“What’s your name?” he asked. Dietrich’s command of Greek was fair—he had been on a course prior to his posting, but he sometimes found the Cretan dialect impossible to understand.

“I don’t have one.”

That earned the prisoner a sharp smack to the nose with the back of Dietrich’s hand. The prisoner let out a suppressed grunt and blood started to pour from both nostrils.

“What’s your name?”

The prisoner looked impudently back, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“I told you, I don’t have one.”

Dietrich was used to this. In fact, he found these pathetic displays of bravado somewhat tedious. Most of them did talk eventually, so why did they bother to hold out? Almost wearily, he punched the prisoner hard in the face. There was a crunch of gristle as the man’s nose broke and a dull thud as the back of his head hit the wall. The prisoner yelled out, his eyes squeezed tight in agony. He clenched his teeth, doing his best to control his show of pain.

Dietrich turned to Fasshauer.

“This one thinks he’s a bit of a hero, doesn’t he?”

“He does indeed, sir. May I ask him a question?”

“By all means.”

“Where are you from, you little piece of shit?”

The prisoner didn’t reply.

“I asked you where you were from,” shouted Fasshauer. He then bent down and whispered, “If you don’t tell me, I’m really going to hurt you.”

The partisan looked up at Fasshauer. Although his eyes were streaming, a resolve shone through.

“Go and fuck your mother, you cuckold,” the man mumbled, his voice obscured by a mouthful of mucus and blood.

Dietrich and Fasshauer looked at each other in amazement. This was the strongest insult a Cretan could utter.

“You seem to be losing your touch, Gunther!” Dietrich laughed.

Fasshauer was enraged. Even though he knew his commanding officer wasn’t blaming him, he felt livid at the nerve of this pathetic bleeding huddle.

“Go and fuck yourself!” he shouted, and with it, he stepped back, and kicked the prisoner in the groin.

The prisoner screamed high and loud. Dietrich knew that the sound would reach the parade ground. He heard screams like this every few hours, but the “Kugelstoss,” as he called it—the “bollock kick”—was always the loudest, the most pain-filled.

Dietrich looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. He still felt tired, and he desperately wanted to have that little sleep before he executed the hostages. He yawned.

“I’m getting a little bored of this man, and I could do with some rest. I’m going to lie down for a couple of hours.”

“Shall I lock him up with the hostages, Herr Oberst?”