Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

“Major Rolf Heist and Colonel Joachim Axon,” the general said, pointing at his colleagues.

The two men retained their cold gaze on Sturn, a coldness quite unnerving coming from such a young source. Axon was, the major guessed, twenty-five. Heist his senior by ten maybe fifteen years. His face was hard, lined. The thin lips seemed to have been sealed from the inside. Even his eyes looked full of grim resignation.

“You have a problem with the resistance,” said Rimfeldt, as if he were telling Sturn something he didn’t know.

“Yes sir, but I have taken certain steps.”

The general chuckled derisively. “Hanging three bodies in a market-place is hardly likely to deter men as fanatical as the resistance.”

Sturn defended himself. “I was ordered by Divisional Headquarters to take whatever retaliatory action I felt necessary.”

“And I was sent to ensure that that action is effective,” said Rimfeldt.

“You must appreciate, Major,” began Axon, “that this affair with the resistance is bad for morale. The men must be in good heart for the counter-attack.”

Sturn looked puzzled.

Axon continued, “The withdrawal from Mortagne was a purely strategic one.”

“We lost fifteen thousand men in Mortagne, to my mind that scarcely constitutes a strategic withdrawal.”

Sturn paused, wondering if he had said the right thing. What he had just said fell neatly into the category of sabotage. He swallowed hard and brushed a hand through his hair.

“You seem to be suffering from battle fatigue,” said Rimfeldt, flatly, “otherwise you would not have said what you just did. Torgau is full of men who have said similar things.”

Sturn went white and looked at the floor.

“Just what do you propose to do about the resistance?” stammered Sturn, anxious to change the subject.

“Make an example,” said Rimfeldt. “What is the population of the village?”

“Many people have left, four hundred is the correct figure, I think.”

“Four hundred,” repeated Rimfeldt, smiling. He looked at the major and pointed to his jacket. “I see you have the Anti-Partisan badge, Major. Where did you win it?”

“Russia,” proclaimed Sturn, proudly.

Rimfeldt chuckled. “The Russian Front, that is where the real war is.” The other two men nodded. “But those Russians, they are like animals.” He laughed. Sturn smiled weakly, his nerves beginning to fray.

“Touching this matter of the resistance,” Rimfeldt continued, “I will require twenty of your men. Speed is the main thing. We must strike before the resistance.” He walked across to the window and looked out into the square. The rain had stopped and the sun was fighting its way out from behind a bank of cloud.

“Sunday,” he remarked. “Church.”

The other S.S. men smiled enigmatically. Finally Rimfeldt slapped his thigh and turned to Sturn. “We will leave now, Major.”

Sturn breathed a sigh of inner relief and gratefully raised his arm in a Nazi salute as the three men left. The door slammed behind them and he exhaled deeply, regaining his composure before crossing to the door.

“Brauss,” he snapped. “I want to see Herzog now.”

Herzog reached the steps of the townhall just as a Hurricane swept overhead on a reconaissance mission. He stopped for a second, watching the plane disappear into a mass of white cloud.

Steikel smiled as he saw Herzog approaching.

“The fucking S.S. are here,” he said, “a bloody general, no less.”

The sergeant raised his eyebrows in surprise.

He found Sturn waiting for him, hands clasped tightly behind him.

Herzog snapped off a salute and opened his mouth to speak but Sturn was first.

“I want you to select twenty of your men,” he began, “for a special assignment.”

“What sort of assignment?” asked Herzog, suspiciously.

“You will be told that nearer the time, the matter is not fully in my hands.”

“Then whose hands is it in?”

“The S.S.”

Herzog frowned as Sturn continued, “There are three officers in the village, you will take orders from them direct.”

“My men will want to know what the mission is. If the S.S. are involved they’ll have their own ideas.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” barked Sturn.

“The reputation of the S.S. has spread far, in many spheres.” He added cryptic emphasis to the last words.

Remember your rank, Herzog, and also remember that you are talking of the Führer’s personal bodyguards.”

Herzog shrugged. “I speak as I find, sir, and my opinion is that the Führer has a bunch of murderers for his bodyguards.”

“That is enough,” shouted Sturn, bringing his fist down, with a crash, onto the desk. “You will report back here in an hour to receive your orders. Is that understood?”

Herzog replied that it was, replaced his field cap on his head, saluted and left.

In column two abreast, the twenty men under Herzog’s command marched into the market-place of St Sarall. Few noticed the two Krupp lorries parked opposite the townhall and even fewer bothered to consider why they might be parked there, the powerful engines grumbling rhythmically. The men formed two lines facing the townhall, all eyes following Herzog as he slowly climbed the stone steps towards the door.

He had reached halfway when two figures appeared at the top of the stairs. He recognised one as Sturn; the other was dressed in the uniform of an S.S. general. The sergeant saluted, fixing his eyes on the older man’s silver insignia.

“Heil Hitler,” snapped Rimfeldt.

Herzog ignored the words and asked, “What are my orders, sir?”

Rimfeldt ran an appraising eye over him. The dirty uniform, stained with mud and sweat. Threadbare in places, a curious smell coming from it. The equipment bulging from his belt, the unholstered P-38 stuck there for ease of access.

“You are filthy, sergeant,” said the general, malevolently. He threw a glance at the troops arranged before him. “And so are your men.” He reached forward and pulled at the pistol in Herzog’s belt. “Why isn’t this holstered? Why do you think rules are made? I will tell you, they are made to ensure than an army runs efficiently. Do you understand? That is why the enemies of the Third Reich are no match for our armies, because they do not insist on the upholding of rules and regulations. The German army is great because of its pride in itself, you and your men undermine that pride.”

Herzog turned white with suppressed rage. You pompous fucker, he thought. Twenty thousand German soldiers die every day and he’s worried about regulations. Fuck him.

“My orders, sir,” he breathed.

Rimfeldt brushed past him and walked to the bottom of the steps. The sergeant followed.

“There is to be an identity check,” announced Rimfeldt, “you and your men are to ensure that the people of the village are brought to the centre of the town. Empty the houses and bring the people here.”

Herzog saluted and swung himself up onto the tailboard of the first Krupp.

The church clock struck ten and a bank of black cloud began to clutch ethereal fingers towards the sun.

“Why the bloody hell do they want an identity check anyway?” demanded Fritz, pulling at the dirty bandage around his throat. It was filthy, caked in dried blood and almost black in colour. It hadn’t been changed for ten days.

As the Krupp moved slowly through the narrow streets of the village, Herzog pulled back the canvas flap of the lorry and looked out. A few yards behind followed a jeep driven by Corporal Meininger. Its two black-uniformed passengers sat impassively, regarding the white houses with the impartial eye of a farmer deciding which of his herd to slaughter.