Ogpu Prison by Sven Hassel
‘Very good, sir,’ mumbles Oberst Jevers, shocked, staring down at the large charts. He knows the meaning of this. He has literally been given a death sentence.
With a cold smile, the Chief of Staff looks at Oberst Mullen, Commander of 114. Panzer Grenadier Regiment.
‘And you, Oberst, you will attack together with the 104th. Major Zaun, you will work your way through the lines, in the course of the night, with the 76th assault battalion, and take the enemy defence points with heavy flamethrowers and explosives. Come here, Zaun. Here is where you will break through.’ The Chief of Staff raps the chart with his pointer. ‘Make it fast! Fast as if the devil was on your back. He is! At H-hour you will be behind the enemy advanced posts. It will mean your head if you are not!’
‘Very good, sir!’ answers Major Zaun. ‘Understood!’ He licks his dry lips. ‘A trip to heaven,’ he whispers to Oberstleut-nant Winkel. ‘Not many of us will come back from this one!’
‘Are you nervous?’ asks the Chief of Staff, hearing his whispered remark. ‘If you feel the job is too rough, say so! I’ll soon find a replacement for you!’
The Major’s face turns red as a peony, but he does not manage to reply before the Chief of Staff has gone on to the Artillery Commander, Oberst Grün.
‘You, Oberst, you will command an entire artillery division. Incorporated will be a brigade of heavy “Nebelzverfer”, and two platoons of heavy mortars. I don’t have to tell you that the job will require close planning and cooperation between your various batteries. You have five hours to get them together and instruct your battery commanders. We have succeeded in getting a meteorology group attached to us, so there should be no trouble in that respect. If you do not trust any of your commanders then replace them with safe, experienced men. We can’t afford mistakes! Everything depends on your fire! Your Fire Coordinator is your most important man. He must be a top man. Whom do you suggest for the job?’
‘Hauptmann Henckel,’ says the Oberst, without hesitation. He glances over at a tall, lean artillery officer in the beginning of his thirties. ‘Herr Henckel has been an instructor at Jüterburg Artillery School for three years. Not long at the front but highly recommended by the school. I firmly believe that we can find no better officer for the job.’
‘I hope you are right,’ barks the General, looking searchingly at the tall Artillery-Hauptmann, who is standing deliberately outside the glare of the carbide lamps. ‘Listen to this, Henckel, it’s important. Everything depends on your understanding your orders. We have no time to repeat them! Continue, Balk,’ he snarls, impatiently, whipping away at his boots. ‘We’re busy men!’
Oberst Grün takes two long steps over to his Fire Controller, and elbows him in the ribs.
‘Dammit, Henckel!’ he whispers. ‘You’re asleep on your feet! Wake up, man! Where are your fire orders? Show me what you’ve taken down!’
His eyes swimming oddly, Hauptmann Henckel hands the Oberst his pad with the fire plans.
‘What the devil man? Are you out of your mind?’ stammers the Oberst, furiously. ‘You’ve hardly made a note! You want to get us all court-martialled? Damn your eyes, man! I never saw anything like it. Herr Pohl!’ he turns to his adjutant. ‘Light a fire under Henckel. And mark my words, Henckel, you’re not at Jiiterburg any more. A mistake here, and you won’t get away with a rollocking. It’ll cost you your head if this goes wrong! Are you sick? If so say so! Now!’
‘No sir, I’m all right. Just a little tired.’
‘Tired,’ says the Oberst, with a sneer. ‘Aren’t we all tired?’
He returns to the chart table worriedly, and throws a nervous look at the dried-up little General, wondering who he could possibly replace Henckel with. He can think of no-one to whom he would dare give the job.
‘Are you crazy, man? You’re asleep again!’ whispers the adjutant, annoyedly, jogging Hauptmann Henckel’s arm. ‘Listen, and write down what they say. If you don’t you could smash up the whole Army Corps when you open fire!’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong. I just can’t stay awake,’ says Hauptmann Henckel, apologetically, leaning against the wall to prevent himself falling. ‘I can’t remember when I last lay down on a bed!’
‘A bed?’ sneers the adjutant, with a laugh. ‘Be happy if you’ve got a pile of stinking straw to lie on, and don’t have to make do with fast-trodden snow. Beds are for high-ranking staff officers. I haven’t seen a bed for two years.’
‘Two years?’ mumbles Henckel, in amazement. ‘You must have been on leave? Every soldier gets three weeks leave a year!’
‘Tell me Henckel, where do you come from, really? The moon or somewhere? Leave? Holy Mother of God, you’re living in a fantasy world! The best you can hope for is a blighty wound to get away from all this filth and catch up on your sleep. I promise you, if I’m lucky enough to get wounded all the medical officers in the Army won’t get me out of bed for the first six months!’
‘That’s sabotage,’ cries Henckel, reproachfully.
‘That’s what you think!’ smiles the adjutant, superciliously. ‘You’ll soon change your mind. But now I’m ordering you to wake up. If you don’t you’ll run into something very, very nasty. The job you’ve been given, needs more than just keeping your eyes open. In front line language, your arse’ll be hot enough to fry eggs on if you mess this one up!’
A thunderous explosion cuts them off. The whole building shakes and trembles. Two more bombs explode with a crash and a roar. None of the officers seem to take any notice of it. The Chief of Staff does not stop explaining the attack plan for a second.
From the darkness come piercing screams and groans.
Hauptmann Henckel looks nervously towards the blacked-out door-opening. The black curtain streams out in the blast.
‘Bombers?’ he asks in a whisper. His eyelids flutter fearfully. He is new at the front. There has never been an air raid at Jiiterburg.
‘You could call them bombers, I suppose,’ smiles the adjutant, jeeringly. ‘We call ’em coffee-mills. They’ve got a bagful of them. Old biplanes with the bombs hanging down underneath, like sausages in a butcher’s shop. When the pilot sees a light down on the ground, he just takes a bomb off its hook and drops it. Try and take a walk outside with a lighted cigarette in your mouth. I assure you, you’ll have a bomb on the back of your neck before you can say Jack Robinson!’
A series of explosions makes the door crash open as if struck by a giant fist. A breath of icy cold air and powdery snow sweeps through the schoolroom, and blows out the carbide lamps with its last dying breath.
‘Get those doors shut, and light the lights,’ orders the General, irritably, lashing his long riding boots impatiently. ‘Lights!’ he repeats. ‘Lights, damn your eyes!’
Some signalmen almost fall over their own feet, as they come running with new carbide lamps. Soon they shine brilliantly white. One of the lamps hisses and crackles loudly.
The General looks at it wickedly.
‘Make that lamp shut up,’ he shouts, red in the face with rage.
A Signals Unteroffizier tries nervously to adjust the burner, but the lamp continues to splutter. It is as if it has decided to tease the General.
The Unteroffizier burns his fingers, but is wise enough not to show it.
‘Take that lamp away! Out with it!’ roars the General, in a hoarse voice.
The Unteroffizier grabs the lamp, and rushes out of the black-out tunnel.
At the same time comes the roar of exploding bombs. The Signals Unteroffizier and the lamp come flying back through the tunnel in a rain of glass shards, strips of flesh and brickwork.
‘Damned mess,’ snarls the General, angrily. ‘Clean it up, and let’s get on with it!’
Planning for the grand attack is resumed immediately. The bombing and the dead Unteroffizier apparently of no interest whatsoever. A couple of soldiers rapidly clear up the remains.
‘We are to hold down the enemy with a short, violent barrage?’ asks the Artillery Co
‘Yes, yes of course!’ answers the General, irritably, and screws his monocle more firmly into his eye. ‘What else would you expect? Your fire falls in no-man’s-land and creeps forward in front of the infantry advance, which must keep tight up to the barrage. We’ll lose some fools, but that’s unavoidable. The enemy will never dream our people are that close behind the barrage. They will be shocked, and will not have time to get their automatic weapons into position. Their heavy weapons will have been smashed by our shells. The moment of surprise must be used! Surprise, gentlemen, and don’t forget it. And you, Oberstleutnant Winkel, will attack over the open steppe. I know this will be costly, but I feel sure you can do it. I trust you. But do not forget to keep in touch with both flanks. Lose that contact, and we have had it! Our opponent is a genius at counter-attacking through weakened connecting lines. The least mistake here,’ he slashes his riding whip down across the plans on the table, ‘and we are in the biggest mess of all time!’
The briefing of the individual regiments continues for a further half-hour. Every so often threats of court-martialling and military prison can be heard.
Finally, the General emphasises again the strengthened artillery’s grave responsibility. He lays his hand heavily on Oberst Grün’s shoulder.
‘Grün, promise me now that you will replace anyone in whom you do not have full confidence. One dunce amongst your officers can be of unforseeable importance!’ He brings his hand up to his cap. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I wish you all possible good luck! If the attack does not succeed, none of you will be officers when it’s over! Keep that in mind!’
‘My God, again! whispers Oberst Grün, exasperatedly. Hauptmann Henckel is again asleep on his stool.
‘I’m sorry sir!’ mumbles Henckel, ashamedly. ‘I can’t understand what’s wrong with me, I feel as if I’m two different people!’
‘What am I to do with you?’ asks the Oberst, worriedly. ‘I haven’t got a replacement Fire Controller. Any other time I could use an experienced Wachtmeister, but I can’t do that this time. You must pull yourself together. Damn your eyes, pull yourself together, man!’ he repeats, stiff-arming the sleepy officer savagely. ‘You have taken everything down?’
‘Yes, sir, everything is on paper, sir. It’s nothing very difficult. You can trust me, sir!’
‘By God and all the devils. I hope you’re right. But don’t fool yourself that this is going to be an easy job. Go through it, for safety’s sake, once more with the adjutant.’ The Oberst takes his long fur coat from a hook.
Servilely, Henckel moves to help him on with it.
‘Cut that shit out,’ the Oberst repulses him, angrily. ‘You are not in the officers’ mess. Use your time to go through your instructions. The devil, God and all the saints help you, Henckel,’ he mumbles as he moves out of the door, tightening his belt. He takes his pistol from its holster, and slips it into his coat pocket where it is easier to get at.
Hauptmann Henckel stares strainedly in front of him. The long schoolroom moves in front of his eyes, like a ship at sea. He only wants to throw himself down on the floor, and sleep, sleep, sleep.…
‘I must take a shower, an ice-cold shower,’ he thinks, and treads on his own toes until he can feel the pain right up to his knees. It does not help him. The pale faces of the officers in the room whirl around him in circles. Far away somebody is saying something about synchronising watches.
A major from the ‘Nebehoerfers’ punches him in the ribs and says something to him, but all he catches is the word ‘wait!’. What he is to wait for he doesn’t recognise.
‘Are you sick? What the devil’s up with you?’ asks the major, sharply.
‘Just a little tired, sir.’
‘I hope to hell, man, you’re not too tired to do your Fire Controller job properly? If you are, you’d do best to go sick immediately. They’ll jail you, probably, but better that than make a cock-up of this job! Do that and you’ll get a court-martial. And lose your head, my friend!’
‘I’ll be all right in just a minute, sir,’ Henckel assures the Major in a thick voice.
‘I damn well hope you are, too! Have you got the time intervals down right?’ asks the major, suspiciously, staring at Henckel with cold, slitted eyes. ‘If I burn off my rockets too soon — or too late for that matter — the whole bloody shooting-match’ll go up in smoke! Let me see those time intervals!’
Silently, his hand trembling, Henckel hands the major his large message-pad.
With lips pressed tightly together the major runs his eyes over the columns of figures and calculations. He sees, to his relief, that the figures are correct where his own ‘Nebelwerfers’ are concerned. What he does not know is that these are the adjutant’s notes, which Henckel is to copy but has hardly yet looked at.
‘Get a couple of hours sleep,’ the major advises him, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve got to be fresh, and lively as a cricket, when this little lot starts. You’ll be balancing along the edge of a razor tonight!’ He tips the peak of his cap with one finger, and saunters over to the howitzer commander.
Tired, and strangely dizzy, Henckel goes over and sits down at the rickety table alongside the adjutant. Together they go through the timetables and the various targets for the guns.
‘One thing I’d recommend you to do,’ the adjutant advises him seriously, ‘is check your telephone network. Don’t leave anything to chance. The Chief of Staff will be in contact with you, on the two-way instrument, if anything goes wrong. If you’re in doubt about anything at all, say so now!
‘I’m not a complete fool,’ answers Hauptmann Henckel, angrily. ‘Not many people know as much as I know about fire control. In my opinion everybody’s making a mountain out of a molehill. We used to play at this kind of job at Jüterburg.’
‘Good God Almighty,’ mumbles the adjutant to his driver, as he creeps, shivering, into his Kübel. ‘That jumped-up garrison stallion doesn’t realise he’s already got one leg in front of a firing-squad. Jüterburg! A kindergarten compared to this! It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if that sleepy fool didn’t break hisneck tonight. Regiment!’ he orders, brusquely, pulling a blanket around him. ‘God, but it’s cold!
Several times the heavy Kübel slides, and is close to going into one of the deep ditches which run on either side of the road.
‘Those of us who get through this one alive,’ growls the adjutant, thoughtfiilly, ‘will not forget the battle for that damned OGPU prison in a hurry.’
‘Know what, Rittmeister, sir,’ remarks the driver, Unter-offizier Stolz, pulling the wheel round to avoid an electric pylon, ‘if I was the General, I’d let Ivan keep his bloody prison, and his sanatorium, and his mill too. There’s plenty of room on both sides to go round it.’
‘But you’re not the General, Stolz,’ grins the adjutant, sarcastically. ‘When this lovely war is over, you’ll go home and pick up being a lorry-driver, whether the prison is taken or not. But, you see, our Divisional Commander is a General-leutnant, with only one little golden star. He would very much like to have three more tiny, little golden stars before the war is over. That is what Generals consider wars to be for. If we take the prison our General-leutnant will be General der Kavallerie, and, who knows, maybe a bit of coloured ribbon round his neck. And from General der Kavallerie it’s a short step to General-oberst. Apart from this, if he doesn’t take the OGPU prison, he could lose his command. New little, shiny stars all gone away. Pension sized accordingly!’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Rittmeister, sir, but it sounds crazy to me that us squaddies have to go and get shot to bits and piss blood, just so’s a general can get a couple more stars on his shoulders.’
‘Quite right, Stolz, but these are the rules of the game. You are lucky to be a staff driver. Thank the good Lord that you are not one of those poor, little devils in the assault regiments.’
‘Yes, thank God indeed!’ groans Unteroffizier Stolz, feeling a shiver of fear run
The Artillery Commander’s heavy Kiibel is standing at the wide crossroads. He, himself, is standing by the side of the road talking to Hauptmann Henckel.
‘Stop here!’ says the adjutant, jumping out of his vehicle before it has finally drawn to a halt.
‘Everything in order?’ asks Oberst Grün, sharply, taking shelter from the icy wind behind the Kübel.
‘All in order, sir,’ answers the adjutant, knocking his hands together. ‘I’ve been through everything with Hauptmann Henckel.’
The Oberst nods, satisfied, pulls his fur collar up around his ears, and looks worriedly out across the dark steppe. Low-hanging, black cloud masses rush headlong across the sky.
‘I shall be with Divisional Staff for a time,’ says Oberst Grün, stamping in the snow. ‘You can get me there, if you’re in doubt of anything. Henckel, if you’ve got any questions, let’s have them now!’
‘Very good, sir,’ answers Henckel, his voice shaking noticeably, ‘Am I to give the fire orders, or will they come from Division?’
The Oberst stares at him in stupefaction. He cannot believe his own ears.