Black Camp 21 Page 4

  Near Carpiquet village, Hartmann had watched Spitfires cutting down infantrymen like corn. It no longer mattered that they fought like cats; that the German tanks were superior; or that Hartmann felt invincible inside his Tiger. Everyone was on his own now. If it had ever existed, the centre was falling apart, and a forest of men was falling back on what was left of their homes in Germany. Along the way, both sides were losing their heads.

  Somewhere near Caen, Hartmann’s patched-up group of tanks had cornered a dozen Canadian foot soldiers and slaughtered them in a field. Two days later, he’d seen four Germans pulled from a broken-down truck, pushed to their knees and shot through the head. Everywhere, rumours swirled like the fires that burned in every ruined village. On some days it was said they were turning the Allies back. On others – on most – they were crumbling towards oblivion. South of Soliers, he’d helped wipe out twenty British tanks. Behind the German lines, deserters were being bound to trees and executed. As fuel supplies dwindled, tanks were abandoned and torched. A thick veneer of oily smoke blanketed the skies, and every verge was littered with jettisoned machine guns and the dead who had once carried them.

  Hartmann shuddered and pulled himself to his feet. From what he could tell there were five working Tigers including his own, plus one commandeered Citroën van and one decrepit old bus. During the night, their section leader had vanished, leaving a befuddled deputy whose hearing had been destroyed by a bomb-blast.

  Koenig would have found all this funny. Koenig would have known what to do. But then Koenig was probably dead.

  ‘Unterscharführer Hartmann. Where are the enemy? Which way should we go?’

  He turned round. It was the same skeletal teenager he’d trained back in Belgium. ‘We’ve met before?’

  The boy nodded and clicked his heels sharply together.

  ‘Do you still think we’ll win the war?’ said Hartmann.

  ‘Yes, of course. Nothing has changed. We are still Germans.’

  Nearby, two dishevelled riflemen were stuffing a wooden handcart with blankets and apples. Another was defecating in full view of his comrades. Sitting in the back of the bus, a young army grenadier was playing a Viennese waltz on a looted violin. On his head was a plain black Frenchman’s beret. On his lower forearm – exposed when he raised the bow – was a freshly tattooed heart.

  ‘You’re good,’ said Hartmann. ‘Where did you learn?’

  ‘I taught myself. Can’t you tell?’

  ‘What happened to your helmet?’

  ‘I think this suits me better.’

  Hartmann moved away. The boy carried on playing. Overnight, two men had died of their wounds and their corpses were being heaved into a ditch under a buzz of flies. From the top of the bus, a wounded paratrooper was scanning the skies for enemy planes. Where his left ear had once been there was a hole, and his neck was crusty with dried blood. Apart from Hartmann, there was no one left to tell them what to do.

  ‘We need to be going,’ he said.

  To his astonishment, everyone obeyed him. Even the violin fell silent.

  12:00 hours

  By midday, there had still been no sign of the enemy.

  Hartmann’s tanks had flanked a long narrow lane winding east; three on one side, two on the other. After weeks of sunshine, the rutted dust was easily stirred and by keeping to the edges of the fields they made themselves harder to spot. Between the tanks, in the centre of a tree-lined track, crawled the rest of the ramshackle convoy.

  Forty men maybe, Hartmann calculated; fifty at most. Some of them, he knew, were desperate to die fighting: the younger ones, mostly; teenagers with eyes that were dead already. The rest lay awake all night desperately trying to remember their childhood prayers.

  By early afternoon, they’d covered twenty dread-filled miles and everyone was still alive.

  Without instructions, Hartmann had chosen his route well. Beneath a thick cover of leaves, they’d remained invisible to the Typhoons criss-crossing in the blue above. Whenever he’d heard one, the lookout on the bus had screamed them to a stop. Frozen under their green canopy, the men’s eyes widened, engines were stilled and guns bristled from every window until the danger was past.

  In the beginning, someone had usually thrown up. Now they were used to it.

  Just a few more hours, and the day would cool. Then they’d be out of this baking heat and safe again. Grainy streams of sweat ran down faces crawling with mosquitoes. Every man’s head ached with concentration. If only they could just keep going.

  At around four, Hartmann called the convoy to a halt where a clear stream bisected the track. Everyone now looked to him as their leader and he was comfortable with that trust. A few yards ahead, their woody lane ran out into open countryside. If they carried on, they’d be horribly exposed. If they waited till nightfall, their pathway towards Germany might be cut off.

  ‘Sir, may I ask? Is this classified as a retreat? Or are we regrouping for some sort of counterattack?’

  For the second time that day, Hartmann found himself being questioned by that boy. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Zuhlsdorff. Kurt Zuhlsdorff. Tank gunner.’

  ‘And do you want to get home, wherever that is?’

  ‘Lübeck, sir. But not like this, not as a coward.’

  It was a slap, not a real punch, but Hartmann had meant it and a ribbon of blood was running down from the pale teenager’s nose.

  ‘Until death, sir,’ hissed Zuhlsdorff. ‘The last man. Those were our orders.’

  But Hartmann wasn’t listening. Soon enough the boy would have his wish. Out of sight, he imagined the teeth of a giant trap clenching around them. Stay, or press on. Either way he felt sure they were finished, and already their numbers were dwindling. Through the window of the bus, he could see an abandoned violin on the back seat. The kid with the tattoo had fled. Soon there would be others.

  ‘Fill your bottles and cool down in the brook,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll keep going until dusk. Be ready in thirty minutes.’

  19:46 hours

  It was a perfect evening when they moved away from their cover.

  Behind them, the sun still loomed huge above the treeline, casting their moving shadows long across a breathless sea of corn. Over the golden seed-heads, aimless clouds of tiny insects danced drunkenly in the yellow light. From the forest’s edge, flycatchers watched before swooping greedily to feed. High above, in the crown of a twisted oak, a young sparrowhawk preened its feathers, seeing everything and feeling the warmth stretch deep into its bones.

  Like the raptor, Hartmann felt alive with expectation. As before, he’d arranged the group into a steel-plated sandwich. Down the middle, the two battered vehicles stuck to the flinty track. On either side of them, leaving a flattened wake of crops, the Tigers drove on.

  From his open turret-hole, Hartmann scoped in every direction. Ahead of them, the farmland swelled up to a gentle hill. Beyond that, he could see the spike of a church spire, and a black blanket of woodland. In an hour, maybe two, they’d be safe. But the noise they were making was thunderous, and they were provoking a cloud of pollen and dust that would be visible for miles.

  Up on its warm perch, the sparrowhawk twitched its neck and fled. Down below him, in the stewing darkness of the tank cabin, someone was yanking at his leg. It was the radio operator.

  ‘Look behind you, Max. We’ve got a problem.’

  Hartmann would never find out if the bus had broken down, or simply run out of petrol. All the men inside it had been roasted alive before he could ask.

  Framed by the setting sun, the five Typhoons had come out of the west, unheard and unseen until it was too late. The first rocket had incinerated the bus. The second and third had melted the dilapidated Citroën in a purple ball of flame. As his tank screamed and wheeled furiously, Hartmann took one look before dropping down and banging the steel hatch shut. No one could have survived. The fiddler had chosen wisely.

  ‘Until death it is then,’ he bellowed.


  As a boy, with Koenig, he’d enjoyed proving himself as a marksman. All soldiers had to be able to kill. It was the malignancy of purpose he despised, not the process. What was it Koenig had said around that driftwood fire? If we kill more of them, we win? Maybe it really was that simple.

  Yanking the radio from his operator’s hands, Hartmann barked into the handset, ‘Make back for the wood. Keep swerving and stay focused.’ He hoped the other four crews had heard.

  In a few minutes, the tanks would reach the safety of the forest. Banking quickly, the fighters returned, unleashing a coordinated salvo of rockets. Brown clouds of broken earth and metal plumed skywards from the cratered cornfield. Three of the Tigers shuddered to a standstill.

  As their turret lids banged open, two of them exploded. No one came out of either. As the crew of the third stumbled clear, the planes were already heading back. Through his slit, Hartmann could see the five men looking skywards with their hands on their heads. And then, as the Typhoons swooped low, he saw their bodies minced by shellfire.

  Two working tanks remained; only four hundred metres separated them from the sanctuary of the forest. Neither of the crews expected to make it, but every second brought them nearer and, for some reason, the Typhoons had not yet come back. And then, from his steel cauldron, Hartmann could see why. Along the edge of the wood, in every direction, Allied troops were pouring towards them.

  American, Canadian, British. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Panic lashed his innards and the tank whined into reverse. From somewhere, a shell boomed uselessly against its outside. Swinging the turret towards the noise, Hartmann saw five enemy tanks heading towards him.

  M4 Shermans. Easy meat. If the second Tiger had survived – if that urchin Zuhlsdorff knew his business – the Yanks wouldn’t have a chance.

  For the first time in months, he relaxed. Every man inside his tank’s putrid cockpit knew precisely what to do. Luck was handy, he’d often told them, but skill was handier. They’d practised for this. They were the best.

  ‘Forward now and hard right.’

  The tank lurched and wheeled, rupturing the field in a boiling stew of dirt. Three more shells landed close by. Dirt and stones drummed down on their cage. From the corner of his left eye, he saw a flash. Zuhlsdorff’s crew were handy too. Excellent. Four enemy tanks left. Four versus two. Much better.

  Spinning back into the cornfield, Hartmann’s Tiger accelerated up towards the rise and then turned. The world had gone mad. Over an unbroken crest of trees, furious clouds of rooks were circling across a pink sky.

  At his side, an armour-piercing tungsten shell was being rammed into position and his gunner was feverishly calibrating the shot. Somewhere to his left he could hear the other German tank, and climbing towards them – in line formation – were the four surviving Shermans.

  It was a terrible pity, but he had no doubt that everyone inside them would soon die. And that he would soon follow.

  In the fading light, more tanks and troops were emerging from the wood. So be it.

  With a peculiar grace, the gun snouts of both Tigers swivelled towards their enemies and fired. Behind each cacophonous flash, sixty-eight tons of metal lurched back on its tracks. A few seconds later, they unleashed a second furious double salvo, and then stillness. As the air cleared, Hartmann saw four tangled heaps of metal and a swarm of foot soldiers looking out in the direction of the fading sun.

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he muttered into the stifling gloom. All of his crew had heard the same thing.

  Just one Typhoon had continued flying, defying the dusk for a final shot. Now its last rockets were airborne, hissing low across the ruined corn into the mud-clogged bogey wheels of the two German tanks.

  Inside each one, shards of scalding metal ricocheted through thick, oily smoke. Gore-spattered hands reached for the turret locks. Rich harvest air flooded over the spluttering men, and a ring of American soldiers watched to see who, or what, would emerge. Hartmann’s driver had scrambled out first into a halo of gunfire and his body had slithered back into the cabin, the double lightning bolts on his lapel saturated with blood. Above his head, Hartmann could feel boots swarming over the ruined tank. Disembodied machine guns were pointing down towards him. He closed his eyes.

  Alize, he thought for one last time. Alize.

  And then hands were dragging him out and a rifle stock cracked down on his nose. All around him he could smell sweat and tobacco, and as he struggled to stand, invisible boots clattered in, again and again, stomping him down into the filth alongside his crippled tank. Somewhere behind him, he heard gunfire, screams, and then more shots. Four bodies were being thrown alongside him.

  Twisting sideways he could just make out the other Tiger, burning furiously in the gloom. Alongside it, four more corpses, and a fifth man, badly beaten, slumped on his knees.

  For a moment, their blackened eyes met.

  It was Zuhlsdorff, the boy. Two of them were still alive and the killing had stopped.

  For a second time, Hartmann tried to stand. When he stumbled, two pairs of hands grabbed his arms and held him up, while another yanked back his filth-caked hair. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard a pistol being cocked.

  A gap had opened between the soldiers, and a single figure was walking towards him pointing a revolver. Clean-shaven, rimless glasses, and two stripes. A corporal, thought Hartmann, my Yankee executioner.

  Leaning forward, the officer unbuckled his captive’s leather holster and let it fall to the ground. He then patted the German’s pockets and pulled out the silver cigarette case.

  ‘Nice case. Do you speak any English?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’ Hartmann’s mouth was full of grit.

  ‘Where are you from? What do I call you?’

  ‘I’m from Munich. Vienna, really. Max Hartmann.’

  As they spoke, the American corporal had been rolling the case, distractedly, in his hand. Now he was looking inside it. ‘You’re SS?’

  ‘Yes I am.’

  ‘Your English is excellent. Who’s the girl?’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  Turning the case towards the light of the flames, the officer peered closer. ‘How old are you, soldier?’

  Hartmann smiled; his own private joke. This was how the day had begun.

  ‘Maybe you can tell me,’ he said. ‘I was born on August sixth, nineteen twenty-two.’

  The cherub-faced corporal looked up. ‘August sixth?’

  Without looking down, the American had folded the case shut, and was stroking its cold silver sheath. With a sudden jerk he tossed it back towards the prisoner.

  ‘Happy birthday, Max Hartmann from Vienna. Many happy returns.’

  4

  August/September 1944 northern France

  Looking back, he could see how lucky they had been.

  As calm returned around their ruined tanks, whispered orders had gone from man to man. Two GIs had appeared carrying green fuel cans. Others knelt over the eight shattered corpses, ransacking the pockets for souvenirs. A Luger pistol had been found and was being emptied into the night sky. Scorched belt buckles and weapons were being examined in the firelight, and knives were hacking the silver-stitched SS insignia from every lapel.

  When there was nothing left to plunder, petrol was splashed over the dead. Stepping forward again, the bespectacled corporal flicked a match against his nail and tossed it into a dusty puddle of fuel. For a half-second, a flickering purple snake hissed through the corn before wrapping the pyre in a white sheet of flame. When Hartmann tried to turn away, a hand on his face forced him to watch. ‘Beats a few birthday candles, soldier.’

  After a few minutes, even the Americans had seen enough. One by one they turned from the charred tangle, and walked back down the hill. Ahead of them, along the black edge of the forest, a line of trucks was ticking over noisily. Insects swirled in their headlights as the men clambered in. No one was looking back to check the bonfire, glowing steadily on the
ridge. No one wanted to talk about the smell.

  Under the flickering lamps of the lorries, the injuries of both prisoners looked shocking. Blood was flowing steadily around a shard of twisted shrapnel which protruded from Zuhlsdorff’s shoulder like a coat-hook. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, and the two middle fingers were missing from the hand.

  Hartmann’s beating had left him unrecognisable. Either side of his blackened nose, his eyes peered from behind horribly swollen cheeks. Blood was visible around both ears, and the pain in his ribs made standing almost impossible. To walk down from the tanks, he’d needed the help of the corporal. To move any further he’d require a stretcher.

  ‘Not far now,’ whispered the American. ‘We’ll get you fixed up real soon. Understand?’

  Hartmann nodded. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he said, turning to Zuhlsdorff. ‘They’re not going to kill us.’

  Slowly, the boy diverted his eyes from his own ruined hand. For a moment, some sort of furious understanding seemed to blaze in them.

  ‘You’re disappointed?’ whispered Hartmann. ‘I get it. You wish you’d died back there with the rest of them.’

  Zuhlsdorff’s lips mouthed a silent oath. Arms were reaching out from the back of a hospital truck to pull the two men inside with a gentleness which jarred against what had happened back there on the hill.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hartmann said quietly as the convoy made its move. Behind them, he could still see the fire and the twisted silhouette of a gun barrel growing paler. And then they were back in the forest and the only lights were their own.

  Above the deep rumble of the trucks, planes growled eastwards. Through the flapping oilcloth, Hartmann could see a blizzard of stars. What did they call it? A bomber’s moon? He wondered where Alize might be and prayed she’d avoided the cities. Hamburg? Munich? Dresden? God, he hoped not.

  Every plane on earth seemed to be out tonight.

  Clamping his hands over his ears, he examined the clotted ruins of his face. Through their slits, his eyes could still see. Nothing felt badly broken. Not on his face. He’d got away lightly.