The Bloody Road To Death (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

  At Osmita the prisoner meets, for the first time, the world’s greatest hunter of men, the smiling little Siberian convoy soldier with the feared nagajka hanging over his shoulder. He is most often dressed in a grey greatcoat reaching down to his ankles, and a tall white cossack cap with a scarlet top and emblazoned on it a green cross. Despite his small size there is something terrifying about him. A Kalashnikov, with its round drum of bullets, hangs across his chest. By his side swings a cossack sabre in a black leather sheath. In front, on his stomach, is a black open holster from which the butt of a Nagan pistol projects. The pistol is attached to a white cord which goes through both shoulder straps and down over the chest.

  When the prisoners arrive at Chita they are given into the custody of these small men with the green cross on their caps. It is a shocking experience for most of them. On the prison trains to Chita soldiers were only allowed to strike them on the orders of an officer, but the tiny men with the green cross are allowed to use the dreaded nagajka on their own responsibility. As soon as they have signed for the prisoners the nagajka begins to whistle through the air, spreading terror where it falls. Before the convoy has reached Osmita the weakest have been lashed to death.

  What goes on inside the walls of the transit prison nobody really knows.

  The prisoners are, however it is achieved, trained to an animal-like obedience. When they leave, three weeks later, transported off on hundreds of sleighs, all life has gone from their faces.

  These small policemen-soldiers have become notorious, since the great Siberian desert has become the world’s largest liquidation centre.

  At least four million German prisoners of war passed through Chita, and were ‘educated’ at Osmita under the biting lash of the nagajka, before being sent to the mines along the Kolyma river in Siberia or to the camps which lie spread around Novaja Zemla. Only a very small percentage of them returned to Germany after the war.

  WAS IT MURDER?

  HAUPTFELDWEBEL BLATZ has ventured into the front line to check our ammunition consumption, which he thinks is too large. He is not, on the whole, satisfied with the state of discipline amongst the men in the line. He has complained to the NSFO who, to his horror, has ordered him to make an inspection of the trench commando.

  The day Blatz arrives the front is completely quiet. He stumbles first over some of the lightly wounded who are lying down in a dugout.

  ‘Bloody malingerers,’ he roars. ‘I’ll make your arses that hot you could fry eggs on ’em! Outside, march, march, you sons of vultures!’ He chases them through the trenches, makes them hop forward with bent knees and carbine at stretch, and crawl across the dangerous open stretch. Strangely there are no snipers on this particular morning.

  ‘Where’s all those Siberian snipers?’ screams Blatz, triumphantly. ‘Lies, that’s what they are! Made-up, lying reports, but they don’t fool me! You’ll get to know me better! It’s time we had a few courts going here!’

  Blood seeps through the wounded men’s bandages. When some section leaders complain, they are rebuked sharply.

  ‘To me a wounded man is a man who can’t move! Anything less is malingering! Bloody you say? They bled the sick in the old days. It was healthy. So it is today! Too much blood makes a man lazy!’

  A little later he decides to inspect the forward MG-posts. He might be lucky enough to drop on a crime which carries the death penalty.

  Finally he gets to the forward SMG. Even at a distance he can hear a thunderous snoring. He shakes with excitement, and rejoices at the thought of arresting the sleeping sentry.

  Cautiously he crawls over the earthwork and rolls down into the narrow communicating trench. At the bottom of the trench lies the sentry rolled up in a ball like a wet dog. He is not only asleep but has had the effrontery to roll himself into a lambskin robe and place a little blue feather pillow under his head.

  Hanging above the SMG is a sheet of cardboard on which, in large, ill-formed letters is written:

  DEAR MISTER HAUPTFELDWEBEL,

  PLEASE PASS BY QUIETLY!

  DO NOT DISTURB BEFORE

  13.00 HRS!

  THANK YOU KINDLY SIR!

  YOUR OBDT. SERVT.

  OBERGEFREITER WOLFGANG CREUTZFELDT.

  Blatz does not know whether to shout or to cry. He chooses the former, every NCO’s tried and true weapon when up a blind alley. Just keep on shouting long enough and something will occur to you.

  Tiny opens one eye and places a finger to his lips.

  ‘Ee! Stop that shoutin’, man. Can’t you see as ’ow I do be tryin’ to get a little shuteye, like?’

  ‘You are sleeping at your post!’ roars Blatz in a voice which cracks several times from rage.

  ‘Course I be sleepin’! What’s wrong with sleepin’ now?’ Tiny smiles broadly.

  ‘You admit to my face that you were asleep on sentry duty?’

  ‘An’ why shouldn’t I be? I were sleepin’! An’ I was ’avin’ a lovely dream, I was. There the ’auptfeldwebel was, ’angin’ out on the wire, like, an’ we was all ’avin’ a bang at ’im, with rifles, like. Everytime we got a bullseye ’ow you did ’op about, you did! Just like one 0’ they jumpin’-jacks as they make in Saxony! You know!’

  ‘Sleeping at your post’ll cost you your head, man!’ shouts Blatz in triumph. ‘Up on your feet! You’re under arrest! We don’t make a lot of fuss about pigs like you, Creutzfeldt, you’re getting a summary when we get back to the company and two of the three judges’ll be me and the OCI You’ll get shot, Greutzf eldt, we can guarantee you that!’

  ‘Why do the ’auptfeldwebel keep sayin’ “we”. More’n one of you, like, perhaps? Got the crabs ’as the ’auptfeldwebel?’

  ‘You wait, pig!’ shouts Blatz, sure of himself.

  ‘If the ’auptfeldwebel’s tired of livin’ any longer, I’d advise ’e keeps stickin’ ’is ’ead up like that, now,’ smiles Tiny. ‘They Siberian snipers’d be ’appy to put a bullet in a ’ead like that. Minds me of a dog I once ’ad,’ he says, reflectively.

  ‘Up on your feet,’ roars Blatz, beside himself. ‘You are speaking to a superior! You’re under arrest, man! If you attempt to escape, I shall use my weapon, and it will be a pleasure to do it to you!’

  ‘You ’it your bleedin’ ’ead on somethin’ on the way out ’ere?’ asks Tiny, suddenly dropping his country cousin act. ‘You sound like a Norwegian bleedin’ cod-fish as ’as got lost on the road to bleedin’ Sweden. Arrest, summary, firin’ squad, shot while escapin’. All suit your bleedin’ book, wouldn’t they? Listen ’ere you clapped-out excuse for a NCO! You come out ’ere to kick us bleedin’ trench pigs in the arse an’ think you can get away with it, do you? We know what you were ’fore you joined the club, son! Fuckin’ shit-remover for a load o’ bleedin’ giraffes in the Berlin Zoo you were!’

  ‘How’d you know—?’ comes from Blatz in amazement.

  ‘What the fuck’s it to you? I know it an’ that’s enough, fatguts! An’ another thing I know, too! You ain’t goin’ to ever see them giraffes ever again!’

  Tiny’s smile has become thin-lipped and dangerous.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ repeats Blatz nervously, fumbling at his holster.

  ‘Get your fingers off that pea-shooter!’ Tiny lifts his Mpi threateningly. ‘Don’t try it! There’s explosives in this thing. ‘Ow’d you like to get your bollocks pushed up in your bleedin’ throat, Blatz?’

  ‘You are threatening a superior? This is mutiny! Get up on your feet!’

  Tiny gets up slowly and Blatz suddenly realizes how big he is.

  ‘Suit you all right wouldn’t it?’ grins Tiny, wickedly. ‘Court with you on it and your velvet-pricked Hauptmann as President! Death sentence! Bang! An’ you’d like to tie me to the bleedin’ post with your own ’ands, wouldn’t you, you worn-out bag o’ shit!’

  ‘Yes, and bloody well will!’ shrills Blatz. ‘And I’ll put the mercy bullet into your filthy body myself, too!’

  ‘You’re round
the fuckin’ bend,’ Tiny laughs, noisily. ‘Amok pig, that’s what you are! Look now! There ain’t nobody, not you nor nobody else in this man’s bleedin’ army, as is goin’ to tie Obergefreiter Wolfgang Creutzfeldt to no bleedin’ post, but ’e’s goin’ to turn oil you an’ a few more little bags o’ shit in uniform like you. You ain’t arrested me, Blatz! I’ve arrested you! Did you know I was a secret Commie?’

  ‘You’re mad, man,’ screams Blatz, with fear crawling up his spine. Is he face to face with a psychopathic murderer? Are those stories of murders committed in the field really true? No, no well-disciplined German soldier would do such a thing. ‘Let me pass,’ he screams, hysterically, trying to push Tiny to one side.

  ‘What’s your ’urry, mate?’ smiles Tiny, coldly. ‘Let’s clear up a few points first. You arrested me, and that’s been voted down. You wanted a court-martial, we’ll ’ave that ’ere. Now we’ve ’ad it, an’ I’ve ’ad to sorrowfully sentence you to death. So in five minutes from now you’ll be flyin’ away from the front all dressed up like one o’ God’s little bleedin’ angels!’

  ‘You are threatening an NCO and refusing to obey an order. I demand to be allowed to pass! I am your Hauptfeldwebel and your direct superior,’ splutters Blatz, with panic fear in his eyes.

  ‘Shut up, giraffe shit shoveller! You ain’t nothin’ but a bab-blin’ bleedin’ corpse! Come on! Be a man! It ain’t the first time you’ve taken part in an execution. You said yourself you’d often been on the Morellenschlucht, but I suppose it ain’t such a ’appy affair when it’s your own execution you’re takin’ part in!’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ whines Blatz, terrorstricken and seeming to shrink into himself.

  ‘Listen, giraffe afterbirth, you ain’t left me a choice in the matter, ’ave you? You started all this. It was you started screamin’ about bleedin’ courts an’ firin’-squads, an’ all that war-mad bleedin’ piss, an’ all because I was ’avin’ forty winks! I’m against the bleedin’ death penalty!’

  ‘Help, help, murder!’ howls Blatz, desperately.

  Tiny looks at him with cold interest.

  ‘They know that voice of yours on both sides of the front. Think any bleeder’s comin’ to ’elp you? When you went over that parapet, mate, everybody knew where you was goin’ to end up!’

  Then this is a plot!’ screams Blatz, in despair.

  ‘’Ow you do talk, man. Porta says we’re all sentenced to death from the second we’re born. God decides it an’ a big black angel with a flamin’ great sword come to me while I was ’avin me snooze there an’said: “’Auptfeldwebel Blatz’s number ’as come up!”’

  Blatz crawls sobbing along the muddy floor of the trench.

  ‘Comrade Creutzfeldt, don’t kill me!’

  ‘Comrade Blatz I’ve bleedin’ got to! Stand up an’ be a good boy, now, so we can get it over with quick an’ easy!’

  ‘Comrade, let me live! I’ve two children at home!’

  ‘’Ave you ’ell, Comrade Blatz! You ain’t even married. I told you we know all about you! You never fucked anything’ but a female giraffe at the Berlin Zoo an’ nothin’ ever came o’ that effort!’

  ‘Comrade Creutzfeldt, don’t make yourself a common murderer! I’ve always liked you! You’re a good soldier!’

  ‘Yes, an’ I’ve appreciated it,’ laughs Tiny, heartily, and pulls the shivering Blatz close up against him. ‘To ’ell with all that shit! I’ll see you get an ’ero’s burial, so the Fatherland and all your family’ll be proud of you!’

  ‘It’s murder,’ cries the doomed man, struggling desperately. Tiny holds him firmly, and when they are right behind the SMG, Tiny butts him into unconsciousness.

  ‘’Ere’s your papers comin’ through!’ growls Tiny to himself as he lifts the unconscious man’s head up above the parapet. The Siberian snipers are back on the job and put four bullets into Blatz’s fleshy face.

  Soon the relief comes along.

  ‘What’s this?’ asks Barcelona, astonished, pointing at the body, ‘You haven’t bloody well shot him?’

  Think I’m barmy?’ answers Tiny. ‘Why do the neighbour’s boys out of a job? Members of the same union, ain’t they?’

  Heide sends Tiny a suspicious look, as he bends over the body.

  ‘What you lookin’ for?’ asks Tiny, threateningly.

  ‘Marks from the edge of a hand,’ smiles Heide, poisonously.

  ‘D’you know what ’appens to informers, Julius?’ asks Tiny, playing with his Kalashnikov.

  ‘I know,’ answers Heide, looking at the four bullet holes with . interest. ‘I know what happens to murderers, too!’

  ‘Me too,’ smiles Tiny. ‘’Ad it in the family. Guillotine at Plôtzensee! Snick, an’ off goes your old turnip!’

  ‘Four holes,’ Heide thinks aloud. ‘He must have been standing up there all day! I’d find a hell of a good explanation for that if I was you, Tiny. I know what happened without even being here!’

  ‘What happened then?’

  Heide picks up the body and lifts it slowly above the parapet. A shot smashes into the dead man’s head. This time it is an explosive bullet which destroys the entire face.

  He drops the body in shock, and wipes brains from his face.

  Porta laughs like a hyena.

  ‘You gave Tiny a bit more of a helping hand there than you meant to! The evidence is gone!’

  Heide looks fearfully at the body’s smashed features.

  ‘You are my witness,’ he shouts, in a rage. ‘You all saw those ’ four holes!’

  ‘No, Julius, no!’ grins Porta. ‘He was still alive when you lifted him up! I’d watch it if I was you, Julius my son!’

  ‘What a bunch of crooks,’ snarls Heide, obviously nervous.

  Tiny swings the body nonchalantly up on to one shoulder. At the dressing station he drops it at the feet of the orderly feld-webel who takes off the identity discs roughly and goes through the pockets for private effects.

  ‘Throw that shit over with the rest,’ he orders his assistants.

  Tiny saunters, whistling happily, back to No. 2 Section’s dugout, where he runs into Buffalo.

  ‘Smart work, son! They’re all talkin’ about it. Can’t prove anything, I hope?’

  ‘Nobody can,’ laughs Tiny, confidently. ‘Not when you’re from the Reeperbahn an’ ’ave ’ad Chief Nass for a teacher!’

  That afternoon Tiny is called to the OC’s office, where a legal officer is also present.

  ‘You were alone with Hauptfeldwebel Blatz in the SMG post? What happened?’

  ‘The ’err ’auptfeldwebel swarmed all over me ’cause I was keepin’ under cover up by the trench wall.’

  ‘Was there firing?’

  ‘No, sir, only if you was barmy enough to stick your nut up. That was why I was takin’ cover, sir. I tried to explain that to the ’err ’auptfeldwebel. ’E didn’t seem to believe me’n said I was a cowardly bastard as was scared o’ the untermensch. ’E said I was to come to attention an’ I did. An order’s an order, sir!’

  ‘And you were not hit?’ the legal officer looks at him doubtfully.

  ‘No, sir! I stood to attention with me knees bent you see, sir. The ’err ’auptfeldwebel wouldn’t believe there was any snipers like I was tellin’ ’im, sir, an’ wants to see ’em for ’imself. I pointed out to ’im where the slit-eyed devils usually sit with their pea-shooters an’, well, the ’err ’auptfeldwebel stuck ’is ’ead up to ’ave a look at ’em. If ’e saw ’em or not we’ll never know, will we, sir? Anyway suddenly there’s a bang and the ’err ’auptfeldwebel’s face is gone, sir!’

  ‘You didn’t hold him above the parapet, did you?’ asks the legal officer, threateningly.

  ‘Sir!’ says Tiny, deeply offended.

  ‘Well now! You and Hauptfeldwebel Blatz were not exactly good friends, were you? At least from what I have heard.’

  ‘’Ad the ’auptfeldwebel somethin’ against me?’ asks Tiny, wonderingly. ‘I liked ’im. We often c
racked a joke together.’

  The legal officer shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head resignedly, and looks uncertainly at Hauptmann von Pader.

  ‘Be off! God help you if I ever get evidence against you.’

  When Tiny has gone van Pader bangs his fist down on the table.

  ‘Everything tells me it is murder! Can’t we get any evidence? It will be the happiest day of my life, the day I see that horrible man tied to an execution post in front of a firing squad.’

  ‘Murderers are beheaded,’ said the legal officer, coldly.

  ‘Still better.’ shouts von Pader. ‘I’d have the pleasure of being a witness.’

  ‘Herr Hauptmann, in the first place we have no murderers . . .’

  ‘Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt is a murderer,’ screams von Pader, with a wild glint in his eyes.

  ‘No more than you or I. It is wishful thinking on your part. There is no proof. Quite the opposite. I believe Creutzfeldt is telling the truth, Hauptfeldwebel Blatz would have acted in just that foolish way.’

  Von Pader pours cognac and empties two glasses quickly. He does not notice that the legal officer has not touched his.

  ‘My friend,’ says von Pader, confidentially, bending forward across the table. ‘I have connections in Berlin. Would you like to come to serve with me in Berlin soon? I have merely to inspect the front when there is a little action. I have then had front-line experience and can leave.’

  ‘I don’t know quite what you mean, Herr Hauptmann?’

  ‘Could not you and I together produce evidence of murder?’

  The legal officer gets up quickly and puts on his greatcoat.

  ‘Herr von Pader, I think you are the most infamous swine I have ever met! I am ashamed to wear the same uniform as you. For your information, every word of this conversation will be reported to Oberst Hinka. I believe you will have need of your connections in Berlin!’

  ‘You have no witnesses,’ shouts von Pader, red as a turkey in the face.

  ‘We shall see whom Oberst Hinka believes. You have not gained friends in your time with the 27th Panzer Regiment!’