The Bloody Road To Death (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

by Sven Hassel

  The attack rolls mercilessly onwards. Death takes its toll amongst the ruins. A khaki-clad soldier falls with his hands pressed against his middle. Blood oozes between his fingers.

  The little Legionnaire jumps nimbly over him and a short burst from his Mpi accounts for another who comes rushing at him.

  ‘Vive la mort!’ he screams, fanatically.

  Tiny gives a hollow laugh, and splits open the jaw of a captain.

  ‘That’ll per’aps learn you not to aim at Tiny from the bleedin’ Reeperbahn again, my son!’ He drops just in time to avoid catching a burst from an Mpi. ‘Treacherous Soviet sods!’ he yells, throwing a hand-grenade.

  I dash after Porta down into a cellar. Shots ring out. Bullets fly in all directions. Plaster and whitewash spray from the ceiling. Some water-pipes are hit. Fountains of water spurt out over us.

  Something comes whirling down the corridor. I grab it and throw it back where it came from. There is a thunderous explosion and a hot wave of air rolls over us.

  The Old Man pats me approvingly on the shoulder. If I had not caught that Russian pineapple and thrown it back the whole party would have been killed.

  We clean up the cellar rapidly. Those still alive are neck-shot irrespective of whether they are civilians or military. We cannot take prisoners and the hard school of experience has taught us that even the seriously wounded can summon up the strength to throw a hand-grenade after those who have just shown them mercy. Dugouts and shelters are gone through with a fine-toothed comb. We grab whatever is useful to us.

  Porta is staggering under the weight of two sacks. An aroma of coffee hangs about him.

  Tiny drags three heavy wooden cases after him on a wheeled MG carriage. We are like crazy men. It’s as if it were Christmas, and the presents just shared out. We open tins of food and stuff ourselves regardless of what the contents are.

  A machine-gun rattles viciously. Siberian infantry counterattack, but we managed to dig ourselves in and they meet death in our concentrated defensive fire. For the rest of the afternoon our section of the front is relatively quiet.

  Hauptmann von Pader arrives, and tries to be comradely.

  ‘You’ve done well, Feldwebel Beier,’ he flatters. ‘I was sorry not to be able to be with you during the latter part of the attack, but I was put out of action by shell-shock,’ he explains, with a forced smile.

  The Old Man turns on his heel and walks off without either saluting him or answering. Hauptmann von Pader looks wickedly after him.

  Tiny gets up noisily. His face is caked with mud and blood. He draws himself to attention in front of his company commander, smashes his heels together and throws up an immaculate training school salute.

  ‘Request the ’err ’auptmann’s permission to report in, sir!’

  Hauptmann von Pader grunts something inaudible. Suddenly he realizes who it is standing in front of him. That dreadful half-human creature whom he has sworn never to speak to again. He turns away in disgust, but Tiny follows him stubbornly, marching to attention and saluting.

  ‘Request permission to speak to the ’err ’auptmann, sir!’

  Silence.

  ‘Request permission to ask, sir, if it’s the ’err ’auptmann as be in command o’ No. 5 Company, sir?’

  Silence. They are moving faster now, but Tiny still needs only one pace to von Pader’s two.

  ‘Request permission to tell the ’err ’auptmann, sir, as ’e do look like the ’err ’auptmann as ’as command 0’ No. 5, ’e do, sir! Be I wrong, sir?’

  Silence.

  ‘Obergefreiter Wolfgang Creutzfeldt, Class IA, reportin’ back from doin’ battle with they neighbours, sir! Beg to report, sir, as ’ow I ’ave done away with four officers. ’Ave also ’ad the pleasure of rollin’ up a enemy position, sir! Beg to tell the ’err ’auptmann as ’ow I am still in good ’ealth, mind and body, and ready as can be to give they ol’ neighbours a good ’un when ordered, sir!’

  Hauptmann von Pader turns away from him, but Tiny is over on his left-hand side as Regulations lay down. Von Pader can no longer contain himself.

  ‘Are you mad, man? Where the devil did you come from?’

  ‘Beg to report ’err ’auptmann, sir, as ’ow I were born in Sankt Pauli in ’Amburg. There it were as I see day’s first light, so to say! Would not say I were mad, in answer to the ’err ’auptmann’s question from before, but ’ave always been what might be called a bit wild, like! There’s a lot 0’ things always ’appenin’ in the family, sir! Me ol’ dad ’e ’ad ’is ’ead chopped off in Moabitt ’e did. Me big brother got ’is the very same way. But ’e were done in Fuhlsbiittel. My two sisters, now, they do ’ave a nice little place each with very nice young girls, if the ’err ’auptmann knows what I means, like. On the Reeperbahn they are. But they ’ave got that big in the ’ead they don’t ’ave nothin’ to do with the rest on us no more, they don’t sir! Then the ’err ’auptmann must know as ’ow I come in the Army when I weren’t no more’n sixteen years o’ age. The ’oly men as were runnin’ the school o’ correction I were in, they reckoned as ’ow that were the right place for me, sir, they did. They ’ave surely thought as ’ow it wouldn’t be long ’fore I were a dead ’un, I’m thinkin’, sir. ’Err ’auptmann, sir, I must confess I ’ave been busted all the way down three times, but am still Class IA, an’ they ’ave told me as “I” that’s for intelligence, but I dis-remember what that “A” do be for, sir. Beg to report further, sir, as ’ow they do still be stoppin’ from my pay . . .’

  ‘Get to hell away from me!’ screams von Pader, fumbling for his pistol.

  Tiny stands to attention and salutes idiotically.

  ‘Fall down!’ screams von Pader. In his rage he can find nothing else to say.

  Tiny falls like a log into a puddle of filthy water and Sends a wave of mud over von Pader, who screams like a madman.

  Tiny is sitting with us a little later, pulling the machine-gun barrel through.

  ‘The bleedin’ shit that twit can spew up,’ he says, thoughtfully, ‘An’ ’e’ll ’ave a university degree, I’ll bet. Thank Jesus I ain’t one o’ that lot. I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t!’

  ‘People like him ought to be glad there’s such thing as the Army,’ remarks Gregor, quietly. ‘They’d have their work cut out finding a job if it didn’t exist.’

  ‘Yes, they couldn’t be used for much else than prison warders,’ considers Porta, pouring water into the coffee-pot.

  The Legionnaire comes along carrying a beautiful tart he has baked over an open fire.

  ‘What you cooking, Fritz? Smell good!’ comes from the Russian positions, only a hundred yards away.

  ‘We’re having afternoon coffee,’ Porta roars back. ‘You’re welcome, but you’ll have to supply the cognac yourselves!’

  For some unexplained reason we are ordered to withdraw to our old position. Everything wasted. As we see it, those who have died have died for nothing. But we’re not strategists, just foot-sloggers.

  Horses whinny from the other side. The smell of them carries to us on the breeze.

  ‘Bleedin’ arse’oles, lads!’ cries Tiny. They’ve sent the cavalry to the bleedin’ rescue!’

  ‘C’est la guerre,’ sighs the Legionnaire. In war anything can happen.’

  ‘A cavalry attack’s not the worst thing that could happen,’ considers Porta, optimistically. ‘We could soon slaughter those steaks on the hoof, and they’d provide us with food for a good while. Salt down a nag and it’ll keep for a twelve-month. You’ve got to remember to boil it though before you roast it. It tastes soggy if you don’t.’

  ‘Tell me. Just how would you transport a salted-down horse with you?’ asks Barcelona, sceptically. ‘Something tells me this shop here’ll be moving on pretty soon.’

  ‘You maybe haven’t noticed my limousine, here,’ grins Porta, pointing to the Russian MG carriage. ‘All I need now’s a couple of rickshaw boys from over the other side, and Obergefreiter (by the grace of God) Jos
eph Porta’ll be able to see Holy Russia in style. Old Tolstoy says you’ve not got class in Russia if you haven’t got a set of wheels under your old botty. Only the working-classes use their poor ol’ feet.’ He gets up to go over and talk to the new postings, and to tell them how to look after themselves here at the front. It is important for all of us that they are taught, as soon as possible, all the things they didn’t teach them in garrison. We need them, and are interested in them staying alive as long as possible, and that they don’t dash out straight away into an artillery barrage or tread on a mine or some other kind of wickedness.

  We only get half the replacements we need. They have been scraping the bottom of the barrel in Germany for a long time. Even the race-conscious Waffen-SS are taking in Russian volunteers. Untermensch – until they volunteer. The other day we ran into a unit of German Negroes. They could not speak a word of German. When we explained to them how stupid they looked, they just grinned back happily at us.

  Porta is sitting on an abandoned ant hill. The new recruits have made a circle around him.

  ‘First and foremost you must understand that your object in being here is to knock off the enemy and not, repeat not, to allow the enemy to knock off you! There’s no profit in that for the Fatherland. Forget what they taught you at Sennelager, Heroes we’ve got no use for here. It’s brains, not bollocks, you need to get by in this branch, and never, never forget that our heathen neighbour knows all the tricks in the book too! The only edge you can get is by bein’ faster than the other fellow. Kill anything that’s not wearing a German uniform. If in doubt, the slightest trace of doubt, then shoot, an’ shoot to killl Don’t, repeat don’t, go rushing forward at the drop of a hat. Those boys load with live rounds, remember, an’ they’re just aching to snip your life-line over with a well-aimed lead pill. When we go over the top, visitin’ Ivan, keep your eyes open for a good hole. Never move before you know where your next piece of cover is, and when you’ve reached it take good care to find out soonest, repeat soonest, where fire’s comin’ from. Aim, but for the Holy Elizabeth’s sake, aim quick. Fire then and get it over with quick, or you’ll never fire again, my sons! Ivan says Adolf’s boys’re losin’ a man a minute. If it was true the war’d soon be over, so maybe I wish it was, so what’s left of us could go home, but unfortunately Ivan’s as big a liar as we are. Lies an’ war go together, and there’s nothin’ we can do about that! Lying’s a Godgiven thing, and as such we’ve got to use it. But! The most important thing out here is to be faster than the neighbours. If you are, then you’ll stay alive. When you shoot, shoot to kill! A partly dead man – or woman – is still a danger to you. He’ll go happy to hell if he can take one of you with him.’ Porta holds up his entrenching tool. ‘Hang on to this. It’s one of the best tools the Army ever gave you. Dig in with it first chance you get. Every spadeful of earth you move lengthens your life. It can split an enemy’s skull open for you. It’s an excellent frying pan. In a tank you can use it to shit on and keep the deck clean. It’ll fry a pretty good egg. Don’t use grease on it. Clean it with sand, earth or grass.’ He puts down the spade, and holds up a Russian kalashnikov. ‘When you’re out visitin’, to see if Ivan’s putting on weight, maybe, take care of your Mpi. Don’t shoot her off blindly. Looks good in the movies, but it’s quite different in reality. The bullets you shoot out of an Mpi fan out, but fast, from her muzzle. There’s no difficulty at all in shooting ten of your own mates in the back, at relatively short distance, with one burst from your Mpi, if you don’t know what it can do! And don’t just stand staring like a bloody cow if Ivan pops up under your nose. Club, shoot or stab him! Think about it afterwards when you’ve got the time! Out here you haven’t.

  ‘Don’t take pity on a wounded neighbour. He’ll shoot your head off, like as not, while you’re helping him up. Don’t go into a house without sweepin’ it clean first with your Mpi or a grenade, and most important of all: if you’re doin’ sentry duty at the front don’t, just don’t, even wink an eye for a second. Cats sound like a herd of elephants compared with those boys moving, and if they get their fingers on you then you’ve had it! When they’ve got what they want out of you – and they will – you get a bullet! Prisoners are a nuisance in a trench war.

  ‘Now we might likely, more’n likely, get attacked by tank units. If we do, then don’t, repeat don’t, leave your hole in the ground. Make yourself flatter’n a flounder. Begin to run and you’re sure of gettin’ yourself killed. There’s a lot of things been invented lately, but they ain’t invented the man who can run faster’n a machine-gun bullet, yen Somebody’s coming at you and you’re in doubt what side he’s on then shoot him! If you’ve made a mistake, and he’s one of ours, too bad! Comfort yourself with the thought he wouldn’t have lived long anyway! If you see one of the trench-boys on the other side taking a stroll, enjoying nature, don’t, please don’t, pick him off. He’s on his own muck-heap. If you kill him it’s murder. What’s more to the point his mates’ll see to it the score gets evened up with one of us!

  ‘Well that’s enough of that! Find out the rest of it yourselves. The dummies won’t last more’n a fortnight anyway.’

  He goes a little way along the communicating trench and then stops. Scratching Rasputin behind the ear, he addresses them again.

  ‘There’s one other small thing, though. Always, repeat always, keep the part of you that holds your ears apart below the edge of the trench. Ignore this piece of advice and you can stop worryin’ about your next leave. Ivan’s snipers never sleep. Just show your nut and you’ve got an explosive in it.’

  He laughs noisily, and moves away together with the bear. At the angle of the trench he turns again and says: ‘Hey you shits, listen here. If you see a body with gold teeth it’s mine. Report it immediately!’

  ‘Isn’t that forbidden?’ asks a seventeen-year-old rooky with the HJ3 emblem in gold on his chest.

  ‘Yes, if you pinch ’em, son. Then it’s strictly forbidden,’ laughs Porta loudly.

  In the course of the night we take over Demon Heights. We relieve a police-regiment which has been almost wiped out in the course of four days. They look like zombies. You look like that when you’ve been under artillery fire for several days. They stagger off down the long trench. Old, old men, all of them!

  Tiny looks after them and gives Gregor a push.

  ‘Knocked the shit out o’ the bleedin’ coppers, ain’t it? Not as easy as beatin’ up drunks.’

  ‘Don’t like Schupos do you?’ asks Gregor.

  ‘No. I would not say as ’ow there’s been much love lost between us ever,’ grins Tiny, spitting after them.

  Porta has got a piece of shrapnel in the leg. He digs it out with his combat knife and tucks it into his wallet.

  ‘Think if that got a fellow in the head,’ he philosophizes.: ’Stop your farting in church, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Luck, that’s what it’s all about,’ says Tiny, picking his teeth with his bayonet.

  ‘If you’ve got luck, even a little bit of it, the shrapnel ’its your leg ’stead o’ your napper. A little bit more luck, an’ it don’t do no real damage, even.’

  ‘Think if it’d nipped off your old dingle-dangle,’ laughs Gregor, ’and you’d had nothing to tickle the girls up with any more!’

  ‘Holy Vera of Paderborn,’ cries Porta, horrified, ’I’d rather take it in the napper. Women and me can’t live without one another. We belong together, if I may put it that way!’

  ‘Now you’re talking about women,’ the Old Man joins the conversation. ‘The clerk says there’s a theatre group coming to visit the Army Corps.’

  ‘Now you tell us. And us on Demon Heights,’ wails Porta.

  The cook’s runners roll down into the trench, shaking with shock. Crossing the open stretch two of them have been hit. Three of the containers have been cut open, and half the rations have been lost.

  ‘You twits’ve been stuck up one another’s arsehole making a lovely target for the bloody heathen, I
suppose!’ Porta scolds them furiously. Food has been wasted.

  ‘Why the bleedin’ ’ell couldn’t you ’ave stuck your fingers in the ’oles, then we’d at least’ve got somethin’ to eat,’ snarls Tiny, throwing a helmet at the nearest runner.

  Everybody is angry at the food having been lost. The bear almost takes an arm off one of the cooks. Our section gets by, thanks to Porta who has surrounded some Russian tinned rations. They are half-rotten but still eatable. Only Gregor complains, but he has been used to general officer’s rations.

  ‘You’d have to have been in their bloody Army a long time to eat that shit,’ he shouts, disgustedly, throwing a tin far out into no-man’s-land.

  The bear has the best of it. Porta has got hold of half a pail of honey. Two bone-dry army loaves are broken up and mixed with it. The bear gets outside it in record time.

  There must be something big coming up. A stream of replacements are coming in from Germany. Since 1939 the regiment has never been so close to being up to strength, but the replacements are poor stuff. Much too young or much too old and with only sketchy training. There are even invalids amongst them. A stiff leg is no handicap any more. The German Army is mechanized, so what? Who needs two legs?

  In the first hour three of the replacements blow themselves to bits in our own minefields. They are blown up so effectively that nobody can be bothered to look for the pieces of their bodies. The others sit down in the dugouts paralysed with fright. They want to go home, they say.

  ‘Us too go home!’ laughs Porta. ‘It’s thataway!’ he points a thumb to the west. ‘But we’re not going. We’re staying here. Here we know who the enemy is. Back there they’ve got watchdogs ready to string people up on a branch of the nearest tree!’

  When the mortar fire begins, as usual at around five o’clock, the rookies go mad and begin to bang their heads into the walls of the dugouts. We have to knock them unconscious. Just at present things are comparatively quiet. The mortars they only put on for the sake of appearances. We reply with grenades merely to hear the noise of them. In our opinion we’re having a real holiday. We can sit peacefully in the bottom of the trench enjoying the sunshine. We are having beautiful autumn weather. Yesterday three hares came right to the edge of our trench and looked at us. Tiny ran one of them down. Not even Ivan’s snipers shot at him during that fantastic race across no-man’s-land. When he holds it up proudly by the ears a cheer goes up from both sides of the line and steel helmets whirl into the air. It’s not every foot-slogger who can run down a hare. So we are having roast hare for dinner today. Porta makes the sauce, and potato mash with diced pork, and we feel like millionaires.