Monte Cassino

by Sven Hassel

  The leutnant seemed to diminish a little in bulk. He made a nervous gesture, that presumably was meant to be a salute, then turned on his Oberfeldwebel, who was nonchalantly leaning against the truck: "Get that thing out of the way, man! Don't stand there gaping! Do you want to sabotage the Reichsfuhrer's orders? Got a yearning for the snows of the Eastern front?"

  The Oberfeldwebel became busy, snarling and slanging the driver sitting up in the cab.

  Heide demonstratively took a pull at his flask without offering it to the leutnant. There he stood legs wide apart, his SS cap on the back of his head and his finger on the trigger of his pistol, watching the laden trucks drive past the police leutnant and his eager men. He began a carefree whistling, with a scornful look at the leutnant.

  The leutnant squinted at the armlet that Heide had put round his arm, his own idea. Reichssicherheitshauptamt, it said.

  Heide thrust his arm under the leutnant's nose:

  "Don't you like my armlet, leutnant?"

  "If you'd said straightaway that you were from RSHA, you could have gone through without discussion, but there are so many shits drifting about with the most incredible papers signed by some lousy general or other. But it's different with you Heinrich lads."

  A ten-ton Krupp drove past slowly. Leutnant Frick, wearing an SS helmet, looked down from the window of the driver's cab. In his confusion he saluted, which could have been a fatal mistake, if Heide had not reacted instantly.

  "What the devil do you think you're doing? Do you imagine you're still an Oberleutnant in the army? Haven't you yet got it into your head that in our lot we use the German salute and none of your junker gestures!" With a broad grin he turned to the police leutnant: "An inheritance from the Luftwaffe. What are we to do with the filth? We took on ten thousand of them at Charkov. That was General Hausser. He should never have been our C.O. No, Papa Eike or Sepp-Dietrich. That would have been something."

  "What unit are you actually?" the leutnant asked.

  "1st Latvian SS Grenadier Division."

  The leutnant gave a long whistle.

  "Then there is something brewing. It was you boys did all the transports of Jews. I was with one to Auschwitz, on which your boys from the 1st Latvian provided the guards. It took a bit of stomaching and I've seen more than most. I was in that big shooting at Kiev, when we laid several thousand flat in a couple of hours."

  "The Reichsfuhrer likes us," Heide said proudly. "We do what we are told to do and no nonsense."

  The leutnant bent confidentially closer:

  "Unterstormfuhrer, is Pius coming out of the bushes? Has the time come? It's being said the action against the Jews here is only to provoke the old fox and his bloody cardinals."

  Heide gave a loud laugh that could have been taken either way. The leutnant nodded and clapped his pistol.

  "They promised us at the secret party meetings in '34 that the pest of Christianity would be rooted out."

  "I know. There isn't room for both the crows and us in this world," snarled Heide. "And we're not giving way."

  "That's what I like to hear," grinned the leutnant, rubbing his vast hands delightedly.

  "I should hope so," Heide hissed, "otherwise I might have wanted to take you with me."

  The leutnant gave a rather forced laugh. "Don't misunderstand me, Untersturmfuhrer. I understand your transport is Top Secret, but are you heading for Rome?"

  Heide drew himself up.

  "Of course, I'm going to Rome."

  The leutnant drew his hand confusedly over his square chin. Then he said: "Do you know that you have two more road-blocks to pass? We set them up twenty minutes ago. Orders from Via Tasso."

  Heide bit his underlip, tightened his chin strap.

  "What devil's nonsense is this? Those chaps will get an arseful, if I'm delayed any more. The Reichsfuhrer's last words to me were: 'Don't hesitate to shoot, Untersturmfuhrer, if you run into hindrances!' But, perhaps, it would be better to let me have the pass word."

  "I don't quite know. . . . It's a great risk, Untersturmfuhrer." The mountain of flesh was visibly agitated. "My orders from Via Tasso were also marked Top Secret!"

  Heide let the muzzle of his pistol drop until it was pointing straight at the leutnant's belt buckle.

  "The Reichsfuhrer's orders were to shoot, if I was delayed."

  "Waterloo," whispered the leutnant, staring as though hypnotised at the muzzle of the Mpi.

  Heide's face lit up with satisfaction.

  "And the response?"

  "Blucher."

  Heide let the pistol muzzle sink.

  "Thanks, comrade. I hate plugging a fellow officer unless it's absolutely necessary."

  The leutnant became suddenly busy. He dashed to a wooden hut at the roadside.

  "What a buggering collection of nitwits!" He flung an Unteroffizier aside to get to the telephone quicker. Frenziedly he wound the handle, hissed a string of code words into the mouthpiece, cursed and swore: "Oberfeld," he bellowed at the man at the other end of the wire. "If the column that's on its way now does not get through the barrier like a rocket, you'll lose your bloody head! Orders of the Reichsfuhrer."

  Heide's little SS amphibian was standing with its lights out by the side of the road.

  "Follow me," bawled the leutnant and flung himself into his big Kubel that was standing in the cover of some trees. A great roar came from its heavy engine as it shot off in the direction of Rome with mud spurting on either side.

  Heide jumped into his amphibian and gave Gregor Martin a grin of encouragement.

  "After him, Gregor! Show us what a van driver can do! He mustn't get away from us. If he once starts thinking, we've had it!"

  Five minutes later Gregor swore, braked frantically and just managed to avoid a big halted truck. The light amphibian slithered sideways up the line of trucks, spun round twice and landed in a field.

  Cursing and swearing, the two crawled unhurt out of the wrecked car. The big leutnant came running up with two of his MPs. Servilely he began dusting Heide down, but was shoved aside with a gesture of irritation.

  "What in hot hell is this, leutnant? Have you stopped my vehicles again? Get me through to SD, so that I can have a word with Gruppenfuhrer Muller in Berlin. It's high time you lot had a rocket up your arses."

  "Everything's all right, Untersturmfuhrer. The column can go straight on. I'll deal with the snotty Oberfeldwebel in charge here."

  An Oberfeldwebel of the military police, standing just behind the nervous leutnant, stammered an explanation.

  "Kindly shut your mouth, oberfeld'." the leutnant shouted hysterically. "You're a dirty saboteur. You'll soon be a private footslogging in Russia. You'll see. And now, vanish! Out of my sight!"

  The Oberfeldwebel muttered something we couldn't hear.

  The leutnant tore his pistol from its yellow leather holster.

  "Shut your mouth, you ersatz soldier, or I'll drill a hole in you for insubordination."

  Heide grinned all over his face. He stood there in the middle of the road, feet planted wide apart, his pistol across his chest. Even Himmler would have approved of him. Heide played his part beautifully, as if he was born to it--which, in a way, he was.

  "Why not do it now, leutnant? We've no place for half-soldiers in our ranks. In that man's face I can see a nice bit of rope dangling over a bough."

  The Oberfeldwebel disappeared hurriedly into the darkness, in his own mind wishing all SS officers at the bottom of hell's hottest part. A few seconds had turned his admiration for the German system into hatred.

  "An ugly customer," one of his subordinates whispered.

  "He'll grow wiser, when the Americans come, the shit," the Oberfeldwebel growled. "I'll volunteer for the new military police our present enemies will organise in the Third Reich after their victory, and I'll spend all my time catching SS officers!"

  The amphibian car was blazing merrily. The leutnant magnanimously offered Heide his own big car, Heide graciously accepted the offe
r and promised to leave it at the control-post on his way back.

  Leutnant Frick was shaking with nervousness. He praised and cursed Heide. If the police leutnant began to suspect he had been made a fool of, the consequence would be incalculable.

  Porta laughed heedlessly.

  "They'd search for the culprits in the 1st Latvian Division."

  "And when they find that it isn't even in Italy?" Leutnant Frick asked, shaking his head

  "Then they'll suspect the partisans in the mountains, Herr Leutnant," Porta said and swung a heavy case on to his shoulder. "They'll never think of looking in the 27th Special Duties. Remember, there are not many at Army HQ South who know about us."

  "Our being in Italy is so bloody secret," Tiny shouted from one of the cellars of San Angelo, where he was wrestling with a heavy packing case, "that we scarcely know we're here ourselves."

  Then Barcelona stumbled, dropped a case of altar reliquaries which slithered down the stairs and crushed two of Tiny's fingers. Tiny gave vent to a fierce bellow, tugged his hand away, leaving two fingers under the sharp edge of the heavy case, and in a couple of mighty bounds reached the top and went for Barcelona, blood spurting from his injured hand.

  "You Spanish cunt thief, you did that on purpose!" He snatched an ancient crucifix from Porta, and, with it murderously poised above his head, rushed at Barcelona who fled from the courtyard.

  Padre Emanuel, who was standing in the gateway with two monks, took in the situation in a trice. Whether it was to save Barcelona or the crucifix, we never learned, but he thrust out a leg, tripping Tiny and sending him slithering along on his front for several yards. The monks had the crucifix off him quickly.

  Tiny got to his feet, fuming and swearing. Then he sighted Heide, who was swaggering about with his hands on his back in his SS officer's uniform, but he didn't get out of his way quick enough.

  "You tripped me, you swine," Tiny shouted and went for him like a hurricane.

  Heide took to flight, but Tiny caught him up in the middle of Ponte San Angelo and sent him flying like a mortar bomb into the river. Heide did the crawl to the bank like a speedboat, climbed up in a zigzag, swept Leutnant Frick aside, when he tried to hold him back, and went for Tiny.

  Tiny picked up a thick balk and wielded it like a flail. We exulted. This was just what we needed: a good stand-up fight!

  Leutnant Frick threatened to court martial us if we did not continue unloading, but no one took any notice of him. We were not going to miss a fight between Tiny and Heide.

  "Tiny," Gregor shouted provocatively. "Julius says you couldn't thrash him."

  Tiny snarled savagely and wiped his face with his crushed hand, covering it with blood.

  "He's bleeding a lot," Padre Emanuel observed. "That's nothing," Porta grinned. "He's got plenty of that stuff. Julius'll be done for, long before he's shed the last drop."

  Heide circled, arms wide-spread, round Tiny, who held his great balk aloft, ready. "Jew-hater. I shall kill you."

  "Your time's come, puke-bag," hissed Heide; then he picked up a piece of wood and flung it at Tiny.

  Tiny charged, the balk held in front of him, like a battering ram. Heide was sent flying through the gateway, but Tiny's impetus was too great, for him to be able to follow up this success. There was a splintering of wood and tinkle of breaking glass, as Tiny's ram went through a shutter and the window behind it. He stumbled, was up again in an instant, the balk above his head, like a great mace.

  We thought Heide's last moment had come, but a second before the balk struck, he rolled to one side and drew his close-combat dagger from the leg of his boot. Tiny had just time to dart behind the door before the dagger came whizzing. He seized Heide by the ankles and swung him round. If Heide had not had a steel helmet on, his head would have been crushed against the stone wall.

  Tiny jumped with both feet on his stomach, aimed a kick at his head, blind with rage. For a few moments he was quite beside himself, but Heide managed to roll away in safety under one of the trucks. He seized hold of a fire extinguisher, banged the knob on the ground and directed the jet of foam at Tiny, turning him in a second into a snowman with wildly flailing arms. Blinded, half-suffocated, he ran screeching in a circle and by mistake got hold of Gregor Martin.

  "Let go of me, Tiny. It's Gregor."

  The next instant they had both been knocked out by Heide's empty fire extinguisher.

  VII

  Death! What is that? It comes like lightning. We were always expecting it and it had become a companion, a habit. None of us was religious. We had never had time. Sometimes, in a shell hole, we might discuss death, but none of us knew if there was any hereafter. How could we?

  It is best to regard death as an unending dreamless sleep. We were so often threatened with court martial and execution, that it no longer made any impression. When one is to be killed anyway, it makes little difference who does the killing. Nor did we care, where or how we were buried. In the ditch under a rusty steel helmet or in a pompous graveyard with an everlasting flame burning.

  The only thing we considered important was that death should be swift and painless. A firing squad in many ways was preferable to slow death in a burning tank.

  Most of the old lot had gone. There, before Monte Cassino, at Christmas time 1943 there remained only 33 of the 5,000 we had started with in 1939. Most had died in flames, the classic death of the tank-man. A few were limping about minus legs and arms, some were blind. Some we had visited in hospital on our way through: Schroder, for example, the feldwebel par excellence. He had eaten sand in despair at losing both his eyes. It had been one of those shells that exploded twice. His whole face had gone.

  None of us who visited him in hospital will forget the sight. He, the smart, elegant Feldwebel Schroder, did not want us to see him. He chucked bottles of medicine at us.

  We sat on the steps outside the hospital and ate the chocolate and drank the red wine we had brought for him. They hounded us away. We were not allowed to sit on those steps. We weren't maimed yet.

  That same night Tiny rammed his great head into some Staff M.O.'s belly. That made us feel better.

  VATICAN TRANSPORT

  We were sitting on the stone parapet outside the Roman theatre. The monastery towered above us and we looked down on Cassino at our feet, where people walked about in blissful ignorance of the fact that the village would soon be razed to the ground. Some German and Italian officers were sitting outside Hotel Excelsior chatting over a glass of chianti.

  "Porta, I've seen a really fine piece," Gregor Martin said, thoughtfully swinging his legs. "We're taking the next lot to the Vatican, and this is our chance. Remember, the workshop company of the Hermann Goring Division has most transport, and they're scarcely aware of our existence. As Tiny says, we're so top secret, we scarcely know ourselves that we're here." He spat at a lizard that bustled busily across the road. "Let's get some benefit out of this war. We can hide the shit at Palid Ida's until things are quiet again. She's a smart girl."

  Barcelona and Tiny came up.

  "What're you two plotting?" Tiny called in a voice that echoed through the mountains. "Discovered a way of pinching some of the stuff yet?"

  "Don't shout so, you idiot!" Gregor said.

  We walked slowly up to the monastery. In the south we could hear the rumble of artillery. A well-disciplined unit of the Hermann Goring Panzerregiment marched into the monastery yard. Swiftly they loaded up some trucks. We watched them in silence. They were men who obeyed their orders to the letter. The white tabs on their collars shone. They worked in stubborn silence, just the right number for lifting and carrying in each gang. What a different lot to us!

  An Unteroffizier with cold, fishy eyes and an incredibly clean uniform came striding self-assuredly up to us.

  "Think you're ruddy tourists," he bellowed. "Get inside. You're needed. Hurry now or your backsides'll smart."

  The Legionnaire appeared. He had a field wireless receiver in his hand.

/>   "Shut up, comrade, and listen to what our friends on the other side are bawling into the ether today!" He turned the receiver up as loud as it would go:

  "This is the Allied transmitter for Southern Italy. We repeat our previous message to patriotic Italians: unite against the bandits who are desecrating your churches and graves. At this moment the Hermann Goring Panzer Division is plundering the treasures of the monastery of Monte Cassino! Fight and stop them! We repeat: under command of a staff officer the Herman Goring Panzer Division is plundering Monte Cassino monastery. One transport has already got away successfully with treasure of untold value. Italian patriots, protect your property. Don't let these bandits rob you."

  The Legionnaire switched off.

  "Now the fat's in the fire, mes amis! I wouldn't wear a white tab for the next few days, if I wanted to stay alive."

  "We are here in accordance with orders," the Unteroffizier protested, but now his fat-headed arrogance had gone.

  "Orders?" Porta laughed. "Adolfs?"

  "I'll bet a thousand to one," Gregor Martin said, "that at least a company of MP's is speeding towards us at this moment."

  "Our CO. will deal with them," the Unteroffizier said desperately. "You're a lot of cowards, sticking your tail between your legs already."

  A hand grenade went past close to his face and at least ten pistol muzzles were pointing at him.

  "You buggering Hermann-turd, repeat that and I'll lay you cold," Porta hissed. "We have more iron crosses and bars in our lot than you have hairs in your arse. If anyone's a coward, it's you white-tabbed haemorrhoids!"

  "Oh, kill him," Tiny said. "Then we can tell the MP's when they come: we happened to be passing, dressed for the occasion, and saved the treasures."

  The Unteroffizier turned on his heel and walked away. His men glanced about nervously. They didn't quite know where they stood.

  An obergefreiter mechanic asked cautiously: "What is all this, fellows? It appears to be very secret."

  "You may well say," Porta laughed. "It's so bloody secret that not even Adolf knows it. But our colleagues on the other side of Naples appear to be busy telling him. Hermann's proud Panzer Division has become a lot of highwaymen. Pah! Tomorrow they'll be accusing you of raping the nuns. I'd take your white tabs off. I've a pair of pink ones I could sell you. They'll hang you after the liberation."