Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

From where they stood, the city was visible without the need of binoculars. The top of the bell tower offered a magnificent panoramic view of the countryside for at least five miles in all directions. Except the east where the approaches to the town were thickly covered by a dense growth of fir-trees. It was from that direction that the Russians had to come.

The church stood in the heart of the town, a white-walled building with tall tower and shining spire; the weather-vane at the top spun merrily in the breeze. About thirty feet below them was the churchyard with its precision rows of gravestones and crosses bearing names which had long ago been eroded by the wind and rain. As forgotten as the dead they commemorated. A single bell, golden and surprisingly clean, hung in the belfry beside the two men and, Ritter tapped its shell, a series of faint discordant notes trickled from it. Peering over the guard-rail which ran around the top of the tower, the corporal could see down into the vestry. Beyond that was the altar and the pulpit, rows of wooden benches arranged neatly before it. Stained-glass windows filtered light into a hundred different colours as they silently told their stories.

Christ, the Crucifixion.

Ritter took one last look in the direction of Poznan and then he took hold of the metal ladder and slowly climbed down from the tower. Herzog followed and the two men walked through the deserted church, enjoying the solitude, a manifestation of peacefulness almost disquieting in its reverence. Particles of dust drifted aimlessly from beam to beam, changing colour as they passed before multi-hued windows. Ritter paused for a moment, his eyes flicking around the inside of the church. Standing silently before the altar, helmet held across his chest, was Foss. His head was lowered and he had his eyes closed. Herzog could see his lips flickering, forming words but no sound.

Ritter smiled. “Are you a religious man, corporal?” he asked.

“I never have been,” answered Herzog.

“Why not?”

The corporal grunted. “You don’t see what I’ve seen these past four years and still believe in a God.”

Ritter sneered. “Your lack of faith appears to be universal, Herzog, it is not confined merely to the army but also to God.”

“Neither has ever done anything to merit my faith.”

Foss heard them and looked across. He smiled sheepishly, appearing embarrassed that they had seen him. He walked briskly across to join them.

“I was thinking about my wife,” he said, wistfully.

Herzog nodded. The three of them turned and walked out of the church, hesitating slightly as the blast of fine rain met them. Foss hurriedly, replaced his helmet and turned up the collar of his jacket.

Around the square which fronted the churchyard, German soldiers huddled in groups, chatting and smoking, trying to forget the weather and the approaching Russians. In one of these groups stood Vogel. He had his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers and was moving them agitatedly as he watched a young Polish woman cross the square. He made a guttural sound in his throat and sucked in air through pursed lips.

“What wouldn’t I give to get my hands on her?” he muttered lecherously.

Schiller turned to watch the girl and nodded approvingly. “Not bad,” he mumbled.

Zorn shook his head. “I can’t understand why there are so many civilians still here.”

“Where are they going to go?” Synovski said. “Your men in front, the Russians behind. They might just as well sit where they are.”

“They’re probably all partisans,” said Driest, nervously.

“You’ve got partisans on the brain,” said Schiller shaking his head, but the movement hurt him and he pressed a hand to his temple.

“I thought you weren’t going to get hurt,” Driest reminded him.

“We all make mistakes,” grunted Schiller.

“My big mistake was getting roped into this lot,” grumbled Vogel as the woman disappeared around a corner. “Just think, if I was still back in Germany there’d be women chasing me all over, begging for a screw.”

“They wouldn’t chase you if you had an eighteen-carat chopper,” sneered Schiller.

Driest shook his head. “If I’ve got partisans on the brain then he,” he pointed to Vogel, “has got sex on the brain.”

“Course he has sex on the brain,” Schiller grinned, “he doesn’t get it any where else.”

“Too fucking right,” snorted Vogel.

Moller laughed.

The square was empty apart from the occasional civilian passer-by who gawped curiously at the small groups of grey-clad soldiers guarding the approach roads which led into it. There were just over fifty of them, about half that number sheltering in the many abandoned houses which led into the centre of Relstok.

The village was perched on a hilltop, the church its centre point. The simple roads radiating outwards from this hub like the spokes on a wheel. All roads led, quite simply, to the church and to God.

Schiller took a last drag on his cigarette and dropped the butt to the ground, crushing it under his boot. He puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his stomach, which rumbled discontentedly. “I’m hungry,” he announced, looking around at his companions as if he thought they would make a suitable meal. He fumbled in his pack and found a piece of mouldy cheese. The others stood round jealously as he devoured it. None of them had eaten for two days. He belched and grinned at the watching men.

“Pig,” snapped Driest.

“You eat bad cheese,” Kahn told him, “you have bellyache to go with headache.”

Schiller sneered. “I’ve got guts like a bloody incinerator, never had stomach-trouble in my life.” He farted loudly and fanned the air. Vogel wrinkled his nose distastefully. Driest began to pace back and forth agitatedly, his eyes fixed on the clock which hung outside what had once been a tavern. Although no one visited it any more, the owner still kept the clock going and, through his efforts, Driest had now been able to estimate that they had been in Relstok for a little under fifty minutes.

“What the fuck are we hanging around here for anyway?” he demanded.

“Ritter ordered a house-to-house search,” answered Synovski, “he thinks that this might be a base for partisans.”

Driest stamped his foot, like a child who has had its favourite toy taken away. “What the hell does it matter if he whole fucking village is full of partisans? The longer we wait, the quicker the Russians are going to get here.” He began chewing his nails, although there was very little left to chew.

“Looks like they find something,” said Kahn, glancing up the street.

The other men turned their heads to catch a glimpse of what he meant. As they watched, six people walked slowly towards the square, flanked on either side by two German soldiers. Strutting at their head was Sergeant Althus. He gave the men a scornful look as he passed and indicated the captive Poles behind.

“You see what the men in my section can do?” he said proudly. “Flushed out a whole nest of partisans, didn’t we? Whole bloody stack of weapons they had.”

“Partisans,” snarled Synovski, moving forward menacingly, his eyes on one of the three children in the group, “how do you know?”

Althus grinned smugly. “The cellar of the house was full of bloody weapons.”

“They probably didn’t even know about them,” argued the Pole, defensively.

“Balls,” snorted the sergeant, “we’ll see what Captain Ritter has to say about this.” Brushing Synovski aside, he and his followers, captive and captor alike, marched off towards the church.

Although Herzog and Foss hadn’t been aware that a house-to-house search had been initiated, they didn’t have to wonder what Althus wanted as he strode, triumphantly, up to the captain. The sergeant saluted and snapped his heels together.