…And even that was starting to pall.
Somehow, feeling as if he was watching his own body from a far distance, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled back towards the camp. It was really nothing more than a mass of tents for the wounded, surrounded by a handful of heavily-armed stormtroopers. He’d been told that there were other defensive lines further east, but he had no idea if it was actually true. He hoped, for the sake of what little family he had left, that it was true. The idea of his camp being able to offer more than token resistance when the enemy launched a second offensive was laughable.
The guard wrinkled his nose as Hennecke staggered past. There had been a time when Hennecke would have taken it personally, demanding satisfaction with his fists if nothing else, but now he hardly cared. His makeshift uniform was stained and soiled, a disgrace to the Waffen-SS, yet he was hardly the only soldier who looked as if he had been swimming in a septic tank. Even the guards were no longer their dapper selves. Hennecke couldn’t help wondering if they had been sentenced to death too.
He scowled at a pair of nurses as he walked up to the tent. Neither of them seemed to recognise him, but they both flinched back anyway. God alone knew what they were doing in the camp — it was no place for young women — yet it was clear they couldn’t leave. They’d probably volunteered to tend the wounded, he thought with a bitter snigger; they’d found themselves trapped near the front lines, far too close to whatever radioactive contamination lingered in the air.
And if they don’t catch radiation poisoning, he thought, they might catch something else instead.
Sanitation — battlefield sanitation — had been hammered into his head from the day he’d joined the Hitler Youth. His superiors hadn’t hesitated to hand out savage beatings to any men foolish enough to soil their own nest. Even prisoners in concentration camps had been ordered to remain clean, on pain of death. And yet, the tent’s interior was so foul that he was glad of the semi-darkness. He didn’t want to see what was causing the smell.
He sat down hard on his bed — really, just a pile of blankets — and tried to gather his thoughts before he was put back to work. But it was hard, so hard, to keep focused. He kept rubbing at his hands, trying to get rid of the sunburned feeling he knew wouldn’t fade until he died; his head, pounding savagely, only seemed to grow worse as he struggled to breathe. The air was so foul that he didn’t know if he could breathe. Were the other men in the tent dead?
The shock yanked him awake, pulling him back into the world of moaning men waiting to die. He’d been asleep and dreaming and he hadn’t even realised it. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand, trying not to peer at any of the other men. But it was impossible to avoid seeing that a man, someone he vaguely recognised, had died sometime in the last hour or so. There was no one to carry out the body…
They’ll probably burn the entire tent, he thought, as he staggered out into the open air. It was still bitterly cold, but the skies had cleared enough to allow the sun to pour its rays onto the camp. Hennecke would have been grateful if he hadn’t already had a nasty burning sensation covering his body. And then they’ll burn the entire camp.
Another nurse — one who looked vaguely familiar — was serving food outside a mobile canteen that looked to have seen better days. Hennecke stumbled up to her — she looked alarmed to see him, fear clearly visible in her eyes — and took a plate of stew. It tasted like it had passed through the digestive system of a cow — he didn’t want to think about where the meat might have come from — but he was too far gone to care. He wolfed it down and managed to get his hands on a second serving before the trumpets blew, summoning every able-bodied man to the command tent. Licking his fingers to make sure he ate every last scrap, Hennecke made his way slowly to the tent. The only thing marking it out from the other tents was a large flag, hanging limply in the wind in front of the flap.
Not the only limp thing around here, Hennecke thought, sourly. He started to giggle, helplessly. The thought just wouldn’t go away. The commander…
Someone smacked the side of his head, hard. “Pay attention,” a Scharführer snarled, angrily. “The commander is talking.”
Kuhn, Hennecke thought.
But Kuhn was dead, wasn’t he? It was growing increasingly difficult to be certain of anything. Had he seen Kuhn die or was it merely a dream, a happy fantasy he’d used to keep himself warm? He felt the pistol concealed within his belt and allowed himself a tight smile. He might be on penal duty, where he wasn’t supposed to have any weapons without special permission, but he was still armed.
The commander was new, he noted, as the man perched himself on a bucket so he could be seen by the entire group. He wondered, absently, what had happened to the last one, then decided he didn’t want to know. He’d been so out of it that there could have been a dozen changes of command in the last couple of days and he probably wouldn’t have noticed. He felt a sudden flare of anger as he saw the commander’s pristine uniform for the first time. It was perfect, even in the midst of utter hell. He looked down at his sodden trousers and shuddered.
“The war goes on,” the commander said. “And we have not forsaken our duty.”
Maybe he’d introduced himself. Hennecke hadn’t heard. There was no point in caring, anyway. He’d lost quite a few commanders during the brief, but savage war. God alone knew what had happened to the men under his command, before he’d been stripped of his rank and sent to a penal unit. He certainly didn’t want to know.
The group shuffled restlessly. They should have given a rousing cheer, Hennecke knew, but they were too ill, too tired or simply too bitter to care. Heil Holliston? He had no doubt that the entire camp would go over to the rebels if they thought there was a genuine chance they would be treated like human beings, instead of monsters. Even the promise of a good meal before they were shot would probably win them over.
“The Reich is wounded,” the commander continued, “but the Fatherland is not yet broken!”
Hah, Hennecke thought. Judging from the faint snickers that ran through the group, he wasn’t the only one who thought that way. The Reich might be alive, but what about us?
The commander turned an interesting shade of purple, but seemed perplexed. Men who thought they were doomed to die whatever they did — rightly or wrongly — couldn’t be threatened with the camps. What sort of punishment could be worse than their current condition? And a beating, no matter how carefully controlled, would probably push some of the men over the edge and into death.
“We have orders,” the commander said. He looked nervous. Hennecke didn’t fail to take note. Showing weakness in front of junior officers and enlisted men could be fatal. “We will be raiding the outer edge of the enemy’s defences!”
A low ripple of anger ran through the group. Raiding the enemy lines was standard doctrine, particularly when the SS didn’t have the manpower to launch a full offensive, but there wasn’t a single man in the camp healthy enough to carry out the mission. Hitting the enemy, even with the advantage of surprise, would be a suicide mission. The commander was trying to get them all killed, no doubt with an eye to saving bullets.
“We can take the enemy lines and hurt them,” the commander snapped. “I…”