It wasn’t strictly necessary for him to be in attendance in person at the daily drills, for the other instructors, dressed in shorts and grey gymnastic vests, were more than capable of instructing the boys adequately. He also felt slightly out of place in full uniform, something which he knew unsettled the recruits and gave them the jitters. But he liked to watch and appraise them, to spot those with promising potential. Boys like Erich Morgenschweiss, the sixteen year-old from Munich. Tall and blond, with a magnificent physique even at his young age, fully committed to the fatherland and their Fuhrer, a model Aryan and already a fine soldier. A perfect candidate for the next level of training.
Wenzel watched him closely, impressed with his skill with the rifle. Lying flat on the wooden platform, with the barrel of his gun resting across the sandbag to steady the weapon, he fired shot after shot down the rifle range, hitting the human-shaped target with unerring accuracy.
Very good, very good.
Wenzel made a mental note to take a look at the boy’s file later with the intention of putting his name forward and recommending him for the ‘special commando unit’ that was been discussed back at headquarters in Braunschweig.
In stark contrast was the recruit lying next to him. Short and tubby, with a ruddy face covered in acne, he was a walking disaster when it came to the military training or physical exercise. He was only here because of the boy’s family connections, their patronage and donations to the Nazi party over the years allowing him opportunities that would otherwise, certainly on ability, be denied him.
However, the boy was said to be academically very bright, and there were numerous other ways in which he could contribute to the national cause, if only in clerical work or perhaps as an aide de camp.
Wenzel went across to where the boy lay, pointing the barrel of the rifle he held in the general direction of the target and squinting at the sights. As he approached the boy fired, the kick from the .22RL thumping back into his shoulder and making him wince. The shot, as usual, went wide, kicking up dust in the pile of soil behind the line of wooden targets.
“No, no,” Wenzel implored. “Do not fire when you breathe in. First you exhale, then hold your breath, and gently squeeze the trigger.”
There were several sniggers from some of the other recruits, and the boy squirmed in embarrassment. Wenzel looked around for the nearest instructor and beckoned him across.
“Sepp,” he addressed him by his nickname, “take this boy off the guns for now. He may be better suited for other duties.” He looked down at the boy, not wanting to be too harsh on him. “Do not fret my lad, we will make a soldier out of you yet.” He gave him a wink, which seemed to cheer him up.
Just then a junior clerk from the officer’s quarters came trotting across the field from the direction of the large round castle tower beyond the footbridge. He drew to a halt before Wenzel, snapped a crisp salute with his right arm shooting out and his heels clicking together.
Wenzel refrained from returning the salute and simply asked, “what is it?”
“Sir, Obergruppenfuhrer Prutzmann wishes to see you immediately in his rooms.”
Wenzel sighed and took a last look at the recruits, watching as the sixteen-year old Erich Morgenschweiss scored another bullseye, and then turned and followed him.
Schloss Hulchrath wasn’t a particularly big or majestic castle compared to those in the Harz Mountains or along the Rhine. It consisted mostly of one large, squat and circular tower which leaned out over the moat like a fat drunk, plus the great hall which stretched back and connected it to several smaller towers and the gatehouse. A number of separate and more modern buildings dating from the 18th Century were clustered together near a long drive that led up from the village, and these had been turned into stables for the officers’ horses and sheds for the vehicles. The moat was also a bit of a disappointment, Wenzel thought, for it only curved around a part of the castle in a crescent-moon shape – he presumed that over the centuries parts of it had been filled in and grassed over. The inside was also quite spartan: the rooms were large and bare and with little in the way of medieval refinery or tapestries and so on, they were in fact quite drab, and the boys’ dormitory was simple and functional with lines of wooden beds up against both side walls, the room chilled at night by cold draughts blowing through the ancient stonework. But the castle had not been chosen for its beauty or setting, and he doubted if any princes or nobles had ever held it as their seat of power in the region. It was actually a little-known castle tucked away in the back-of-beyond, and as such was perfect for its current purpose as a military training camp for the Hitler-Jugend, the Hitler Youth.
Wenzel followed the clerk along the path and across the narrow footbridge over the moat. As they walked he glanced up towards the wooden hoarding attached to the side of the main tower, for a movement there had caught his eye. This small timber structure, not much more than a covered balcony, would have been used to allow enfilading fire from archers and crossbowmen if the castle had ever come under attack. Although he’d never stepped inside – as access was via Prutzmann’s office – Wenzel knew there were gaps in the wooden floor allowing defenders to drop missiles on attackers at the foot of the tower, such as hot water or red-hot sand, or heavy rocks.
Now, however, he was more interested in what had made him look up, for he was sure he had spotted a slim silhouette standing there, almost hidden within the
