Ogpu Prison

by Sven Hassel

  Now the Russians send a new hell of flame down on us. Rockets whine from the clouds, hammering down into the fleeing troops and smashing men and material to pieces. Salvo after salvo of rockets, with long fiery tails, come shooting across the skies.

  ‘Stalin Organs,’ groans Gregor, pressing himself further down into the snow.

  A pair of T-34’s comes from the narrow gulch, thundering over the heaps of dead and sending a spray of blood, flesh and bone to all sides.

  ‘Flamethrower tanks!’ screams Barcelona, furiously. He drops down behind a tall rock.

  Albert rushes round in circles, trying desparately to find cover from the rapidly approaching flamethrower tanks.

  ‘Where’s there a hole? Where’s there a hole?’ he screams, jumping about like a shot rabbit.

  ‘Come on down here,’ shouts Porta, hospitably. ‘We’ll throw out the teacher and make room for you!’

  Albert dives headfirst into the deep shell-hole.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he pants, in a fearful voice. ‘This ain’t no place for human bein’s. Black or white!’

  ‘Don’t get big-’eaded, now,’ says Tiny, with a broad grin. ‘The ’uman race starts at Leutnant. The rest’s nix an’ nothin’! That’s us lot!’

  ‘I’ve never been much of a one for infantry field service,’ confesses Albert, throwing away his white snow mask. ‘And there was nothing that prepared you for this at Sennelager and Grafenwöhr!’ He grinds his teeth together so violently that he almost puts his jaw out of joint.

  ‘Life ain’t much fun up front!’ says Tiny, in a melancholy voice. He ducks quickly as a grenade falls just in front of the lip of the hole and sends a storm of shrapnel whining across the terrain.

  We can hear the threatening approach of the flamethrower tanks, even through the roar of the guns.

  ‘We must have artillery support,’ says the Old Man. ‘If we don’t get it we’ll end up in the lap of the Devil!’ He rolls the Signals Officer’s body off the telephone, and settles the rubber-cushioned earphones on his head.

  ‘The code, dammit!’ mumbles the Old Man, irritably, leafing through the message pad.

  ‘Here,’ says Heide, handing him the code book.

  ‘Fire support!’ orders the Old Man in a harsh, commanding tone.

  ‘Who is speaking?’ comes the question, in the arrogant snarl of a higher-ranking officer.

  ‘ “Newt” here!’ answers the Old Man. He spits a series of orders into the apparatus.

  Soon after, shells come howling over us, and hail down on the heights.

  With a few sharp words the Old Man corrects the short-fall. Heide works feverishly, drawing lines on the chart and calculating distances with the help of the spotter’s instruments.

  Snow and steel spurt up from the shell-bursts. They are now closer to the gulch in which the Stalin Organs are positioned.

  ‘T-34’s, for fuck’s sake!’ says Porta, excitedly. ‘Blow ’em quick, or we’ve had it!’

  At least a battalion of flamethrower tanks are operating. Moving in curves like a herd of wild boar. Jets of flame spurt from their turrets turning everything living in their path to charred, smoking lumps.

  Crowds of cheering Red Army soldiers storm from the OGPU prison. Mpi battalions first. Then infantry, with bayoneted rifles as if they were parading across the Red Square. Behind the infantry, column after column of prisoners, in grey uniforms, armed only with clubs. As they advance they pick up the weapons of the fallen. Finally OGPU special troops, with Kalashnikovs aimed at the backs of the prisoners. Their job is to liquidate anyone attempting to break for cover.

  ‘God in Heaven,’ cries Oberstleutnant Löwe. ‘They’ll crush us, smash us completely. We must retreat!’

  A barrage of incredibly concentrated fire falls behind us. It is as if the Russians have guessed we are thinking of flight, and intend to defeat our purpose by laying down a barrage through which we cannot possibly break. It stretches on each side of us for as far as we can see.

  ‘Retreat!’ shouts Oberst Hinka. ‘By companies, retreat!’ He turns, in astonishment, to see what is occasioning the deafening howl approaching from behind us. From the German lines.

  ‘Rockets!’ he cries, in surprise, throwing himself down behind a wall of snow.

  Next moment, the feared rockets fall right in the middle of the flamethrower tank formation, throwing the heavy vehicles about as if they were no more than toys.

  Cool and collected, the Old Man gives his corrections to the high-ranking artillery officer far to the rear.

  ‘Two degrees less,’ he orders. ‘Sixty yards more length.’

  Fire and steel fountain into the air.

  ‘Got ’em!’ cheers Barcelona, wildly.

  Flames fountain up from the T-34’s. Pieces of the tanks fly through the snow-laden air. Coal-black mushrooms of cloud, streaked with crimson, form high above the ground. The battlefield seems to dissolve in the rolling thunder of the guns.

  From the redly glowing blanket of smoke, large, formless shapes come flying. It is as if the devil were playing bowls with tanks. The organ note of the heavy explosives changes from second to second, rising to a nerve shattering howl. We huddle together, shivering.

  ‘Explosives and incendiaries,’ the Old Man demands. ‘Rapid fire 460 yards right.’

  Soon, heavy high explosive and incendiary shells begin to fall on the attacking Russian infantry forces. Chemicals splash out on all sides. Even the air begins to burn.

  ‘Thirty yards back,’ orders the Old Man, coldly.

  The blast from the explosives throws us back against the snowy walls of our shellhole. The ground in front of us is a boiling, bubbling, poisonous porridge. The snow melts into rushing cataracts, which pour down the slopes, carrying everything in their path with them into the depths.

  More and more artillery units are coupled in, as it becomes obvious that an expert is spotting for them.

  ‘Who’s the spotter?’ asks a sharp voice. ‘Name and rank damn you? Is it you, Eberhardt? Heard you’d fallen! Masterly, Eberhardt, masterly!’

  The Old Man does not reply, even though he has recognised the Commanding General’s knife-like voice. Without permitting time for interruption he continues to give corrections.

  In a giant drumfire the rain of shells follows the retreating enemy battalions. Mercilessly they are being cut to shreds.

  ‘New correction,’ the Old Man demands.

  ‘Here you are,’ says Heide, with a sadistic grin. His military heart sings with happiness at the bloody results of the well-directed artillery fire.

  Soon, the guns reach down into the ravine and smash the mobile Stalin Organs. Their attempts at escape do not succeed.

  The remains of the regiment attack through the mess of carnage, at the heels of one-armed Oberst Hinka. Heavy Maxim MG’s still fire from the ruined positions.

  ‘Radio Group, centre,’ screams Oberst Hinka. ‘Forward to prison walls!’

  Yellowy-grey clouds of smoke from the high explosives hang like a huge, horrible umbrella above the prison. Every second they grow in size.

  Quite close by I hear the crack of a tank gun. Close behind me a machine-gun spatters the snow with bullets.

  ‘Panzer!’ I shout, throwing myself into cover. I see the huge underbelly of the tank ride up over a partially destroyed wall. It balances there for a brief moment. Rocks over and forward with a clang of metal. The motor roars at maximum revolutions.

  Slowly the turret swings in my direction. Flame jets from the long barrel of the gun. Firing, impact and explosion come almost in unison.

  My head feels as if an iron rod had been passed through it from ear to ear. Porta comes sliding over to me. The bazooka slips from his grasp and slides over the icy ground. Fascinated I stare at the gun on the Stalin tank, which is slowly sinking towards me.

  ‘About time,’ mumbles Porta, grabbing the ‘stovepipe’ and putting it to his shoulder. He gets the tank in his sights. ‘Enjoy life, dear neighbour, there m
ay not be a lot of it,’ he grins, sardonically, and pulls the trigger.

  A hollow, thunderous explosion, and the red star on the turret disappears abruptly. A human figure is thrown from the hatchway on the tip of an enormous yellow flame.

  ‘That was close,’ I say, letting out the deep breath I have been holding.

  Two T-34’s roll into cover behind some ruins. Their turret machine-guns sweep the whole length of the road. Spent bullets ricochet over our heads.

  ‘We’re not meant to die here, God tells me,’ shouts Porta, rising to his feet with his ‘stovepipe’ at his shoulder.

  Tiny rushes in with a heavy T-mine in his hand. He slides like a toboggan across the road towards the tank, roaring loudly in a mixture of rage and fear. He holds on to the mine tightly, but loses both helmet and machine-pistol during his rapid passage.

  Like an acrobat he regains his feet and swings the T-mine up under the turret rim.

  The hatch of the rearmost T-34 crashes open. A leather-clad form comes to view with a Kalashnikov at the ready.

  Bullets plough up the snow around Tiny. He runs for dear life towards the burning ruins, trying to reach cover.

  ‘Death and damnation, man, how they do shoot,’ roars Albert, coming jumping through the snow with a Molotov cocktail in his hand. Fast as an old tom-cat caught stealing herring, he is up on the T-34. He drops the Molotov cocktail down inside the tank behind the T-34 commander. The Russian turns and stares in amazement at Albert’s black features and pearly-white rows of teeth, showing in a happy grin.

  ‘Panjemajo, man!’ yells Albert, turning a back somersault down into a smoking shellhole. The tank goes up in fragments, before its commander has had time to recover from his astonishment.

  Tiny races across the snow with one of the tank’s heavy caterpillar track rollers coming trundling after him.

  I hold my breath in terror. If it hits him, he’ll be crushed to death. But by some miracle it strikes a stone, jumps into the air, and passes above his body. It rolls on across the road and crashes into a machine-gun nest.

  The flamethrower section hurries past. Infantry storm up towards the closed prison gates.

  From the barred windows MG fire hammers at us. Flares hang in the sky like brilliant umbrellas, throwing a ghostly light down on the prison. Black smoke pours from its roof.

  The engineers place explosives along the walls.

  A Russian officer appears suddenly in front of me.

  A short burst from my Mpi throws him back against the prison gates. He falls forward, smashing his face into the ground. Desperately I run on, and collide with a half-crazy jailer, who is swinging a huge bunch of keys in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  The first bullet from my Mpi hits him in the heart blowing it to pieces. He is dead before he hits the ground.

  A huge stone comes flying through the air and hits me with enormous force in the chest. All the air is knocked out of my lungs. I fall forward, my face buried in the snow. How long I remain lying there I shall never know. I hear guttural Russian voices, when I come to myself. One of them kicks me brutally, but I manage to remain silent, despite the pain.

  They run on, while the machine-guns continue to chatter.

  I know it is dangerous to lie there too long without help. I could freeze to death. Or die of shock. My chest is burning like fire, and the pain comes in steadily inaeasing jabs. Everywhere dark running shapes. It is impossible to determine which are Russian, and which German.

  Long, fiery tongues of flame lick out from the barred windows of the six-floor tall buildings of the women’s wing. In the light of the flames I can just make out human beings gripping the red-hot bars of the windows. Heavy window-glass melts like wax. It takes only seconds to transform a human being to a blackened, charred mummy.

  ‘What the hell are you lying here for, basking in the glow of Russian Communism,’ asks Porta, with a wide grin, bending over me. ‘Where’d they shoot you?’

  ‘Chest,’ I gasp.

  With sure fingers he examines me.

  ‘Lucky,’ he says. ‘All you can see’s your pale skin goin’ the colour of Albert’s.’

  ‘It was a stone. A huge stone,’ I groan.

  ‘Hell!’ cries Porta. ‘Ivan must be runnin’ short of ammo’ if he’s startin’ to throw stones at us.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks the Old Man, stopping. He has Heide with him.

  ‘He says Ivan’s thrown a stone at him,’ grins Porta, unworriedly, ‘and there he lies moaning like a sick cat!’

  ‘Come on! On your feet, son!’ orders the Old Man, harshly. ‘Don’t go thinking you’re on a winter sports holiday!’

  ‘I’ve got to see the M.O.,’ I groan. ‘I — I think my ribs are broken, and it feels as if they’re going into my lungs.’

  ‘Take a couple of deep breaths,’ suggests Porta. ‘You’ll see! That’ll straighten out the timbers in your old hull for you.’

  ‘I want to see the M.O.,’ I demand, stubbornly.

  ‘You do not think that pox doctor’s clerk’s hangin’ around out here in the heavy rain, surely?’ says Porta. ‘Get up on your pins and keep with us. Stay here and old Ivan’ll give you his treatment. A dose of his cough mixture and you’ll need a magnifying glass to find any ribs at all!’

  Groaning with the pain, which is enough to drive a man mad, I hobble on after the section. A strange medical orderly gives me a handful of pills.

  We throw mines into the great reception hall. The thick walls crumble as if made of glass. Heavy iron-bound doors crash through walls. The blast throws us backwards, but we are soon up and storm into the prison. Mpi’s chatter at anything that moves.

  Great piles of bodies lie in the hall, all with the same red, blown-up faces. Blast makes you look like that when it has killed you. Many of them are only youths with soft, downy cheeks. Lives lost before they even knew the value of what they are losing. Killed in acts of meaningless heroism.

  Silently we stand amongst the mounds of bodies and look around us at the terrible sight. Bodies lie thick on the staircases. Six floors of them. Many of the cell doors hang by one hinge. In the cells the bodies of prisoners lie broken like blood-splattered dolls. Apparently killed by grenades which the jailers have thrown into their cells, before fleeing.

  ‘Just like home,’ says Porta, sadly. ‘Prisoners killed to prevent their falling into enemy hands. It’s dangerous to think independently.’

  ‘There’s one alive ’ere!’ shouts Tiny, who has kicked open the door to one of the offices.

  Behind a desk sits a giant of a man, dressed in the green OGPU uniform, with gold stars embroidered on his arms.

  ‘Aja tovaritch,’ shouts Heide, happily. He jabs the highly-placed officer with the muzzle of his machine pistol. The officer watches us with hate-filled eyes.

  The Legionnaire picks up some papers from the desk.

  ‘Execution orders,’ he says, smiling, and hands the documents to Oberleutnant Löwe.

  ‘Take him away,’ orders Löwe, shortly, ‘but God help you, Unteroffizier Kalb, if anything happens to him! I will hold you responsible for killing a prisoner.’

  ‘Par Allah, I shall look after him as carefully as if he were a hair of the Prophet’s beard,’ promises the Legionnaire, with a wicked grin. ‘Come on,’ he snarls at the OGPU Commissar, giving him a brutal blow in the back with the butt of his Mpi. ‘May Allah grant you, in His mercy, the curse of a lingering death, you heathen dog of a Russian! And may small flames melt away the fat from your bones for all eternity!’

  A crowd of strangely-dressed people totter and stumble down the steep stairs, women and men. One of them is wearing a suit of blue-striped pyjamas, another the uniform of an Esthonian major. One is wearing pale riding breeches and a black smoking jacket topped off by a scarf which was once white. Most of them are, however, dressed in rags and tatters of clothing. Here and there a blue OGPU cap can be seen.

  We keep our machine pistols at the ready. The sight of this strange coll
ection of people makes us nervous. They look as if they are ready to spring at our throats at any moment.

  ‘You goin’ to give us food?’ shouts one of them, menacingly, and spits on the floor.

  ‘Keep your trap shut!’ shouts another.

  Suddenly they seem to be afflicted by a communal rage. They all begin to shout at the same time.

  ‘Bonysov is here!’ almost in chorus.

  ‘Kill him! Trample him flat! The stinking pig!’

  ‘What the devil are they up to?’ shouts Oberleutnant Löwe, nervously. ‘Break ’em up! Then get ’em into line! Any trouble put ’em back in the cells. Then at least they can’t murder one another!’

  ‘C’est indifferent,’ grins the little Legionnaire, cynically. ‘All they want to do is to get hold of their dirty jailers.’ He points with his Mpi to a bloody corpse, stamped almost flat. In the middle of the mess lies a blue cap.

  The prisoners stare at us, and we stare questioningly back at them. We are a little scared of these skeleton-like creatures with their deeply sunken eyes.

  ‘Hell of a pong, isn’t it?’ mumbles the Old Man, holding his hand to his nose.

  ‘From there,’ says Tiny, pointing with his thumb.

  ‘Hell and Tommy!’ cries Barcelona. ‘That’s the biggest an’ longest latrine I ever did see.’

  ‘Try looking down into it,’ suggests Porta. ‘There’s something else down there you never saw either.’

  A little man, with ratty eyes, wearing an OGPU uniform, comes towards us with his hands folded behind his neck to show he is unarmed and finished with the war.

  ‘Herr Kommandant, sir,’ he barks in fluent German, clicking his heels together in front of Oberleutnant Löwe. ‘I hereby hand over to you the prison reception department, and place myself under your command.’

  Without hiding his contempt Oberleutnant Löwe looks at him carefully, his eyes like slits.

  ‘What is that?’ he asks, pointing to the long wooden beam.