by Sven Hassel
(Darling, shall we be sad or gay?)
We sprinkled petrol over the entire garrison and retreated. Once outside at a safe distance, Barcelona and I tossed half a dozen grenades through the windows.
From the other side of the hills, we heard the drunken singing of jubilant Russian troops:
‘Jesli sawtra wouna,
jesli sawtra pochod,
jesli wrasrhaja syla nahrima,
jak odyn tscholowek’
(When, tomorrow, the war arrives . . .)
The Old Man looked in their direction, away across the hills in the misty distance; and then back at the burning garrison with its murdered men.
‘Well, there it is,’ he said. ‘That’s their war, that they seem so happy about . . .’
CHAPTER TWO
Special Mission
WE caught up with the rest of the Company in a pine wood. Lt. Ohlsen was not, on the whole, very pleasant about our prolonged absence, and it was some considerable time before he was able to express himself in language that did not bring a blush of modest shame to our cheeks.
Over the next few days we had several skirmishes with parties of marauding Russians, and lost perhaps a dozen men in all. By now we were becoming fairly expert in the art of guerilla warfare.
We had with us six prisoners, a lieutenant and five infantrymen. The lieutenant spoke fluent German, and he marched with Lt. Ohlsen at the head of the company, all differences temporarily forgotten.
To compensate ourselves for having to drag prisoners along with us, we made two of the infantrymen carry the stewpot containing our fermented alcohol.
It was early in the morning – with the sun shining, by way of a change – that we spotted the chalet, a mountain hut with a balcony running round it, two German infantry men standing guard at the entrance. As we approached it, two officers came out and stood waiting for us. One of them, the more senior, was a lieutenant colonel, wearing a ridiculous monocle that kept flashing in the sun. He raised a hand in patronizing salute to Lt. Ohlsen, and as we moved up he looked us over with a condescending stare.
‘So you’ve arrived at last . . . I expected you some time ago I don’t ask for reinforcements unless I have need of them – and when I do have need of them, expect them straight away.’ His monocle moved up and down our ranks, glinting contemptuously. ‘Well, your men look to be quite an experienced band . . . one hopes that one’s confidence does not turn out to be misplaced?’ He removed his monocle, breathed, on it, polished it, screwed it back again and addressed himself to us over Lt. Ohlsen’s shoulder. ‘Just for the record, should like to make it clear from the start that we’re rather hot on discipline in this neck of the woods. I don’t know what you chaps have been up to out there, but now that you’re here you can start pulling your fingers out. Hm!’ He nodded, apparently satisfied that he had made some kind of point, and turned back to Ohlsen. ‘Allow me to introduce myself: Lt. Colonel von Vergil. I’m in command here.’ Lt. Ohlsen saluted. ‘I sent for reinforcements some days ago. I expected you long before this. However, now that you’ve arrived, I can certainly use you. Over that way, on the edge of the woods. Hill 738. Enemy’s been rather busy there just lately. You’ll find the left flank of my battalion nearby. Make sure you maintain good lines of communication.’
‘Sir.’
Lt. Ohlsen saluted again, with two fingers to his helmet. The Colonel opened his eye and dropped his monocle.
‘Do you call that a regulation salute, Lieutenant?’
Ohlsen stood to attention. He clicked his heels together and brought one hand up very smartly. The Colonel nodded a grudging approval.
‘That’s better. We don’t tolerate slapdash ways here, you know. This is a Prussian infantry battalion. We know what’s what, and we maintain the highest standards. So long as you are under my command, I shall expect that you do the same.’ The Colonel placed his hands behind his back and leaned forward slightly, frowning. ‘What’s this foreign scum you’ve brought along with you?’
‘Russian prisoners, sir. One lieutenant and five privates.’
‘Hang them. We don’t keep that sort of trash round here.’
There was a moment’s pause. I could see Lt. Ohlsen swallowing rather hard.
‘Did you say – hang them, sir?’
‘Of course I said hang them! What’s the matter with you, man? Are you slow-witted or something?’
The Colonel turned on his heel and stalked back inside the chalet. Lt. Ohlsen followed him with his eyes, his expression grim. We all knew the Colonel’s type: an Iron Cross maniac, with not a thought in his head beyond that of personal glory and gratification.
The Russian lieutenant raised an eyebrow at Ohlsen.
‘So what happens?’ he murmured. ‘Do we hang?’
‘Not if I can help it!’ snapped Ohlsen. ‘I’d sooner stand by and watch that buffoon strung up!’
A window on the first floor was flung violently open by an NCO, and the buffoon himself looked out.
‘By the way, Lieutenant, one word of warning before you take up your positions: when I give an order, I expect it to be carried out immediately . . . I trust I make myself clear?’
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Porta. ‘That’s all we needed. A bleeding Prussian nut . . .’
Lt. Ohlsen turned sharply on him.
‘Do you mind? There’s no need to make the situation worse than it already is.’
The Colonel’s Adjutant, a young pink-faced lieutenant, appeared at the door with orders from the Colonel that we were to take up our positions immediately . . . and to do so strictly according to the rule book. Whatever that may have meant. After years of fighting at the front, you pretty well make up your own rule book.
We reached Hill 738 and set about digging ourselves in. The earth was hard, but we’d come across harder, and it was better than endless footslogging across enemy-infested countryside. Tiny and Porta sang as they worked. They seemed exaggeratedly happy. ‘They’ve been at that bloody schnaps,’ said Heide, suspiciously.
Lieutenants Ohlsen and Spät were sitting in a dug-out with the Russian officer, talking together in low, urgent voices. Barcelona laughed.
‘I bet they’re giving Ivan the times of the local trains!’
‘So what?’ demanded Stege, fiercely. ‘Ohlsen’s not the type to go round hanging prisoners just because some pathological Prussian tells him to do so. He’ll see they get out all right.’
‘Surely to God,’ said Heide, incredulously, ‘he’s never going to let the bastards go?’
‘Go?’
‘What else can he do?’ said Barcelona. ‘If they’re still here this time tomorrow, old Barmy Bill’s likely to string them up himself – and the Lieutenant along with them.’
‘Serve him right,’ decreed Heide, self-importantly. ‘ He ought to obey the orders of a superior officer. That’s what he’s here for . . . In any case, I don’t go along with all this balls of taking prisoners. What’s the point of it, unless you want something out of ’em? And when you’ve got it, shoot the buggers . . . Prisoners are nothing but a sodding nuisance. You may have noticed,’ he added, smugly, ‘that I never take any.’
‘Sounds fine when you’re sitting here in your own trenches,’ allowed Barcelona, ‘but you can bet your sweet life you’d sing another tune if you were in the hands of the Russians.’
‘If ever I were,’ said Heide, with dignity, ‘I should take what was coming to me. And if they kept me prisoner instead of shooting me, I should think they were a load of damn fools . . . Only thing is, I don’t ever aim to be in the hands of the Russians.’
‘Big talk!’ jeered Barcelona.
‘Look—’ Heide turned on him, angrily. ‘How long have I been in the perishing Army? Nine years! And in all that time I’ve never been captured . . . and you know why? Because I’m a bloody good soldier, in a way the rest of you could never be in a million years!’ He faced them, challengingly. ‘I go according to regulations; right? I got a crease in my trouser
s, just like the book says – right? I got a proper knot in my tie, I got a parting in my hair – God help us,’ he even snatched off his helmet to display it! – ‘there’s not one little thing about me or my uniform that doesn’t go along with the rule book. You can laugh if you like, but it’s a starting point. You don’t start right, you’ll never make a good soldier. And when I decided to join the Army, I decided to do the thing properly. And I have, right from the very beginning. And I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what the blue blazes we’re supposed to be fighting for, I just do what I’m told . . . I’d kill my own perishing grandmother if I was ordered to. I’m a soldier because I like being a soldier, and what I like doing I like to be good at.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘I don’t really see what all that has to do with taking prisoners,’ objected Stege.
‘Jesus, how thick can you get?’ demanded Heide, in disgust. ‘And you a student! Listen—’He leaned forward towards them – ‘I never went on to secondary school. Nothing like that, see? But take it from me, I know what I’m doing and I know where I’m going. And one thing I know for sure is, never take prisoners . . . How do you think I’ve managed to survive for so long? Why is it that I was made an N.C.O. after only five months, while you’re still only a Gefreiter after four years? Why is it that hardly any students end up as officers – whereas I’m going to become an officer in record time just as soon as the war’s over and I can get to start training? Why is it—’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Stege, growing bored. ‘I daresay you’re quite right.’
‘Of course I’m bleeding right! I don’t need a kid like you to tell me I’m right’ Heide sat back, satisfied. ‘I’m not letting those Russian bastards get out of here alive, don’t you worry.’
Stege jerked his head up again.
‘You touch them and I’ll go straight to Lt. Ohlsen!’
‘Try it! Try it, and see what he does!’ jeered Heide. ‘He can’t afford to lay a finger on me!’
Stege looked at him contemptuously.
‘I can only say thank God I’m not a model soldier,’ he remarked.
‘Ah, get stuffed!’ retorted Heide.
We had just finished digging when the first shell came over. We heard the familiar whistling sound as it went to earth somewhere nearby, then the shrill screams of a man in agony, and one of the new recruits leapt out of his hole and fell sprawling on the ground.
‘I’ve been hit!’ he yelled, at the top of his voice.
Two of his comrades came after him. They took him up between them and ran off with him, back behind the lines, away from danger. Barcelona pulled a face as he watched them.
‘Don’t you worry, mate . . . they’ll get you out of here just as fast as their legs can carry ’em . . . perishing miles away, to the farthest hospital they can find . . .’
‘Beginners’ luck,’ muttered Heide, sourly. ‘Not an earthly of what to do with a machine gun, but give ’em a wounded man to carry and they’re off like greased lightning. Didn’t take ’em long to learn that, did it?’
At the bottom of a dug-out we had installed our stewpot, well covered with the lid held tight by a pile of stones, so that nothing short of a direct hit could possibly upset our precious liquid.
By now it was almost night. The moon was hidden by a carpet of cloud and the sky was a thick velvety black.
‘God, it’s so quiet,’ murmured the Old Man. ‘If I hadn’t been at the game so long I’d almost feel tempted to go for a stroll up top and see what’s happening.’
In the distance, we heard a dog bark.
‘Where the hell are the Russians, anyway?’ demanded Barcelona.
The Old Man pointed towards the pine trees, standing stiff and straight like sentinels.
‘Out there in their dug-outs . . . wondering why it’s so quiet and what the hell we’re up to.’
‘Well, wish they’d bloody come out and fight,’ grumbled Heide. There’s nothing like silence for driving you crazy.’
A spine-chilling laugh suddenly cut through the night, but it was only Porta, cheating at dice with Tiny a few dug-outs away. Somewhere on the other side a machine gun began barking. One of ours replied with a few melancholy salvos. As we watched, over beyond the pine trees, an ocean of flames rolled forward, leaping skywards wave upon wave, and each wave preceded by a gigantic explosion. It seemed as if the very mountains were trembling with fear.
‘Rocket batteries,’ observed the Old Man. ‘So long as they don’t come any closer. . .’
Again, we heard the guard-dog barking at the machine guns. In the dark night, somewhere to the north, a series of luminous flashes tore open the sky.
In the midst of it all, a messenger arrived from the Colonel. He was going at top speed, red in the face and screaming aloud like a madman.
‘Message for the Fifth Company! Message for the Fifth Company!’
Lt. Ohlsen strode up to him in a fury.
‘Keep your voice, down, you lunatic! The whole front’s liable to go up in a sheet of flame if you carry on like that!’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But it’s a very important message, sir. The Colonel wants to see you immediately to have your report and give you some new orders.’
‘For crying out loud . . .!’
The Lieutenant turned away, muttering. The messenger stood a moment, bewildered. He had a smooth, scrubbed face, a spotless uniform and an air of curious innocence. Porta looked him up and down a few times.
‘Where do you lot come from, then?’
‘Breslau,’ was the proud reply. ‘Forty-Ninth Infantry.’
And the pink face looked down wonderingly at Porta in his dug-out. Porta gave one of his satanic laughs.
‘You’re another of the medal boys, eh? Well, run off and get your Iron Cross, you’re welcome to it . . . you’ll find it lying in a pile of shit somewhere!’ Startled-as well he might be, not knowing Porta – the messenger turned and ran back to the Colonel.
The mountains trembled again, as if shaken by some deep internal agony. Streaks of red and blue fire shot across the sky. The countryside for miles around seemed bathed in a sea of perpetual fire, and we screwed up our eyes against the glare and cowered deep into our dug-outs. For the moment it was the Russians who were bearing the brunt of it, but we ourselves were in no very happy position.
‘Jesus Christ!’ whined Heide, wiping the back of a trembling hand across his brow. ‘I don’t know what those flaming Do batteries do to the Russians, but they put the shits up me all right. Half the time the silly sods don’t seem to know which way they’re aiming the pissing things—’
‘Watch out!’ yelled Steiner. ‘The Ruskies are joining in!’
Almost before he had finished speaking the ground began to heave and shake as the heavy Russian guns joined in the bombardment. We curled up in our holes, nose to tail like dogs left out on a winter’s night, our hands clasped protectively over our helmets. Through half-open eyes I saw the wall of fire rise up behind us as the 12 cm. shells landed from the Russian lines, and I felt the hot blast of air wash over me.
Then suddenly so suddenly that I knew a sense of shock, there came a lull. The barrage stopped and not a sound could be heard.
Those of us who had been through it all before stayed crouched in our holes, but several of the newcomers incautiously raised their heads to see what was going on, Lt. Spät shouted from his dug-out.
‘Keep your heads down, you damn fools!’
It was too late for some of them, for as suddenly as the silence had fallen there now rained down upon us a new series of explosions. Disconcertingly closer than the previous lot –right outside our front door, as you might say.
Third time lucky,’ I heard Barcelona mutter. ‘It’ll be smack on the button next time.’
I felt he was probably right. They couldn’t go on just missing us for ever. The luck was bound to change.
‘They’ve got a sniper up in those pine trees somewhere,’ said Steiner.<
br />
During a second lull, he risked sticking his head out a few inches and yelling to Porta.
‘Hey, Porta! Pick that chap off, can’t you, and then perhaps we’ll get a bit of peace.’
‘I’ll have a bash,’ said Porta. ‘Anything for a quiet life . . . if only I can spot the bastard.’
He crawled out of his hole and wriggled forward, lying full length on the ground and scanning the pine forest with the infra-red sights on his rifle.
‘I could have a go at him,’ suggested Tiny, pulling his length of steel wire from his pocket and starting out of his dug-out. ‘I could reach him, I bet. Just let me get this round his neck and we’ll—’
‘Get back!’ hissed Lt. Spät, waving an angry hand.
Just in time. As Tiny dropped back into his hole a new salvo was fired. It landed amongst the trenches, and from farther along the line we heard the usual cacophany of shrieks and screams coming from hideously injured men.
‘That’s it,’ said Barcelona. ‘Some poor sods have copped a packet . . . maybe now they’ll leave us alone for a bit.’
‘Sure, until we start up again with that flaming Do!’ rejoined Heide, bitterly.
The Legionnaire had wriggled out to join Porta. With his sharp eyes he had spotted a movement amongst the pine trees, and he reached across and jabbed Porta in the ribs.
‘There he is – just on his way down . . . do you see him? To the right of that bloody great tree over there . . . Look sharp or you’ll miss him!’
Porta settled his rifle into his shoulder and glared despairingly through the sights.
‘Where, for Christ’s sake? I can’t see him—’
‘Look – you got that big tree over there? Head and shoulders above all the other trees? Three fingers away to the right . . .’
‘Got him!’ Porta jubilantly stuck up a thumb. ‘Yeah, I can see the bastard all right now . . . just working his way down . . . not suspecting a thing . . . the poor sod’s got the Order of Stalin pinned on his chest! Would you believe that? The Order of bleeding Stalin . . .’
‘For fuck’s sake, stop babbling and get on with the job!’ hissed the Legionnaire, between his teeth.