Hans Kirst: The Night of the Generals

“At a conservative estimate,” said Major Sandauer, “the sections of the city which we propose to search contain eighty thousand inhabitants.”

“Take the necessary steps,” replied the Divisional Commander.

Leaving the G.S.O.1 to his paper work, General Tanz thoughtfully scanned the street up which he intended to launch his first drive. It was lined with grimy old three- and four-storeyed houses with massive windows and doors, most of which had hardwood frames—probably Polish oak from the forests round Cracow and Lublin. They were like little fortresses but they wouldn’t present any great problem if they were overrun quickly enough.

“Drive on,” said the General.

The G.S.O.1 hastily scrambled back into the staff car. He always sat behind and on the right when accompanying his General. The seat beside him was occupied by the Divisional Commander’s current “No .2 orderly"—commonly known as his combat orderly, to distinguish him from the No .1 orderly or batman who ministered to his needs in quarters. The combat orderly’s job was to produce, at a moment’s notice, anything the General might require while conducting an engagement, to whit: one Thermos flask of coffee; one packet of salami sandwiches; one flask of high-proof liquor reserved for special emergencies, so it was said, because the General never drank in action; three packets of iron rations; a hard pillow and a supply of pistol and sub-machine-gun ammunition. The combat orderly’s name was unimportant. He seldom lasted in the job more than a week.

“Hold it at thirty,” said the General.

A hum emanated from the Mercedes’ bonnet, but Sergeant Stoss carefully avoided gunning the engine. With clockwork regularity, the wheels began to turn.

Lieutenant-General Wilhelm Tanz, commander of the élite Nibelungen (Special Operations) Division, drove at a measured pace down Potocki Avenue. Once the go-ahead was given, he reflected, this was where he would instal his first road-block. Sergeant Stoss stared dourly ahead, the current combat orderly fingered his various items of equipment nervously and Major Sandauer busied himself with his notes, but the General seemed intent on impressing the surroundings on his mind. Whatever he saw became transformed in his mind’s eye into a map.

“Flame-throwers,” he remarked as the houses glided by. “Make sure our requirements are fully met, Sandauer.”

“To be on the safe side, sir, I’ll indent for three times as much as we need,” replied the G.S.O.1, and made notes accordingly.

Tanz nodded. Being an expert staff officer, Sandauer relieved him of all the time-wasting donkey work. Tanz knew that he could rely on him, realizing that the Tanzes of this world could fight on regardless as long as there was a Sandauer to take care of logistics.

General Tanz registered every detail of what he saw, house by house and door by door. Though the buildings were large, their entrances were narrow and comparatively few and far between. Three or four men per house would do to begin with. First seal off, then search—that would be the procedure, with machine-gun sections covering the street, tanks blocking the main thoroughfares and all available scout cars maintaining an uninterrupted patrol of the intervening spaces. Then there were the flame-throwers… Once the ground floors were cleared the survivors would crowd upstairs like rats into a trap and could be mopped up at leisure. The roofs, however, presented a special problem.

“We ought to have a few helicopters,” the General told his G.S.O.1. “Low-flying fighter support too, if possible. We must seal them off above and below simultaneously. Any man who slips through the net during this type of operation represents a potential danger later on.”

“I’ll indent for everything possible,” Sandauer replied mechanically. His schoolmaster’s face wore the anxious look of a man about to undergo a rigorous examination. He could indulge in such facial contortions because the General never looked at him closely, being far too preoccupied with himself and the enemy of the moment.

“Stop!”

Stoss braked judiciously and the Mercedes rolled to a halt as gently as if it had been driven into a snow-drift. A group of children who had been playing in the gutter froze into immobility and stared at the General wide-eyed.

The Divisional Commander raised his hand, then leapt lithely from the car like a victorious tennis-player vaulting the net. He strode over to the children and looked down at the hungry eyes and prematurely old, fearful faces.

“What are you scared of, youngsters?”

Major Sandauer translated the question into Polish, but the children did not venture to move.

“I think they’re hungry,” said Major Sandauer after a brief inspection.

Tanz turned to his combat orderly. “What have we got in the way of food?”

“Only two sandwiches, sir—Hungarian salami, meant for the General’s lunch.”

“The General,” put in Sandauer, “is invited to lunch with the G.O.C. today.”

“Even if I weren’t,” declared Tanz, “nothing would prevent me from foregoing my normal ration if circumstances rendered it necessary. Show me the sandwiches.”

The combat orderly opened a brief-case with tremulous fingers and brought out a packet wrapped in a paper napkin. Inside were the prescribed two sandwiches. He held them out for Tanz’s inspection.

Tanz’s eyes wandered to the orderly’s hands. As they did so, they took on the glint of freshly fallen snow in arctic regions. The hands holding the sandwiches were rough, chapped, uncared-for and dirty into the bargain.

“Filthy pig,” said the General.

With one abrupt and powerful sweep of his left hand he sent the packet of sandwiches flying. They disintegrated into their various components and fell to the cobbles, salami, butter and bread standing out vividly against the dusty surface—russet red, creamy yellow and fluffy white bordered with pale brown. The children gazed at them with eyes in which greed and fear struggled for pride of place.

“Filthy pig,” repeated the General. “Even Polish children don’t deserve to be offered muck like that.”

Major Sandauer nodded to the ragged onlookers, who promptly fell to their knees and scrabbled for what lay on the ground, tugging at it like birds with a worm. Having crammed the bread and sausage into their mouths, they sucked the butter off the cobbles, ignored by the members of General Tanz’s entourage.

“Make a note: bread,” the General told Sandauer. “Bread and other foodstuffs as well—sweets too, if available. These children appear to be hungry. Even starvation can prove a welcome ally in time of need.”

“Duly noted, sir.”

“As for this specimen,” General Tanz continued, curtly indicating his current No .2 orderly, “return him to general duties at once. I don’t wish to see his grubby face again. Last week he had the effrontery to hand me an unwashed glass. He scratched my belt and tried to grease the inside of my gas-mask. He persistently swaps my sheets round so that the foot end turns up at the head and vice versa—and now, to cap it all, he dares to enter my sight looking as though he’d just exhumed his grandmother with his bare hands.”

“Returned to unit, sir,” Sandauer said hastily.

“Absolute cleanliness,” pursued the Divisional Commander, “that’s what I demand from the people round me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir!” Tanz’s erstwhile combat orderly looked almost relieved, possibly at having forfeited the dubious privilege of serving in the General’s immediate vicinity.

“Drive on,” said the Divisional Commander briskly. “I propose to inspect another four streets this morning and we must be finished by lunchtime. Sandauer, transmit the following message to the G.O.C.: operational plans under way, arriving G. H. Q. at appointed time. Has anyone else got any food? Throw it to the children. It can’t do any harm to gain their confidence.”