Wheels of Terror

by Sven Hassel

  The Old Un, taking a deep breath, signalled to some of our gunners lying behind another house and watching us.

  ‘Forward and get ’em!’ he shouted frantically.

  Yelling infernally we jumped up and, shooting from the hip, stormed forward. Others caught our fury and followed.

  The Russians were almost paralysed by the sudden attack of an enemy they thought was wildly fleeing.

  The Old Un shouted to Porta:

  ‘Save our children!’

  A nod. Tiny and Porta raced for the hut where we had bedded down. Before they could reach it the Russians started a counter-attack.

  Hand-grenades were being lobbed through the air. Furious bursts from automatic weapons swept the ground.

  We jumped into cover in a shell-hole. Four dead Russians already occupied it. We rolled them up on the edge to serve as a breast-work. A light machine-gun was brought into position.

  Porta got hold of a Russian ‘stove-pipe’ which had been discarded. He knelt quite calmly in the middle of the road and took careful aim before sending a rocket-shell into the attacking Russians.

  Another swarm of brown-clad soldiers appeared. The door of the hut where we had left the children and the dead woman opened. The silent boy who had so clearly shown his hatred of us stood waving a piece of white cloth.

  The Old Un placed his hand on the Little Legionnaire’s shoulder to stop him firing. The boy came out to go across to the Russians. He managed to take only a few steps before he collapsed in the rain of bullets showering from both sides.

  Tiny swore and wanted to jump out of the shell-hole. The Old Un took hold of him.

  ‘Have you got brain-fever? They’d fill you with nails before you could say boo!’

  A hand-grenade flew over and exploded right in front of the house.

  The Little Legionnaire behind the heavy machine-gun at once answered with some long bursts. Another hand-grenade hit the house. We heard the children weeping and screaming. The face of a girl appeared at one window but disappeared fast.

  A brown-clad figure popped up just by the house. An arm swung. A dark thing shot through the air and burst the window. A thundering explosion. Long tongues of flame. The door flew off its hinges. The crying and screaming ceased.

  The Old Un hid his face in his hands.

  ‘Let’s get away. It’s no use staying!’

  Porta was the last to run away. He stood up with the light machine-gun in his hands, fired a salvo at the Russians and shouted:

  ‘Can you see me waving good-bye?’ Then he ran after us.

  Tiny cursed and swore revenge because the Russians had thrown a hand-grenade at our twins, although it might easily have been a German hand-grenade which burst in on them.

  A bemused Russian infantry soldier suddenly appeared in front of us. Tiny swung his machine-pistol casually, and the Russian’s head was bashed in.

  We heard the sounds of pursuers catching up with us. The Little Legionnaire was practically all-in, but he still breathlessly hung on.

  In a narrow gorge we stopped. Silently we spread out waiting for the hunt to arrive. Porta laughed a little:

  ‘You’ll have your nappies to wring out, you red heroes …’

  They appeared in a large clump, shouting in their arrogance.

  When they reached the middle of the gorge we opened fire. They checked, swayed and fell. Some rose and tried to run, but they were lost. Bleeding they fell. One crawled off on all fours. Tiny threw his knife at him. It stuck trembling between his shoulder-blades. He crawled on. Then he collapsed. We threw a hand-grenade into the heap of corpses to bring down the curtain.

  We ran on. Behind us shots still rang out. We heard the cries of the Russians chasing our fleeing soldiers.

  After a minute’s rest The Old Un stood up and said:

  ‘Come on. It reeks of shots in the neck here.’

  Breathlessly we raced on through thorny bushes and undergrowth, our hands and faces skinned and blood streaming down our cheeks and necks.

  ‘Take it easy!’ Porta said suddenly and halted. ‘We’re running about like flies to escape a one-way ticket to Kolyma! But it’s no use!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ The Old Un asked.

  ‘There,’ Porta pointed. ‘Just look. Or do you need a pair of eye-crutches!’

  In the direction where Porta was pointing we dimly saw figures lying in wait in some hastily prepared trenches.

  The Old Un quickly made his decision. We were to circle them in the darkness in a westerly direction.

  ‘Fine,’ Porta grinned. ‘My conk can turn in only one direction at the moment: west. It’s sick for the smell of Berlin!’

  We had not gone very far before a voice from the darkness shouted excitedly:

  ‘Halt! Wer da?’

  Porta took a deep breath, blew his nose in his fingers and shouted heartily:

  ‘Kiss me, comrade. We’ve made it!’

  ‘That can only be our own lot,’ said the voice from the darkness. It now sounded a little calmer.

  ‘What the hell?’ Porta shouted. ‘Did you think it was reindeer in aspic?’

  ‘Keep left,’ warned the voice, ‘and straight on, but be careful: we’ve laid mines!’

  ‘God help me, really?’ Tiny said with heavy humour. ‘We thought you’d put out easter-eggs. Mines? What are they?’ he asked Porta.

  ‘Something used for making smoked backside with vegetables,’ Porta grinned.

  A hand reached out to help us into a trench. We saw silver glinting on our helper’s shoulder.

  The Old Un stood to attention and reported we were lost from the 867th Infantry Battalion.

  A group of young cavalrymen suddenly shot out of the ground, staring at us in astonishment. Somebody mumbled something about coming from Verbe.

  ‘Hm,’ replied another. ‘I always believed that where the German soldier stood he remained!’

  Porta turned to him, jeering:

  ‘Maybe you believe in the stork too – and Santa Claus?’

  23

  ‘When we were fighting in Morocco,’ said the Little Legionnaire, ‘we’d only one thing to do: turn our faces to Mecca and say: “Allah’s will be done,” and let loose. We can’t do anything else here. So, forward, comrades! We shall die like animals.’

  Cannon – machine-guns – machine-pistols – flame-throwers – Haubitzers – Stalin-organs – mines – hand-grenades – bombs – shells. Words, words, words! But what horrors they evoke!

  Comrades, here we come!

  To-morrow you are dead, YOU: death’s vagabonds.

  They storm forward. The sick, drunk, frightened, insane, persecuted, poor men and boys in uniforms.

  Prey is beckoning you. Blood, women, food, booze.

  Viva la muerte!

  Long Live Death

  ‘Here we go again,’ Porta swore. ‘No sooner have we found our gang again than we’re back in the shit as a fighting-group.’

  ‘As long as we’re lying here nice and quiet there’s no need to make a fuss,’ The Old Un said.

  Porta removed his top-hat, polished it with a rifle-rag, spat, and invited us to play pontoon.

  Stege sneered.

  ‘Any minute now we can expect Ivan. It would be wiser to get some shut-eye before we’re at it again.’

  But when Porta, Tiny, the SS man and Sergeant Heide started to play pontoon, Stege could not forbear to join in.

  They sat at the bottom of the trench playing and of course quarrelling. Tiny had found an age-old bowler-hat and on Porta’s advice was wearing it.

  When von Barring innocently inquired what sort of headgear he had introduced to the tank troops the Little Legionnaire announced to the apparently shocked battalion commander:

  ‘It’s a sort of mascot. An elephant’s pessary. Tiny found it in an old-folk’s home in Brodny.’

  ‘Well, well,’ sighed von Barring. ‘I’d prefer you not to make clowns of yourselves. The CO doesn’t approve of it.’

  ‘But, H
err Commander!’ Porta put in. ‘The bloody caps we’re issued with are bad for the hair, and the skull-muffs are too hot for the spring. That’s why Tiny’s introduced his air-conditioned topee.’

  Von Barring shook his head and moved off along the trench, followed by his adjutant, Lieutenant Vogt.

  Tiny touched the brim of his bowler and announced:

  ‘Don’t anybody dare say a word about Tiny’s lid!’

  Von Barring turned and looked inscrutably at us. Then he went on without a word.

  We lay there for several days without being disturbed. The Russians on the other side had dug themselves in, and they kept quiet. All we exchanged was shouted words.

  One German-speaking Russian was especially eager. He promised us unbelievable rewards if we would only throw away our weapons and go over to the other side.

  ‘In Moscow thousands of the most elegant bitches’ legs are waiting for you,’ he shouted, and he naturally arrested Tiny’s undivided attention.

  ‘Do you believe that shoddy bastard?’ he asked us earnestly.

  ‘Why don’t you go and ask him?’ Porta suggested.

  Tiny hoisted himself up on the edge of the trench, pulled his bowler over his forehead to keep out the sun, put his hand to his mouth and shouted:

  ‘Hey, you whore-master! This is Tiny. What’s this you’re telling us about the bits in Moscow? If you can prove it, let’s talk.’

  A little later the Russian replied:

  ‘Tiny, just come here and we’ll give you a ticket for the Moscow express. It’ll tip you out right in the middle of the biggest whore-shop there.’

  Tiny turned the answer over in his mind and looked round at us, frowning solemnly.

  ‘Sounds all right, what that grunting bull says, but it’s too good to be true.’

  Again he rose above the parapet and announced with a voice filled with contempt: ‘You’re full of bloody lies, you red shite!’

  Little by little, we gathered that something was going to happen. Day and night, large concentrations of artillery were assembled on both sides.

  Early one morning, we spotted high in the sky a small silver-shimmering moth-like plane. Every man in the position turned his face to it.

  ‘Artillery-spotter,’ Heide proclaimed.

  ‘What the hell do you know about it?’ mocked Porta.

  Heide glared at him, but kept quiet.

  Precisely at nine o’clock it started. One long concerted infernal howling, growling and thundering. Cannon and mortars of all calibres unloaded thousands of shells, rockets and bombs over the whole front.

  We curled up like hedgehogs in our hollows. Over the entire trench-system was an umbrella of red-hot steel.

  It lasted exactly two hours. Then an ominous silence shrouded everything.

  We hardly believed our eyes that not a single man had got as much as a scratch, and that not one of our shell-throwers, infantry-guns or machine-guns had been hit. We were speechless. It was like a fairy-tale. Liberating laughter rose from each of our positions when we realized how lucky we had been.

  Then the planes appeared just above the trees with howling engines and a hail of phosphorous and petrol bombs. Men who did not manage to take cover in a split second were finished. For a whole hour wave upon wave of the hated ‘butchers’ were upon us. After a short lull a new artillery barrage started.

  Porta looked up and said drily:

  ‘What a party this is! I didn’t know we were still worth this lot!’

  He was about to say something more when an organ-like roar and a colossal explosion made him jump. Earth, steel and stone rained down on us.

  Tiny started to say something but the Little Legionnaire, his ears muffled in his headphones, held up his hand.

  ‘The battalion commander’s calling, but I can’t understand a word.’

  ‘Try again,’ ordered the company commander, Lieutenant von Lüders. Desperately the Little Legionnaire twiddled the knobs of his radio and listened eagerly. He grinned at von Lüders:

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m nuts, Herr Lieutenant, but the commander’s nattering something about the corps commander coming right out here to our position. The CO is already escorting the rare animal out here.’

  Von Lüders and all of us stared at the Little Legionnaire as if he were some peculiar apparition.

  ‘God help us!’ the lieutenant breathed when he realized just what the Little Legionnaire had said.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tiny asked. ‘Are we getting some artillery?’

  ‘No, just a full lieutenant-general!’ Porta replied.

  ‘God protect the nipples of our girls and their fair hair,’ Tiny beamed. ‘I bet the red-striped warthog is going to shoo us right across to Ivan. I wish I knew where the kitchen-staircase was!’

  Lieutenant von Lüders received orders to meet the commandant and his party by a sunken road and to show the distinguished spectators the positions in order to convince them that we were conducting well-regulated warfare in the approved manner.

  Swearing freely, von Lüders ordered The Old Un to provide the escort to meet the high brass.

  ‘We’ll be losing pounds in weight again,’ Porta observed. ‘Running, running, that’s the only thing we’re good at.’

  ‘Good, we’re off,’ von Lüders laughed and started to run across an open space between the trenches.

  ‘No, by God, we’re not,’ Porta answered breathing hard. ‘But I wish we were. We’ll have to keep a still tongue in our pants – no, I mean our mouths—’

  The Russians at once had us in the sights of the heavy machine-gun they had sited on a mound right across from us. We practically flew down into a ditch as every evil spirit in the shape of small-arms ammunition hissed by us and hit the road with a rattle.

  Crawling on our stomachs, we got across the road and went on, crouching behind a hedge. At least it hid us.

  Completely breathless we reached the sunken road and threw ourselves into the ditch on the far side. Tiny put up his hand like a boy at school and asked:

  ‘Herr Lieutenant, how well have we got to behave to be allowed to go on a trip like this next year?’

  He got no answer. The general and his red-tabbed staff-officers came round a bend in the road.

  It was an impressive party. Blood-red tabs, gold-lace and glittering Knight’s Crosses lit up the landscape.

  With the general and his staff came Colonel Hinka and Captain von Barring. Both appeared to be anxious and excited.

  Lieutenant von Lüders clicked his heels together, saluted and reported:

  ‘Herr Generaloberst, Lieutenant Lüders, commanding No. 5 Company, reports as ordered. The detail under Sergeant Beire will act as escort.’

  The general eyed von Lüders coldly. Then without acknowledging the salute he turned to Colonel Hinka.

  ‘Pay attention, Colonel, here’s another one of your gangs. No discipline, no order. It looks more like an errand-boys’ outfit than a military formation. A lieutenant reports to his corps commander with an escort straight from swimming in the ditch, smacking their lips like over-fed cows: Swine! A lot of filthy swine!’ He pointed to Lüders who stood stiff as a tree in front of him.

  ‘Where’s your gas-mask? Where’s your steel-helmet? Don’t you know that you should carry your steel-helmet at all times when on active service? And you let yourself run round in a forage-cap!’ He became dark-red in the face. Wild words poured out of his mouth. There was a trace of tears in his stuttering, excited voice. He pointed to Porta’s and Tiny’s head-gear. ‘That bowler – and that top-hat! What’s that for? What in the name of heaven have you got on your head?’

  Porta straightened up very slowly. Leaning on his carbine he said:

  ‘A cylinder, Herr Generaloberst.’

  ‘So that’s what it is, a cylinder! Throw it away! Take it off! Punish that man!’ he shouted at Hinka. Then he turned to Tiny chewing a blade of grass and with the bowler-hat on the back of his head.

  ‘And what is this kind
of head-wear you’ve allowed yourself to be dressed up in?’

  Startled, Tiny jumped up, tripped over his feet and dropped his light machine-gun. With much noise he found his feet and stood up.

  ‘Herr Generaloberst, it’s an elephant’s pessary!’

  (I’d better mention here that Tiny did not know what a pessary was. He truly believed it was the proper name for a bowler-hat.)

  The general bared his teeth. The blood rushed to his puffy face. He turned to Hinka.

  ‘That fellow will be court-martialled as soon as the regiment has returned from the front-line. I’ll teach them to make fun of me!’

  The Old Un whispered in prayer:

  ‘Dear little Ivan, please bang a little! Only a teeny weeny little bang from your “organ”!’

  But Ivan had no direct telepathic communication with The Old Un. Nothing happened.

  Cursing and swearing the general ordered that he should be shown the battle positions. He jeered at a lieutenant of his staff who jumped for cover when a 7.5-cm. shell crashed on to the road.

  ‘Did you drop something, Herr Lieutenant, since you’re lying there?’

  Red in the face, the lieutenant stood up and trudged confused after his great boss.

  When the general had seen the positions, which he criticized severely, he started to cross a piece of open land where Ivan had a nice field of fire.

  The heavy machine-gun on the hill immediately started firing. Three officers were wounded, but the general marched stiffly across the open space without even a glance at the wounded.

  The road was hit by several shells. One tore out von Lüder’s stomach and he died in a few minutes. Another officer lost his foot.

  A few days later we were withdrawn from the line and to our delight Lieutenant Harder was appointed to be our new company commander. He had recently returned from hospital.

  We were to rest for a fortnight, but on the very first night we had to turn out.

  We had landed in a small village which had served as a recreation-centre for Russian commissars and later for German air force personnel. A dozen beautiful villas were sites for our heavy infantry guns.

  In one room, which must have been occupied by women for it retained their female fragrance, Stege and I put up a machine-gun in a window embrasure to cover the railway line. In the attic Porta, the Little Legionnaire and Tiny put up another machine-gun.