by Sven Hassel
"War without shooting irons is crazy," Tiny could not help saying.
"Shut that mouth of yours, obergefreiter," the leutnant fumed.
The Legionnaire came gliding up with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He laughed openly at the leutnant. He had his heavy Russian pistol hanging provocatively on his chest.
"Court martial, Herr Leutnant? Merde dors! You must be joking."
"What's this behaviour, man," the leutnant exclaimed indignantly.
"That's what I would ask you, Herr Leutnant. I would be most interested to know what a court martial would say to these goings-on." Casually, the Legionnaire lit a fresh cigarette and puffed the smoke into the Luftwaffe officer's face. "We refuse to hand over our arms, Herr Leutnant, and we will not take part in sabotaging orders. You and your colleagues have more reason to fear a court martial than we."
"Have you gone off your head," the leutnant cried in a voice that had a nervous quaver in it. "What's this nonsense of yours?"
The Legionnaire grinned impertinently. He turned to the rest of us, who were listening with intense interest.
"Il nouse casse les couilles!"
"I understand French, you lout." The leutnant was almost beside himself with rage.
"Je m'emmerde!" laughed the Legionnaire.
We thought for a moment that the leutnant was going to go for the Legionnaire, who continued unconcernedly to examine the magazine of his heavy pistol.
We were open-mouthed with amazement. We could not understand it. The Legionnaire was hundred per cent a soldier. He never went too far. He could be more impudent than most, but he never took risks. He must have been onto something big. Without quite knowing how, we had got hold of our arms again and had closed up behind the Legionnaire.
The leutnant turned and rushed up the steps.
"Now the balloon'll go up," Rudolph Kleber whispered. "This is like the Florian Geyer* mutiny."
*Famous SS cavalry regiment.
"Nothing's going to happen," the Legionnaire said with calm assurance. "If they become impertinent, we'll shoot them down. We'd get medals for doing it."
"What's happening?" Heide asked. "You might at least tell us. I'm almost pissing my pants with excitement." Greedily he flourished his automatic pistol, an Italian Biretta.
Porta heaved the container of his flame-thrower on to his back and pulled the straps tight.
"Let's singe the hair off their balls," he said and put the setting to close range.
"Hamdoulla" (slowly) said the Legionnaire. "If we're to shoot this bande de funistes, I shall shoot first."
"Well, for Christ's sake explain," Marlow said irritably.
"C'est le bourdel. They're sabotaging a special order from Adolf himself and Kaltenbrunner."
A group of officers came hurrying down the steps. Our Leutnant Frick came sauntering along behind, smiling. He knew us. He obviously wouldn't have any funny stuff.
The little Luftwaffe leutnant was cackling like an old hen. A broad-shouldered major shut him up. None of them was armed. They did not even have their belts on.
Some of us took cover behind the pillars in the cloisters. The Legionnaire seated himself provocatively on the parapet of the well in the central court. He had one finger on the trigger. He was as assured as a Russian commissar who had Josef Stalin behind him.
The broad-shouldered major took up position in front of him. He was twice the Legionnaire's size. His greatcoat was open. There was no doubt that he was unarmed.
They regarded each other in silence.
Porta toyed thoughtfully with his flame-thrower.
"Bon, mon Commandant? What now? Court martial! Drum head perhaps?"
"I would like a word with you in private."
The Legionnaire smiled enigmatically.
"Non, mon Commandant. I don't aspire to a bullet in the back of my head in some dark cellar. I have heard of so-called officers' special courts. I am not an officer. I am only a caporal-chef, an unknown without name or honour, from La Legion Etrangere."
A hauptmann took a couple of steps forward, but was halted by the major.
"I give you my word of honor, Unteroffizier, that nothing will happen to you."
"An officer's word to a lousy soldier?" The Legionnaire shrugged his shoulders.
The major took a deep breath. His face was suffused.
Tiny opened his mouth to give his contribution, but Porta gave him a warning kick on the shin.
Unconcernedly the Legionnaire lit a fresh cigarette.
"What is it you want, Unteroffizier? Do you think we should destroy a thousand-year old culture, because a madman has ordered it?"
"Madman? That remark could cost you your head, mon Commandant."
The major took a step forward and made as though to set his hand confidentially on the Legionnaire's shoulder; but the Legionnaire avoided it with a twist of his body and thrust him back with the barrel of his pistol.
"A subordinate must stand three paces from his superior, mon Commandant."
Again the hauptmann wanted to intervene.
"I have told you to keep quiet," said the major angrily; then, turning to the Legionnaire, he said: "Unteroffizier, do you know what Monte Cassino is? Do you know that it is the oldest cultural centre in Europe? It is the Benedictine's original monastery, and in it are Christianity's most sacred relics? Do you want a library of 70,000 irreplaceable volumes to go up in flames? A library it has taken the Benedictine monks many centuries to collect. To say nothing of paintings by famous masters, age-old crucifixes, historic carvings in wood and wonderful goldsmith's work. Will you with a clear conscience let all that be destroyed because of a crazy order? You are a hard and a good soldier, Unteroffizier, that I know. You are proud of having served in a famous corps of brave men under the French flag, but don't forget that that same French army throughout the centuries has protected the Christian faith. Will you now, a French soldier, for that is what you are, prevent us saving all that? You and your comrades can kill all of us here in the monastery. You can start with me and end with the arch-abbot Diamare. Nothing will happen to you, if you do. You might even be decorated for doing it; but I can assure you that the French army will have nothing more to do with you. They will deprive you of the red ribbon you wear over your breast pocket. I am not afraid of dying, Unteroffizier. Nor are my officers. We know that we are staking our lives in doing this, but we do not intend to let all this be destroyed. We are merely people. We can be replaced, but not one splinter, not one document in there could ever be replaced. The Benedictine order has had its home here since the year 529. In a short time Monte Cassino will be the centre of desperate fighting. Its walls, statues, the basilica, all these lovely buildings," he raised his hands in a desperate gesture, while the wind tugged at his greatcoat and ruffled his grey hair, "these we cannot save from destruction. They will be razed to the ground, and thousands of young men will be killed and maimed. But the unique, irreplaceable treasures that the holy monastery contains can all be taken to safety in Rome in two or three nights."
"And if we are caught, mon Commandant?" asked the Legionnaire with a smile. "We would gladly help you, if it means so much to you, but we are not going to let ourselves be tricked and threatened by your officers. As you said, we are soldiers. We have been soldiers a long time. That is all we are good for. Our job is to burn, plunder and kill. We were born on the army midden and there we'll peg out, but we know the sentence a court martial will pass for sabotaging the Fuhrer's orders. We're not idiots. We are to be shoved into SS greatcoats and undertake illegal transport that will use up a thousand gallons of precious petrol. Petrol, mon Commandant, that is badly needed for our heavy Tigers. Misuse of just a few litres can cost one's head. We don't want to be broken on the wheel by the Gestapo in Via Tasso. I have heard quite a lot about Sturmbannfuhrer Kappler, who resides in the former cultural section. We don't intend to let ourselves be slaughtered at the eleventh hour for any amount of sacred trash. If you can give us the all
clear in the shape of a regulation order, we are with you."
"Hear, hear," came Porta's voice from the background.
"If all goes well," Tiny said dreamily, "they might put up a statue to us. I wouldn't mind standing here looking out over the Lire valley."
"You can be the weather cock on the church," said Porta.
"Shut up!" the Legionnaire snarled angrily.
"If you like, I will give you a written order. You are properly attached to my unit. No one can hold you and your companions responsible, if things go wrong."
"Let's hope so," the Legionnaire muttered. "Though I'm not so sure. All right, we'll do it."
The officers disappeared up the steps to the basilica.
The Legionnaire swung his machine pistol. We held our breath, thinking he was going to mow them down. He laughed maliciously.
"We're crazy. If we had riddled them and reported the business, we would all have been promoted and perhaps got away from the front. I never liked this business," he explained. "Then I came across a chap in a monk's cowl. He was an SS man. One of the gang Heydrich got to enter the religious orders so as to undermine them from within. He told me about a special order, one of the absolute top secret ones."
"How on earth did you get him to talk?" the Old Man asked.
The Legionnaire laughed slyly and held up a Party book. We nodded, recognising it. It was the one we had taken from the SS man sent to us for cowardice whom we had thrown down the cliff.
"He hasn't been here very long. He came with some refugees, but he knows all that's going on. According to this special order, nothing must be removed from the monastery. Everything has to go up with it, be destroyed. Not by us, but by the other side."
Porta whistled appreciatively.
"Far from stupid. The decisive battle will be fought here on the top of the holy mountain. We are to protect the monastery, while the other side blows it to smithereens. And Goebbels will have a long story ready about the atrocities of those barbarians from across the sea, who have destroyed the oldest and finest cultural objects Europe possesses. We would have tried to move the treasure, but their beastly artillery prevented us. And every naive soul will swallow it raw. Goebbels just has to say: was it our shells smashed the monastery? No, sir, it was the other side's. I should be surprised if it wasn't the Vatican's turn after Monte Cassino. I do believe this here is a try out. If it comes off, the Pope will have had it."
The Legionnaire rubbed his chin, then went on.
"This is a bloody dangerous business. I don't think those officers realise how dangerous. They think that the worst that can happen to them is a court martial and up against the wall. But it wouldn't be like that. We would be screaming, begging for death. We would beseech them to shoot us. Man is incredibly long-lived in the hands of experts. The idea with the monastery is Kaltenbrunner's. He is an even greater hater of Catholics than Heydrich. The boys in the Via Tasso will break us on the wheel."
"I once saw a leutnant's stomach burst with compressed air during interrogation. They use water, too." Tiny put in.
"Another time, Tiny," the Old Man waved him silent.
"I suggest," the Legionnaire went on, "that Tiny and I lay that SD man stiff. I have promised to alert the SD in Rome and am to meet him shortly by the old crucifix outside. Tiny can come up on him from behind and put the sling round his neck. Then we'll put him under a truck and drive over him, so nobody will have any suspicions, and then, I think, we should hop it from here as fast as we can. We won't get anything out of handling this red-hot shit. Nobody will thank us. The officers will be lauded to the skies and we'll be forgotten."
"On the other hand," Porta said with a sly grin, "I think it is idiotic to let such valuable things be destroyed. Lots of people are crazy about old things. Suppose some of them disappeared between here and Rome? Do you see the idea?"
"We could get into the hell of a lot of trouble, once the war's over," the Old Man remarked dryly. "Don't think this war will end just when a couple of generals sign on the dotted line. That's when the fun will really begin. Everybody will be in the hell of a hurry then to clear themselves. And we coolies will be the ones who will pay for it."
"Tu as reason, mon sergent," said the Legionnaire with a nod of agreement.
"Bloody funks, you are," Gregor Martin said. "My general and I left the museums we visited with lots of nice pieces."
"Hear, hear," Marlow and Porta cried simultaneously.
The Legionnaire nodded to Tiny.
Tiny with a murderous glint in his eye, waggled his steel sling. Then the two walked out of the gate and disappeared into the dark down the narrow path.
VI
We were sitting on the bare earth. The tanks were dug in, so we were hidden from the enemy's eyes. Now and again a shell came over. When trucks passed on the road above, they raised a cloud of dust that settled on our black uniforms and made everything white.
The river twined along at the foot of the mountain, its water dark blue like the sky, and through it the stones on the bottom shone whitely like diamonds. Our mess tins were full of spaghetti. The experts could roll it round their forks. Heide was one, but he did everything perfectly. Porta held up his fork, the loose ends of spaghetti dangling free and sucked them into his mouth with great sounds of relish.
Tiny had nothing to eat with but his fingers.
Every time a shell dropped near us, we flung our~ selves flat, grasping our mess tins, and laughed heartily when we found ourselves unhurt.
Porta pointed to a couple of disintegrating corpses sailing down the river. We could smell the stench of them.
Barcelona laughed.
"It doesn't matter who one eats with, as long as one eats well!"
Porta sucked a tump of pork clean of tomato sauce and oil and put it into his pocket as a reserve. Porta always thought of the rainy day.
None of us counted for anything, so we hated the war. On the other hand, we had forgotten life before the war. The only one who pretended he could remember things, was Porta, but he was a heaven-inspired liar.
We had a carboy filled with wine, that tasted a little of acid, but what did that matter. If you held your nose, when you drank, you could scarcely taste it.
A series of shells lashed into the river. The water-splash almost reached us.
Tiny licked the mess tins clean, which saved us the bother of washing them. He always licked the big mess tins clean at the mess-truck. He was never satisfied. But then he was pretty big.
We had been sitting there all morning and most of the afternoon. It was a good place. They must have been searching for us for a couple of hours already. We didn't care. It wasn't us who would win the war--we were of no account.
SS-UNTERSTURMFUHRER JULIUS HEIDE
Tiny and Porta were in the first truck, Tiny clasping an ancient crucifix as they openly discussed how much a rich collector might be prepared to give for such an object. Between them sat a nun, ignorant of their language, so when they became lewd, she laughed with them, not understanding.
As we reached Cassino itself, we were stopped by the military police, the beams of their torches shining on the SS signs on our uniforms.
"Are you out having a lark?" Porta laughed to the brutal face beneath the steel helmet.
"Special Unit?" growled the M.P.
"That's what we are," Porta twittered, carefree. "Special assignment from the SS Reichsfuhrer direct."
Heide came striding along the column, the skirts of his SS untersturmfuhrer's greatcoat flapping, a machine pistol dangling on his chest.
"Who the hell's daring to stop us?" he bellowed with a swagger.
The military police feldwebel became nervous, banged his heels together and rattled off a report: "Beg to report, Herr Untersturmfuhrer, all vehicles have to be searched. Army Command order."
"I shit on all army commanders," Heide bellowed. "I have only one commander: the Reichsfuhrer SS." He brandished his pistol. "Make way for my column, damn it, unless you want to
dangle, feldwebel. And this transport is 'Top Secret,' remember that."
"Jawohl, Herr Untersturmfuhrer," the military policeman stammered nervously.
"You can stick that 'Herr' up your arse. We dispensed with that in the SS long ago." Heide held up his hand in an arrogant gesture and bellowed a 'Heil Hitler' into the darkness.
The boom was raised. The column rolled on.
There we unloaded in the fortress of San Angelo, or rather, others unloaded for us, while we lay in the shade, drinking. Porta got hold of a whole bucket of food. Some service corps men tried to ingratiate themselves, but were brutally refused, and a Stabsgefreiter got uppish, which cost him two of his front teeth.
When the sun was setting, we drove back to Cassino. A hauptmann from the Hermann Goring Panzer Division brought us our movement orders.
On the next journey we were not stopped until near Valamontone, some twenty kilometres from Rome. This too Heide dealt with SS fashion, but not so easily, because here we had to deal with a police leutnant, a mountain of a man with hand grenades stuffed in his belt.
"Movement order," he demanded, a gallows with rope dangling in his eye.
Heide was oblivious of danger, for he was possessed by his SS uniform. He went close up to the man, flexed his knees, shoved his SS cap back onto his head.
"What the bloody hell do you cold-arsed buggers imagine you're doing? This is the second time I have been delayed on this Top Secret transport. I'd like to hear what the Reichsfuhrer has to say, when he learns about it."
But the mountainous leutnant was not one to be intimidated by the first roar.
"Your orders, Untersturmfuhrer? The Reichsfuhrer SS would not approve of my letting a column pass unchallenged."
"If there's anything you want to know, leutnant," Heide's voice rang over the houses in blacked-out Valmonte, "apply to the boys in Via Tasso. They'll teach you to sabotage the Reichsfuhrer's orders. I'll give you ten seconds to remove that piss-box you've blocked the road with! Otherwise there'll be bullets and bodies flying."