Court Martial Read online

  The cells in the cellar at Bendlerstrasse resemble cages at the zoo. Thick vertical bars separate them from the corridors, along which guards perambulate continually.

  ‘Pigs, dirty pigs,’ whispers an artillery Hauptmann in the cell next to Oberst Frick. His face is beaten up and swollen. One eye is completely closed.

  ‘What in the world has happened to you?’ asks the Oberst, quietly. His body begins to tremble.

  ‘They beat me,’ whispers the artillery officer. ‘Smashed my teeth in, sent an electric current through me. They want me to confess to something I never did.’

  ‘Where are we?’ asks Oberleutnant Wisling, curiously.

  ‘Third Army Court Martial Unit, section 4a, directly under the jurisdiction of the J.A.G.,’ a Stabszahlmeister replies. ‘Don’t expect anything good! It’s like living in a railway station. You get the impression that half the Army’s up for court martial. There’ll be nobody left soon. They say we’re short of soldiers and yet we’re shooting our own quicker’n the Russians can.’

  By Sven Hassel

  Wheels of Terror

  Monte Cassino

  SS General

  Legion of the Damned

  Blitzfreeze

  Comrades of War

  Reign of Hell

  Liquidate Paris

  Assignment Gestapo

  March Battalion

  Court Martial

  The Bloody Road to Death

  The Commissar

  Ogpu Prison

  COURT

  MARTIAL

  Translated from the Danish by Tim Bowie

  A WEIDENFELD & NICOLSON EBOOK

  First published by in Great Britain in 1979 by Corgi

  This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books

  Copyright © Sven Hassel 1979

  Translation copyright © Transworld Publishers Ltd. 1979

  Translated from the Danish by Tim Bowie

  The right of Sven Hassel to be identified as the author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means

  electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording

  or any information storage and retrieval system

  without permission in writing

  from the publisher.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or

  dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978 0 2978 5733 4

  Orion Books

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Orion House

  5 Upper St Martin’s Lane

  London WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  Born in 1917 in Fredensborg, Denmark, Sven Hassel joined the merchant navy at the age of 14. He did his compulsory year’s military service in the Danish forces in 1936 and then, facing unemployment, joined the German army. He served throughout World War II on all fronts except North Africa. Wounded eight times, he ended the war in a Russian prison camp. He wrote LEGION OF THE DAMNED while being transferred between American, British and Danish prisons before making a new life for himself in Spain. His world war books have sold over 53 million copies worldwide.

  To the memory of Ernst Ruben Laguksen,

  Commander of the Finnish armoured regiment,

  Nylands Dragoon Regiment.

  The tragedy of the German soldier is his belief that there is a sensible reason for continuing the resistance and for losing his life. Day out and day in he goes on making inhuman sacrifices for a cause long since lost.

  Oberst Graf von Stauffenberg shortly

  before his execution 20 July 1944

  This book is dedicated to the city of Barcelona where I have met with the most exceptional hospitality and where the majority of my books have been written.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About the Author

  By Sven Hassel

  The Bridge

  The Battle Group

  Court Martial

  The Execution

  Flight

  The Spurious German

  Nova Petrovsk

  The Red Angel

  The War Dogs

  The loss of a leg or a foot is not half as bad. These new artificial limbs have joints which often work better than the real thing, and if you get arthritis you can cure it with an oil-can.

  Porta to Tiny, 125 miles north of the Arctic Circle.

  Porta whinnies with pleasure and offers her a seat on the rotten bench we are occupying.

  She laughs, the sound ringing deep into the woods. She is standing with the sun behind her and we can see her body in silhouette. Her grey summer uniform skirt is made of thin transparent material. We’d like her to stay there for ever. Her hair is long and golden, like a ripe cornfield. She cannot speak German and we have to make ourselves understood in a queer kind of lingua franca. Porta speaks something he says is Finnish, but the girl doesn’t understand him.

  Splashes jump out in the river. They are like big raindrops.

  ‘They’re shooting,’ says Gregor laconically. ‘Waste o’ time!’

  Waste of powder at this distance,’ says the Old Man, lighting his silver-lidded pipe.

  The spurts of water seem to race one another across the river.

  ‘You not frightened?’ asks the girl soldier, smoothing her skirt.

  ‘No,’ laughs Porta carelessly. ‘They’re pitiful, those gun-crazy idiots!’

  ‘I never see them shooting before,’ she says, stretching her neck to see better.

  We can get a bit closer,’ suggests Porta, helping the girl up. We’re laughing at them here!’

  ‘Can you take a picture of me?’ she asks, offering a Leica to Heide. She positions herself on top of the hill.

  Heide takes a photograph of her, making sure that all the bullet splashes on the river are included.

  ‘Let’s take one with you in the middle of me an’ Tiny,’ shouts Porta, with a big smile.

  She laughs, and puts her arms around their shoulders.

  Heide squats down like a real professional photographer.

  The explosive bullet tears away half her face. Flesh, blood and splinters of bone spray over Porta. A torn off ear dangles from Tiny’s chest, like a medal.

  ‘A sniper, a rotten bloody sniper!’ shouts Tiny, dropping down alongside Porta.

  They push the dead girl’s body in front of them for cover.

  THE BRIDGE

  ‘No. 2 Section! Ready to move off!’ orders the Old Man, and swings his Mpi1 over his shoulder. He looks tired and discouraged. A grey stubble of beard covers his face. His ancient silver-lidded pipe hangs sadly from the corner of his mouth.

  A few of the section get up and begin to get their weapons and equipment together.

  Porta and Tiny stay down in a warm hole they have found, and look as if none of it was any of their business.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the order?’ shouts Heide officiously, inflating his chest to Unteroffizier size.

  ‘There ’e goes again,’ says Tiny, furiously, pointing with his Mpi at Heide. ‘What’ll we do with ’im?’

  ‘Shoot him when we get the chance,’ decides Porta, briefly.

  ‘Say we tie ’im to the bridge just ’fore we push the bleedin’ ’andle, an’ liquidate ’im an’ cremate ’im in one go!’ suggests Tiny, delightedly.

  ‘Swine,�
� snarls Heide angrily, and moves away.

  ‘Get your fingers out, you lazy sacks,’ shouts the Old Man, irritably, pushing Porta.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t move a step till I’ve had my breakfast coffee,’ answers Porta, unconcernedly.

  Tiny begins getting ready to boil up. He fills the kettle with snow, and soon has a pleasant fire going.

  The Old Man’s face has taken on a coppery-red tinge.

  ‘What kind of a rotten monkey’s been chewing your arses? On your feet in five seconds, or I’ll make you a cup o’ coffee you’ll never forget!’ He swings his Kalashnikov above his head like a club.

  Porta just manages to duck away as the butt comes flying at his head.

  ‘Hell’s bells, old un, you might’ve hit me! You don’t have to start beating people up just because they want a cup o’ coffee for breakfast!’

  ‘Coffee,’ shouts the Old Man, in a rage. ‘What do you think you’re on? An outing to look at the Northern bloody Lights?’

  ‘Sod what I’m on,’ says Porta, stubbornly. ‘I still want coffee! My brain doesn’t start working till I’ve had my coffee.’

  ‘’E’s right,’ Tiny agrees. ‘This bleedin’ army can’t do what it likes with us. We got a right to coffee. It says so in Supply Regs. Ivan’s snot-’eaded coolies even, they get coffee ’fore they go out ’n get theirselves shot dead.’

  ‘You! You’ve not got the right to a fart,’ shouts the Old Man, furiously, ‘and if you don’t get your kit together and lift your arses off the ground double-quick, I’ll blow the shit out of your stupid heads!’

  ‘Do it! Get it over with now!’ Heide prompts him eagerly.

  Porta is pouring water on the coffee beans. A delicious aroma rises towards the tree-tops.

  Our nostrils begin to quiver. Soon the whole section is sitting down, sharing Porta’s coffee. Even the Old Man sullenly accepts the mug which Tiny graciously offers him.

  ‘To the devil with the lot of you,’ snarls the Old Man, blowing into his mug. ‘The rottenest section in the whole army and I had to get it! A shower of arseholes is what you lot are!’

  ‘’E’s no gentleman, is ’e?’ remarks Tiny to Porta.

  ‘A proletarian prick I’d say he was,’ declares Porta. ‘About as useful as a hole in the head!’

  Tiny crows with laughter. He thinks Porta’s remark is the joke of the year.

  ‘You take that?’ asks Guri, the Laplander, his face splitting in a typical Lapp grin.

  ‘Damned if I do,’ shouts the Old Man, vehemently. ‘You heard me. I gave a direct order: Section, march!’

  ‘Don’t shout so loud,’ warns Porta. ‘The neighbours might hear all that German piss. It’s dangerous to talk German in these parts!’

  ‘That does it,’ roars the Old Man, wrathfully, taking his Mpi from his shoulder.

  ‘Shoot and you’re dead,’ threatens Tiny, swinging the muzzle of his Kalashnikov towards the Old Man.

  ‘Let a man have his coffee in peace,’ says Porta pettishly ‘There’ll be no war till I’ve swilled my tonsils clean!’

  ‘Up my arse,’ the Old Man gives in, and slings his Russian fur-cap far away amongst the trees.

  ‘Mind you ‘air don’t freeze,’ says Tiny, in a kindly voice. ‘They didn’t issue us them ‘ead-cosies for parade purposes only, y’know!’

  Porta is quietly making a new pot of coffee. His breakfast ration is five cups, as a rule.

  ‘Tell me,’ says the Old Man in a dangerously quiet voice, ‘just how long do you reckon this coffee party is going to go on?’

  ‘Only idiots expect people to chase around all over the map before they’ve had their coffee,’ says Porta, calmly, filling up the mugs again.

  The Old Man accepts his with a shake of the head, but jumps when Tiny starts to make toast.

  ‘I’m reporting you for refusing to obey orders, when we get back,’ he threatens, shaking with rage.

  ‘Tell me,’ Porta turns to the Legionnaire, ‘you’re the oldest member of this shootin’ club, did they ever send you foreign legion lot out to get your throats cut by the Muslims without a cup of coffee under your belts?’

  ‘Non, mon ami, I never remember it happening,’ answers the Legionnaire, well aware that it would not be diplomatically wise, and productive of incalculable problems, to do anything but agree with Porta on the subject of breakfast coffee.

  The Old Man loses his patience, throws his mug from him and kicks the toast out of Tiny’s hands,

  ‘Up on your feet! Up! Now!’

  ‘Don’t treat good food like that,’ Porta scolds. ‘How d’you know how soon you’ll be hungry!’

  ‘I’ve said it before an’ I’ll say it again. ‘E’s no gentleman,’ sighs Tiny, patiently collecting the toast from the ground.

  ‘Watch your blood pressure, old ‘un,’ advises Porta. ‘You’ll shorten your life, going off like that!’

  Shortly after this episode we are moving on our way, slipping and sliding down the steep slopes. By dinner time we have reached the road leading to the ice-free port, a long way to the north. A little to the east runs a notorious railway, built at the cost of the lives of thousands upon thousands of prisoners. Rumour has it that it is built on human bones.

  We lie in the snow and watch endless transport columns roll past our position.

  ‘Up on the road,’ orders the Old Man. ‘Follow me in single file! If we’re challenged nobody answers but those of you who speak fluent Russian. The rest of you are just deaf and dumb.’

  Merde aux veux! Let’s hope Ivan doesn’t smell a rat,’ mutters the Legionnaire uneasily. He seems to become smaller.

  ‘Jesus wept!’ hisses the Westphalian, sourly. ‘This is the last time I go on a trip behind the neighbours’ lines. Soon as we’re back I’m going to put a bullet through me foot.’

  ‘Cost you your old turnip if they find out,’ says Porta with a sarcastic smile.

  Slightly north-east of Glenegorsk we find the first of the hidden bridges.

  Four long goods trains are held up, on camouflaged tracks, waiting for the green light, and a couple of kilometres further back a fifth train is waiting.

  We prepare the explosives inside the fringe of the woods. We have five sledges loaded with the new Lewis bombs, which we have just begun to be supplied with.

  Porta and I get the first guard. We couldn’t care less. We can’t sleep anyway. We’re full of pervitin pills. The Russians call them pryshok porokh2. One pervitin can keep a man awake for a week, and they can be a lifesaver for men working behind the enemy lines.

  ‘You’re off your head, man,’ I protest, when Porta lights up a cigarette. ‘They can see you from here to Murmansk!’

  ‘Don’t piss your drawers, son,’ mumbles Porta. ‘The Red Army sparkles all night! Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘It’ll be your fault if we get knocked off!’

  ‘You’ll never feel it!’ says Porta, callously, taking a long draw at his cigarette so that it glows brightly.

  Early next morning we are listening to Heide, our explosives expert. He is standing up on a windfall to get a good view of us all.

  ‘Listen to me, and listen good, you arseholes,’ he shouts. ‘As you can all see, what I have in my hand looks like a lump of rubber, and you can do almost anything you like with it without anything happening. Throw it in the fire and what you get is a thick, sticky mass. It looks like chewed-up gum, but it isn’t. This shit consists of a quarter thermite, mixed with metallic oxide, and three-quarters plastic explosive.’

  ‘What’s plastic?’ asks Tiny, blankly.

  ‘No bloody business of yours. All you need to know is it’s called plastic.’ Heide holds up a copper tube.

  ‘This is a copper and aluminium tube, which contains a detonator.’

  ‘What’s a detonator?’ asks Tiny, lifting his hand like a schoolboy.

  ‘No bloody business of yours, either,’ Heide rebuffs him. ‘All you need to know is it’s called a detonator. And don’t
keep interrupting me with stupid questions! I’ll tell you all you need to know an’ that’s enough. As you can see there are eight bends on this tube and these represent eight different time intervals, so that we can decide when she goes bang-bang. The lowest is two minutes, and I wouldn’t advise using it. The highest is two hours. The tube itself’ – he holds it up proudly, as if he himself had invented it – ‘contains a mercury compound. You bite through this little glass chap here, the acid inside runs down and dissolves the seal holding the striker in position. The striker shoots forward and primes the bomb. The process has commenced.’

  ‘An’ then it goes bleedin’ BANG!’ shouts Tiny, with a big grin.

  ‘Idiot,’ snarls Heide, irritably. ‘Cut those interruptions out! Don’t you realise I’m an Unteroffizier, and your superior?

  ‘If you’d been in the cavalry you’d ’ave been a Unterwachtmoister, and if you’d been in a Alpine Regiment, you’d ’ave been a Oberjäger. You could also’ve been – if, that is to say, you’d been in the paratroops, like Gregor ’ere . . . ‘

  ‘When the detonating process has commenced,’ continues Heide, with a superior air, ‘enormous heat is generated, and it is this which ignites the plastic explosive mass.’

  ‘An’ it goes BANG!’ says Tiny, jubilantly.

  Heide sends him a killing look.

  ‘All known metals, even the heaviest steel, melt in seconds. Without this clever little device called the detonator you can play about as you like with the plastic. Nothing will happen, except you’ll get your fingers sticky. You can jump into a fire with your pockets full of it. It won’t go off! Put it under a steamhammer. No bother! But once the detonator’s blown, watch out for it! Run for your lives. Once you’ve bitten through the glass, get moving! Put sixty yards, at least, between you and the explosion centre. Inside that distance your lungs’ll be hanging out of your arse and throat. I’d prefer seventy yards myself. When they were demonstrating it for us at the Army Ammunition Depot at Bamberg, they lost two ammunition experts. They thought they could play games with Lewis bombs.’