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example, you may volunteer for special missions when youreach the front line . . . Naturally,’ he concluded, with a deprecating movement of one elegant hand, ‘we shall expect rather more from you than from your fellow-soldiers. This is only natural. This is only right and proper. You have a past to atone for, and you—’
    ‘Sir!’
    A big, burly chap, who, as rumour had it, had been a successful pimp in Berlin before the war, shot up his hand and interrupted the Captain in his full flow of eloquence.
    ‘Sir!’
    The Captain allowed himself only a faint wrinkling of his alabaster brow by way of showing his displeasure.
    ‘Yes, my man? What is it?’
    The jolly pimp sprang to his feet. He must have known as well as anyone that the chances of survival in 999 battalion were pretty remote. He had nothing to lose by making a nuisance of himself and annoying the Captain.
    ‘Sir, can I ask a question?’ he said.
    ‘Of course you can,’ said the Captain, smoothing out the wrinkles from his brow. ‘Ask whatever you like. Just try not to take all day about it.’
    The man’s question was really very simple. He wanted to know what would happen if a criminal such as himself had his head blown off while he was fighting for the Führer and proving himself a good and loyal citizen of the Fatherland. Would it atone for his past misdemeanours? Would he then be deemed worthy of re-entering the Army as a fully-accredited soldier?
    He asked his question in a tone of the most earnest sincerity. A genuine seeker after knowledge. Eager and willing to have his head blown off for the Führer and the Fatherland, so long as he could only be assured that it would reinstate him in the eyes of the Army.
    No one dared to laugh, or even so much as smile. Hofmann’s glittering eyes were everywhere at once, but he encountered only a most solemn silence. It seemed as if everybody was hanging in mid-air awaiting the captain’s reply to this most burning of questions.
    The Captain tapped his boots impatiently with his riding crop.
    ‘My dear man, if one dies like a hero, then naturally one is treated like a hero . . . Full provision is made for such a contingency. Article 226 of the Penal Code states quite clearly that anyone falling on the field of battle is granted an automatic pardon. You need have no fears on that score. I trust I have answered your question and set your mind at rest?’
    ‘Oh yes, indeed, sir. You have indeed, sir. I just wanted to make quite sure that I knew what I was doing before I went and did it.’ The man smiled, cheerfully. ‘Didn’t want to cook my goose; sir, without knowing whether I’d still be alive to eat it afterwards . . . If you see what I mean, sir?’
    Over in his corner, Hofmann had taken out his notebook and pencil and was scribbling rapidly. Tiny opened his mouth the merest crack and slid his words out sideways like a second-rate ventriloquist.
    ‘Shouldn’t care to be in your shoes, mate . . . you’ve not only cooked your bleeding goose, you’ve gone and burnt it to a bleeding frazzle!’
    The days that followed were tough and brutal, as was the normal pattern of Sennelager, and five more of our volunteers came to grief. One collapsed and died on a route march; one failed to move fast enough when a grenade went off by mistake; and three others panicked at their first encounter with a tank during a training period and were promptly run down and churned to mincemeat to serve as an example to others.
    Shortly afterwards, there were several abortive attempts at desertion. Every single man who tried it was recaptured within the first six hours and brought back to Sennelager to be handed over to Lieutenant-Colonel Schramm, the camp executioner.
    Schramm was a butcher merely by force of circumstances. Neither by temperament nor by talent was he fitted for the task. He had lost a leg under a tank at Lemberg, which had effectually ended his active career as a soldier. And instead ofpromoting him to a