Court Martial

  Unteroffizier Balt fetches more beer and a pack of cards. It’ll do Hofmann good to cool his heels a bit. Anyhow, who’s to say how long it’s taken me to find the Moses dragoon? An accountant Unteroffizier might be anywhere.

  ‘Took your time, then, did you?’ roars Hofmann, in an acid voice, glowering at us suspiciously, when we get back to the company office an hour later.

  ‘What the hell’ve you been eating, man? You’ve got fat all over your dirty synagogue face? Don’t you know Yids ain’t allowed to eat German pigs? German pigs are for Germans! What the hell’ve you been wasting your time at all morning?’

  ‘Been round taking stock,’ answers Milner, carelessly.

  ‘What stocks?’ growls Hofmann, unbelievingly. ‘You’ve counted ’em all long ago! You’ve been counting stocks now for the last two years!’

  ‘Ammunition count’s wrong,’ answers Müller, as if that were something unheard of. No ammunition count has ever been right since the first German soldier began to use firearms.

  ‘Ammunition count wrong?’ roars Hofmann, furiously. ‘Are you mad? What the hell do you think I’ve got you and your Yid snout for?’

  ‘We’re short of ten boxes of rifle ammunition,’ answers Müller, pleasantly, ‘and forty grenades have disappeared without trace!’

  ‘What kind of grenades?’ snarls Hofmann. ‘Express yourself properly! You’re not fartin’ round in the synagogue with a skull-cap on now!’

  ‘Potato-mashers,’ sighs Müller, tiredly. ‘Must’ve been pilfered!’

  ‘Have you checked Chief Mechanic Wolf’s stores?’ asks Hofmann, accusingly.

  ‘Just let him try,’ suggests Wolf, with a threatening under-current in his voice. ‘Then it won’t be just the skin on his prick he’ll be short of but a lot more of it all over his body!’

  Hofmann drops back dejectedly in his American-made chair. He has forgotten he has released the catch and almost goes arse over tip again.

  ‘Fucking Jew shit!’ he reviles it, as he recovers, with difficulty, his balance. ‘Listen to me Müller or Bierfreund or whatever your fucking name is now. You know damn well that if it wasn’t for me you’d’ve been a pile of ashes and three pieces of cheap soap a long time ago! They’ve been looking at your personal record in Paderborn. At the moment it’s got no further than to an Oberstleutnant. Oberstleutnant von Weisshagen, it’s true, but still no further. Now you are going to ring the Feldwebel i/c personnel up. Bernstein his name is, and with a name like that I’ll lay money there’s desert sand still sticking between his toes! Light a fire under his fat arse. Tell him you’re in trouble and he’s got to help you. There’s not only Jew blood at stake but valuable German blood too! And it’s your fault! Get that through your calcified brain. Now get on that blower! Don’t worry about what it costs. The Army’s taking care of that. Just talk! What comes of it’s what matters and for your sake it’d better be something good!’

  It takes Muller a long time to get through to No. 11 Panzer-fsatzabteilung in Paderborn. Finally he manages it.

  ‘Want to talk to Bernstein, eh?’ says a squeaky, happy voice on the line. ‘You’re just one hour too late. He’s gone! Try again in three weeks’ time!’

  ‘Ask where the hell he’s gone to!’ snarls Hofmann, who is listening in on an extension.

  ‘Do you have his address?’ asks Müller, politely.

  ‘Of course we have. Don’t you think we know what we’re doing here?’ chortles the happy voice. ‘What do you want his address for?’

  ‘I want to get in touch with him.’

  ‘You can’t! He’s not there!’ comes a happy shout from Paderborn.

  ‘Well then where is he? You must know where he has gone to? If everything collapses, you’d want to know where to get hold of him, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘If everything collapses he won’t come back anyway,’ laughs the Paderborn voice. ‘Think he’s an idiot? He’s gone on leave. He may be taking the cure at Bad Gastein. He mentioned it as a possibility. Ever been to Bad Gastein?’

  ‘No, never,’ groans Müller, ready to give up the whole business.

  ‘Supposed to be a wonderful place,’ states the jolly Paderborn Unteroffizier. ‘You lie in warm mud all day long and get up your strength by eating. Here’s the boss coming. Ring again in three weeks’ time, mate, and if Bernstein’s not been suffocated in the mud he’ll probably be here.’

  The telephone buzzes. The connection in broken.

  Hofmann shoots up out of his American-made swivel chair, and takes a kick at the company cat. As usual he misses it.

  ‘So it’s gone that far,’ he screeches madly. ‘The Jewboys go on leave, wallowin’ about in Bad Gastein havin’ mud baths and takin’ the waters, whilst we Germans are refused leave, because the Fatherland is in peril. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard of. Now I begin to really believe we’re not gonna win this war!’

  ‘God knows what the Reichsführer will say to it,’ comes wonderingly from Julius Heide.

  ‘Shut your trap, Unteroffizier Heide. This is something your pygmy German brain’ll never understand! Müller you’d never do that would you? Go to Bad Gastein and make the mud baths dirtier’n they were before? Heavenly Father! This is the top! Well, back to work! We’ll take care of that scoundrel in Bad Gastein later. How many more pseudo-Germans do you know in Paderborn? Use your loaf! Think! Think hard as if you had to remember the whole of the Talmud and write it down! Get on that blower, man, get the synagogue moving!’

  ‘Could perhaps try ringing Wachtmeister Sally at Wehrkreiskommando,’ suggests Müller, thoughtfully. ‘He’s a very nice chap.’

  ‘Shit on how nice he is, or ain’t,’ shouts Hofmann, beside himself. ‘He’s got to help us. It’s our lives and liberty that’s at stake, man. Explain that to him!’

  Porta is leaning over the washbasin humming the prisoner’s chorus from Nabucco, and examining himself intently in the mirror.

  ‘Stop pissing about there,’ roars Hofmann, ‘and stop staring into that mirror! It’ll only give you bad ideas! I only said stand easy, I didn’t say you could look at yourself in the glass!’

  It takes almost an hour for Müller to get a connection to Wachtmeister Sally.

  ‘Remove a personnel sheet?’ says Sally, when the matter has been explained to him. ‘Could be done, but what’s in it for me?’

  ‘What times we live in,’ groans Hofmann, with the extension pressed to his ear. ‘Now that son of the sodding desert wants to make something out of helping people in distress!’

  ‘What can we offer him?’ asks Müller, looking at Wolf and Porta.

  Ten tins of pork,’ suggests Porta, largely.

  ‘No, no!’ says Hofmann, ‘the Yids don’t eat pig meat!’

  ‘I’ve got some ugly-looking Russian typewriters,’ says Porta. ‘Think he’d like to write on Russian machines? They’re sure to be all the rage after the war!’

  ‘He’s got all he wants of typewriters at HQ,’ Hofmann rejects the idea, irritably. ‘German ones. Think again, Porta!’

  ‘Polish eggs,’ suggests Porta, lifting one eyebrow. ‘He might be one of those dopes who loves eating omelets because they think eggs make ’em more virile!’

  ‘That’s a thought,’ Hofmann brightens up. ‘Let the bastard have ten boxes of eggs so’s his limp prick can get a hard on a bit more often.’

  ‘Ten boxes of eggs,’ offers Müller largely.

  Wachtmeister Sally laughs long and heartily.

  ‘Do you realise just how comic you are?’ he asks, when he has got his breath back. ‘We’ve got so many eggs here we’ve begun hatching ’em out ourselves. Just to help your thinking processes along a bit, there’s an information sheet in triplicate just come in the door: Two Feldwebels were executed last Saturday for falsifying documents. So what are you offering now? But not those eggs again!’

  Müller looks unhappily at Wolf.

  ‘It’s blackmail almost,’ snarls Wolf, with loathing.

  ‘What do you
expect of a Yid?’ says Hofmann. ‘Adolf’s right. All they want is to keep us Germans down.’

  ‘Offer him a case of Scotch whisky,’ mumbles Wolf, unwillingly. He knows instinctively that Wachtmeister Sally can’t be bought cheaply.

  ‘You can have a case of real Scotch,’ Müller transmits the offer over the telephone.

  ‘That’s okay,’ grins Sally, satisfied. ‘Wolf or Porta aren’t anywhere near are they?’

  Hofmann shakes his head in negation, and winks one eye.

  Müller understands.

  ‘No, what do you want with ’em?’

  ‘When you see ’em, ask if one of ’em’d like to buy a wildcat. I’ve got one of the devils here. If either of ’em is interested I can send the monster by the mail plane. The freight charges are paid.’

  ‘What the devil would anybody want with a wildcat up here at the Arctic Circle?’ asks Müller in wonder.

  ‘If you’ve got any enemies it’ll fix ’em in two shakes. If it gets any madder than it is now it’d put an infantry division to flight. Wait here and keep your ear to the phone!’

  A little later the sound of hissing, spitting and snarling comes through the earpiece. ‘What d’you think of it?’ asks Sally proudly. ‘Hear how mad he is? And that’s just his normal temperament. Tease him a bit and I’m the only one who dares to stay inside HQ. If he once got out of his cage there’d be no garrison left in Paderborn before we knew where we were. Shall I send him up to you lot? Save you placing guards at night!’

  ‘We don’t want any wildcats here,’ shouts Hofmann. ‘Tell him we’re sending the whisky today!’

  ‘We?’ growls Wolf, condescendingly. ‘As if you had any whisky to send!’

  ‘Wildcat,’ says Porta, rolling the world around his mouth. ‘Is that one of those beasts with the pointed, triangular ears?’

  ‘Right,’ replies Wolf, ‘good animals to stay clear of. Throw one of ’em into Hell and the Devil and his grandmother too’ll take it on the lam and leave the place to the wildcat!’

  ‘I think I’ve got an idea,’ says Porta, looking even more intently at his reflection in the mirror. ‘Wildcat! Not so bad, not so bad!’

  ‘No wildcats,’ shouts Hofmann, nervously. ‘Did you understand me, Porta? That’s an order!’

  ‘Very good, Herr Hauptfeldwebel,’ barks Porta. ‘Wildcat,’ he whispers to himself a little later and looks at Wolf, who winks back at him.

  ‘Got any other hook-nosed friends in Paderborn, Müller?’ asks Hofmann, marching nervously up and down the floor. ‘Then ring up and get them together. You know the doctrine. Don’t disperse your strength. Klotzen, nicht lockern, as Panzer-general Guderian has taught us.’

  The whole of the afternoon and most of the evening goes by on the telephone. But despite all the activity their only hope remains Wachtmeister Sally.

  Hofmann sits down in his swivel chair and puts his feet on the desk.

  The following day a heavy silence hangs over the company office. Every time the telephone rings we all jump. Black and menacing, it stands in the middle of the desk in front of Hofmann.

  ‘Even if the Führer wants to speak to me personally on any subject,’ roars Hofmann, ‘I’m not here! You don’t know where I am and you don’t know when I’ll be back. D’you understand me, you dogs?’

  Just before midday the telephone rings loud and shrill for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Fifth Company here,’ I answer it.

  ‘How’s everything with you?’ asks an oily voice, which I feel I ought to recognise.

  ‘Who is calling?’ I ask.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No, but I know your voice.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you can recognise the voice of an old friend. Is Hofmann there? Tell the shit there’s somebody wants to talk to him.’

  I point to the telephone and look inquiringly at Hofmann, who shakes his head violently and points out of the window.

  ‘No, the Hauptfeldwebel isn’t here. Is there any message?’

  ‘Yes, tell him that your arses may be burning now but if I don’t play the part of a good comrade and keep my mouth shut about what I know they’ll be that hot you could fry eggs on ’em!’

  Suddenly I realise who it is I am speaking to. I’d know that laugh amongst a thousand. Staff QM Sieg!

  Hofmann goes white. He has obviously guessed who it is on the telephone.

  ‘Is that Staff QM Sieg?’ I ask, uneasily.

  ‘Inspector, Field Security Police,’ he corrects me. ‘I have been posted to Gefepo49. That is what happens when a man is good at his work and pulls in criminals to receive their just punishment. How are my old friends, Wolf and Porta, getting on? Still falsifying papers in cahoots with Hofmann are they? I hear they’ve changed your flashes to the Star of David!’

  Hofmann bangs the desk silently several times. He is almost green in the face from suppressed rage.

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘Oh yes, you do! You understand me very well. Don’t you think I found out what kind of games were going on while I was serving with your stinking company? You can tell the others, if they don’t already know it, that it’s the death penalty for letting a Jew stay alive on a dead German’s papers!’

  ‘What’s this to do with us?’ I ask, with dreadful forebodings.

  ‘Don’t play silly buggers!’ Sieg grins, wickedly. ‘You know damn well you’re on thin ice! If I pass that story on you’ll be lucky if they only let you keep your heads! In any case you’ll be permanent inmates at Torgau!’

  ‘What’s it cost to stop your tongue from wagging?’ I ask, sharply.

  Hofmann slaps his forehead, and looks as if he could eat me.

  I offer him the telephone but he recoils from it as if it were red-hot.

  ‘Now you’re being sensible. I want fifty thousand Reichsmarks to forget my duty to National Socialism, and I want them inside twenty-four hours. One of you’ll meet me with the dough on the little path behind the fort. But don’t try anything!’

  I look inquiringly at Hofmann, who is whispering conspiratorially with Porta and Wolf.

  ‘Now then, what’s it to be?’ asks Sieg, impatiently. Will you pay up? Or do I come and pick up the circumcised prick?’

  I appeal to Hofmann again. He nods with unconcealed distaste.

  ‘Okay,’ I answer him. ‘You’ll be informed when we’ll be there with the ducats. We’ve got to collect them first!’

  ‘You’d be wise to get hold of ’em fast!’ Sieg rings off with a demonstrative clatter.

  ‘That dirty jackal,’ bawls Hofmann, banging his fist on the desk so hard that the telephone dances. ‘That wicked shit’s got to be put out of the way! He’s dangerous!’

  ‘Herr Hauptfeldwebel, sir, now we must bite on the bullet and keep our heads clear,’ shouts Porta. ‘Perhaps we do need a wildcat,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘A creature like that can make mincemeat of a man, before you can say Jack Robinson!’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be wiser to pay him?’ says Hofmann. ‘We can scrape fifty thousand together!’

  ‘I can, but you can’t,’ says Wolf, superciliously.

  ‘Don’t forget I’m in this too,’ remarks Porta, drily. ‘If there’s money to be put out I’m going to get stuck for half of it. But in principle I don’t like paying out blackmail. That Kaffir bastard’ll not be satisfied with the fifty thousand. He’s insatiable. We’ll wind up being his slaves!’

  ‘Emil Sieg is a wicked old rambag,’ shouts Tiny, indignantly. ‘Let’s go an’ shoot ’oles in ’im now! These kind of things’ve got to be fixed quick!’

  ‘The sneaky rat thinks he’s smart,’ says Porta, spitting on the floor.

  Hofmann has difficulty in controlling himself. Nobody has ever dared to spit on his office floor before. In helpless rage he kicks out again at the company cat, but as usual misses her.

  ‘He was a shit then, when we were encumbered with the bastard in this company,’ continues Porta, taking one of Hof
mann’s cigars without being invited.

  ‘That’s enough,’ growls Hofmann warningly, locking the cigar box in a drawer of his desk.

  ‘What if he was to tell Sieg as how old men are sometimes better off dead,’ grins Tiny, smoothly, ‘then maybe’ is better judgement might make ’im ask for a postin’ to some far-off spot?’

  ‘All this nonsense for the sake of a shitty Yid!’ says Hofmann, bitterly. ‘Porta! For Christ’s sake find a way out. You’re quick enough on the uptake as a rule!’

  ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee,’ suggests Porta, and without being asked goes and finds Hofmann’s valuable reserve of beans.

  ‘Coffee clears the brain!’

  Tiny hands round the cups. He salutes Hofmann as he goes past him.

  Porta takes a long swig of coffee and looks around him, pleasantly.

  ‘We could invite Emil out some evening. One of those places with Lapland girls. You know ’em. Up with your glass an’ down with your trousers! On the way home after the party we knock him on the head and push him down one of the sewers. That does for him and his corpus delicti at one fell swoop!’

  Tiny bends over, roaring with laughter at the thought of Emil down a sewer.

  ‘On the Reeperbahn we’d a nose by the name of Emil. Emil the Dwarf we called ’im, ’cause ’e was one! We put Emil down a sewer in Davidstrasse. We’d thought of droppin” im in the river first of all but one of the bints ’ad the bright idea of usin’ the sewers. When ’e went down there was a great big suckin’ noise like when a stopped-up water closet goes loose.’

  ‘You seem to know all about that sort of thing. What about you and Gregor doing the job?’ suggests Wolf, insidiously.

  ‘Why don’t you go along?’ asks Gregor, rocking nervously on his chair. ‘How’d you think it ought to be done?’

  The sewer idea ain’t bad,’ says Wolf, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘You could, of course, go straight into his pigsty and let off at everybody in sight. You’d be certain to hit Sieg together with all the rest.’

  ‘Count me out,’ decides Tiny, categorically, ‘’ow do we get away when the shooters are empty?’