December
1926, how the hell did it get to December? Ludwig Witgenstein looked at the
calendar page for a few moments. Sat at his desk in the forward command post he
was used to more comfortable situations than this. He liked to have music and
at least one book around. But he was here and had to make the best of it. An
adjutant walked in and snapped a salute.
‘Yes?’
Ludwig asked.
‘The
three prisoners are ready for their interrogations Colonel’ the moustache
growled. He was a short man but effective in the current climate. Ludwig had
responsibility for intelligence in the Northern front push against the
communist insurgents who had taken hold of the Prussian, Polish border. He did
not relish the action but it needed doing. The government was not strong and
with the attempted coup by the Spartacists managing to almost derail the entire
democratic process the year before it was vital that ay remnants of the disease
of communism was removed. Ludwig had noting against the communist ideology, but
he had his orders. They needed to know where the bastards would hit next, and
more importantly how to get hold of their leader, the almost messianic blank.
‘I’m
coming’ said Ludwig. He pulled his overcoat on. The snow was not too deep, but
the temperature had plummeted to well below zero. He had a habit of picking up
stupid illnesses on campaigns. He had managed to get ill twice in the Great
War, in between claming his medals. Artillery factory to western front he had
fought alongside men who he would not normally have looked twice at. His time
in Cambridge
had given him a respect for knowledge, but his time on the fronts next to what
he had always regarded as he scum of the earth had given him greater respect
for people’s capacity for bravery. He had led by example, charging guns and
showing utter calm under the most intense fire. The military Merit and Silver
medal were followed by two Iron Cross awards for the Battle of Bapaume. At 37
he was the youngest full colonel in the reformed Greater German Army after the
Stalemate agreement was signed.
Walking
outside for the first time in two days the air struck Ludwig making him glad of
his scarf and gloves. He whistled to himself a Mozart theme as he strolled
along the cobbles of the half decent Polish town. It was early morning and the
population was still not up and out. Their presence had sent many of the men
running for the hills and many of the women, fearing the deserved reputation of
the troops locked their doors and only scurried too and from their hovels when
absolutely necessary. The Seargent led him to the barn holding the captured
men. Ludwig was dismayed when he walked in They were hardly prepared. The men,
having been left alone with the prisoners had decided to have some sport. All
three tied to wooden kitchen chairs liberated from a nearby house, one was on
his back, coughing and probably choking on his own blood; one was receiving the
attentions of an overzealous private and one, still left alone was screaming at
the soldiers watching and laughing to help his prone friend.
The very presence of ‘the colonel’ in the
barn sent the men into a quiet reflection. Only the aggressive guard, still
slapping the face of the battered and bruised man failed to notice.
‘Corporal’ said Ludwig. The man stopped
immediately. He turned and faced his commander.
‘Sir’
he saluted.
‘What
happened?’ Ludwig asked.
‘It
just seemed to start sir’ the man trembled as he spoke.
‘You
had orders to watch them?’ Ludwig asked, his calmness building the tension in
the others around him.
‘Sir’
the soldier stood ramrod straight.
‘You
have disobeyed an order’ said Ludwig. The words provoked a gulp of expectation
from the men in the barn. Disobeying an order could result in the death of a
soldier, summary execution or even being shot out of hand was not unusual.
‘Be
thankful’ said Ludwig, ‘that I have use for you Private.’ The man almost wet
himself in relief. The immediate demotion and probable loss of a months pay was
like winning a lottery. ‘Now get out of my sight. Sergeant, please educate the
Private on why he does not beat defenceless men.’ The moustache frogmarched the
still trembling Private outside. The man would appear later with a face black
and blue, teeth would be missing and his nose broken, however his eyes and his
hands and his feet would remain untouched. The Sergeant knew the value of an
extra rifle and Ludwig knew he would gain the man’s loyalty for a short while
as he now owed him his life.
Ludwig
turned to the one man left untouched by the disobedient soldier’s
ministrations.
‘Young
man’ he said, ‘do you speak German?’ There was no movement, Ludwig continued,
‘French? English? Dutch? Russian?’ Ludwig rattled off the names with fluency
watching the man’s expression. His eyes flickered as he said Russian. Ludwig
transferred to the language immediately.
‘Listen
carefully’ he said in a close whisper, ‘the man I just set outside was punished
for attacking your friends. I have no intention of hurting you or allowing you
to be hurt if you help us. However I have every intention of killing you if you
do not. Do you believe me?’ The man nodded slowly.
‘Excellent’
said Ludwig, ‘I have one question then, where is the weapon’s cache?’
‘I
am just visiting my…’
The
man had no time to finish his sentence, as Ludwig pulled a pistol from his belt
and fired the gun next to his ear. The bullet buried itself in the floor, the
man screamed.
‘Bear
in mind’ Ludwig said, ‘that I have no problem killing you, I am trying to stop
a civil war in this area, expel the communist menace and hopefully save Germany
from falling into the same ravaged state as Italy. Now, shall we try
again?’
‘I
er’ the man stammered.
‘Do
you believe in God young man?’ Ludwig whispered in the ear he had not deafened.
‘I used to, and then I saw the terrible things that could happen to believers
and non believers alike. I used to carry the gospels around with me. I used to
recommend passages to my men. But it was all a placebo, a drug that worked only
if you believed it would. Be of no doubt my young friend, there is no God, but
even if there is a some subtle hint of hope in your heart, some element of you
that still thinks that he may reach down and save you from this bullock
freezing barn; be clear that God, if he exists, does not give one fuck about
you, me or this wretched country. We are alone suckling at the teats of the
gods we create for ourselves. For you it is this wretched politic, for me it is
my duty to the people around me.’ Ludwig looked behind him to the men who had
entered the barn. ‘Believe me young man, my god is a vengeful god and it will
have its sacrifice. Now, where is the weapon’s cache?’
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