Last Man to Die by Michael Dobbs Read Free Book Online Page B

life.
    They stood aimlessly, staring silently into the flames, dispirited and without hope, lost in contemplation of a homeland far away. Then something moved, a man, one of their own, who stepped forward into the circle surrounding the fire. He wore the tattered uniform of an Oberleutnant in some tank regiment – it was impossible to tell which; almost all the insignia were missing. Nevertheless he was a striking-looking figure, tall, lean to the point of gauntness, his cropped black hair parted near the middle so that it stood up in a defiant, almost disrespectful manner before flopping across the foreheadof his long face. His features were finely carved as if sculpted from smooth clay, his cheekbones high – looks that suggested intelligence and sensitivity which seemed out of place in the middle of a band of warriors. Yet he had obviously seen combat, and sported a scar through the top of his lip which dragged one edge of his mouth downward, giving the impression of a perpetual sardonic smile. There was suffering in the face, and nowhere more clearly than in the eyes which were remarkably dark and deep-set as if trying to keep their distance from the world. They were careworn from more than just the numbing tiredness of past combat, yet as the commander gazed at him they became almost transparent. He felt he was peering right into the man’s inner soul, and inside he could see flames of torment. There was passion and anger in this man. The prisoner snapped to attention.
    ‘Permission to speak, sir?’
    ‘You are …?’
    ‘My name is Hencke, sir.’
    The commander nodded for him to continue.
    ‘I have family in the east, in the Sudetenland. For all I know, the Russians are there already.’ There were sympathetic nods from amongst the men. ‘Your pardon, Commander, but I’m not content to sit idly back on my ass comforting myself in the thought that I am a survivor while those I love face the Russians. Sir!’
    The reprimand implicit in his words and the rough language used to his commanding officer caused a stir of anger, but the commander waved it away. He was too tired to fight, particularly with one of his own men.
    ‘I intended no sense of satisfaction in what I said,Hencke, but survival is all we have to look forward to. I fear there is little other choice.’
    ‘I believe we always have a choice …’ The sting of accusation in his voice had guaranteed him a hearing, but now he had their attention and his voice softened. ‘Sir, it is the duty of German officers to resist. It is an oath of duty which we have all taken and which still, to us all, should be sacred.’
    ‘An oath to generals and politicians who got us into this mess?’ a voice interrupted from the darkness at the edge of the fire.
    Hencke turned in the direction of the questioner. He had begun addressing the whole group, not just reporting to his senior officer, holding centre stage in the midst of an audience he could scarcely see in the night gloom. His gaze travelled around the group slowly, deliberately, piercing through the darkness at the shadowy masks which confronted him, probing like a scalpel into their inner thoughts. ‘I agree. What have our beloved generals and politicians done for me? I haven’t even got buttons to do up my flies anymore, and my proudest possession is the piece of string I use for a belt. It’s difficult marching unquestioningly behind your leaders with your trousers round your ankles – present commanders excepted, sir.’
    A stirring of appreciation rustled through the prisoners.
    ‘Whether our leaders have let us down or not, my oath of duty wasn’t taken for their personal benefit but for my country and for those I left behind. It’s them I’m interested in. They are the ones who deserve our help. And we’re doing nothing to help them sitting round here scratching ourselves and gossiping about three “Fs”.’
    ‘Three “Fs”?’ enquired the commander wearily.
    ‘Er, “Food”,