The Soul Of A Thief. Steven Hartov
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my throat as the horrible device left earth for heaven.
I do not know how long we flew, yet it certainly seemed forever. And I did not see very much, as for most of the journey my eyes were clamped shut. The engines roared like a carpenter’s lathe and a freezing wind sliced through the rattling compartment, and I remembered as a child being forced by my father to ride the great carnival wheel in Vienna’s Prater, and how I had peed in my trousers, an urge I barely contained at this moment. At one point, long into the horrible flight, someone slapped the top of my helmet, and I opened my eyes to see the grinning face of Captain Friedrich, his steel blue eyes merry and his flaxen eyebrows arched in utter thrill. He suddenly pinched my cheek with what one might suppose a gesture of comradely affection, yet it hurt so much I nearly yelled. But it was then I looked to the fuselage’s windows, and realized we were in fact skimming at breakneck speed through a deep and winding valley, and we were well below the peaks of its sides. I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut once more, and it required every muscle of my stomach not to regurgitate its contents.
We flew on into a breaking dawn; I could feel the growing light upon my eyelids. I heard someone bellow, “Stukas!” and I managed to take a peek. We were flying much higher now, and astride the helicopter was a pair of the Luftwaffe’s ugly fighter-bombers. I managed to twist my head a bit, achieving a glimpse of our other two transports bobbing in the cold blue air not far behind, and then the Stukas flipped over and dived away from us. Understanding nothing of such raiding tactics, I did not know that they were there to first bomb the perimeter of the target, with the intent to shock the British commandos and force them to take shelter. Nor did I realize that in order to maintain this tactical advantage, we would immediately assault into the still-raining debris of the bombing.
I yelled then, for the helicopter suddenly tilted nose downward, and I believed we were crashing. I flung my arms out and actually hugged myself to Himmel’s back, like a girl gripping a reckless horseman, and I cared not what the men would think of me or call me later on. Then all at once the horrible machine swooped up again, seemed to stop in midforward motion, and settled to the hard ground with a resounding thud of steel.
Still gripping the Colonel, my cringing face pressed against his battle harness, I was dragged from the compartment as he leaped out. I smashed to the ground, a rag doll of flopping arms and legs, and then someone yanked me up, and I saw that Himmel was already running away at full tilt and I chased after him. Following that madman into battle was not an hour before the very last intent I had, but now I wanted nothing more than to see his back filling my field of vision, and absolutely nothing else.
I do not really know what happened on that peak that morning. I was the poorest witness to history, for I saw little more than my master’s form, his waving arms, the spent brass shells spinning from the chamber of his pistol. I heard nothing of distinction to remember, save the gunfire that began almost immediately upon our birthing from the helicopters, muffled and unrecognizable shouts, punctuations of screams and thudding explosions that filled my quickly deafened ears with a sensation of cotton fiber. The stench of ordnance scorched my nostrils and throat, but my hammering heart pumped my lungs to take in every breath of oxygen that would surely be my last.
All around us the men were sprinting forward in concert with Himmel’s incredible pace, firing their machine pistols and hurling their grenades. It struck me at once that he ran with the utter arrogance of a man in his own backyard, though he certainly had never set foot in this place before. At one point, he suddenly stopped before a huge concrete bunker, and of course I smashed right into him and bounced off his pelvis. When I gained my footing again, I saw through the heavy smoke a wide entrance to the redoubt. I bent over to try and catch my breath, and just then a figure wearing a Tommy helmet suddenly appeared from around the corner of the edifice and Himmel reached out his arm and shot the man point-blank. I did not see the victim fall, for my eyes instinctively shuttered, but when I opened them again Captain Friedrich was emerging from the bunker. He was grinning from ear to ear, his face spidered with streaks of blood that flowed from his now hatless blond hair, and his hand gripped the elbow of a Wehrmacht Panzer general.
The man was clearly in shock. He was middle-aged and gray all over, from his hair and through to the pallor of his skin, with his tanker’s tunic torn and blood spattered. I saw his jackboots angle forward as he began to crumple, and then Himmel gracefully stepped in, bent and slung the officer over his shoulders like a bear rug.
“Nach Hause!” the Colonel yelled, and then he was running back toward the helicopters, the entire complement of men close behind, spinning and firing their weapons madly as cover. I thought I had nary a breath left in me, but my legs instructed that now was not the time to quit, and I managed to shadow my master as he ran, the general’s form bouncing upon his shoulders like the fallen victim of a house fire.
The men hurled themselves into the helicopters, whose blades had never ceased to whirl, and some of them took to a knee and fired their machine pistols without end at the enraged survivors of the British hideaway. My teeth were set like those in a naked skull and my back compressed with every shot, my heart pounding in its anticipation of a bullet from behind.
Himmel suddenly stopped just at the lip of the helicopter compartment. Then he turned quite casually, the general limp upon his back.
“Did you get a photo?” he yelled at me.
Only then did I realize that the Leica had never left its pouch. I stared at it, amazed that it was still in the death grip of my fingers, and I looked up and wagged my head from side to side. The helicopter pilots were shouting, something was banging repeatedly off the iron sides of the machine, and I knew it was the impact of British bullets.
“Well?” the Colonel shouted again. “Take one!”
My mouth fell open. He could not possibly be serious! But I quickly saw that indeed we would not leave this hell unless the master had his souvenir. Somehow, my fingers managed to open the pouch and I extracted the camera. Something kicked at the mud next to my boot and I leaped a bit, while my quaking hands lifted the Leica; yet I could not even see through the viewfinder, as my eyes had filled with the tears of the absolute conviction of my death. More bullets rang off the helicopter, the blades were churning up a thunderous wind, the pilots were shrieking, and I saw Himmel grin like some ungodly and calm white hunter in the African veldt as I clicked the shutter.
And then I fainted.
IN JUNE OF 1943, I became a corporal in the Waffen SS.
I shall not insult the reader with a host of limp excuses, or in any way deny that I coveted the rank and title which only months before would surely have repulsed me. However, I do beg patience in the hearing of my explanation.
Had I remained in all technicalities a civilian in the employ of the army, I would have continued to receive the concomitant pay, which amounted to essentially nothing. On the other hand, as a field draftee, and instantly granted a rank suited to my tasks as Colonel Himmel’s adjutant, I would be rewarded the monthly stipend stipulated by Wehrmacht rules and regulations. Most of that pay would be recorded in my Soldbuch, yet issued directly to my mother in Vienna, while I retained some pocket money for the occasional purchase of a black-market treat. One might say that my motive here was purely mercenary, although the benefits to my mother, especially were I to fall in battle, assuaged my discomfort upon being issued the Rottenführer collar tabs.
Thus were the rewards of becoming an official member of Himmel’s Commando. The drawback, at least so far as I considered it at the time, was Himmel’s stipulation, which he informed me of prior to my promotion.
You see, I was still a virgin.
And the Colonel refused to have a virgin serving in his order of battle.
He was not, as far as I could assess, a sexual deviant of any sort. He simply believed that a sexually naive soldier was an incomplete man, spending too much time engaged in fantasy and wonder, carrying a needless mental burden that could prove a dangerous distraction.
“A man who has not bedded a