Heroes Without Honour

by Alan David

  Heroes Without Honour

  Alan David

  Copyright © Alan David 1980

  The right of Alan David to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1980 by Magread Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Extract from Both Feet in Hell by Alan David

  Chapter One

  Poland, 1 September, 1939. First light, when it is barely possible to distinguish between black and white, the interminable moment before the initial attack by the German armies which shattered the fragile peace of Europe. Blitzkrieg — a word which the unsuspecting world had yet to learn and the Poles were about to experience. The silence was ominous only to the Germans awaiting the signal to advance across the border. They had been briefed for the invasion while Hitler assured the European heads of state that he had no further territorial claims to make, and, as the final seconds to the commencement of a six-year holocaust ticked away, SS Leutnant Max Eckhardt of the Standarte Vaterland crouched in the company of his men and readied himself for the battle he had waited so long to fight.

  He could see the face of his father upon the screen of his mind as he lay awaiting the opening bombardment. Aged twenty-six, he had been aware since childhood that this day would come, and the only emotion he experienced was a pang of regret because his father was not alive to take part in an attack which would avenge the German army for the way it had been stabbed in the back in 1918.

  Some of his men moved restlessly, apprehensive at this late moment despite their ruthless training, and Eckhardt called a harsh order for silence. He was a veteran of the Spanish Civil War and knew what it was like to experience the flashing burn of a bullet wound; but Spain had been merely a proving ground for the weapons and tactics about to be unleashed against the Poles. He moved uneasily under the lash of his memories, adjusting his helmet and straightening his field-grey service tunic, which had the ribbon of the Iron Cross Second Class at the second buttonhole. He wore the national eagle emblem and the Vaterland cuff title on his left arm, and was SS Reichsführer Himmler’s idea of the perfect Aryan, with sharp features, fanatical blue eyes and Nordic blond hair.

  Without warning, the dark sky to the west was ripped asunder by intermittent flashes. Sullen, rolling thunder of artillery bellowed and twenty-one years of uneasy peace fled. Simultaneously the massed tanks roared into life, and Eckhardt found himself responding instinctively. His regiment of Standarte Vaterland was attached to a motorised unit of Runstedt’s army group. As SS Panzer-grenadiers they rode on the tanks to deal with any opposition the Panzers could not handle, and thundered across the border to surge like a juggernaut eastwards into the strengthening daylight.

  When dawn came the sun was concealed behind huge, billowing clouds of smoke. The Panzers crashed forward, meeting little initial resistance from the shocked Poles. German dive bombers filled the sky with hideous din as they devastated strong points. Towns and cities were being systematically bombed, the civilian population stricken. Artillery hammered ceaselessly, pouring shells in their deadly arcs to pulverise all opposition. The Blitzkrieg had become reality.

  Time ceased to exist for Eckhardt, and it was his experience that this phenomenon always occurred in action. Blood pounded at his temples and his pulses raced as the Panzers careered on, closely followed by motorised troops. At last they were striking at the enemy! For twenty years Germany had suffered all the tortures of defeat and restriction, but now she was awakening like a giant and breaking free of the bonds placed upon the nation by the ignominious Treaty of Versailles.

  He plunged into a ditch as his platoon came under heavy fire from a strong point, breathless but exultant. Polish infantry, despite their fighting qualities and endurance, could do little in the face of such overwhelming force to check the swift advance of the German armoured columns. But the pride of the Polish forces were its cavalry regiments, and Eckhardt could scarcely believe his eyes when he peered from under the rim of his steel helmet and saw a horde of cavalrymen charging forwards through the thick, dark smoke of the battlefield.

  Tanks were already pounding the massed ranks, their machine-guns chattering incessantly and the carnage wrought in the open reminded Eckhardt of Spain. His platoon opened up a full defensive fire, but that fool Sieber was firing his M34 like a madman, using up whole belts of bullets. He was about to hurry to the gunner’s side when Sergeant-Major Fritz Leun pounced quickly, dropping into cover beside the machine-gun crew.

  ‘You dolt!’ Leun had to scream hoarsely to make himself heard above the heavy rattle of the weapon, and thumped a massive fist against Sieber’s helmet, his fleshy face wreathed with sweat and dust, for the sun was shining brightly above the thick clouds of smoke. ‘Short bursts, Sieber. Have you forgotten your training already? Do you want to burn out the barrel? Short bursts, and aim them, you imbecile!’

  Eckhardt nodded approvingly. Leun was on top of his job. He glanced around the platoon area, noting the firing positions of his men and checking that all were in action. The noise seemed to fade into the background, yet every crashing explosion tried to tear off the top of his head and burst his eardrums. His slitted eyes were bright as he watched enemy movement ahead. The cavalry were still sweeping in despite their losses. But men riding horses across open ground could not endure heavy, accurate fire from modern weapons. The Great War had proved that, but here were the Poles attempting to relive the great cavalry charges of the past.

  The ground trembled under the bombardment of Panzer guns, and the whole scene appeared like a film, unreal, with phantom characters. But still the survivors came on, and Eckhardt lifted his machine-pistol. He could see men and horses down across the whole field of his vision, some kicking and writhing, others motionless in death, and dismounted men were running hither and thither in an attempt to escape the concentrated fire pouring into them. Those who were still mounted pressed home their attack with suicidal courage. Eckhardt began to fire short bursts, his lips pinched, his breathing restrained. He saw men sprawling out of their saddles, mouths opened to curse and cry, but no human sounds came through the incessant rattle of weapons.

  Smoke and dust were swirling across the fields, and the riders were like ghosts, fading and reappearing, crashing to the ground, their lines always coming forward into the very mouths of the massed guns murdering them. Eckhardt could see the points of lances here and there, but they presented no real threat, and he sneered as he watched the whole attack falter and then get beaten into the ground. Panzer divisions would not be stopped by swords and lances. The whole world would learn a lesson from this. He ceased firing and signalled to his men to be prepared to advance. They sprang back onto the tanks, which lurched forward. The surviving cavalrymen were now attempting to get clear, but the Panzers gave them no respite, and when Eckhardt received the word to dismount he led his men forward amidst the shell craters which littered the plain and threaded his way around the horses and men that lay shattered, their blood soaking into the earth. Tank tracks ground the bodies into the dust, splattering them i
nto unrecognisable fragments, and behind the shelter of the tanks the German infantry moved on, faces eastward, proving the truth of the Führer’s prophecies. The enemies on the borders of the Reich would be thrown into confusion and annihilated. None would survive the holocaust.

  Sergeant Meyer threw himself down beside Eckhardt as they again came under effective fire, and his long face pushed into the gory entrails of a Polish infantryman who had been crushed by a tank. He vomited, shoulders heaving, his blood-streaked face ghastly white and green beneath his helmet. He wiped his mouth on the back of a hand as he glanced at Eckhardt, who smiled grimly.

  ‘You’ll get used to it in time, Sergeant.’

  ‘You experienced this sort of thing in Spain, Herr Leutnant.’ Meyer wiped bits of flesh and gobs of blood off his face.

  ‘Spain was not quite like this.’ Eckhardt checked his machine-pistol. He glanced around, saw that the tanks were moving forward again, and signalled his men to push on. The all-powerful tanks crashed through a hedgerow, flattening the undergrowth, and concealed Polish infantrymen came leaping into the open like startled hares. Eckhardt opened fire instinctively, his lips compressing as he saw his shots striking home and the Poles falling away. All the old elation bubbled up inside him as he kept triggering the MP35. The words of his father returned to his mind. He was here in action against their enemies, and the name of Germany would again become great through the actions of its soldiers. But one of his own men screamed and fell, and a frown touched his face as he reminded himself that some of them would have to pay the price for this glory, even as his own father had paid.

  They passed through a shattered village, climbing onto the tanks whenever the isolated defences were overpowered and they could push on. Dead civilians lay in the single street amidst strewn rubble, some flattened by passing tanks. A child was crumpled in a gutter, stripped naked by bomb-blast, with one leg missing and its blood spread out in a congealing pool at its side. Telephone wires were down. Smoke danced from madly blazing buildings. Dust and sparks fluttered on the breeze. But shots came suddenly from one of the ruins and a man at Eckhardt’s side choked and pitched to the ground, his helmet rolling. German guns chattered in reply and a Polish sniper plunged headlong off a roof and into a raging fire.

  Beyond the village lay a wood. The tanks halted and began firing point-blank into the trees, shredding branches of their foliage while the grenadiers sprang into action. Khaki-coloured figures were moving around inside the tree line. A Polish anti-tank gun blasted and one of the Panzers erupted into an inferno of flames and exploding ammunition. Eckhardt saw one of the crewmen tumble out of the turret, his black uniform ablaze, and roll over and over on the ground. He dropped flat as the tank blew to pieces, and his eardrums protested painfully. Whirling debris covered a wide area as the broken machinery flew outwards in a lethal circle, and chunks of flesh from another of the crew splattered around Eckhardt. He sprang up and, passing the tankman who had escaped the doomed vehicle, sent a shot through the skull of the twisted, burned caricature of a man which lay there, still breathing despite terrible wounds.

  It was an honour to die for Germany and the Führer, Eckhardt thought stoically as he turned to check his men. He could remember his father saying that on the streets of Berlin in the early ’thirties. Waving an arm, he motioned for them to go forward. The tanks could not venture into the woods. Troops would have to clear it before they could push on. Sergeant Meyer was busy chivvying the stragglers, and they ran in a determined charge, weapons blasting, while shells screeched overhead to shatter the trees. Machine-guns hammered steadily, aiming into the shadows of the tree line. The Polish anti-tank gun maintained its firing despite the attention it was receiving, and two more tanks were hit and began to burn, sending thick, oily smoke broiling upwards.

  German artillery was moving up in the rear of the swift advance, using horse-drawn vehicles to economise on stocks of petrol. The whole countryside seemed to be trembling under the bombardment. Above the smoke and flames the Luftwaffe met and destroyed the Polish airforce, fighter-planes firing ruthlessly while dive bombers continued their relentless and systematic destruction of strong points.

  The first line of German troops reached the trees, and Eckhardt was among the leaders. His men crawled forward, throwing grenades and firing. The anti-tank gun was destroyed by Sergeant-Major Leun, who attacked it single-handed with potato-mashers. Eckhardt passed it closely; it was overturned and useless now, its crew lying dead except for one soldier who had been trapped when it toppled over. He was still alive, gasping for breath, face grey and drawn; eyes bulging in agony, with part of the buckled gun crushing his legs and stomach. Blood was trickling from his mouth. He seemed to stare at Eckhardt, although it was doubtful if he could see anything, for his gaze was distant, as if he was looking beyond the present and could already glimpse the next world. Sergeant Meyer halted at Eckhardt’s side. Shots were echoing through the woods. The sergeant gazed down at the broken figure.

  ‘Shoot him!’ Eckhardt commanded, although his machine-pistol was at the ready.

  Meyer triggered his weapon, stitching a neat group of holes in the Pole’s chest. The man’s mouth gaped wider as his upper body jerked under the smashing impact of 9mm slugs. His ribs were shattered, heart and lungs pulped, and a torrent of blood gushed from between his lips. Eckhardt nodded and turned away in time to see a Pole emerge from cover with his hands raised in token of surrender. He lifted the Bergmann, firing two shots which cut down the unarmed man as if he were a tree feeling the bite of a woodsman’s axe.

  They did not take prisoners in woods or during street fighting. Eckhardt blinked as they continued the advance. All the training he had ever received lay in his brain ready to spring up for immediate use if needed. He was not a man of action but an unthinking military machine, a robot of war fashioned by long and painstaking training.

  The Poles put in a counter-attack, and suddenly there were khaki-coloured men leaping amongst the German troops. Grenades blasted hollowly and small-arms fire echoed in the gloom. Eckhardt saw his forward sections being overrun and called for Meyer to take in the reserve. But there was no single point where the attack was being pressed home. The Poles were coming in strength, throwing grenades, charging with bayonets, shouting and screaming defiance. Machine-guns chattered rapidly, the echoes mingling with fresh shots in a whirling cacophony of awesome sound.

  Eckhardt saw the rest of the Company moving forward to throw weight into the line. He could hear shrapnel flying about his head; sharp splinters that could smash bones as if they were made of glass, or slice the flesh off a man’s face more neatly than a razor. He flinched, for shrapnel was worse than a bullet. It made a larger wound and was more messy.

  ‘Forward!’ he yelled as some of the men dropped into cover. ‘Keep moving. Into them!’

  Sergeant Meyer was kicking men up, and Sergeant-Major Leun was doing the same. Eckhardt tightened his lips as he saw the signs of hesitation in some men, and made no allowance for the fact that this was the first day of action for most of them. The SS were the elite of the German armed forces, and no man had the right to think of his own life in this maelstrom. Duty had to be performed, and there would be an accounting after the battle for any man who did not fight to the limit of his endurance.

  Another Company was pressing forward on the left, and there were shouts and howls as they closed with the Poles. Eckhardt would not be outdone by his colleagues, and ran forward, showing by example what was expected of the men. His machine-pistol rapped continually, and bullets were slamming into the surrounding trees, thudding heavily, making those pushing forward aware that their flesh was not invincible, and men were falling on all sides, German and Polish.

  Bayonets glinted in the gloom and smoke was everywhere. Eckhardt kept his immediate area clear by skilled use of his Bergmann, but the troops with rifles and bayonets were at closer quarters. Hand-to-hand fighting developed on a ferocious scale. Sergeant-Major Leun was in the thickest of i
t, his hefty figure moving with surprising speed, his hoarse voice yelling encouragement. He was using a rifle and bayonet, clubbing his way forward through the undergrowth, taking the Company along with him in an effort to gain a momentum which would carry them through the Polish line.

  They reached a large clearing, with the Poles beginning to retire in some disorder, leaving many wounded and dead upon the ground. There were cries and shrieks from badly wounded men, and weapons popped echoingly as stragglers and wounded alike were finished off. The Poles were overwhelmed by the numbers of the Germans and outfought by the sheer ferocity of the SS. Eckhardt was surprised to see a great number of dead horses lying in the clearing, their legs sticking up in the air in grotesque fashion. It looked as if a whole cavalry regiment had been caught here. Perhaps they had been forming up to attack when the woods were hit either by Stukas or artillery. A great many of the surrounding trees were badly shattered. But, whatever had caused their end, the battle was sweeping on inexorably, and SS men were shooting prisoners and those Poles who were trying to surrender. Even the wounded were being dispatched with ruthless efficiency.

  When Eckhardt saw daylight and the trees began to thin out again he felt as if he were emerging from a nightmare. The woods had forcefully contained the smoke and shock of battle. The air had been acrid with the unforgettable stench of high explosives, and fires were raging to left and right, proof that the Poles had kept large quantities of stores under cover of the trees.

  The woods were cleared, and Eckhardt received orders to hold his platoon just within the shelter of the trees until the tanks came up. They found enemy trenches and dropped thankfully into them while on all sides the tide of war surged and eddied. Twice they saw Polish counter-attacks come in only to expend themselves before they could get to grips with the aggressors. Then the Panzers arrived and Eckhardt shouted orders for the men to climb upon them and hold on for dear life. The tanks went forward again, thrusting them into the forefront of the heaviest fighting. When they slid off the steel monsters the section leaders called to the men and they moved in relentlessly, hurling themselves against the rock of another strong point.