the 
plan was conceived without my knowledge and put forward without my 
consent. I shall have nothing to do with it." 

"I hardly see that you can avoid it," said Heydrich with a slow smile. "We are 
all responsible for the actions of our subordinates. I was speaking on that very 
subject only yesterday to the Reichsführer and the Reichsmarschall, and they 
were both of the same opinion. This idea originated in your department and it 
must therefore rest with you to carry it out." 

Canaris slowly lit a cigarette before replying. "You can't frighten me into it, 
Obergruppenführer. I'm as well informed as you, and very sure of my facts. I 
myself spoke with the Führer not long ago and explained my position to him. I 
want nothing to do with the operation." He blew a thin stream of smoke down 
his nostrils and glanced sideways at the frozen figure of Heydrich. "I find the 
whole concept totally disagreeable. It has nothing whatsoever to do with 
counterespionage, and I'm warning you now that you'll have the whole Army 
against you." 

"That's a risk that has to be run. One accepts it." 

"Sooner you than me." 

They trotted on in silence for a while, then Heydrich leaned across to the 
admiral and lightly flicked his horse's neck. "Admiral Canaris, I congratulate 
you! You're a lively old fox and you never miss a trick. But one word of 
warning: every fox has his day! They all come to a sticky end sooner or later." 

He pulled his horse around and cantered off toward the large black Mercedes 
that was waiting for him. Admiral Canaris trotted on by himself. 

7 

Summary Executions 

In the middle of the night, an HE-111 landed in a field near Stalingrad. No one 
in the Sixth Army knew of its arrival, no one would have guessed the identity 
of the passenger it had brought. The only men who were present when it 
landed were a few selected NCOs from the paratroop regiment MATUK. The 
aircraft was camouflaged the minute it came down, and the paratroopers 
standing guard had orders to shoot on sight. 

The first to leave the plane was Theodor Eicke, the man chiefly responsible 
for the running of the concentration camps and commander of the Third 
Panzer Division, the "murder" squad. The savage brutality of Eicke, and, 
indeed, of the men under him, had been known to shake even the Führer, and 
the whole of the division had been deprived of leave for the duration of the 


war. Keep the animals behind bars and make good use of their particularly 
revolting talents, but never let them loose among the civilian population! 

Behind Eicke came a group of SS men, all specialists in the Nazi art of 
liquidation. A motorized sled was waiting for them, provided by the paratroop 
regiment, but the regular driver was forced to cede his place to 
Oberscharführer Henzel, known affectionately at Dachau as "Killer" Henzel. 

In a flurry of snow the sled and its sinister travelers set off toward Stalingrad 
and the Sixth Army HQ. The Air Force markings had been removed from the 
sled and replaced by the letters "SS," on the orders of the ever-watchful 
Eicke. He was a man who paid an almost psychopathic attention to detail and 
left nothing to chance, as many of his Dachau detainees could testify, from 
the Austrian Chancellor, von Schuschnigg, one of the "specials," down to the 
least and most wretched of the Jews dug out of their hiding places in the 
slums of Berlin. 

The Sixth Army had made its headquarters in an underground bunker which 
had been previously occupied by the NKVD. Eicke's unexpected arrival 
caused an immediate bustle and hubbub. Panic spread rapidly throughout the 
bunker, even to General Paulus himself. He stood up as Eicke entered his 
room, and held out a hand that shook very slightly. Eicke ignored it. He stood 
at the entrance, legs straddled, eyes flickering with cold contempt as he 
looked General Paulus up and down. Paulus cut a poor figure of a general at 
that moment, huddled into two misshapen greatcoats like a small gray 
creature dragged prematurely out of hibernation. Eicke was wearing the 
obligatory leather coat, well cut and stylish. He took his time lighting a cigar 
and spoke only when he was ready. 

"Who are you?" he then said arrogantly. "I'm General Paulus." The general 
smiled nervously and dropped his hand. "May I ask to whom I have the honor 
of speaking?" 

"Honor?" Eicke laughed, savoring the word. "Yes, that's good. I like it." He 
strolled into the room, looking disdainfully from side to side. "You have the 
honor to be speaking to SS Obergruppenführer Theodor Eicke. I am here on 
the Führer's behalf. He wishes to know what is going on." "What's going . . ." 

"In particular," Eicke cut across him, "whether you're fighting a war or taking a 
winter sports vacation?" 

Paulus began anxiously massaging the fingers of one hand with those of the 
other. They were long, fine, tapering fingers, made for better things than war. 
The fingers of a pianist or a surgeon. They had been made to create, never to 
destroy. 

"When I came in just now," said Eicke mercilessly, "I quite thought I had been 
brought to the wrong place. You seemed to me more like a-an elderly 
Bolshevik prisoner warming himself inside a German greatcoat than the 


commander in chief of the Sixth Army! You don't look very much like a 
general, do you?" 

"It's been very hard out here, for all of us," began Paulus, but Eicke again 
interrupted him. 

"I'm not surprised there's no discipline among your troops, General! There's a 
spirit of defeat in the air—and it conies straight from the top! It seems I shall 
have to tell the Führer that one of his generals has given up the fight." 

"That's not true!" 

The finely molded hands began to tremble. The general's protest was that of a 
man hurt rather than a man insulted, but his chief of staff sprang forward in his 
defense. General Schmidt was the very opposite of Paulus: hard, quick, and 
very sure of himself. "SS Obergruppenführer, you have no business speaking 
like that! I shall put in a complaint!" 

"That is your right," allowed Eicke. "By all means do so—to whom should you 
wish to address it? To the Führer? Because if so, I can save you the trouble; I 
am his official representative at Stalingrad." 

He pulled a document from his inside pocket and tossed it onto the table. The 
document gave full powers to Obergruppenführer Theodor Eicke, in the name 
of the Führer Adolf Hitler, to hold courts-martial and to pass whatever 
judgments he thought fit. 

Paulus pressed his fingers to his forehead in a gesture of despair. "What does 
the Führer wish to know? Has he not received my reports on the situation? 
I've outlined my proposals to him—General Schmidt had an excellent plan 
which could be put into operation almost immediately. The Führer has only to 
approve it, and I believe we shall still be able to salvage at least a part of the 
Sixth Army." 

"Salvage!" Eicke spat it out scornfully. "The Führer is not interested in salvage 
operations—only in victory. God knows, he's given you enough time out here! 
And all you can do is whine to him for more men, more food, more 
ammunition . . . what have you done with all the men you've already had? 
Where's all your ammunition gone? Have you been giving firework displays 
with it?" 

"This is preposterous—" began Schmidt, very loudly. 

Eicke swung around on him. "All this talk of plans and proposals! Nothing but 
an attempt to cover up your failure! The Führer instructs me to remind you 
that the German Army does not turn and ran before a horde of Soviet apes! I 
am told to remind you yet again that what he wants is victory!" 

"How?" asked Schmidt dryly. 


"How?" screamed Eicke. "That is not my concern, nor is it the Führer's! How 
you win the fight is up to you— that's what you were made a general for." He 
moved closer to Schmidt, pointing a finger at him. "But you're asking me! 
How? All right, I'll tell you how. Chase the Bolsheviks out of Europe, that's 
how! Good God almighty, you've got twenty-five divisions in this army of 
yours—six hundred thousand men and eight hundred tanks—what more do 
you want? You could win five world wars with that, never mind flushing out a 
few primitive Soviet peasants!" 

General Huber, who had been sitting silent throughout the exchange, nursing 
his empty right sleeve, could take Eicke's insolent tones no longer. He rose to 
his feet, his face white with anger. "Who do you think you're talking to? You're 
not in your concentration camp now, you know; you're in Stalingrad! And 
we're not your prisoners, we're officers and soldiers!" 

"Ah, yes," said Eicke, turning to him. "You're General Huber, are you not? I 
have a message here for you. From General Burghof." 

He handed Huber a slip of paper from the head of Army Personnel. It was an 
order for Huber to return to Germany and present himself at the Führer's 
headquarters. Huber crumpled up the paper and pushed it into his pocket. He 
felt instinctively that such an order presaged some ill. It could mean 
promotion, but he doubted it. A summons to the Führer had always been a 
doubtful honor at the best of times. His thoughts flew at once to the possibility 
of his own execution—the firing squad—the liquidation of his family. He stared 
across at Eicke, gloatingly watching him through a cloud of cigar smoke, and 
he spoke with an effort. "Thank you," he said. 

He sat down at the table and took no more part in the conversation. It seemed 
to him now that whatever happened, whether he stayed in Stalingrad and 
waited for the Russians, or whether he flew back to Germany in answer to the 
Führer's summons, he was probably a dead man. 

General Paulus also remained silent. He was not fitted for war. He wished 
only to live among his books and his art treasures, to read and to think, to be 
on cordial terms with his neighbors, to interfere with no one and to be left 
alone to lead a life of peace. 

Only Schmidt, still hostile, took any notice as Eicke bowed a slight, ironic bow 
toward the three generals, then said, "My travels, for the moment, take me 
elsewhere, but I shall be back very shortly." 

His next call was on the 71st Division at Tsaritsa. He strode vigorously into 
the staff bunker, banging on the desk with his baton, a magnificent gold rod 
bearing the death's head emblem, which had been a personal present from 
the Führer. Everyone looked up in alarm at his flamboyant entrance, and the 
commanding officer, General von Hartmann, rose at once and walked across 
to him. Eicke and von Hart-mann were known to each other of old. There had 
once been a time when Eicke was an unimportant clerk in the orderly room 
and von Hartmann had been his superior officer. It was von Hartmann who 


had discovered Eicke changing entries in the account books to suit himself 
and had subsequently had him transferred to a mine-disposal squad. He now 
faced Eicke in his new role of SS officer, but he gave no obvious signs of 
apprehension. 

"It's a long time since we last met," he said coolly. "Indeed, yes," agreed 
Eicke, tucking his gold baton under his arm. "But I haven't forgotten the bad 
turn you did me!" 

He smiled encouragingly at von Hartmann and undid the buttons of his coat, 
which fell open to reveal a chestful of medals and ribbons. "Well, General, the 
Führer's sent me over here to find out exactly what's going on. He's not at all 
pleased with the progress you've been making. He can't understand why a 
horde of half-civilized heathens should be giving the German Army so much 
trouble." 

The general bowed his head and remained silent. Eicke pulled off his gloves 
and wrapped them around his baton, which he tapped briskly against his calf. 
"I should like to inspect your division, if you please." 

"By all means," agreed von Hartmann, only too anxious to be rid of the man. 

He sent him off to look at the 191st, under the command of Captain Weinkopf. 
Eicke expressed a desire to travel by motor sled, but the ordnance officer 
shook his head. "I don't advise it, sir. It's not the safest way of going." 

Eicke turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Are you scared, Lieutenant? 
Perhaps I'm already beginning to discover why it is that victory still eludes the 
Sixth Army." 

The lieutenant held his tongue. If Eicke had no regard for his safety, that was 
his problem; as for himself, he had long since given up all hope of emerging 
alive and sane from the horrors of Stalingrad, and whether he died today or 
tomorrow was no longer a matter of the slightest importance. His entire family 
had been killed in an air raid on Cologne, and since that time he had ceased 
to care for his own future. 

The sled had gone no farther than a few yards when the snow all around them 
began flying in great divots into the air. Despite himself, Eicke started. 

"Russian mortars," said the lieutenant casually. "Take no notice, they're only 
small fry. It'll be the field guns next." 

As if in response, the Russian artillery started up the moment he finished 
speaking. The lieutenant glanced at Eicke and smiled. 

Eicke shivered. "It's certainly very cold," he muttered, by way of explaining his 
involuntary tremors. 


"Do you find it so?" asked the lieutenant, beginning to enjoy himself. "I was 
just thinking how mild it was. We even saw some bullfinches this morning. 
They're the most fickle of visitors, you never catch a glimpse of them when the 
weather's bad." 

Eicke looked at him suspiciously, but the lieutenant turned blandly away and 
pointed ahead toward some hills. "We have to go through a gorge pretty soon. 
I thought I ought to warn you—the Russians have a habit of going wild 
whenever we appear at the far end of it. It can get rather noisy." 

"That's quite all right," said Eicke, who was beginning to sweat in spite of the 
low temperature. "Carry straight on." 

The sled disappeared into the hills. It had scarcely put its nose out the other 
side when the ground beneath it seemed to open, a shower of snow 
enveloped both sled and occupants, and Eicke flung himself in a panic 
headfirst over the side, followed by his fellow SS men. 

The sled bucketed to a halt and the lieutenant stepped calmly off and stood 
looking at Eicke. "This is it," he said simply. 

Eicke picked himself up and brushed the snow off his uniform. "This is what?" 
he demanded. 

"We're here. We can continue on foot." 

They set off together to find Captain Weinkopf, the Russians harassing them 
all the way. Eicke looked around, irritated. "What's the matter with them? Do 
they always carry on like this?" 

"Oh, this is nothing!" the lieutenant smilingly assured him. "A few days ago 
they wiped out an entire battalion in two minutes flat. This way, sir. Captain 
Weinkopf is expecting us." 

"I'm surprised you have a captain in charge of a regiment," said Eicke, 
disapproving. 

The lieutenant shrugged. "Needs must—and he was the most experienced 
officer left. The Russians had bagged all the others." 

"All of them? You mean . . ." 

"I mean," said the lieutenant, "that officers don't last very long in this part of 
the world. Here we are, sir." 

They found Captain Weinkopf playing cards with some enlisted men. They 
were all huddled together beneath three greatcoats, squatting on piles of 
Russian rifles. They had a couple of gasoline cans for a table. 


"This is Obergruppenführer Eicke," said the lieutenant with something less 
than the required respect. 

The soldiers looked up. Captain Weinkopf selected a card, placed it on a 
gasoline can, closed up his hand and nodded offhand. 

Eicke waited in vain for the group to stand up and salute him. Nothing 
happened. 

"I am here as the representative of the Führer," he said at last. 

Captain Weinkopf glanced up at him. "Oh, yes?" 

"I have come to inspect your regiment." 

"You're welcome," said the captain. He waved a hand. "Most of them are out 
there, in their dugouts. You can go and look them over any time you like. But I 
ought to warn you they're all a bit jittery at the moment. They'll shoot at 
anything that moves, so you'd best watch your step." 

The lieutenant turned away, possibly to hide a grin. 

Eicke puffed out his cheeks. "Did you say watch my step?" he glowered. 

"Unless you want your head blown off," said the captain, turning back to his 
game of cards. 

"That is hardly the way to address a superior officer!" snapped Eicke. 

Slowly Captain Weinkopf looked up at him. Slowly he laid down his cards. 
"SS," he said. "That doesn't count so much out here. We're soldiers." 

"Soldiers!" Eicke snorted. "You call yourself soldiers, do you? Sitting here 
playing cards when there's a war to be won! The Führer shall hear about this!" 

"Just as you like," said the captain indifferently. 

Eicke glared down at one of the soldiers. "What about you?" he demanded. 
"What's your job, when you're not gambling your time away?" 

"Antitank," said the boy briefly. 

He did not bother to elaborate. He could have told Eicke how only the day 
before he had destroyed no less than twelve T-34s with hand grenades and 
mines, but it never occurred to him. He was barely nineteen years old and 
simply took his work for granted. He was an expert in the demolition of tanks, 
but if he ever survived into peacetime, he would find there was no demand for 
his skills. 


Eicke grunted and turned away, followed by his silent companions. The 
lieutenant called out to him, "Watch out for snipers, Obergruppenführer! A 
major got his brains blown out yesterday for not keeping his head down!" 

Eicke gave him a look of distaste, but he crouched on all fours and crawled 
ponderously through the snow toward the first line of dugouts. The watchful 
Russians at once began firing. Oberscharführer Willmer was the first to suffer, 
with a bullet between the eyes. Scharführer Dwinge trod on a mine. As the 
group reached the first of the dugouts, a soldier gave a shout of amazement 
as his leg was wrenched off his body by an exploding shell. He seemed in no 
pain; just sat staring at the jagged edge of the stump and at the blood spilling 
out into the snow. A second shell landed nearby. 

"Christ almighty!" shouted Eicke, throwing himself flat. 

The Dachau murderer, the killer of Jews in their thousands, had unthinkingly 
called upon a Jew to save him, but he saw no anomaly in the fact. He pushed 
the injured soldier out of the way. A man with one leg was of no further use, 
let him die quickly and quietly with the snow to cover him as a shroud. 

Eicke crawled doggedly on and finally jumped down to join a machine gunner, 
who looked at him askance. "Shouldn't hang around here too long if I was 
you, sir. The Russians seem to be able to spot officers a mile off. We had a 
general here yesterday what copped it, on account of he went too far 
forward." 

"Is that so?" said Eicke nervously. 

He left the machine gunner and moved on, until he was stopped by a young 
lieutenant with the face of an old man, wanting to know what he thought he 
was doing. 

"Just looking around," said Eicke coldly. "The Führer wishes me to make a 
report." 

"Good." The lieutenant grabbed Eicke and unceremoniously pulled him into a 
dugout. "In that case, perhaps you could tell him that my men are trying to 
fight the enemy on empty bellies. No hot food for over a week! How can men 
be expected to win victories if they're not given proper rations?" 

"That is hardly a matter for the Führer," said Eicke. "I'm surprised that an 
officer of your standing can't deal with it himself. I suggest you take it up with 
whoever is in charge of your field kitchen. The man's probably stealing." 

"Field kitchen!" The old-faced young lieutenant gave a harsh cackle. "My men 
haven't seen a field kitchen for so long that I doubt if they'd even know what 
one is!" 

"I find that very difficult to credit, Lieutenant. How do you provide for 
yourselves if you have no field kitchen?" 


The lieutenant leaned forward and put his face close to Eicke's. It was gray 
and lined. "We forage. We kill. And if there's no time to go out hunting, then 
we starve." 

"Preposterous!" Eicke turned and snapped his fingers at one of his men. 
"Gratwohl! Make a note of it! See that things are put in order around here." He 
turned back to the lieutenant. "Whoever is responsible for this state of affairs 
will be shot, I can assure you of that." 

"Thank you very much," said the lieutenant. "That's a great help." 

At that moment a sergeant appeared. He jumped into the dugout, elbowing 
Eicke out of the way. "Enemy's attacking, sir!" 

The lieutenant at once snatched up his submachine gun and a pile of 
grenades and dashed off, followed by the sergeant. Eicke and his men were 
left alone, trembling together in the abandoned dugout. They had no 
experience of this type of warfare. They crouched with their hands over their 
heads, listening terrified to the whine of bullets, the shattering of shells, the 
heavy pounding of the big guns. Above and all around them there was 
ceaseless activity. Men ran and ducked and fell. Boots pounded in the 
crushed snow. Heavy machines were dragged past. Whistles blew, voices 
cried out. Eicke had no idea what was happening, he could only make himself 
as small as possible and await the outcome. 

The attack was contained. The young lieutenant returned to his dugout and 
spread his map out on the floor, ignoring Eicke. 

Eicke cleared his throat, self-importantly. "Are you able to hold the position, 
Lieutenant?" 

"What?" The lieutenant looked up, saw Eicke and frowned. It was plain that he 
had totally forgotten him. His brow slowly cleared as he remembered. "I don't 
really know, Obergruppenführer. Probably not, but we'll hang on as long as 
we can. The war's already over, of course, but we might as well die fighting as 
any other way." 

Eicke stiffened. "I could have you shot for that, Lieutenant! The war is by no 
means over." 

"That," the lieutenant said, "has precisely the same ring about it as the 
Führer's statement that we were fighting a nation of underdeveloped savages. 
Crap and nonsense! The nitwit! Why doesn't he come out here and see for 
himself?" 

Three shots rang out, one after another. The young lieutenant fell like a stone 
to the ground, crumpling the map beneath him. Eicke put his revolver away 
and beckoned to his men to follow him. They left the dugout without a 
backward glance. 


The inspection continued in the direction of the 9th Tank Regiment. Eicke 
demanded to see the cook. "Well, Sergeant, I've heard that the men are half 
starving out here. What do you have to say about that?" 

"You gimme the grub, sir," the sergeant told him, "and I'll go to work on it. 
Can't do nothing without, can I?" 

"What about your field kitchen?" demanded Eicke. "How can you fight a war 
without a field kitchen?" 

"Search me, sir," said the sergeant cheerfully. "But we haven't got none." 

"Then how do you feed the men?" 

"Mostly we send out foraging parties, sir. Knocking off horses and suchlike. 
Makes quite a nourishing stew, a horse does. That's when you can get hold of 
one, of course. They're not that easy to come by." 

"And when you can't lay your hands on a horse?" said Eicke sarcastically. 
"What do you eat then? Bullfinches?" 

"Not so far, sir. If we can't get hold of nothing else, we usually have a bit of 
liver." 

"Liver?" said Eicke, startled. "Where do you get liver from?" 

The sergeant looked at him somewhat pityingly. "Human liver, sir—from the 
corpses. It's quite tasty, you'd be surprised. Nice bit of braised liver . . ." 

With a handkerchief to his mouth, Eicke stumbled away. He didn't mention 
field kitchens again. The men of Stalingrad had become cannibals! 

"Why aren't you attacking?" he screamed at a middle-aged major, catching 
him by the arm to gain his attention. 

The major looked him up and down out of sad, bloodshot eyes. "Attacking 
where?" he asked. 

"Anywhere, damn you! I'm tired of seeing men hanging around waiting for the 
Russians to come and get them!" 

"What else can they do? We're surrounded—besides, we're running out of 
ammunition and there aren't enough of us to put paid to a flock of sheep." He 
laughed reflectively. "I'm commanding a battalion that's been reduced to about 
half the size of a company! And still that maniac in Berlin screams for victory!" 

The major was tied to a tree and shot. Eicke and his party moved on in search 
of fresh victims. 


A captain of the engineers was the next to be dispatched; he had blown up his 
equipment rather than leave it for the Russians, but he had not asked 
permission to do so and was therefore, in Eicke's view, guilty of sabotage. He, 
too, was summarily shot, and died unrepentant. 

The chase continued. Colonel Jenck of the Ninth Infantry had ordered a 
retreat after most of his men had been butchered. He was hanged from the 
sails of a windmill. 

They inspected an improved hospital and tore the bandages off two hundred 
men in order to see the extent of their wounds. Some died under this rough 
treatment. Others were discovered not to be injured at all, or not to be injured 
to an extent which Eicke considered valid: 197 men were shot, including 
doctors. 

The SS moved inexorably on. The crack Italian Savoia Regiment proved an 
unexpectedly happy hunting ground: the bag was sixty-eight officers, who had 
authorized the pillaging of German stores in order to keep their own men from 
starvation. 

The hot breath of an inferno was raging over Stalingrad. It was enough to face 
the Russians without also having to cope with the butcher of Dachau. For 
many men it was the last straw; they shot themselves without waiting for 
Eicke to do it. 

At the railway station of Tsaritsa the party came across a crowd of gaunt 
Rumanian children, with huge eyes and legs like garden canes, begging 
bread from the soldiers. 

"Get rid of those brats!" said Eicke. 

The Rumanian troops themselves undertook the task. They were vicious and 
untamed, shamefully inadequate in battle, yet wild beasts when confronted by 
small children. Eicke watched them liquidate their countrymen and then 
hanged a random fifty percent of the troops on a collective charge of 
cowardice in the face of the enemy. 

An infantry major had withdrawn his depleted battalion under heavy fire and 
saved the lives of his remaining men. He himself had lost both his legs in 
doing so and had been flown back home from Gumrak. On hearing all this, 
Eicke at once made it his business to have the major arrested in Germany 
and transferred to Torgau, where he was shot on his stretcher a few days 
later. 

A Roman Catholic padre attached to the 44th Division was executed for 
having preached a sermon on Jesus of Nazareth. As someone slyly pointed 
out to the greedy Eicke, Jesus of Nazareth was a Jew. In a frenzy of anti-
Semitism, Eicke strung the padre up by his feet and had his throat slit. The 
man remained on the spot for several days, his crucifix on its purple ribbon 
swinging to and fro. No one thought to cut him down, and men began to use 


the body as a kind of signpost. Keep straight on until you come to the dead 
priest. Take the first on your left and you're on the right road . . . 

After his orgy of slaughter, Eicke flew back to Germany and delivered his 
report to the Führer, leaving the Sixth Army to its death agonies in the 
crushing embrace of the advancing Soviet troops. 

God has sent Adolf Hitler to help the people of Germany restore order to 
Europe. 

August Wilhelm, Prince of Prussia, at a banquet given by the Officers' 
Association, June 16, 1936 

A few days before Christmas, Privates Wenck and Blatt were sent through a 
blizzard to Gumrak to pick up the food supplies for their battalion. In the 
depths of the Russian winter, the allowance for each man was ten grams of 
bread, ten grams of jam and a quarter liter of a watery substance made from 
horse bones. 

Paul Wenck was a well-built boy of eighteen, and even after several months 
on the Russian front he still had a vast frame and an insatiable appetite. It 
was the constant hunger that bothered him most. Until a few weeks ago he 
had been accustomed to exchange his cigarette ration for some extra bread, 
but such deals were no longer possible at Stalingrad; cigarettes had 
disappeared from the market and bread was a commodity more precious than 
gold dust. 

The two soldiers were kept waiting an hour at Gumrak before the rations were 
handed to them: two hundred and twenty-five loaves for the battalion, plus the 
jam and the bone soup. 

"Two hundred and twenty-five," said Blatt. "Count it with me and remember it." 

They packed the precious cargo onto their sled and headed back toward the 
battalion. It took them eight hours to complete the journey. The weather was 
appalling and their team of two horses, rib-sharp and broken-down, stumbled 
and staggered through lack of food. It was dawn when they arrived back at 
Tsaritsa. 

They delivered the bread to the quartermaster, who insisted they remain while 
he checked the number of loaves. "How many?" 

"Two hundred and twenty-five," said Blatt. 

They counted them three times, but there were only two hundred and twenty-
four. Blatt repeated obstinately that there had been two hundred and twenty-
five; Wenck was not quite so sure. Both soldiers were stripped and searched. 
Nothing was found on them. But in the sled, at the bottom of the toolbox, 
wrapped in a camouflage jacket, was the missing loaf. The jacket belonged to 
Wenck, and it was Wenck who carried the key of the box. 


The court-martial took place in the cellars of a bombed building. Pale and 
desperate, Paul Wenck faced his judges. His big frame filled his uniform, but 
his cheeks were sunken and his skin was gray and stretched tight across the 
bones. He trembled as he stood, through weakness as much as fear. 

"Why did you steal the loaf?" asked the president of the court. 

"I was hungry," said the prisoner simply. "I hadn't eaten for three days and I 
was hungry." 

"Isn't everyone hungry at Stalingrad?" the president castigated him. "Do you 
think other people besides yourself haven't gone without food for three days? 
Or even longer? Hunger is no excuse for stealing." 

The court retired to discuss its verdict and decided unanimously that Wenck 
was guilty under the order of General Paulus dated December 9, 1942, and 
that he should be sentenced to death in accordance with the provisions of that 
order. Wenck promptly fainted and had to be hauled to his feet by two guards. 
It was noticeable that the two guards were sufficiently well fed to cope with 
him quite easily. They slapped his face until he had come to his senses and 
then dragged him screaming and sobbing from the court. For the theft of a 
loaf of dry bread, eighteen-year-old Paul Wenck, thrown into the cauldron of 
Stalingrad to fight for his country, was sentenced to be shot. 

The execution was carried out twenty-four hours later. Private Blatt was a 
somewhat self-righteous member of the firing squad. The ice was too hard for 
a grave to be dug, so they covered the body with snow and left it in its frozen 
tomb. 

On Christmas Day it was decided that firing squads were a waste of 
ammunition; from then on, offenders would be hanged instead of shot. 

8 

Generals We Have Known 

We were sitting in a cellar playing cards, with a pack that belonged to the Old 
Man. It was black and dog-eared, a veteran of the war, and the pips were 
sometimes hidden beneath layers of grease, but at least it was honest. You 
played with Porta's cards at your peril, but everyone knew that the Old Man 
was straight. 

For once, both Porta and the Legionnaire were losing heavily, while Tiny was 
winning. For some time the Russian artillery had been bombarding us. The 
light had gone out and we were using candle stubs, and a great split had 
appeared across the ceiling. 

"This is useless!" declared Gregor, throwing in his hand as a new tremor 
raced across the floor. "I can't concentrate with this racket going on!" 


"Persistent bastards, aren't they?" I said, holding down the table. 

We sat back in our chairs and watched another split break out across the 
ceiling. 

"Any minute now," I said. 

"We could always run up a white flag," suggested Porta. "Fly a pair of Tiny's 
drawers from a first-floor window . . ." 

"And get shot for our pains," said the Old Man. "Russians be damned, we'd be 
in front of one of our own firing squads so fast we'd never know what hit us." 

"Like yesterday," said Heide. "Some yellow-bellied bastard of a general trying 
to run out with the whole of his company hot on his heels." He laughed 
vindictively. "Did they get what was coming to them! One of the best 
executions I've seen since we came to this fucking country. Flags flying, 
drums beating, they gave 'em the works; even had a padre reading out of the 
Bible and a lieutenant with a saber to tell 'em when to shoot." 

"What they won't do for a bit of top brass," I said. 

"Top brass!" Gregor snorted. "They deserve all they get—and more. Bastards, 
the whole lot of 'em." 

The Old Man raised a remonstrative eyebrow. "Generalizations," he 
murmured. 

"Yeah, generalizations!" agreed Gregor, with a venom almost equaling 
Heide's. "That's just about it." 

"And just what, may I ask, do you know about generals?" mildly inquired the 
Old Man. 

"A hell of a lot, believe me! I used to be Field Marshal von Kluge's driver at 
one time. You know what those bastard generals used to do? Nothing but eat 
and drink and smoke and copulate for twenty-three hours every day, and plot 
and plan for the last one." 

"Plot and plan?" Tiny was at once interested. "What sort of plot and plan?" 

"How to get some jerk in power and push some other jerk out of power. How 
to do Hitler in and get away with it. How to make sure they did all right 
themselves—all that sort of thing." 

"And you never denounced them?" accused Heide, sitting bolt upright in his 
chair. 

"You're damn right I didn't! Let 'em get on with it, that's what I say. You think I 
was going to risk my neck running off to Adolf with a pack of tales?" 


"Quite right," said Porta, nodding his approval. "Not worth sticking your nose 
in—unless you stand to gain something by it, of course. Now, me," he puffed 
out his pigeon chest, "I've had quite a lot of revenue in the past from 
overhearing other people's plots. High treason, and all that —they pay very 
well for keeping your mouth shut." 

"You deserve to be shot, the pair of you!" said Heide, white-lipped. 

"Oh, shove it!" said Porta. "I hadn't been in this lousy army two hours before I 
realized the whole thing was rotten from the ass up. You don't catch me 
risking my neck to save Adolf Hitler's life!" 

"What I'm waiting to hear," said the Old Man, hoping to avert a scene, "is what 
happened to von Kluge." 

"Well—" Gregor waited until the sound of a nearby explosion had died away 
and the dust had settled and we could check that the roof was still over our 
heads. "Well, he and his pals went on with all their plotting and planning— 
they used to sort of shuffle people about like they was packs of cards. But it 
was old Adolf they'd really got it in for. All they ever talked about was how to 
do him in. One day they thought they'd just run up and shoot him, another day 
they thought they'd shove a grenade under his ass. One guy— some 
lieutenant colonel he was, called von Boselager—he had this crazy notion he 
could get him with a saber. Wanted to slice his head off and throw it to the 
people to kick about the streets. Anyway, what happened in the end was they 
all got in so deep they couldn't get themselves out again." 

"Compromised," said Porta wisely. 

"Yeah, I guess so—well and truly in the shit, up to their rotten useless necks. 
Anyway, this von Kluge, that was a field marshal, he starts trying to wriggle 
out of it. Then they all start trying to wriggle out of it. Don't trust each other no 
more, see?" Gregor shook his head. "Next thing I know, they're having dirty 
great bust-ups with each other all over the place and denouncing each other 
and Christ knows who all. Until one day old von Kluge's called to some secret 
meeting, and he starts yelling for me to get the car out and off we go in one 
hell of a scramble with him panting down the back of my neck and banging on 
the glass with his stick and screaming like a lunatic." Gregor paused and 
looked at us. "It's all very well you guys sitting there grinning, but you just try 
having a nut of a general perched on your shoulder in a fast car—it ain't 
funny." 

"You should have denounced him," said Heide primly. 

Gregor ignored him. "It was in Kiev, this meeting. You ever driven along that 
main road they got there?" He sucked in his breath and shook his head. "One 
of Uncle Joe's fiascos, that road is. More like a switchback than a road. 
There's one bit—just before you get to some village called Dzhu-bendev, 
something like that—there's this one bit what goes up like this—" he shot his 
arm vertically into the air, "around like this—" he wriggled it, rapid and 


snakelike, "with bloody great ditches on either side of it. They call it Suicide 
Corner. Every Sunday all the locals turn out and wait for the fun to start. It's a 
sort of traditional pastime with 'em." 

"And I suppose," said the Old Man, "you and your general ended up giving 
them a free show?" 

"You've hit the nail on the head," said Gregor. "Old von Kluge, he was acting 
like something out of a Yankee gangster film. Last thing I remember, we was 
just screaming up to Suicide Corner when he starts banging his stick on the 
glass and yelling at me to step on the gas. Next thing I know, I'm laid out flat 
in the hospital in a sort of plaster coffin. Two months they kept me there. Lying 
on my back, watching all these sexy dames walking up and down the ward 
and me not able to do a damn thing about it!" 

"How about von Kluge?" I asked. "Was he killed?" 

"Was he hell!" said Gregor in disgust. "Broke his back or something. Far as I 
know, he's still tucked up in plaster in a hospital bed." 

"Nice cushy way to spend the war," observed Porta. 

"He should have been shot!" said Heide. 

It was only much later that I learned that von Kluge had in fact taken poison 
after being implicated, justly or not, in a plot against Hitler. How much of 
Gregor's yarn was a fabrication I never did discover. 

There was a pause. Somewhere outside we heard a series of explosions; a 
cloud of dust drifted slowly down and settled on our heads and shoulders. 

Tiny heaved a great sigh. "I worked with a general once," he informed us. 

We looked at him in automatic disbelief. 

"Yeah?" said Porta. "What were you? His right-hand man?" 

"You looking for a bunch of fives in the face?" demanded Tiny. 

"Well, go on then, tell us!" jeered Porta. "What was this general you worked 
with?" 

"Knochenhauer," said Tiny. "In the cavalry, he was. He's dead now—blew his 
brains out." 

There was a burst of derisive laughter. 

"Was that the natural result of having you work with him?" the Old Man 
wanted to know. 


Tiny glowered, but bis face brightened as he said, "I was his orderly. We got 
on very well together. He saved my life as a matter of fact. Bet none of you 
has ever had his life saved by a full-blown general! Old Knochenhauer, he 
wasn't such a bad sort, really." Tiny was clearly beginning to enjoy himself. 

"What happened was," he leaned back expansively, "I fell out of this tank and 
got my boot caught in the goddam thing. Nearly had my whole leg wrenched 
off. Next morning I couldn't hardly walk, so I went off to see the MO. He was a 
real bastard, like most of 'em are—you had to have your guts trailing round 
your feet before he'd believe there was anything wrong with you. Couldn't 
stand illness. Odd, come to think of it—for a doctor. One chap I knew, he went 
to see him with appendicitis. This quack said he was pulling a fast one. Stuck 
thermometers all over him, in his mouth, down his ears, under his arms, up 
his ass—even then he didn't believe him. Jesus, everyone else did! Everyone 
else knew the poor guy was sick. I went to see him that same night, he was 
so hot you could've fried an egg on his backside, but all they did was threaten 
him with a court-martial if he didn't recover within twenty-four hours. Recover! 
He was dead by morning," said Tiny, gloating. "Something went pop inside of 
him and poisoned his innards. Just goes to show, they don't always know 
what they're talking about." 

"Natural cynics," said the Old Man with a grin. "Too many people like you 
knocking around. Makes 'em suspicious!" 

"Fell out of a tank!" I said, savoring it. "That's a good one!" 

"I did too," said Tiny aggressively. "My foot was black and blue, I passed out 
three times on my way to the quack, and I passed out again when I took my 
boot off to show him." "I bet he did as well," said Porta. Tiny let this pass. 
"Bastard said I was just faking it. Seemed to think I'd bashed it with a hammer 
to make it look bad. He couldn't prove it, mind you, but he said there wasn't 
nothing wrong with me. Next thing I knew I was in the cookhouse peeling 
spuds. Not that I objected to that," said Tiny reasonably. "It seemed like as 
good a way of spending the war as any other. Only thing was, my stinking foot 
started to get better. Come time for the court-martial, there was hardly nothing 
wrong with it no more. So then they had the nerve to accuse me of—" he 
frowned, "loitering," he said dubiously. 

"Malingering," said the Legionnaire. "Yeah, that's it," said Tiny. "That's what it 
was. Malingering. That carries the death sentence, did you know that? They 
packed me off to Torgau and shoved me in the blue wing. It was only a matter 
of time. I tell you, I thought my number was up—I was a condemned man," 
said Tiny with melodramatic relish. "Only I hadn't figured on my friend the 
general." He nodded and winked at us. "Saved my life, old Knochenhauer did. 
Came to Torgau special, and had a few words with me. We got on all right, 
Knochenhauer and me. 'So you're the soldier what claims he had a bad foot, 
are you?' he says to me. 'Are you prepared to admit you was lying or do you 
still stick to your original story?" So I says I stuck to my original story, and you 
know what he says to me?" Tiny's face beamed like a beacon in the dimly lit 
cellar. "He says, 'Soldier,' he says, 'you're the toughest nut I've ever had to 


crack. I'm going to send you off for an X-ray. Perhaps that'll knock some of the 
wind out of your sails. And when they confirm there ain't nothing wrong with 
you,' he says, 'then we're going to shoot you.' He couldn't say fairer than that, 
now, could he?" 

"Nice to have a general for a friend," murmured the Legionnaire. 

"And what did the X-ray show?" asked Porta. "Ingrowing toenails?" 

"Busted bone," Tiny told him triumphantly. "Fractured my foot, I had. That 
knocked 'em sideways! The MO what had made the mistake, he was sent 
straight off to the front, and General Knochenhauer, he came and apologized 
to me. All over me, he was. Eating out of my hand . . ." 

At this high point in Tiny's saga, we heard the shrill blast of a whistle, the 
sound of running footsteps, all the signs of a general alert. The door was flung 
open and a white-faced corporal burst in. 

"The Russians have broken through!" he yelled. 

There was a moment's pause. The corporal clattered back up the stairs, the 
Old Man began slowly to gather up his pack of cards. The rest of us stood up 
and reached for our equipment. 

"About time they paid us a visit," said the Legionnaire. "I wondered when 
they'd come." 

 

The love of liberty is not a highly developed characteristic of the German 
people. 

Madame de Staël, 1810 

On November 8, 1942, the voice of Adolf Hitler rang out across Europe from 
the Burgerbraukeller in Munich. 

"If Stain was waiting for me to attack in the center, then he must now be a 
very disappointed man! I have never been interested in the center! I have 
pinned all my hopes on the Volga, and now I have the Volga in the palm of my 
hand! The final battle was fought, by some twist of fate, in a place that bears 
the name of Stalin himself . . ." 

Frenzied bursts of "Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!" drowned the next two or three 
sentences. 

"All along," screamed Hitler, "I have dreamed of conquering that town on the 
Volga! And now I have it! Now it belongs to us! We have only to overcome 
one or two minor pockets of resistance and the whole of Russia will be ours!" 


Cheers and shouts and wild outbreaks of handclapping were followed by 
voices raised in a jubilant "Deutschland, Deutschland über alles . . ." 

Ten days after this speech, the commander in chief of the Sixth Army 
received the following telegram from Berlin: 

SIXTH ARMY WITHDRAW STALINGRAD. ESTABLISH AND HOLD NEW 
POSITIONS. I ORDER YOU FIGHT LAST MAN LAST BULLET. 
SURRENDER OUT OF QUESTION. ANY ATTEMPTING RETREAT 
REGARDED AS TRAITORS. I COUNT ON MY GENERALS. FIGHT LIKE 
CONQUERORS. LIKE WAGNERIAN HEROES. 

ADOLF HITLER 

 

9 

Traitors 

It was a cold, bright January day. Stalingrad, that astonishing city, Oriental-
European, swarmed with life beneath cloudless blue skies with a hint of winter 
sunshine. Its streets were thronged with soldiers, German, Hungarian, Italian, 
Rumanian, Slovakian, many of them taking the air with their girl friends on 
their arm. It might almost have been a garrison town in peacetime. Farther 
north the war was still unfolding, but here in Stalingrad there was a lull. 

In a house facing the Isles of Sarpinski, some officers were holding a secret 
conference. They were all Austrians and belonged to the Viennese Division. 

Major General Lenz held up his tenth glass of champagne and proposed a 
toast to the vanquished Austro-Hungarian empire. All the officers solemnly 
drank. 

"It was a bad day for Austria when Hitler's soldiers marched into the country." 
Lenz shook his head and swallowed the rest of his champagne. "I never did 
like the damned Prussians." 

There was a general mumbling and muttering of agreement. Back in 1938, 
these very same men, in their first mindless enthusiasm, had been only too 
anxious to throw off their old Austrian uniforms and adopt the gray-green of 
the Germans. But they had forgotten that now. They had forgotten with what 
eagerness they had compiled lists of their friends and acquaintances who 
were not of pure Aryan descent, or who seemed to them to be politically 
dubious. They had forgotten how readily they had welcomed the chance of 
becoming a part of Germany. Or, if they had not quite forgotten, they had at 
any rate rationalized it. 

"It was forced upon us," said Lenz with a sigh. "What else could we have 
done?" 


"What else could we have done?" they repeated. 

There was a long, reminiscent pause. 

"So much for the past, gentlemen! Let us get down to the business of the 
present." General Taurog cleared a space amid the champagne bottles and 
spread out a map. "The fact of the matter is, the situation here in Stalingrad is 
pretty desperate. I don't think anyone would dispute that?" He stared around, 
but the statement passed unchallenged. "Hoch got himself butchered at 
Kotelnikovo, so we needn't expect any help from that quarter. As for all the 
rumors about an SS division being sent out here, I think we can dismiss those 
as pure fantasy. We have to face it, gentlemen: in our hour of need, Adolf 
Hitler has abandoned us." He looked slowly around the table. "Are we all in 
agreement?" 

There was a nodding chorus of heads. 

"Our one hope, therefore," continued Taurog, "lies in the Russians 
themselves." He tapped a briefcase on the table before him. "I have here 
complete details of all our defense positions. Once they are in Russian hands, 
it should not be difficult for the enemy to break through our lines—with our 
continued collaboration, of course." 

"Of course, of course," they murmured in unison. 

"I think we may safely assume that such a gesture on our part would not pass 
unrewarded by our Russian friends. Indeed, I'm sure they could do with the 
help of people like ourselves in combating the scourge of Nazism." 

"Quite," said General Lenz. 

It was debatable at what stage General Lenz had actually become a 
committed anti-Nazi. Possibly only within the last few hours. Or even minutes. 
Certain it was that the day before, he had carried out Nazi orders and 
condemned to death four young soldiers caught deserting. 

"These papers," he said, indicating the briefcase. "They'll have to be handed 
over to General Rokossovski. He's the one to deal with them. I've already 
made out a list of all the officers I know who have expressed anti-Russian 
sentiments. That way he can be assured of our wholehearted collaboration." 

Had it perhaps slipped his memory that it was he himself who had been 
instrumental in arranging the transport of eight thousand Russian women from 
Sebastopol to the German concentration camps? Had General Taurog 
forgotten that on his own estate in Austria he had thirty-five Polish slaves, 
otherwise known as servants? Those slaves had cost fifty marks apiece. The 
market price was officially thirty-five marks for an able-bodied male, but in 
practice a substantial tip always had to be included for the supplier and his 
subordinates in the transit camps. As for the pious, red-faced Colonel Kurz, 
he had conveniently expunged from his memory the four hundred and 


seventy-six Russian prisoners in the Karpovka camp whom he had recently 
had shot for the theft of a few pounds of potatoes. 

The noble conspirators did not themselves physically set in motion the wheels 
of treachery, which were ultimately to crush beneath them several thousand 
unsuspecting soldiers. Their rank precluded the actual soiling of hands. They 
confided the task instead to a Feldwebel of the military police, this Stalingrad 
Judas driving off to meet the enemy in a sumptuous Mercedes, waving a 
special pass which opened all barriers. 

A mile or so to the north of Kachlinskaya the big black car was stopped by a 
Russian reconnaissance group who, taking no notice whatsoever of the white 
flag, tore open the doors, pulled out the driver and Feldwebel Bram, and 
proceeded to steal everything they could lay hands on. In vain did Bram 
protest his mission; none of the group understood a word of German. It was 
not until the pair had been stripped of all valuables, watches, rings, cigarette 
cases and lighters, that a lieutenant appeared and took charge of the 
situation. Bram and the driver were marched off, minus their possessions, to 
be interrogated by four Russian staff officers. Despite the briefcase and its 
valuable information, a trap was suspected. They looked up grimly at Bram. 

"A trick like this," one of them said, "will cost your countrymen their lives. 
Thousands of them will die." 

Bram shrugged his shoulders. "Thousands must die in order that a handful 
can go on living," he said cynically. "That's the way it goes. First come, first 
saved." 

The Russians looked at him with distaste, but with a growing inclination to 
believe his story. His attitude seemed plausible. They had plenty of Feldwebel 
Brams among their own number. 

They checked the papers carefully against the information they already had, 
and once they were satisfied it was genuine, they conducted the two men to 
General Rokossovski and Marshal Yeremenko at Alexandrovna. 

The Germans had suggested that by way of signifying their agreement the 
Russians should drop green flares from an airplane at a given time and place; 
the conspirators would then give the go-ahead by replying with red-and-yellow 
rockets. Not until then would Bram and his driver be allowed back through the 
German lines to make their report to General Taurog. 

The following day, at five o'clock in the afternoon, an Ilyushin set off with a 
supply of green flares, and two days later the Russians began a massive 
buildup of troops outside Dubovka, where General Vasilevski was in 
command of three thousand tanks and sixty thousand Cossacks, the regular 
infantry regiments having been judged too slow for the anticipated attack. Six 
infantry divisions and one armored division were also moved into the area. It 
made a total of a hundred thousand men; in addition, motorized divisions of 


the Third Army were called up to halt the movements of German troops along 
the length of the Volga. 

Meanwhile, the conspirators put the finishing touches to their plans. Taurog 
organized his military police, the prison staff, the hygiene personnel and the 
engineers and armed them against the day when they would be shooting their 
fellow countrymen in the back and moving over to the other side. 

It was Lieutenant Colonel Hinze, of the 100th Rifles, who proved the weak link 
in the chain. Having plotted and planned with the best of them, he now 
attempted to salve his own conscience by pouring out the whole miserable 
story in what he thought was the inviolable secrecy of the confessional. 
Unfortunately for the conspirators, Hinze's confessor was a Nazi soldier first 
and a Roman Catholic priest second, and he lost no time in racing off with the 
story to General Latt-mann, the officer commanding the 14th Panzer Division. 
Hinze was arrested within the hour and betrayed his fellow conspirators 
during the course of his first interrogation. 

Generals Taurog and Lenz were hanged in the Alexandra Basilica. The others 
were shot in the streets and their bodies kicked into the gutter with large 
placards around their necks: "I AM A TRAITOR WHO SOLD MY COUNTRY 
TO THE ENEMY." 

The following day, the Russian offensive began. The massed hordes of troops 
and vehicles burst upon us like waters from a broken dam, swarming down on 
us, crushing everything and everyone in their path as they surged on, wave 
after wave after wave. In most cases, there was no opportunity to fight back. 
One entire division was wiped out of existence in less than an hour. The 
carnage was swift and terrible. It came upon you, sweeping out of nowhere, 
and was gone almost before you had time to draw breath. And in its wake it 
left a rolling sea of fire and a patchwork of bodies and blood, stray limbs and 
pieces of machinery. Those few who survived an attack frequently lost their 
sanity and went howling and raging into the flames. 

Porta, Tiny and I were buried at the bottom of a pit beneath a mass of dead 
men. What had happened to the rest of the company we had no idea; we did 
not dare push our heads out to have a look. 

A couple of hours after the Russians had swept over us, we heard 
approaching tanks and recognized them by the sound of their engines as 
Tigers. But still we remained hidden. We were taking no chances, not even 
with our own side. The tanks ground onward, shaking the earth and dislodging 
several bodies. We rearranged ourselves in our ditch, with corpses beneath 
us and all around us and a narrow channel of air for breathing. We stayed 
there all through the night. The stench was atrocious and the touch of the 
cold, lifeless limbs was a constant reminder that one false step on our part 
and we should soon be in that same state ourselves. 

Early in the morning we crept cautiously out of our stinking trench and took a 
look around. There was no visible sign of life. We didn't hang about in search 


of familiar faces; we left the graveyard behind us and set off toward 
Stalingrad, in the hope that the Russians had been kept out by the 16th 
Division and that we should meet up with our own regiment—or the tattered 
remnants of it. 

On the road we were joined by a solitary, downcast Russian. He had been 
taken prisoner a few days before and had survived the previous day's 
massacre but was now too scared to make his way back to his own side. It 
was the old story: to be taken prisoner was a disgrace punishable by death. 

"How would they know you'd been with us?" I said. 

"They'd know," he assured us. "And Tovaritch Stalin himself forbade anyone 
to become a prisoner." 

"Stalin is a turd," said Porta. 

The man looked at us inquiringly. We graphically explained the word to him 
and he nodded in silent acquiescence. 

All along the road the bodies were piled high, their limbs frozen into grotesque 
shapes. The snow was spotted crimson with the spilled blood of the dead, and 
black with the leaking oil from overturned vehicles. We saw the charred 
wrecks of cars and tanks, a trail of abandoned weapons, helmets without 
heads, heads without bodies, mutilated stumps of arms and legs. We helped 
ourselves as the fancy took us to spare clothing, a new pair of boots here, a 
fur coat there, until we looked quite uncommonly presentable. The Russian 
stood by and watched. It seemed to be his morale rather than his morals 
which prevented his joining in the pillage. It had reached such a low ebb that 
warm clothes and comfortable footwear held no further attractions for him. 

Toward dusk we came upon a German field hospital. It was a shambles, filled 
to overflowing with the sick, the wounded and the totally disoriented. Food 
was scarce, medication almost nonexistent. Even the doctors were thin on the 
ground. Nevertheless, it was a haven of sorts and we found it easy enough to 
mingle with the crowd. We stayed there for three days, enjoying the rest. After 
the nightmare of twenty-four hours spent in a ditch full of dead bodies, that 
verminous, stinking hole of a so-called hospital was as good as a luxury hotel. 
The Russian silently disappeared. We invited him to stay—the chances are 
that no one would ever have noticed him—but he was uneasy in company 
and he wandered off alone into the dusk. 

Unfortunately, on our third day Porta disgraced himself. He was caught eating 
a dying man's rations and was promptly dragged down to a cellar and held 
there pending a court-martial. As he indignantly pointed out to us, there was 
no room for sentiment in the middle of a war; the dying man had had no 
further use for his rations, while he himself desperately needed them to keep 
his strength up so that he could go on fighting for the Führer. It was surely 
more logical to sustain a fit man than one whose hours were numbered? But 
indignation was hot against him and Porta was shut away. 


"What'll we do?" said Tiny. "Leave the stupid bastard to stew in his own 
juice?" 

"They'll shoot him," I said. 

Tiny shrugged his shoulders. "They'll shoot us if they catch us trying to spring 
him. And why press your luck? It's cozy enough here, I wouldn't mind staying 
on." 

"But it can't last," I said. "The Russians will be arriving any day now. We'll 
have to get out sooner or later." 

In fact, the place was in such chaos that it proved simple enough to free Porta 
from his cellar. Tiny put the guard out of commission—no very difficult task, 
since the man was on crutches—and the three of us fled into the comforting 
darkness of the surrounding woods. 

Toward dawn we were offered a lift by a passing padre driving an amphibious 
VW. We hadn't even time to ask him where he was going before three enemy 
aircraft swooped low out of the clouds and raced along the road strafing 
everything in sight. The car blew up and that was the last we saw of the 
obliging padre. 

From that moment on, luck was against us. About a mile farther down the 
road we were surprised by a patrol of motorized MPs, who promptly arrested 
us as deserters. 

"Deserters, my fanny!" said Porta indignantly. "We're looking for our 
regiment!" 

This, it seemed, was exactly what everyone else claimed to be doing. We 
were thrown into the attic of a nearby farmhouse, where we found ourselves 
locked up in the company of fifty other unfortunates. They, too, had been 
picked up off the roads. Some were in a genuinely dazed condition; some had 
been wandering aimlessly about the countryside, some had been caught 
pillaging, while others had undoubtedly been in search of their own 
companies. It appeared that we were all indiscriminately condemned to death. 

"Fucking greased lightning," said one man bitterly. "Don't stop to ask you no 
questions, they just stick a label on you and that's it, you've had it." 

He was quite correct. Only a few minutes after our arrival, a Feldwebel 
appeared and solemnly pinned bits of cards on our chests. 

"What's all this?" asked an indignant Tiny. 

Our informant waved a hand. "Death, that's what that is. Don't worry, we've all 
got 'em." 


The door opened and a couple of MPs came in. They glanced around the 
room and one of them beckoned to a man sitting by himself in a corner. 
"Come on! We'll have you next, you look pretty done in." 

The man was dragged out, we heard the sound of shots, the sound of 
tramping feet, and the MPs returned. This time they went off with a loudly 
protesting sergeant. We found we could count up to fifty-three before the 
shots were fired, and up to a hundred before they came back for their next 
victim. Occasionally the proceedings were interrupted by the delivery of a 
fresh prisoner. One Oberfeldwebel succeeded in killing a guard and throwing 
another down the staircase, but he himself was so seriously wounded that 
they had to take him out on a plank of wood to be shot. 

"Us soon," I said. 

"Bet they do me last," said Tiny with simple pride as he flexed his gigantic 
muscles. 

We both turned to look at Porta, but for once he remained silent. 

"You thinking of something?" I inquired hopefully. 

"What is there to think about?" he retorted. 

"I just wondered. I somehow never pictured it like this," I said. "I always 
imagined I'd be killed outright—step on a mine, something like that. Odd how 
it turns out, isn't it?" 

"Odd, my ass," said Tiny. 

At that moment the two MPs returned again. They looked around the room as 
usual and their glance flickered over me, passed on, returned briefly to me 
and finally settled on someone else. 

"That was a close shave," I said as they bundled their victim through the door. 

"Your turn next," suggested Tiny. 

"Want to bet?" I challenged. 

Suddenly, from somewhere outside, we heard the familiar sound of tank 
tracks. We stampeded to the window, but before we could reach it there was 
the thunderous crash of cannon fire, followed by the rapid typewriter clacking 
of a machine gun. We could see nothing through the window, it was too high 
and too small. Tiny hoisted himself up into the rafters, kicked a hole through 
the thatched roof and pushed his head out. 

"What's going on?" 

"What's happening?" 


"What is it?" 

We all clamored around him, demanding information. 

"It's the Russians!" said Tiny. "Lousy Cossacks galloping all over the place—
couple of tanks just gone through— whole village is on fire . . ." 

"Let's make a break for it!" shouted Porta, hurling himself at the door. 

Tiny and a large Feldwebel set their shoulders to it and went crashing 
through. At the foot of the stairs lay an MP with a bullet through bis head. Tiny 
snatched up his submachine gun and everyone began pouring out of the 
farmhouse. It was the Feldwebel who had second thoughts. 

"How far do you think you're going to get without your papers?" he yelled after 
us. "No papers, and red labels pinned to your chest—you must be out of your 
minds!" 

No one else paid him any heed as they went streaming off in a panic. Only the 
three of us turned and hesitated. 

"All very well to talk," said Porta, pulling off his condemned label and throwing 
it into the trampled snow, which had been churned up by the tanks and the 
Cossack horses. 'They took our papers off us when they brought us in." 

"Well, you're dead without 'em, that's for sure. No papers and you're a goner 
in this war." 

"You got yours?" demanded Tiny aggressively. 

"No." The Feldwebel stood frowning, then suddenly snapped his fingers. 
"Hang on a minute! Give me that thing!" 

He grabbed the gun from Tiny, moved back into the house with the three of us 
close on his heels, walked down the passage and pointed silently to a closed 
door. 

"In there," he mouthed. "I guess that's where they've put all our papers." 

A burst from the submachine gun and the door crashed open. Another burst, 
and three astonished MPs fell open-mouthed from their chairs. We found a 
whole stack of papers in a drawer. Our own were fortunately near the top of 
the pile. 

"Best set fire to the place," advised the Feldwebel. "Just in case." 

"In case what?" asked Tiny, looking vacant. 


"In case some nosey parker comes along and sees our names on one of their 
lousy lists! You want to be picked up and shot in six months' time, all because 
we didn't finish the job right?" 

We left the farmhouse in flames and set off along the road, deserted now. 

"You coming our way?" said Porta. "Which way's that?" 

"Back to our company, if we can find it." "Oh, no! No more war for me, thank 
you very much. I've been in this business a hell of a long time—too damn 
long, if you want to know. I used to be with the SA in the old days." He shook 
his head. "I've had a bellyful, I don't mind telling you. This little mess has just 
about finished me." 

"But what'll you do?" I asked. 

"Go over to the other side, I guess. Find the Russians and give myself up. I'd 
sooner see out the war in a prison camp than go on like this." 

"They don't take prisoners," said Porta. "They'll shoot you." 

"Or drag you along behind a horse," added Tiny eagerly. "I seen 'em do that 
to a chap one time." 

The Feldwebel shrugged. "I'll have to take my chance." 

"Well, all the best," said Porta without much hope in his voice. "I'm as sick of it 
as you are, but I don't fancy a prison camp. Leastways, not a Russian one. 
Now, an opportunity to get across the Don, I wouldn't say no to that!" 

"Get across the Don?" The Feldwebel laughed. "You'd never make it. You'd 
freeze to death on the steppe before you'd even been gone twenty-four hours. 
Even the wolves can't survive out there. They come down into the villages and 
scavenge for food. And if you think it's cold now, you just wait until the 
temperature drops to fifty below zero and see how you like it! Enough to 
freeze the balls off a brass monkey! You'll be thinking of me in my prison 
camp . . ." 

"With a bullet through your head," said Porta. 

We shook hands and went our separate ways. We never did learn what 
happened to the Feldwebel, though we often had cause to remember bis 
words. 

About half a mile out of the village we caught up with a small group of 
wounded men crawling back in search of their regiments. We stayed with 
them and were joined later, at varying intervals along the road, by other 
stragglers, until we became quite a sizable group. 


Some hours later, at a place called Rotokina, we came upon familiar faces. 
The company was there but they had no time to welcome us back, for our 
arrival was the signal for the Russians to launch yet another attack, and 
almost immediately the order came through that we were to withdraw to new 
positions farther south. 

A government must take care that its people are not irrevocably swept away 
in the drunken delirium of heroics. 

Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf 

 

The commanding officer of the 71st Infantry Division, General von Hartmann, 
had given the order for a subterranean village to be constructed near Tsaritsa. 
The task was entrusted to the 578th Engineers, and they in turn enlisted the 
help of the two thousand Russian civilians who were held prisoner in that 
area. They were put to work as slave labor, women and children, old men and 
idiots, the sick and the dying. Seventy-five percent never survived to see the 
result of their efforts. 

The village was called Hartmannsdorf, and extravagant rumors were rife 
throughout the whole of the Sixth Army. The general's bunker, it was said, had 
four rooms and a bath and had been furnished with articles stolen from the 
museums of Stalingrad. There was a chandelier and a four-poster bed, thick 
carpets and rugs on the floor, oil paintings and crystal vases and a whole 
library of precious books. The general's division had been the first to enter 
Stalingrad, and it was naturally assumed they had laid hands on all the 
valuables they could find. 

In addition, the village was reputed to have its own flour mill and two silos full 
of grain; a poultry farm with six thousand chickens; a herd of over a thousand 
cows; stables containing one hundred and thirty-eight thoroughbred horses; a 
dairy and a bakery. 

Certain it was that the general and his staff could be seen most mornings 
enjoying themselves on horseback in the countryside surrounding Tsaritsa. It 
was a bewildering sight for the soldiers who made their painful way back into 
the town from distant battlefields. Men weak with hunger, men gravely 
wounded, men half dead with typhoid, looked at the well-fed general and his 
plump and healthy staff and wondered if they were ghosts from the past. 

Hartmannsdorf flourished until the middle of January, 1943, but the 71st 
Infantry Division was wiped out of all practical existence sometime before 
then. That January, von Hartmann called up the remnants, gathered them 
together, and marched bravely out of his village to launch a last desperate 
attack upon the enemy. It had not been the general's idea to make heroes of 
the remaining few. The orders had come from Berlin. 


"We are but pawns," said von Hartmann grandly. "The Führer disposes of us 
as he will." 

10 

General's Cakewalk 

A portly Russian general, flanked by two sergeants, came toward us bearing a 
flag of truce. Our orders were to shoot all envoys on sight, but after a second's 
hesitation, Captain Glaser told us to hold our fire. The Russian general moved 
closer. He was a big man, over six feet tall, with powerful chest and 
shoulders, hanging belly and sturdy legs. His face was harsh and furrowed, 
his small blue eyes pitiless as the Russian winter. 

As they approached, one of the sergeants tossed across a white sack. We 
picked it up gingerly and looked inside. Food! 

"A present from the Soviet people," said the general in good German. "I am 
instructed to offer you terms for a capitulation. The offer to remain open until 
1800 hours, after which time I am instructed to inform you that we shall launch 
a massed attack of tanks and artillery. You understand, of course, what that 
would mean, Captain?" 

Not only the captain: we all understood. A massed Russian attack would 
completely annihilate us. 

"From midnight on," pursued the general with a bland smile of anticipation, 
"we shall take no prisoners and accept no surrender." 

Captain Glaser bowed his head in silent acceptance. Whichever way you 
looked at it, it was the end of the great German victory in Russia. 

"On the other hand," said the general, replacing his smile with a severe frown 
of discouragement, "if the offer is accepted, then each of your soldiers will be 
given the same ration of food as is given to our own troops. Your sick and 
your wounded will receive the necessary treatment." He smiled again, 
showing a row of needle-sharp teeth. "We know that you are short of food and 
medication." 

From the corner of my eye, I could see Porta already conducting his own 
brand of negotiations with the enemy. I saw him take out a pack of opium 
cigarettes and I saw one of the Russian sergeants hand over a pack of 
photographs. I wondered what thrills Porta could experience from 
pornographic photographs when we all stood to be wiped out of existence in 
less than twelve hours' time. 

"Accept the offer and you will be treated honorably, as soldiers. Decline, 
and—" the general made a brief gesture. 


Captain Glaser very slightly hunched his shoulders. "I shall pass on your 
terms to General von Hartmann." 

"Let us hope he will prove a reasonable man. All this continued bloodshed can 
profit neither side." 

In a bunker near the railway line at Orlovka, a group of officers were seated in 
solemn conference around an old plank table. General von Hartmann of the 
71st; General Stempel, commanding officer of the 176th Infantry Division; 
General Pfeffer, Colonel Crome and General Wultz. 

"In my opinion," von Hartmann was saying, "we have no option but to fight 
until the last man goes down, and then to kill ourselves rather than fall into the 
hands of the enemy." He looked around at his fellows. "It is up to us to set an 
example." 

"I agree," said Wultz. "It would be a fine end." 

"And the men?" asked Colonel Crome. 

The question fell heavily into the sudden silence. The generals looked covertly 
at Crome. He had been promoted to lieutenant when in command of assault 
troops at Arras. He had the Cross of Merit around his neck, and his tunic was 
heavy beneath the weight of his other decorations. He was still absurdly 
young to be a colonel. 

He cleared his throat and again asked, "What about the men?" 

"Colonel Crome," said Pfeffer, "never mind about the men. Our duty is quite 
clear. Our first thoughts now must be for Germany. However," he turned to 
von Hartmann, "I cannot agree that we should kill ourselves. We must die, 
yes! But not by our own hands. What I propose," he said, his eyes gleaming 
with an almost childlike pleasure, "is that we ourselves should lead the men 
into battle—march at their head with bayonets fixed! What a way to go, 
gentlemen! What a way to be remembered!" 

"Splendid! Splendid!" cried Stempel, quite carried away by the glory of it all. 
"Drums and trumpets! What a spectacle! I find it most edifying!" 

"Think," urged Pfeffer, "of the monuments they would erect to our memory. 
Never before, in the history of our nation, has such an attack taken place! 
They were led by their generals, bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. . ." 

"Beautiful!" sighed Stempel. "I can see it all; I only wish I could be there when 
they describe the scene to the Führer." 

"Never mind all that," said von Hartmann irritably. "What about the details?" 


"Ah, yes!" Pfeffer leaned forward, eyes eagerly gleaming. "I have it all 
planned. I have it all worked out. I thought we should honor the occasion by 
wearing our dress uniforms." 

"The ones we brought over with us to celebrate our victory," said von 
Hartmann dryly. 

"And this too will be a victory in its own way!" cried Pfeffer. "How glorious, how 
honorable, how . . ." 

He broke off in annoyance as a Feldwebel arrived, followed by Captain 
Glaser. They saluted. The Feldwebel laid a white sack on the table and took a 
respectful pace backward. 

"What is this?" asked von Hartmann distastefully. 

"Bread and sausages, sir." 

"Bread and sausages?" Von Hartmann looked around rather wildly at his 
colleagues. "Bread and sausages, Captain? Have you lost your head?" 

"No, sir. It's a gesture from the Russians. I have to report that General 
Voronov of the Third Armored Division has offered us favorable terms for 
capitulation. The offer is open until 1800 hours. If we don't accept it by then, 
they're going to fling all they've got into one final attack." 

The generals remained silent and stunned. Only Colonel Crome seemed 
capable of speech. "And if we do accept?" he said. 

"General Voronov assures me that we shall be treated with honor. The 
officers can retain their arms and the men will be issued with rations of food. 
Our sick and wounded will be taken care of." 

Colonel Crome raised an eyebrow and glanced at his colleagues. 

"The Russians," pursued Captain Glaser, "are as anxious as we to bring the 
hostilities to an end." 

This remark brought the generals' heads up in one sharp movement. 

General Pfeffer banged on the table with his hand. "How dare you come to us 
with such disgraceful propositions! How dare you hold converse with the 
enemy! Even to contemplate surrender makes my blood run cold with shame! 
Has not the Führer said he expects each man to fight to the very end, no 
matter what the final outcome?" He lifted his head proudly. "For my part, I 
intend not to disappoint him. Others, of course, may do as they like. I shall 
stand firm." 

"We have already agreed on a course of action!" snapped von Hartmann. 
"Pray let us have no more histrionics!" He turned back to Captain Glaser. "As 


for you, I wonder you have the effrontery to show yourself before us. 
Surrender to these half-baked barbarians!" 

"Out of the question!" cried Stempel, hearing his drums and trumpets 
pounding in his ears. "A Prussian officer would sooner die!" He leaned across 
the table and stared penetratingly at Captain Glaser. "In any case, what were 
you doing parleying with the Russians? You know the orders! Why didn't you 
shoot the bastards?" 

"It was difficult, sir. On the spur of the moment, like that—it was difficult to 
make up one's mind. I thought perhaps . . ." 

"You thought?" broke in Stempel incredulously. "Hell and damnation, it's not 
your duty to think, Captain! It's your duty to carry out orders!" 

"A clear case of contempt," said von Hartmann. 

General Pfeffer nodded. He picked up his gaily decorated helmet and settled 
it on his head: a judge about to pronounce the death sentence. 

"You know what this means, Captain?" Solemnly he began to intone, "In the 
name of the Führer and of the German people, you are hereby condemned to 
face death by a firing squad for failure to carry out orders . . ." 

Pfeffer and von Hartmann nodded their agreement. They were Prussian 
officers. Iron discipline, head before heart. It was the spirit of the old days 
under Frederick the Great. 

The Feldwebel disarmed the captain, the guard was called up. They led him 
outside, into the snow. Minutes later, and the German Army was another 
officer short. The firing squad left him where he fell, too weak to waste their 
energies digging a grave, too indifferent to death to feel any respect for the 
man they had shot. 

Down in the depths of the bunker the officers still sat around the table. Pfeffer 
still wore his golden helmet. 

"All the same," Colonel Crome was saying, "we can hardly just ignore it. We 
shall have to take some sort of action." 

"Of course," said von Hartmann, in quelling tones. 

"So . . ." 

General Stempel suddenly interrupted with a short cry of hysteria and 
snatched up the telephone. The others turned to watch. They listened in 
silence as he called up his division and crisply gave the order to attack the 
Russians immediately with every man they had. But they were unable to catch 
the reply: 


"If you want to attack the fucking Russians," snarled a voice at the other end 
of the line, "then get out there and attack them yourself, you stupid old cunt!" 

There was a click, and the line went dead. Stempel sat back, pale and 
gasping. He had not yet been able to grasp the fact that his division had for 
some forty-eight hours consisted of no more than sixty men under the 
command of a lieutenant. In his swiftly deteriorating mind he still saw himself 
at the head of a great body of men. 

"Do you think that was quite wise?" von Hartmann asked him quietly. 

Stempel made a choking sound and abruptly left the room. 

"How very odd," said Pfeffer. 

Back in his own quarters, Stempel screamed for his batman. "Get me out of 
this and into my dress uniform!" 

"Your—dress uniform, sir?" 

"Do what I say!" shrieked Stempel. 

Five minutes later, arrayed in his pearl-gray trousers with the red stripe, in his 
green tunic with the gold braid, Stempel called his two ordnance officers to 
hear his last words. 

"The men have betrayed me," he said in low, shaking accents. "I have no 
alternative but to take my life. And so I bid you farewell, gentlemen. We shall 
not have died in vain at Stalingrad. History will remember us. Heil Hitler!" 

He picked up his revolver, closed his mouth around the barrel and pulled the 
trigger. The two officers stood frozen in a stiff salute, the tears rolling 
unchecked down their faces. 

Two hours after Captain Glaser had been shot and General Stempel had 
committed suicide—although that was not yet general knowledge—a trio of 
generals stepped out onto the snow-covered steppe. They were dressed as if 
for a parade. Their gold trappings glittered and winked, the red stripe on their 
trousers shone like a beacon. 

"Hello, hello!" said Porta as he caught sight of them. "Here comes the 
reserve." 

"What're they pimping about like that for?" demanded Tiny. "Might just as well 
get a loudspeaker and tell the Russians they're on their way." 

The Old Man gravely shook his head. "Something screwy's up," he said. 
"When you get the brass hats strolling about on the battlefield like that, you 
can bet your life they're going to make a mess of things." 


The generals trod solemnly toward us. They looked like something out of a 
light opera, we could hardly take our eyes off them. 

Lieutenant Keit, still young and inexperienced enough to be impressed by the 
sight of a bit of gold trimming, stepped smartly forward and saluted. "Seventy-
first Infantry Division, sir! Three officers, eighteen NCOs and two hundred and 
nine men." 

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Von Hartmann raised a hand in the manner of one 
about to bestow a holy blessing. "The time has come for you and your men to 
show that you are worthy of the great trust that the Führer has placed in you." 

"Sir!" Lieutenant Keit sprang into the air, his arm flying up into another salute. 

"We are all about to die, Lieutenant. True patriots and brave soldiers. History 
demands that we be heroes. Let us not fail in our destiny." 

"Whatever you say, General." 

The lieutenant gave a nervous half grin of pride, quite overwhelmed that such 
an honor should befall him. Von Hartmann and the others then turned and 
began casually to stroll out into the middle of no-man's-land. We were so 
amazed that it was several seconds before even Porta found his tongue. 

"Well, God rot my toenails!" he exclaimed. "You ever seen the like of that 
before?" 

"They've lost their marbles," said Tiny, staring with mouth agape. "Dressed up 
like a dog's dinner—they don't stand a chance, they'll be picked off in no 
time." 

"What's the point of it all?" I demanded. 

As we watched, von Hartmann nonchalantly unslung his rifle from his 
shoulder. His companions followed suit. They moved with the same air of alert 
precaution as men on safari; no more, no less. They seemed blissfully 
unaware that Russian snipers lurked along the borders of their territory. 

Von Hartman's rifle suddenly cracked. A Russian soldier catapulted into the 
air. Back in our dugout we gave a suppressed cheer. A German general 
stepping out toward the enemy lines and actually firing a rifle! 

"Must have been a fluke," hissed Porta jealously. 

Seconds later von Hartmann bagged another Russian. Within the space of the 
next five minutes he had accounted for three more. All this with a common 
rifle, such as we suspected he had not handled for a good many years! Porta 
became so enthusiastic that he began shouting aloud. 


The generals went on their way, strung out in a line. Pfeffer and von 
Hartmann and Wultz. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. They were 
firing indiscriminately at everything that moved, shadows, snowflakes, trees 
and Russians, and Wultz laughed aloud every time he squeezed the trigger. 

But such sport could not last indefinitely. The odds were outrageous; the 
smooth surface of the snow was already being churned into divots by enemy 
gunfire. The three generals prowled on regardless, amiably boasting of their 
individual scores. Back in the dugout we laid beta on the winner. Pfeffer was 
in the lead at the moment, with von Hartmann a decent second. Wultz was 
trailing a little. His enthusiasm was boundless, but his aim was poor. 

"Who'd have thought it?" muttered Porta at my side. "Who'd have ever 
thought it?" 

For months now, the German radio had been claiming that the generals were 
fighting side by side with the men. Until this moment we had always regarded 
it as a masterstroke of comedy, designed to give the troops a good belly 
laugh. But the laugh, so to speak, was now very much on the other cheek. 

General von Hartmann was the first to succumb to the inevitable. We saw him 
sink groaning to his knees, a hand pressed into his side. He raised his rifle, 
attempted a final gesture of defiance, but before he could fire, he was blown 
into the air by an exploding shell. 

General Pfeffer was the next to go. He suddenly plummeted forward headfirst, 
in a straight line to the ground. His helmet, with its gold tracery, fell off his 
head and rolled a few yards into a snowdrift. We saw a Russian soldier crawl 
out of his hole, snatch it up on the end of his bayonet and covetously 
withdraw. A general's helmet was a precious prize indeed, and would 
doubtless make its new owner a rich man before the day was out. 

General Wultz was shot in the back and lay screaming and writhing on the 
ground. Two men were sent out to retrieve him. One of them was killed 
outright, the other received a bullet in the hip on the way back. The general 
died within seconds of being rescued. 

Lieutenant Keit, in a burst of naive enthusiasm, called for volunteers to 
recover the bodies of Pfeffer and von Hartmann. Not a man stepped forward. 
Who cared about a couple of dead generals? We listened dispassionately 
while the lieutenant abused us as traitors and cowards, and we watched 
without very much interest as he and a fool of a sergeant major crawled out 
into no-man's-land. The sergeant major caught a bullet in the head before he 
had gone more than a few yards. The lieutenant came back alone in a furious 
temper. 

At dawn came the promised attack. In the vanguard were a solid mass of T-
34s; forbidding, prehistoric shapes, like an army of mechanized dinosaurs. 
We were powerless against them. We had nothing left to fight them with and 


they ran straight over the top of us, crushing men and equipment as they 
came, meeting no resistance. 

After the tanks came the infantrymen, with submachine guns and rifles. Row 
upon row of them, elbow to elbow, running toward us. They had no need to 
break their tight-packed formation; they met with none but the most 
fragmentary opposition. 

The few of us who had survived the first onslaught leaped in terror from one 
hole to the next, sweating, slipping, gasping, faint with fear and hunger, panic-
stricken and helpless. I tripped and fell, and lay sobbing with fright in the 
snow. 

The straps of my pack were cutting into my shoulders, rubbing them raw, and 
I had lost my helmet as I scrambled out of the path of an oncoming tank. We 
were the hunted now, a few frightened sheep pursued by a massive pack of 
howling wolves, and there was nowhere to run. 

Gregor leaped out of a nearby shell hole and gave me a vicious kick in the 
ribs as he dived past me. "Get up, you lousy swine! Get up and fight!" 

My muscles responded instinctively to the command, without my mind or my 
will having anything to do with it. They sprang up with a strength I never 
suspected them of possessing, and they carried me fast in Gregor's wake. 

I crouched panting at his side, in a slight dip in the ground. Over the top of a 
snowdrift we fired into the midst of some oncoming Siberians. The recoil of 
the heavy guns pounded against our shoulders, bruising the muscles, but we 
went on firing, scarcely aware of the pain. Sheer desperation gave us some 
sort of manic strength, and for a moment the Siberians hesitated and fell 
back. 

Gregor jerked his head. "Let's get out of here!" 

Bent double, we fled across the snow-covered ground, straight into the path of 
some approaching tanks. We flung ourselves into a shell hole and crouched 
there, praying we had not been spotted. The firing of the heavy cannon 
chewed up the ground on either side of us. One of the tanks was making 
straight for our puny sanctuary. 

"Down!" 

Gregor gave me a tug and we clung together in the bottom of the shallow pit. 
They must have seen us, they were aiming right at us. The first shot flew over 
our heads, the second was so close we could feel the wind as it zipped past. 
And all the time the great white monster was coming nearer. The ground was 
shaking beneath its twenty-six tons of steel. 

"Jump!" I shouted. 


But we didn't jump. We just caught each other's hands and held on tight like 
children, crouching paralyzed in our hole as we waited for death. 

From a short way ahead we heard the chilling shrieks of men in agony as the 
T-34 claimed its first victim. I saw the barrel of the cannon, and then the belly 
of the tank itself, rearing up and over us, poised to strike. In that second, 
without even thinking, I snatched up a magnetic mine and hurled it under the 
body of the creature. Gregor and I flung ourselves flat with our hands pressed 
over our ears. There was no time to speculate whether the mine would stick: it 
either would or wouldn't, and if it didn't, we should probably never know about 
it. 

With a great roar, the tank exploded. Flames shot over our heads, flying 
debris filled the air and rained down on us. We rolled ourselves in the snow, 
and Gregor peered over the top of the hole and fell back again in a fresh 
spasm of terror. A second tank passed by, so close we could have reached 
out and patted it. After the tank came running feet and swiftly moving khaki 
legs. Russian infantry. We remained where we were. There was really nothing 
else we could do. 

One pair of feet stopped running. Their owner had evidently spotted our 
bodies. We held our breath and lay still. I received a vicious blow in the 
kidneys; Gregor's head was trodden down deep into the snow. We bit our lips 
until they bled, but we made no sound. I could hear the heavy breathing of the 
soldier, and I expected that at any moment he would use his bayonet, just to 
make sure. But no, thank God, he was in too much of a hurry to catch up with 
his comrades. He turned and ran off with an impatient "Chart vozmi!"* 

*Devil take [it]. The approximate Russian equivalent of "Damn." 

Painfully Gregor and T heaved ourselves out of the snow. Gregor was red in 
the face and half suffocated. I felt that at least one of my kidneys was 
probably ruptured. 

We remained crouched in our foxhole. It was dangerous even to raise your 
head, and quite useless to contemplate surrender. The Russians were 
remaining true to their threat and taking no prisoners. The generals who could 
have saved our lives had indulged in a form of ostentatious suicide and left 
the rest of us to fight it out. Those generals had never known what it was to 
suffer. They had never known the gnawing, gut-twisting agonies of constant 
hunger; they had never been cornered in a shallow shell hole with the belly of 
an enemy tank poised over their heads; they had never been exposed twenty-
four hours on end, in thin summer uniforms and sheets of newspaper, to wind 
and snow and air so cold that it cut deep into your lungs with a sharp, knife-
edge pain every time you drew breath. They had gone plump and padded to 
meet their fate, and even in death they had been cushioned from the real 
horrors of warfare. 

Gregor suddenly nudged me. "Siberians," he mouthed. 


I turned and saw them coming. Our most dreaded enemies. They ran heavily, 
clumsily, through the snow, their sturdy bodies bloated like round waterlogged 
loaves in their quilted uniforms, their faces blue with cold beneath their thick 
fur helmets. One would have said, at first glance, a band of jolly farmers out 
for a cross-country run—except that their walking sticks were rifles, and their 
rallying cries were, "Kill! Kill! Kill!" 

No German is an innocent German; neither those who are on the point of 
death nor those about to be born. The master race must be exterminated. We 
must be fanatical in order to kill the fanatics. Kill, kill, kill . . . 

Gregor and I turned and fired. We stood no chance, but years of experience 
imposed their will on us. And for one moment the Siberians hesitated. They 
stopped in their tracks as we stood and fired. They had not expected to meet 
death in their moment of triumph. 

 

Hitler's worst enemies could scarcely dispute the advantages already gained 
from a restored civilisation. 

The Times, London, July 24, 1933 

Seen from behind, the lieutenant colonel looked to be drunk. His shoulders 
slumped forward, his head hung down, his gait was slurred and uncertain. 
Only those who watched his approach could see that his wrists were tied in 
front of him and that he was evidently still dizzy from a fierce blow on the 
head, which had torn open part of his scalp and caused the blood to run down 
into his eyes. His sparse gray hair was matted. His uniform was torn and 
filthy. 

After the lieutenant colonel came three other officers: the colonel's adjutant, a 
major, and a paymaster general. They were all in a similarly distressed 
condition, and they all had their wrists tied together with pieces of barbed 
wire. 

A group of SS men, rifles tucked under their arms, hustled the condemned 
men into position. The clear moonlight illuminated the scene and picked out 
the sinister death's head emblems in their tracery of silver. 

In the center of the square was an oak tree. Beneath the oak tree stood four 
chairs. A few sleepy soldiers, pulled from their beds and bidden to attend, 
stood shivering and yawning around the gallows. 

A Sturmbannführer strutted self-importantly before the doomed officers. "Well, 
you bunch of yellow-bellied traitors! If you've anything to say, you'd better 
hurry up and say it. Now's the time, because you won't be given another 
chance in this world. And make it brief, nobody's interested in it but you." 


The lieutenant colonel pulled himself trembling to his full height and raised his 
bloodied head. "I am innocent of all the charges," he said, in tones that 
indicated it was not the first time he had made the protestation. "I have always 
done my duty. I have never asked anything for myself. I should not have . . ." 

"Enough!" barked the Sturmbannführer. "We're not here to listen to your lies!" 
He turned, sneering, to the others. "Well? What about you? You want to add 
your bleats to his?" 

The major looked boldly across at him with clear blue eyes that seemed 
indecently naked in their hostility. "A band of perverts and sadists is running 
this country! Sick men, the lot of you—emotionally retarded and mentally 
degraded, with twisted minds and filthy habits. Under anyone else but Hitler 
you'd all be locked up in a lunatic asylum, where you belong." 

"That's enough of that!" The Sturmbannführer, visibly shaken by the major's 
words, snapped his fingers at an Oberscharführer. "Get them ready." 

The four officers were hoisted onto the chairs. Expert hands slipped lengths of 
rope around their necks, tied the knots, fixed the slack to a branch of the tree. 
The Oberscharführer stepped forward, a smile of anticipation on his face. 
Gustav Kleinkamp was an SS executioner of distinction. He claimed to be 
holder of the world record in hangings, and no one disputed his right to the 
title. The Sturmbannführer nodded, and Kleinkamp, with a fine precision and 
an almost theatrical sense of timing, swept away the chairs with a neat 
movement of the foot, and bowed his head to some imaginary applause that 
seemed to ring in his ears. 

The SS men stood watching as the bodies twitched and jerked at the ends of 
the rope. The soldiers went on yawning. They had seen it all before. 

A few yards away, in the background, Theodor Eicke sat watching the scene 
through the window of a truck. The moon lit up his profile and he was seen to 
be smiling. 

Gruppenführer Eicke enjoyed doing his duty. He could easily have surpassed 
Kleinkamp's record, had he not felt that the physical act of hanging a man was 
somewhat beneath an officer's dignity. Nevertheless, he could appreciate 
such zeal in an inferior. It was Eicke who had had painted on the side of all 
vehicles in his division the words, "WE WANT CORPSES, NOT 
PRISONERS!" until General Model, his commander in chief, had indignantly 
ordered their removal. 

Model was the only general of whom Eicke was reputed to stand in awe. He 
held all the others in cold contempt, which perhaps was not to be wondered at 
since he had early in his SS career crossed swords with no less a personage 
than General Field Marshal Busch and gained the better of him. It was on May 
26, 1940, and Eicke had committed the first of his many war crimes: he had 
enclosed a hundred British prisoners of war in a Belgian farmhouse and shot 
them one by one. Busch, almost as outraged as the British themselves must 


have been, had threatened a court-martial, and it was Himmler who had 
intervened on Eicke's behalf. Himmler had no particular wish to save Eicke's 
skin, but he felt the honor of the SS to be at stake and his own powers 
challenged. 

"In any case," he had scoffed, "what's all the fuss about a few dead 
Englishmen? Who asked them to interfere in the first place? Why couldn't they 
have stayed at home in their miserable little island and left us alone?" 

From that day on, Eicke had felt himself to be someone apart. It seemed to 
him that by his intervention, Himmler had given him carte blanche to carry out 
whatever atrocities he would. He was not bound by the general laws of 
humanity that governed others. 

11 

Christmas on the Steppe 

For five days a snowstorm had blown and howled over the Volga. It came to 
us all the way from Kazakhstan and it whipped itself up into a fury as it raged 
across the steppe. The Russians were accustomed to it and equipped to deal 
with it, and the wind blew in their favor. We Germans were terrorized by it and 
it left in its wake a long trail of corpses with every fresh gust that hit us. 

The few survivors from the massive Russian attack had crawled for comfort 
into a bunker near the banks of the Volga, and there we huddled, day after 
day, listening to the wind and the rumbling of our empty bellies. Faces were 
stark and gray beneath their helmets; uniforms hung in limp rags from skeletal 
frames. We had discovered that hunger was more demoralizing than either 
fear or defeat. 

Reichsmarschall Goering had promised Hitler to send his airplanes over to the 
stranded Sixth Army and drop food supplies to us, but Hitler had not thought 
to ask him where the airplanes were to be found. Even we, isolated as we 
were, knew that Goering could not keep his promise. There were no 
airplanes. So what was Hitler counting on? Goering and his nonexistent 
aircraft? Or God and his angels? Either way, it seemed we were doomed. 
Goering was fallible and God was no longer with us. For many weeks past he 
had been on the side of the enemy. Even that rabid anti-Communist in 
London, Winston Churchill, was lending his aid to the Soviets. Nobody loved 
the Russians, but everybody hated the Germans. 

All along the front the enemy loudspeakers shouted their defiance: "Stalingrad 
has become a German graveyard! A German death every minute!" 

For once, propaganda was the voice of truth. But it was not the Russians who 
were killing us, it was the weather and the lack of food. Men dropped dead in 
their tracks. Literally dropped dead. One minute you would be talking to 
someone, the next minute he could be lifeless at your feet. Men dug 
themselves holes in the snow, seeking warmth, and were discovered stiff and 


frozen next morning. We found tanks which had run out of gas, with their 
crews dead inside them. Officers leaned against the parapet of trenches, 
giving orders to their men, and died in midsentence. Men died overnight 
inside the bunker and no one realized that the brittle, twiglike heap beneath 
the threadbare blanket was now a corpse. 

"Stalingrad a German graveyard—a German death every minute..." 

Our little group was probably luckier than other isolated bodies of survivors in 
that we had two excellent foragers and scroungers in the persons of Tiny and 
Porta. Whenever we were on the point of foundering, that redoubtable pair 
would pick up their rifles and an old jute sack and slip off into the night on a 
food-finding mission. They never once came back empty-handed. Sometimes 
it was only the putrefying bones of a dead horse, but with careful preparation 
even they made enough soup to preserve us for another few days. On one 
occasion they turned up with thirty-seven cans of assorted food and half a 
duck which they had stolen from beneath the noses of the enemy. They had 
not set out with the intention of stealing from the Russians, not even Tiny and 
Porta were as outrageous as that; but they had lost their way in the dark and 
ended up behind Russian lines, and while they were there it had seemed silly 
not to take advantage of the situation. Unfortunately, two of our men died as a 
result of overeating. 

"Dirty gluttons!" grumbled Tiny as we slung their bodies outside. 

The whole of the German front line, such as it now was, was perpetually 
bathed in flames. Our bunker trembled under the constant pounding of heavy 
artillery fire, and those survivors who were still existing in scattered trenches 
and dugouts found themselves literally blown from their shelters like dead 
leaves in a high wind. Occasionally men lost their minds and could be seen 
galloping along in a hail of shells and machine gunfire, waving their arms in 
the air and laughing happily like children. 

We were no longer a regiment, scarcely even a company; simply a gathering 
of remnants brought together for the final days of Stalingrad. 

After a while we were joined by an SS Unterscharführer. He staggered 
exhausted into the bunker and promptly took possession of Porta's camp bed. 
That bed was now Porta's most prized belonging. He had picked it up from an 
abandoned farmhouse on one of his foraging trips, and when he was not 
using it himself, he was in the habit of renting it out at so much an hour. The 
sight of a stranger, and an SS man at that, lying on his bed without paying the 
fee, was altogether too much for Porta. 

He turned to Tiny. "Get him off," he said. 

Tiny shambled amiably across the room, lifted the man bodily and dropped 
him on to the floor where, to everyone's intense astonishment, he continued to 
sleep and to snore as if nothing had happened. 


The district was populous that day. Only minutes after the Unterscharführer's 
arrival, the door was kicked open by a booted foot and an SS general stormed 
in, submachine gun held at the ready. He stood in our midst like the Colossus 
of Rhodes, glaring down at us, his face blue with cold beneath his fur bonnet. 

"Well? Lost your tongues, have you? Who's in command here? Who's the 
most senior?" 

"I am, sir." The Old Man stepped forward. 

The Colossus looked him up and down and his lip rose into a sneer. "And who 
are you?" he asked. 

"Feldwebel Beier, sir." 

"Which regiment?" 

"Twenty-seventh Panzers." 

"How many men have you got here?" 

"Seven NCOs, forty-three men. We've also got one bazooka, two submachine 
guns, six light machine guns and one flamethrower." 

"Ammunition?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Well? How much?" 

The Old Man just perceptibly shrugged his shoulders. "I couldn't say exactly, 
sir." 

He might have added, and what the hell does it matter anyway? If the 
Russians attacked us, we certainly hadn't enough to defend ourselves with for 
more than a few minutes. 

The general kicked a tin helmet across the floor, and the sleeping 
Unterscharführer awoke with a resentful start. 

"Hell's bells, Feldwebel!" the general barked. "We're still fighting a war, you 
know!" 

"If that's what you call it, sir," said the Old Man respectfully. 

The general changed his tack. "What are you doing here, anyway? Why aren't 
you with your regiment? You're not serving any useful purpose skulking here 
like this." 

"The regiment doesn't exist any more, sir. We're all that's left." 


The general made an impatient click with his tongue and turned to stare rather 
piercingly at the Unterscharführer, who had risen to his feet and was hovering 
at the back of the group. 

"What's that man doing here?" He pointed a finger. "You! Unterscharführer! 
Get back to your own battalion! You have no place here!" 

The Unterscharführer smiled rather slyly. "Haven't got a battalion, sir. We 
were surrounded at Rynok." He drew a finger across his throat. "Only lasted 
half an hour. I was buried under a load of corpses, they didn't spot me." 

The general raised an eyebrow. "That's your story, Unterscharführer. It 
remans to be seen what a court-martial will make of it. To me it sounds 
suspiciously like desertion." 

He unbuttoned a top pocket and pulled out a large black cigar. Julius Heide at 
once rushed forward with a light and received a kick in the shins on his return. 

"Ass-licker!" hissed Tiny venomously. 

The general walked over to Porta's bed and began to spread out a map, 
beckoning to the Old Man as he did so. "Where was your last position, 
Feldwebel?" 

"Near Kotluban, sir." 

"Kotluban, eh?" The general found it on the map. "Thirty-three miles—hmm." 
He frowned, pulled out a pencil and began making a series of marks. Then he 
looked gloatingly up at the Old Man. "Feldwebel, perhaps you will kindly clarify 
something for me. Here is Kotluban," he pointed to it, "and here," he pointed 
again, "is a Soviet Guards regiment. Show me exactly where your positions 
were, if you please." 

"Here, sir. Near this wood. Facing away from the Volga. We were part of the 
16th Panzer Division." 

"That is as may be, Feldwebel! But it hardly explains to me how you 
succeeded in crossing the enemy lines in order to get from Kotluban to your 
present position!" He swung around on the Old Man. "Am I to infer that you 
were issued with special passes signed by the Soviets?" 

The Old Man pinched his lips disapprovingly together. "If you mean, sir, that 
any of my men collaborated with the enemy or deserted their posts or 
anything of that nature, then I hope you'll pardon me saying that you're talking 
through the top of your brass hat! We leave that sort of behavior to the 
officers, sir. The only man who went over to the Russians was Lieutenant 
Reiniger of the 79th Infantry Division. He was put in charge of the regiment, 
but he deserted before he'd been with us twenty-four hours. He not only gave 
away our positions, he also . . ." 


"That's quite enough, Feldwebel! Hold your tongue!" 

The general slapped the Old Man hard across the face with his leather 
gauntlets. The Old Man breathed very deeply and remained where he was, 
but to everyone's surprise the Unterscharführer suddenly bounded forward 
with a cry of rage and made straight for the general. He can hardly have been 
avenging the Old Man. We could only assume that his mind had snapped, 
and with it. his instinct for self-preservation. Before he had even reached his 
intended victim, the general had snatched up his submachine gun and 
pumped him full of bullets. 

"Pity," observed Porta. "We'd hardly got to know him." 

The general glared across at us, eyes snapping in his hawk face. "Well? Is 
there anyone else here who's tired of life? Because if there is, just let him step 
forward! I'll be happy to deal with him." 

We stood looking back at him; hating him, despising him, with murder in our 
hearts and our hands meekly at our sides. We had been too well trained. We 
had been Prussian slaves for too many years to break the habit of blind 
obedience. The idea of raising one's hand against a general was not one that 
came readily to mind. 

"Very well!" He moved to the door, breathing heavily through dilated nostrils. 
"Pick up your arms and follow me. You're under my command from now on." 

We left the bunker and took up positions along the Stalingrad-Pitomnok 
railroad. On our way there we stumbled across the remains of a battery of 
howitzers, now halfheartedly manned by the only three survivors from the 
original group. The general swept them along with us and commandeered the 
howitzers. We set them up and dug ourselves in, then settled down to wait. 
For what, we hardly knew. But the general had said wait, and so we waited. 
He was huddled into his greatcoat and had let down the flaps of his fur cap to 
cover his ears. The rest of us shivered with rattling teeth and frozen limbs in 
our holes in the snow. 

At dawn the enemy arrived. A convoy of T-34s in search of trouble. We saw 
them breast the slope, hang for an instant in space, then come thundering 
down toward the railroad line. They crossed over with no opposition. Our 
infantrymen fled from their holes before the great white monsters, and few of 
them escaped. The tanks pounded after them, caught up with them, tossed 
them into the air, ground them into the snow, moved on implacably. Mounds 
of pulped and bloody flesh lay strewn in their wake. 

Behind our camouflaged howitzers we crouched and waited. A man needed 
nerves of steel to sit tight while a row of monstrous great tanks bore down on 
him. My own nerves were of a pretty mediocre variety, and had it not been for 
the dogged presence of my companions on either side of me, I should almost 
certainly have fled before the tanks were within striking distance. They 
rumbled on toward us. Nine hundred yards—eight hundred—seven 


hundred—if we missed at the first crack, we should not be given a second; we 
should join our infantry comrades as mutilated heaps of raw flesh in the snow. 

The tanks seemed almost on top of us. They were gathering speed, evidently 
not yet suspecting our hidden presence. 

"Fire!" shouted the Old Man. 

The four big guns roared together. The moment had come, and we had not 
failed. The leading T-34s were thrown into the air in a flaming mass of debris, 
and our fear abruptly left us. We even knew a certain exaltation. We had it in 
our power even now to destroy the enemy! We no longer noticed the cold, our 
nerve ends no longer trembled, our muscles no longer twitched with the 
tension of waiting. The oft-repeated gestures, loading and firing and loading 
and firing were so familiar as to be part of us and to dispel our momentary 
terrors. The guns roared, the tanks drew back; torrents of flame burst out of 
their turrets, balls of burning metal were thrown after them and tossed up and 
down on jets of scorchingly hot air. Men were quickly reduced to blackened 
corpses, their mouths drawn back over their teeth in hideous charred grins. 
Nineteen tanks fell prey to our guns and the sky was hidden behind a great 
black umbrella of smoke. 

There was a moment's respite. We were running dangerously short of 
ammunition, but the general had no intention of pulling out. We remained at 
our posts, waiting for the next onslaught. 

They came straight at us this time. They had obviously spotted our position, 
and they rolled majestically forward in a hail of shells, in no particular hurry. 
No matter how many we wiped out, another always moved in to fill the gap. 

Those infantrymen who had survived the first attack now came scurrying 
toward us from their shallow holes in the snow, taking shelter behind us as if 
some measure of safety lay in the big guns. But once the ammunition had 
gone, we were as powerless as they, and the poor fellows were merely 
exchanging one hell for another. 

I saw a young boy in twisted agony with a broken back. His tortured screams 
rose even above the roaring of the guns, temporarily blotting out all other 
sounds, but there was nothing we could do for him. There was no time even 
to take out a revolver and put a bullet through him. 

Russian shells were landing among us with increasing accuracy. The cries 
and yells of the wounded were growing slowly to a nightmarish cacophony. I 
saw Big Paul from Cologne crumple up with his breastbone smashed and his 
ribs crushed in; I saw Corporal Duval from Sauerland collapse with his left 
arm hanging in shreds from a shattered shoulder; Sergeant Scheibe from 
Wupperthal had had both legs neatly severed below the knee; a shell 
exploded beneath the feet of Private Weiss from Breslau and reduced him 
immediately to a shapeless phantom of crushed bones and blood-splattered 
flesh. 


The tanks continued relentlessly to stagger up the slope and tumble down 
toward us on the other side. How many more of them lay beyond the slope we 
could only guess. In my imagination I saw an endless line. 

A shell scored a direct hit on Gregor's gun. The long cannon slewed around 
and had smashed off the head of his loader before the boy had time to duck. 
The body remained standing a few seconds with a fountain of blood spurting 
into the air. Gregor himself escaped injury but lost control of his nerves. He 
threw back his head and laughed and laughed, while the blood cascaded 
down his uniform. I had no time to slap him out of it, I was far too busy with 
my own affairs. When I glanced at him seconds later, he was on his knees in 
the snow, his whole body shaken with sobs. 

The attack stopped quite suddenly. The T-34s veered around in the opposite 
direction and plowed off through the snow. No more came over the ridge. For 
several minutes we stood gaping, staring after them in imbecilic disbelief. 
Their victory had been assured, we could not possibly have held out for more 
than another quarter of an hour at the very most. And there they were, moving 
off into the snow, leaving us shaken but alive in the midst of our fallen 
comrades, whose bodies were already growing stiff. 

All around was the acrid smell of cordite, which burned the throat and the 
lungs and made the eyes water and smart. I saw Gregor staggering to his feet 
and the Legionnaire grimacing with pain as the Old Man dressed a deep gash 
in his forehead. For once in his life he had been wearing his helmet. Without it 
he would certainly have been scalped. 

Across the sullied snow came the general, followed by a group of silent, 
brooding soldiers. He waved an impatient hand at the guns. "Blow those 
things up, they're no more use to us! Reassemble down there, in the gorge." 

He strode off, leaving Porta and me to dispose of the howitzers. We set the 
charges, Porta lit the fuse and we ran off toward the assembly point in the 
gorge. Just as we reached it there was an almighty explosion and our antitank 
battery was no more. In a few hours all traces would be covered by a fresh fall 
of snow. 

It was thirty-eight below zero. The wind, as usual, was howling across the 
steppe and blowing icy crystal chips into our raw faces. Whichever way one 
looked, one encountered the glassy stare of a corpse, saw a stray arm or leg 
protruding from a drift, saw a trail of red over the snow. It seemed that the 
whole of the vast steppe had been turned into a graveyard. 

At the head of the straggling column marched our SS general. His long coat 
was whipped about his legs by the wind, but his neck was protected by the 
upturned collar, his head was snug in its fur bonnet, and his feet encased in 
stout leather boots. The man was, of course, completely bats. We had 
realized that almost straightaway. He was a coldblooded fanatic bent on 
fighting his way single-handed across Russia, and we poor fools were to be 
dragged at his heels as convenient, transportable fodder for the enemy guns. 


We dug ourselves in again by the side of the Volga, at the foot of a triangle of 
steep hills. From there, we could see long columns of enemy troops on the 
march, crossing the frozen river, and the next day the heavy artillery opened 
up and the bombardment began. Four times I was blown from the shallow 
trench by the force of the blast. The fourth time I had to be rescued by Porta, 
who made a quick sortie and hauled me back again. I was in such a state of 
shock that it was several minutes before I could manage to stand unaided. 

The section in the neighboring trenches were subjected to a barrage of 
napalm grenades. A long line of fire ran through the ranks and men clawed 
their way screaming out of the trenches with their hair and their clothes alight. 
The very snow itself seemed to be on fire. The smell of burning flesh filled our 
nostrils, impregnated our clothes and our skin, until the stench turned our 
stomachs and made us vomit. 

I had succeeded in wedging myself beneath some blocks of concrete, and I 
set up my submachine gun so that it pointed through a narrow fissure. Porta 
and Tiny were on either side of me, and we crouched together at the bottom 
of the trench, chewing hungrily at a few hunks of dry bread the consistency of 
brick. The thought of ordinary bread, even stale, plain, mildewed bread, was 
an almost unbearable luxury. 

As the enemy poured in to attack, the mists from the Volga came rolling our 
way, shrouding the landscape in a chill, damp haze. For a few moments the 
panic and confusion were such that we fired blindly, not knowing whether it 
was friend or foe. And then, looming up out of the mist, came the squat, 
bloated forms of the Siberians, animated snowmen in their thick, white, 
padded costumes. We heard their raucous yells of encouragement, of death 
to the Germans and glory be to Stalin! 

We beat off the first wave of the attack, but our fanatical general would give 
us no respite. With a wild shout he was down the hill and chasing after the 
withdrawing enemy, and we had no option but to go running along with him 
like a stampede of silly, frightened horses. The Siberians had evidently not 
expected such an act of insanity on our part. They were taken off guard. 
Some stopped and fought, others scuttled back to their own lines, where their 
officers, demented like the general, promptly turned them around and sent 
them back at us again. 

It was a chaotic skirmish in which I, for one, had very little idea what was 
happening. In the desperate, hand-to-hand crush, we swayed and fought over 
the bodies of the wounded, grinding them beneath our boots, drunk with 
blood, drunk with exhaustion, drunk with fear, strangling, clubbing and 
bayoneting. 

We finally put them to flight and took possession of their bunker, although we 
were well aware that such possession could be only temporary. We hadn't the 
strength to hold it against a full attack, and the Siberians would surely come 
back in force. 


Meanwhile, we made the most of our stay by raiding the larder. The Siberians 
had left a fair supply of rations behind them and we descended like a horde of 
deprived vultures. I saw Tiny tearing with his front teeth at a lump of fatty 
bacon, while Porta raced about like a madman, hands flying in all directions, 
cramming as much as he could into his mouth until it bulged in two great 
pouches and he was hardly able to swallow; after which he began cramming 
his pockets instead. 

It was with the greatest reluctance, and only under severe pressure, that we 
consented to move out. The enemy were already closing in on us and we 
finally fled in a shower of shells. 

From the far side of the Volga the heavy batteries opened up. The ground 
was trembling as if about to split open. The general bawled at us to keep 
moving, but we had more sense. The dreaded napalm grenades, which tore a 
man's very lungs from his body, were exploding all over the place, and we 
went to earth instantly. No use trying to run through such a storm. All you 
could do was find a hole and stay put, curled up at the bottom of it with your 
head well down. Anything on the surface was swiftly devoured by the sea of 
flame that swept the earth in the wake of the explosions. 

I dived into a dugout and landed on top of Porta. I knocked him off balance 
and we fell down together as the hot blast of the furnace blew over our heads. 

The barrage lasted all night long, and all night long we remained crouched in 
our holes with our heads buried deep in the snow. Not even the calls of nature 
took men into the open. Better a pair of sodden pants than a mouthful of that 
killing air that hung overhead. 

Strange that although we all knew the war was lost, we still never spoke of 
defeat. We never spoke of the past, and we rarely mentioned the present. It 
was always the future. Even now, deep in this well of seemingly endless 
misery, we clung stubbornly to life. Cold and starving, stinking, filthy and 
terrified, hounded aimlessly from one point to another across the bloodstained 
steppe, scarcely any longer human, we nevertheless still believed ourselves 
to be men, and fought for our right to existence. 

Toward morning the firing quieted down and we began slowly to relax. Once 
or twice we cautiously raised our heads and sniffed the air. It smelled bad, but 
it would clear. 

With the coming of dawn, three JU-52s suddenly appeared on the horizon. 
We looked up at them and watched in disbelief as they came steadily nearer. 
They swooped down from the clouds, flying in wide circles, indifferent to the 
Russian antiaircraft batteries or the possibility of enemy planes in the 
neighborhood. They were evidently searching for us. 

Whether they spotted us or whether they simply decided to jettison their load 
and return home, we neither knew nor cared. But the sky was suddenly full of 
parachutes, floating down toward us like great yellow mushrooms, and at the 


end of each parachute was a large container. We became almost hysterical 
as we watched the slow descent. We danced up and down in the trenches, 
singing and shouting and hugging each other. 

"Food!" roared Porta at the top of his voice. 

Before the general could stop us, we were over the parapet and racing toward 
those precious containers. We thought nothing of personal danger in that 
moment. Let the enemy hurl at us what they would, we were going to pick up 
our ration of food even if we died as we ate it! Each container should hold 
sufficient to feed an entire company. For the first time in weeks we were faced 
with the prospect of full bellies. 

The anticipation was almost unbearable. It was as much as we could do to 
detach the containers and drag them back with us, instead of tearing them 
open on the spot. 

"Food," blubbered Porta, falling down into the trench. His mouth was full of 
saliva, bubbling in tiny globules around his lips. 

"Never again," vowed Gregor, "will I say a word against the Air Force! God 
bless 'em!" 

With one voice we sent up a cheer for the brave pilots of those JU-52s. May 
they reach base safely, they deserved it! And three cheers for Himmler too! 
Maybe the bastard wasn't as bad as he was painted. 

Like children tearing open their Christmas stockings, we ripped apart the 
containers. My head was full of visions. Bright, mouth-watering visions in the 
garish colors of cheap comics. There were crudely pink sausages, great 
bloated things oozing fat and straining to bursting point in their glistening 
skins. There was a plump and succulent chicken, basted brown with a 
crackling skin. There were potatoes and milk, and bacon and bread, and 
cheese and cookies and fresh fruit and lightly boiled eggs and coffee and 
caviar and . . . 

The container fell open. The contents spilled out. There was a moment's 
shocked silence. 

No sausages. No chicken. No bread, no milk, no bacon. Only a quantity of 
flea powder, a few sheets of notepaper, and a vast stack of colored 
photographs. Hitler and Himmler, Goering and Goebbels and all the rest of 
the trashy band. 

The trenches rang with howls of rage and despair. Men wept and cursed and 
beat their heads in a frenzy against the hard-packed snow. We became 
violent in our disappointment, and we called upon a God we no longer 
believed in to strike Adolf Hitler dead for the trick he had played on us. 


The colored photographs were scattered to the winds and on toward the 
Russian lines. 

"Wipe your ass on Adolf Hitler!" bellowed Porta. "That's all the swine's fit for!" 

What the SS general made of it we neither knew nor cared. He watched us in 
grim-faced and tight-lipped silence and made no attempt to quell our jeers and 
catcalls. He was perhaps aware that to have done so would merely have 
incited us to revolt. We were in no mood to tolerate the prating of one of 
Hitler's officers. 

We left our positions under cover of a snowstorm. With any luck, it would be 
several hours before the enemy discovered we had withdrawn. 

On the road to Orlovka, we began running into the occasional group of 
fugitives, fleeing from the tractor factory which was still somewhat 
precariously in German hands. The general forced us to another halt and set 
up a barricade. We spent the next twenty-four hours shooting deserters. 
Those who gave in without a struggle were co-opted into our group. Any who 
attempted argument or excuses were dispatched forthwith. All officers were 
shot on the spot and no questions asked. 

We set off again at dawn the following day, our numbers swelled into quite a 
respectable column. A few miles farther on, in a fold in the landscape, we 
came across a regiment of corpses. They were buried beneath a carpet of 
snow, but countless bones, frozen into position, still appeared above the 
surface and pointed the way to the communal grave. We paused only long 
enough to check that they were German bones, then made our way to the 
great stone bunker, carved deep into the rocky face of the hillside, which had 
obviously served as the last refuge of the slaughtered regiment. 

A carbide lamp still burned on a table, and by its light we saw that we had 
entered a house of the dead. The corpses were piled high around the walls, 
stretched out on the floor, propped up against tables and chairs, lying over 
and across each other. In a high-backed chair sat a lieutenant colonel with his 
head thrown back. Upon examination, he was found to have a bullet hole in 
the base of his skull. We looked significantly at one another: the NKVD had 
passed this way. On an operating table lay a doctor with his throat cut. 
Tossed into a corner were two nurses. 

Porta looked at them regretfully. "Pity about that," he said. 

Exhausted, we flung ourselves to the ground, wherever we could squeeze 
ourselves in between a couple of corpses, and fell asleep, regardless of the 
filth and the stench. Even the general permitted himself the human weakness 
of closing his eyes. 

Whether we slept five minutes or five hours, I never discovered. We were 
woken very suddenly by the trembling of the ground and the familiar sound of 
tanks on the move. The Old Man reached out and extinguished the lamp, 


which we had left burning as we slept. For half an hour we crouched, silent 
and terrified among the corpses, while the tanks rolled past. They were very 
close to the bunker, traveling in the direction of Gumrak. 

When it seemed that the last one had passed, and there had been no 
movement for almost fifteen minutes, the general stood up and jerked his 
head at us. "All right! You've had your rest. Pick up your weapons and follow 
me." 

We took with us all the food we could lay hands on, all the mangy, moldering 
crusts of bread, all the rotting bits and pieces of unknown vegetable matter, all 
the putrefying scraps of meat, including a hunk that was strangely white and 
bloodless. The Old Man said it was human flesh, and looking at the hideous 
anemic thing, I was quite willing to believe him; but Porta, totally undaunted, 
tore off a mouthful and chewed it, savoring its flavor. 

"What's it like?" I asked curiously. 

Porta licked his lips. "Not at all bad! I guess it must be topside of general." He 
turned and dug the Old Man in the ribs. "If this is human flesh, pal, then all I 
can say is, hold onto your skins when I get hungry again!" 

The general impatiently motioned us forward. We marched, unmolested by 
Russians, until we came to a spot northwest of the railroad line a mile or so 
from Pestyanka. There, for no very apparent reason—except, perhaps, a 
manic desire on the general's part to meet up with the enemy—we dug 
ourselves in again. 

Inevitably, the Russians discovered us before long and moved in to dislodge 
us. They came swinging toward us in tight ranks, high-stepping as if they were 
on the parade ground. They were easy enough to pick off, but the minute one 
man fell, another came forward to take his place. They simply ignored the 
bodies, marching right over them. Sometimes they built them up into 
ramparts, sometimes they flung them as convenient bridges across the 
barbed wire, but however many we killed, they still came on in vast numbers. 

I was crouched in my snowhole beneath the remains of an American 
bulldozer. As I peered out, I saw a Siberian soldier running toward me. He 
was still some distance away, not even knowing I was there, but I had him in 
my sight and, aiming at the spot directly beneath the red star on his helmet, I 
squeezed the trigger. An expression of anguished surprise appeared on the 
soldier's chubby face. I could almost hear the thoughts running through his 
poor, stupid, confused head in the seconds before he died. Had he been 
shot? Had he really been shot? Is that what it felt like? Why was he here, 
what was he fighting for? What was he doing with a bullet through his brain, 
dying by the side of a strange river in a land that was not his own? Where 
were his wife and his children, his cows and his horses? Why was he lying 
spread-eagled in the snow, so far from home? 


In the spring, when the snows melted and released him from his frozen 
shroud, he would be piled into a great communal burial pit with a hundred 
thousand others. For the moment he remained where he had fallen, trampled 
underfoot by his comrades. 

We retreated along the side of the railroad line. From a shell hole a weak 
voice called out to me. I hesitated. A face was peering over the top, a crooked 
finger was beckoning. The face looked like a mask of badly applied rubber 
solution. It bulged and it wrinkled and it sagged. It was gunmetal in color, 
except around the eyes, which were sunk deep inside great black holes. It 
was the face of a young officer. I moved cautiously over to him. He was 
almost up to his waist in what seemed a pool of blood. It was blood; as I 
stared down, I realized that both his legs had been crushed into a thick red 
puree. There was nothing I could do for him. I thrust a revolver into his 
outstretched hand and ran on. 

His voice came shrieking after me. "Soldier—please— help me! Soldier—
please! For God's sake, don't leave me here to die ..." 

Perhaps I should have shot him myself. But it was already too late. From 
behind the cover of a bush I watched, appalled, as a wandering Russian tank 
suddenly caught sight of the terrified man, trapped in his legless, dying body. 
It paused, very deliberately changed direction, and went out of its way to 
demolish the shell hole. It turned once on its axis, slowly, savoring the 
sensation, and then continued on its interrupted path. Another filthy Fascist 
out of the way! Another Russian hero! If only Stalin could have been there to 
see how valiantly his troops were fighting! 

Porta and I sprang at the same moment onto a slowly lumbering T-34, which 
was flying a red flag from its aerial. We wrenched it off and hung it over the 
forward observation slit to obstruct the driver's vision, then clamped a couple 
of magnetic mines on the side of the tank and hurled ourselves into the snow. 

Stalingrad, the communal grave—Stalingrad, where one German soldier died 
every minute, while back in Germany a madman strutted and pranced and 
screamed himself hoarse with his "Fight to the last man, the last bullet!" 
Unhappily for us, there were still enough fanatics willing to obey the insane 
injunction. 

December 24 found us outside the town of Dnitrievka. It was Christmas Eve, 
and we received our present in advance: a mass infantry attack from the 
Russians. They came screaming across at seven o'clock in the morning and 
the struggle continued until three in the afternoon. We certainly couldn't be 
said to have repulsed them—we were barely holding our own—when for 
some reason they decided to withdraw. Doubtless they knew they had us in 
their grasp. They could afford to tease us a little, to play cat and mouse with 
us. We were theirs for the asking and they could move in at virtually any 
moment and mop us up. 


The sudden silence was unnerving. We felt instinctively that the abrupt 
withdrawal was merely a refinement of torture and presaged some new 
horrors for the morrow. Our lunatic general refused to withdraw and we could 
do nothing better than huddle in our dugouts and wait helplessly for the next 
attack. 

On Christmas Day, at three o'clock—precisely the same time as they had 
withdrawn the previous day—the enemy returned. But not in force. Five T-34s 
were all they sent. Five T-34s in a line, moving our way across the snow. 
From a loudspeaker on the leading vehicle came the stirring sound of a 
march. The five tanks proceeded in perfect formation towards the third 
section. There was nothing we could do to halt their advance. We were 
powerless, we had almost nothing left to fight with. No antitank guns, no 
flamethrowers, no heavy artillery, not even a grenade. 

At the last moment the T-34s turned in their tracks and set off at a tangent, 
away from the third section and toward the hitherto unsuspecting second. 
From the loudspeaker came the strains of the "Radetzky March." Solemnly, 
ponderously, deliberately, each tank came to a halt before a dugout. Terrified 
men stared up at them, some too scared to move, some already scrambling 
out. The tanks rose up, came crashing down into the snow, pulping and 
pulverizing, each tank turning slowly on its axis. That done, they casually 
mopped up the one or two who had escaped and went back the way they had 
come, soon disappearing in a cloud of snow. 

We watched in silence. The silence of death. Not a voice spoke, not a shot 
was fired. The second section was no more than twelve bloody heaps lying in 
the snow. We sat back and waited. 

The next day, at three o'clock, they returned. The same formation, the same 
music, the same cold precision. Another section disappeared. We buried our 
heads ostrichlike in the snow to muffle the sound of our comrades' unearthly 
shrieks and to shield our eyes from the sight of their mangled corpses. 

The long winter night was silent and full of terror. We thought we still heard 
the screams of the dying men, but it was only the wind howling across the 
steppe. 

Toward dawn a few random shells landed on the snow-covered slope behind 
us, presumably to make sure we were awake and ready to receive their 
propaganda outburst, which came booming across from their loudspeakers: 
"German fascists! Capitalist swine! We'll be over again today—round about 
three o'clock—the same as yesterday . . ." 

"Capitalists!" jeered Porta. "Gregor, fetch my Cadillac, I feel like taking a trip to 
the Cote d'Azur!" 

The loudspeaker crackled again, and a different voice came through. It spoke 
better German than the last one, and it was altogether more agreeable and 
more persuasive in tone. 


"Comrades!" it beseeched us. "This is Sergeant Buchner of the 23rd Panzer 
Division speaking to you .. ." 

We looked at each other wonderingly. 

"Why don't you come across and join us? Show yourselves to be friends of 
the people! Throw off your bondage! Break out of your chains! Spit on your 
capitalist masters!" 

Sergeant Buchner promised us all manner of earthly rewards, including a 
supply of women, if we would only surrender ourselves to the delights of the 
Soviet Union, that proletarian paradise where working men were free and 
happy. 

"All very well," said Porta, "but what's the point of exchanging a capitalist 
master for a Communist one?" 

Two men made a desperate bid to gain the proletarian paradise, but their 
capitalist master, in the shape of our rabid SS general, gunned them down 
before they had covered more than a few yards. 

The Russians returned as they had promised, at three o'clock in the 
afternoon. We crouched paralyzed in our holes. Whose turn today? 

The usual five tanks moved slowly across a field of fresh snow, to the usual 
accompaniment of martial music. Porta defiantly took out his flute and began 
playing in competition. The rest of us sat and stared. Our holes were as deep 
as we could possibly dig them. We had no tools at our disposal and the 
ground underneath the snow was hard as granite. 

One or two men bounded out and began loping across the field away from the 
tanks. They were shot by their own officers. Desertion in face of the enemy! 

Through a small hole which I had bored through the surrounding wall of 
packed snow, I watched the approaching tanks. There was nothing to be done 
save wait. I had nothing with which to defend myself. Not even a grenade to 
throw. Not even a bullet to put through my head. 

A tank passed within a few yards. I crouched even smaller in my hole. The 
tank moved on. It chose our neighbors for its target. I heard them screaming 
as they died. We knew them well, they had been with us for some time, and I 
tried to shut out the sounds of their agony and to close my mind to the 
pictures that were flooding it. But I couldn't help hearing, and I couldn't help 
seeing . . . 

I saw Sergeant Wilmer, the cheerful little shopkeeper from Düsseldorf. I saw 
his face as he died. I remember how he told us he had joined up in 1936 for 
four years, and how he had written personally to Hitler in 1940 asking that he 
should now be allowed to go back to Düsseldorf. Hitler had never replied, and 
Wilmer had never understood. And now he never would understand. Poor 


Wilmer! Nothing but a heap of blood and crushed bones in the snow. What a 
way to go—God, what a way to go! 

The screams continued. It was important, for one's own precarious sanity, not 
to attach the sounds to any particular face, but visions swam before men's 
eyes whether they would or no. Was it Böhmer, big fat Böhmer, the machine 
gunner from Cologne? Or was it his buddy, that skinny little fellow from 
Lübeck? Or was it that other guy—what was his name? That little dark guy 
who came from Hamburg and was obsessed by railroads? Well, whatever his 
name was, he had seen his last train go by ... 

Their faces lingered before my unwilling eyes. Their screams tore through my 
head. 

"Stop that racket!" shouted Heide hysterically. "Stop that god-awful racket, for 
God's sake!" 

He crammed his fingers into his ears, but nothing kept out the sound of those 
screams. Only God seemed deaf to them. Gott mit uns, it said on our belts, 
but we all knew it for a lie. God was not only not with us, he was nowhere 
near us on that day. Perhaps he never had been near us. Perhaps it had 
always been a lie. 

They came again, the following day. The same music, the same slow 
advance. And still we remained helpless at our posts and waited. 

This time they settled on the fourth group. As we watched, a sergeant of the 
Marines jumped from his hole and began tunneling away from them through 
the soft top layer of snow, burrowing underneath it like a giant mole. He 
crawled so fast he seemed almost to be swimming, his arms and legs flailing 
before and behind, pushing the snow out of his way. 

His comrade was not so ingenious. Left alone in the hole they had been 
sharing, he panicked, shot out at the last moment and tried to run. The 
leading tank lumbered after him. I saw it rear up, catch the man by one arm 
and toss him into the air. As the body came down, they began to play with it, 
worrying at it, pushing it about, tearing off first one arm and then the other, 
finally crushing the mutilated corpse deep into the snow. They had no pity, 
these Russians. They could hear the shrieks of the poor wretch as they 
ground him beneath them, but they went on with their sport until he was no 
more than a red splat in the snow. 

The slaughter was over for another day. There was always a chance that 
something would happen in the next twenty-four hours to save us. The 
general might come to his senses and pull out; the Russians might disappear 
in the night; the war might even come to an end. 

It was a shock when the familiar row of T-34s appeared on the horizon for the 
second time that day. We were scarcely able to believe it, it was going against 
all the rules of the game. Once a day, at three o'clock. That was the routine. 


They had imposed it themselves and they had no right to break it. The 
unfairness of it all filled me with bitter resentment and brought me close to 
angry tears. I was momentarily more concerned at the Russians' lack of honor 
than at my own imminent and agonizing death. 

The first tank had already found its prey. A lieutenant, a middle-aged 
professor from Munich, who threw up his arms in a futile gesture, attempting 
to ward off the blow. But human arms are a fragile defense against thirty tons 
of metal, and the T-34 smashed them contemptuously aside and went on to 
claim the rest of its victim. 

And now, at last, it was our turn. They came at us in a line, music blaring. For 
the first time the general himself was directly threatened. He shouted 
ferociously at us to remain at our posts, but Porta, pausing only to thumb his 
nose at him, leaped from his hole and went bounding away through the snow, 
followed by his black cat, which had stuck to Porta like a leech through all our 
vicissitudes. I held my breath, my head moving compulsively from side to side 
as I tried to keep one eye on the approaching tanks and the other on the 
receding Porta. We waited for the general to open fire. The officers waited for 
the general to open fire. Now that he himself was facing death, would his 
fanatical principles still hold good? 

Apparently not. With a sudden agile bound, the general was up and away, 
running after Porta as fast as his legs would carry him through the deep snow. 
That was the signal for the rest of us. Heads down, lungs heaving, we 
deserted our posts and fled in the face of the enemy. It was blatant 
disobedience of the Führer's orders. The last man, the last bullet.. . 

The tanks came after us, mechanical monsters in pursuit of men. Anyone who 
stumbled or tripped, anyone who lagged behind, was caught up and crushed, 
while the rest of us plowed on without a backward glance, only too thankful 
that a comrade's torture and death was giving us a few seconds' respite. I 
didn't care who they caught, so long as it wasn't me. My terror was too great 
to permit the luxury of caring for anyone else's skin. 

Gasping, panting, sobbing, I stumbled on through the snow. It was impossible 
to keep up a fast pace for very long, the snow was too deep, it clung around 
your legs and it was like trying to flounder through sand dunes. The air was so 
cold that it burned your throat and tore your lungs apart. My nose had started 
to bleed, and between sobbing and panting and bleeding I began first to 
choke and then to suffocate. I suddenly tripped and fell headlong into a deep 
drift. It was rather like falling into a hot bath. Or a feather bed. Or a blast 
furnace. I shrieked in agony as the boiling cauldron of the snow enveloped me 
in its fiery grip. The pain was ecstatic. It was beautiful. It consumed me and it 
lulled me and I wanted it to go on forever. 

A large hand suddenly gripped me by the shoulder and hauled me out of my 
hypnotic shroud. I dangled helpless with my feet off the ground as Tiny shook 
me like a rat. 


"What's the matter with you?" he demanded roughly. 

He set me down and slapped me hard about the face. A spurt of blood from 
my nose splashed onto the ground at my feet. Behind us lurched a T-34, its 
flamethrower reaching out for us across the snow. 

"Get a move on!" roared Tiny. 

He caught my hand and bounded off through the snow, towing me behind 
him. Some way in front I saw Porta and the general, running neck and neck 
with the black cat springing at their heels. 

We eventually reached a narrow gorge in a range of high hills. The T-34s had 
fallen back and seemed to have abandoned the chase, and we threw 
ourselves down exhausted, our eyes glazed and shoulders hunched. 

The gorge appeared to be a military dumping ground. It was full of wrecked 
vehicles, empty crates and cans, unidentifiable chunks of twisted metal. We 
lay about uncaring in the trash, while the Legionnaire sat cross-legged . and 
cleaned his submachine gun. 

"Army shit dump," he said, nodding at the gorge. "Saw something very like it 
at Sidi-bel-Abbès." 

There was scarcely any French colony where the Legionnaire had not done 
battle. He was a born soldier. Less fanatic than Heide, but tougher and more 
instinctive in his reactions. He didn't care where he fought or who he fought. 
Fighting was his job and he carried it out with the same dour efficiency 
wherever he was. His heart was still in France, with the Legion, but he saw 
nothing anomalous in fighting at Stalingrad for Hitler. He was reserved and 
independent, unemotional but not insensitive, ruthless and reliable. While 
Heide straightened his uniform, the Legionnaire checked his submachine gun. 
The rest of us lay inert and vacant amid the abandoned hardware in the 
gorge. 

The general suddenly appeared, striding angrily in our direction. 

"On your feet! What are you lounging about for? Who gave you permission to 
relax?" He swung around and glared at Porta. "You needn't think I've 
forgotten your behavior— desertion in face of the enemy! I shall deal with you 
later." He took a pace backward. "And that goes for the rest of you as well!" 
he shouted. "A more disgraceful exhibition of collective cowardice I have yet 
to see. It shall not go unpunished!" 

The T-34s had disappeared, and the rising wind howling about our ears 
drowned the noise of their receding engines. The general chivvied us to our 
feet. We distributed what weapons we had and stood about wearily on aching 
legs. The general yelled for us to fall into line and for all section chiefs to step 
forward. From somewhere close by came a loud snort of derision. 


"Section chiefs! How may of those does he think we've got left? Bloody 
butcher!" 

There was a moment's silence. I felt a nervous impulse to start braying like a 
donkey. Tiny opened his mouth and guffawed, and the general at once moved 
forward and grabbed him by the collar. "You! Was it you who said that?" He 
pulled out his pistol and jabbed it into Tiny's ribs. "Admit it or I shall shoot! You 
have three seconds—one—two . . ." 

"Leave him alone! It was me!" 

A man stepped out of the ranks and came up to the infuriated general. He 
was a sergeant. His head and neck were swathed in bloody bandages. One of 
his hands was a withered stump, the bones of the fingers curled in on 
themselves, the flesh burned away. The sergeant was the sole survivor of a 
section that had been destroyed by Russian flamethrowers. He stood defiant 
before the general. "Bloody butcher," he repeated stolidly. "You're all 
butchers, all you generals." 

He was knocked off balance by a hard slap across the mouth. He staggered, 
and with his good hand snatched at his revolver, but before he could draw it 
the general had put a bullet through his temple. 

"Let that be a lesson!" He whipped around again on Tiny. "As for you, I shall 
deal with you later. I've had my eye on you for a long time. You're a 
troublemaker and a coward and you're not fit to be a soldier." He glared at 
Tiny, daring him to open his mouth, while Tiny stared straight ahead with an 
expression of abstract imbecility on his face. "All right!" The general put away 
his revolver. "Find a volunteer and go back and see if there are any survivors. 
Rejoin us at Gumrak. And make sure you do the job properly. Remember, I 
shall have my eye on you from now on!" With which parting shot, he strode 
away again. 

Tiny at once turned to me. "You're the volunteer," he said. 

I swung around, indignant. "Like hell! I never opened my mouth!" 

"What's that got to do with it? He said to find a volunteer, you heard him." 

"Well, I'm not the man you want!" I snapped. 

Tiny looked at me with narrowed eyes. "You refusing to obey orders?" 

"I'm refusing to volunteer," I said. 

There was a moment's pause. Tiny tried again. "I'm ordering you to 
volunteer," he told me. 

"All right," I said. "So I'm refusing to obey orders." 


Tiny drew a deep breath. "I shall tell the general. I shall tell him I found a 
volunteer and the volunteer refused to do it and that's refusing to obey orders. 
I don't care how you look at it, it's a downright refusal. You saw what 
happened to that guy just now, didn't you? That's what'll happen to you when I 
tell the general about you refusing to be a volunteer when I told you you'd got 
to be a volunteer and when he'd just told me to find a volunteer and when . . ." 

"Oh, all right!" I shouted. "I'll be a fucking volunteer!" 

Tiny hesitated, then ventured, "You mean you're offering to come with me and 
see if there's any survivors?" 

"Only under pressure." 

"That's OK. Just so long as you're doing it of your own free will. Come on, let's 
get going." 

Porta, who had been hovering nearby, awaiting the outcome, now put in a 
word of his own. "Just bring my bed back with you, will you?" he said casually. 
"We got out in such a hurry I left it behind. I guess it should still be there." 

Porta had made everyone's life a misery, carrying his camp bed around with 
him. Even the general had been unable to separate them. 

"For my part," I said with dignity, "I have no intention whatsoever of dragging a 
bed all the way to Gumrak. You and your bed can go and get screwed." 

"Yeah, that goes for me too," Tiny backed me up. "You Berliners," he told 
Porta with distaste, "you got your asses too high off the ground. A damn sight 
too high. You want to come down to earth a bit and join the rest of us." 

"I can't break the habits of a lifetime," protested Porta. "We're used to sleeping 
in beds, where I come from. I don't know what you people in the provinces do, 
but in Berlin we're accustomed to all the refinements of life." 

"Provinces?" repeated Tiny, outraged. "I don't live in the provinces! I'll have 
you know we've even got an opera house in my town!" 

"Opera house!" jeered Porta. "More like a mud hut for the peasantry!" 

We parted on less than amiable terms. Tiny went charging off into the snow, 
yelling at me to follow him. He went so fast that I couldn't keep up, but each 
time I stopped to draw breath, he yanked me forward by the shoulder and 
gave me a kick up the backside. "Get a move on, you lout of a Swede!" 

"Danish!" I roared. 

"Hell, what's the difference?" 


There wasn't any difference, as far as he was concerned. Swedish, Danish, it 
was all the same. And in the circumstances, it seemed hardly worth arguing. 

There were, of course, no survivors. We found one or two bloodied heaps still 
dotted about in the churned-up snow, but nothing that was even remotely 
recognizable as a human being. Even the famous bed was in pieces. 

"Let's get back," I said anxiously. "Before the Russians spot us nosing about." 

"All right, all right, don't be so impatient! I've not come all this way for nothing. 
I'm not going back empty-handed." 

"But there's not a thing here!" I said. 

"I'm not going back without nothing," he replied, stubbornly. "He wanted his 
bed, so he's going to have his bed." 

"Christ almighty!" I snapped. "What's the use of a bed in a thousand pieces?" 

Tiny crawled about the ground collecting the bits, deaf to all appeals, ignoring 
all threats. A Russian machine gunner started up and I dived into the nearest 
hole and cowered. Tiny calmly carried on with his task. The machine gun 
stopped, and I was about to stick my head out and tell Tiny to get a move on 
when a searchlight was turned on us and Tiny and his remnants of bed were 
revealed in all their idiocy. From the Russian lines came loud shouts and 
bursts of laughter. I fell back into my hole and Tiny raised a clenched fist and 
shook it above his head. "Turn that light off, you stupid bastards, you're 
blinding me!" 

To my astonishment, they switched the searchlight off without a murmur. 

"I'm getting out of here!" I yelped, and I bounded out of the hole and set off at 
a run before the Russians had time to come to their senses. 

I could hear great roars of merriment coming from their lines, but I felt their 
sense of humor was probably fickle and could change at any moment to 
violence. 

We reached Gumrak without further incident, and Tiny gloatingly handed 
Porta a neat pile of iron fragments and strips of canvas. "Here you are," he 
said. 

Porta looked at them a moment. "What in heaven's name is all this?" 

"The old war chariot," said Tiny airily. "Your bed what you asked for. Risked 
my neck getting it for you. Stinking Russians tried to shoot me up, didn't they, 
Sven?" 

"I wouldn't put it as strongly as that," I said sourly. "I think they were all roaring 
drunk." 


SS Brigadenführer Paul Augsberg presented himself at Sixth Army 
Headquarters and demanded to see General Paulus. 

"Sir!" He began respectfully enough, but his tone made it clear that he had 
come for a purpose and had no time to waste. "I consider it absolutely 
essential that the order be given immediately to break through the Russian 
lines. Trying to carry on the fight like this is sheer lunacy and everyone knows 
it. As things stand at present, we've got just about enough tanks and heavy 
artillery to get through. Only give me the word and I'll prove it to you! But leave 
matters as they are and before many more days are over we shan't have a cat 
in hell's chance of getting out. Look!" He jabbed a finger vehemently into the 
general's wall map. "This is where we should make the attempt—here, near 
Kaslanovska. The enemy lines are stretched pretty thin at that point. We'd 
stand an excellent chance of breaking through." 

"General Augsberg," said Paulus with a smile, "you know perfectly well you're 
asking the impossible. The Führer has stated his orders quite clearly; we are 
to maintain our position here and fight it out." 

"Fight it out? Fight it out? What the hell with? Dead men and snowballs?" 

Paulus lightly hunched a shoulder. 

General Augsberg leaned toward him across the desk. "Well, all right, then! If 
Hitler says we've got to stay here, we've got to stay here—but at least let's tell 
the Russians we're willing to come to terms!" 

Paulus shook his head. "No terms, General Augsberg. The Führer was quite 
categorical. We stay here and we fight." 

Augsberg straightened up. He stared down at Paulus with pinched nostrils 
and raised eyebrows. "To what purpose, may I ask? Are we deliberately trying 
to push the men over the edge? Do we really want them to turn against us 
and get rid of us that way?" 

"No fear of that, General. German soldiers would never rise up against their 
officers, the habit of obedience is far too deeply ingrained in them. The whole 
of our country's fortunes are based upon an unbroken chain of obedience, 
from the lowest link to the highest." 

"Blind obedience!" snapped Augsberg. "Unthinking and unreasoning." 

"Perhaps so, but that is, nevertheless, the quality that will finally carry us 
through to victory. Things may look black at the moment, but don't allow a 
minor setback to demoralize you, General Augsberg. We shall triumph in the 
end. The German nation never does anything by halves." 

"It would appear not," said Augsberg bitterly. "Certainly nobody could ever 
accuse us of being defeated by halves at Stalingrad—a good full-blooded no-
nonsense massacre!" 


He turned abruptly and left the room, striding angrily along the great wide 
corridors of the GPU building. Around the area that housed General Paulus 
and his staff were stacked the bodies of German soldiers. Frozen corpses, 
piled high against the walls in the manner of sandbags. Good soldiers of the 
Fatherland even in death. 

General Augsberg walked on, through passages where the sick and wounded 
lay dying side by side on the stone floors. He passed through the room next to 
the operating theater. It was full of corpses and amputated limbs, tossed 
carelessly about the floor. There were one or two bodies that might or might 
not have been still alive, but had been abandoned by the surgeons as 
hopeless cases. In a corner, huddled into himself, his gaze vacant and his 
eyes full of tears, was General von Daniels. His lips moved silently, his lower 
lip trembled. General von Daniels had lost a whole division. The 176th 
Infantry, all seventeen thousand men, had been wiped out by the Russians, 
and their commanding officer now sat weeping for his dead men and his 
vanished hopes, with a mind that was shattered beyond repair. General 
Augsberg paused beside him for a moment, then shook his head and walked 
on. 

He passed other officers, sliding along in the shadow of the walls; guilty faces 
over guilty shoulders—high-ranking officers who had obeyed the command to 
fight to the last man and the last bullet, who had sent their military police even 
into the hospitals, dragging out the wounded to fight for the Fatherland, and 
who now, having thrown away thousands of other men's lives, were bent on 
saving their own. Their sights were set upon the distant Volga, upon escape 
at all costs from the last-ditch fighting and the growing mounds of bodies. 

General Augsberg crossed a courtyard and continued across a pile of black 
and still smoldering ruins. Below him, in a long, thin, straggling line, was a 
reluctant column of soldiers. They were dressed in rags, their heads sunk low 
on their chests, their feet dragging. General Augsberg stood watching them. 
The German Army, en route to God knows where to do God knows what. 
They would simply fling themselves into the snow, and fire haphazard until 
their ammunition ran out. Their deaths would be inevitable and pointless. 

The last man trailed out of sight. General Augsberg seemed suddenly to make 
up his mind. He walked on with determined tread through the rubble. 

12 

Retreat 

It was early in the morning when General Augsberg appeared in our midst. He 
tossed a bag of provisions at us without a word, then very deliberately began 
clearing his pockets of all personal papers and setting light to them. We 
watched him wonderingly. His face was set hard, his lips pursed tight 
together. Not until he had set fire to the last of his papers did he turn and 
address us. 


"Right!" His eyes flickered over us, resting on a man here, a man there, as if 
trying to gauge our possible reactions. "I have a simple proposition to put to 
you: either you can stay here and wait for the Russians, or you can come with 
me and try to fight your way through to our front line. The choice is yours. If 
you stay here, you'll almost certainly die. On the other hand, if you come with 
me, the prospects are scarcely any brighter. If you do decide to come, you 
travel light. We carry nothing but arms and ammunition. It'll be hard going and 
we probably shan't make it. You might prefer to stay here and take your 
chance with the Russians. If so, I shan't blame you. I'm not offering anyone a 
joyride—just a fighting chance. And some may not even call it that. Some may 
call it suicide. I won't know until I'm out there." He paused. "All right," he said. 
"That's all. I'm on my way." 

He turned and walked out, into the first red-gold rays of the rising sun. There 
was a moment's silence, and then the Old Man slowly stood up, stretched, 
pressed his hands into the small of his back, picked up his submachine gun 
and ambled off with easy, bowlegged gait in the wake of the general. One 
after another the rest of us followed, until we stretched out in a column, about 
eight hundred men, the remnants of an assortment of regiments. We even 
had a couple of pilots with us. Their Condor had been shot down but they had 
landed behind German lines, and they now joined us in our bid for life. They 
were marching just in front of me, and I looked with increasing envy at their 
fur-lined flying jackets and their sealskin boots. I was wearing a variety of 
rags, like everyone else, and I had forgotten what it was to feel warm and 
comfortable. In addition, I was carrying a machine gun and its tripod over my 
shoulder, and it was carving into my thin flesh and protruding bones. After a 
few miles I tossed the tripod impatiently into the snow. 

"Silly thing to do," the Legionnaire chided me. "You'll be feeling the need of 
that sooner or later." 

I sloughed off his warning. The tripod remained in the snow. 

We reached the main Stalingrad-Kalach road, where vast columns of tanks 
were en route to Stalingrad. Their observation panels were open, and their 
crews were singing and shouting like overexcited schoolboys on a coach trip. 

There had obviously been an accident on the railroad line. It was blocked by a 
string of overturned carriages. One entire coach was crushed, two were 
rammed into each other, one was standing on end. Some way off from the 
track lay the burned-out wreckage of the engine. 

We stopped to survey the scene, and Augsberg called the Old Man over. 

"Take your group across first," he told him. "We'll give you covering fire if it 
really becomes necessary, but try to get over without being seen, it's probably 
our only chance. Once you're over, don't wait for the rest of us. Carry on to 
Yelarionovsky, we'll meet up there." 


The Old Man came back to us, waved a hand and pointed. We negotiated the 
road successfully and ran like hares across the plain. Twice I fell under the 
weight of the machine gun, and twice it needed all my willpower to stagger 
upright and carry on. The third time it happened, I just lay in the snow and 
moaned, but the Legionnaire kicked me to my feet and pushed me ahead of 
him, running after me and thumping me in the small of the back whenever I 
showed signs of slowing down. He himself was unbreakable, he had been 
schooled in exile in the deserts of the Foreign Legion, and all my tears, my 
curses, my threats, left him quite unmoved. 

We reached another road. It was flanked on either side by overturned 
vehicles, German ambulances which had been shot up by Russian machine 
gunners, and, as we passed them, great black crows rose flapping and 
croaking into the air. Inside the vehicles were piles of frozen corpses. Some of 
the bodies had had their skulls broken open, or neatly sliced off like coconut 
shells. We knew what that signified: when men are dying of hunger, when 
rations have been cut to two grams of bread a day, and even that is not 
always forthcoming, then it is possible to fill an aching belly with human 
brains. A doctor had told us long ago, before we dreamed we should ever 
suffer the pangs of starvation, that brains are extremely nourishing. Tiny was 
the only one of us who had ever sampled them. He dipped one day into a 
dead colonel's skull, but was unable to keep the meal down long enough to 
derive any nourishment from it. We found rat quite palatable, but somehow we 
balked at brains. Perhaps we had not yet suffered sufficiently. 

We reached Yelarionovsky at last, but were moved on almost at once by 
General Augsberg. 

"No time to hang around admiring the scenery," he said briskly. "We've a long 
journey ahead of us." He took the Old Man to one side and showed him the 
map. "We'll go as far as Peskovtka, then turn off at right angles toward the 
Don. I think that with luck we should be able to make it, but it's there, of 
course, that the problems really begin; somehow or other, we've got to get 
across that river." 

The plain seemed to be endless. We traipsed across it, mile after mile, with a 
hard blue frosty sky above us and crisp white snow all around. Nothing but 
snow and sky. Not a tree, not a bush, not even a withered shrub. The dazzling 
whiteness began to hurt my eyes. No matter in which direction I looked, there 
was no relief from the glare. If I closed them, the pain was so intense that I 
had to open them again after only a few seconds; but keeping them open only 
intensified the constant throbbing ache. Soon I began to see bright silver 
flashes and whirling patterns of purple spots. Daggers plunged deep into my 
pupils. Burning tears spilled out and coursed down my cheeks. Before long I 
could hardly see at all. I began staggering and stumbling, and the vague black 
blur of the boots of the man marching in front of me made me dizzy and 
nauseated. I snatched up a handful of snow and crushed it against my 
eyelids, hoping for some alleviation, but it felt like burning embers. 


My senses began to swim away from me. I lurched on after the black boots, 
which trod inexorably up and down in the snow, luring me after them, but my 
brain was refusing to function intelligently. I saw myself marching to my death. 
I saw myself perishing somewhere between the Volga and the Don, lying in 
my snowy shroud between the Volga and the Don. What a fascinating name 
that was! The Don. The Don. The Volga and the Don. The words began to 
beat out a rhythm to the pounding of those big black boots. The Don, the Don, 
the Volga and the Don. The Don, the Don, the Volga and the Don. The Don, 
the Don . .. 

I became slowly aware that the Old Man and Tiny were hoisting me up 
between them. My body felt heavy and stupid. My eyes were still paining me. 

"What's the matter, Sven?" It was the Old Man speaking; calm and kind, as 
always. 

I pressed a hand against my eyes. "It's this damned snow! Nothing but snow 
wherever you look. Why does it have to be so goddamn white all the time?" 

"What color would you like it to be?" growled Tiny. "Black?" 

"Black would be beautiful," I said. 

Tiny guffawed. The Old Man held out a hand to Porta, who passed over a 
bottle. 

"Here," the Old Man said. "Have a drink. That'll do the trick." 

"We're nearly there now, anyway," added Porta by way of encouragement. 

I knew he was lying, but by the time I had swallowed several mouthfuls of 
vodka I no longer cared quite so much. 

We reached a village of dilapidated huts, and the Legionnaire was sent off in 
command of a small group to reconnoiter, while the rest of us sank gratefully 
into the welcoming snow to await their return. 

The Legionnaire reappeared half an hour later and beckoned us to follow him. 
The village showed all the signs of having been abandoned in a hurry, and the 
sole remaining inhabitant was a thin white cat, which made the mistake of 
rubbing against Porta's legs and whining for food. Unfortunately, the great 
black feline monster that had adopted Porta as its owner was of a jealous 
disposition, and was, moreover, growing daily more aware of the demands of 
its own deprived belly. It was bigger and stronger than the white cat, and it fell 
on it with howls of fury and tore it apart. Before Porta could bag it for his own, 
the black cat had carried it off in triumph and was later seen to be licking its 
lips and preening itself in a corner. 

We made our way through the village, examining each of the huts. In one we 
found an overturned table, ruined food, and a collection of toys. We ate the 


food and went out to the stable, where five bodies, frozen stiff and obviously 
dead for some time, were dumped unceremoniously on top of one another. 
Porta bent down to examine them. 

"Shot through the back of the head," he told us. He looked more closely. "With 
a nagan," he added. 

We all knew what that meant: the NKVD had been at work again. 

In the kitchen of another cottage we found an entire family hanging from a row 
of hooks in the ceiling. We didn't trouble to cut them down, it seemed 
pointless. We merely pushed them to one side like a bead curtain and walked 
through in search of food. There was nothing to eat, but Porta discovered a 
wooden cask in the corner. He cautiously sniffed at it before raising it to his 
lips and swallowing several mouthfuls. 

"Well? What is it?" asked Heide curiously. 

"Have a go and see for yourself." 

Porta handed it to him, belched loudly and wiped his mouth across his sleeve. 
Heide looked suspiciously from the cask to Porta and back again to the cask. 
He took a mouthful and swallowed it, then let out his breath on a long, 
wheezing cough and turned red in the face. 

"Holy smoke! That's enough to burn a hole in your guts!" He looked 
indignantly at Porta. "Are you sure it's not sulphuric acid?" 

The cask was passed around. We all suffered the same interesting reaction 
as Heide. 

"What the devil is it?" demanded the Old Man, pressing a clenched fist hard 
into his chest and gasping. "I feel as if my lungs are on fire!" 

Porta grinned. "I guess it's samorchonka—Uncle Jo Stalin's special pick-me-
up for tired troops. Two casks like this are said to be enough for a whole 
company." 

"I believe you," I said, staggering about, through the hanging bodies, in search 
of a chair. 

"Couple of mouthfuls of this stuff," said Porta, "and a man's willing to wrestle 
barehanded with a sixty-ton tank," 

"It's not quite as bad as I thought, admitted Heide, rather sheepishly propping 
himself against the wall. "Now that it's gone, it's really quite pleasant." 

"What's it made of?" I asked. "Red peppers?" 


"Corn, potatoes, beets," began Porta, who always had the recipes for any sort 
of liquor. 

"What sort of beets?" demanded the Old Man, already intoxicated. He 
wagged a wise, farming finger at Porta. 'There's more than one, you know. 
Just like potatoes. There's more than one variety. Which one are you talking 
about?" 

"Any one," said Porta firmly. "Corn, potatoes, beets— any variety'll do. They're 
all as good as each other. And you just shove 'em in a barrel and let 'em rot 
for a few weeks. They figure it takes about a month. All the scum and stuff, 
you can take that off and put it in the pig swill. Does 'em a world of good." 

"Does me a world of good," said Gregor, snatching back the cask. 

"Samorchonka," went on Porta, "is Stalin's secret weapon. What they say 
about faith, hope and love, and all that balls —all that crap about Gott mit 
uns—well, the Russians don't give a damn for any of it. They chucked faith, 
hope and love into the trash can, and they got rid of God, and they invented 
samorchonka instead—leastways, Uncle Joe invented it. Trust a Jew to know 
what's what!" 

"Stalin's not a Jew," protested Heide, reaching out for the cask. 

"Who says he ain't? Joseph's a Jewish name, ain't it?" 

"In that case," cried Heide, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Joseph 
Porta! You know damn well the Führer said anyone with a Yid name had got 
to change it!" 

"It's not the name that makes you a Jew," said Gregor with an air of owlish 
sagacity. "In any case, Stalin doesn't like 'em any more than Goebbels—and 
he's called Joseph too," he added, as one making the discovery of the 
century. 

He raised the cask to his lips, but the Legionnaire removed it just in time. 

"Thing about Stalin," he said, "I grant you he's got the same bee in his bonnet 
as Adolf, only he goes about things in a far more sensible way. Like he feeds 
his Jews to enemy artillery rather than Dutch ovens." 

"Nobody loves the Jews," said Gregor mournfully. 

"Not out here they don't," agreed the Legionnaire. "You remember that crazy 
Pole we saw that time? The one that kept a Jew chained up in his back yard 
in place of a guard dog?" 

"Then what the hell are we all fighting about?" shouted Heide in a sudden 
burst of rage. "Stalin hates the Jews, Hitler hates the Jews, I hate the Jews, 
everybody hates the Jews! Why don't we all turn around and fight the Jews?" 


"Seems to me," said the Old Man glumly, "Hitler's made a real balls-up. 
Sticking them in gas chambers and that. It's just plain daft." 

"Whatdya mean by that?" shouted Heide. 

The Old Man belched. "It's just plain daft," he repeated, forming each word 
with the tender care of the almost completely intoxicated. "Who's going to love 
us when we've slaughtered all the Jews? Who's going to love us when we've 
lost the war? Who's going to . . ." 

"That's anti-Nazi talk!" screamed Heide. "That's defeatist!" He had had several 
more mouthfuls of Stalin's secret weapon and was even drunker than the Old 
Man. "I could have you arrested for that! I could have you shot! I could tell 
Hitler! I could . . ." 

He suddenly lost his balance and fell sideways, collapsing in a heap onto the 
stove, where he at once set up a fearful wailing, pleading with us to fetch an 
ambulance. 

"I'm burning!" he moaned. "I'm on fire! Can't you see the flames?" 

Since the stove was unlighted, and had evidently not been used for several 
weeks, we ignored his shouts and turned contemptuously away. All except 
Tiny, who obligingly urinated over him and quenched the supposed flames. 

"Thank you, thank you," murmured Heide. "That's much better—lovely cool 
rain—lovely raindrops—all over me. .." 

His voice trailed away and he fell into a loud, snoring sleep. We turned our 
backs on him and set about finishing off the samorchonka. We had quite 
forgotten where we were, or what we were doing there. Half an hour later and 
I doubt if any of us could even have remembered that we were in Russia, let 
alone several miles behind the enemy lines. By the time we followed Heide's 
example and fell into a communal stupor, I don't believe we were even aware 
of our own identities. 

We were wakened at dawn by General Augsberg kicking open the door of the 
cottage and shouting at us to get to our feet. I opened my eyes rather painfully 
and looked about me through the swirling mists of hangover. Hammers and 
sickles were hard at work inside my head. My mouth was dry, my throat was 
raw, and in the depths of my stomach a thick and savage sea was heaving to 
and fro. I staggered upright and watched the walls come and go as the floor 
undulated into the distance. At my side the Old Man stood swaying, with a 
hand waving in uncertain salute somewhere toward the ceiling. 

"What the devil's been going on in here?" roared the general. "It looks like a 
goddamn thieves' kitchen!" 


I did wish the man had the common courtesy to keep his voice down at that 
hour of the morning. It was really more than I could stand. With my stomach 
contracting and my throat gasping, I sank slowly back to floor level. 

"Get that man on his feet!" hollered the general. 

Porta and the Legionnaire hauled me up and we staggered together across 
the room and fetched up against the wall, where we lay panting and perspiring 
with our tongues lolling out and our eyeballs rolling. 

"All present and correct, sir." The Old Man spoke slowly and earnestly and 
with an obvious effort. As he did so, Heide turned around and vomited. 

I suppose the only reason Augsberg didn't shoot us on the spot was that he 
was in no position to suffer the loss of seven experienced soldiers. 

"He'd never get home to Hitler without us," declared Tiny as we stood 
shivering outside in the snow. 

As the black skies of night turned slowly into the dismal gray of a Russian 
dawn, we prepared to set off once again. The bitter shock of the knife-edge 
wind and the hard-packed snow beneath our tattered boots had quickly 
sobered us up, and we stepped out fairly briskly behind the general. Very few 
of us possessed suitable footwear for the time of year. Most of us were 
marching with rags and newspapers wrapped round our feet. Porta (of 
course) was one of half a dozen who had managed to equip themselves with 
skis, just as it was Porta who was in fact the first to reach the Don. We saw 
him hesitate at the top of a slope, then turn and come racing back to us in a 
cloud of sparking silver droplets. 

"The Don!" He swept around the general in a wide circle and came to an 
ostentatious halt right in front of him. "Just the other side of the hill!" 

The general frowned, already uneasy. 'The Don? Are you sure?" 

"Positive, sir." 

There was a sudden silence. The column shuffled to a halt and everyone 
stood listening with their heads to one side. Not a sound. No gunfire, no 
shells, no rattle of machine guns, no tanks. Only the rushing winds from 
Kazakhstan howling their enmity across the endless plains. 

The general looked heavily at Porta. "You saw no sign of troops?" 

Porta slowly shook his head. "Nothing, sir. There's nothing out there." 

The silence continued. We went on listening, unable to believe that all this 
long time we had been marching toward emptiness. What had happened to 
our Army on the Don? Where was it? Had it ever really been there? Or was 
that, too, another of the lies they had been telling us? 


The general turned back to look at his long column of men. They were sullen 
now, with disappointment and despair. Sooner have stayed in Stalingrad than 
march all this way to join an army that no longer existed. 

"Let's press on!" Augsberg waved his hand in a circular motion and pointed 
ahead, up the slope. "See what we can find." 

All we came across was one abandoned P-4, camouflaged by great drifts of 
snow. It had obviously belonged to Man-stein's armored division which had 
failed to get through with our supplies at Christmas. 

"Don't see why they left it here," said Porta as we brushed off the top layers of 
snow and examined the vehicle. "Seems to be in perfectly good condition. It's 
the tracks that are mucked up, that's all. Get them in working order and I 
guess we could make use of it." 

A section of sappers were called up and the problem put to them. Their young 
lieutenant looked dubious. "Could be done, sir, but it would take time." 

"How much time?" demanded the general. 

"Hard to tell—six hours perhaps. Maybe a bit longer. We've got no proper 
tools, we'll have to improvise." 

"Well, give it a go. We could do with some transport." 

It took them eight hours, by the time they were through. Eight hours of hard 
slog, reconstructing the shattered tracks. And then, with Porta at the wheel 
and a crowd of men pushing, the heavy vehicle heaved itself slowly out of its 
bed of ice and nosed forward across the snow. 

The general turned to the one MO we had with us. "Dr. Heim, it's up to you to 
decide which men need to be transported and which are still capable of 
walking. Any who try to malinger can stay here and rot, I'm not carrying 
passengers. Only the worst cases of frostbite and other injuries are to be 
allowed into that vehicle. Do I make myself clear?" 

"Perfectly, sir. But there'll be more genuine claims than there are places." 

"I leave it to you." 

The doctor turned away to select his chosen few, and the general called up 
the Old Man. 

"Feldwebel Beier, I'm putting you in charge of the vehicle. Anyone who tries to 
climb aboard without authorization, I give you my full permission to shoot. 
Corporal Porta can be your driver, Sergeant Heide can man the cannon and 
the radio. Sergeant Martin—" He beckoned to Gregor, "take the machine 
gun." His gaze wandered around and came to rest on a badly wounded 


sergeant major, whose feet were no more than two raw and shapeless 
masses. "Do you have' any experience of tank armaments?" 

"Yes, sir." 

The sergeant major hobbled hopefully forward on the rifles he was using as 
crutches. The general looked him up and down with narrowed eyes, then 
nodded. "All right. In you get." 

We set off down the other side of the steep slope toward the frozen river. The 
tank was skidding so badly we thought the improvised tracks must surely 
break, but Porta was an experienced driver and handled tanks with the same 
love and care a man might give his horse. 

The main body of us crossed the river and turned to watch the halting 
progress of the P-4. The danger now was that the ice would crack under the 
three tons of steel, for the Don never froze right down to the bottom. Everyone 
except Porta had left the vehicle. He pushed it forward slowly, slipping now 
and again on the glassy surface, and we heard the warning groans and then 
the sharp retorts of the ice splintering under the weight. At last he reached the 
great misshapen blocks that lay between the frozen water and the riverbank. 
The tank ground its way over the top of them and fell to the other side in a 
shower of crystal sparks. A great cheer went up and the privileged few 
climbed back into their seats. We had crossed the Don. 

My eyes were hurting again, aching and throbbing in spite of the few precious 
drops of medication the doctor had given me. If only we had had some Alpine 
troops among us, Porta would almost certainly have been able to beg, borrow, 
steal or extort a pair of dark glasses for me. But the High Command had not 
seen fit to issue such luxuries for ordinary troops. 

"Damn lunatics!" snapped the Legionnaire, putting out a hand to steady me as 
I tried to stagger along with my eyes closed. "Send an army into the depths of 
Russia dressed in their fucking nightgowns and expect them to fight a battle! 
Murdering swine!" 

It was rare for the Legionnaire to be moved to such invective, but he was 
perfectly correct. They had sent over a whole army totally ill-equipped to deal 
with the prevailing weather conditions, and they had not even the excuse of 
ignorance. For ten years, German officers had taught in Russian military 
academies and had actually helped the Russians evolve the best equipment 
for troops fighting through the hard Soviet winters! 

We marched for six hours before we were allowed a rest, and we fell about in 
the snow, exhausted and almost beyond caring. 

"Watch what you're doing with that thing," warned Tiny as I threw the machine 
gun carelessly away from me. "We could be in need of that sooner than you 
think." 


"To hell with it," I muttered. "It's like an incubus." 

"I dunno about that," said Tiny doubtfully. "But what about antifreeze? You got 
any of that for it, have you? The Legionnaire's got a whole can of it, I saw him 
pinch it out of the P-4." 

"He wouldn't let me have any," I said, too lazy to bother to find the Legionnaire 
and request some. 

"You asked him?" demanded Tiny. 

"No, I haven't," I said. "I don't care about antifreeze. I don't care if the damned 
thing gives up the ghost. I only wish it would, and then maybe I could stop 
lugging it about with me everywhere I go." 

"I'll ask him," said Tiny equably. "You stay here. I'll go and get some. Don't 
want it to freeze up on you, do you?" 

I felt quite guilty when he returned a few minutes later, cheerfully swinging a 
can of antifreeze. 

"Gave it me without a murmur," he told me. "I thought I'd have to twist his arm, 
but. . ." 

He broke off, listening. I sat up and shaded my eyes, squinting into the sky. 

"An airplane!" 

"One of ours!" 

It was a Focke-Wulf. We scrambled to our feet, aching limbs forgotten, and 
began waving and shouting. Gregor let off a flare, and the Focke-Wulf banked 
slightly, circled around us and flew over our heads at a height of six hundred 
feet or so. We could see the crew signaling to us. We could see the black 
crosses on the wings. We threw our arms around each other and jigged about 
in the snow. 

A steel helmet was tossed out of the plane. The pilot gave us a heartening 
thumbs up, circled again and flew off westward. We made a dive for the 
helmet. Inside, a hasty message had been scrawled: 

Hold tight, we'll be back! Keep an eye open for us. Good luck! 

"They're coming to fetch us!" screeched Gregor, leaping into the air and 
throwing his arms wide. 

One of the pilots from the Condor shook his head with a kind of sad scorn. 
"No such luck! They might just about be able to land here with an empty crate, 
but they'd never be able to take off again. Not in a month of Sundays. Not 
even empty, let alone with a full load." 


"He's right," said the Old Man reluctantly. "We're not going to get much help 
from that direction." He jabbed his finger into the air. "Not from God or from 
airplanes. There's only one way we'll get out, and that's by using our feet." 

"Using our feet?" moaned Porta. "How much longer we got to go on using 
'em? We got as far as the Don and didn't find nothing. How much farther we 
got to go? Next stop the Rhine? Jesus Christ, I'll never make it!" He suddenly 
clapped a hand against the right side of his chest. "I'm not a fit man, I 
shouldn't be here, I've had a heart murmur since I was six." 

"Not surprising," muttered the Legionnaire. "Seeing as you've got a misplaced 
heart." 

Porta glared at him briefly and moved his hand over to the left side. 

"I had rheumatic fever when I was seven," he insisted. "I've had pneumonia 
three times. I shouldn't ought to get wet and cold like this, I shouldn't ought to 
be here in the first place. I can't go on marching all the way to Germany!" His 
voice rose to a quite alarmingly shrill pitch. "I've got a bad heart, I tell you! I 
need help! I need a doctor! I can't go on like this!" He gave a loud yell of pain, 
doubled over, staggered a few paces in convoluted fashion, then collapsed 
moaning into the snow. 

"What is it? What's happening?" The MO, alerted by Porta's melodramatic 
shrieks, came rushing up to us. "What's the matter with this man?" 

We stood around in a circle, staring down at the writhing Porta. The doctor 
spoke impatiently. "What's wrong with you? Why are you making all that 
noise?" 

"He's a sick man," said Tiny. "Got a bad heart. Ever since he was six." He 
cocked a hopeful eyebrow. "Alcohol, sir?" 

"What do you mean, alcohol?" 

"That's what he always takes when he comes over bad. It sort of stimulates 
the action of his heart, if you see what I mean." 

The doctor looked uncertainly from Tiny to Porta. "Has he really got a weak 
heart?" he asked. "Or is he putting it on?" 

"Putting it on?" repeated Tiny. 

"Putting it on?" echoed Gregor. 

"That's a sick man," said the Legionnaire. "He's had pneumonia three times." 

The doctor was fresh out of medical school. He had come straight to 
Stalingrad full of good intentions, and it was a hard training ground. He knelt 


uncertainly by Porta's side, while Porta gave a fair imitation of a man on the 
point of agonizing death. 

The crowd now parted to allow the general and the young lieutenant a 
ringside seat. They looked down at the badly overacting Porta. 

"All right, all right!" said the general irritably. "That's enough of that. This is no 
time for histrionics." 

Porta opened his eyes and rolled them in the general's direction. "Vodka—" 
he mouthed pitifully. 

"Pull yourself together, man!" The general turned and walked away. The 
lieutenant grinned. 

"Vodka—" moaned Porta, transferring his attentions to the young officer. 
"Vodka, for the love of God." 

"The love of God be damned!" said the lieutenant, holding out his flask. 

Porta snatched it eagerly and fell back. He drank greedily, with his mouth 
wide open and the flask upended. 

"You've saved my life, sir. How can I ever thank you? Shall I ask the Führer to 
give you a medal? You deserve one. You . . ." 

"Spare my blushes! Just give me back the rest of my vodka!" The lieutenant 
walked off laughing in the wake of the general. 

The doctor still looked doubtful. "They shouldn't be sending men with weak 
hearts into the front line," he said. "You ought to be demobilized . . ." 

We dug ourselves in and prepared to spend the night in the same spot, just in 
case the Focke-Wulf returned. In the distance we heard the roar of engines. 

"Heavy trucks," said the Legionnaire. "If we could only swipe a handful, we'd 
soon be home." 

Away to the east, the night was lit up with a red glow. It was Stalingrad, still 
burning. To the north, flashing streaks of light darted across the sky, striping it 
black and white like a monstrous zebra. 

"Artillery," said Heide. 

"Balls!" Gregor turned on him challengingly. "There's nobody left to fight up 
that way!" 

"Can't help that," Heide dismissed it. "It's still artillery. It might be ghosts using 
it, but if so, they've got mighty big guns for ghosts. Come on, stop arguing and 
get those cards dealt!" 


"You'd do better to sleep," advised the lieutenant, as he walked past. 

"I can never get to sleep with the light on," said Porta, jabbing his thumb in the 
direction of the glowing sky. 

The lieutenant smiled. "Sorry about that. I can't put out the flames of 
Stalingrad for you." 

We played cards throughout the night. The fever of gambling was on us. Safe 
in the knowledge that nobody had more than a few small coins on him, we 
were able to win and lose vast sums without a qualm. All amounts were 
solemnly entered in Porta's little black book, but what if you did finish the night 
owing a small fortune? The final reckoning was never likely to come. 

"We shall all be dead before then," comfortably remarked the Legionnaire, 
who had gambled away his entire earnings for the next five years. 

The morning saw us red-eyed and and foul-tempered. Porta took his seat in 
the P-4 and drove off at the head of the column. The rest of us followed on 
foot. 

"How far do you figure it is to Germany?" asked Tiny earnestly, as if 
confidently expecting me to know the answer down to the last few inches. 

"A good long way yet," I said sourly. 

We had done about an hour's marching when the promised airplane appeared 
in the skies. Not the Focke-Wulf this time. A Heinkel-111. We sent up flares 
and waited patiently until it was overhead. We were too tired now to sing and 
dance; and some of us could remember that other occasion, when they had 
sent us pictures of Hitler, and flea powder. But not this time! This time it was 
for real. The canisters that floated down to us beneath their parachutes 
contained sausages, ham, bread, sardines . . . 

"Collect the lot of it!" bawled the general over the noise of the stampede as 
men seized on the canisters and tore them open with bayonets. "Collect it all 
together! Everything must be rationed out! Don't eat it all at once!" 

"A message, sir." The Old Man handed him a note that had been found in one 
of the canisters: 

Strong concentration of cavalry seven miles to the northwest of the Nizh-
Chirskaya-Ternis railway line. Proceed with caution. Kamensk-Stalingrad line 
in enemy hands. Bridges patrolled by tanks. Heavy formations advancing 
west to south. Kalitva occupied by enemy troops. Bridge impassable without 
artillery support. Heavy fighting near Aidar. Nearest enemy position, thirty 
miles to the north of you. 


"Bunch of morons!" snarled the general. "We don't want to know where the 
enemy are, well find that out soon enough for ourselves! More to the point if 
they told us where to find our own damned troops!" 

The Old Man was staring into the distance, where the departing Heinkel was 
now no more than a dot in the clouds. His face looked shriveled and 
shrunken, and he shook his head in despair, as if the aircraft's departure 
spelled the end of our hopes of survival. 

"I guess they've already crossed our names off," he murmured. "That's the 
last time they'll bother with us." 

The general glared at him. He shouldered his rifle and stalked on, shouting at 
us to follow. 

The retreat continued, deeper and deeper into the frozen plains. The vicious 
east wind cut through our clothes, through our skin, into our very bones, 
blowing and howling with all its spiteful might, as if trying to sweep us away. 
We were the hated enemy, invaders of another people's land, and we felt the 
hostility all around us. 

Suddenly, from a fold in the ground, a Russian supply column appeared. 
Porta swung the tank sharp left and pulled up behind a solid wall of snow, but 
the Russians had seen us. Their cries came sharp and clear across the plain. 

"Stoi! Idi suda!"* 

*"Come here!" 

And then, gaining courage, they suddenly came at us with bayonets fixed. It 
could not have been every day they met up with stray German troops, and it 
seemed to excite them. An officer ran ahead, waving a revolver. 

"Ruki verx! Ruki verx!"† 

†"Hands up!" 

"Bloody nerve," growled Tiny. 

He raised his rifle and fired. The foolhardy officer crumpled up, and his men 
stopped short and looked at us with new respect. 

"Spread out!" one of them ordered. 

We scattered instantly, and within seconds our machine guns were sending 
the enemy racing backward. Porta was crouched behind the P-4, steadily 
firing with a long-range rifle which used explosive bullets. One had only to 
bury itself in a man's shoulder for his entire arm to be wrenched away. 


The Russians retreated busily, leaving several of their number behind, but 
they were turned around and sent straight back again by their commissars, 
who seemed to wield the power of the devil himself over their men. 

"Cover me!" a sergeant beside me hissed, and moved out into the open with a 
flamethrower. A long red tongue went snaking toward the Russians and 
engulfed them in a sea of fire. The sergeant laughed happily as he saw them 
burn. He turned and gave me a quick salute and a mischievous grin before 
running off to set light to a few more men. He obviously loved his job. It was 
not one that I myself particularly envied, but it takes all sorts to make a war. 

We outnumbered the enemy and eventually those that remained gave up the 
fight and once more withdrew. It was already dusk, and the steppe soon 
became thick with darkness and with silence. 

General Augsberg threw himself down beside us, his frozen lips cracked and 
bleeding. "At 2300 hours we move out. Meet up again at the Shchir. It's about 
forty miles west of here." 

He moved on to the next group, leaving us flabbergasted. 

"Forty miles!" I said. "Only forty miles—why not make it New York while he's 
about it? Who's going to last another forty miles, for God's sake?" 

The Russians came at us again, tearing across the snow in the blackness. My 
machine gun was still in working order, thanks to the Legionnaire's antifreeze, 
but it was difficult to control without the tripod and I kept firing short. In the 
end, Tiny snatched it away from me, slipped the strap over his neck and, 
disdaining the enemy guns, stood in the midst of flying shrapnel and fired 
rapidly from the hip. I watched him in wonderment, until he jerked me back to 
reality with a kick that sent me flying. 

"I want another magazine! Don't just stand there gaping! Go and get me one!" 

I crawled away through the snow, ran back through a shower of bullets, 
grabbed the machine gun, and in my panic jammed the loading mechanism. 
Tiny gave me another kick. I accepted the blow meekly and wished I 
possessed his thick skin and brutish lack of fear. I always imagined Tiny as 
having nerve fibers the size of tree trunks. 

Again the Russians fell back. A couple of infantrymen came across and set up 
their machine gun nearby. We learned that they had fought at Moscow and 
we accepted their presence with grudging respect. 

From far off, in the darkness, we heard men shouting for stretcher-bearers. In 
the confusion there was little that could be done. Germans and Russians lay 
side by side, bleeding to death. We had no stretchers, we had only one 
doctor, and the general was already passing along the same order as before: 
reassemble at the Shchir. 


"Where is Shchir?" demanded Tiny fretfully. 

Nobody answered him. 

"Well, all right," he said. "If you don't know where it is, you might at least know 
what it is." 

"It's a town!" snarled Porta. 

"A river," said the Old Man, with an air of slightly weary apology. "It's a river." 

"Another river?" said Tiny. "Jesus, that's all you ever do in this country—
march from one bit of water to the next!" 

We lay back in the snow, listening to the silence, waiting for the next attack. 
Nearby, a man had unwrapped a filthy rag and a wad of old newspaper from 
his arm, revealing a hole the size of a small pudding basin. The skin around 
the edges was deep purple, almost black. The hole itself was full of moldy 
yellow pus. I caught the Legionnaire's eye and we both looked away, as if we 
had found each other out in some obscene act. The man with the pus-filled 
crater tore a strip off the edge of his shirt and began solemnly binding it 
around his arm. 

"Could have been worse," he said cheerfully. "Could have been blown right 
off, I suppose." 

I said nothing. I knew, and the Legionnaire knew, and the man himself 
probably knew, that before very long the arm would have to come off in any 
case. 

In the distance we heard a long-drawn-out howl. One of the infantrymen 
looked up. "Wolves," he said briefly. 

The Russian horses began to join in, whinnying and tossing their heads. They 
hated the wolves as much as we did. 

A rocket flared into the sky, and at the same moment there was a shout from 
the other end of the lines. "They're moving across from the road!" 

An artillery sergeant came running up to us, waving an arm over his head. 
"We're pulling out! Abandon all heavy arms! You two—" he pointed at random, 
catching Tiny and me, "cover the retreat!" 

He galloped off, and everyone else followed—except Tiny and me. We stayed 
behind to face the new horde of Russians. The two infantrymen sprang up, 
Porta, Gregor, the Old Man, the Legionnaire, Heide—they all went rushing off 
behind the sergeant. Even the man with the bandage took to his heels, still 
trying to tie a knot with one hand and his teeth. Tiny and I grimaced at each 
other and crouched for comfort behind the machine gun. 


The minutes passed. I looked repeatedly at my watch, but the hands seemed 
not to be moving. It must have been broken in the last skirmish. I decided to 
count the seconds instead. Half an hour later I asked Tiny, "How the hell long 
have we been here?" 

Tiny glanced at his own watch. "Nearly ten minutes," he said. 

"Ten minutes?" I said. "Is that all?" 

"Whaddya mean, is that all? It's long enough, ain't it?" 

"Too long," I said. "Why don't we pull out? They must have got clear by now." 

"I guess you're right," agree Tiny. "It's time we pushed off." 

We looked at each other, licking our lips and not moving. 

"Better a live coward than a dead hero," said Tiny. 

"Damn right," I nodded. 

"So let's go, eh?" 

"Why not? What are we waiting for?" 

I slipped back the safety catch on my submachine gun and prepared to move, 
but as I did so Tiny stretched out a hand and held me back. He put a warning 
finger to his lips and then cupped a hand behind his ear. Tiny could pick up 
the smallest sound, he could have heard a sparrow breathing half a mile 
away, but I listened and could hear nothing. He held up a finger, his head to 
one side. And then I heard it myself, and looked in astonishment at Tiny, who 
had had several seconds' start on me and should by now have interpreted the 
sound. He had. 

"The bastards are digging a tunnel over there." 

Rapidly he tied three grenades together and crept over the ridge. Seconds 
later there was a violent explosion. Tiny came running back, waving at me to 
follow him with a terse "Let's get out of here!" 

I needed no second invitation, I was after him like a shot. We caught up with 
the rest of the company trudging through the snow by the side of a frozen 
stream. As we approached them, a line of enemy fire broke out and a stray 
shell exploded almost in our faces. It caught hold of the man with the bandage 
and tossed him high into the air. He screamed hideously as he went up, but 
he was already dead by the time he came down. Tiny and I were splashed 
with his blood, great streaks of it down our faces and tunics. 

We began running. It was difficult in the snow, it caught at our feet and 
dragged us down, but we kept it up mile after mile until we could run no longer 


and the men at the head of the column collapsed in exhaustion, their hands 
pressed to their sides, their breath steaming out into the cold air. 

In the far distance, away across the endless plains, we heard the sound of 
gunshots. 

"That's Ivan, clearing the place up," said Porta, "I'd recognize the voice of a 
nagan anywhere." 

We rested for ten minutes, and then went on again. Throughout the night we 
marched. Some men fell out and we left them huddled in gray heaps in the 
snow. By morning they would be dead; some of those who had dropped by 
the wayside ahead of us were already on the point of death as we passed 
them. 

"Victorious Sixth Army on the retreat," said the Legionnaire in his dry way. 
"What a heroic sight!" 

I looked ahead at the straggling column; I looked back at the men strung out 
behind. Gray-faced and stoop-shouldered, the sick and the starved and the 
crippled. Scarcely three hundred left, and many of those would be gone 
before the night was out. 

"They do tell me," said Porta, glancing at my face, "that it's quite cozy, 
freezing to death." 

"They, of course, have already tried it?" I said. 

Porta shrugged. "I'd as soon go that way as be shot through the back of the 
head." 

"Or crucified on a doorframe," said the Legionnaire. 

"Or castrated," added Gregor. "They do it with blacksmith's tongs, did you 
know?" 

"That's not the worst," said Tiny eagerly. "I met a guy who they'd . . ." 

"Shove it!" roared the Old Man. 

Tiny looked at him, quite hurt. "I was only going to tell you about the things 
they'd do if they ever got their hands on us." 

Already an old soldier at the age of twenty, I knew only too well what they 
were likely to do. I didn't need Tiny to tell me. I'd heard the tales of castration 
and crucifixion. That was why I was marching through the night with a 
submachine gun slung over my shoulder and a couple of grenades on my 
belt. 


"In actual fact," said the Legionnaire, "never mind they cut your balls off and 
stick dirty great nails through your hands and feet, I don't believe they treat 
criminals like us nearly as badly as they do the PU boys."* 

*PU regiments were those classified as "politically doubtful." The 
Legionnaire's company belongs to a disciplinary battalion, made up of military 
and civilian prisoners of various kinds. 

"Everyone treats the PUs like shit," said Porta. "Both us and the Russians. It 
don't seem to matter whether they're wearing a lousy swastika or a red star, 
nobody can't stand the sight of 'em." 

"That's because the Nazis and the Communists both have the same 
mentality," explained the Old Man. "They're blood brothers under the skin. If 
the Nazis label someone as politically undesirable, then the Commies do the 
same, and vice versa." 

"I guess that's about the size of it," said Porta. 

We marched on a while in a brooding silence, and then Tiny, who seemed to 
have something on his mind, turned to the Old Man. 

"Look here, I don't get it," he said, puzzled. "If they're what you said they are 
and they're all the same under the skin and they all hate Jews and they all do 
the same as each other, then what the hell are they fighting about?" 

"Who cares?" The Old Man stared straight ahead. "What difference does it 
make to you and me what they're fighting for?" 

This Adolf Hitler is a curious phenomenon. He'll certainly never become 
Chancellor. Postmaster General, possibly—although even that I very much 
doubt— but Chancellor, never! Why people should go around in fear of him is 
more than I can understand—what is he, when all's said and done, but some 
jumped-up provincial? Some raw Bohemian house painter with an 
overdeveloped sense of his own importance. I warrant you, gentlemen, that 
within a year or two the man will be forgotten, and his party of young 
hooligans along with him. 

President Hindenburg, during a conversation with General Schleicher and the 
Bishop of Munster, February 14, 1931 

On October 1, 1933, SS Standartenführer Theodor Eicke, inspector general of 
the concentration camps, made the following speech to his famous Tod 
("Death") Regiment: 

"Tolerance and humanity are signs of weakness. The man who feels himself 
incapable of cutting his mother's throat or castrating his father, should he be 
called upon to do so in the course of duty, is of no use to me. And, by the 
same token, of no use to Germany. By the oath we take, we render ourselves 
strong in mind and body. We shall not flinch, no matter what the task! We 


shall employ without hesitation and without qualms the most brutal methods 
available to us, if by so doing we shall achieve our ends. Better to kill a dozen 
innocent men than let one guilty man go free! 

"We cannot expect the ordinary citizen, leading his ordinary bourgeois life, to 
understand or to sympathize with us; his imagination cannot go that far. He 
must therefore be protected from knowledge that would be both distressing 
and dangerous for him. The work that we do here, in our camps, among the 
subhuman and the politically undesirable, must be kept strictly secret. You—-
my soldiers—my own Tod Division—you among all men must be hard! Hard 
as granite! For you the sight of blood must be no more disturbing than the 
sight of water running from a tap! For you the screams of our enemies must 
sound no different from the screams of a pig when its throat is cut. Learn to 
enjoy your work! Destroy the traitors! Burn their antisocial books, nip their 
reactionary daydreams in the bud, crush them beneath you and learn to laugh 
as you do it! And always remember, National Socialism has three sworn 
enemies: the priests, the Jews, and the intellectuals. Be always on the lookout 
for them. If you can find no other justification for arresting them, then arrest 
them simply for what they are—and take care to plant your own evidence as 
you do so. It is as well to be in the habit of carrying proscribed literature with 
you as you go about. That way, you can always be sure of having something 
to pin on the bastards. Never forget that the end justifies the means! 

"I regret to say that there are those, even high up in the ranks of the Gestapo, 
who have still failed to grasp that we have entered upon an era of bloodshed. 
These are the imbeciles who would retard progress by making rules and 
regulations under the headings of humanity and justice. I say to you now, 
ignore them! They will be dealt with when the time is ripe. 

"One last word, and that is, patience! The day will come when we shall have 
all the traitors in Germany locked behind bars, and then I promise you a free 
hand. Soldiers of death, you shall have your hour of glory!" 

13 

Dinner and Dance with the Kalmucks 

For five days we had been pushing forward in the face of a swirling tempest of 
snow and wind. Vision was restricted to a few yards and progress was slow 
and tedious. 

We discovered the village entirely by accident, when Porta almost drove the 
P-4 straight into a vague gray shape which turned out to be a hut. He swore 
roundly, and we at once moved forward in support with our arms at the ready. 
We mistrusted all abandoned dwelling places. More often than not they were 
stacked from floor to ceiling with enemy troops. 

Porta pulled the P-4 back into a firing position. The Legionnaire stepped 
forward and kicked open the door of the hut. A wave of heat rushed out to 
greet us. 


Through the narrow entrance we saw a dim, smoke-filled room and a huddled 
group of civilians, who eyed us warily. In the center sat an old crone on a 
milking stool, nursing an earthenware bowl full of what looked like sunflower 
seeds. The frightened faces of some children peeped out from behind the 
large stove. Experience had already taught them that soldiers of either side 
were liable to bring destruction and death. 

"Ruki verx!" I cried, none too certainly, to a young man wearing a torn 
sheepskin coat and German Army trousers. "Ruki verx!" I told him, waving my 
submachine gun under his nose and picking on him for the simple reason that 
he was the nearest to us. 

He rose slowly from his chair, his hands behind his head. Gregor stepped 
forward and patted him up and down for weapons. He had none. The 
Legionnaire took a look behind the stove, but there was no one else there; 
only the children, their heads full of fleas and their faces full of tears. 

An old man stretched out his hands toward us in a bemused show of 
welcome. "God be praised, Germans! I thought you'd never come back! It's 
been a long time, and Babushka is dead . . ." 

"Who the hell is Babushka?" demanded Tiny. "What's he raving on about? 
Have we been here before?" 

"God knows," said Gregor helplessly. "All these peasants look alike to me." 

"Let's shoot the old goat and be done with it," urged Tiny. "I don't like people 
who want to shake hands with you. It's what the Gestapo always do before 
they lock you up and start pulling your fingernails out." 

"Let him be," said the Old Man. "He'll die soon enough without you giving him 
a helping hand." 

The village was small and we quickly searched it from one end to the other. 
No Soviet soldiers; only simple Kalmucks, mostly old men, and women and 
children. Those in the first hut had set lighted lamps before the icons and 
were pressing glasses of tea on us. The samovar was singing in the corner 
and it was all very cozy and just a bit unnerving. 

"Doesn't taste too bad," said Tiny, gulping down his tea in greedy swallows. 
"For hot water, that is; could do with a bit of rum to liven it up, but I've tasted 
worse." 

He looked around hopefully in search of hard liquor, only to have the 
Legionnaire close steely fingers over his wrist. "Drink your tea as it is and 
don't abuse people's hospitality," he said between his teeth. 

Tiny blinked, and said no more. The Legionnaire was very hot on matters of 
etiquette, and I felt suddenly ashamed of the submachine gun beneath my 
arm. How could I stand there pouring their tea ration down my throat and 


threatening them with firearms? Awkwardly, I dropped it against the wall. 
Seconds later an old woman shuffled across, gave me a toothless grin and 
removed the weapon to the other side of the room, where she set it down with 
great care by the stove. She then sat beaming and nodding at me across the 
room, while I frantically tried to attract the Old Man's attention to my plight and 
wondered if the Legionnaire would bawl me out for abuse of hospitality if I 
were to go across and retrieve my property. I felt naked without it. Sooner 
stand there without my trousers, I felt, than without my submachine gun. 

"Sir," said Porta, deferentially inclining his head toward the old man who had 
first addressed us, "we are your servants." 

"You what?" said Tiny. 

He stood goggle-eyed as the oldest of the Kalmucks began to gather about 
Porta, pressing little presents upon him, little oddments, bits and pieces, food 
and drink, which he graciously accepted in his bad Russian. He then, to my 
horrified astonishment, offered them his submachine gun in return. 

"Here, what're you doing that for?" demanded Tiny, his jaw dropping slackly 
open. 

"Shut your goddamn mouth and let me get on with it!" hissed Porta. "I know 
the habits of these people. Keep 'em happy and we'll all get along fine." 

Porta certainly seemed to be getting along fine. The Old Man watched him in 
some amusement, and shook his head wonderingly. "What a country! What a 
daft country! One minute they're putting bullets through the back of your neck, 
the next minute they're treating you like royalty. And this," he added, turning to 
the Legionnaire, "is the simple land that the Austrian peasant sent us out to 
conquer! Adolf doesn't know the half of it. He just doesn't know the half of it." 

The Legionnaire slowly nodded his agreement. "Come to that," he muttered, 
"I'm not sure that I do, either. They're all right at the moment, gentle as 
lambs—but you rub 'em up the wrong way and they'll be at your throat within 
seconds." 

After the tea-drinking ritual, the women cleared the great wooden table and 
spread across it an embroidered cloth with elaborate lace edging. From the 
reverent way they handled it, I assumed it was some sort of ceremonial cloth 
which had probably been in the village for centuries, handed down from 
generation to generation. We were served with the local wine in shapely 
earthenware goblets, and a whole sheep roasted on a spit was brought into 
the hut by two girls. They set it before the starosta, the village elder, and he 
took down from the wall a great Cossack saber, sharp and gleaming, and 
raised it above his head. Tiny, growing ever more anxious, began fingering his 
revolver and glaring across the room at Porta. I confess I was none too happy 
myself. I had my back to the stove and had to keep twisting my head around 
every few seconds to see if the submachine gun was still there. 


The starosta brought his saber whistling down through the air and sliced the 
head clean off the sheep. Then, holding it aloft, he paced solemnly around the 
table and deposited it in front of Porta. The rest of us were seated on the bare 
floor, but Porta, who had earned for himself a position of privilege, was cross-
legged on a fat silk cushion. Smugly facing the sheep's head, he poured out a 
flow of nonsensical and ingratiating Russian to mark his appreciation of the 
honor. 

Before we could eat, we were entertained with dancing. Four young girls 
appeared in the doorway. They were wearing flowing white robes which, 
someone informed us, represented winter, and behind them came four more 
dressed in blue, symbolizing spring. The room rang with the sound of 
twanging balalaikas, and Tiny stopped glaring at Porta and suddenly lost all 
interest in his revolver. He let his hand fall to his side and sat forward eagerly, 
his tongue sticking out of his mouth and his face puckered up in a gorilla grin 
of delight. 

"For God's sake!" said the Legionnaire, restraining him. "This isn't a brothel!" 

Tiny spared him a fleeting glance. "What're they carrying on like that for, 
then?" 

"They're entertaining us," said the Legionnaire. "It's just for watching. Strictly 
hands off." 

Tiny snorted and turned back to the alluring spectacle of four winter girls and 
four spring girls disporting themselves before him. Tiny had no appreciation of 
the dance as anything but a gymnastic prelude to bed, and I could see he 
genuinely believed the Legionnaire was pulling his leg. 

Porta, meanwhile, always more interested in practicalities than in daydreams, 
had dug out the sheep's brains, divided them in two, and offered half to the 
starosta and half to his eldest son, thus causing a murmur of respectful 
admiration to run through the room. This German was obviously a man of high 
breeding and exquisite manners! 

The wine jug passed busily back and forth. It was, fortunately, considered the 
height of politeness to belch in Kalmuck society, and Porta went from strength 
to strength, farting loudly and cutting off the right ear of the unfortunate sheep 
and handing it with impeccable taste to the starosta's eldest daughter. It 
appeared that he had now scaled the very summit of Kalmuck etiquette. Porta 
had at last found his rightful place in society. 

The old woman with the sunflower seeds inserted herself between the 
Legionnaire and me and began telling us what had happened in the village 
before our arrival. It seemed that a section of Russian cavalry had passed 
through, and the first sight to meet their eyes had been a brown shirt hanging 
on a line to dry outside one of the huts. 


"Babushka's hut," said the old woman mournfully. "It was her lover's shirt. Her 
lover was a German." 

The Legionnaire pulled a face. "SS, by the sound of it." 

The commissar in charge of the group had slashed the shirt with his saber 
and had his horse trample on it until it was in shreds, and had then followed 
this burst of pettiness by sending two of his NKVD men into the hut in search 
of Babushka, who was taking temporary refuge in the stove. Seventeen years 
before, Trotskyist soldiers had hidden in that very same stove. Babushka was 
discovered and hanged, just as the Trotskyist soldiers had been before her. 
Just as several other villagers were, including the old woman's only son. Their 
bodies had been flung into the snow and their relatives forbidden to give them 
a decent burial. The Legionnaire and I listened with wavering interest to the 
tale. We had heard of too many similar incidents to be very much moved. 

While Porta and Tiny, glutted with roast mutton and wine, lay back with silly 
smiles on their faces and dancing girls on their knees, I rested my head 
against the Legionnaire's shoulder and closed my eyes. The atmosphere was 
thick with smoke and with sweat, and the wine had been stronger than I 
realized. Half asleep as I was, I felt the old woman creep closer to me. I felt 
her hand on my brow, sweeping back my hair, and I heard her thin, cracked 
voice crooning over me. I was just like her son, her only son whom the NKVD 
had murdered. We were the same age, I looked just like him. I fell asleep with 
the gentle touch of her old, callused hand stroking lightly back and forth 
across my forehead, and for the first time in many months I dreamed that the 
war was over. 

The next morning, as we were leaving, the old woman pressed a leg of 
mutton into my hand. 

"For you," she whispered. "No one else, mind—just you! May God protect 
you, my son." 

The whole village turned out to say farewell. Some of them even 
accompanied us as far as the river, but none would dare to cross it. On the 
other side there were NKVD men, roaming the countryside with their nagans. 
The Kalmucks hated and feared the NKVD more than anything else on earth. 

"Same thing in Indochina," mused the Legionnaire. "You could be at home 
among your enemies and killed by your friends. God help those poor devils if 
the commissars ever find out we were there." 

The retreat continued. The snowstorm continued. Lost in the middle of a 
forest, we encountered some stray Cossacks. They were as surprised to see 
us as we to see them, but we stopped halfheartedly to do battle with each 
other. It seemed the height of lunacy to stand fighting in a snowstorm in the 
middle of a forest. I believe both sides would have preferred to pass on 
without exchanging blows, but there was always some fanatic like Heide who 
wanted to kill. 


We moved on from the forest, out into the open. The wind was so strong we 
were scarcely able to make any headway. Hour after hour we marched on in 
search of the front line, bent double, our feet shuffling through the heavy 
drifts. Days merged into nights; nights, for all I knew, into weeks; weeks into 
months, into years, into decades—it seemed we had spent all our lives 
stumbling across Russia. 

"Never mind! Wait till we get to the Shchir . . ." 

"We'll find our troops at the Shchir . . ." 

"We'll be OK when we reach the Shchir . . ." 

And at last we reached the Shchir, and the snow was still falling and the 
landscape was still bare, and where the German front line was to be found 
was anyone's guess. 

"They're not here!" 

"They're not here!" 

A hundred or more chapped lips echoed it, incredulous, stunned, as men 
floundered forward in the snow, unable to believe that after all this while we 
were still on our own. 

We could take no more. Even the most foolhardy of optimists had reached the 
end. Even the redoubtable General Augsberg fell on his knees and buried his 
head in his hands. "Oh, God! My God! For pity's sake . . ." 

He seemed momentarily to have forgotten that the SS were strictly forbidden 
to believe in God. 

There was no sound save the howling of the wind, and to that we were so 
accustomed that we hardly noticed it. No gunfire, no shells, not even the faint 
rumbling of distant artillery. No sign of the front line for miles in any direction. 

"Brigadenführer!" The young lieutenant, who had grown visibly older since I 
first saw him, hurried forward and knelt in the snow beside the general. "You 
can't give up! You can't abandon us now!" 

"Let me alone! Go away and leave me in peace! I'm not going any farther . . ." 

"But, sir—all these men—all of us here—we've all put our faith in you. You've 
brought us this far, for God's sake don't give up now!" 

The general looked up at the young lieutenant. His gray eyes were bleak. 
"What is the point of carrying on?" he asked simply. 

Behind him, we stood in a cluster, waiting to be told what to do. The lieutenant 
rose to his feet. Around his neck he was wearing a blue woollen muffler. I 


wondered who had knitted it for him. Mother, wife, sweetheart? Growing 
maudlin, I imagined the loving hands settling it about his neck as they saw 
him off for the very last time at the station, and I felt suddenly sorry for the 
young lieutenant who was going to die. No older than me, and he was going 
to die—we were all going to die . . . 

Somewhere behind me a man burst into anguished sobs. General Augsberg 
settled his monocle into his eye, adjusted his face into its familiar set lines and 
stood up. "All right! What are we waiting for? Let's press on!" 

We crossed the Shchir as we had crossed the Don. Another river behind us. 

"The next one's the Kalitva," said the Old Man. "Somehow I don't think we're 
going to find anything there." 

"Don't worry," said the Legionnaire with a hard smile. "There's always another 
after that—the Oskol, if I remember rightly. And from the Oskol to the Donets 
it can't be more than seventy or eighty miles." 

"And what happens after that?" I asked bitterly. "What happens if we still 
haven't found them?" 

The Old Man shrugged. "I suppose we just go straight on until we come to the 
Dnieper." 

"The Dnieper!" I snorted. "Who the hell do you think's going to get that far?" 

"No one, but it gives you something to think about," said the Legionnaire 
amiably. 

Not far away, limping badly and in obvious pain, was a sergeant major from 
one of the crack units of the German Army. He was their last survivor. Shortly 
before the battle of Krasny Oktyabr, their padre had delivered a sermon in 
which he had stated very firmly that whatever happened, it would be the will of 
God. The padre himself had not survived to explain to the sergeant major why 
it was that God had willed the whole of the unit to be wiped out by Russian 
flamethrowers. The sergeant major had been a gloomy, introspective fellow 
ever since. 

Behind us, small but determined, trotting through the snow with his head 
down, came the paymaster from the "Greater Germany" Division. Back home 
in Vienna, the paymaster owned a hotel, and there had been a time when he 
was far too proud to speak to his inferiors unless it were to give an order. 
Since Stalingrad, however, he had been only too pleased to talk to anyone 
who would stop and listen to him, and he had even been known to hold long 
conversations with Porta, who was anxious to discover why he did not 
abandon the idea of a conventional hotel and set up a high-class brothel 
instead. The paymaster was himself growing quite interested in the idea. He 
would walk for miles lost in silent daydreams of the girls he would have and 
the services he would offer. 


We spent a few hours at night resting in a deserted village, where the huts 
were no more than blackened ruins. In the charred remains of a stable, we 
found a dead horse. The flesh had been preserved by the low temperature, 
and when Porta had defrosted it and sliced it up, we cooked it over an open 
fire and dished it out as steak. One man declared it was the juiciest meat he 
had ever tasted. 

"They do say," remarked Gregor, thoughtfully sucking the blood off his fingers, 
"that human flesh is the best of the lot." 

"Some people swear by it," agreed Porta cheerfully. "In the Russian prison 
camp near Paderborn you used to be able to get human liver on the black 
market." 

"You ever try it?" I asked. 

"No, but I guess I would have, if I'd been starving enough." 

We set off again at dawn, on our long march to nowhere, but now the P-4 was 
acting up and refused to start. The engine was iced up and we had to 
abandon it in the village. Some of us were secretly a little glad that Porta now 
had to join the rest of us on foot, but it was the end of the road for those who 
were too badly wounded to walk. 

As we marched, we strained our ears for the sounds of battle, but all we heard 
was the whining of the wind and the crunching of boots in the snow. Porta 
gave it as his opinion that the front had moved from Russia and that the last 
battle was now being fought on the Rhine itself. He could well have been 
right, but no one really cared any more. 

And so the weary retreat continued, mile after desperate mile across the 
howling steppe. We were fewer than three hundred now. Behind us lay the 
stiffened remains of over five hundred men, dead from frostbite, typhoid, 
dysentery, exhaustion and despair. 

We stopped for another rest. We were able to cover less ground each day. 
Our resistance was very low and we could no longer cope with the bitter 
Russian winter. Defying any NKVD who might be within striking distance, we 
lit a fire and huddled around it, holding out our hands to the blaze and feeling 
the warmth of the flames as they flickered over our feeble bodies. Porta lit an 
opium cigarette, but it had barely gone once around the group when the 
familiar order to be on our way was shouted across to us. One of the 
baggagemasters, an elderly sergeant who had been through World War I, 
remained on the ground, crumpled up with his hands pressed hard into his 
guts. 

"Come on!" I said, putting a hand under his elbow. "Time to go—you can't stay 
here like that." 

"Leave me be," he muttered. "Just leave me be." 


"Get up and march, Grandpa!" Gregor dug him none too gently in the ribs with 
his rifle. "We can't afford to lose any more men." 

"You surely haven't come all this way just to lie down and die in the snow?" I 
said. "Not now, when we're almost there." 

"Where?" He looked up at me, his face gray and leathery. "Where are we?" 

"Almost there," I repeated helplessly. "Can't you hear the guns?" 

"No. I can't hear any guns." He drew his legs up to his chin, sweating with the 
agony of some tearing internal pain. "Go away, son, and let me be. I've had 
my day. You're young enough to make it, but I'm not—I'm old and tired and 
I'm going to die." 

"What are you men still doing here?" The lieutenant came running up to us. 
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Fall in with the rest of the column!" 

Gregor moved off. I pointed silently at the old man, doubled up in the snow. 

"Dysentery," the lieutenant immediately diagnosed. "Leave him, he wouldn't 
last out the day even if we took him with us. He should never have come in 
the first place. He should have stayed in Stalingrad and waited for the 
Russians." He took out his revolver, leveled it, hesitated a moment, then 
swore and pushed it back into its holster. "Get a move on!" he shouted, as he 
ran after the column. 

I took one last look at the old man. He turned his face Up to me, and with a 
shaking, clawlike hand held out a dogeared envelope. "If you get through—if 
you ever get home —send this to my wife, and tell her—tell her I couldn't help 
it. Tell her how they betrayed us. I didn't mean to die, but I—couldn't help it." 

I took the envelope and put it in my pocket. 

"I'll tell her," I said. "I'll tell everyone, don't you worry! I'll tell the whole damn 
world what the bastards have done to us—" 

"Sven!" It was Heide's voice. He was running toward me across the snow. 
"What the hell are you doing? I've been sent back to look for you." 

I gestured toward the old fellow. "He's on his last legs." 

"So what? There's nothing you can do about it." Heide scarcely glanced at 
him. "He's not the first and he won't be the last. Christ almighty, you're a 
soldier, not a priest! Take this and come on!" 

He picked up my submachine gun and thrust it at me. He was right, of course: 
there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't sit by the old codger's side and 
wait for him to die. I couldn't carry him on my back for the next thousand 


miles. I bent down and whispered in his ear, "Don't worry, Grandpa—I'll get 
through! I'll deliver your letter for you." 

We marched all through the night, with only a couple of short rests. We 
marched all through the next day, and the day after that. Our numbers thinned 
out still further. Only the toughest and the most determined were now left to 
carry on with the retreat. We floundered through the snow, fought against the 
tearing wind, crossed innumerable rivers, lost our way in immense forests. 

At one point I was marching behind a man who quite suddenly collapsed at 
my feet. He was a tall man, he swayed forward like a felled pine tree, stiff and 
straight, but as he hit the ground, he crumpled up and lay in a heap. I had 
been marching behind him for several hours and he had given no signs of an 
impending collapse, but now he came crashing down so fast I had no time to 
avoid him, and I tripped headlong into the snow at his side. I turned him over; 
his face was red and feverish, his mouth open, the throat covered in pink 
spots. His breath was foul-smelling. I shook him by the shoulder, but he only 
moaned and writhed. 

"So what?" echoed Heide's voice in my memory. "There's nothing you can do 
about it." 

There wasn't. Out here, on the frozen steppe, with no medication and no 
possibility of rest or treatment, typhoid was a death sentence. I took the man's 
revolver from his holster and put it in his hand, closing the fingers around it. I 
had scarcely regained my place in the column when a shot rang out. 

That night we bivouacked in a wood. All the others dug themselves deep into 
the snow, curled up and fell into an exhausted sleep, but our group lit a fire 
and sat around it, cooking the remains of the frozen horse meat, which we 
had carried with us. The Old Man produced some soft and wrinkled potatoes 
from the depths of his pack, and Gregor had a twist of salt. Grilled steak and 
roast potatoes, a few drags of an opium cigarette and the leaping flames of a 
camp-fire—it was almost enough to make a man believe he was at peace with 
the world. 

We lay in a circle, our feet upturned to the glowing embers. The soles of 
Porta's boots began to smell of burning, and he sat up and took the boots off, 
and then removed his socks for the first time in weeks. The big toe on his right 
foot was turning blue. It served as a warning to the rest of us. We tore off our 
own boots and socks and examined ourselves carefully, and wherever we 
suspected trouble, rubbed the affected spot with snow. The pain was 
agonizing, but it brought back the circulation and restored life to flesh that 
would otherwise have died. Nothing is as treacherous as a frozen limb. Porta 
could have walked around for days, never knowing anything was wrong, until 
gangrene set in and it was too late. 

Next morning, shortly before dawn, we reported our findings to the doctor and 
he at once ordered a general inspection of hands and feet. One man was 
found to have a leg that was blue almost up to the knee. He could feel no pain 


and had never suspected what was happening, not having had cause to look 
at his legs for many weeks past. The doctor took General Augsberg aside and 
told him the news. "There's only one way to save him, and that's to take the 
leg off. But how the devil do we transport him after that?" 

"We don't," said Augsberg shortly. 

Before the doctor could protest at this only possible answer, Tiny came 
bounding across to us from the trees. "Something's moving over there!" 

Everyone fell silent. We stood listening, frozen limbs and gangrene forgotten. 

"Can't hear a thing," said Porta. "You're imagining it." Nevertheless, he 
stamped on the fire. It never did to take Tiny's warnings lightly. His brain may 
not have been too sharp, but his hearing was more acute than anyone's. 

And now we heard it ourselves. A faint cracking and crackling, as of twigs 
being snapped underfoot. Tiny was already flat on the ground, with the MPI 
ready to fire. The rest of us scattered, crouched in dugouts and behind trees 
and bushes, straining our eyes in the darkness of the wood. Again we heard 
the sound of twigs, the sound of rustling undergrowth. It was quite clear now, 
and it was almost certainly a man, or men. Animals moved silently through the 
dark forest. 

"It's Ivan!" 

The word was passed swiftly, in a whisper, from hole to hole, from tree to tree. 
Everywhere, men stiffened and pressed their fingers against triggers. Those 
of us who seconds before had been doubled up with the pangs of dysentery, 
those of us who had lain exhausted in the snow, those of us who thought they 
no longer cared for life, were suddenly reunited in tacit agreement that 
whatever else befell us we were not going to be taken alive by the NKVD. We 
had seen the tortured corpses of too many German soldiers to expect any 
mercy at their hands. 

The noise grew sharper in outline. And then we heard voices, rough and 
coarse, conversing in undertones. The only word I caught clearly was 
"Germanski." 

I guessed they were Siberians. They must have picked up our traces a long 
way back and been following us ever since. They were known for their 
tenacity, they would stay on the trail for miles and never give up. 

"NKVD," hissed Tiny, making a preliminary movement. "Let's get the hell out!" 

"Too late." The Legionnaire stretched out a restraining hand and pressed him 
down again. "Now they've got wind of us they'll never let go." 

We had no alternative but to stay and fight. Out of the trees glided a line of 
white phantoms. We could hear the faint swish of their skis in the snow, knew 


that behind their white masks, glittering dark eyes were peering through the 
gloom in search of us. We lay hidden, watching as they moved forward. My 
throat contracted with terror, and only the habit of years, the hard habit of 
Prussian discipline, kept me hidden in my snow dugout. At the head of the 
group was a commissar. I saw the hammer and sickle and the red star on his 
helmet. He pointed in our direction. Straight at us, it seemed to me. 

"Over there!" 

From his position behind the MPI, Tiny turned and rolled despairing eyes at 
me. I caught his panic and made a slight, involuntary movement. Quick as 
lightning, the Legionnaire laid his hand over mine. He winked at me, warning, 
reproving, encouraging. I swallowed a mouthful of air and my panic subsided. 

A sudden shot rang out. The commissar clutched both hands to his heart and 
slowly collapsed into the snow. Someone else had lost his head and had not 
had the comforting pressure of the Legionnaire's steady hand to reassure him. 
Thank God, at least, he had not lost his aim as well as his head. 

I heard the general's whistle blow. There was a sound as of thunder, and a 
billowing sea of flame swept forward and engulfed the six white phantoms. 

The lieutenant crawled toward the Old Man. "Feldwebel, take your men and 
get out there after the rest of 'em!" 

"Us again," grumbled Porta. "I tell you, if it weren't for mugs like us we'd have 
lost this lousy war years ago!" 

"Then why, I wonder, do we prolong the agony?" murmured the Legionnaire, 
already slipping a knife between his teeth and moving forward after the Old 
Man. 

We made our way through the trees, sweeping around in a semicircle to come 
out on the far side of the Russians. Tiny suddenly held up a hand and pointed 
ahead. How he knew they were there, I haven't the faintest idea. He claimed 
afterward that he had heard a Russian fart, and with Tiny's strange gift, that 
could well have been true. In any event, we caught them in the middle of a 
clearing, only a few yards away from us. Their attention was still turned in the 
opposite direction, where we had left the main body of the troops. 

Silently, with infinite care, I fitted my bayonet to my rifle. The Legionnaire was 
the first to move. He darted forward through the bushes, caught the sentry 
around the neck with one arm and plunged his knife deep into the man's back. 
The sentry fell forward with a grunt of surprise, and his comrades turned in 
stupefaction as the rest of us charged in. 

We slaughtered them mercilessly, as they would have slaughtered us had not 
Tiny's sharp ears caught them out in their first stealthy approach. Two of them 
attempted to surrender, their brawny arms held high above their heads, 
almond eyes imploring in big, shapeless faces. 


"Sorry, pal," said Porta. "Didn't no one ever tell you there was a war on?" 

He shot them both, quite calmly and with no emotion. Tiny, meanwhile, was 
jubilantly capering about the clearing with a fistful of gold teeth and gold 
fillings. He had a little leather bag which he kept somewhere about his person. 
It was bulging with plundered teeth, and every now and again he would bring 
it out and send the tiny pieces of gold winking and flashing across the palm of 
his hand, much as a jeweler pours out his diamonds and rubies for approval. 

We rejoined the rest of the column and moved on across the steppe. The 
wind had died down and the midmorning sky was a piercing blue against the 
dazzling white expanse of snow. The sun hung in a great blood-red ball high 
above our heads. It hadn't much warmth, but it spread a little optimism among 
us and it caught the crystals of snow for miles around and made a thousand 
winking pinpoints of light. Porta brought out his flute and we marched quite 
jauntily as he played. 

Before we had gone more than a mile or so, my eyes began hurting again. 
They bothered me some part of every day, but when the skies were gray and 
overcast the pain was bearable, only a dull ache and the occasional sharp 
stab, to which I had grown almost reconciled. But today, with the piercing 
azure sky and the dazzling crystals, it became a tormenting agony. Red-hot 
needles plunged through my retina and straight on to the back of my head. 
The clear blinding white of the snow was gradually blurred into a gray mass of 
spongy cotton. Black circles began dancing in front of me. My head was full of 
bright flashes and sparks and my footsteps began wandering. 

"Don't do that," I heard the Legionnaire saying. "You'll only make it worse." 

And I felt my mittened hands being firmly removed from my eyes, where they 
had been vigorously attempting to knead my eyeballs out of their sockets. I 
turned my head blindly toward the sound of the voice. The Legionnaire was 
no more than a shadow. I began shambling and stumbling, and the Old Man 
put an arm around my shoulders to keep me from falling. I moved along in a 
delirium of pain, muttering and moaning to myself, and when we stopped for 
the first short break, I was quite willing for them to shoot me on the spot as we 
had shot so many other helplessly suffering ones. 

I lay with my head cradled in my arms, neither knowing nor caring what was 
going on around me. I heard Tiny say, "Kill him! Finish him off! What's it 
matter? He's on his last legs, anyway!" I thought he was talking about me, and 
had I had the strength, I would have lifted up my head and screamed, "Yes, 
yes, I'm on my last legs, get on with it!" But as it turned out, they were not 
discussing me but the sole survivor of the First Cavalry Division, who had 
been wracked with dysentery for several days and was now slowly dying in 
the snow only a few yards away from me. He was wearing a pair of dark 
glasses. Special glasses, designed to cut out the penetrating ultraviolet rays 
of the snow. 


"They'd be just right for Sven," said Gregor. I rolled over and half opened an 
eye. "What would?" I demanded feebly. "What's going on?" There was a 
pause. 

"If he doesn't kick the bucket before we move on," said Tiny, "I'm going to 
shoot the bastard." 

There was another pause. I believe I must have lost consciousness, because 
the next thing I remember, they were hauling me to my feet and pushing a 
pair of dark glasses onto my nose. The relief was immediate. The mists 
cleared, the stabbing pains began to recede, I was able to stand up unaided. 

"Did he—" I turned to look at the body of the dead cavalryman. "What 
happened to him?" "He died," said the Old Man grimly. "Just in time," added 
Tiny. 

We went off in search of the MO, who, according to the regulations, had to 
approve the issue of the glasses and record it in my passbook. It was purely a 
formality, but regulations being regulations, and the German Army still being 
the German Army, even if it was torn to shreds, it seemed wise to be on the 
safe side. 

It was such a relief to be able to look the world in the face again that I felt 
capable of marching another thousand miles. It was a shock when the doctor 
refused to approve my wearing the glasses. 

"More than my life's worth," he said. "Special glasses are only issued after a 
rigorous examination of the eyes." 

"Then examine his goddamn eyes!" cried the lieutenant testily. 

"I can't do that," said the doctor. "I'm not an eye specialist—besides, I don't 
have the proper instruments. I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't possibly approve the 
issue of dark glasses to this man." 

"For crying out loud!" exclaimed the lieutenant. "He's as blind as a bat without 
them! Any fool can see that, it doesn't need a specialist!" 

"I can't help what any fool can see," said the doctor, growing angry in turn. 
"I'm only going according to regulations." 

"Regulations! Regulations!" The lieutenant strode up and down in the snow in 
a fine rage. I stood gratefully watching him with my new eyes. "God help the 
German nation if it can't do anything without regulations! Here's a man who's 
suffering, and there's a pair of dark glasses that no one else wants, and here's 
a goddamn quack saying he can't approve of it because of regulations—
regulations, my ass! What do you suggest we do with the fucking glasses? 
Carry them all the way back to Germany in a waterproof bag?" He suddenly 
pulled out his revolver and faced the trembling doctor. "You just sign that 
man's papers or we'll be leaving you behind!" 


The doctor signed; I wore my dark glasses; the column moved on and the 
body of my dead benefactor from the First Cavalry Division was left behind in 
the snow. I had never known his name and I had already forgotten him. 

 

If a stone should fall on the jug, that's unfortunate for the jug. If the jug should 
fall on a stone, that's unfortunate for the jug. It's always unfortunate for the 
jug. 

The Talmud 

Order of the day sent to all divisions by the Commander in Chief of the Sixth 
Army, Generaloberst Friedrich Paulus: 

As a soldier, I wish to remind all other soldiers that it is an act of dishonor to 
fall into the hands of the enemy. It is therefore the duty of an officer to take his 
own life rather than suffer such a fate. If he allows himself to be taken 
prisoner, he is no longer worthy of the uniform he wears. He will be 
considered as a deserter and a traitor to his country and will be tried as such 
when the hostilities are at an end. 

The above should be taken to apply equally to noncommissioned officers and 
other ranks. To surrender is an act of cowardice! Our Führer Adolf Hitler 
demands of us that we fight to the last man, the last bullet. Be worthy of his 
trust! 

Heil Hitler! 

On the same day as this order was issued, four high-ranking officers left 
Stalingrad. General Jaenecke had had his skull cracked open by a falling roof 
beam and was evacuated by airplane. Generals Pitkert and Hube were flown 
back to Germany on the orders of Army Personnel. Major General Berger left 
on his own initiative. He was arrested on the airfield at Warnapol and was 
shot behind the hangars two hours later. 

Just outside Stalingrad a quartermaster general blew himself and his staff up 
shortly before Russian troops overran their position. 

In the hospital at Baburkin, a surgeon and his four assistants were preparing 
to operate when a column of T-34s appeared in the road outside. The 
surgeon had just time to snatch up a handful of grenades before the Russians 
walked in. The hospital was largely destroyed, and not a single living person 
was found inside. 

Near Katlovska, four hundred Russian tanks crushed the tattered remnants of 
a German division. A lieutenant and five of his men succeeded in escaping 
the carnage, but they were picked up by a police patrol less than an hour later 
and shot for having sabotaged the Führer's orders. 


The last man, the last bullet. Be worthy of his trust! 

14 

Prisoners of the NKVD 

A new and even more violent tempest was now blowing up from the Siberian 
deeps. It battered us relentlessly, day and night. It was almost impossible to 
walk upright and we staggered along bent double, now and again dropping on 
all fours like animals. Sometimes an extra strong blast would pick a man up 
and carry him several yards before dumping him back in the snow like a 
discarded package. The cold had also intensified. The temperature had sunk 
so low that the constant tears which streamed from men's eyes were at once 
transformed into hard crystal droplets. 

It became at last impossible to go on, and we dug ourselves into the snow 
and stayed buried for four days while the tempest raged all about us and 
whipped the drifts into great shining mountains. Struggling trees and bushes 
were torn from the ground and borne past us on invisible currents. On two 
occasions we saw wolf packs running before the wind, streaming past our 
snowholes with their scrawny necks extended and their yellow eyes gleaming. 
They took no notice of us, nor we of them. We were all too occupied keeping 
ourselves alive. 

We grew so accustomed to the whining of the wind that during the rare 
intervals of peace we were frightened by the unnatural silence and dared 
scarcely breathe for fear of giving away our positions to the enemy. 

The Russians could have been sheltering only half a mile away, in the next 
dip of the landscape, for all we knew. The falling snowflakes were so thick, 
and were whipped into such patterns of frenzy, that visibility was cut to a few 
yards. On the morning of the fifth day the wind had subsided to its normal 
pretempest level, which now, in comparison, seemed like a mild spring 
zephyr. We dug ourselves out of our icy prisons and fought our way through 
the drifts in the wake of General Augsberg. After his one moment of 
unguarded weakness when we had crossed the Shchir, he had closed in 
again on himself and was once more the determined officer, grimly leading a 
pack of terrified and half-starved men across the Russian wastes in search of 
a phantom German army. 

"Ivan," said the Old Man suddenly, as we marched. He pointed across the 
plain. Way off in the distance we could see a long column of heavy tanks 
moving across the landscape. 

"They're heading west," said Heide. "That's where the front is." 

"That's where Germany is," I said. "Germany!" cried Gregor scornfully. "Why 
not France? Why not America? You could even get all the way to Japan and 
back if you kept on long enough—why Germany? Why not the fucking moon?" 


"If that's the way you feel about it," I said indifferently. "Don't you kid yourself 
we're ever going to get back to Germany! You'll be lucky if you reach the next 
river!" 

"That's defeatist talk!" screamed Heide, snatching out his revolver. "You could 
be shot for that!" 

Within seconds the two of them were rolling about in the snow with their 
hands around each other's throats. I distinctly heard Gregor threaten to bite 
Heide's head off. Heide's one aim was to blow Gregor's brains out. We had 
come to such a pass that not even the Old Man or the Legionnaire could be 
bothered to put a stop to it. They spared one disinterested glance for the 
fighting pair, and walked on. Tiny and Porta stood halfheartedly cheering, and 
I found myself thinking, If they kill each other, it'll be more rations for the rest 
of us. 

In the end, the lieutenant appeared and clobbered them both, and they 
staggered back into the column bowlegged and dazed. We had been on the 
march for fifty-six days by now and were scarcely recognizable as civilized 
human beings. We had far more in common with the wolf packs we had seen. 

The retreat continued. Early one morning we reached the next river, the 
Oskol. There was no sign of German troops, but since the last flicker of hope 
had burned itself out long before now, we felt no great disappointment. On the 
opposite bank of the river was the small market town of Kubyansk. There we 
should find the rest and the warmth and the fresh supplies of food we so badly 
needed; but there, also, we might find the enemy. 

"Oberfeldwebel!" 

The general came striding up to the Old Man, and I saw Porta catch Tiny's 
eye. Here we go again—always us! Take your section and go have a scout 
around . . . 

For once, Porta was wrong. It was General Augsberg who was going to lead 
the column across the river and into Kubyansk, while the Old Man and the 
rest of us were to stay behind and await the outcome. 

"We'll give you the OK when we've cleaned the place up—if it needs cleaning 
up. If they start firing on us before we get there, just stay put and wait to see 
what happens." 

"Only too pleased," muttered Tiny as we watched the general sliding down the 
bank followed by the lieutenant and the rest of the men. Suddenly, as they 
approached the village, a volley of shots rang out. 

"Ivan!" 

Porta flung himself behind the machine gun. The opposite bank of the river 
became in an instant a struggling mass of men, as the Russians swarmed out 


of the village and clashed with the general and his advancing troops. Within a 
matter of minutes, we saw the whole lot of them disarmed and led away, 
prisoners of the enemy. 

"Only to be expected." The Old Man sat back and calmly lit his pipe. "A place 
like that—it was bound to be occupied." 

"There was nothing we could do," said Gregor virtuously. "He told us to sit 
tight and wait." 

"Quite." The Old Man puffed out a thick cloud of stinking smoke. God knows 
what he'd put into that pipe in place of tobacco! " 'Stay put and see what 
happens.' Well, now we've seen, and it's up to us to go and get them out of it." 

"Get them out of it?" snapped Heide. "You must be joking! Get us out of it, 
more like. Any minute now and we'll probably hear the firing squads start up." 

"When I want your advice I'll remember to ask for it," the Old Man assured him 
equably. "And until we know for certain that they're dead, we shall assume 
that they're alive." 

"What's your plan?" asked the Legionnaire quietly. The Old Man pointed 
across the river with the stem of his pipe. "Go over there and get them out. 
Attack the enemy when they're not expecting it. It's the least we can do for 
Augsberg. If it weren't for him, we'd never have got this far." 

"I agree," said the Legionnaire. "We owe him that much." "We don't owe 
anybody anything!" snarled Heide. "He couldn't have got this far without us, 
that's for sure!" 

The Legionnaire looked at him, cold and contemptuous, then slowly turned 
away. The Old Man stood up; sturdy, immovable, unquenchably loyal. "Can I 
have two volunteers to go across and reconnoiter?" 

Tiny and Porta were on their feet before anyone else. "One thing I've always 
wanted to find out," said Tiny as they set off together, "and that's what Ivan 
gets up to when he thinks he's all alone." 

They were gone two hours. It was midmorning when they returned. Tiny was 
carrying a large bundle over his shoulders, wrapped around his neck like a fox 
fur. It turned out to be a pig, half roasted with the spit still in place. 

"Just picked it up in passing," said Tiny, casually letting it fall at the Old Man's 
feet. "It's not quite finished cooking, but we didn't have time to hang around." 

"What about the general and the rest? Did you find out what's happened to 
them?" 

"They're in an empty pigsty," said Porta. "All herded in together with two 
sentries guarding them." 


"And how about the Russians? What strength are they? A company? A 
battalion?" 

"A battalion, I should say." 

"A battalion of women," added Tiny in disgust. "More women than men, and 
so scarecrow ugly, not even a gorilla would fancy 'em." 

"Seem to be part of a supply section," Porta. "They've got trucks full of 
grenades parked under the trees." 

"Amateurs!" said Tiny, still brooding over the general lack of sex appeal. 
"They haven't even stood a proper guard." "They're probably not expecting 
any more German troops to be in the vicinity." The Old Man put away his pipe 
and nodded thoughtfully. "An attack is the last thing they'll be waiting for." 

He divided us into groups, and Gregor and I set off with Porta toward the 
cover of some woods. The trees were so thick they cut out all the light and it 
took our eyes a while to grow accustomed to the darkness. Gregor hated 
woods at the best of times. He stuck close to my heels, almost treading on 
me, breathing anxiously down my neck. 

"Don't shit in your pants before the show's even started," protested Porta. 

"It's these damn trees," muttered Gregor. "I keep seeing things in them." 

"Nothing like a good tree," said Porta cheerfully. "You can climb up 'em, piss 
up 'em, hide up 'em . . ." 

"I wish you'd climb up one and stay there," I hissed, almost as nervous as 
Gregor. "All this racket—they'll hear us coming miles away." 

"Screw me!" said Porta in disgust. "It's like taking two maiden aunts out for a 
stroll!" 

We moved on in silence and darkness. Twig fingers with thorny nails reached 
out and clawed at our uniforms. Behind every bush lurked an enormous, fur-
clad Mongoloid figure, waiting to jump out at us. We trod cautiously on. Porta 
tripped in the tangled undergrowth and fell sprawling. His submachine gun 
landed in some bushes, and he was so furious he picked himself up and 
began kicking a tree trunk. Gregor and I stood silently watching in the gloom, 
far too scared to laugh or jeer. 

We retrieved the weapon and pressed on. Suddenly, overhead, there was a 
loud burst of wing claps and a vast gaggle of crows rose flapping and clacking 
from the trees. 

"That's fucked it," said Porta. "That'll bring the whole Red Army out to 
investigate." 


We reached the edge of the wood and stood in the shadow of the trees, 
waiting for the Old Man's signal. Kubyansk was spread out before us. The sky 
had darkened and the snow was beginning to fall again. It was good weather 
for launching a surprise attack. Our group was to move out under cover of a 
protective smoke screen, and Gregor and I were to make our way to the 
pigsty and deal with the sentries. 

The whistle blew, and we moved in on our rescue mission. Shells and 
grenades rocked the buildings to their foundations and set the very streets 
afire. Machine guns clattered, women ran shrieking out of houses, dogs and 
children were everywhere under foot. Gregor and I charged along the main 
street and dived for cover behind an American threshing machine, a goodwill 
present from the United States to the Soviet Union, as a nearby house 
collapsed with a roar and a wall of bricks came tumbling down. In one of the 
neighboring streets a shell scored a direct hit on a truck loaded with grenades. 

By the time we reached the pigsty, the panic was such that we found the 
prisoners had already dealt with their guards and were streaming out into the 
streets. The lieutenant caught sight of Gregor and me and grabbed us by the 
shoulder. "What the devil's going on? Have the Americans arrived?" 

"It's all right!" I yelled above the general uproar. "It's only us!" 

We made our way out of the burning town, meeting more resistance from the 
smoke and the flames and the falling buildings than from the enemy. We had 
lost fourteen men and had nine wounded, seven of whom we were forced to 
abandon. They would have died sooner or later on the march, and there was 
no possibility of carrying them with us. General Augs-berg, his uniform 
blackened and torn, and his face covered in angry burns, lost no time in 
driving us forward again, away from the village and on toward the west. The 
sight of the town in flames would be certain to bring other enemy units to 
investigate, and we were in no condition to face full-scale combat. Our task 
now was to dodge the enemy wherever we could. 

Somewhere ahead of us, somewhere over the hundreds of miles of snow-
covered steppe, lay the Donets. We had made that our goal. 

"As far as the Donets and no farther," we said. "When we get there, that's it." 

But we had said that about the Don, and we were still marching. Our spirits 
were low, and falling lower by the day. We grumbled incessantly, and orders 
were carried out with provocative slowness. Even the equable lieutenant lost 
his temper and began threatening us. Not until General Augsberg, choosing 
the right psychological moment, gave a blast on his whistle and called us to 
order did we regain at least the rudimentary aspects of an army on the march. 

The general knew well the power of a whistle, and he used it sparingly and to 
good effect. The Germans are a nation of natural slaves. They respond to the 
crack of the whip and the threat of the jackboot; to the shrill blast of the 
whistle and the hectoring shouts of their superiors. 


The whistle is one of the most powerful instruments in all Germany. It controls 
the nation's life, from the kindergarten through to the army. At school, children 
fall obediently into line at the call of the whistle; in the street, traffic comes to a 
halt when the policeman puts his whistle to his mouth; in barracks, men are 
marched and drilled and trained by the whistle. Conquerors can cause oceans 
of German blood to be spilled, and whole seas of tears to be shed; they can 
take away their uniforms and take away their weapons and forbid them their 
armies—but only let them take away their whistles and Germany would fall to 
its knees and never rise again! 

Shouting is not so ingrained in civilian life as in military, but for a soldier it is 
as much to be feared as the ubiquitous whistle. At Breslau, I remember, we 
attacked Polish tanks with bare fists and bayonets, all because a 
quartermaster sergeant shouted at us. Another time, a comrade and I bodily 
picked up and supported a huge brute of a horse that refused to be shod—all 
because a sergeant major bawled at us. We then spent two months in the 
hospital with torn tendons, but although the doctors were doubtful about our 
fitness for any further military service, they changed their minds pretty quickly 
when the CO screamed at them. 

Perplexing people! Wild beasts that have to be tamed by the whip. Led not by 
persuasion but by brute force. Broken in, but never completely broken down. 
And I had chosen to become one of them! 

The general brought the column to a halt at the edge of a wood which was not 
marked on his map. Most German maps of Russia seemed to have been 
inspired by lunatic guesswork. The general angrily folded it up and crammed it 
into his pocket, then picked out Gregor and me as a couple of unwilling 
volunteers to explore the wretched wood. 

We had penetrated about a mile inside it when suddenly and silently a party of 
men in a variety of uniforms materialized from the trees and the undergrowth. 
There was no opportunity to turn and fight. They were on us before we 
realized it. 

"Who are you? Where have you come from?" 

The spokesman was wearing a faded Rumanian uniform. As Gregor and I 
stood staring with our hands held above our heads, he clouted us both in the 
face and repeated his question. 

We had fallen into the hands of the Vlasov Army, a group of partisans who 
worked behind the Russian lines and were noted for their savagery. Having 
no very strong aspirations for martyrdom, Gregor and I opened our mouths 
and talked. We explained how we had marched out of Stalingrad and how our 
numbers had steadily dwindled. We impressed on them that after the fracas at 
Kubyansk we were the only two to have escaped. They were obviously 
suspicious, but for the moment they decided to believe us and to keep us 
alive for further questioning when we reached their headquarters. 


With hands secured with barbed wire, we shuffled along in the midst of our 
captors. For three days and nights we marched, mainly through forest. At one 
point we trekked across the snowy wastes in order to collect some supplies 
that had been parachuted into the void by German aircraft. I wondered how 
many other supplies had fallen into enemy hands because the pilots had been 
unwilling or unable to pinpoint their targets. 

On the evening of the third day we reached a village and came to a halt. At 
the entrance to the village, a Russian lieutenant and a German sergeant hung 
side by side high up in a pine tree. The partisans waged war on everyone. 

We stayed twelve hours in the village and then moved on, but not before our 
captors had filled a sled high with provisions and laid a charge of explosives in 
every one of the mean little huts. The village was burning fiercely as we left it. 

We took to the forest again, with Gregor and me pulling the loaded sled 
behind us. We had no idea where we were going and we never did find out, 
for only a couple of hours after we had left the village we were overrun by a 
group of Russian soldiers, and after a short skirmish the partisans were 
disposed of, leaving Gregor and me alone to face the enemy. A sergeant 
came over to us. He had a large red face covered in blisters, and he was 
wearing a forage cap with the light blue cross of the Service Corps. It could 
have been worse, it could have been the NKVD; but at that moment one 
Russian seemed every bit as bad as another. The sergeant searched us both 
and gloatingly removed Gregor's tiny pocket-knife, only an inch long and quite 
useless. 

"Hitler's secret weapon?" He wagged it under our noses, then threw back his 
head and guffawed. All his men stood and guffawed with him. "Hitler kaput!" 
he informed us merrily. "All Germanski are vermin! Long live Stalin!" 

He wasn't a bad guy, really. Apart from prodding and poking us in the back as 
we stumbled through the trees, he used us quite decently. He laughed a great 
deal and tried to chat with us, but neither his German nor our Russian was up 
to it. As we reached the village where his division had set up its quarters, he 
rearranged his face into a ferocious mask, began jabbing us with his rifle and 
driving us forward, shouting at the top of his voice. 

"Davaï, davaï!" he screamed, flashing his eyes about to see if his superiors 
were watching. "Hitler kaput! Long live Stalin!" 

He marched us triumphantly along the main street and stopped before a two-
story brick house. The door was flung open and we were kicked inside and 
pushed at gunpoint along the passage to a room at the far end, where we 
were confronted by an elderly adjutant and several officers, all wearing the 
blue epaulettes of the Service Corps. The adjutant stood up and strutted over 
to examine us. Quite gratuitously, he struck us both very hard across the 
cheek with the back of his hand. 

"Chort!" he cried contemptuously. 


They were all the same. German or Russian, the only difference lay in the 
uniform, although the Russians were perhaps a little less refined in their 
methods. The adjutant's behavior would certainly have done credit to an SS 
sergeant. He screamed till he was purple in the face, and he then drew breath 
and spat at us. As his spittle dribbled uncomfortably down my cheek, I 
instinctively raised my hand to wipe it away and was knocked almost 
senseless by the blow he gave me. 

"Voini plenni—prisoners of war—kaput!" he hollered, tearing the eagles off our 
uniforms. "Here! You eat!" 

He thrust them at us, and we obediently chewed our way through them. It was 
not, after all, so terrible to eat a piece of cloth. There were plenty of worse 
fates; as we would probably find out, given time. For the moment they 
contented themselves with throwing us into a small, damp, airless cellar, used 
as a storeroom for potatoes. The place smelled unimaginably foul, and all the 
potatoes were rotten. We gnawed our way through one or two—Gregor swore 
they were more nourishing when rotten than when fresh—but it was as much 
as we could do to keep them down. Our stomachs rebelled even as we ate 
them. 

Some time later the door was opened and a soldier came in bearing a bowl of 
some turgid and evil-smelling liquid. 

"Pishcha!" he said cheerfully. "Food!" 

He raised the bowl to his lips and spat in it, then looked down at us and 
laughed. He seemed to be inviting us to laugh with him. The Russians 
certainly have a sense of humor. 

"Fish soup," said the soldier, and he laughed again. He banged the bowl 
down on the floor, slopping most of the contents over the side. "Very good. 
You eat." He closed one eye in a clumsy wink. "You shot tomorrow," he 
promised. 

He walked out, locking the door behind him. Gregor and I stared down at the 
fish soup with the great glistening glob floating on top. 

"Somehow," I said, "I don't quite fancy it." 

"I'd sooner have a spud," said Gregor, reaching out for one. 

I lay on my back and thought of General Paulus. I wondered if he was eating 
fish soup, and if so, whether some verminous soldier had spat in it. I thought it 
unlikely. Even in defeat, General Paulus's table would be plentifully supplied. 

The hours passed. We had no means of telling whether it was day or night, 
but we thought it must be day when they brought us another bowl of the fish 
soup. They had thought up a new refinement this time: they not only spilled 
the stuff on the floor, they forced us to go down on our knees and lick it up. 


Left alone with the unpalatable remainder, our hunger was by now such that 
we drained it to the last drop, only to find the corpse of a mouse lying at the 
bottom of the bowl. I flung it into the farthest corner of the cellar and tried to 
forget it had ever been there. 

"Bloody swine!" said Gregor, shaking all over. "Filthy lousy swine—we could 
get food poisoning from eating that rotten stuff!" 

"They're all the same," I shrugged. "Do you remember that time at Kiev when 
the SS lined up those women along the ditches and made them unpick the 
yellow stars from their clothes before they shot them?" 

"So what?" grumbled Gregor. "That's hardly the same as putting mice in 
people's food, is it?" 

"Why not?" I said. "It's just a refinement—people take pleasure from torturing 
other people." 

"That was the SS, it's nothing to do with us." 

"That's what you think," I said grimly. "What the SS does, it does in the name 
of Germany. And if we lose the war—" I nodded at him in the gloom. "If we 
lose the war, it'll be you and me that'll pay for it." 

The door was suddenly thrown open and two NKVD men marched in. Without 
a word, they dragged us to our feet and up the steps. Had it not been for the 
green crosses they wore, they might almost have been our own SS moving in 
for the kill. 

"Davaï, davaï!" 

We were thrown into the back of a truck loaded with munitions, and we sat 
down on a couple of cases of grenades and wrapped our arms around 
ourselves. It had been damp and cold down in the cellar, and the frosty open 
air was putting the finishing touches to our chilled bones. Just before we 
drove off, another NKVD man appeared and held out an imperative hand. 

"Give me all your valuables—watches, pens, lighters, rings, cigarette cases—
" He snapped his fingers. "Anything like that, hand it over! You won't be 
needing finery at Kolyma." 

Gregor and I had not a single valuable between us, they had long ago been 
lost or stolen. The man paused only to beat us into semiconsciousness and 
then closed the doors on us. They were all the same. Green cross or death's 
head, what difference did it make? I remembered a day when the SS had set 
fire to an old Jew's beard because he too had no valuables to hand over. 
Communist or Nazi, hammer and sickle or swastika, what difference did it 
make? 


The truck moved slowly along the icy roads. Gregor and I eventually returned 
to life and crawled back onto our grenade boxes, where we sat shivering and 
complaining for mile after mile. At last we reached a town, fair-sized from what 
we could see of it, and were handed over, like a couple of parcels, to our new 
captors. 

Toward evening we were taken for interrogation by a half-drunk lieutenant 
colonel of the NKVD, supported by a shapeless woman interpreter in the 
uniform of a captain. Gregor and I stood side by side and took it in turns to 
answer, like some ridiculous double act. 

"Where have you come from?" 

"Stalingrad," I said. 

"Stalingrad? You take us for imbeciles? All Germans at Stalingrad were killed, 
it says so in Pravda. Try again, please! Where have you come from?" 

"Stalingrad," said Gregor. 

The captain swelled out her bosom and exchanged glances with the 
lieutenant colonel. 

"That's quite impossible!" she snapped. "Stalingrad is over four hundred miles 
from here and we have patrols everywhere." 

This time Gregor and I exchanged glances. 

"I can't help that," I said. "We've still come from Stalingrad. Maybe Pravda 
made a mistake." 

She turned on me, whip in hand, and sent the thong lashing across my face. 
"Speak when you're spoken to! Enough of your lies!" 

She cracked her whip again, lit a cigarette and stuck it between her thick red 
lips. To say she had no sex appeal at all would have been an understatement. 
She was scarcely even humanoid, let alone female. She stepped back a pace 
and stood appraising us. The lieutenant colonel spoke, and she relayed it to 
us. 

"So! You persist you were at Stalingrad! Which division?" 

"The 16th Panzer." 

"Who was your commanding officer?" 

"Lieutenant General Angern." 

"Rubbish! You're talking rubbish!" 


She turned and muttered at the lieutenant colonel, who heaved himself up, 
staggered around the desk and prodded me hard in the stomach with the butt 
of his revolver. I wondered why they seemed to dislike me so much more than 
Gregor. 

"Liar!" he shouted. 

"We know you're spies," the captain goaded us. "Why not admit straight away 
that you never were at Stalingrad? Why not admit that you are Fascist 
agents?" 

Gregor let his head droop to one side. "Because we've come from Stalingrad," 
he mumbled. 

"So—very well! Stick to your lies! We shall unmask you as we go along. 
Where was your division fighting, at Stalingrad?" 

"Which army does the 16th Panzer Division belong to?" 

"Who were the Russian troops opposing you?" 

"Who was their commanding officer?" 

"Give me again the name of your own commanding officer!" 

The questions went on, rapped out one after another, tossed back and forth in 
translation from the captain to the lieutenant colonel, who both seemed 
increasingly uneasy at the accuracy of all our answers. 

"This is not possible!" shouted the captain at last; and to my secret 
satisfaction she lashed out with her whip at Gregor. "How could you come all 
the way from Stalingrad? The NKVD have arrested all the Fascist pigs who 
managed to break through our lines! No one was able to escape! How did you 
manage it?" 

"We were part of a combat group led by an SS general," explained Gregor, 
very patiently, for the ninth or tenth time. 

The lieutenant colonel gave a furious roar and reached out for his bottle of 
vodka. I could quite understand his displeasure. If Gregor and I had indeed 
come all the way from Stalingrad, then it meant that certain officials and 
certain officers—including, more than likely, himself—were in for a rough 
passage. When Moscow came to hear of the inefficiency which had allowed a 
group of German soldiers to slip through the net, there was bound to be a 
general inquiry and a consequent reshuffling of ranks, with a number of 
immediate transfers to the front line. 

"What happened to the rest of you?" asked the captain sullenly. 


"We're the only two left," said Gregor. He waved a vague hand in the direction 
of the windows. "The others are somewhere out there, on the steppe. You'll 
find them soon enough when the snow melts." 

"You mean they died?" 

"That's about the size of it." 

"Where? How?" 

"On the Don, on the Shchir—" Gregor shrugged. "We ran out of food, we 
didn't have any winter clothing or medication. Men got sick with typhoid and 
dysentery. Some of them got frostbite." 

The captain nodded as she translated this to the lieutenant colonel. She 
seemed satisfied with the answer. 

"Of course, you couldn't hope to survive a Russian winter," she scoffed. "You 
should have stayed at Stalingrad with the rest of your troops. You've had a 
long journey all for nothing." 

"That's all right," I said, risking another punch in the face. "We enjoyed it." 

She gave me a repulsive smile. "All good things come to an end. You are now 
under arrest and regarded as criminals. You crossed our borders with intent to 
kill, and for that you can be shot. Even if you are spared the ultimate penalty, 
the least you can expect is twenty-five years' hard labor." 

They made us sign our names to a document declaring that we had attacked 
the Soviet Union. Being in the uniform of German soldiers, we could scarcely 
deny it. Tomorrow, the captain informed us, we would be photographed and 
have our fingerprints taken. We should then be recognized officially as 
criminals. 

"Nice to think we shall have some sort of status," I remarked to Gregor. 

Gregor made no reply. He seemed temporarily to have lost all interest in life. 

We were taken outside and thrown into the back of an American jeep. Next to 
the driver was an ancient sergeant with World War I medals on his chest. We 
were guarded by a corporal, who sat with his MPI across his knees and a 
cigarette stuck between his lips. It was not the usual cheap machorka, all 
smoke, and smell, but a Red Star, the special brand reserved for members of 
the NKVD and other important Soviet citizens. 

We were in no doubt that our fate would be decided before the night was out, 
and we had no doubt, either, that we would be shot. Our crime was not so 
much having entered Russia in the first place as having broken out of 
Stalingrad when Pravda had already declared this to be an impossibility. If the 


news ever leaked out, Stalin himself would lose face, and this was the really 
unpardonable aspect of the whole affair. 

The stinging wind whipped across our faces and through our thin uniforms. It 
was even colder sitting still in an open jeep than marching across the steppe. 
The three Russians were decked out in fur caps and boots and thick 
greatcoats, but Gregor and I were very ill-protected. After all, if the German 
Army could not provide its soldiers with proper clothing, why should the 
Russians bother to do it for them? Especially as we were already condemned 
to die. 

We drove for hours along the Moscow-Orel-Kharkov road. No one spoke. The 
old sergeant sank deep into his coat and closed his eyes; the corporal went 
on smoking; Gregor stared vacantly into space out of dim eyes set in deep 
violet hollows. To the northwest the horizon was shot through with streaks of 
crimson, and I could hear the muted roar of artillery. 

"The front," I whispered to Gregor. 

"So what?" retorted Gregor through clenched teeth and barely opened lips. 

Toward dawn we left the main highway and turned Kofi down a B road, 
narrow and winding. The old sergeant was snoring in the front seat. The 
corporal's head was sunk onto his chest and his mouth had fallen open. Even 
I was only semiconscious. Gregor suddenly nudged me in the ribs. I jerked my 
head up and he put a finger to his lips and let his eyes slide sideways toward 
the sleeping corporal. I followed his glance. The MPI had fallen out of his 
grasp, although the sling was still over his arm. As I sat looking at it, the 
vehicle bounced over a pothole, the corporal's arm fell off his lap and dangled 
in space, and the MPI slipped down toward the ground. Gregor bent forward 
and caught it neatly as it fell. The corporal slapped his tongue across his lips 
as he slept and heaved himself into a more comfortable position. We were 
moving along the edge of a wood. Gregor settled the MPI under his arm and 
silently released the safety catch. We looked at each other and nodded. 

I jumped at the same moment as Gregor opened fire. I fell into a deep 
snowdrift, and as I clawed my way out, I saw the vehicle crash headlong into 
a tree and buckle like a concertina. 

Gregor came running up the road toward me, waving the MPI above his head. 
"Let's get out of here!" 

"Hang on," I said. "Why not swipe a couple of their nice fur caps before we 
go." 

We walked back down the road. All three of the Russians were dead. I 
snatched off two of their caps and we pulled them on, letting down the flaps 
over our ears. 

"They'll murder us for sure if they catch us like this," said Gregor. 


"They were going to murder us anyway, remember?" I Struggled with two of 
the corpses and wrenched off their jackets. "Here!" I thrust one at Gregor. 
"Might as well do the job properly while we're about it. At least we look like 
Russians; so long as no one actually speaks to us, we might even get away 
with it." 

"It's asking for trouble," moaned Gregor. "We'll be shot as spies." 

We pushed our way into the forest, through the tangled undergrowth. Thorns 
caught at our legs, tearing through our clothes and digging into our flesh. 
Overhanging branches clawed at our faces until we were streaming with 
blood. We reached a clearing and ran like stags, back into the shelter of the 
trees, back into the clinging briars, on and on with panting breath and 
trembling legs, until at last we came out of the forest and back onto the 
familiar snow-covered carpet of the open countryside. We flung ourselves 
down, gasping and heaving. I stayed on all fours like an animal. My chest was 
full of knots and my eyes were hurting me again. My precious glasses had 
been taken from me long ago by the partisans. 

Some way ahead of us lay the main Kharkov-Moscow road. And far off on the 
horizon we could see the smoke and flames of the front. On the road were 
long columns of trucks moving westward; dancing pinpoints of light in the 
semidarkness. Gregor handed me a cigarette. It was a Red Star, out of a pack 
he had taken from the dead corporal. The first few puffs made me feel weak 
and nauseous, but I persevered and the fierce pangs of hunger which had 
been gripping my belly began gradually to subside. 

"That must be the road that leads to the front," I told Gregor. 

"So what? You're not suggesting we take it?" 

"Why not? Who's going to take any notice of a couple of NKVD men?" I patted 
the green cross on my fur bonnet. "They'll pick us up for sure if we go skulking 
across the fields. They'll never think of searching for us down there on the 
road." 

Gregor looked at me. "You mean, walk along as bold as brass in the middle of 
'em?" 

"Can you think of anything better?" 

We walked down to the road and took our place in the slow-moving stream of 
traffic, Russian cars and trucks mixed up with American Willyses and 
Studebakers, their white U.S. stars painted out and replaced by the hammer 
and sickle. For a couple of miles we marched along quite boldly. Faces 
peered out at us and looked the other way again as soon as they saw our 
green crosses. We were in danger of growing overconfident, and it pulled us 
up with a nasty jolt as we realized we were approaching a genuine NKVD 
checkpoint. 


"What'll we do?" hissed Gregor. "We haven't any papers!" 

Within seconds we had disappeared into the ditch behind the shelter of some 
bushes. We lay there shivering in the icy wind, watching as the trucks were 
allowed past after a brief check, while the soldiers on foot were called to a 
halt, 

"Probably looking for us," said Gregor glumly. 

"What are we going to do?" 

I stared at him helplessly. It had been my idea to join the Russian columns, 
not his, but now we were here I felt suddenly exhausted, unable to think the 
most elementary thoughts or perform the simplest of actions for myself. I 
wished Porta or the Legionnaire were with us. They always knew what to do. I 
had never seen either of them at a loss. I needed someone to guide me gently 
but firmly by the hand and tell me where to go. 

I glanced at Gregor. He was white-faced, chewing at his lower lip, staring at 
the passing column like a frightened rabbit. Perhaps he too wished Porta and 
the Legionnaire were with us. Or Tiny or the Old Man, or anyone but me. 

"Well," I said, "we can't sit dithering in a ditch for the rest of the war." I tried to 
speak firmly, to convince myself that I was making some sort of practical 
suggestion. 

Gregor looked around at me. He seemed to gain new strength from my 
feebleness. "We'll have to get a lift—climb into the back of a passing truck." 

"The passing trucks," I said, "are practically nose to tail. The guy in the one 
behind would be bound to spot us." 

"Very likely," said Gregor coldly. "But unless you've anything better to suggest 
. . ." 

His tone implied, you got us into this mess, don't start whining when I'm trying 
to get us out of it. And in any case, I couldn't think of anything better. 

We remained crouched in the ditch, almost frozen into position, for nearly an 
hour, watching the column as it passed and watching for an opportunity to 
steal a free ride. Suddenly, bumping and jolting over the icy ground, a Molotov 
came full speed ahead along the road. The column creaked to a halt and 
vehicles obediently pulled over for the Molotov to pass. It was on our side of 
the column. We nudged each other into action, judged our moment, darted 
out into the road and hurled ourselves at the tailboard. For a few yards we 
were dragged along behind it, and then Gregor managed to heave himself 
inside. He held out a hand to me. I felt as if all the muscles in my body were 
being wrenched apart. Gregor pulled and I strained. The Molotov raced on. At 
last I succeeded in gaining a foothold, Gregor gave an extra tug, and I fell into 
the back of the vehicle, tied into a thousand painful knots. 


We were fast approaching the checkpoint. Gregor rolled us both under a pile 
of sacks as the heavy truck shuddered to a halt. We heard shouts, heavy 
boots crunching across the snow, doors slamming. Gregor seized his MPI, 
and in terror I pulled it away from him. One shot in a moment of panic and we 
should have the whole pack at our heels. We lay side by side under our 
protective covering, not daring to breathe too deeply for fear the rise and fall 
of our bodies would be noticed. 

Someone looked into the back of the vehicle. He moved a crate of grenades 
to one side, prodded about a bit with a rifle. Gregor and I stopped breathing 
altogether for the duration. It could have been only a few minutes before the 
Molotov set off again, but minutes can seem like hours in certain situations. 

We cautiously raised our heads. Following the Molotov was a Studebaker, 
driven by a shifty-eyed Mongol. The long column stretched out for miles. And 
all the time the familiar sounds of the front were growing closer. We had 
crossed hundreds of miles in a vain search for that front, and now here we 
were being taken straight to it in a Russian vehicle! 

After another hour or so we stopped for gas. Gregor and I ducked back under 
our sacks as a shower of empty jerrycans were tossed in on us. The sharp 
edge of one caught me a blow on the head and I lost consciousness for a 
while. How long I was out, I don't know, but I was jerked back to wakefulness 
by the sound of explosions. I sat up sharply and looked around for Gregor. 

"German artillery," he told me. "We've just come into their firing range." 

"That's all it needs," I said bitterly. "Blown up by our own guns!" 

The Molotov began swaying from side to side as the driver, plainly unnerved, 
increased his speed. I don't blame him; anyone driving around with twenty 
tons of grenades behind them would be unnerved in the circumstances. 
Gregor and I certainly were. We crept shivering under our sacks and lay there 
with our hands over our heads. 

The column slowed to another halt. We heard running footsteps and men 
shouting. We peered out into the night and saw that several vehicles were on 
fire. 

"Shall we go?" suggested Gregor. "Before the balloon goes up?" He nodded 
significantly at the grenades. 

"What about him?" I said, jerking my thumb toward the Mongol driver of the 
Studebaker. 

"Take a chance—he might not notice us. Even if he does, he'll only take us for 
NKVD." 


We crawled out of our sacks and jumped over the tailboard. The Molotov 
started up again and pulled slowly away. Officers were shouting orders, men 
were milling about in confusion, it was the ideal moment to make our escape. 

We set off in what we judged to be the right direction, following the sound of 
the pounding German batteries. We passed a Russian officer, who hurried by 
without so much as a glance. Seconds later a massive explosion lifted him off 
his feet, flung Gregor and me to the ground, and sent up a whirlwind of debris, 
both human and mechanical. A gust of scorching air blew over us. The first 
explosion was succeeded by others. Gregor and I stumbled to our feet and 
dived headfirst into the nearest snowdrift to escape the suffocating heat. 

Slowly and painfully we moved through the mounting chaos. Shells were 
bursting all around us. The air was full of flying lead. And now it was nearly 
morning again and we were approaching one of the worst of our trials: the 
zone that lay between the two front lines, patrolled by field police, those 
jackals ever on the prowl for fresh prey. 

We decided to go to ground. We dug ourselves into the snow, Gregor using 
his MPI, while I attacked it with a rifle I had purloined. The Russian day is very 
short in winter, but to us it seemed an eternity as we lay buried in the snow 
and anxiously awaited the night. 

As soon as it was dark, we crept out of our hiding place, smoked our last 
cigarettes, stamped our feet and swung our arms to restore the circulation, 
then set off on the last lap of our journey. 

One behind the other, we crawled on hands and knees through the scenes of 
carnage and destruction. Bodies freshly dead and dying; bodies stiff and 
frozen; burned-out tanks, overturned trucks, debris of every description. 

The whole of the front was alive and simmering. The big guns were silent, but 
every now and again came the faint, distant crackle of machine gunfire, the 
flare of a magnesium grenade. Tracer bullets lit up the darkness, occasionally 
a single cannon roared its defiance. And then again, an uneasy silence would 
fall upon the uneasy night. The two sides were preparing to come to grips at 
dawn, growling at each other, making their little warning gestures. 

A Russian patrol came by—so close I could have reached out and touched 
them. A great ball of fear clogged my throat and almost choked me. I could 
feel myself on the edge of breaking, I knew my nerves could not take much 
more. I wanted to open my mouth and scream aloud into the night, scream 
and scream and keep on screaming until I had screamed it all out of me . . . 

The patrol passed on. Gregor jumped into the shell hole beside me, 
dislodging a corpse. It fell onto my feet. I gave a shrill yelp as I felt its clammy 
weight. 

"Sh!" Gregor closed a hand over my mouth. "Take a look over there!" 


He pointed ahead. I could see nothing but darkness, felt he was probably 
trying to lure me with promises of false visions. And then, by the swift light of a 
flare, I saw it—the first of the barbed wire! 

We crawled toward it, jumping from hole to hole, from corpse to corpse. The 
wire had been destroyed in several places and the ground was thoroughly 
trampled. Any mines must have long since been exploded. Here and there 
hung the tattered corpse of a man. Here and there a naked bone protruded 
from the earth. 

Once safely under the wire, we moved stealthily on toward our own lines. It 
was a temptation to start running, but they would only have taken us for 
Russians and opened fire; it was a temptation to call out in German, but they 
would almost certainly think it was a trick. In neither case would they stop to 
ask questions. When in doubt, fire: that was the rule of the front line. 

We reached the first of the trenches and stumbled down into it, rolling joyously 
on top of each other. I fell into the snow and began kissing it in sheer gratitude 
for our deliverance. Gregor beat on it with his hands in a frenzy of triumph. 
And then we heard approaching footsteps and the clicking of a safety catch, 
and I saw Gregor open his mouth to shout, and this time it was I who silenced 
him with a cautioning finger—just in case. And just as well: the voices were 
those of Russians. 

We lay still at the bottom of the trench and waited a long, long time before we 
dared move. Even now, it seemed, our trials were not yet over. 

The first streaks of dawn found us still out in the open. We discovered we 
were sharing a hole with an unexploded shell; one of those capable of tearing 
the very flesh off your bones. We looked at it askance. 

"Spit on it," I said. "Porta always does—he says it brings you luck." 

"God knows, we need it," muttered Gregor. 

We duly performed our act of obeisance, then crawled out of the crater and 
began running across the black and pitted wastes toward our own lines. They 
could surely not now be far away, and it was essential we reach them before 
the morning attack began. 

Suddenly, emerging wraithlike from a fold in the landscape, came a tank. A it 
drew nearer, it grew less wraithlike and more unpleasantly realistic; huge and 
menacing, black cross on dirty white turret, the long cannon stretched out 
toward us like the accusing finger of death. It was a Tiger! It was one of ours! 

"Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen! Wir sind Deutsch!" 

We stood shouting, waving at them, repeating again and again, "Don't shoot! 
We're German." All quite useless, of course, for they couldn't have heard us. 
On the other hand, if we turned and ran, they would open fire immediately. 


We could only stand there, waiting, with our hands behind our heads, while 
the heavy tank plowed forward. The long finger of the cannon remained 
pointed directly at us. The Tiger rolled majestically over a broken field gun, 
crushing it irremediably. We stood our ground as it approached. The least 
movement on our part and they would certainly shoot. 

The tank was now almost upon us. The hatch was thrown open with a harsh 
metallic clang, and a heavily perspiring face looked out at us from beneath a 
gray helmet. I saw the death's head insignia on the lapels. It was an officer, a 
member of Eicke's SS Tod Division. Even more surprising that they had not 
shot us on sight! 

"Heil, Ivan!" He cocked his pistol at us. "Where are you off to, ape-men?" 
Without waiting for our reply, he beckoned us over to him. "Come aboard, 
Soviet swine! And no funny business, or you'll go straight off again—feet first!" 

We scrambled up into the tank, still clasping our hands behind our necks. The 
hatch clanged shut and the vehicle lurched forward. Three other Tigers 
appeared, and we fell in behind them. Gregor and I sat sullen and silent 
beneath the watchful eyes of the SS officer. He was obviously not sure what 
to make of us. He was plainly itching to shoot us on the spot, yet military 
discipline told him that a couple of stray Russians wandering about near 
German lines might well be more valuable alive than dead. Gregor and I kept 
our mouths shut and our hands up. 

The four Tigers reached base and we were ordered outside. The SS 
surrounded us, jeering, sneering, prodding and poking at us. Live Russian 
soldiers seemed to be something of a rarity to them. 

"All right!" snapped the officer. "Talk fast if you want to keep a head on your 
shoulders. Where have you come from? What were you doing near our 
lines?" 

"Jesus Christ!" burst out Gregor, suddenly unable to restrain himself. "Here've 
we been searching for the stinking line ever since we left Stalingrad, and now 
he has the nerve to ask us what we're doing here!" 

The man was too taken aback at the sound of Gregor's homely German 
accent and the mention of the word Stalingrad to upbraid him for showing lack 
of respect toward an officer. He looked disbelievingly from one to the other of 
us. 

"Stalingrad?" he repeated. "You've come from Stalingrad?" 

"Part of the Sixth Army," I said. "We came out with General Augsberg." 

There was a silence. They stood staring at us as if we were a couple of dodos 
returned from extinction. 


"Why the hell are you wearing that getup?" demanded one of them, pointing 
at our Russian caps and tunics. 

"When in Rome—" Gregor shrugged. 

"We marched here with the NKVD," I added. 

"A likely story!" 

It was plain they still lusted after blood, and plain that they now dared not take 
a chance and kill us, just in case we really had come from Stalingrad. In the 
end, they hit on a compromise: they ripped off our enemy uniforms, hurled 
them to the ground and riddled them with bullets. It seemed an acceptable 
substitute for shooting flesh-and-blood Russians. 

 

I don't give a damn how many Russian and Polish women have to die, those 
antitank trenches must be dug! Let them die in their thousands! What does it 
matter to me? Not a fig, except insofar as their deaths will hold up the 
completion of the trenches. 

Heinrich Himmler, during a secret conversation with 

SS officers at Posen 

General Roske, commanding officer of the XlVth Armored Corps, confronted 
General Paulus in his office. General Paulus was pale and ill at ease. He was 
smoking one cigarette after another and his forehead was damp with 
perspiration. The left side of his face twitched constantly as a nervous tic took 
control of his muscles. 

"Roske, my dear fellow!" he said expansively. "I can't tell you how pleased I 
am to see you! They told me you were dead . . ." 

"Not yet," said Roske grimly 

Paulus gave him an agitated smile. "The casualty rate among our generals is 
alarmingly high—did you know we've lost seven to date? No other army has 
had such misfortune. By the time the fighting comes to an end, I sometimes 
wonder if we shall have a single general left." He shook his head, the left side 
of his mouth twitching rapidly. "Errors have been made, in all honesty one is 
forced to admit it— but the important thing is to learn from one's experience! 
Those same errors will not be made again." 

"General, have you heard what's happening among the troops?" broke in 
Roske impatiently. "They're living more like wild beasts than human beings. 
They're having to eat corpses to keep themselves alive—men are dying of 
quite simple injuries because the doctors have nothing to treat them with—
they don't have so much as an aspirin to give them! There's no order, no 


discipline, no food, no ammunition—what are we doing? What the hell are we 
doing? What are we supposed to be waiting for?" 

"For a miracle, perhaps." Paulus crushed out a cigarette stub with one 
trembling hand and clawed up a fresh pack with the other. "It's no use asking 
me, my friend. I didn't give the order, it came from the Führer. You and I are 
soldiers, we can only obey—fight to the last man, the last bullet." He shook his 
head again and hunched, tortoiselike, into his collar. "There can be no 
question of surrender." 

"Then we shall die!" said Roske shortly. 

Paulus slowly looked up, his eyes haggard. Almost imperceptibly, he 
shrugged his shoulders. "We have no choice. Give your men my warmest 
regards. Tell them we are all in this together. And if there is anything I can do 
for you, anything at all, you will of course let me know." 

Two hours later, General Paulus sent a telegram to Berlin: 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HIS RISE TO POWER, THE SIXTH ARMY 
SALUTES ITS FÜHRER. THE SWASTIKA STILL FLIES OVER 
STALINGRAD. MAY OUR FIGHT GIVE HEART TO FUTURE 
GENERATIONS. MAY IT EVER BE SAID THAT IN THEIR MOST 
DESPERATE HOUR THEY DID NOT GIVE IN. WE BELIEVE IN VICTORY 
AND IN OUR FÜHRER. HEIL HITLER! 

STALINGRAD, JANUARY 29, 1943. 

15 

Back in German Lines 

We were taken to Kharkov in an amphicar and handed over to a battalion 
stationed in the Dzhinski barracks on the slopes of Nova Bavaria. A 
quartermaster sergeant sent us off straightaway to the stores to collect some 
new kit and some weapons, where the corporal in charge told us that anyone 
arriving from Stalingrad was automatically sent on to Dzhinski. 

"Anyone?" queried Gregor, "You mean, there are quite a few?" 

"A small trickle. One or two turn up each week." 

We asked him about our own group, but either they had genuinely not passed 
through the barracks or else the man had been told to keep his mouth shut, 
for he denied all knowledge of them. Even had he seen them, the chances 
were he would not have talked, for immediately after our visit to the stores we 
had to report to the secret police for a detailed interrogation. It was like being 
with the NKVD all over again. No one seemed willing to believe that we could 
possibly be telling the truth. 


"So! You say you came out of Stalingrad?" asked a young and cocksure 
captain, with a faintly sardonic smile on his lips. 

"We did come out of Stalingrad," said Gregor. 

"How?" 

"An SS general took us out. There was a whole group of us, about eight 
hundred men." 

"The name of this general?" 

"Augsberg. General Augsberg." 

The captain rustled importantly among some papers on his desk. "When was 
this? What was the date?" 

Gregor and I looked at each other stupidly. 

"About January 26 or 27," I guessed. 

"I see." He looked up at us. "So the fighting was still going on at Stalingrad 
when General Augsberg led you out?" 

"Yes—in one or two places," I said innocently. "The Russians were on the 
point of attacking our positions near the New Theater and the Place of the 
Dead." 

The captain smiled at this. He made a note on a clean sheet of paper and 
then amiably offered us his cigarettes. "When the general led you out, did no 
one raise any objections? None of the officers?" 

Gregor shook his head. "No. It was pointless staying in Stalingrad, the 
Russians were walking all over us. We couldn't possibly have held the place. 
The game was over, we just wanted to get out." 

"And continue the fight elsewhere," I added, with a vague premonition of 
danger. "Somewhere more useful." 

"Stalingrad was lost months ago," said Gregor contemptuously. 

"Of course, of course," murmured the captain, leaning back in his chair and 
playing with his cigarette lighter. "So General Augsberg formed a combat 
group and led you out— and none of your officers raised his voice in protest?" 

"Not as far as I know," said Gregor vaguely. 

"And yet General Augsberg was a stranger to you? He was not your 
commanding officer?" 


"Well—yes and no," Gregor partly conceded. "It was all a bit of a mess. We 
were just the remnants, see. A few men from this division, a few men from 
that—nobody was properly in command until General Augsberg came along 
and took over." 

"He was the sort of man," I said, "you did what he told you to do. You didn't 
stop and argue." 

"But did you not realize he was ordering you to desert?" murmured the 
captain, very smooth. "Surely you must have? You had weapons, you had 
ammunition, there were eight hundred of you—quite a powerful group! Why 
did you not stay behind and fight the enemy?" 

"Fight the enemy?" repeated Gregor, looking rather blank. "There wasn't any 
point, they were clobbering us from all directions—in any case, we just did 
what we were told." 

"As always," I added. 

The captain stood up. He walked around to the front of the desk, flexing his 
legs and creaking his high leather boots. He gazed at us sternly. "It was your 
duty to oppose this man! You should have spoken out against him." 

"Sir," I protested, "have you ever heard of an ordinary soldier speaking out 
against a general?" 

He obviously hadn't. He walked back around the desk, picked up his riding 
crop and began thoughtfully tapping himself with it. "You were up against the 
Russians at Gumrak, were you not?" He evidently knew the answer to the 
question already. "What happened when the fighting was over? What did you 
do?" 

Gregor gave a short laugh. "Took off!" 

"We made for the Don," I said quietly. 

"It seems to me," remarked the captain, "that after deserting from Stalingrad, 
the whole of your march was one disordered flight westward." 

"Toward the German front line," I said. 

The captain ignored that. "Did the general never order you to attack the 
Russian positions? Did he never organize acts of sabotage against the 
enemy? Did you never blow up their arms dumps, sever their supply lines?" 

"What with?" said Gregor. "We just pushed on as fast as we could." 

"We were looking for the German front line," I repeated. 


Again the captain ignored me and concentrated on Gregor. "You had a 
medical officer with you—what role did he play? Did he arrange transport for 
your sick and wounded? Did he perform any operations?" 

Gregor laughed again. "In that weather?" 

"We couldn't possibly arrange transport,". I explained. "We didn't have any. 
And it simply wasn't possible to operate in those conditions. In any case, we 
had no medical supplies." 

"So you abandoned your wounded on the steppe?" The captain narrowed his 
eyes to slits, then opened them wide in accusation. "You left them to die? And 
no one spoke out against it? Not even your general?" 

"There was nothing we could do! Men were dying like flies—we had no food, 
no winter clothing, no bandages—almost everyone had dysentery or frostbite 
or both together— or typhoid, that was even worse, it was as much as we 
could do to drag ourselves along, let alone carry sick men with us." 

"So you left them to die?" 

"It was impossible to do anything else!" 

The captain and I stood glaring at each other. 

"Impossible, eh?" He savored the word, gently tapping the back of his legs 
with his crop. "Impossible—well, we shall let others be the judge of that. Let 
us press on with your story. During your flight from Stalingrad, did anyone 
ever speak out against the Party? Against the Führer? Did anyone ever 
criticize the way the war was being fought?" 

Gregor and I firmly shook our heads. 

"No?" said the captain, with a faintly ironic smile. 

"No," I said. 

"You seem almost indecently sure of yourself?" 

"I am sure. Very sure." 

"Hm—" He turned back to his desk, gathered up the various sheets of paper 
and placed them neatly in a folder. "If you have any letters to deliver, any 
personal effects belonging to dead men, you can give them to me." 

"We haven't," said Gregor. "The Russians took everything off us." 

"How much did you tell the Russians?" 

"Nothing. Only our names and our units." 


"Oh? And the NKVD was content with that?" He smiled another of his ironic 
smiles, then gave us a nod of dismissal. "Speak to no one of this interview. 
Keep your mouths shut about Stalingrad. If anyone asks you any questions, 
they must be reported immediately to the GEFEPO."* 

*Field Secret Police. 

An hour later we were reunited with our own company, where our arrival 
caused a minor furor. 

"Look who it is, damn my eyes!" yelled Tiny, lumbering across to us. 

"We thought you must be dead!" declared the Old Man, trying to fling his arms 
around both of us at the same time. 

"Where the hell did you get to?" grumbled Porta. "We waited two fucking 
hours on the edge of that wood. I said to the general, the mean bastards have 
stumbled on a pack of Russians and don't want to share the caviar with us." 

They were all there, the Old Man, Porta, Tiny, the Legionnaire and Heide. 
Even Barcelona had turned up to greet us! Thrown out of the hospital and 
declared fit to die for his country, he had had the great good fortune to be sent 
back to his old company. 

"They're reforming the Sixth Army," he told us. "Christ only knows where 
they're going to get the extra men—they must be combing the old men's 
homes by now." 

"What's happened to Augsberg?" Gregor wanted to know. 

"And the lieutenant and the doctor?" I added anxiously. 

The Old Man shrugged. "Do you have to ask? Weren't you put through your 
paces by the secret police?" 

"You mean they've arrested them?" 

"What else could they do? An army's not an army without discipline. And 
Augsberg left Stalingrad against Hitler's orders. Technically, he's a deserter. 
And he knew what he was doing." 

"But that's lunacy!" protested Gregor. "Anyone who stayed behind to die in 
Stalingrad when he could have got out needs his head examined! In any 
case, it wasn't desertion. We weren't running away from the front line, we 
were trying to find the goddamn thing!" 

Life for the next few days was more bearable than it had been for quite a 
while. We were forbidden to speak of our exploits, but everyone knew where 
we had come from and we were regarded with some awe—to have survived 
the renowned hell of Stalingrad! To have crossed the Don! To have outwitted 


the Russians! We were feted and celebrated and looked on, in our apparent 
indestructibility, as minor deities. 

One day, as Porta and I were strolling peaceably together, enjoying a sudden 
burst of sunshine, a gross quartermaster sergeant came tumbling out of a hut 
and made straight for us. He seized Porta by the shoulders and shook him. 
"Hauber! Where the hell have you been these past five hours? I've looked 
everywhere for you!" 

Porta, admirably restraining his normal impulse to shout obscenities, stepped 
back a pace and considered the man. He was wearing spectacles with lenses 
about an inch thick, and it was plain that he was quite unable to see more 
than a yard in front of him. 

"What do you want me for?" demanded Porta/Hauber, playing for time before 
deciding whether or not his new role was worth it. 

"What do I want you for? Good God in heaven, there's a war on, man! There's 
work to be done, supplies to be fetched, men's bellies to be filled . . ." 

I stood watching as he dragged Porta away with him. 

For a while I leaned with my back against a tree trunk, drinking in the sun and 
wondering how long I should bother to wait, and then Porta reappeared, 
grinning, and waving a sheet of paper at me. "Come on!" 

"What for?" I said, not willing to move from my tree trunk without good cause. 

"Going to pick up a load of provisions for the fat fool in glasses." 

"Why do him a good turn?" I grumbled, peeling myself away and joining Porta 
in the cab of a large truck. 

"Why not?" said Porta, winking roguishly. "Might just do ourselves one at the 
same time." 

We reached the depot and Porta handed in his requisition. 

"Who are you?" demanded the sergeant in charge. "Where's Hauber?" 

"Sick. He was taken bad very sudden in the night." 

"Poor old Hauber! What is it, do you know?" 

"Liver trouble," said Porta, without turning a hair. 

The sergeant rubber-stamped and signed the requisition and asked no more 
questions, and we took the truck around to pick up the goods. For a start, we 
had a load of uniforms dumped on us. That was followed by five hundred 
rifles. My spirits began to fall, and Porta's face turned slowly red with rage. 


"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 Führer, 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 
Führer 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 Führer 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 Führer 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 FÜHRER! 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." 

16 

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. 

"Three hours late," he grumbled to us, "it's disgusting what things are coming 
to in this country—they get onto the wrong line, you know. They send them off 
willy-nilly anywhere they choose, never mind the people waiting to get on 
them. It's high time something was done about it." He looked us over critically, 
taking in the details of our uniforms. "I don't suppose it's like that in Germany," 
he said. "Why can't you people do something about it, now that you're here? 
You're supposed to be the efficiency experts, aren't you?" 

At this, a whole knot of peasants turned to us and began clamoring. 

"It wouldn't be allowed in Germany!" 

"No sense of duty, that's what the trouble is." 

"I've been waiting here twenty-four hours." 


"All I want to do is get to Nikopol. It says in the timetable it was due yesterday 
morning. But where is it?" A stout man with a chicken tucked under each arm 
nudged Porta in the ribs and looked trustingly up at him. "Where's it got to, 
eh?" 

"It's been delayed," said Porta. "That's what it is, it's been delayed—it's the 
war, tovaritch. The war delays everything." 

"But when's it going to come, that's what I want to know." 

"Give it time," said Porta, looking very wise. "Be patient, comrade! You can't 
hurry these things." 

Half an hour later, an engine pulling both freight and passenger cars puffed 
into the station and groaned to a halt. A jubilant shout went up from the crowd. 
Chickens, baskets, pigs, children were swept up, dogs ran about barking and 
wetting themselves and everybody else with excitement. The station was too 
small to accommodate such a long train and the last two coaches extended 
beyond the platform. We all tumbled pell-mell onto the railway tracks and 
surged toward them. The man with the black-and-white pig became stuck in a 
door. People pulled from in front and pushed from behind, and both man and 
pig set up a terrified squealing. The guard blew his whistle and shouted. He 
ran up and down the platform in a frenzy and finally drew his pistol and fired 
several shots into the air. 

"Sabotage!" he screamed. 

The crowd ignored him. No one knew where the train was going, it was not to 
be found in any timetable and there was no indication, either on the train or on 
the platform, but everyone, nevertheless, was hell-bent on climbing aboard. 
Porta wriggled through a window and fell into a coach headfirst. I saw Tiny 
fighting his way through a mass of clucking chickens. A Rumanian sergeant 
pulled out his saber ready to decapitate Barcelona, but a fat woman elbowed 
her way between them and knocked the saber to the ground. Military police 
appeared and began hitting out indiscriminately. A sergeant pulled out his 
revolver and fired a shot into the crowd. The bullet whistled past the head of 
the black-and-white pig, which promptly leaped out of its owner's arms and 
went howling through the train like a hand grenade. Instantly, a chase set off 
after it. 

At last the platform was empty and the train was full. People were sitting in the 
baggage racks and standing pressed together in the corridors. The black-and-
white pig had been recaptured and locked into one of the toilets along with a 
calf and six self-important geese. Chickens were everywhere, under the 
seats, on the seats, perched on people's heads and laps. The police were 
pushed off bodily and the train started up, without bothering to wait for the 
guard to blow his whistle. He galloped along the platform beside it, red in the 
face and bellowing, while we hung from the windows and yelled obscenities. 
Ultimately some kindly peasant flung open the door of the last coach and 
hauled him up. 


"Pity about that," remarked Barcelona, closing the window. "I was quite 
enjoying it." 

"Ever hear of a bloke called Manfred Katzenmeyer?" Porta asked him, 
pushing a cackling hen off his lap. 

"No," said Barcelona. "Should I have?" 

"Not necessarily. It just reminded me of him—that fool of a guard getting left 
behind like that." 

"Why? Is that what happened to Manfred Katzenmeyer?" 

"Yeah, he's a kind of legend," said Porta. "He started off in the last war as a 
captain in the artillery, only he got himself in good and proper by mixing up 
one box of grenades with another with all hell to pay when they tried to fire on 
the Frogs. So they took him out of that and put him in charge of transport. 
They figured he couldn't do much harm there." 

"They'd have shot him today," I put in. 

"Very likely," agreed Porta. "Well, they did, in the end. When Adolf come 
along and they started screaming for manpower, any nut that volunteered was 
welcome—including Katzenmeyer. Well, that was asking for trouble, that was 
—he'd already proved he was an imbecile. Anyway, they give him this train to 
look after. He didn't know the first thing about trains, but they figured as he 
didn't actually have to drive the thing, it didn't really matter. All the stations he 
stopped at, they used to hate his guts. Always bawling everyone out and 
finding fault. Piddling, if you know what I mean. When I first come across him, 
he looked like a field of daisies. He'd togged himself up with this special 
uniform, covered all over in bits of yellow braid—they used to call him the 
Shithouse King in those days. He had this rule, see, about opening your 
bowels at set hours. Twice a day, once after breakfast and once before kip. 
Officers and men, he treated 'em all the same—used to send 'em off, regular 
as clockwork, and then stand there timing 'em. Three minutes thirty seconds 
and God help anyone that had the runs . . ." 

"What's that got to do with the train?" interrupted Barcelona, smothering a 
yawn. 

"What train?" 

"The one you were supposed to be telling us about." 

"All right, all right, I'm coming to it," said Porta, irritable as ever when someone 
tried to rush him. "Give me time. One day, the stupid jerk got left behind. It 
was his own fault. They'd stopped at some crummy little station the other side 
of the Donets, some one-horse place where nothing ever happened. Well, 
there was an old dodderer of about ninety-eight used to stand there leaning 
on his broom and watching the trains go by. Someone had given him this 


broom back in 1922 and told him to hold onto it—just to give him something 
useful to do. In a country like Russia, you can't have people just standing 
about doing nothing. So ever since 1922, this old fella had leaned on his 
broom not bothering anybody. He'd seen 'em all come and go—he'd seen 
Wrangel's cavalry and Trotsky's marines, he'd seen the Cossacks when they 
had their little revolution, he'd seen the Germans back in 1914—he'd got to 
the stage where he didn't give two damns for no one in authority. He knew 
they were all the same underneath, just wearing different uniforms. He'd 
heard 'em all shouting and bawling in his time. Long live the Tsar! Long live 
Lenin! Long live the Kaiser! Long live Russia! Long live Germany! Up with the 
Revolution! Down with the Revolution! Up with . .." 

"So the train went off without him." Barcelona was getting impatient again. 

Porta glared at him. "Not him! Katzenmeyerl" 

"Sure, who else?" Barcelona drawled. 

"Katzenmeyer got out of the train to boss people around like usual, and he 
saw this old geezer leaning on his broom. So of course he bawls him out and 
asks him what the hell he's doing just standing there. So the old geezer tells 
him about this commissar back in 1922 giving him the broom and telling him 
to keep hold of it. So then Katzenmeyer gets mad and starts shooting his 
mouth off and asking him about his bowels, and while he's doing this, his train 
suddenly ups and offs without him. So he goes tearing up the line behind it, 
waving his arms about and hollering like a nut, trips over the points and 
knocks himself out. And meanwhile," said Porta with relish, "the poor 
bastard's train goes roaring off along the track without a guard and nobody 
knows where the hell it's meant to be going, so every station it gets to, they 
just shove it off onto whatever line happens to be free and send it on its way. 
It went all around Europe!" Porta's eyes gleamed. "It passed through Kiev no 
less than fifteen times. Berlin saw it three times. It even got as far as Paris, 
and the Frogs didn't know what to do with it so they sent it on to Amsterdam 
and Brussels. After that it got lost and wasn't seen again for nearly two 
months. It turned up at last at Munich, full steam ahead from Rome. Even 
then the fools didn't recognize it in time. They got panicky and changed the 
points and sent it off to Frankfurt. The railroad officials were going berserk. 
They simply never knew where it was going to turn up next. People standing 
on little country platforms used to be frightened out of their lives by this huge 
great train suddenly surging up out of nowhere. The driver couldn't pull up, 
you see. They figure he'd have gone all the way to Peking if the lights had 
stayed on green. It was lucky for him someone turned 'em on red and stopped 
him just in time, otherwise he might still be whistling around Europe in the 
middle of the war." 

Porta leaned back in his seat, looking very well pleased with himself. There 
was a short silence. Gregor, the Legionnaire and the Old Man were all asleep. 
Heide had found a magazine and was reading it. The Old Man suddenly 
snored. 


"And what happened to this Katzenmeyer fellow?" asked Barcelona. 

"They shot 'im," said Porta. 

"Well, well." Barcelona turned and looked out of the grimy window. 

Tiny suddenly leaned forward. "What about the people in the train?" he said 
aggressively. "I don't see how they could have still been alive after all that 
time. What did they eat? And what about the train? How did they run it? 
Where'd they get the . . ." 

Fortunately, midway through the sentence, there was a frantic squeal of terror 
and the black-and-white pig came charging through the compartment chased 
by the six geese. Tiny was so entranced by the sight that he forgot all about 
his awkward questions. 

We reached a station called Vinnitsa and had to change. We waited all night 
on the platform and not until the following afternoon did the next train arrive. It 
was called an express but it stopped every half an hour at the most obscure 
stations on the line, and we had to travel in open cars. We were not even able 
to get any food during the interminable waits, because the authorities had 
neglected to put the proper stamps on our cards. 

At Novoyovsk we parted company with the express and were hitched onto a 
smaller and somewhat dubious locomotive which pulled us very slowly along 
a narrow branch line. The branch line ended suddenly at a place called Slin. It 
appeared that it had been laid at the start of the war and then abandoned, and 
no one now knew where it had been intended to go. 

From Slin we had to walk across some marshes to the main line, where we 
waited several hours before succeeding in scrambling aboard a munitions 
train. We had an uncomfortable journey sitting on boxes of grenades, and 
three times the train came to a halt and we had to hide under the wagons 
while enemy aircraft attacked us. 

At Krivoi Rog two sappers came aboard carrying a fire extinguisher. They sat 
on the grenades with us and we learned that one of them had been posted 
missing, believed dead, over a year ago, while the other had escaped from a 
transport train six months earlier. Their pockets were crammed with forged 
passes and travel documents, and it appeared that they spent their time 
moving freely about Europe under the noses of the field police. 

"What's the fire extinguisher for?" I asked politely. 

"Can come in mighty handy," I was told, "traveling on a munitions train." 

Four days later we arrived at our antechamber to paradise. Stiff and sore, and 
cynically prepared to be disillusioned, we climbed off the train and waved 
goodbye to our two friends. 


"Hey, where are the whores?" Tiny wanted to know, as we stared across the 
platform and saw nothing more appetizing than a policeman dozing in the sun 
with his MPI across his knees. 

"Never mind the whores!" The Old Man threw down his gear, stretched his 
arms high above his head, and took in a deep breath of air. "I smell spring! 
The lilac must be in bloom!" 

It was true. It hung everywhere in great purple bunches, and its fragrant scent 
was almost unbearably sweet after the sweat and the filth of the trenches. 

The policeman woke up and broke the spell which had momentarily 
descended on us. He jerked his MPI toward us and roughly demanded our 
papers. They were all in order, but he had to take out a fat file of photographs 
and go through them in detail, carefully checking them against us in the hope 
of making an arrest. It was with sullen reluctance that he finally allowed us to 
leave the station. 

We walked out into the town. Rows of pretty little white houses with tiny 
gardens. The hot noon sun riding high in the sky. We kept close to each other, 
elbow to elbow, and our boots rang out indecently loud in the quiet street. 

"Why's it like this?" hissed Tiny. 

"Like what?" said the Old Man. 

"So quiet—nobody about—I don't like it. Something's wrong." 

"Nonsense!" 

The Old Man smiled and walked on, but the rest of us agreed with Tiny; such 
unaccustomed silence was unnerving. 

"Look!" The Old Man was standing at the top of the slope, pointing ahead. 
Wondering, we ran up to join him. 

"What is it? What's the matter?" 

Porta fingered his revolver. The Legionnaire had a hand on his knife. Tiny 
kept glancing nervously over his shoulder. 

"Just take a look!" roared the Old Man. 

We looked. There, spread out below us, dazzling in the sunshine, was the 
sea. A great blue lake of water fringed with palm trees. Farther along the 
coast were cypresses and scented bushes and glowing crimson flowers the 
size of soup plates. 

Staring hypnotically, we moved toward it. 


"Is it real?" Tiny kept asking; and he seemed to be serious. "Is it really real?" 

Keeping to the left, as do all soldiers in unknown territory, we walked slowly 
down the steps to the beach. At the foot of the steps we met a guard, who 
pointed out the army convalescent home. The light breeze was full of the salt 
scent of the sea, and the waves made a gentle hissing sound as they dribbled 
up the beach and rolled back again. 

Porta suddenly nudged Tiny in the ribs. 

"Get an eyeful of that," he muttered, nodding his head toward a couple of girls 
stepping across the sand on their way to the sea. 

They were young and well formed, with great pneumatic breasts bulging out 
of their skimpy bathing suits. Barcelona whooped, and Tiny gave a loud 
catcall. 

"Holy Mother of God!" whimpered Gregor. "I'd almost forgotten what they 
looked like." 

Porta went plunging off toward them, followed eagerly by the rest of us. Only 
the Old Man and the Legionnaire remained aloof and amused on the outskirts. 
The girls fluttered and screamed as Tiny's great paw groped at their bottoms, 
and Porta propositioned them outright with bottles of vodka as bait. They 
escaped from us and ran shrieking down to the sea, and a barrel-chested 
sergeant suddenly accosted us with a shout of rage. 

"What the hell do you think this is?" he bellowed. "A cattle market? Keep your 
hands off my girls or I'll have you sent to Torgau!" 

"Your girls?" queried Porta eagerly. "You mean, you rent them out?" 

"I mean they're two of my nurses!" he roared. "You keep your filthy hands to 
yourself! This is a respectable garrison, we don't have to put up with you 
people behaving like pigs the minute they let you out of the trenches!" 

The Old Man stepped forward, looking the sergeant coldly up and down. The 
man's uniform was flamboyantly new and smart. 

"Have you ever been to the front?" asked the Old Man quietly. 

"Of course I haven't! I work in the infirmary. What do you take me for?" 

Porta's "A fucking son of a bitch," was delivered in no uncertain voice. 

The sergeant rounded on him. "All right! You've asked for it! You came here in 
search of trouble and by Christ you're going to get it!" He took out a notebook. 
"Name and number!" he snapped. 


"Don't be a fool," said the Old Man. He pulled open his coat and revealed his 
rank of sergeant major, together with the various decorations he had gained 
during his years at the front. The sergeant swallowed rather resentfully. 

"You want to watch your language in future," gibed Porta. "Might find yourself 
trying to bawl out a colonel one day." 

"Shut up," said the Old Man. 

"I don't see why I should," began Porta, aggrieved. 

"Well, shut up anyway!" 

The sergeant had recovered himself. 

"You stick to the rules," he said, "and you'll enjoy yourselves in Zatoka. We 
got discipline, but we're democratic. If everyone behaves himself, we all get 
along fine. You're here for a rest, but you still got to have discipline. Like in a 
barracks. Law and order—you'll find a list of the rules pinned up in the 
bedrooms and the recreation rooms. And don't try tearing them down!" 

He marched off chest first along the beach. Tiny and Porta disappeared into 
the town in search of girls. 

Gregor pulled me to one side. "I don't know how you feel," he murmured, "but 
I rather fancy one of those nurses myself." 

There was one small problem: how to get at them! It was against the rules for 
them to visit us in our bedrooms, and it went without saying that it was also 
against the rules for us to visit them in their bedrooms. 

Their quarters were on the fourth floor of the adjoining house. It was 
impossible to use the front door, there were spies lurking in every corner. We 
slipped outside that night under cover of darkness and I climbed onto Gregor's 
shoulders and hauled myself onto the first-floor balcony, then gave Gregor a 
hand up. We looked apprehensively at the drainpipe. 

"You think it'll take our weight?" I said. 

"Try it and see," said Gregor. "If it takes you, it'll take me. You're heavier." 

"That," I retorted, outraged, "is a palpable lie!" 

"Oh, stop beefing!" he growled, giving me a shove toward the suspect drain 
pipe. "Either you want it or you don't, and this is the only way you're likely to 
get it!" 

We reached the roof and clambered over the gutter, cold sweat breaking out 
between our shoulders. Far, far away below us lay the sea and the rocks. I 
stared down at them and shivered. 


"It's a funny thing," I said, "but I can't stand heights. It's one of my 
weaknesses." 

"And nurses are one of mine!" replied Gregor with a grin. 

We crept along the roof to their room, then leaned over the edge of the gutter 
and threw pebbles at them through the open windows. They looked out and 
saw us, twisting their heads around, pulling faces and pretending to be 
shocked. 

"We're coming down!" hissed Gregor. 

They made no attempt to stop us. Indeed, their room was so tidy, so 
seductively arranged, so softly lit, that I was tempted to believe they had 
anticipated a visit. 

"Look," said Gregor, suddenly stiff and foolish in their presence, "we've 
brought you something." And he thrust a large bottle of vodka and a tin of 
caviar at them, while I, equally maladroit, handed over my own contribution: a 
watch and a bracelet that I had stolen from Tiny, who in turn had stolen them 
from someone else. I was still waiting for him to discover his loss. 

The girls received their gifts with little squeaks of glee. We all sat down 
together in the dim light and studied one another. The vodka was passed 
around; we ate the caviar and some ground meat and red cabbage. The girls 
giggled a great deal and eyed us up and down, trying to assess our likely 
performances. One of them was big and blond, the other was small and dark. 
Truth to tell, I was scared stiff of both of them! 

The brunette finally attached herself to me, supping onto my knee and putting 
an arm around my neck as we sipped our vodka. I felt myself beginning to 
sweat. I wondered why on earth I had come. It was worse than waiting in the 
trenches for the enemy to launch an attack—it was so long since I had had a 
woman. Suppose I made a fool of myself? She would be insulted and I would 
be humiliated. And the word would spread around the company and my life 
wouldn't be worth living. I should never have come. Let Gregor have both of 
them. He was welcome. 

The girl rubbed her face close against mine. Her lips, half open, brushed 
across my mouth. A moment later she was all but devouring me. I stopped 
feeling scared and began to feel cautiously excited. I let an exploratory hand 
crawl spiderlike up her leg, and she wriggled with pleasure. I began to grow 
bolder. 

Gregor was more forward than me. He had already taken possession of the 
blonde and laid her out flat on one of the beds. A pair of pants came flapping 
across the room like a frightened pigeon, followed by a stocking. The blonde 
giggled rather shrilly but made no attempt at resistance. 


I found myself being pushed backward, off the chair and onto the bed. The girl 
launched herself after me, lying on top of me, her lips nuzzling the base of my 
neck. 

"What's your name?" she murmured. "Mine's Gertrude." 

"I'm Sven." 

"German?" 

"Danish." 

"Ah! Danish!" I felt her fingers plucking at me, slowly removing my clothes. 
"I've been married twice," she informed me chattily. "My first husband was 
killed in Poland and the other worked at the local command post. The English 
blew it up. The whole road was gone within ten minutes. Incendiary bombs," 
she explained. 

"Oh, yes?" 

I was not interested in the English and their incendiary bombs. My 
temperature had rocketed so high I felt quite dizzy. I pulled her close, and she 
wound her legs tight about me. 

"It's been such a long time," she whispered. 

"Me too," I said. 

We were silent a while. 

"Have you had many women?" she asked. 

"I don't know—how can I remember?" 

"How can you forget?" she chided. 

"It was all so long ago—we've just come from Stalingrad. I can't remember all 
the things that happened to me before that." 

"Stalingrad!" She gave an ecstatic shudder and pressed herself even harder 
against me. "That must have been terrible." 

"A bit grim," I agreed, and began sweating profusely. 

"It's a wonder a man can live through it." 

"Don't worry," I murmured, "this makes up for it all." 

And it did, at the time. We spent the whole night making love. We passed 
through the Kama Sutra from cover to cover and were ready to begin all over 


again with the dawn. But time was up, and Gregor and I had to make our way 
back across the rooftops. 

"Watch how you go!" said the girls, hanging out of the window and giggling. "It 
won't be as easy as when you came!" 

As we slipped unsteadily down the drainpipe to the first-floor balcony, we saw 
two dim figures galloping homeward with bottles tucked under their arms. Tiny 
and Porta. 

"Where have they been?" I demanded. 

"Dunno," said Gregor, "but they're breaking the rules: no drink allowed on the 
premises . . ." 

"No sex allowed on the premises," I said owlishly. 

Gregor and I sniggered happily as we clambered over the balcony. 

For four days we continued to play in the antechamber to paradise. Each 
night Gregor and I mountaineered across the rooftops and each morning we 
stumbled back again, exhausted. We were drunk with the freshly discovered 
delights of sex, and perhaps it was as well that we were called back to the 
front before the pleasure began to grow stale. 

The Legionnaire looked at us and laughed softly to himself. "You look worse 
than when you came," he remarked. 

"A change is as good as a rest," said Gregor, with all the solemnity of one 
who is expounding an original theory. 

"Just as well!" retorted the Legionnaire. "You two haven't had a moment's rest 
since you arrived! On the job morning noon and night." 

We traveled back in a train that was full of horses. We stretched out in the 
feeding troughs that were fixed to the walls, and Gregor and I fell asleep 
almost immediately. But this time we were awakened not by soft lips and 
gentle caresses, but by the insistent nuzzling of the horses and the hot 
blowing of their sweet, hay-smelling breath on our cheeks. We and the poor 
beasts were going back together to the miseries of war. 

 

We shall be ruthless in our fight against the opponents of the Confederation of 
the German Peoples. All those who cannot integrate into our society must be 
exterminated, regardless of race or religion. 

General Goering, in a talk given to the police, December 12, 1934 


A section of blood-spattered T-34s nosed their way slowly down the center of 
the road, between the serried ranks of corpses which lined the sidewalks and 
even spilled over into the gutters. In the leading tank, Lieutenant Yevtenko 
gazed with complete indifference at the gaunt gray shadows that came 
crawling out of the sewers and the cellars, out of the ruins and the bomb 
craters. They were men, these furtive shadows; starving, withered and 
broken. But to Lieutenant Yevtenko they were merely the scum of a defeated 
army. 

A German colonel suddenly ran into the road and flung wide his arms. "Heil 
Hitler!" he shouted, as Lieutenant Yevtenko's tank approached him; and, "Heil 
Hitler!" he cried, as it crushed him beneath its tracks. 

The colonel had lost his mind. Many men had lost their minds at Stalingrad. 
Among them was General Lange who, at the last moment, as the victorious 
Russians marched back to claim their property, seized hold of a machine gun 
and turned on his own men. He killed several hundred before he ran out of 
ammunition. 

Behind the column of T-34s came a low black car. It hooted impatiently as it 
forced its way through the groups of soldiers now gathering increasingly in the 
street. It gradually moved up the column and overtook the leading tank. 
Inside, reclining in the back seat, were two generals. One was in khaki. This 
was General Polkovnik, a Russian staff officer. The other was in gray, with 
scarlet lapels and a baton in his hand. This was the newly promoted Field 
Marshal Friedrich Paulus. He glanced now and again through the windows, 
staring unseeing at the ragged soldiers standing about uncertainly awaiting 
their fate at the hands of the Russians. Prison camp, or maybe worse. Field 
Marshal Paulus smiled at a comment of General Polkovnik's, and the two men 
laughed together. Paulus never once referred to his starving troops; he never 
once made mention of the 285,000 corpses that lay scattered over the steppe, 
or the 10,000 execution orders which he himself had signed during the last 
forty-eight days of the battle for Stalingrad. All that was over and done with. 
He could look out of the window at the gray-faced men and be unmoved by 
their suffering. The battle was over, they were no longer his concern. 

Meanwhile, one of his generals was caught trying to steal a hunk of 
horsemeat from a wounded lieutenant and was battered almost to death for 
his pains. Yelling and raving, he was dragged away by three Russian officers 
and thrown into a prison camp in one of the Red Army buildings. Not every 
general could be promoted to field marshal and be driven through the streets 
of Stalingrad in a big black car. 

Down in a cellar, beneath the blackened ruins of a factory, a field hospital had 
been set up. And in one corner of the cellar crouched a small group of men 
from the 44th Mot Division. They were gnawing at things that came out of a 
bucket. The bucket had been taken from the operating theater, and the things 
they were eating were amputated limbs. It was the first square meal they had 
had for more than three months. 


 

17 

Executions 

The truck turned in at the prison gates and we were enveloped in a great 
cloud of choking dust blown up by the wind. As it slowly cleared, we were able 
to look about us and see what kind of place they had sent us to. 

The central prison at Kharkov was something of a showpiece. We were 
connoisseurs of prisons, and we recognized a bit of quality when we saw it! At 
Kharkov, all the buildings were painted an ostentatious white for purity. They 
were scrubbed clean and shining with virtue, and were as yet unmarked by 
graffiti. They were laid out in the shape of a star, and the whole prison did its 
best to look like public pleasure gardens. 

In the. courtyard of Block 4 it was exercise time, and the prisoners were 
running in circles with their hands anxiously holding up their trousers. No belts 
or suspenders are allowed in military prisons; governors live in perpetual 
terror lest some cunning fiend in a condemned cell should manage to hang 
himself before the firing squad can get at him. 

The truck came to a halt and we reluctantly jumped out. We had not been told 
why we were here, but we knew without being told. Twelve men in battle 
dress; twelve rifles and twenty-five bullets per man—we knew what it meant. 
We had all of us been through it before. We were the firing squad, come to 
murder some poor bastard. 

"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 Brigadenführer 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.