by Sven Hassel
The Russians hammered loose at us all day. The bombardment shrieked, banged and thundered. All through the night ‘The Lame Duck’ (the old Russian one-engined bomber U2) discharged its deadly cargo over us. One night they threw eight hundred bombs on an area of five hundred square yards.
The only place we could dig in was where a house had burned down and thawed out the deep frozen snow. There we sat and watched the ever-increasing fire from mortars, cannon and big rocket-batteries (Stalin organs). They went on hammering at us for days and all the while gathering reinforcements. You would have thought we were an army corps and not a paltry infantry fighting-group consisting of a few exhausted companies at times insane with fright at the countless enemy attacks.
We have placed our wounded in a bunker we dug under a burnt-out peasant’s hut. Here they lie with stiff-frozen bloody bandages round their wounded limbs.
To enter one of these dug-outs is like visiting an inferno.
Round about, behind the inadequate cover available, the machine-gunners are ready to load their guns. The lightly wounded serve as helpers.
We chew frozen potatoes to ward off the nagging hunger. We are all dressed in thin greatcoats with dirty snow-shirts on top. Like Porta and Tiny, some have been lucky enough to get hold of a few Russian furhats and felt-boots, but others, who have only the idiotic jack-boots and a scarf wound round their heads, have no protection against the icy frost.
On January 26th communications with the rear, including the telephone-link, are broken. We are wholly on our own now.
Lieutenant Köhler who is sitting in our dug-out with Captain von Barring and Lieutenant Harder makes an indifferent gesture with his hand to express his resignation when the news is brought to us.
‘Well, the division has written us off. Funny thought. There’s only one way out left now, lads. That’s forward, and there sits Ivan.’
Porta, the Little Legionnaire and Pluto are lying in a dugout right out in front. They have made themselves a veritable fort. Despite lack of ammunition they have got hold of a box of Russian hand grenades. Porta and the Little Legionnaire have each got a sniper’s rifle, and Pluto has a Russian light machine-gun which he has adjusted to fire single shots. All three are extremely good marksmen. From time to time they laugh loudly, and we hear Pluto applaud.
‘Fine, Old Porta. There goes another bastard!’
‘Allah is wise. He leads my hand and eye,’ says the Little Legionnaire in all seriousness as he presses the trigger and hits a Russian who rolls over immediately.
‘It’s a bloody shame we can’t get some party-lads from our own rat’s nest,’ says Pluto and raises the rifle quickly. A shot cracks out. ‘Ha, you Stalin-pig, got a headache now, eh?’ He lowers the rifle and goes on: ‘If we only send Reds to hell the Devil’s going to be wild with our threesome’s monotonous deliveries.’
‘How many have you got?’ asks Porta. ‘I’ve got thirty-seven marked up.’
Pluto looks at a piece of paper kept under a hand-grenade which acts as a paperweight. He makes a cross every time he is certain of a kill, and a dash when he is unsure.
‘Twenty-seven hell-travellers, nine hospital-cases.’
‘You’ll be reported to the RSPCA if you keep on wounding those Red beasts,’ suggested the Little Legionnaire. ‘All mine are guaranteed to hell. I have forty-two and seven were officers. The red enamelled star they carry in their fur-hats are wonderful bloody targets. When they get to that big pine there we’ve got just a quarter of a yard to pick them off.’
‘Good work, boys,’ beamed Porta. ‘We’ve beaten our own record to-day with nineteen corpses. That’s grand. Hey, you foot-rag acrobat!’ he shouted and pressed the trigger. ‘We’ve got twenty now. Did you see how his whole head jumped off? I bet he was never so well shaved!’
The Little Legionnaire cupped his hands round his mouth and cried to the Russians:
‘Monte la-dessus, tu verra Montmarte!’ He pressed the trigger.
The answer came in the form of a shower of bullets from a heavy machine-gun. All three of them jumped down into the dug-out. There they lay laughing.
‘Let’s sing to them,’ suggested Pluto.
They sang loudly:
‘Wir haben noch nicht
Wir haben noch nicht
Wir haben noch nicht
Die schnauze voll!’
Lieutenant Harder and The Old Un swore at them for this wanton firing which would only irritate the Russians and tempt them to desperate actions. But as Porta had been a soldier while Lieutenant Harder was still at school, he did not take any notice of Harder. The Old Un he did not even acknowledge as a superior. Without taking his eyes off the Russian positions he answered with a sneer:
‘Listen you two Iron Cross apprentices, Pluto, the desert-rat and I are fully occupied with our own total war. Since we saw that crucifixion Ivan had fixed up for two gunners from the 104ths the other day, we’ve decided to cut the nails of those Red bastards across there. And because we love shooting, you’d better take care we don’t bang a filed bullet into your gob to stop your nagging. Heil Hitler, kiss my bottom, my dove! You might as well beat it: the three of us’ll see to Ivan!’
He raised his rifle with its telescopic sights, pressed the trigger and announced with a grin to his two chums:
‘Another disciple from the Siberian transport-company has bought his ticket to hell!’
We had placed a machine-gun post in a particularly well-built bunker on the southern flank of the ruined village. It had successfully warded off several attacks, but early one morning the Russians broke in and took everybody manning the post prisoner except the section-leader an old NCO. They killed him. We saw them make him kneel in the snow and then hold a pistol to his neck. He twisted as he was shot, then rolled like a rubber ball down the hill, the snow in a cloud round him.
The eight prisoners were marched off escorted by two Reds who walked behind with their machine-pistols. They had to pass an open stretch where we, from Porta’s dug-out, had a good field of fire.
Porta and his two confreres lay with their weapons ready. Three shots rang out like one and found their targets, namely the heads of the two Russians walking behind the prisoners.
Our eight captured comrades understood immediately that their chance had come. As if at a word of command they all sought cover near our positions.
Pluto jumped up and stormed across to the bunker with his machine-gun at hip-level. He kicked the door open and stood splay-legged in the opening while he sprayed the tightly-packed Russians with bullets. His giant’s body swayed with the recoil of his weapon. He screamed with laughter as he poured bullets into the shouting Russians. They went down like grain before a well-oiled harvester.
Two Russians staggered out with their hands up. Pluto took one step back, kicked them down in the snow and emptied his magazine into their trembling bodies.
‘Come out, any of you that’s alive,’ he shouted. ‘Then I’ll show you how to treat prisoners in your own style!’
We heard a faint whimpering from the bunker, but no one appeared. He grabbed two hand-grenades from his belt and threw them into the bunker. They exploded with hollow thunder in the corpse-heap.
During one of the last attacks Köhler got an eye poked out. He was half-crazy with pain but despite von Barring’s attempts to persuade him to go to the sick-bunker, he insisted on staying with his company. He was afraid, no doubt, of being held with the wounded in the bunker.
We all had a terror of falling into Russian hands. We had seen too many of the atrocities committed on the prisoners taken by the Russians to have any illusions about getting off lightly.
Neck-shots, crucifixions, crushed arms and legs, decapitated limbs, castrations, poked-out eyes, empty cartridge-cases hammered into the forehead. These were common, unless you were destined to travel to Siberia where an even worse fate awaited you.
On the morning of February 27th Ivan started a peculiarly dispersed shooting. First it was directed at
us, next at No. 8 Company with Lieutenant Wenck, then at No. 3 Company, Lieutenant Köhler’s company.
It lasted about an hour. Then there was silence, an uncomfortable silence which you normally experience only in mountains and large forests. It seemed to want to crush us.
Nervously we kept an eye on the Russians, but everything stayed threateningly quiet.
Three or four hours of this deadly silence passed.
Von Barring scanned the landscape through his field-glasses, then whispered to The Old Un who lay beside him:
‘Something bad’s going to happen. This silence is almost sucking the marrow out of my spine.’
Suddenly he screamed some orders. Then we saw. On No. 3 Company’s position the Russians were teeming.
‘Köhler, fire, for God’s sake, Köhler, fire, fire,’ von Barring shouted.
Lost, we started at them. They were everywhere in that sector.
Some hand-grenades exploded and broke the deep silence. We groaned with frustration at having to witness this debacle without being able to assist.
The Russians had fallen silently on the rear of No. 3 Company from the left. A couple of men defended themselves desperately with spades and rifle-butts until they were knifed down.
Pluto and Tiny wanted to rush across, but von Barring held them back while he sobbed:
‘It’s too late. We can’t help them.’
We saw two Russians hang on to Köhler while a third bashed his head with his machine-pistol.
It lasted no more than ten minutes. Then No. 3 Company did not exist.
The Russians whirled round at us, but thanks to Porta and the Little Legionnaire, we succeeded in warding them off.
Without waiting for von Barring’s orders they raced for the bunkers on the outskirts of the village. Von Barring quickly gathered his group and with The Old Un at his side stormed along to the bunkers at the top of the hill. Our only chance was to get there before Ivan’s infantry.
‘Shout for all you’re worth,’ roared von Barring. ‘Shout like hell, shout like savages!’
Screaming and shouting we raced forward. For a moment the Russians stopped in astonishment.
Tiny and Möller blazed away furiously during the race to the bunkers.
Then Porta’s flame-thrower started belching fire. The Little Legionnaire stood crouched, firing furiously at the wave of Russians.
A giant of a captain who towered over his men roared inspiring words from the works of Ilya Ehrenburg. We could hear him plainly as he swung his machine-pistol like a truncheon above his head.
Pluto kneeled and aimed carefully. The captain, brought to a standstill, let go of his machine-gun, felt his head with both hands, twisted half-round, and fell slowly to his knees.
‘Now that brute can carry on his Ehrenburg shit in hell,’ said Pluto with a deadly smile.
Lieutenant Harder had an attack of fanaticism. He tore forward gripping his storm-carbine and shrieking crazily.
Bauer howled like a dog. He carried his light machine-gun over his shoulder and in each fist a hand-grenade. He flung one at a group of Russians storming the hill. As it exploded an arm was hurled through the air. Next moment Bauer’s second grenade burst among the wounded Russians.
Gasping for breath we reached the top of the hill just in front of the Reds. Three machine-guns spat noisily at them.
The attack faltered. The Russians started to retreat, but lunacy had taken possession of us. We jumped up and followed von Barring’s command:
‘Fighting-group, fixed bayonets, follow me!’
We charged shrieking at the Russians who were now panic-stricken. They threw their weapons away and ran.
A couple of officers stood, shouted, and tried to stop them. I reached one and thrust my bayonet into his back. I just managed to get my bayonet out before he went down with a single scream. I fired at his head and stormed on, yelling.
The Russian positions were quickly rolled up with hand-grenade and bayonet. Von Barring ordered us to withdraw. We brought away some mortars and boxes of shells.
Porta managed to get hold of some American tinned goods from an officer’s bunker. Then he exploded it with a Russian mine.
When we arrived back at our own positions two sections were formed from the men from different units of the fighting group. These two now replaced the butchered No. 3 Company, Lieutenant Harder took command.
Silence surrounded us. Darkness fell. Softly the snow drifted down. The Old Un wrapped his coat tighter around him, but the cold still penetrated. Porta lay on his back caressing his cat and talking nonsense to it.
‘What do you think, old boy? Should we give in our membership-cards to this society for the maintenance of the war we’ve landed in? That’s the only right thing to do, isn’t it?’
Möller laughed mirthlessly.
‘It would be nice if we could!’
‘Only one reason for giving up membership will be accepted: a bullet in the head,’ said von Barring.
‘Maybe that applies to Möller,’ interrupted Tiny. ‘But not to me. I don’t dream about being shot by these snotty-nosed steppe-bandits across there!’ He half stood up and shouted at Ivan: ‘Hey, Tovarich! Hey Russki, Russki!’
A voice from the Russian positions answered:
‘What d’you want, you German swine? Come here and we’ll castrate you, Fascist-dog!’
‘Come here, you scabby gipsy, and I’ll boil you in your own grease!’ Tiny roared back.
For half an hour the most obscene swear words were exchanged, then Captain von Barring stopped it.
Silence fell over the white wastes. Then all at once to the right of our position: Roosh-roosh-roosh!
Astonished we ducked down into our holes.
‘What on earth was that?’ asked Bauer staring at the wood where the shells had fallen with ear-splitting explosions.
‘Mine-throwers or nebelwerfers,’ grinned Porta. ‘And they are ours.’
Another explosion was heard and the fire-radiant projectiles flew through the night.
‘I’m willing to bet Ivan’s getting what he asked for now,’ laughed Stege. ‘If only we had a couple of “stovepipes” like that here we’d be able to stop their bragging.’
They went on firing the big stuff all night long and kept us awake. To fall asleep was deadly dangerous.
At dawn Porta and the Little Legionnaire started to throw hand-grenades at something we could not see. A couple of machine-guns sited in front of the big bunker barked in prolonged bursts.
We peeped nervously at them.
‘Is Ivan breaking through again?’ asked The Old Un without getting an answer.
We took a firmer grip on our weapons. We were ready to receive Ivan again, but in the next quarter of an hour the shooting died away.
The Old Un cupped his hands and roared across to Porta:
‘What’s going on across on your side?’
Porta answered:
‘Will you promise not to tell anyone?’
‘Yes,’ replied the astonished Old Un.
‘We’re having a war, my pet,’ was Porta’s answer.
The regiment again got in touch with us. They ordered us to hold our positions. They promised to help us soon, but three days passed before the promised help came. Then it arrived with a vengeance.
On March 8th in the morning we heard the Russians for the last time on our radio.
‘How’s N getting on?’ the enemy commander asked his regimental commander.
‘We can’t raise our heads. We’re under heavy machine-gun fire. They have also got heavy mortars and this morning they’ve got support from the air.’
‘Where have you got to?’
‘The regiment is lying just west of N. Our last tanks were stuck in the snow and the crews were liquidated by Fritz.’
‘That’s impossible. A ruined village with a few hundred Germans still holding out! Attack at once with all you’ve got, and I mean all. Take care that N is occupied. When you’ve taken N, bring
the enemy commander to me. You’re responsible with your life for the fall of N with this attack. Finished.’
It was the fifty-third attack staged by the Russians during our stay in Novo-Buda. When it started, to our great joy we got support from a whole squadron of fighter-planes. They came roaring along very low with the guns spraying the Russians, who were panic-stricken at the flying death which screamed over them.
The fighting-group attacked at once. With hoarse cries we stormed into the enemy. Deep in their positions we fought like lunatics. We were drunk with blood-lust. We stabbed and cut on all sides while the planes rained bombs on the enemy artillery in the rear.
Porta let his huge flame-thrower spray into the bunkers to burn every living soul lurking there.
The hand-grenades burst with their hollow detonations. The crisp rattling of the storm-carbines mingled with the harsh barking of the machine-guns.
A party of Russians began to charge us from the left only suddenly to wheel round and disappear.
We could hear the voice of a commissar whipping up the men with slogans from the inevitable Ilya Ehrenburg. A little later they came out, but the attack was half-hearted. We had no difficulty in warding it off with concentrated machine-gun fire.
Stege jumped with a roar at a Russian commissar. Evidently he wanted him alive. But the Red was a small quick fellow and dodged deftly in order to avoid capture. The chase went on a little longer, then Stege stopped running, raised his machine-pistol and shot off the commissar’s head: he fell instantly as if his legs had been shot off as well. Stege hurried to him and tore off the gold-encircled red star on the commissar’s arm. Like a Red Indian who has taken a scalp, he gaily brought the emblem to von Barring.
Lieutenant Harder’s machine-pistol had jammed while he was fighting a whole pack of Russians. One shot him in the neck and a thick gush of blood pumped out of his throat. With difficulty we got him bandaged and transported to the bunker where our many wounded lay.
During the night we were withdrawn and put in a quieter sector to rest.
14
Such were their conversations. Such their big and small sorrows. Such their comradeship. The bushman’s fright. The Stone Age man’s brutality.
