WHEN THE HAUPTMANN SEELER had come to Nogent-Plage in the spring that year, he, like everyone else, was immediately attracted to the Feldwebel von Kleinschrodt. Old army family. Nobility. Celebrated German athlete. The Hauptmann was impressed. But not for long. He soon had the young man sized up and perceived that he lacked real soldierly qualities. He then tried his best to reform him as other commanding officers in Nogent-Plage had done, to help him live up to the great traditions of his heritage.
Often he used to stand the Feldwebel at attention and lecture him. “Kleinschrodt, your trouble is you are like the Americans. I know well the Americans. For nine years I was head porter at the Schweitzerhof in Dresden and met many of them. Americans want to be liked. They are almost pathetic in this childish desire to be liked. Actually, this is an infantile trait. Americans are children, young and old. It is why they do not make good soldiers. In North Africa we had no trouble with them at Kasserine. We have nothing to fear from them, nothing. They wish to be liked. That is agreeable, yes; it is better to be liked than disliked. Best of all is for a man to be respected. Respect is the basis for discipline—at home, in business, in the Army. Now you are greatly admired by the troops here and liked by the people of the village. But you are not respected. Never forget that soldiers, too, are children. They will never obey you unless they respect you.”
These words the Feldwebel remembered, for he was finding the Hauptmann right about obedience and respect. As he sat at the desk which an hour before had belonged to the murdered man, as he checked the deployment of the troops—his troops for the moment—around the village, as he listened to the telephoned report of a sentry a mile from town, he was amazed at himself. He had assumed responsibility. He had become the senior officer of the garrison at Nogent-Plage.
No time to waste words. His voice was quite as crisp and curt over the phone, his tunic as spotless, as carefully hooked under the chin as that of the late Hauptmann. The invasion was at hand. It might come anywhere, any moment, surely by morning. Maybe right now advance elements were trying to land up the coast under cover of the fog. His duty was to his men, to his country, to the Third Reich. He felt attuned to it without thinking.
And the men? There was a change in their bearing toward him, a surprising deference as they knocked on the door or addressed him. A certain respect that was new had crept into everyone’s voice. They seemed to be turning to him, leaning on him, trustfully, hopefully. That was as natural as it was for him to assume the duties and the responsibilities of command.
And yet, all this solved nothing. It is not easy to obey orders when the orders are to have your friends shot; it is hard to issue orders when those orders mean a firing squad for your friends. Hanging over him was the thought of what lay ahead. When his mind was busy with other things it was all right. But the moment he stopped to think about it, revulsion took possession of him. Those men were his friends. That boy he had played football with. Obviously the teacher had Marxist leanings. Certainly, we had discussed them together. But brave. Loyal. A good Frenchman. How on earth can I kill a man like him? A veteran of two wars, already decorated upon the field of battle. For I’m the one who has to give the orders to fire. To watch them fall. To certify to their deaths. How can I do this? And that boy! A child really. My God....
He rose and walked up and down the silent, empty room. The Le Gallec boy haunted him, devastated him, destroyed him. How could he? But he must obey orders.
A short, sharp knock at the door and the corporal entered to hand him a radio dispatch from Headquarters. It merely confirmed what the Major had told him, alerting all officers commanding troops that a landing, either a feint or the real thing, was expected along the Normandy coast late tonight or early tomorrow morning. He filed it carefully with the other orders.
The telephone rang, and the operator said, “The Major Kessler, Herr Feldwebel.”
“Von Kleinschrodt? Is that you?” The anxious tone in the Major’s voice was meaningful. Now the Feldwebel began to feel and appreciate the terrible responsibility of command. The Major was obviously full of the imminent crisis, obviously worried.
“Ja, Major Kessler.”
“You were to report to me as soon as you secured those hostages. Have you done so?”
“Yes sir, I was about to call you. They have been apprehended as you ordered.” In the back of the Feldwebel’s mind the same question kept rising. How can I save them? Surely some way must be found.
“And have you discovered the murderer of the Hauptmann Seeler?”
“No, Major, not yet, but we are still....”
“Good God, man, how can he escape from a small village? Was the place surrounded? It was? Did you post sentries at all exits? Have you searched the houses thoroughly? Thoroughly, Feldwebel?” His tone was packed with exasperation. Plainly he was edgy. “Get him. It’s important to teach these partisans a lesson. When they kill, Frenchmen must be killed. No nonsense about it.”
“Quite, Major. My Silesians here are first-class troops. They have been through many partisan attacks in Poland and Russia. I have three search parties out under the most experienced noncoms. They will dig up the man. Just a question of time, I assure you.”
“Good. If not, you understand, those six French must be executed. You understand, do you not, Feldwebel?”
“Perfectly, sir. I only wondered... I only meant.... I do happen to know these six hostages. I can guarantee myself that none of them had a thing to do with the murder of the Hauptmann.”
The voice of the older man rose irritably. “Hier haben Sie nicht mitzureden.” That’s none of your business. “Feldwebel, listen to me carefully. These men are an example to the populace. A warning, you might say. If they are all innocent, so much the better. The villagers along the coast must be impressed with the seriousness of the situation and know what measures we shall take if there is trouble. We have shot sixteen terrorists at Abbeville and are rounding up a dozen at Yvetot.”
A pause, then the Major went on. “You may recall, Feldwebel, that in March a band of Italian partisans killed thirty-three of our SS men outside Rome?”
“Yes, Herr Major.”
“Then you also remember that we were forced to execute three hundred and thirty-five Italians, that is, slightly over ten Italians for every German. At Nogent-Plage we are moderate, only six for one German and an officer at that. We are being lenient, really. Are you there, Feldwebel?”
The annoyed voice at the other end persisted. “These lines are being cut constantly now. Did you get that Jewish fellow? What’s his name? Are you still on the line? Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Herr Major, we got him. His name is Varin.”
“And the priest, as I suggested?”
“The Père Clement. But truly, Major, he had nothing whatever to do with the killing of the Hauptmann Seeler. Actually he is almost eighty. That I would vouch for myself.”
The Major paid no attention to the Feldwebel’s comments. “And the café owner, probably a Communist also.”
“His place is closed up. We have him.”
“His name? I had it before, I think. We must have his name. Remember, you are to post a notice after the execution listing these Frenchmen by name and stating that any further sabotage or interference with German forces carrying out their duties will mean that twenty-five more hostages will be selected and dealt with in the same manner. Is that quite clear? Now the man’s name.... Are you there, Feldwebel? Or are you perhaps dreaming of football? This is not a game. You are a soldier of the Greater Reich.”
“Yes, Major, I am still on the line. The man’s name is Charles Lavigne.”
“Good! You realize, of course, that the situation is critical. Perhaps the most critical moment of the war. The Herr Generalfeldmarschall Rommel, under whom I had the honor of serving two years in North Africa, sent around a secret bulletin last week before he was wounded. He anticipated an attempt at a landing by the English and Americans about this period, with the moon full and the tide high. He urged us all in the strictest terms, Feldwebel, not to forget that we must defeat the invaders here, on the beaches. We cannot permit them to get a foothold inland where their superiority in the air will count. We must throw them back at all costs, von Kleinschrodt. You understand?”
“Yes, Major, I understand.”
“You are in a key position. Your responsibility is therefore great. From that rock—I inspected it myself with the Herr Generalfeldmarschall—one can sweep the coast for several miles in each direction. We depend upon you. The Fatherland is in peril tonight; the invasion may burst on us any moment. Germany counts on all her sons, Feldwebel, especially those from an old and famous army family such as yours. Remember your father, who died gloriously on the field of battle, and your grandfather, the General von Kleinschrodt. Be worthy of them! Obey orders implicitly. Do not fail. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Major....”
“Good. Now if we cannot get an officer to you, then you must carry out the execution and post the proclamation. As soon as the assassin of the Hauptmann Seeler is found or the hostages shot, notify me at once by telephone. Yes, of course, if you find the partisan who committed the crime, you may release the hostages with a warning. But be sure to take pains to frighten them. I gave you one hour. How much time is left?”
The Feldwebel Hans looked carefully at his watch. “Thirty-nine minutes, Major.”
“Right! Let me have a report. And Heil Hitler!”
The Feldwebel Hans replaced the telephone and sat staring into the empty room. The face of every person in the cellar rose before him: Varin, Lavigne, the Père Clement, Marquet, Deschamps, and the boy. He couldn’t even bear to say the boy’s name to himself.
At least this much he could do. He pressed the buzzer on the desk. A corporal knocked and entered immediately, alert, attentive, keyed up. And deferential. Amazing how the man’s whole bearing and attitude had changed in one hour.
He met the gaze of the soldier steadily.
“Here, Grossman. Take pencils and paper down to those people in the cellar. For messages....” His voice shook ever so slightly, as he said, “They will understand.”
Only too well, he thought. They will now realize that their friend the Herr Oberst has failed them. They are about to be shot. How could he? they will ask each other. Ah, all Germans are alike, each one will say. Underneath they are all Boches. He is like all the rest; they are all the same, they will say.
The corporal took the pads and pencils, clicked his heels, and went out, shutting the door carefully. The Feldwebel put his head down on the desk and wept. He wept for the affection that was gone, the friendships that had failed, the trust that was no more. He cried for those six hostages, but most of all he cried for himself. Because for the first time in his life he saw so plainly and so well that there was no health in him.