Bob Carruthers - Into the Gates of Hell - Stug Command '41

“You’ll do what you are told. Double-time move and you can change out of those rags and into something more befitting a German soldier.”

Wendorff, biting his tongue, turned and spoke to Bettina in Russian.

“They want me to go in here for five minutes. Don’t worry, it’s not too serious. If you just go with this officer, I will come and check on you as soon as I can.”

He had expected a soft response, but from the way Bettina looked at him he knew that, if she had any saliva in her thirst-tortured body, she would have spat in his face.

“You fascist animal! You are no man. Do not speak to me, you slime.”

AS HE followed the signs leading to the battalion’s headquarters, Wendorff was haunted by thoughts of Bettina Ostermann. He should have been the most joyous man on the planet, but he was as miserable as could be. He was free from a nightmare and he was still alive and in one piece. Once again in the uniform of an SS-Oberkannonier, he fitted in with the panorama of life: German lines, passing bivouacs, stores, mobile workshops and camouflaged artillery emplacements. He drew in a deep breath. Suddenly, his load seemed lighter. Perhaps there could be an end to this. Perhaps peace would come soon.

“SS-Oberkannonier Wendorff, I don’t believe it! It really is you!”

The familiar voice had boomed out unexpectedly. Turning around, Wendorff could make out the unmistakeable figure of Otto Wohl running towards him.

“SS-Kannonier Otto Wohl! Of all the people! I was just thinking about you and the boss!”

“Ach, the boss is fine,” replied Wohl, “as are Junge and Knispel and the others, but I warn you, he is in one of his moods. He’s trying to train me on the radio, Morse and all that. Otherwise, it’s a transfer to the infantry for me. Perhaps you could help me, I’ve…”

“I’m sorry, SS-Kannonier Wohl. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve been through a lot and I’m not a teacher. I have a matter of the utmost importance to discuss with SS-Hauptsturmführer von Schroif.”

“Yes, of course. That’s his HQ by those trees over there. We’re pulling out tomorrow and heading back to the division. You’re back just in time. Perhaps you can join us?”

“I think I already have. Someone was kind enough to provide the uniforms,” said Wendorff. “And, after what I have seen, it would be good to have some friends around me again.”

“Indeed, SS-Oberkannonier. Allow me to escort you as guard of honour.”

With that, the two comrades made their way briskly to von Schroif’s position. They arrived just in time to see the last of the Polish vodka being splashed into the glasses of the four officers. Rossheim, von Schroif and Grunewald had been joined by SS-Sturmbannführer Voss, who had an uncanny knack of being able to show up at the point when a bottle was opened.

“Wendorff, so good to see you,” said von Schroif with genuine warmth. “Please, take a seat. You must have much to tell us all.”

For all its horrors, no soldier would deny that war has its elevated moments of great personal warmth and heightened camaraderie◦— none more so than the meeting of old friends◦— but in times of battle this is given greater power by the immediate knowledge that the participants have not gone the way of so many unfortunate souls and have indeed survived. So it was with these newly-reunited comrades, but, beneath all the handshaking and feeble jokes, Hans von Schroif could tell that there was some weight on Wendorff’s mind, and therefore was not surprised when Wendorff asked if they might talk in private.

“That’s alright, Wendorff, you are among friends here. Feel free to say anything,” said Sturmbannführer Voss.

“As you wish, Sturmbannführer. It concerns my mission from Abwehr.” Wendorff placed a sweat-stained document pouch on the table.

“I was supposed to deliver these documents to a contact behind Soviet lines, but everything fell apart and I ended up inside the fortress.”

“Highly intriguing,” said Voss. “What kind of documents are they?”

“I don’t know, SS-Sturmbannführer,” said Wendorff truthfully.

“You mean to say you haven’t read them?” Rossheim asked, quickly leaning forward. He picked up the pouch and examined the seal.

“No, Oberleutnant, I have attempted to fulfil my mission, but, as you can see, the seal is unbroken.”

“I have no reason to think it would be otherwise,” said Rossheim.

“You have not told us enough about your role behind Soviet lines,” said Voss, eager to learn more.

“I’ve said all I can,” replied Wendorff, “without compromising anyone else involved. Suffice to say, I must now ensure that these documents find their way back to Abwehr.”

“Well, they are in good hands now,” said Rossheim, abruptly rising from the table. “I happen to be on my way to Berlin this afternoon. I shall deliver them personally. You are certain that you have not opened or read the documents?”

“Absolutely certain, Oberleutnant,” replied Wendorff earnestly.

“Good. Otherwise, I’d have been forced to kill you!”

The others burst out laughing, but there was something odd about Rossheim’s reaction and the way he looked at him that stopped Wendorff from joining in the mirth.

Rossheim’s demeanour now altered immediately. His formerly jovial exterior vanished as he snapped to attention and clicked his heels. “I’ll make sure they are with Abwehr today.” With that, he made his salutes and was gone.

The sound of Rossheim’s departing car had hardly died down when it was replaced by the noise of shooting and then screaming in the forest off to their left. These were not the typical screams of war though, not the screams and shouts of men locked in mortal combat◦— these were screams of an entirely different order. These were the screams of women and young children…

“Partisans?” queried von Schroif, picking up his machine pistol. “Wohl, you stay and guard the StuGs.” He turned to give an order to Wendorff, but he had already set off towards the woods himself, hoping that what he feared was happening was something else entirely.

On reaching the scene, Wendorff could not believe what he was seeing. A mass of young children, the very children for whom he had just secured safe passage, were now lying dead in the centre of a clearing. Some had obviously run for their lives and were being hunted like wild animals for sport, their executioners smiling and laughing as they targeted and hunted the terrified children. Where was Bettina?

Wendorff saw two soldiers emerge into the clearing, both laughing. One was brandishing a blood-stained broken bottle. Sickened by an awful sense of foreboding, Wendorff raced passed them. Then the awful sight met his eyes. At first, he was unable to take in the sheer horror of what he was seeing. He then reeled in disgust as the vision swamped his brain. Bettina’s lifeless corpse was splayed out on the ground, her arms and legs spread and tied to four wooden stakes. Her skirt had been lifted and she had been mutilated…

Wendorff looked around and saw Oskar Dirlewanger emerge from behind a tree. He ran straight at him, screaming and repeatedly punching him.

“Bastard! Bastard!” screamed Wendorff, raining down the blows. He would have continued until the man had been reduced to a bloody pulp, but he felt a massive blow from behind and found himself grappled to the ground by two of Dirlewanger’s command. Dirlewanger stood over him, smiling.

“You murdering bastard,” screamed Wendorff.

“You must learn to moderate your language, Wendorff. I have clarified the orders with Hauptsturmführer von Schroif. Eliminate all bolshevised individuals. That’s the standing order.”