path. One of the best stories to emerge came from Lance-Corporal Glent, who went breezing into the Colonel’s apartments one morning, on some errand or other. Believing the Colonel to be elsewhere, he suddenly discovered him sitting at a table playing poker with his two dread companions. The visitors, according to Glent, instantly muffled themselves up in their cloaks and jammed their hats down over their eyes, but not before he had had a chance to catch sight of their faces. Ghastly, he said they were. Like something out of hell. Like skulls covered in parchment, with black holes where the nose and the mouth should have been, flaming red eyes and no ears. And the whole room reeked of sulphur and brimstone . . .
The next day, Glent put in for a transfer. It was curtly refused, but he was taken off the Colonel’s staff and sent to work in Armaments, where I suppose they reckoned he would have less chance of meeting death and the devil round every corner.
More than ever before, men went in terror of meeting the Colonel. The creaking and grinding of his artificial limbs in the distance was sufficient to clear an area for half a mile around. One day, he came unexpectedly upon Sergeant Hofmann. No one stopped long enough to witness the scene. We scurried off like rats from a sinking ship, so no one ever knew for certain what took place, but for over a week Hofmann was kept in the infirmary with a fever so high, you could have boiled an egg in his mouth. He came back like one returned from the grave, and I swear he didn’t say a word to a soul for the first twenty-four hours.
But if the Colonel did commune with the Devil, it was perhaps not so very remarkable in a place like Sennelager. You got all sorts there. From pimps and prostitutes to high-ranking generals. One general we had was von Hanneken, who in the days of his glory had been Commander-in-Chief of German Forces in Denmark. His downfall had been nothing more dramatic than petty greed. He’d overplayed his hand on the black market and someone had shopped him. Even a general was not immune. From living off the fat of the land in occupied Denmark, he had fallen to the very bottom of the dung heap in Sennelager. Porta had a most particular interest in the man. He was perfectly convinced that he had stashed away a small fortune in black market goods, and he was determined to force the secret out of him before he was sent into action and had his brains blown out.
‘Well?’ demanded Tiny, unfailingly each morning. ‘Has he talked yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Porta. ‘I’m working on him.’
Working on him! He looked after him like a mother. He supplied him with cigarettes and extra rations, he kept him out of trouble, he dogged his every footstep. Until one day, hearing rumours that our stay in Sennelager was coming toan end, he flew into a panic and had a change of tactics. He enlisted the help of Wolf, Hofmann’s time-honoured enemy, and one of Porta’s particular mates, and together they spirited the General away for what they termed ‘a special exercise period’. We never knew what happened, but next day Wolf and Porta drank themselves ecstatic in the canteen and rolled off arm in arm to the nearest brothel. From that moment on, Porta had no more interest in the General, who was left on his own to sink or swim as he would.
As for the rest of us, we contented ourselves with gloating over the downfall of the former Gestapo man, Lutz. Lutz was Tiny’s pigeon. He had in the past caused Tiny a loss of his corporal’s stripes and three months’ hard labour in the penitentiary at Besançon, and Tiny was now joyously hell-bent on redressing the balance. As far as we were concerned, you could kick a Gestapo man all over the camp like a football, the harder the better. We waited avidly each day for a progress report. Tiny’s favourite sport was taking Lutz out to be exercised. Tiny would sit on top of the car park roof chanting out his commands, while big fat
The next day, Glent put in for a transfer. It was curtly refused, but he was taken off the Colonel’s staff and sent to work in Armaments, where I suppose they reckoned he would have less chance of meeting death and the devil round every corner.
More than ever before, men went in terror of meeting the Colonel. The creaking and grinding of his artificial limbs in the distance was sufficient to clear an area for half a mile around. One day, he came unexpectedly upon Sergeant Hofmann. No one stopped long enough to witness the scene. We scurried off like rats from a sinking ship, so no one ever knew for certain what took place, but for over a week Hofmann was kept in the infirmary with a fever so high, you could have boiled an egg in his mouth. He came back like one returned from the grave, and I swear he didn’t say a word to a soul for the first twenty-four hours.
But if the Colonel did commune with the Devil, it was perhaps not so very remarkable in a place like Sennelager. You got all sorts there. From pimps and prostitutes to high-ranking generals. One general we had was von Hanneken, who in the days of his glory had been Commander-in-Chief of German Forces in Denmark. His downfall had been nothing more dramatic than petty greed. He’d overplayed his hand on the black market and someone had shopped him. Even a general was not immune. From living off the fat of the land in occupied Denmark, he had fallen to the very bottom of the dung heap in Sennelager. Porta had a most particular interest in the man. He was perfectly convinced that he had stashed away a small fortune in black market goods, and he was determined to force the secret out of him before he was sent into action and had his brains blown out.
‘Well?’ demanded Tiny, unfailingly each morning. ‘Has he talked yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Porta. ‘I’m working on him.’
Working on him! He looked after him like a mother. He supplied him with cigarettes and extra rations, he kept him out of trouble, he dogged his every footstep. Until one day, hearing rumours that our stay in Sennelager was coming toan end, he flew into a panic and had a change of tactics. He enlisted the help of Wolf, Hofmann’s time-honoured enemy, and one of Porta’s particular mates, and together they spirited the General away for what they termed ‘a special exercise period’. We never knew what happened, but next day Wolf and Porta drank themselves ecstatic in the canteen and rolled off arm in arm to the nearest brothel. From that moment on, Porta had no more interest in the General, who was left on his own to sink or swim as he would.
As for the rest of us, we contented ourselves with gloating over the downfall of the former Gestapo man, Lutz. Lutz was Tiny’s pigeon. He had in the past caused Tiny a loss of his corporal’s stripes and three months’ hard labour in the penitentiary at Besançon, and Tiny was now joyously hell-bent on redressing the balance. As far as we were concerned, you could kick a Gestapo man all over the camp like a football, the harder the better. We waited avidly each day for a progress report. Tiny’s favourite sport was taking Lutz out to be exercised. Tiny would sit on top of the car park roof chanting out his commands, while big fat
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