By Bruno Beger
“So that’s what we want you to do. You can have a couple hundred men,
whatever you need, but break up that damn Communist meeting, and do a good job.
Break heads, if you need to, but I want them routed out of the hall in a way
they won’t soon forget! I’ve had it up to here with their bragging and
boasting. Filthy traitors!” the stocky, brown shirted man paused, then
continued. “And, look, Beger, I don’t care if you are a medical student. This
is the SA, not one of your collegiate duelling and debating societies. You
don’t stop and patch up those swine, like that last time, understood?”
The young Sturmführer tried to keep the distaste he felt for this
assignment from showing. Will I never hear the end of that? He wondered
impatiently. Damn! I’m as good a National Socialist as any of them. That
doesn’t mean I have to let a man bleed to death! And, he rationalized, if I had
let him die, it would have been another nasty headline about us. No matter that
the Communists had no compunction about murdering us, but let one of them die,
and the whole damn press is on us like a hive of wasps.
“I mean what I say, Beger. We’re not going to bail you out this time if
you get yourself arrested again doing something that dumb. Let the bastards
die, you get the hell out before the police come, you hear me?”
Bruno Beger still smarted over the injustice of his arrest. He was
involved in a street brawl which occurred when a band of Communist bullies
tried to break up a Hitler Youth troop march. He and a squad of other SA men
had to come to their rescue, and the ensuing fight had been bloody and brutal.
At the sounds of police sirens, both sides had broken off the fight and
scattered. One brawny communist lay on the ground, screaming for help, blood
pouring from a wound in his left arm. Bruno had stopped to help the man,
applying a tourniquet, twisting it tight to stop the arterial flow that
threatened the man’s life. A stunning blow from a police truncheon caught him
as he knelt by the injured man. He awakened in a jail cell, charged with
rioting, disturbing the peace, and assault.
He had stood before the judge, head aching, vision blurred from a
concussion, listening with dazed confusion as the man whose life he had saved
accused him of assault and attempted murder. Only the attorney supplied by the
party had kept him from a felony conviction and a long sentence. Aloud he
gritted a clipped “Zu Befehl!” stiffening his already rigid posture.
“Still squeamish, Beger? Well, you’ll learn.” He tossed a sheaf of
papers at the young officer. “Here, study the situation, and let me know how
many squads you think you will need. We expect they will have anywhere from
2000 to 2500 people present. It’s their big May Day celebration, so they’ll be
out in force with their overstuffed wives and snivelling brats.”
Oh, great! Thought Bruno Beger, as he took his leave of his
Sturmabteilungsführer. Now I get to beat up women and children! I don’t mind
getting into fights with Communist’s, but women and kids..? I can’t believe the
Führer really wants this. He stormed from the building, brushing aside a couple
of brown shirted troopers who gaped after him in surprise. He made a valiant
effort to slow his pace and control his expressions as their startled comment
reached his ear. “Wonder what put a wild hare up his…?
Bruno worked off some of his anger on the long walk back to his dreary
lodgings. Part way home, it started to rain, a cold drizzle that chilled him
through and through. He folded the papers and put them inside his shirt, trying
to keep them from getting too wet. He considered briefly taking the bus, but a
quick check of his pocket ruled out that possibility. He hunched his shoulders
and walked faster.
Bruno closed the heavy Anatomy book, and stared unseeingly at the dark
red cover. He had a major exam next morning, but his thoughts kept returning to
the problem his Sturmabteilungsführer had posed. He added his own parameter to
the problem: how to break up the meeting without risking women and children.
He hitched the threadbare blanket tighter around his shoulders,
shivering slightly in the late April dampness. His uniforms hung from the
wooden pegs that served as a closet. He glanced up, catching sight of the
dripping shirt. God, I hope it dries before morning. The thought of wearing a
damp uniform all day sent another shiver through his already too thin body.
He stood, wringing water from the bottom of the shirt, hoping it would
dry faster. As he adjusted the pants on their wire stretcher, he heard a faint
scurrying on the table. He turned just in time to see a rat make off with the
scrap of cheese rind he had been gnawing on. An irrational anger seized him. He
picked up the dagger from the table and started after the rat, cursing it,
furious at the loss of his last bit of food. Then the idiocy of his action
struck him. The rat was only doing what rats do, the fault was his for leaving
the cheese unattended.
He slumped into the wooden chair, his elbows on the table, and his hands
over his face, it seemed hopeless. The exhausting job on the docks barley paid
his tuition and rent. He scrounged what food he could from discarded cargo and
earned a few pfennigs at an occasional odd job, with which he bought stale
bread and sometimes a scrap of cheese. He had been lucky last week. The cargo
master had discarded a box of half spoiled fruit. Bruno fell upon it as if it
were a gift from heaven. He knew his diet was woefully inadequate. He had had
to fight to keep his treasure, but it was worth the bruises. He had feasted on
the salvaged fruit, savoring each drop of juice, remembering a time before the
great depression when there was always enough to eat, warm clothes, a loving
home and family. Now it was all gone. His father had been killed in the first
war, fighting against the French at Verdun. The ruinous inflation had swiftly
eaten up the family’s savings and taken their home. His mother was living on a
tiny pension and the charity of grudging relatives.
He pulled himself up sharply. Stop whimpering and act like a man.
Feeling sorry for yourself is a waste of time! Put your mind to the problem,
Think! A particularly violent gust of wind and rain rattled the window of his
tiny room. Somewhere a rat chattered and squeaked. Suddenly he sat up straight.
A big grin split his face, and he pounded the table with glee. That’s it! He
shouted triumphantly.
Bruno strode into SA headquarters on the following morning. He handed
his manpower requests to the Sergeant on duty. “Forty men for preparation, ten
for the raid itself, and five dachshunds.” The sergeant looked at Bruno
unbelievingly. “Five dachshunds? What in the hell are you going to do with five
dachshunds?”
Bruno smiled. “Why, carry out my orders, Sergeant. I was told anything
within reason.” he turned on his heel and left, leaving the sergeant staring at
the requisition with combined amazement and disgust. Bruno swore his forty
helpers to secrecy. Then he asked for volunteers to constitute the squad of ten
who would actually break up the meeting. There was such fierce rivalry that he
finally had to resort to drawing lots to select the squad.
May Day finally came, and Bruno and his men were ready. The evening was
fine, warm and clear. The young SA men watched from their vantage point across
the broad street as the Festival Hall, draped with red bunting for the occasion,
filled with burly men, stuffed into their Sunday best, escorting girlfriends,
wives and families. The broad center aisle was decorated with the red communist
hammer and sickle banners, the podium also was bedecked with communist symbols
and flags.
There were to be speeches, entertainment and lots of beer and sausages.
The evening got underway with a vigorous, if tuneless, rendition of the
Internationale… “Arise ye prisoners of starvation, arise ye wretched of the
earth….” the crowd sand with more enthusiasm than harmony. Just as the final
strains died away, Bruno and his men made their move.
Spotting their brown uniforms, the burley guards stopped them as the
entrance. “No SA men wanted!” one of them snarled, as he pushed Bruno back.
“Don’t be silly” Bruno retorted, “We’re the entertainment!” He jerked
his head at the men, each carrying a large sack and every other man leading a
dachshund. The little dogs were wearing red collars, and the leashes were wound
with red ribbons.
The head guard laughed. “You had me fooled. Ok, go on in.” He waved them
in with a chuckle. Heads tuned as the eleven men marched down the center aisle
at parade march, what the Amis call goose stepping, each one carrying a large
wriggling, chittering bag. The little dogs seemed to enjoy all the attention,
scurrying on the short little legs, yipping excited tiny barks, rolling their
big dark eyes. The crowd was laughing and pointing at the little creatures.
One by one the men stopped at intervals down the center aisle. Bruno
continued to the platform at the front. He leaped upon the podium and seized
the microphone from the startled speaker. “We brought some of your comrades to
the party!” he shouted, as he emptied his bag. Rats and mice poured out,
squeaking, chittering, climbing up pant legs and onto tables, nipping at ankles
and swarming over the entire podium. Down on the floor, the men simultaneously
emptied their sacks full of excited rodents, and then unleashed the dachshunds.
Pandemonium reigned. Men swore, beating off the rats, women shrieked,
children screamed. The dachshunds, their hunting instincts aroused to the
maximum, began chasing mice and rats through the milling screaming crowd.
Clutching girlfriends, wives, children, sausage rolls, and steins of beer, the
men bolted for the exits. They streamed from the hall, swearing, dragging
hysterical women and screeching children. The maddened rodents swarmed all over
them. The men beat at their pant legs, the women howled as thousands of tiny
claws tore at their dress’s and stockings. Within minutes the hall was empty of
all but rats, mice dachshunds, torn and tattered bunting and flags, overturned
chairs and tables and a few guards, who beat a hasty retreat as the chase
swirled around their boots. Cursing, kicking, beating off rats and dogs, they
finally capitulated, leaving the hall to the hunting dogs and their grey prey.
From their vantage point across the street, Bruno and his men watched
the spectacle with glee, doubling over with laughter. When they caught their
breath, the Sergeant clapped Bruno on the shoulder. “You certainly broke up
that meeting about as thorough as I’ve ever seen it done.” He collapsed again
in a fit of laughter. “Who would have thought those commies would be so afraid
of their blood brothers?”
At last Bruno whistled to the valiant little dogs. Reluctantly they
abandoned the chase and returned to their handlers, who greeted them as canine
heroes, praising them, picking them up and hugging them exuberantly. The
Communists had hastily assembled a goon squad to look for the “entertainers”.
With magnificent understatement, Bruno whispered to his men. “I think it’s time
to go!” Silently they slipped away through the dark alleys and passages, until
they reached the relative safety of SA headquarters.
The following morning Bruno stood at attention in front of an irate SA
commandant. “….yes, you broke up the meeting, Sturmführer, but hardly the way I
expected. You just don’t have the SA temperament I am afraid. Turn in your
equipment. You’re through here. Dismissed!”
Bruno paled. He had tried so hard. The Party had meant everything to
him, and now he was disgraced, expelled from the SA. He squared his shoulders
and marched, frozen faced, from the room. His rigid self-control held until he
was out of the office. He walked slowly down the long corridor to the now empty
common room. Slowly he upholstered his pistol. It was all over. He couldn’t
stand the shame and disgrace. Bruno walked to the window and stood staring for
a few minutes. He chambered a round, and raised the gun to his temple.
A black clad arm reached over his shoulder and snatched the gun from his
hand. “Don’t be a fool Bruno! Didn’t the commandant tell you? He transferred
you to the SS! We asked for you particularly, actually had to fight him for
you. You’re exactly what we want, smart, resourceful, original, and
self-reliant.”
The black clad SS man took a bemused Bruno by the arm and led him toward
the door. “We have plans for you! First off, we’ll get you a decent uniform.
I’m afraid though, you’ll have to move into barracks for a while. You are to go
on with your studies, but you’ll have to give up working on the docks. The SS
pay is about the same as the army, but you’ll have a scholarship for your
tuition, and room and board, so you should make out if you’re careful..”
Bruno listened, stunned, as the man continued to tell him about the unit
he was about to join. They were going to pay him! No more working on the rat
infested docks, eating scraps and living in a slum garret. His studies paid
for, the military training he had wanted so badly, and best of all, becoming
part of the very best, the elite Leibstandarte. The SS man added, “What do you
know about the Ahnenerbe…? He looked up, his step quickened. Suddenly, it was a
beautiful day.
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