“Follow those men,” instructed the officer and walked away.
Langer turned to Steikel. “With officers like that, no wonder we’re losing the fucking war.”
Herzog watched his men filing away to join the other group, then he hurried up the stone steps at the front of the town hall. Walking past the two guards at the main entrance he found himself in what looked like a vast hallway. Outside a white-panelled door at the far end of a corridor stood a guard and Herzog made his way towards the door, his boots beating out a tattoo on the polished floor. The guard was studiously inspecting the contents of one nostril on the end of his finger but, when he saw Herzog approaching, he wiped his hand on his trousers and saluted.
“Where is Sturn?” asked the sergeant.
The private coloured slightly and knocked on the door. A voice from inside told him to enter. Herzog was ushered into an outer office and greeted by a tall man with sad eyes. Captain Brauss, Sturn’s adjutant. Brauss smiled weakly but found his gesture ignored. Herzog had no time for this upper-class officer who wore his medal ribbons because of his social status, not his worth as a soldier. What the hell was the point in wearing a medal if you didn’t deserve it, Herzog reasoned.
Brauss disappeared through another door and a moment later the sergeant found himself beckoned into a larger office. It was vast, supported on both sides by gigantic book-cases, filled with dust-covered leather-bound volumes. In the centre of the room, set between two huge panelled windows, lay a desk and behind that desk sat Major Burkard Sturn.
As Herzog entered, he looked up from the map which was spread out before him. Herzog saluted and stood to attention. The painting of Hitler, hanging over the fireplace, regarded him with baleful eyes. Sturn returned to his map, absently pulling at the lobe of his one ear.
Tiring of the silence, Herzog snapped his heels together. “Sergeant Herzog, third battalion, reporting, sir. We’ve just arrived from Mortagne.”
“What are your losses?” asked Sturn without looking up.
“Seven men killed. British planes attacked us as we left the town.”
“Where are the British now?”
“Still in Mortagne, I suspect, we saw no sign of troop movement, only the planes.”
Sturn paused from his endless porings over the map and sat back in the plushly upholstered chair. He pressed his fingertips together reflectively. “You know, Herzog, that our position is,” he paused, “shall we say, undesirable?”
Herzog ignored his superiors inane ramblings and said, “An ambulance was attacked by the resistance, sir. No more than a mile from here.”
Sturn nodded. “The resistance have no respect for the niceties of conventional war, sergeant.”
“There were no survivors.”
“The Führer tells us we are winning the war on two fronts, but no one has the time to tell him that we are, in fact, losing it on three.” Sturn smiled inanely.
“Sir, I…” Herzog got no further.
“You may go.”
He hesitated.
Again the insistent command, “You may go.”
Herzog saluted, his anger bubbling within. The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsed angrily. He turned and left the room.
Sturn waited until he heard the rattle of the sergeant’s boots die away, then he sat back again, closing his eyes.
“The resistance,” he muttered, “always the resistance.” He looked across at Brauss. “How do you fight an enemy you can’t see?”
Brauss shrugged uselessly.
“They don’t teach you that in training, do they?” continued the major. He moved in his chair and winced at the stab of pain in his spine. The cancer was growing. He smiled weakly, “No, you have to learn how to fight partisans.” As he spoke he gently brushed the golden Anti-Partisan badge which gleamed on his jacket. He had won it in Russia two years earlier. ‘For his part in the fight against the Bolshevik murderers’ it had said in the official despatch.
‘Bolshevik Murderers’. There had been two of them. Both girls, no more than twelve. He had found them in the bedroom of a house, cowering from him like frightened rabbits.
He had shot them both.
Yes indeed, you had to learn how to deal with partisans.
Chapter Four
The fire spluttered dismally, bleeding a stream of thick grey smoke into the rain-soaked air. The men huddled around the pile of damp wood, trying to find some morsel of warmth from the barely glowing timber. Those who didn’t stare dejectedly at the ground were eagerly watching the cooking-pot which hung over the fire. An unholy-looking brown mess, which passed for stew, bubbled agitatedly in it. Steikel stirred the contents of the pot with his bayonet and inhaled deeply. He smiled appreciatively. He had poured a whole bottle of brandy into it.
A steady blanket of drizzle was falling from the black sky as it had been for the past two hours. The earth drank it in greedily until it was satiated. Deep puddles had formed around the camp-site.
With one last stir, the Austrian announced that the stew was ready. The men thrust forward their mess-tins in eager anticipation. It was the first time they had eaten in three days. Like a Paris chef, Steikel filled each tin in turn. Langer’s stomach rumbled loudly as he held his out. “Come on, Steikel, my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.” He received his share and snatched the tin back, grabbing the lump of rabbit which was floating in it. To hell with a knife and fork.
Herzog ate at a leisurely pace, sipping the brandy-laced gravy; he looked across at Steikel and said, “You chose the wrong profession, my friend, you should have been a cook.”
“You might have been Adolf’s personal cook,” added Langer, between two enormous mouthfuls of rabbit. The other men laughed.
Willi Feld warmed his hands around the steaming mess-tin and watched as Langer finished his share, licking the inside of his tin to ensure that none was wasted. He belched loudly and patted his stomach before letting rip with a tremendous fart.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Steikel.
“Farting after a meal is considered good manners in some countries,” announced Langer, smugly.
“Bollocks,” snorted the big Austrian.
“It’s true, it’s good manners.”
Herzog grinned. “If that’s the case, Langer, you must be the most cultured man in the German army.”
The men laughed together, for one moment, forgetting the rain.
Willi Feld closed his eyes and whispered grace before eating. Langer smiled sardonically.
“Saying grace, now, is it?” he said. “You’ll be having us all taking communion next.”
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” snapped Bonhof, irritably. “All you ever do is moan and take the piss out of people.”
“Coming to the rescue, eh?” sneered Langer. “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, Schupo bastard?”
The ex-policeman eyed Langer malevolently. “Lucky for you you never ended up in my jail. I’d have taught you a thing or two.”
“You’re going to end up six feet under if you don’t shut up.” Langer coughed, made a hawking noise and projected a lump of mucus in Bonhof’s direction. It missed his foot by inches. With incredible swiftness, Bonhof reached to his boot-top and slid out a wicked-looking knife. He brandished it menacingly at Langer who appeared unperturbed. Some of the other men edged back.
“You try it, Bonhof,” he said, pointing at the blade, “and I’ll stick that up your arse.”