by Sven Hassel
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ objected Tiny, who as usual had followed the whole of Porta’s argument with the utmost seriousness.
‘What you mean, he wouldn’t? Course he would! Anyone would!’
‘Well, they bloody wouldn’t, so that’s just where you’re wrong!’ Tiny pointed triumphantly at Porta. ‘’Cos I’d have stack the bayonet in ’em before they had a chance, wouldn’t I?’
Porta turned to the rest of us with a wide gesture of despair, and we looked at Tiny’s face, puckered with bewilderment, even now not too sure whether he had scored a point, and we fell about laughing. Even Lt. Spät was grinning. Lt. Ohlsen was the only one to keep a straight face. I was not even sure that he had been listening. He was staring along the lines, watching men who were dog tired, who had been under constant pressure and without sleep for days on end, painfully scrubbing themselves with icy water. There were no towels for drying. There was no soap, there were no razors. Uniforms that were beyond all hope of cleaning or repair were being sponged down in pathetic attempts to make them fit for the Colonel’s inspection. Equipment was being polished on pieces of filthy rag.
As our laughter died away, we followed Lt. Ohlsen’s gaze, reflecting in sombre bitterness that soon we ourselves should have to put our protesting bodies to work and begin on our own spit and polish. I looked across at the Lieutenant and saw a muscle twitch in his face.
‘Great screaming queen,’ he suddenly muttered, through clenched teeth. ‘Stupid sodding pig-headed bird-brained bastard!’
A sudden shocked silence came upon us. We stared at the Lieutenant, stunned by the vehemence in his voice. It was not so much what he said that startled us – God knows, compared with Porta’s more choice expressions his language was mild indeed – but more the way he said it. We had known the Lieutenant in his moments of anger and exasperation, we had known him impatient, we had known him sarcastic, but this was the cold, grim, almost desperate bitterness of a man who has taken just about as much as he can stand, and even Porta was moved to silence.
Ohlsen turned slowly to look at us. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically and rubbed a hand across his brow.
‘Sorry,’ he said, abruptly. ‘It gets you down at times.’
‘What can one do?’ muttered Spät. ‘They treat you like machines, only you’re not machines, you’re human beings, and now and again something happens that reminds you of it, and then you feel so damned sick at the things you have to do . . .’
The inspection took place the following morning as planned. We lined up like a load of renovated scarecrows. Any officer who had been at the front as long as we had would have been agreeably surprised by our appearance. We had indeed wrought miracles. At the risk of catching pneumonia, we had bathed in pools of icy water. A certain amount of dirt was still engrimed, but the top layer at least had been removed. Our uniforms were still damp and creased, but the few buttons that remained were highly polished and gleamed quite indecently bright in the pale morning sunshine. Altogether it was a brave show, and we felt that we deserved commendation.
Unfortunately, Colonel von Vergil, being fresh out from a home billet, set far higher standards than any fighting officer. He raged over torn uniforms, he fumed over missing buttons, and he became almost apoplectic over the state of our boots. His own were shining like any looking glass, but when Lt. Ohlsen asked him whether we were supposed to carry tins of polish into the trenches with us, in preference to boxes of ammunition, he dismissed the question as being both irrelevant and insubordinate.
Another inspection was called for the following day, and when that also failed to satisfy him we were hauled back the next day, and the next day, and the next. It was a wearisome farce that exhausted everyone to no purpose and cost the life of at least one man, who collapsed with a haemorrhage as his section was being forced to crawl five miles on their stomachs, dragging gas masks and full equipment with them. Lt. Ohlsen was almost out of his mind, but the Colonel had the immovable obsession of the insane and there was nothing to be done. We tried on several occasions to contact our Regiment, but without success: the entire front was in a state of confusion and most of the lines of communication had been cut.
When the idea of constant inspections began to lose its appeal, the Colonel hit on the fresh notion of sending us out on endless and increasingly pointless patrols. And never a day passed but Lt. Ohlsen had to make the hazardous journey from the trenches to the Colonel’s headquarters to answer a string of meaningless questions.
It was fortunate, during this period, that the Russians were apathetic and for the most part left us alone. We had regular exchanges of sniper fire, but these, I think, were conducted on both sides more for show than anything else. Further away towards the north we knew that there must be very heavy fighting. We heard the sounds of gunfire and explosions both by day and night, and the sky was almost always a blaze of fire on the horizon.
‘It’s got to come our way soon,’ muttered Heide, pessimistically. ‘We’ve had it easy long enough.’
‘Easy?’ Porta gave a derisive laugh. ‘You call it easy, living with that nut breathing down your neck the whole time? I’d rather have a skirmish with the Russians and be done with it!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tiny, confidently. ‘I reckon the war’ll be over pretty soon. You and me’ll be back home within a couple of months.’
The little Legionnaire opened one eye and raised a sardonic eyebrow.
‘Don’t you kid yourself . . . this war’s going on a lot longer than a couple of months.’
There was a wild shout, as Barcelona came running up.
‘They’ve broken through on the left flank! It’s started up again!’
The Old Man sighed. He calmly knocked out his pipe and stood up.
‘Ah, well, we knew it had to happen. Silence is only made to be broken.’
Already Lt. Ohlsen was shouting orders. Already the scene was breaking up into that confusion which leads eventually to a strict order where every man has his place and knows what he must do. We picked up our weapons, began checking them, cramming our helmets on our heads, preparing once more for action. Those sections which had been resting were brutally woken and came up at a run, stumbling and yawning and still not too sure what was about to happen. Behind us, we could hear the crack of rifles and the explosions of mines and hand grenades. Lt. Ohlsen turned to Spät.
‘Stay here with the first section and keep the road clear. Well need you to cover us on the way back. The rest of the Company, come with me.’
We fell in behind him, single file. As we moved forward, we stumbled on two men of the Colonel’s battalion, hiding behind some rocks and half dead with terror.
‘Come on, come on, buck your ideas up!’ Lt. Ohlsen nagged them to their feet and pushed impatiently at them with the butt of his PM as they stood shivering and incoherent before him. ‘What happened? Where are the rest of your section?’
‘Gone—’
They shook their heads, still dumb with fright.
‘Gone where? You mean they’re dead or they’ve run off or what?’
‘The Russians came at us – suddenly – out of nowhere . . .’
They babbled to a halt. Only by dint of much coaxing and bullying did Lieutenant Ohlsen prise the story out of them.
It appeared that despite persistent warnings from one or two front line veterans, Colonel von Vergil had seen no necessity for having more than a couple of men on guard. The experienced soldiers had been contemptuously dismissed as cowards and old women, and the Colonel had given it as his opinion that the Russians were on the point of packing up and going home after their last abortive attack and the comparative silence of the past few days. Only yesterday he had been overheard telling the Adjutant that in fact there was far more danger back home in Germany, from R.A.F. bombing raids, than he had yet to meet at the front. The result was that when the Russians ultimately launched the attack that we (but not the Colonel) had been expecting, they met with virtually no
resistance. The two men on guard had apparently been taken by surprise, since they had not sounded the alarm, and according to the two babbling survivors – who frankly confessed they were still alive only because they had taken to their heels – the whole attack had been incredibly rapid and incredibly silent. No guns or grenades had been used, only bayonets and kandras.
‘So in other words, it was a massacre?’ demanded Lt. Ohlsen, grimly.
‘Yes, yes!’ they cried, eager to impress upon us the ghast-liness of the experience.
And one, perhaps wishing to show that they had not given in without a struggle, however, did add that Lt. Kalb had managed to throw one hand grenade before being run through with a bayonet.
‘I see.’ Lt. Ohlsen stared up the path that led to the Colonel’s chalet. He turned back to the survivors. ‘And – ah – how about the Colonel?’ he asked, casually.
They didn’t know: they hadn’t seen the Colonel.
‘Let’s hope they stuck a bayonet up his backside,’ muttered Porta.
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Tiny, ‘we ought to hang about down here until they’ve finished the job? Make bleeding sure of it?’
‘Creutzfeldt, keep your voice down!’ snapped the Lieutenant. He waved his arm at the column of men and pointed up towards the chalet. ‘Follow me, we’re going up there.’
We heard the Russians long before we reached the chalet. The sounds they made were familiar to us. They were the joyous sounds of men carousing.
‘Pissed to the eyeballs,’ murmured Barcelona, with a smile. ‘They’ll have found the Colonel’s wine store.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Tiny, nervously. ‘Let’s get up there quick before the bastards drink it all!’
As we came in sight of the chalet we could see, as well as hear, evidence of Russian occupation. The windows were open, and through them came snatches of drunken song and a continuous hail of paper, boxes, crockery and German uniforms.
‘Look at ’em,’ said Porta, half jealous, half contemptuous. ‘Call that war? Looks more like a bleeding debauch to me.’
Heide ran a hand caressingly along his rifle.
‘You wait till we get stuck in there amongst ’em . . . won’t know what’s hit ’em til it’s all over!’
‘Particularly,’ added the little Legionnaire, with a grin, ‘when they discover we’re not the same papier-mâché soldiers as the last lot they had to deal with . . .’
Lt. Ohlsen gave the order to fix bayonets, and we charged. I found myself hurtling up the hill towards the chalet with the Old Man and the Legionnaire by my side, the Lieutenant just ahead of us, Porta and Tiny screaming like savages just behind. I saw one or two round Russian faces staring open-mouthed in horror as we launched ourselves upon them. They didn’t stand a chance, that first lot. We cut straight through them and surged onwards to engage in a vicious hand-to-hand combat which soon became a tangled nightmare of interlocked men, slashing and cutting amongst the corpses of their companions, slipping and squelching in pools of spilt blood, crushing underfoot the writhing bodies of the wounded.
I looked up suddenly to find an enormous Russian lieutenant bearing down upon me. He was wielding his machine gun like a club, and I was able to sidestep the lethal blow just in time. As a purely reflex action, I brought up my bayonet and thrust it blindly at my enemy. There was a moment of resistance, then the blade slid smoothly into the soft flesh of his groin. He fell backwards with a scream, taking my rifle with him. In my terror and my haste to retrieve the weapon, I leaped forward with both feet planted squarely in the face of a wounded man. Whether he was one of ours or one of theirs, I didn’t stop to see. I snatched up my rifle and plunged onwards, with his agonized shrieks ringing in my ears.
Now and again, in the hideous confusion, I caught a brief glimpse of one of my own companions. At one point I was dimly aware that Porta was by my side, but then he was swallowed up in the vicious scrum of bodies and disappeared. I fought my way out into the courtyard and saw Tiny. He had lost his gun and a couple of Russians were heading straight for him. I gave a loud yell, but Tiny had already swung round to meet them. With two enormous fists he caught them each by the throat and their heads went crashing together. As they fell, he snatched up one of their guns and began spraying bullets in all directions. We had reached that stage of desperation where it was every man for himself and if you mowed down some of your own side then it was just their hard luck.
I saw a Russian crouching behind a pillar, taking aim with a pistol. Before he had time to fire it, I had blown off half his head, and I watched dispassionately as he crumpled up in a bloody heap.
I turned and saw Porta charging with his bayonet, plunging it deep into the back of a young Russian who was attempting to run away.
I saw Heide trampling savagely upon the face of a dying man, who even in his last moments of agony was still clutching his gun to his chest.
How many men had been killed, and how long the slaughter had continued, I had no idea. Was it minutes or was it hours before we reassembled, victorious, in the courtyard behind the chalet? At that point we neither knew nor cared. For the moment, it was enough that we had survived.
We threw ourselves to the ground, panting, exhausted, covered in mud and blood, our uniforms torn, our helmets and our weapons tossed wearily to one side. Some of the youngest of the new recruits had tears rolling down their cheeks and making channels in the grime. For the rest of us, once the first shock of being still alive had worn off, we began searching with bloodshot eyes for our companions. Were they still with us? Or were they lying inside in the charnel house with their guts ripped out or their heads blown off?
I saw Barcelona a few yards away, stretched out full length, his uniform in ribbons. The Old Man was leaning against a tree trunk, smoking his inevitable pipe. Tiny and Heide were still there, Heide with his eyes closed, Tiny in a quite indescribable mess, looking as if he had dipped his head in a bucket of blood. My gaze roamed further afield and I saw Stege, lying on his back and staring bleakly up at the clouds overhead. And there was the Legionnaire, sitting on some steps smoking a cigarette and already hard at work stripping down his gun ready for the next action. The Legionnaire was a professional soldier. He had been fighting for fifteen years and his first thought was always for his weapons. Further off were Porta and Steiner, sharing a bottle of spirits they had found somewhere. Steiner looked to be already half drunk.
They were all there. All the old hands, the ones who had lived through it before and were still here to tell the tale. But over a third of the new recruits had gone. Their bodies lay where they had fallen, sad islands of death amongst the survivors. Someone hesitantly suggested that we might bury them, but we took no notice. Why tax our strength any further, digging holes for corpses? We were alive and exhausted, while they were dead and could feel no more.
Lt. Ohlsen came out of the chalet. He had lost his helmet and had a deep gash running from the corner of his eye to his mouth. He sank to the ground, and we looked at him expectantly. He hunched a shoulder.
‘They were all dead before we got here.’
Porta gave him a cigarette.
‘How about the Colonel, Sir?’
‘Him as well . . . his throat was slit from ear to ear.’
There was a silence, then a malicious grin spread itself across Porta’s lips.
‘Maybe there is a God after all,’ he muttered.
The Lieutenant frowned and turned to Heide.
‘Take two or three men and go and collect all the identification discs.’
‘What, Russians as well?’ demanded Heide.
‘Of course. You ought to know that without being told.’
As soon as Heide had completed his task, we set fire to the chalet and made our way back to the road, losing more men as we did so, thanks to the Russians waking up again and pounding us with mortars.
‘Always us,’ grumbled Porta, running for cover. ‘Anything goes wrong, and it’s always us that gets caught up in it.’
<
br /> Tiny and the Legionnaire were already setting up the heavy machine gun. Lieutenant Ohlsen turned back to wave an impatient hand at the new recruits, who were lagging behind, uncertain whether to follow the rest of us up the road or dive into the nearest shell hole.
‘Stop dithering and get a move on, for God’s sake! This is no time to hang about admiring the bloody scenery!’
They shambled forward like a load of terrified sheep. One suddenly gave a shrill howl of pain and began running in circles, both hands pressed to his abdomen. Sanilätsgefreiter Berg at once turned back for him. He dragged the boy to the side of the road and tore open his uniform, but he was too late, he was already dead.
We watched as Berg slung his Red Cross bag over his shoulder and ran forward to rejoin us. Shells landed before and behind him. His helmet was blown off his head and he staggered from the blast, but somehow he made it. A loud cheer went up. Berg was deservedly popular. We had watched on many occasions as he risked his life to help an injured man, caught in enemy fire as he lay wounded in the middle of a mine field or tangled on the barbed wire. I remembered at Sebasto-pol, when Berg had deliberately gone back into a burning building and staggered through the inferno with an unconscious Lieutenant Hinka slung over his shoulders. He had been offered the Iron Cross for that particular exploit, but had politely refused it, saying that he had no interest in collecting scrap iron. Two years later, his uniform was still bare of any form of decoration save his Red Cross medal.
The Company eventually staggered to relative safety in a thickly forested area which projected beyond the mountains like a wooded fjord. We were on our own once again: the battalion from Breslau had been completely wiped out.
