Ogpu Prison Page 6

  5 KDF (Kraft durch Freude): NAZI organisation, ‘Strength through Joy’, which arranged entertainments and travel parties.

  6 Kv (Kriegsverwendungsfähig): Fit for service.

  7 GVH (Garnisonsverwendungsfähig): Fit for home service.

  8 See ‘Blitzfreeze’

  9 The dice are thrown.

  10 Kripos: Criminal Police.

  11 RSHA: Reichssicherheits-Hauptamt: Government Security Service.

  12 Tiergarten: Zoo.

  13 Alex: The main police station on Alexander Platz.

  14 Freely translated:

  If you want to see me again,

  You must meet me at the train, then.

  At a waiting room rendezvous

  We will breath our last adieu. . . .

  15Henry V, Act III, Scene III: Before the gates of Harfleur.

  2

  Infantry Attack

  The Old Man greets the new intake and explains to them patiently, all the things they didn’t teach them in training school.

  ‘Listen now,’ he says in his hoarse voice, and directs a dark brown jet of tobacco-juice into the snow. He puckers his lips and gives out a long, piercing whistle. ‘Hear that, and down you go! Flat on your faces! They’re the little devils to watch out for. They spread! Down in a hurry, if you don’t want to see your guts dangling round your boot-tops. This noise!’ he produces a drawn-out, grating sound, reminiscent of a goods-train braking, ‘behind cover, quick as a bat out of hell. Holes in the ground’re no good. Those boys hit and bounce. So if you’re in a hole the shit showers down on you from above!’ He imitates the sound of every type of shell and bomb. Repeats them over and over again until he feels sure the new boys have got hold of them. ‘One thing you’ve got to learn, my sons,’ he goes on. ‘Run! Run like hell! Run faster’n a rabbit with a buzz-saw sawin’ away at his arse! you can run from shells, if you’re fast enough, and never forget when you’re in HKL1, make yourself small and keep your head down! That’s if you want to see home and beauty again! Snipers, kiddies,’ he points round the ring of young men with the stem of his ancient silver-lidded pipe, and sends another long stream of spittle out into the snow. ‘I know they’ve told you that our neighbours over the way are only half-trained. Forget it! Quick as you can! Siberian snipers are the best in the world! They can cut the head off a rat at two hundred yards!’

  It is just after dawn. The Company arrives at the front line, and two minutes later the first man falls with a bullet through his head. A seventeen-year old tank gunner who has forgotten what the Old Man has been trying to teach him. The others stand staring whitely at their dead comrade. The explosive bullet has taken off his entire face.

  ‘Crackerjacks,’ grins Porta, sarcastically. ‘That ought to prove to you Ivan’s not usin’ blanks! Take a German head off in no time at all, don’t they? Don’t be nosey, and you’ll live longer!’

  ‘You there,’ orders Tiny in a voice like a blow-torch. ‘You there, with the long neck. Yes you! Get that dumb look off your face.’

  A long, thin seventeen-year old, in a uniform which is much too big for him, cracks his heels together and salutes.

  ‘Cut the gymnastics,’ Tiny says, blowing a cloud of smoke from his fat cigar. ‘Take these ammunition boxes, an’ fasten yourself on to my arse. If Ivan blows you off the face of the earth with a flamethrower, you still stay close to me. Panjemajo2’

  ‘I can’t carry all six of them, Herr Obergefreiter. I’ve only got two hands,’ the youngster apologises unhappily, holding out his hands in front of him.

  ‘Tie a couple of ’em to your balls, then, son!’ suggests Tiny, with a horsey whinney. ‘You’re carryin’’em, anyway you like it. Panjemajo?’

  Further down the line, Heide puffs himself up. He has been given command of a squad, and his barrack square syndrome is in full flow. His shouts can be heard far and wide as he chases his squad around.

  ‘Julius is, and always will be, a military pig. Il est con!’ says the Legionnaire, acridly.

  ‘He was born in a uniform and a tin-hat, didn’t you know?’ says Porta. ‘When he left his mum’s womb, on the 20th of April, which is, of course, also the Führer’s birthday, he came out with bayonet at the ready, and straightaway jabbed it in the midwife’s gut, shouting a wild hurra! Then he cracked the doctor’s head open with the butt-end, saluted, and took an ice-cold shower to prepare himself for a career as NCO in the Prussian Army!’

  Grinning, we watch Heide, who is in the process of working up the artificial NCO fury which he seems to feel is necessary when stupid civilians are to be turned into military robots. Julius Heide is a fine-looking soldier, straight-backed, well-trained, fair-haired and with ice-cold, dangerous, blue eyes.

  ‘What a shower,’ shouts Porta, from a hole in the snow. ‘Not many of us old ’un’s left, now. New faces everywhere you look. Soddin’ arseholes! Come over here, Tiny, and keep me company. I never could stand strangers!’

  ‘Me neither,’ rumbles Tiny’s deep bass. ‘If I ’ave to go, I’d much rather it’s in company with pals. I’ve always been against mixin’ me blood, shit an’ bones with a load of strange bastards.’

  Looking down over the slopes we can just see the dreary village so many German and Russian soldiers are going to die to gain possession of within the next few days. Through the drifting snow it reminds one of a Christmas card rather than a place where danger lurks. But we know the Russians are down there and that they have strengthened its defences efficiently and well. It is the first station on the via dolorosa leading to the heights, and to the huge OGPU3 prison which lies menacingly on the top of the farthest hill, appearing and disappearing through veils of drifting snow.

  The road leads over heights and hilltops down through the valley where death beckons. Our battle units will have to burn their way through several villages and fortifications to get to the great prison. This morning we don’t know it, but we and the Russian soldiers will soon be cursing it just as much as thousands of unhappy prisoners have cursed and hated it. When the snow clears, now and then, it looks like an angry threat, dominating us with its massive walls and rows of barred window openings.

  ‘Wonder how many they’ve got locked up in that place?’ says Porta, thoughtfully, examining it through his field-glasses. ‘A knot with three walls round it and a soddin’ lot of barbed wire on top! Never seen one of those before!’

  ‘It’s a big bleeder ain’t it?’ says Tiny, impressed, looking through the periscope eyepiece. ‘Wonder if they’ll let the slaves out, when we start smashin’ it up? Or if they’ll just give the bleedin’ key an extra turn, like our lot do when there’s a raid on?’

  ‘They’ll not let ’em out,’ says Porta, with decision. ‘They’ll let ’em fry in their own fat when we start putting down incendiaries.’

  ‘Wonder if there are women in there?’ Albert says, licking his lips.

  ‘Of course there are. It’s both a men’s and women’s prison,’ explains Julius Heide, who is always irritatingly well-informed about everything.

  ‘What kind of poor social losers get put in there, anyway?’ asks Barcelona, well aware that the expression will touch Heide on the raw.

  ‘What do you mean, social losers?’ fizzes Heide. ‘Criminals, that’s what they are! Political and criminal swine, who should be put up against a wall!’

  ‘Don’t forget now,’ grins Porta, happily, ‘this is a Communist untermensch prison. Their politicals are a kind of ally of ours. Liberators, you might say.’

  ‘Traitors are traitors,’ says Heide, categorically. ‘A Russian who sympathises with us, is still a traitor to his country, a political criminal, and deserves to lose his head for it!’

  ‘House!’ Porta roars with laughter, and claps both his hands to his head.

  ‘What about Vlassov’s lot, then?’ asks Gregor, smiling crookedly ‘We’ve given them uniforms and weapons so’s they can help us give their own lot a bashin’?’

  ‘You’re too stupid to understand a
ny of it!’ Heide gives up, angrily and almost lets his head show over the lip of the snow-bank. He suddenly remembers the snipers and comes down again like a flash. ‘One of our classic authors has put it very clearly: Der Feind liebt den Verrat, aber Verachtet den Verräter!’4

  ‘What a load o’ shit,’ Tiny makes a contemptuous noise. ‘Everybody wants anybody long as they’re in the right uniform! Germany’s got Swedes an’ English an’ Russkis servin’.’

  ‘Negroes too,’ puts in Porta, pointing with a laugh at Albert, who is sitting, chewing away at a piece of frozen bread.

  ‘Shut it, man!’ growls Albert, insultedly, ‘I’m a pure-bred German, I am!’

  ‘Maybe you are,’ shouts Heide, jeeringly, ‘but Germanic you’ll never be!’

  ‘That makes me happy, too, now that SS-Heini’s said the Hindus are kind of Aryan!’ snorts Albert, showing all his pearly teeth like an angry dog.

  ‘Why’s niggers white inside their ’ands an’ under their feet?’ asks Tiny, in an interested tone, looking at Albert’s pink palms.

  ‘Anybody knows that,’ hoots Porta, moving farther away from Albert. ‘Him and his tribe have to get down on all fours when they’re being spray-painted.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha-a-a-!’ hisses Albert. ‘You’re funny, man, funny!’

  A sinister, hollow sound grows in the air. It is as if something is coming towards us, banging from side to side in a long tube as it gets closer. Snow sprays upwards in cascades as trench mortar projectiles fall in front of us. They explode with an echoing thump.

  ‘It ain’t right!’ protests Porta, from down in his hole in the snow. ‘We’re the ones who ought to be shooting the mortars, not that baggy arsed Ivan lot, the rotten sods. Always breaking the rules, they are!’

  A scream pierces the night. It comes from the far side of the frozen stream. Loud and shrill. A man’s useless protest against the shrapnel which has cut deeply into his body. If the scream is anything to go by.

  Here comes the slobbering sound again, followed by a hollow-sounding explosion. We make ourselves small. Press down into the snow. This is the object of the drill. Not to let yourself get killed by a slobbering mortar. For no reason. Everybody is more or less scared to death. It’s worst for the youngsters who’ve never been at the front before.

  ‘Hell, but it’s cold,’ groans Gregor, blowing his own warm breath up over his face. ‘Must be hundred below!’ Nough to freeze a polar bear’s balls off’n stop him fuckin’ ol’ Mrs Bear for a month o’ Sundays!’

  ‘It’s exactly 43 degrees,’ declares Julius Heide, importantly. ‘A German soldier ought to be able to stand that. The old Teutons had it worse.’

  ‘Were you there, too?’ pipes Gregor, stamping his feet in the snow.

  ‘Course he was! Julius was an’ his Führer was too. The Germans watered their horses in the Volga and Julius knocked the icicles off the Führers arse, after he’d been for a shit!’ Porta laughs so noisily that the Russians open up with sustained machine-gun salvoes, thinking it’s them he’s laughing at.

  Tiny unhooks the waterbottle from his rations pouch and follows the tracer tracks with his eyes. He takes a long swallow and hands the bottle to Porta.

  ‘Stolichnaya,’ cries Porta, delightedly, and puts the bottle back to his mouth, feeling the pure vodka run in a silken stream round his body and right down into his icy toes.

  ‘Where’d you get it?’ asks Gregor, passing the bottle on to Barcelona.

  ‘GEKADOS5,’ answers Tiny, with a secretive grin. ‘I ’appened to walk past a Luftwaffe depot, where they was ’avin’ a barney with three thievin’ bleeders out o’ the Pioneers. They’d nabbed ’em pinchin’ a yard or so o’ pork. Well nobody noticed me just snitchin’ a box o’ grog.’

  ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ asks Porta, with no little interest. ‘There’s usually twelve bottles in a box!’

  ‘’Ere,’ chuckles Tiny, opening his snow-shirt. Eleven bottles of vodka become visible. They are hung round him like oranges on a Christmas tree.

  ‘I only hope Ivan don’t put a banger into you,’ remarks Porta, drily. ‘You’d go up like a bunch of sparklers on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Nothin’ll ‘appen to yours bleedin’ truly,’ says Tiny, with certainty. ‘I give up my place any time to the crazy bleedin’ ’eroes as wants to get their names on a porous gravestone outside the barracks, an’re willin’ to accept a permanent leave pass just to see ’em there!’

  Feldwebel Lange from Command Group comes sliding down the snow face all out of breath, and throws himself down panting alongside the Old Man.

  ‘This whole bloody shithouse’s gone for a burton,’ he stammers, excitedly. ‘Bloody Ivan’s comin’ over in waves. No contact with 3. Battalion. Command Group’s radio busted! Direct hit! I’m the only one who got away. Last minute, it was. Baggy-arsed Ivan was knockin’ on the door already!’

  ‘C’est le bordel,’ says the Legionnaire, working frantically at the radio transmitter. ‘I can hear them, but I can’t understand a word they’re saying!’

  ‘Use Morse!’ orders the Old Man, sharply.

  The Legionnaire begins to tap on the key. Heide helps him. He sends like lightning: ‘Russian breakthrough. Right wing open. 2. Battalion no contact flanks and rear. Cannot hold position. 3 and 5 Company destroyed. Out. Over.’

  ‘Sod it!’ the Old Man curses, bitingly. ‘That’s what you get for usin’ half-trained slobs to do your fightin’ for you! Now what?’

  Heide holds his hand up, scribbling feverishly. He hands the message to the Old Man.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ mumbles the Old Man with a bitter laugh, and takes a great pinch of snuff. ‘To the last man! To the last bullet! Let’s hear the other side for once. Get your gear on an’ your garden hoses ready, boys! We’re goin’ to have visitors! Get me the O.C.!’

  The air is full of noise. Heaven and earth seem to have opened and to be spewing fire and steel down on us. Tank tracks clatter. Heavy motors howl at maximum output. The blinding whiteness of the snow changes to violet and crimson. The whole horizon seems to be ablaze.

  Albert lies beside me, tightly pressed into the snow. He has pulled his white snow mask far down over his head. He is certain that if he shows his black face he will be a perfect target.

  ‘God what I wouldn’t give for a Heimatschuss,6 man! So I could get out of this shit once an’ for all!’ he dreams, aloud.

  Machine-guns on both sides of us begin to stammer. Tracers fan out over the snow.

  ‘What now, Oberfeld?’ asks young Leutnant Braun, looking round, distractedly. He is acting platoon commander but is wise enough to let the Old Man make the decisions.

  ‘Company attack,’ answers the Old Man, shortly. ‘We’ve got to take that sod of a village, and soon! If not we’ll be gettin’ a worms-eye view of the tulips!’

  ‘Impossible,’ moans the young Leutnant. ‘We’ll need heavy weapons to take it. There must be a battalion in there.’

  ‘Don’t cry, Leutnant,’ shouts Porta, happily. ‘When our shit-guns and garden hoses open up, ol’ Ivan’ll be rolling away on his goolies before you can say Jack Robinson!’

  ‘Forward,’ orders the Old Man, and gets to his feet with machine-pistol at the ready, and grenades hanging behind him from his belt. ‘Fingers out, an’ follow me!’

  We storm down over the snow walls and down into the deep snow. Sweating and swearing we work our way through the white hell. Every step we take is an inhuman effort. Our feet go forward, often leaving a boot behind in the snow.

  Heavy Maxims hammer from the village. Like harvesters they mow down our front ranks. Dark shapes lie like silent islands in the snow.

  ‘Vive la mort!’ screams the Legionnaire. He seems to fly over the snow. An attack always seems to drive him mad. He rushes forward like a crazy Arab.

  From a hole in the snow a frightened Russian stares at us in horror.

  The Legionnaire’s Mpi stutters, and the Russian collapses in a bloody heap.

  Ti
ny goes forward like a raging buffalo. He jabs his Mpi into the back of a frightened school-teacher, who time after time attempts to get away from his tormentor.

  ‘Forward, you stinkin’ teacher, you! This is the lovely war you’ve been tellin’ your bleedin’ pupils all about! Watch out you don’t begin thinkin’ ’igh treason, you bastard, or you’ll be ’idin’ yourself in a ’oie an’ leavin’ the war to us lot to win!’

  The former Oberst, who is far too old for infantry attacks like this, coughs and wheezes like a leaky locomotive on it’s way up a steep incline.

  ‘Swee-e-e-e! Crack!’ comes the sound of ricocheting bullets. They fly over our heads with a sound like angry wasps.

  Cursing and out of breath we take cover on the far side of the hill. Death’s hot breath is on the back of our necks. We slide recklessly down the slope, and suddenly, to our surprise, we are in amongst houses, half buried, with only the chimney-tops peeping up above the level of the snow.

  Grenades fly through the air. Mpi’s and LMG’s chatter. Window frames and doors are ripped from their hinges and thrown towards us. Thousands of tracer tracks flash through the icy air and tear into the bodies of running soldiers.

  Russian infantrymen vacate their holes in the snow and run to new hiding places in the snow drifts behind the huts.

  We are gripped by a wild thirst for blood. Intoxicated by victory. At having taken the feared enemy by surprise.

  ‘Vive la mort!’ screams the Legionnaire, fanatically, smashing his rifle butt down on the head of a fat sergeant. Blood and flesh spurt all over him.

  ‘Njet vysstrelitj!’ moans the Russian captain, holding one hand defensively in front of him.

  Leutnant Braun stops and looks, in confusion, at the wounded Russian officer. Then he dashes on, after the Old Man, who disappears round the corner of a long turnip trench.

  Like a film running too fast, I see that the Russian has a grenade and is preparing to throw it after Leutnant Braun. Reflexively I smash the butt of my rifle into his face. The grenade rolls from his hand and explodes in a burst of snow and frozen earth.