accused are permitted, in view of previous bravery, to seek pardon from the General High Command, Defence Area III, Berlin/Spandau.' The Kriegsgerichtsrat removes his gold-rimmed spectacles, looks at the condemned men with icy indifference, and gives a sign to the military policemen at the door.
With practised movements the shoulder-straps and decorations are ripped from the condemned men's uniforms. Last the eagle on the right breast.
'Lead them out,' snarls the Kriegsgerichtsrat, flapping his hands as if he were waving away two flies.
'You blokes were lucky, remarks one of the MPs, when they are back in the cellar again.
'Lucky? How do you mean?' asks Oberleutnant Wisling, blankly.
'You've been allowed to apply for a pardon,' grins the MP Unteroffizier, amusedly. 'That'll keep you alive for a few more days, even weeks maybe. Otherwise you'd have been knocked off within the next two days. We're a bit short of room in the cage, so we carry out orders as soon as we get them! Well, you'll probably have plenty of time to think about things. The responsible general is somewhere in Russia just now, so it'll probably be some time before he gets your application and who's to say he's got the time to bother with it when he does get it? He's sure to have more to worry about than you two heavenly tourists, and by the time your papers get back who knows what the hell mightn't have happened here? Things are moving fast these days. Ivan's gettin' a move on!'
'Heute sind wir roten 25
morgen sind wir toten.'
he murmurs, softly. 'Infantryman Frick and Infantryman Wisling reporting back from court martial,' he reports to the duty Unteroffizier, cracking his heels together.
'I presume they are not reporting for release?' grins the duty Unteroffizier, sarcastically, marking a large red cross beside their names in the guard report book. The death sign.
'In a way, yes,' answers the watchdog, jovially. 'Nappers off, and down to the moles!'
'Children, children,' says the duty Unteroffizier, handing them a cigarette apiece, 'be glad that you have been allowed to apply for pardon. Otherwise you'd have been given a post to lean on tomorrow morning already. We're collecting a large party of tourists together. Don't tell me us Prussians aren't a humane lot. Hold your hands out, lads. You have to have irons on. That's regulations. Those who have lost the right to carrying heads on top of their shoulders, have to be chained up.'
Wisling nods tiredly. The truth is beginning to soak through to his brain. His stomach contracts and his mouth fills with bile.
'There's a bucket over in the corner,' says the duty Unteroffizier, who knows the symptoms.
Wisling gets to it in time, and throws up.
Early the next morning they are taken from their cells and chained tightly to one another with their hands behind their backs.
The lorry is full of prisoners, sitting crosswise in the back. Two muscular MPs with Mpis at the ready, climb up on to the tailboard. They shout at the least movement amongst the prisoners.
At the Air Force Law-courts, at Tempelhof, they pick up three airmen and a flak-soldier. One can see the three are officers, by the finer material of their uniforms. Their decorations and shoulder-straps have been removed.
They continue through Berlin, past Plotzensee, where the State Executioner is busy every day with his guillotine.
The lorry rumbles over Alexander Platz. Police headquarters is blackened with smoke.
They pick up two condemned SS officers at the SS barracks Gross-Lichterfelde.
'Come on get your arses moving! We're in a hurry!' the watchdogs shout, angrily helping them up with blows from their Mpi butts.
The prisoners stare longingly at the streets, full of people hastening along. A tram rattles round a corner. The clang of its bell sounds like the music of freedom.
'Where are they taking us?' whispers Oberst Frick to the prisoner alongside him, the demoted naval officer.
'Shut up, swine,' screams an MP from the tailboard,
With practised movements the shoulder-straps and decorations are ripped from the condemned men's uniforms. Last the eagle on the right breast.
'Lead them out,' snarls the Kriegsgerichtsrat, flapping his hands as if he were waving away two flies.
'You blokes were lucky, remarks one of the MPs, when they are back in the cellar again.
'Lucky? How do you mean?' asks Oberleutnant Wisling, blankly.
'You've been allowed to apply for a pardon,' grins the MP Unteroffizier, amusedly. 'That'll keep you alive for a few more days, even weeks maybe. Otherwise you'd have been knocked off within the next two days. We're a bit short of room in the cage, so we carry out orders as soon as we get them! Well, you'll probably have plenty of time to think about things. The responsible general is somewhere in Russia just now, so it'll probably be some time before he gets your application and who's to say he's got the time to bother with it when he does get it? He's sure to have more to worry about than you two heavenly tourists, and by the time your papers get back who knows what the hell mightn't have happened here? Things are moving fast these days. Ivan's gettin' a move on!'
'Heute sind wir roten 25
morgen sind wir toten.'
he murmurs, softly. 'Infantryman Frick and Infantryman Wisling reporting back from court martial,' he reports to the duty Unteroffizier, cracking his heels together.
'I presume they are not reporting for release?' grins the duty Unteroffizier, sarcastically, marking a large red cross beside their names in the guard report book. The death sign.
'In a way, yes,' answers the watchdog, jovially. 'Nappers off, and down to the moles!'
'Children, children,' says the duty Unteroffizier, handing them a cigarette apiece, 'be glad that you have been allowed to apply for pardon. Otherwise you'd have been given a post to lean on tomorrow morning already. We're collecting a large party of tourists together. Don't tell me us Prussians aren't a humane lot. Hold your hands out, lads. You have to have irons on. That's regulations. Those who have lost the right to carrying heads on top of their shoulders, have to be chained up.'
Wisling nods tiredly. The truth is beginning to soak through to his brain. His stomach contracts and his mouth fills with bile.
'There's a bucket over in the corner,' says the duty Unteroffizier, who knows the symptoms.
Wisling gets to it in time, and throws up.
Early the next morning they are taken from their cells and chained tightly to one another with their hands behind their backs.
The lorry is full of prisoners, sitting crosswise in the back. Two muscular MPs with Mpis at the ready, climb up on to the tailboard. They shout at the least movement amongst the prisoners.
At the Air Force Law-courts, at Tempelhof, they pick up three airmen and a flak-soldier. One can see the three are officers, by the finer material of their uniforms. Their decorations and shoulder-straps have been removed.
They continue through Berlin, past Plotzensee, where the State Executioner is busy every day with his guillotine.
The lorry rumbles over Alexander Platz. Police headquarters is blackened with smoke.
They pick up two condemned SS officers at the SS barracks Gross-Lichterfelde.
'Come on get your arses moving! We're in a hurry!' the watchdogs shout, angrily helping them up with blows from their Mpi butts.
The prisoners stare longingly at the streets, full of people hastening along. A tram rattles round a corner. The clang of its bell sounds like the music of freedom.
'Where are they taking us?' whispers Oberst Frick to the prisoner alongside him, the demoted naval officer.
'Shut up, swine,' screams an MP from the tailboard,
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