Wheels of Terror

by Sven Hassel

  Our knowledge of anatomy was worthy of a doctor. Blinded, we knew where a shot or a knife would cause the maximum pain.

  Satan sat behind a stone and laughed.

  The Sneaking Death

  Our wounded had been flown out. Lieutenant Harder and all the others were now lying in hospital miles away from the white Russian hell.

  Again we were made a fighting-group. Lieutenant Harder was replaced by a Lieutenant Weber. He led No. 5 Company and Captain von Barring commanded the fighting-group.

  It was self-evident that the fighting-group led in any attack. Weighed down by weapons and ammunition we were now edging along to the attacking point.

  ‘Ascension – to – heaven – detail as usual,’ Pluto growled.

  ‘You mean hell-travel-detail,’ mocked Porta. ‘Not one of you clots will go to heaven!’

  The Little Legionnaire asked:

  ‘Will you, then?’

  ‘Yes, any objections, you unhappy desert nomad?’ Porta said, and crossing himself he merged into the darkness: ‘Amen, in my name!’

  Tiny guffawed.

  Lieutenant Weber came running along the column and whispered exasperatedly:

  ‘Shut up laughing. You’d think you wanted the Russians on top of you.’

  ‘Oh dear, no, we’re afraid of them,’ came from the darkness.

  Lieutenant Weber cried hoarsely:

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Saint Peter and the Holy Trinity,’ came the answer.

  Several of the men started laughing, everybody except Lieutenant Weber who had not recognized Porta’s voice.

  The Lieutenant became angry and forgot to be quiet:

  ‘Step forward, you smart Alec,’ he cried. His voice shook with rage.

  ‘No, I daren’t, I’ll be spanked,’ Porta’s voice came from the dark.

  ‘Stop!’ raged Lieutenant Weber.

  ‘Yes, I agree with you too,’ conceded Porta.

  The lieutenant rushed into the column and grabbed the first man he could lay his hands on as he hissed:

  ‘Who dares to make fun of an officer? I order you to give me his name or the whole company will suffer. I know how to tame you, you swine!’

  A growl was the only answer. From the darkness threats were issued:

  ‘Have you heard, lads, that somebody here wants a grenade on his head?’

  ‘You’ll have to use another tone here, sabre-swallower. We’re not used to your kind!’ (that was Tiny’s voice).

  ‘Swinish slum-droppings!’ Weber shouted and ran forward to Captain von Barring. We heard him complaining and shouting about mutiny and courts-martial.

  Von Barring received him coldly.

  ‘Stop this nonsense. We’ve other things to consider here than depot “bull”.’

  Snow crunched under our boots. Frost was the herald of the dark velvet night. When one brushed against a tree-branch the disturbed snow fell like a shower of needles.

  Our orders were to penetrate the Russian positions in a silent attack. No firing except in extreme emergency for self-defence.

  Porta pulled out his combat-knife, kissed it, and grinning said:

  ‘You’ll soon be back at work, my pet. You’ll be licking Russian stomachs and picking out Adam’s apples just as the girls at the factory meant you to do when they made you.’

  The Little Legionnaire and Tiny preferred spades, which they weighed testingly in their fists. In such ways each one prepared for what he was picked to do.

  ‘Allah-Akbar,’ whispered the Little Legionnaire and disappeared.

  We slid forward without a sound, just as the Finns had taught us at the training course. We were masters at employing our close combat weapons. But so were our colleagues on the other side, particularly the Siberian skirmishers. And they loved this form of warfare.

  We reached Komarovka without firing a shot. Several of us were smothered in blood and, as the blood quickly froze, our clothes were soon as hard as boards.

  Porta had his combat-knife broken in a fight with a Russian. Stuck between two ribs it was not to be prised loose, so he acquired a Siberian knife which he used with marvellous dexterity. He had tied on his top-hat with a cord under the chin. It was spattered with blood.

  Just outside Komarovka we had to destroy a 15-cm. field battery, but here they were fully awake. Before we reached it the shells rained over us and exploded in fire and thunder in the middle of No. 7 Company which had been detailed to help us.

  Limbs and bodies whirled through the air. Screaming ferociously, we stormed forward at the brave but desperate artillerymen. Some tried to run away when most of the battery was destroyed but well-aimed bursts from our machine-guns and machine-pistols dealt expertly with them.

  The few who gave themselves up we shot. It was impossible to look after prisoners. Both sides shot prisoners. Who started it nobody knows …

  The first time I saw it happen was in 1941 when I myself was taken prisoner. A few miles behind the front-line I witnessed how NKVD riflemen got rid of a whole heap of German officers and SS men. Later I saw it happen on our side several times.

  There were many different reasons why prisoners were shot. For instance if we fought behind the enemy lines it was impossible to take along prisoners. Worse was when we found our friends tortured to death. That gave rise to revenge murders. I have seen rows of Russian prisoners mown down by machine-guns – not to mention the countless times men were shot ‘trying to escape’.

  The fighting-group stayed in position to let the regiment catch up. We immediately dug ourselves into the snow. Porta announced in his own kind of broadcast what he would eat when he got out of the battle area:

  ‘First I’m going to steal some potatoes and a lorry-load of pork from some idiot who’s been stupid enough to hide it until my grand progress brings me to his house. Of these heavenly articles I’m going to make mashed potatoes with small pork-dice.’

  ‘Do you use dripping in your potato-mash or do you chop parsley into it?’ Tiny wanted to know.

  ‘Dripping is best. Greenery is very nice, but it slides down quicker with dripping. That means you can fill yourself quickly, shit it out, and start all over again.’

  ‘I never thought of that,’ Tiny said quite seriously. ‘Thanks for the tip!’

  ‘My God, eating!’ groaned the Little Legionnaire. ‘Wish we had something to stuff ourselves with right up to the gullet.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t got much time to talk about grub. We must think seriously about what we’re up to here,’ Porta went on. ‘This war is no picnic. We’ve got to starve and at the same time keep shitting our guts out. You get tired of a war like this. It reminds me of an obstacle race at the training battalion where you take turns at pricking each bastard’s neck with a bayonet when he won’t run fast enough – all designed to give everyone a complete understanding of how serious war is. Hell, if it wasn’t serious they’d never have mentioned war in the Bible.’

  ‘God in heaven, help us,’ said Tiny and peeped across at the Russians. ‘If only we had a baton like that Israelite field-marshal had at the Red Sea crossing. That would have been a miracle weapon to make Stalin’s eyes pop!’

  ‘Did he really get across with the whole division?’ asked Pluto doubtingly.

  ‘He did,’ answered Porta, ‘and when that Egyptian Stalin came running behind, the old field-marshal flipped his stick out and all Pharaoh’s horse-drawn T34s landed at the bottom of the Red Sea.’

  ‘By God, how Ivan would gape if Porta had a stick like that next time we get to the sea!’

  ‘The next time you see the sea it’ll be the Atlantic,’ laughed The Old Un, ‘and with the speed we’re going it won’t be too long.’

  ‘Look out,’ cried Möller and raised his stormcarbine.

  Porta sent a burst from his machine-gun at a body of Russians who had hidden just in front of our position and were now trying to get back to their own line. They did not succeed. They were literally chopped to bits by Porta’s precisio
n-firing.

  Lieutenant Weber came running, swearing at us. He lectured The Old Un who was No. 2 Platoon commander.

  ‘What are you thinking of, Sergeant? Why don’t you stop your men firing? Ivan’s all around us and is just waiting for a chance to lay us flat. How can you, a senior NCO let things like this happen when you’ve got the strictest orders not to fire. If it happens again you’ll lose your stripes, Sergeant. I tell you when we’re out of this you’ll have me to deal with!’

  ‘Yes, Herr Oberleutnant,’ was The Old Un’s short answer.

  A short giggle from Porta and Pluto made Weber whip round.

  ‘Who’s got the cheek to laugh at me – a German officer!’ he shouted hysterically.

  ‘Ivan!’ It came from the dark night.

  ‘Step forward that man! Nobody dares play with me,’ bleated the agitated Oberleutnant Weber.

  The Ordnance Officer, Lieutenant Bender, came silently up and cut Weber short by saying:

  ‘The orders are complete silence.’

  Weber turned round and glared at the little ordnance officer.

  ‘Are you teaching me orders, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Out here the officers usually address each other in the second person,’ announced Bender quietly.

  ‘We’ll see about that, “Herr Leutnant”! There are still a few decent officers in the Germany army and we wish to maintain proper discipline and respect for all superior ranks.’

  ‘Let’s forget it till we’re out of this battle,’ said Bender with a smile.

  Porta’s voice rang out loudly and clearly in the darkness:

  ‘Discussion in the officers’ mess at Cherkassy. Temporary picnic spot for the Nazi army. Heil! Kiss me on my bare …’

  Weber nearly had a fit. He screamed again about a court-martial for all of us when we got out.

  Porta cackled mockingly in the dark.

  ‘Oh, my pink one, fancy educated people believing in miracles. Do you hear, lads? “When we get out”!’

  ‘Why not a quick little duel with flick-knives, Herr Oberleutnant,’ guffawed Tiny who lay in the same hollow as Porta and the Little Legionnaire. ‘We’ll cut your matrimonial prospects out of you!’

  Weber lost all vestige of sanity.

  ‘This is mutiny! Mutiny, you swine! You threaten my life!’ He waved his machine-pistol in the air and had difficulty in breathing. ‘This company is not worthy of the German Führer’s uniform. I’ll see to it that all this gets straight to Adolf Hitler, our godly German Führer.’

  The whole of No. 5 Company laughed uproariously and Porta bawled:

  ‘We’ll throw away Adolf’s rags with pleasure here and now, but they’re a bit threadbare!’

  ‘Half of mine aren’t Adolf’s, they’re Ivan’s,’ cried Tiny.

  ‘You are my witness,’ shouted Oberleutnant Weber to Lieutenant Bender.

  ‘Of what?’ Bender asked astonished.

  ‘You heard what this man said, and the threats and insults this rabble have uttered against a National Socialist German officer.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herr Oberleutnant. You must be shell-shocked. Captain von Barring will be very surprised to hear your judgment, not to speak of Herr Oberstleutnant Hinka. He always reckons No. 5 Company to be the best of all the eight companies in the regiment.’

  Indifferently Bender slung his machine-pistol over his shoulder and left Oberleutnant Weber raging and frothing.

  The advance to Podapinsky during the next few days was a real nightmare. Again and again a man would throw himself down in the snow and refuse to go on. Only rifle butts and brutal kicks managed to drive exhausted soldiers forward.

  The Russian troops we encountered were fanatics. They fought as we had never seen them fight before, wildly and bravely. Even small isolated groups went on to the last man. At night they attacked in small groups and we suffered constant losses among our sentries. From our prisoners we learned that our opponents were the 32nd Siberian Rifle Division from Vladivostock, supported by units from the 82nd Soviet Infantry Division and reinforced by two panzer brigades.

  We received help against these two élite units from our 72nd Infantry Division, but felt the whole time that the Russians were about to snap the pincers behind us.

  They caught two NCOs from No. 3 Company and the next morning we heard them screaming. It gave us gooseflesh. Drawn-out and gurgling, their cries echoed across the snow-hell.

  We could hardly believe our eyes when our colleagues on the other side put up two crosses on which the two NCOs were crucified. Each had a piece of barbed wire wrapped round his head like a crown of thorns. When they fainted the Russians stabbed their feet with bayonets till they started to scream again.

  In the end when we were unable to stand their screaming any longer Porta and the Little Legionnaire crawled out to a shell-hole and shot the two crucified men dead.

  The Russians on discovering what had happened roared with rage and battered us with mortar-shells. It cost us eight fallen.

  At Podapinsky our foes succeeded in taking an entire section from No. 7 Company. The captured men roared and screamed during the treatment our colleagues gave them. A commissar shouted at us through his megaphone:

  ‘Soldiers of the 27th Panzer Regiment, we’re going to show you what we do to people who don’t volunteer to put down their arms and come across to us, the Soviet-Russian workers and peasant army.’

  An inarticulate roar from a human being in intolerable pain and need swelled across to us. Then it died down slowly.

  The commissar continued:

  ‘Did you hear it? Don’t you think Gefreiter Holger cried nicely? Now you’ll hear Gefreiter Paul Buncke cry just as nicely as we take away some of his body adornments. Listen, soldiers, of the 27th!’

  Again we heard those terrible screams and choked roars. This time they lasted a quarter of an hour.

  ‘My God, what on earth can they be doing to them?’ whispered The Old Un with tears in his eyes.

  ‘Just wait, you Communist swine,’ hissed Tiny. ‘I’ll make you scream. You poisoned bastards, you’ll soon discover Tiny from Bremen is on a visit to your bloody country!’

  The voice of the commissar started again. He was laughing as he shouted:

  ‘He was a tough fellow that Paul Buncke, but even he couldn’t stand having an empty cartridge case knocked into his kneecap. More amusements are on the way! We’ll now see if Feldwebel Kurt Meincke is equally tough as he’s a unit leader and has got close-combat gongs plus an iron cross of the first-class. He’s bound to be a very fine Hitler soldier. We thought we might cut his navel out, but first soften him up by cutting his toes off with the barbed-wire cutters. Listen now, lads!’

  Again came the inarticulate roars, but this time they were a little easier to bear, only eight minutes according to Pluto’s stop watch.

  Porta was white as a sheet.

  ‘I’m going across. Who’s coming?’

  The whole of No. 5 Company wanted to go with him but he shook his head and without a word pointed out twenty-five men for his use. They consisted of the whole of our group and the larger part of No. 2 Platoon, all old experienced patrol and close-combat men.

  In a fever we made ourselves ready. We got hold of some T-and S-mines and made several satanic explosives. In addition we had Porta’s flame-thrower and three more.

  As Porta prepared his flame-thrower he said icily:

  ‘Remember now, we want some officers and the commissar, all unharmed. We’ll butcher the rest of the gang.’

  Lieutenant Weber opened his mouth to say something, but a glance at the killer-party made him stop. His face was chalk-white and he shook like an aspen.

  Our path lay through a peaceful-looking wood, behind the Russian positions. We sneaked along through bushes and undergrowth.

  Tiny and the Little Legionnaire kept close to Porta. The Old Un never said a word. His face had turned to stone. We all had one thought: revenge at all costs. We were far from no
rmal. We were people sunk to the level of savage animals in primeval times and we could sniff our prey.

  ‘Quickly, take cover,’ ordered Porta suddenly.

  We pressed ourselves into the snow and followed Porta’s actions. He lay still behind a tree and stared through his binoculars.

  Scarcely 200 yards in front of us sat two Soviet soldiers on a fallen tree-trunk. They were sentries judging by the rifles which lay supported by the tree.

  Porta and Tiny crawled up to the two unsuspecting men from the side.

  Breathless, we watched them as they crept nearer their quarry. One of the Russians suddenly straightened up and stared into the wood.

  Without a sound Porta and Tiny sank into the snow. The Little Legionnaire gripped his LMG tighter and his eye travelled along its sighting-line. Both the Russians would have been shot the minute they spotted us. But to our relief the one put down his rifle again, took out a piece of bread from his pocket, and started to eat it.

  The other filled his pipe and said something to his friend. Both laughed softly and contentedly.

  Porta and Tiny crawled nearer, yard by yard. With an enormous leap they fell on the Russians. The one with the pipe fell forward, his head split by Porta’s entrenching-tool. The other had his throat cut while Tiny held him in his bear-like grip.

  Indifferently they threw the corpses aside. One still clutched his uneaten bread.

  Tiny collected the fallen pipe and put it in the pocket of his snow-shirt.

  The Old Un consulted the compass and the map.

  ‘We must go farther south or else we’ll get too far behind the main front-line.’

  Porta hurried on. He had the flame-thrower on his back again. He waved us on impatiently.

  ‘Now remember, we must get a couple of their bosses alive,’ he grinned and patted his long combat-knife.

  ‘Allah is good,’ whispered the Little Legionnaire. ‘To-night many will leave this vale of sorrow helped on their way by my little knife. I’ll get an honoured place in Allah’s garden when I go!’ He put his combat-knife lovingly to his lips.

  Then the silence was broken by a couple of drawn-out explosions. A carpet of fire rolled over the sky. It looked like a glowing blind being pulled up.