by Sven Hassel
Lt Spät bent down, closed his fingers over the gun and brought it slowly out into the open. He then pointed it into the man’s chest and woke him with a smart tap on the side of his head.
‘What’s going on?’
The man instinctively moved to sit up, but found himself thrust down again by the mouth of his own gun.
‘That’s what I should like to know,’ said Ohlsen, grimly. ‘Just what the devil is going on? You’d have looked pretty sick if we’d been a couple of Russians, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ve set all the guards—’
‘I’m sure you have! And the chances are they’re all taking the opportunity to have a kip . . . a fine example YOU set them, don’t you? You deserve to be shot on the spot’
The man sank back, cowering. Ohlsen regarded him contemptuously a moment, then jerked his head at Spät and they continued on their way. A little farther on they heard Tiny’s jubilant laugh ring out. Dimly they discerned Porta’s grotesque yellow hat in the darkness and heard the rattle of dice.
‘Christ almighty!’ said Spät, with a certain grudging admiration. ‘Don’t they ever give up? How can they even see the spots in this light?’
Ohlsen shrugged.
‘They probably can’t. They probably prefer it that way . . . gives them more scope for cheating each other!’
The two officers completed their tour of inspection and returned to their trench as the field telephone was ringing.
‘Emil 27,’ said Heide, in a low voice. He listened a moment, then passed the headset to Lt. Ohlsen. ‘It’s the Colonel for you, sir.’
Ohlsen pulled a hideous face.
‘If I must . . .’ He took the headset and raised an ironical eyebrow at Spät, who smiled and turned away. ‘Lt. Ohlsen here, sir. . . Yes . . . Yes, I see. . . Of course, sir. Whatever you say.’ He thrust the headset back at Heide and turned to the Old Man. ‘That was the Colonel. You may have gathered . . . He wants the First Section up there at 10 a.m. sharp tomorrow, all nicely brushed and polished and ready for inspection. The Second Section to follow at 11, the next at 12, and so on.’
‘Charming,’ murmured Spät.
‘I don’t know about charming,’ said Ohlsen, dryly. ‘He also wants to see six corpses produced along with the First Section.’
They looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and retired into their blankets for a couple of hours’ sleep.
As for the rest of us, now we knew what was to happen we found it quite impossible to do more than cat nap. At half-past two we watched Porta, Tiny and the Legionnaire move out of the trenches. We watched them crawl under the barbed wire, and we saw them swallowed up in the darkness. The Old Man and Barcelona alerted us for action. Three groups of mortar batteries were already standing by.
Barcelona was hugging the heavy flame thrower against himself. For the umpteenth time, he was checking the mechanism.
‘If I could only change this blasted valve,’ he muttered. ‘I know the damn thing’s going to give way sooner or later. I had to mend it with chewing gum last time, and I haven’t been able to get hold of a new one yet.’
‘No good worrying about it now,’ said Ohlsen. ‘We’ve only got four minutes to go.’
Heide turned threateningly from his position behind the heavy machine gun and addressed a group of the new arrivals.
‘Any one of you lot doesn’t move when I move and he gets a personal bullet from me right up his backside . . . panjamajo?’
The youngest of the recruits, a boy who could not have been more than seventeen at the very most, promptly burst into loud sobs of panic. Heide moved away from the gun and slapped him sharply two or three times across the face.
‘Stop that flaming racket! Nothing’s liable to happen to you that won’t happen to anyone else. We all stand to get our perishing heads blown off, you’re not the only one.’
The boy seemed transfixed by terror. He opened his mouth and screamed; a long, tearing, uncontrollable scream of fear. The other recruits looked at him nervously, rolling the whites of their eyes and shying away like frightened horses. Heide took hold of him and shook him, slapping him back and forth across the face as he did so.
‘Stop bleeding whining, for God’s sake! You want me to finish you off before the enemy have a chance to get at you?’
Lt. Ohlsen and the Russian Officer stood side by side, watching the scene in grave silence. Heide’s actions were brutal but necessary. The new recruits were already unsettled and uncertain, and if the boy’s fears had been allowed to run their course his panic might well have spread like wild fire throughout the entire Company. But from now on, Heide’s section would at least be kept at their posts through a common fear of Heide himself, probably transcending even their fear of the enemy.
‘That’s a good man you’ve got there,’ remarked the Russian.
‘He’s all right,’ agreed Ohlsen, shortly. ‘So long as we’re at war, I suppose we have to have men like him.’
Seconds after he had finished speaking, an explosion shook the ground beneath us and the reverberations echoed through the night, rolling and crashing like a gigantic thunderclap. It was followed by the long, harsh cry of someone in agony. And then, silhouetted against the dark sky, lit up by the sudden burst of flames, Tiny’s familiar shape surged into view near the enemy trenches. His sub machine gun was jammed into his hip, and we saw the endless stream of bullets ploughing up the earth, a flashing series of brilliant red dots moving through the night as he sprayed the gun along the front line of trenches. At the same moment we saw the fugitive figures of men, hurling themselves panic-stricken away from this unexpected attack and flying in all directions.
As he watched, the Russian lieutenant pursed his lips and gave an admiring whistle.
‘Some troops you got there!’
Lt. Ohlsen turned and shouted to Barcelona, who came up at a run with the flame thrower. The chewing gum held, the valve did its work, and now the scene was lighted by a sea of fire. Black smoke curled upwards, and across the stage ran screaming human torches, men demented by pain and terror.
Ohlsen held up a hand . . . and dropped it. It was our signal to join in. Heide howled like a demon as he sent across salvo after salvo from the heavy guns. His men worked with him, hardly aware of what they were doing but too scared to stop.
‘Mortars, fire!’
As Lt. Spät gave the command, the mortars went into action. Shells were sent across to add to the general confusion, curving across the sky and landing on the far side of the Russian trenches.
I folded up the tripod of the heavy M.G., ran forward and installed myself in a shell hole in the middle of no-man’s land, my loader following with the ammunition. From the trench in front of me a whole group of men surged up, running blindly towards me. I lay flat on my belly, hugging the butt against my shoulder, taking my time, taking aim, just as if I were back on the practice range in camp.
As I fired the noise of the gun was lost in a new series of explosions. The Russians had had time to collect their scattered wits and had opened up with their rocket batteries. The shells were whizzing over and exploding behind us, and the whole sky was alight with screaming missiles.
I scuttled back from my exposed position, throwing myself down near Lt. Ohlsen, gripping the machine gun and waiting for the storm to subside. The Russian lieutenant took his opportunity and struck out towards his own lines, followed by his men. I was too concerned at that moment for my own safety to care very much what happened to any of them.
The Colonel’s battalion reacted exactly as Porta had foretold: they took to their heels and ran. That was not so very surprising. What was more surprising was that the Russians did not at once move forward into the attack, but we subsequently discovered the reason for this: most of their troops, also, had departed rather abruptly from the scene of battle!
It was seven hours before the sector calmed down and settled back into its normal routine. Even then there was a continuous and half-hearted exchange
of gunfire.
Towards the end of the afternoon we were able to re-establish contact with the battalion. It seemed that the Colonel had temporarily lost interest in our forthcoming inspection and had cancelled it in favour of more pressing business.
There was a great scurrying to and fro of men, frantic exchanges of messages and urgent repairs carried out to severed telephone wires. And amidst all the hectic activity, no one really knew just what had happened. Lt. Ohlsen was able to report that a surprise infantry attack had taken place and a detachment had been sent over to try to capture our trenches. Fortunately the neighbouring company gave roughly the same garbled explanation and it was never queried.
As soon as the lull came, we went on a scavenging expedition and returned with the bodies of six Russian soldiers, which we solemnly hung up in the trees for the benefit of Colonel von Vergil. Lt. Ohlsen sent in a written report confirming that he had carried out his orders.
The following day, the Colonel sent along his Adjutant to verify the truth of this statement. Having gone to all that trouble we were pretty anxious to show off our handiwork, but the adjutant must have had a weak stomach or something: he didn’t want to see the dead bodies hanging in the trees.
‘I’ll take your word for it, old boy . . . just a matter of form, you know.’
And nothing would persuade him otherwise. Lt. Ohlsen watched him walk off with a handkerchief to his nose and shook his head in disgust.
‘All that killing to no purpose whatsoever . . .’
Later that evening, we received an order to send out a reconnaisance patrol behind the Russian lines, with the object of seeing the strength of their artillery and whether they had any tanks.
Of course, it was our section that was sent. It had to be. None of the new recruits would ever have lived to tell the tale.
One after another we left the trenches and stole across towards the Russian lines. Tiny was actually running, gripping his steel wire in one hand.
‘Half and half!’ he hissed as he shot past Porta.
We knew what he meant, of course: in theory, if not in practice, he and Porta always went halves in any gold teeth they discovered.
‘Don’t blame me,’ grumbled the Old Man. ‘Don’t blame me when they have you up before the firing squad . . . God almighty, the times I’ve warned you about it! It’s not only the moral issue, it’s the fact that you’re breaking regulations. Two regulations, actually.’
‘Go on!’ said Porta, wonderingly. ‘You don’t say!’
‘I do say, and I’ll tell you what they are and then you’ll know what you’re in for. First of all, you’re nicking things off corpses – and that’s against the law the whole world over. Second, you’re not passing on the stuff you pinch. Gold teeth, gold rings, gold watches, anything like that, as you very well know, belongs to the State and should be handed over to the nearest SS bureau. And that’s law in Germany, if it isn’t anywhere else. And the penalty for breaking it is death, so don’t say I haven’t warned you.’
‘Old Man, you’re nothing but a bleeding pessimist!’ declared Porta.
‘I’m not handing mine over,’ said Tiny, who had slowed down to a walk and had been listening to the conversation. ‘I’m keeping mine till the end of the war . . . Know what I’m going to do, then? I’m going to buy me a pork butcher’s shop and a brothel.’
‘With other people’s gold teeth,’ muttered the Old Man, who never would be reconciled to the idea.
‘Well, and why not?’ demanded Tiny, hotly. ‘I’ve heard that in the concentration camps they yank ’em out while people are still alive and kicking and might need ’em . . . we at least have the decency to wait until they’re dead.’
‘Decency!’ said Stege. ‘You must be joking!’
Porta at once rounded on him.
‘You keep out of it, pansy face! Get back to your books and mind your own bleeding business!’
Stege merely shrugged an indifferent shoulder and turned away. He was accustomed to a constant stream of abuse from people such as Porta.
We were some considerable way behind the Russian lines when the Old Man suddenly brought us to a halt and stood pointing into a ravine at the side of the road.
‘Something down there,’ he said, tersely.
Tiny and the Legionnaire pushed their way through the bushes and lay flat on their bellies, staring down over the edge of the ravine. The Legionnaire turned and waved.
‘It’s O.K. . . . they’re pals of ours! Come and take a look!’
We all moved forward through the bushes, staring over in our turn.
‘Pals?’ queried the Old Man, gravely looking down at the five corpses.
‘Yeah, and they didn’t fall and they weren’t pushed,’ said Porta. ‘Shot in the back of the neck, that’s what they were, poor sods.’
‘What’s that pinned on ’em?’ demanded Tiny. ‘There’s a bit of paper stuck on their chests.’
Porta scrambled down the side of the ravine and came back clutching one of the pieces of paper. On it was written in Russian: ‘Traitor to his Country’.
‘All that hard work for nothing,’ muttered Barcelona, regretfully. ‘Makes you wonder if it was worth it, doesn’t it?’
The lieutenant’s not there,’ said the Old Man. ‘I suppose he might have got away—’
‘They’re more likely reserving V.I.P. treatment for him, seeing he’s an officer.’
‘Poor bastard . . .’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Heide. ‘Why waste your tears on that lousy load of scum? If I’d known what was going on I’d have shot ’em all myself, I’ve said that ever since the start.’
Barcelona looked at him through narrowed eyes.
‘People like you,’ he said, contemptuously, ‘always lose out in the end. You know that? They always do. I’ve known others of your type. When I was in Spain there were several of ’em. Great loud-mouthed cunts that never knew when to stop.’ He shook his head. ‘They’re all under ground now. Where they belong. They asked for it and they got it. And so will you, in the end.’
‘Only you won’t be here to see it!’ hissed Heide.
It was almost daylight when we arrived back at our own lines. Everything was quiet, and we settled down comfortably in the trenches and prepared for a rest. We kept an eye open for surprise attacks by the Russians, who were fond of that sort of thing, but they showed no signs of aggression.
‘If you’re all sitting comfortably,’ said Lt. Ohlsen, in a friendly ‘once-upon-a-time’ sort of voice, ‘I’ll tell you a story.’ We looked at him suspiciously. ‘I’ve kept it until now as a nice surprise for you . . . You’ll be pleased to hear that the Colonel has overcome his stagefright and has renewed his invitation to the Company to present itself for inspection tomorrow morning . . .’ Our faces fell. We looked down at our black hands and our filthy uniforms, and Lt. Ohlsen beamed round upon us. ‘There. I knew you’d be over-joyed. I said to Lt. Spät at the time, I can hardly wait to tell them. I can hardly wait to see their little faces light up and the tears of gratitude come into their eyes—’
‘Like fuck!’ said Porta. He spat out a mouthful of sunflower seeds that he was chewing. ‘Jesus Christ almighty, where do they dig up these cretins, for God’s sake?’
Lt. Ohlsen shook his head, looking suddenly weary. He pursed his lips together and there was a hard streak in his eyes and bitter lines round his mouth. Despite the bantering tone he had used to break the news to us, you could tell that the Colonel and his autocratic stupidity had brought him almost to breaking point.
Porta, meanwhile, went raving on. He was a great talker when once he got started, and although his choice of adjectives tended to be limited he delivered them with such vehemence that we never tired of hearing them. Having told us all very forcibly exactly what he thought of the Colonel, and of the Colonel’s parents and the Colonel’s grandparents, and having gone on to suggest in graphic detail several alternative courses of action open to the Colonel (suggestions which ranged f
rom the mildly indecent to the grossly obscene) he then switched abruptly to a better humour and fell to hectoring Tiny, always the butt of Porta’s heavy-handed wit.
‘Look at you!’ he roared. ‘Call yourself a soldier! You’re nothing but a bleeding disgrace! Look at that uniform – that was in good nick when you first had it. Look at it now – knackered! Completely bloody knackered! Half the buttons off of it, covered in shit, all tattered and torn – how the hell have you got it in that state, anyway? You been fighting again, have you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting into that horrible state . . . And what about your tin hat, eh? Where’s that gone? And what about that nice gas mask they give you? You’ve gone and lost it, haven’t you?’ He made a gesture of disgust. ‘What’s the use, eh? I ask you, what IS the use of giving people like him lovely new uniforms, when all they do is go and mess ’em up? Is it any wonder the poor bleeding Colonel has to go and disturb himself giving us the once-over when we got people like you stinking the place out?’
He leaned forward to the startled Tiny.
‘When did you last wash your bum, that’s what I’d like to know . . . it’s bleeding horrible! I bet if you took your knickers down and had a look you’d find it full of bloody great clinkers . . . and we have to live with it! Us, what’s managed to keep ourselves clean and decent and not ponging like a million arseholes!’
He stared round at the rest of us; stinking, louse-ridden and dirt-encrusted.
‘We’re decent enough blokes,’ he said, virtuously. “We’re used to certain standards of hygiene. Like the Colonel. That’s why he has to call inspections in the middle of the war and make sure we’ve not got ingrowing toenails nor fungus in our belly buttons.’ He stared very hard at Tiny. ‘These things are important, you know. You might think it’s more important to stay down here in the trenches and keep an eye on them Russkies over there. In case they take advantage of our absence, like. But that’s where you’d be wrong, see. ’Cos unless you’re a nice clean soldier what brushes out his pubic hairs now and again and stops to polish up his perishing buttons before he goes into an attack, you won’t be FIT to fight the bleeding Russkies! How do you think a Russian’s going to feel if he sees a scarecrow like you coming at him with a bayonet? He won’t be able to take you serious, will he? I mean, he can’t be expected to, can he? I mean, let’s be reasonable about it. A perishing dirty great lout like you, what can be smelt stinking for bleeding miles around . . . he’d laugh his bleeding bollocks off!’