Hostner scanned the trucks as they passed by his parked VW Kubelwagon and the spare supply truck he’d commandeered. The men in the convoy stared contemptuously at him as they rolled past, seeing his uniform and instinctively reacting with thinly veiled hostility. Several men spat in his direction. Most of them were too tired to offer even that gesture. A year ago his SS uniform would have been intimidating to these men, four years ago it would have inspired admiration from many of them. Right now, Hostner felt like he was wearing a big bloody target.
It was cold. He’d been standing here for well over three hours, since first light, waiting for the column to arrive. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had ‘officially’ turned up. Since dawn he’d watched a sporadic trickle of soldiers on foot shuffle pass, which had gradually over the last few hours developed into the column of vehicles before him that extended as far as the eye could see. How the hell he was meant to find the men he was after amidst this flowing river of defeat he didn’t know. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. No, worse than that, this particular needle was on the move and could already have passed him by.
Hostner decided it was time to flag down one or two of these trucks and ask some questions.
Be careful of these men, Jan Hostner.
Hostner subconsciously felt for his gun holster, and allowed his gloved hand to seek reassurance from the grip of his Walther.
Things were beginning to fall apart. The authority of the junior officer ranks was rapidly failing amongst the enlisted men. They were far less worried about them and any issues of insubordination than they were about the Russian army snapping at their heels. These days, an officer was likely to have an order obeyed only if it coincided with the interests of the soldiers it was given to. It was unspoken amongst the men, but they all knew the war was just weeks away from ending. The threat of a pending court martial meant nothing now.
He watched them pass by, a procession of drawn, empty faces. Most of these men were veterans, professional soldiers who had spent the last two years fighting the most barbaric campaign of this war. And they had lost badly. Right now, there was no enmity between the men and their officers. After all, they had all suffered hell together. These men simply viewed what was left of the command structure now as, at best, irrelevant.
The SS, however, that was something different; they were still worth despising. Hostner was acutely aware that his uniform was going to cause him problems.
He made his way carefully down the muddy bank at the side of the road towards the slowly moving column. He watched several trucks rumble and clatter past, splattering his boots and the bottom of his greatcoat with mud. He could see the faces of the drivers through grime-speckled windscreens, drivers who Hostner could imagine were wrestling with the temptation to swerve their truck enough to ‘accidentally’ roll over him. No one here would care that much, accidents happen.
He decided he was tempting fate standing on the roadside inches away from those large churning wheels and quickly clambered up onto the running board of the next truck that rumbled past. The driver cracked open his window an inch, careful not to lose too much of the body heat he’d built up inside the cabin.
‘What do you want?’ The driver shouted through the gap.
Only a few weeks ago Hostner would have scolded the man for such an insubordinate response. He bit his lip — those days were long gone.
‘I’m looking for some Luftwaffe men. I’m told some men from KG-301 have joined the column.’
‘We’ve got men from all over.’
‘Have you got any in your truck?’
‘I don’t fucking know! Men climb aboard if they can see any space. I don’t have a clue who’s back there.’
Hostner decided the driver could tell him nothing useful. He jumped down off the truck onto the muddy road, and the truck slowly rolled away. He probably wasn’t going to have much luck with any of the other drivers.
As the next one trundled past, Hostner grabbed the tailboard and pulled himself up. He lifted the canvas cover at the back. Inside, sitting in darkness there were about thirty men. The smell struck him immediately, a mixture of body odour and infected wounds. The men nearest the open flap shivered with the blast of incoming air.
Hostner mustered his most commanding voice. ‘Any men from KG-301 in here?’
No one replied.
‘Has anyone seen any Luftwaffe personnel?’
The men remained silent. Hostner knew he carried little, if any, authority here. Chastising or threatening them would achieve nothing. He sought a different approach.
On your hands and knees, Jan… and talk to them at their level.
‘Look, I’ve got to find some men, Luftwaffe lads. No one’s in trouble, I just need to find them or else I’ll be in shit.’ He hoped he sounded like a common soldier, just carrying out orders, just trying to keep his head down and do as he’s told.
‘Why?’ A voice from the back of the truck.
‘I don’t know. I’m just following orders. Help me out, please.’
‘Yeah?… so that you bastards can shoot them?’
‘No, no, of course not. They — ’
‘Go on, piss off.’
Hostner pulled his head out from inside and let the canvas flap drop down. He jumped off the back on to the muddy road again.
This was a bloody nightmare. There was no way he was going to find these men like this. He decided to head back to his Kubelwagon, light up the oil heater he’d brought along, warm himself up and rethink his plan.
Hostner climbed the earthy bank at the side of the road to get away from the trucks. He walked slowly towards his vehicle, imagining how he would break the news to Major Rall that he’d been unable to locate the men despite his orders not to return without them. Surely the Major realised it was going to be a long shot, trying to find four men amongst tens of thousands?
He hadn’t been wrong back there in the truck when he’d said he’d be in shit if he failed to find them.
A long convoy of open-topped trucks were passing by. Hostner looked at the men shivering in the back. Their faces said it all. Win or lose, we want this over.
Maybe they had the right idea.
In a few weeks’ time, maybe even days, it would all be finished. So why not join them? Why not just lose the uniform and join the men heading back to Germany? Many of these men were no doubt contemplating finding American and British units to surrender to, once they were near enough to them to make a dash for it.
It was tempting.
He knew the Allies would be sifting their German POWs for SS. But amidst the hundreds of thousands of men he could easily hide. And if the worst came to the worst and he was uncovered as ex-SS… Well, Hostner could not recall being directly associated to some of the more disturbing activities of his colleagues. He had only been an intelligence officer. That was all.
Very tempting.
An open truck with Luftwaffe personnel in the back passed him by.
Hostner instantly dismissed his nebulous thoughts of desertion and descended the earth bank at the double, landing with a messy splash in the ankle-deep muck once more. He raced after the truck, his smooth-soled boots slipping perilously a couple of times, and reached out for the tailboard, only just managing to get a hold of it. With a gasp of exertion he pulled himself up.
There were twenty to thirty men huddled on the back and exposed to the open air. Few of them had winter coats, most of them shivered in just their uniform tunics. Hostner addressed the group of Luftwaffe men.
‘Do you men know if there’s anybody in this column from KG-301?’
One of them looked up at him. ‘Yeah, there are a few of us here.’
‘You’re from 301?’
‘Yeah. There’s a few ground crew in the truck behind. I don’t know where the rest are.’
Hostner sighed with relief. He was getting somewhere.
‘I’m trying to find an Oberleutnant Max Kleinmann. According to my records he was commanding Staffel 109f. Do you know if he is here, in this column somewhere?’
The man looked at him with suspicion. ‘What do you want him for?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
