The Twisted Patriot Page 19

  “Very droll, Eric. I’m glad Honigmann isn’t here to listen to your defeatist attitude,” snarled Sebastian. Eric held up his hands to calm down Sebastian and apologized, before proffering his hip flask, which was filled with cognac. Sebastian declined, as the last thing his suspicious troops needed was to smell the odour of alcohol on his breath; there would be time for that later.

  A few hours later, they were back treading through the crop, but this time they were having to do it at sunset, as the crops had been flattened by the fire and without the necessary cover there was no option but to go in as darkness was falling. The stench was appalling as they made their way through the blackened roots of a crop that once held the future health of the family that owned it and now, like them and most people across Europe, had none at all. Sebastian decided to lead from the front as he might as well die in glorious failure rather than be cashiered and sent to the British Free Corps. However, whatever had happened earlier appeared to have lulled the Soviets into a false sense of security as they made rapid progress, passing the charred remains of Brunner and the private whose death had set the whole unfortunate sequence of activities into motion. Of the flamethrower there was no sign. Sebastian made it to within 10 yards of the farmhouse and still there was no reaction from the enemy, so he eased off the safety catch on his machine gun, waved his hands at the men behind him indicating for five to go to the left and five to the right and open fire as soon as they had a field of fire on those inside. He crawled forward, along with the remaining members of his unit, ordered two of them to take out their grenades and hurl them inside. They both rose in unison and launched them into the building. There were muffled cries from within before they exploded, leading to panic among those still alive as they staggered from the ruins, whereupon Sebastian and his men rose and took them down, while the other two groups poured fire into the farmhouse in case some had decided to stay in there. Soon there was no more noise, only the moaning of the wounded, but Sebastian wasted little time on them as he searched the ruins for any signs of maps or plans but instead came across the flamethrower, or what remained of him. The Soviets had done their best to turn him from a man into a woman, his penis lay on the ground behind him while his testicles had replaced his eyeballs in the sockets and he had been left to bleed to death, which must have been even worse than Brunner’s hellfire of an ending. Sebastian had seen many things already in the war but this savagery was new to him and he vomited instantaneously, though it was dry retching as having not eaten since the early morning there was little to come back up. Pulling himself together, he ordered two of his men to return to the headquarters and inform Honigmann that the farmhouse had been taken without further loss while he secured the perimeter in case of a counter attack by any other units who might still be in the proximity. As he was exiting the shattered building, he heard a noise from behind him, turned quickly and flashed his torch round, sighting a shadow which was hiding behind a door that had fallen to the floor. “Surrender, I surrender,” pleaded the figure but Sebastian let loose with his machine gun and the shadow fell to the ground. “I don’t understand Russian, you prick!” he screamed as he let loose another burst before hurling the gun to the earthen floor. Several of his men ran inside, one going to the figure who lay lifeless beyond Sebastian and the desecrated corpse of their former comrade. Sebastian shone his torch once more in that direction and saw to his horror the victim was a boy, albeit dressed in Soviet Army uniform. He staggered outside to breathe in what passed for fresh air instead of the putrid smell of that charnel house, which despite having no roof seemed incapable of extinguishing the odour of burnt flesh and death.

  Smittner, the corporal who had brushed past Sebastian to get to the corpse, came out minutes later and asked him to hold out his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about that piece of shit. Whether you are a man or a child, this war does the same thing to you, sir. It deprives you of humanity and your childhood,” he said as he pressed the flamethrowers eyeballs, which he had found strung onto the boy’s belt, into his hands.

  Christ almighty, Sebastian thought, what is this I have got myself into, just because I wanted to save my skin and didn’t want to fester away in perpetuity in some decrepit camp with a whole lot of dreamers and idiots, where children are corrupted into donning a uniform and conned into believing that by removing an enemy’s eyeballs as a trophy of war they are doing good for their country and cause. For fuck’s sake, let me wake up and discover I am back in that comfortable bed in Cottbus and Johns is not who he is and we are just 24 hours from returning to the camp and living out the rest of our miserable lives either there or being shot while trying to escape; at least there was a choice. Here there was none; descent into savagery was the rule of the theatre of war because otherwise you would be the next victim, too soft they would say, ship him out. He paced up and down, waiting for Honigmann to appear with his unit, sweeping his blackened fingernails through his unkempt hair, which through lack of washing and the smoke had turned from blond into black. He lit a cigarette, smothering the burning tip with his hand so as not to alert the unwelcome attention of a sniper hiding out behind the farmhouse and found some comfort in the tobacco hitting the back of his throat and then filtering downwards into his chest before exhaling. Eventually Honigmann strode up through the darkness surrounded by a score or so of his unit, gave Sebastian a warm smile of congratulations and inspected the perimeter with him, nodding his appreciation at the setting up of the sentries and proceeded back before stopping suddenly as he walked past the five or so wounded Soviets. He turned to Sebastian and raised his eyebrows questioning why they were still there.

  “Shouldn’t we give them some medical attention, or move them back to a prisoner of war camp?” asked Sebastian. Honigmann sneered and let out a harsh laugh.

  “We’re not some charitable foundation, Lieutenant Murat. We don’t have enough medical supplies for our own wounded, so why let them have it. No, just shoot them, that’s a quicker ticket and a more merciful one to the next world. Do you really think it’s worth prolonging their lives in this sordid world we are living in? I don’t think so.”

  “But . . .” protested Sebastian.

  “But nothing, Murat. Don’t question my authority, just carry out my orders. Shoot them, stab them, disembowel them. I don’t care how you do it. It may not be very British but this is the way we do things on this front and you are not to be an exception,” Honigmann said icily before disappearing into the night.

  Sebastian sighed resignedly and went down the line of the wrecked bodies in front of him, dispatching each one of them with a bullet from his Luger pistol, meeting little protest at his actions from the victims, save one who clung to his left boot and whom he tried to calm down by stroking his head before pulling it back viciously and putting a bullet into his skull. The blood spurted out and struck him in the face, blinding him momentarily and forced him to stagger backwards but a couple of his men held him up and he regained his footing, wiping the viscous thick substance from his eyes.

  Such incidents became commonplace over the following months as the Germans made inexorable progress all along the frontline, to the extent that Sebastian became almost inured to the execution of the wounded so long as they were in uniform. He was never privy to what happened once they had swept forwards and was disinclined to believe Nebe’s story about mass executions. It was certainly never a matter of discussion among the men or the other officers, who were by and large no lovers of the regime but just professional soldiers doing their job. As winter set in, progress became slower as first the rains came, then the snow and as the temperatures plummeted the men waited for news that Moscow had fallen but none came. This gave way for a dire need for winter clothing so they could fight effectively but more importantly survive as the cold set in, and yet day followed day with nothing materialising. Men started wasting away, or died where they stood guard or sat in their pitiful foxholes, not even consoled by letters from their families as the air force failed to
get through to deliver them, and morale slid on an accelerating downward spiral. The one bright spot for Sebastian was that Honigmann was moved to other unspecified duties and replaced as his direct superior by Eric, who revealed to him that his strict predecessor had been a plant to supervise him and ensure there was no sabotage going on on his part, but now that he had proved himself over several months they felt relaxed enough to send him elsewhere and leave Sebastian alone. There was little relief apart from being able to spend time with Eric, who Sebastian came to realize seemed to know less about the private behaviour of his father or his stepmother than he did, as they steered clear of talk about the politics and instead tried to hark back to the happier days and then look forward to the moment they could both go on leave together and bathe and saunter down to Kessler’s club and drink themselves into a stupor, albeit with the kind permission of Henrietta.

  The Soviets themselves made little impression on their lines, thank God, because they would not have met with much resistance, such was the state of the men, as they had taken such a battering, but should the campaign drag on into a second winter, Sebastian doubted the result would be the same and Eric too confided that he was not so optimistic at their chances of victory. “Jesus, you would have thought they could supply greatcoats at the very least. I hate to think what is going to happen if we start losing the bloody war,” he commented acidly. “Such is the faith in the Führer and his vision of victory that no one thought of making several hundred thousand coats for those unfortunates stuck out in the steppes of the Soviet bloody Union. Pricks!” added Eric bitterly.

  The rare occasion when letters did get through were often the time when as an officer you had to be more sensitive of the men’s reactions, even if the letters were heavily censored, but the weather, the lack of a healthy diet and the fatigue were a lethal combination and there were mounting cases of suicides, men wandering out into the vast wastelands in front of them and either shooting themselves or throwing themselves onto a grenade – their misery and their family’s compounded by the state refusing to pay a pension for their dereliction of duty to the Fatherland. Sebastian had grown to care for his men, who were mainly drawn from urban areas, though there were a few more rustic types among them, and the latter were more likely to bear the conditions better because farming took place in all types of weather and they were used to it if not to being continually exposed to the below freezing temperatures. One of his favourites was Private Michael Herzog, an urbanite, as he liked to differentiate between the two groups, a thoughtful 25-year-old former film cameraman, who had studied philosophy at Heidelberg University but had rejected the softer option of staying in his profession and shooting propaganda films in favour of volunteering for military service. He had shown himself to be no shrinking violet when it came to performing in the field and was among those Sebastian had recommended to be promoted or decorated, but until either of those came through he contented himself by ensuring he was always in the group that Sebastian went out on missions with.

  However, one day as Sebastian did his rounds along his line, he chanced upon Herzog alone in his foxhole, kneeling down and praying, though it was not in the Christian style but with his head bobbing back and forth, as only the Jews practised. Sebastian didn’t know what to do, he looked to his left and right to ensure there was nobody else in sighting distance of him and Herzog, before dropping down into the foxhole. Herzog jumped at the sight of Sebastian, quickly replaced his helmet on his head and smiled sheepishly at his officer. “What were you doing, Herzog?” asked Sebastian quietly as in the stillness of the plains voices could travel miles. Herzog scratched nervously at his frozen rifle and refused to look at him. Sebastian sighed in exasperation and took a different tack. “Where’s Berthold?” he enquired, seeing that Herzog’s companion was missing.

  “He’s gone to see some of the others, as he gets tired of my company and I with him sometimes, sir. It’s not surprising as we have spent nearly three months stuck in the same dreary little spot together,” replied Herzog. Sebastian nodded in agreement and repeated his original question, adding that it would go no further. Herzog grimaced and shuffled round his tiny little hole like a trapped animal, his straggly beard and gaunt appearance adding to the image, before standing still and looking Sebastian squarely in the face.

  “I am a Jew, Lieutenant Murat. A Jew in Hitler’s army, how perverse is that!” he remarked bitterly. Sebastian didn’t know how to respond. Ordinarily he would have to report any infraction by his men but this was way out of that league, this was an Untermensch, as the Germans so delightfully termed it, in the midst of their Aryan army fighting not only for their ideals but for his own survival, a place where he could hide and avoid the horrors being perpetrated on his people in Germany and all over conquered Europe. In Sebastian’s mind, Herzog had been placed in a similar position as he had been, stay put and suffer or reluctantly join up and gain some time with the chance that one might survive and live with the consequences of the decision afterwards. Herzog was no Steiner in any case, that he could tell from his care for others to his outstanding bravery on the battlefield and was worthy of his place in the unit, but he could tell that the pressure and guilt was beginning to weigh heavily on the young man in front of him. The endless months of staying in the one place and the freezing temperatures, lack of food and staring into a landscape that seemed to have no boundaries but went on and on had worn away at Herzog, whereas Sebastian because of his reserves of self-confidence and having Eric around had kept his spirits up and in some moments he even found himself believing he had taken the right decision and was indeed fighting for the lesser evil in bringing to heel a far more dangerous and malign regime. He patted Herzog on the shoulder in amicable fashion, but it only accelerated his companion’s decline into melancholic reflection.

  “What have I done, sir? I have betrayed my family, my people, my religion, just to save myself. I am the Nazis’ Judas, while millions are sent to their deaths I sit happily by in the enemy’s uniform and take my 30 pieces of silver from their purse,” he sobbed. Sebastian felt uneasy, not least because should their voices carry others in the unit would hear and he did not think even Herzog’s foxhole partner Berthold knew of his dilemma. He clapped his hand over Herzog’s mouth and put a finger to his to tell him to shut up, the private’s tears kept flowing but such was the cold they froze like icicles on his cheeks giving him an even more haunted look. When Herzog nodded his assent, he released his hand and addressed him.

  “Listen, Herzog,” he whispered, “We all have our crises of self doubt out here. There must be very few men who don’t, but this war is like no other where there is little good to be had in any of the sides fighting and the only worthwhile thing to do is to stay alive and come through safely so that perhaps afterwards you can do some good to balance out the decision you took during the war. Too many people have behaved like sheep as if they don’t have a choice but there is always a choice, if you stand back and rationalize things. The options are never easy or necessarily moral but my God, man, life is not a dress rehearsal and the only thing we have control over to a certain extent is our lives and the strongest weapon we have is the will to stay alive. I have experienced life on both sides of the lines, and indeed a prison camp, so I bring to this foxhole a wealth of experience on that matter!” he smiled at Herzog. “However, Herzog, tell me, as it intrigues me, how if you say you betrayed your family by joining up are you still here and not in a concentration camp, for surely if it is known that your family are Jews then you should not have been able to become a soldier?” asked Sebastian.

  Herzog shrugged and started circling the foxhole again which meant brushing past Sebastian, such was the smallness of the area, and his actions reminded the lieutenant of watching a horse in the stables walking round and round its small cell which was never a good sign if one was looking for a Derby winner as it normally suggested that the horse was gone in the head.

  “There are always pieces of spaghetti that
slip through the sieve, Lieutenant,” he said sadly. “I got home one day in Stuttgart to see my family, parents and four brothers and sisters, had been taken away, though it was surreal as their dinner plates lay on the table with the food served, the wine poured and the jazz record that my father loved so much still playing. It was as if they were playing hide and seek with me, their philosopher son who took life so seriously, but sadly it was no game. They had fortunately for me not set an extra place so the Germans didn’t wait around for that other person to turn up. I have never felt so alone and I stayed sitting at the table till dawn drinking the wine and some more to try and suppress my upset and guilt that I wasn’t with them, but it did little good. I slept if off, reasoning that there was little chance of the Gestapo returning and having rested a bit I took the risk of going upstairs to see a neighbour who had always remained friendly despite the repression of those who even said hello to Jews. He said that he could arrange papers for me, changing my name and getting me a job in the film industry, thus Isaac Herkovitz became Michael Herzog, a former philosophy student turned cameraman and friend to the stars for his ability to turn even the ugliest features into something approaching attractiveness. There, Lieutenant, is my story until the guilt returned and I swore that even if I were not able to share in my family’s misery and probable fate I could seek it out here fighting alongside the people whose sick ideology borne of hatred destroyed my life. A little Jewish boy doing his bit for the cause, how bitter sweetly sick is that!” he muttered acidly.