Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

They were left there for five minutes, during which time many of the unfortunate prisoners collapsed, the combination of extreme cold and the fact that they hadn’t eaten for days being to much for them. Those left standing stepped from the shower and were told to line up. The unfortunates who had collapsed were revived by the simple expedient of kicking them in the ribs until they got up. Herzog wondered if his father had gone through all this at Dachau.

He and the other eleven naked prisoners were marched back along the corridor to an office which was completely bare apart from a desk and two chairs. There weren’t even any curtains at the window. Here they stood in a line, dripping onto the cold floor, not having been allowed to dry themselves. The S-M and Lieber stood before them, suddenly jumping to attention as Commandant Rivas entered the room.

He walked slowly around to the front of the line, so that he was facing the prisoners. He squinted at them, touching each on the chest with the end of his riding-crop, outlining the scar which ran across Herzog’s chest. He studied the sergeant’s muscular body with something more than admiration. He looked deeply into Herzog’s eyes and the sergeant felt the hatred rising within him. Not only where they being humiliated, they now had to bear the attentions of a perverted commandant. Rivas prodded the next man in the stomach with the crop, making a white mark in the flesh when he withdrew it. The one-eyed man held his breath and clenched his fists as the commandant began to stir the dark hairs around his navel with the implement, slowly letting it drift to his groin. Rivas grinned crookedly and reached forward, gently squeezing the one-eyed man’s penis in his gloved hand. The prisoner closed his eyes and felt a bead of perspiration pop onto his forehead. Rivas loosened his grip on the man’s penis and turned to the S-M, turning his back on the relieved prisoner.

“What was this man’s crime?” he asked.

“He deserted, sir,” answered the S-M.

“Deserter,” murmured Rivas, still with his back to the prisoner, but, suddenly, he spun round and brought the riding-crop smashing down on the tip of the man’s penis. The one-eyed man wanted to scream, every fibre of his body wanted to yell out his agony but Rivas pressed the point of the riding-crop under his chin and glared at him, as if daring the wretched man to make a sound. His body trembled with suppressed agony and he dug his nails into his palms until blood dribbled through the knuckles. Rivas stepped back, satisfied.

“Take them away,” he snapped and waddled out of the room. No sooner had he left than the one-eyed man sank to his knees sobbing and clutching at his swollen organ with bloodied hands.

“Get up, deserter,” snarled Lieber, but the man only continued to shake his head and moan softly.

The one-eyed man remained in his kneeling position even when Lieber kicked him between the legs. He sagged forward, cracking his head on the stone floor, drawing blood. He was lying in a foetal position when the others were marched out.

None of them saw him again.

The courtroom was arranged much like the prison which housed it, three vast tables arranged to form a quadrangle, each one attended by a veritable posse of advisors. All except the top table, behind which sat three men, alone but for a pile of documents arranged before them.

A single chair stood before this table. For the prisoner. Herzog picked at the fraying sleeve of his prison overall and looked around him, carefully studying the faces of the three man tribunal before him. All three looked well into their sixties and decidedly uninterested in the proceedings. The string of verdicts and sentences which they had delivered during the morning had become almost monotonous in their regularity and Herzog had waited for a break in this routine.

It was the same in every case.

“Charge?”

“Desertion.”

A moment’s conspiratorial whispering, then the expected answer. “Guilty. Death by hanging.”

Every now and then they varied things and the protesting prisoner was dragged off to be either shot or, in some cases, beheaded. The latter sentence had been pronounced four times so far. Each time for cowardice in the face of the enemy.

As yet, there had been no charge similar to his own of disobeying orders. More than fifty men had passed through the court but all had been deserters or cowards. It appeared that there were fewer men of principle in the German army than he first suspected. He was pondering on his fate when his name was called.

“Prisoner 23958 Herzog, sir. Charged with disobeying an order and causing the morale of his regiment to falter,” said the S-M before retiring to his seat.

The man seated in the centre, behind the desk, General Reinman, looked at the blue file which lay before him. He scanned it briefly, then looked at Herzog.

“You were a sergeant,” he said.

Herzog shrugged. “I still am, sir.”

Reinman frowned. “Yet you still disobeyed an order, which you knew would jeopardise the strength of morale in your regiment.”

“That is not true,” said the sergeant.

“The truth is here,” shouted the man on Reinman’s left, throwing the file down. He was a tall vain man with dandruff. “It is here in black and white, you knowingly put the morale of your regiment at risk by refusing to wear the Iron Cross which you were awarded.”

“The morale of the unit was non-existent anyway.”

Metternicht sat back. “What are you trying to say?”

“I am saying that my refusal to wear the Iron Cross had no more effect on the morale of my men that the string of defeats we had suffered.”

“That is irrelevant. You chose to disobey a specific order even though you realised its importance.” He sneered triumphantly.

“I did not consider it important,” said Herzog, calmly.

Metternicht reddened. “So you consider yourself a better judge of what is important than your superiors?”

“I see more of the front line than them.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that it takes more than a lump of metal to boost the morale of men who have been fighting for a lost cause for over a year.”

An excited babble ran around the courtroom and Metternicht pointed an accusing finger at Herzog.

“The man is a traitor too,” he said. “Need we hear more?”

Herzog shook his head. “I am no traitor. I simply refused to wear the Iron Cross because I did not agree with the reasons for which I was given it.”

Metternicht laughed contemptuously. “Two million men in the German army and there is one with principles.” His eyes narrowed. “You are a fool.”

“I would have been a fool to wear the Iron Cross.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Reinman, “but the order was given for a purpose and you chose to ignore that purpose.”

The three generals began whispering and Herzog could see them nodding and shaking their heads. He could not hear what they were saying. It was probably just a matter of deciding whether he should be shot, hung or beheaded. He began picking at his sleeve again, interrupted by the harsh banging of Reinman’s gavel on the desk top.

“Prisoner will rise,” he said and Herzog did so.

“The verdict of this court,” Reinman began, “is that the prisoner is guilty of disobeying orders.” Herzog’s gaze never faltered as he awaited sentence.

The general looked straight at the sergeant and coughed as if he had difficulty speaking the words. “In the past you have shown ability as a soldier, an ability which will be needed when the Führer decides to mount his counter-attack.” Herzog dropped his head in weary astonishment. ‘Counter-Attack’, Jesus Christ. Reinman continued, “Therefore we have decided that you are more use alive than dead. Your sentence is that you will forfeit your rank and be sent immediately to the Eastern Front where you will join a front-line unit.”