Free St Kilda Blues by Geoffrey McGeachin

his body it would quite possibly explain the man’s awkward handling of the axe.
    â€˜A Russian
Flammenwerfer
, Detective Sergeant Berlin, a flamethrower. My steel helmet saved my head from the worst of the fire, though the others in my bunker were not so fortunate. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that this is the only injury I sustained over the course of the war.’
    â€˜You were in the army, Mr. Scheiner?’
    â€˜A Landser? No, I was not. Not until the end, at least.’
    â€˜A Landser?’ It was Roberts who asked the question.
    â€˜It means a foot soldier, Bob,’ Berlin said, ‘an infantryman. It’s like our word “digger”.’
    Scheiner nodded. ‘Exactly so. I was in fact in the Luftwaffe, the air force. In a sane world I would have perhaps been in university or chasing pretty girls but instead I was an anti-aircraft gunner in Berlin, on the
Flaktürme Tiergarten
, the Zoo flak tower.’
    Berlin could see Roberts was confused. His old man had been an anti-aircraft gunner in the army.
    â€˜Different way of doing things, Bob. Under the German military system anti-aircraft defence was the job of the German air force rather than the army. The Luftwaffe also guarded captured aircrew in joints called Stalag-Lufts, air force POW camps.’
    â€˜Again exactly so, Detective Sergeant Berlin. However in the last days they issued me a worn-out rifle and a dozen cartridges to use against the Ivans and their artillery and their flamethrowers. The
kindersoldaten
, the Hitler Youth, took the anti-tank Panzerfausts to use against the Russian T-34s since they were still both young enough and stupid enough to believe the Führer and his Reich were worth dying for.’
    On the forced march out of Poland, Berlin’s POW column had passed half-finished bunkers and hastily dug foxholes manned by old men, some still in civilian clothes, and young boys –
kindersoldaten
, child soldiers. The older men looked tired and seemed resigned to what was coming but he still remembered the young ones, their terrified eyes partially hidden under too-big steel helmets meant for grown men. Berlin thought about young Peter’s war in a far-off place and then made the thought go away.
    He nodded in the direction of the wooden stump and the axe. ‘Mind if I have a go?’
    The two men looked at each other across the stump for a moment before Scheiner shrugged. Berlin took off his overcoat and suit jacket. He handed them to Roberts before pulling the axe from the chopping block. It took more effort than he expected to get it free. Scheiner’s swing may have been awkward but there was definitely power behind it. He selected a log from the small pile, standing it upright on the block. A quick examination showed it was a good axe, sharp and nicely balanced. The wooden handle was well used but still in good condition. Berlin faced the block, spread his legs and swung.
Jesus!
    If the axe handle was in good condition, Berlin realised he wasn’t. He felt the pain of unused muscles in his back and arms fighting the unfamiliar level of exertion. The axe head struck the upright log to one side, splitting off a slim piece of wood that would at least be good for kindling. He repositioned the log and swung again. Better this time, but still not dead centre. Three was the charm, the log splitting neatly. He tossed the pieces onto the pile of split wood. Another log went onto the block and this time the swing was better still. He would ache later tonight, he knew that for certain. And there would be blisters on his hand if he kept this up. One more log split and then he left the axe head deep in the block.
    He was breathing hard, sweating, and when Roberts tossed him back his suit jacket he didn’t put it on. Scheiner was watching him, hands deep in his jacket pockets.
    â€˜Is there anyone who would take your daughter, Mr Scheiner, to get at you, perhaps?’
    â€˜If