Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

“Is this the only one?” asked Sturn, indicating the captive.

“The only one alive.”

“And the bodies?”

“In the Krupp, it’s parked in the square.”

“Have the bodies removed and hung in the square as an example.”

For a moment Herzog stared at his superior; he understood the order but it seemed unable to register in his mind. Was Sturn serious? The major stood beside the prisoner, who was half lying, half crouching, on the floor. He looked down.

“What is your name?” he asked, softly.

“He won’t talk, sir, I’ve tried to…”

Sturn glared malevolently at Herzog and suddenly brought the heel of his boot crashing down onto the Frenchman’s outstretched hand. The knuckles seemed to glow red. Sturn dropped to his knees and stifled the man’s agonised babblings by gripping his chin in a vice-like grip.

“Your name,” he repeated.

The Frenchman spat. Watching with relish as a globule of mucus rolled down Sturn’s cheek. The major slowly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it off. Releasing his grip on the prisoner, he stood up, the vein in his temple throbbing angrily. Herzog held his breath, watching as Sturn walked slowly back towards his desk. Then, in one swift movement, he spun round, pulled the Mauser pistol from his belt and fired.

The room had not been designed, accoustically, for gunfire and the explosion reverberated around, crashing off the walls. A look of pained surprise crossed the Frenchman’s face as the bullet shattered the bridge of his nose. Bone and cartilage splintered under the impact and a thick spurt of blood gushed from the hole. He slumped forward.

“Get that out of here,” ordered Sturn, holstering the pistol. “I want it hung in the square with the others. The resistance need to be shown that we will fight their violence with worse violence.” He stroked a finger across his Anti-Partisan badge.

The phone rang.

“That will be all, sergeant,” said Sturn, reaching for it, “remove the body now.”

While Sturn was engrossed in his phone conversation, Steikel and Erhardt arrived to remove the corpse. Both saluted, then set about their task, ignoring the stench which rose from the body. The two men carried it out, accidentally banging what was left of the head against the door-frame. It left a crimson smudge. Erhardt apologised to the corpse.

Herzog saluted and followed them out. Sturn watched out of the window until he saw the three men emerge in the square, then he sat down and poured himself a glass of brandy.

“Bloody fool,” muttered Herzog, “the only chance we had of finding out anything about the resistance and Sturn kills him.”

“What’s he going to do now?” asked Steikel, letting go of the corpses’s feet.

“He wants the bodies hung up as an example.”

“Jesus Christ, does he think the resistance will be scared off by something like that?”

Erhardt looked down at the body and shook his head. “This isn’t a war any more” he murmured.

“It hasn’t been a war for the past two years,” snorted Herzog, “everyone’s forgotten what they’re fighting for.”

Steikel and Erhardt stooped to lift the corpse again. The rain coursing down its sunken cheeks looked like tears.

The dawn groped its way across the horizon as a watery sun struggled up into the sodden sky. It was still raining although only in the form of a light drizzle which drifted across the town like a veil, forming a silvery dew on the uniforms of the troops.

Steikel slipped his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, trying to coax some feeling back into his numb fingers. He glanced across the square to the makeshift gallows where three bodies twisted gently in the breeze. From the steps of the townhall, where he stood, the big Austrian had a ringside view of the grisly tableau. The steady trickle of people, soldiers and civilians, which crossed the square cast cursory glances at the bodies.

Out of his eye corner, Steikel could see Bonhof, standing straight as a rod, ignoring the weather. The ex-policeman was a model of soldierly efficiency and possessed something which few of the others did. A pride in the uniform he wore. He was a Nazi. A fully paid-up member of the party. At the beginning of the war he had volunteered for service in the S.S. but had been refused on medical grounds. The rebuff was still painful to think of. How dare they refuse him? He had been a policeman for ten years, a good servant to Führer and Fatherland. He had a right to join. He glanced impassively at Steikel who was picking at his teeth with a stubby index-finger. He hawked and spat.

“Dirty bastard,” said Bonhof, contemptuously.

Steikel turned and smiled inanely, then looked back across the square. A steady trickle of people were crossing it.

“Where the hell is everybody going?” asked the big Austrian.

“It’s Sunday, you bloody heathen, they’re going to church.”

The big Austrian laughed. “To pray for the end of the war, I suppose. Well, it won’t be long. The Allies will be through here in no time, then it’ll be a matter of every man for himself.”

Bonhof frowned. “Talk like that could get you shot. It could be reported as sabotage.”

Steikel farted loudly. “Report that,” he said, grinning.

Bonhof decided to ignore his companion. He drew his heels together and glanced around. It was then that he noticed the Mercedes.

It was approaching the townhall from the other side of the square, a small red pennant fluttering on its bonnet. But, even from that distance, Bonhof could make out the black swastika at its centre. Like some obscene black insect, the car slid to a halt at the foot of the stairs outside the hall and three doors were pushed open. In rapid succession, three black-uniformed men got out and looked around them. The first, tallest and oldest of the three, pulled on his gloves and brushed a speck of dirt from his sleeve. He nodded a signal and the trio walked briskly up the stone steps.

“S.S.,” whispered Steikel, catching sight of the silver insignia on the black uniforms. As they passed, the death’s-head badge on the cap of the leading figure seemed to grin mockingly at Bonhof. He and Steikel saluted sharply as the trio passed.

“That was a fucking general, wasn’t it?” said the big Austrian, awestruck.

Bonhof nodded.

“Did you see the medals? Fuck me. He had the Frozen Meat Order too. Christ, it’s not every day you get a visit from a bleeding general, is it? Especially not from the S.S.” He smiled to himself and watched fascinated, as a crow perched precariously on the head of the first hanging corpse and began to feast on the eyes.

Captain Brauss was resting. Leaning back in his chair rocking gently backwards and forwards on the two back legs. He was sucking the end of his pencil and considering the pile of papers on his desk. Major Sturn was busy in the office; it looked as though it was going to be a quiet afternoon.

There was no knock, just a flurry of black and silver as the trio of S.S. men entered the outer office. Brauss panicked, tried to stand up and toppled over, banging his head on the wall. He turned a deep shade of scarlet and scrambled to his feet, not sure whether to salute or to raise his arm in a Nazi salute. He chose the former.

The general regarded him with cold eyes.

“Where is Major Sturn?” he demanded, throatily.

Brauss motioned them towards the office door, which they passed through and promptly slammed in his face.

“General Rimfeldt,” announced the older man.

Sturn stood up, shot out his arm and tried to stop quivering. He invited the S.S. men to sit down and relaxed slightly when they did. Three sets of baleful eyes turned on him and Sturn felt a bead of perspiration pop onto his forehead.