Blitzfreeze (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

by Sven Hassel

  The artillery has done a job here. Bloody heaps of human meat lie everywhere. Flies, millions of them, rise in great buzzing swarms as we roll over the bodies. The stench is sickening.

  Just outside the village a T-34 with its tracks shot off sends a shell to us. Barcelona’s P-III is hit. Tracks and rollers damaged. Without thinking of the wounded aboard us I swing the gun around, and sight down on the enemy tank. Our shell rips away its turret. Two men jump out and are cut down by Heide’s MG. One of them drops by the tracks, the other drops at the rear of the tank. He tries to crawl away but a string of tracer chases and catches him. The P-III is finished. The cable breaks in three places when we try to move it. Barcelona and his crew come over to us. Tiny throws a couple of grenades into the P-III and in a moment it goes up in flames.

  With rattling tracks we disappear across the steppe, engine revving at top speed. Nothing but speed and surprise tactics can save us now. Over the air we can hear Oberst Hinka chewing the company commander up for having got his 38 ton Skoda caught fast in a marsh. He thought he could take a short-cut along the river. It might have come off with a P-IV, which has broader tracks than a Skoda.

  ‘We’ll try to pick you up tomorrow with a rescue truck,’ shouts the CO irritably. ‘You’ll stay with the vehicle overnight, Moser!’

  ‘That’s his death warrant,’ says Porta carelessly. ‘He should never have reported getting caught with his backside in a marsh. Cleverer people would’ve blown the wagon, and then blown the coop smartly with a soldiers’ farewell to Ivan. Afterwards a nice little report stating that a T-34 had smacked ’em in the eye with a shell. Luckily they haven’t started checking our reports with the enemy yet, but they probably will do some day.’

  ‘You have no feeling for your duty,’ shouts Heide reproachfully. ‘One does not blow up one’s vehicle excepting in a case of the utmost necessity!’

  ‘I’ve noted it,’ grins Porta superciliously. ‘But don’t cry, mister Party hero, if we suddenly drop in the shit and are short a piece of track. It’ll be interesting watching you play tag with our friends the enemy.’

  ‘Cut out the negative thinking,’ protests Tiny, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Let’s talk about somethin’ positive like, for example, pussy.’

  We thunder down a sunken road straight into a horse-drawn artillery unit. Soldiers and horses scatter in wild panic away from the tank which thunders forward spitting tracer from both MGs.

  Porta goes head-down for a howitzer parked between two houses. Three artillery men are sitting petrified on its carriage with full bowls in their hands. One of them has a spoon in his mouth. They have apparently been surprised during a meal break. Everything disappears, crunched under the tracks.

  In the rear-view mirrors we can see them crawling around on the ground and sending curses after us.

  ‘Goddam and blast it all!’ howls Porta soon after. ‘She’s going for a bloody burton! You can’t even trust the engines these twisting Nazi manufacturers turn out!’

  ‘What’s happened!’ asks the Old Man nervously.

  ‘She’s dropping her revs like a Jew on his way in to an SS-barracks,’ answers Porta kicking angrily at the gear lever.

  Quickly we pull the cowling off the motor. We can’t find anything wrong. Everything we test seems to be working properly.

  ‘Come down here,’ shouts Porta pulling at my foot, ‘but God help you if this coffin stalls or if you strip my gears!’

  Roughly they throw me into Porta’s seat to take over his job at the steering levers. From sheer nervousness I drive the wagon straight into a deep ditch and come close to tipping it over.

  Porta and Heide go at the motor.

  ‘The devil!’ says the Old Man pulling at his ear. ‘And this has to happen on our way to a break-through between two attacking enemy columns. It couldn’t be worse!’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t say that,’ answers Porta. ‘I’d rather have a motor on the blink than a T-34 shell up my backside.’

  ‘Call the Legionnaire,’ the Old Man orders Heide. ‘Tell him to stop and take us on tow.’

  But the Legionnaire continues up over a height without hearing the wireless signal. At the same moment his P-IV explodes. A blue-white flame shoots high into the air. A hatch cover flies like a thrown discus far out over the steppe.

  To our relief we see the Legionnaire and the Professor jump from the hatch. The three others are caught in the exploding hell inside the tank. It looks like a blast-furnace at work. The sound reaches us a little later like a long roll of thunder.

  Porta is right inside the motor, hammering and screwing away. It sounds as if he is trying to smash the Maybach to pieces. In between he curses the Russians, the Party and in particular Julius Heide.

  ‘It’s all your bloody fault,’ he shouts from the bowels of the engine.

  ‘If your rotten bloody Party’d stuck to drinking beer in the Bürgerbräukeller instead of playing at politics we wouldn’t have had any bloody war at all and I’d never have seen the inside of a bloody Maybach. There’s where you go you little bent-up prick!’ Two thundering clangs and a burnt-out valve flies towards Heide’s head.

  ‘That’s it,’ he mumbles finally and worms his way out of the motor. The Maybach purrs like a pleased cat.

  We’re off again and without stopping we drag the Legionnaire and the Professor up and into the cabin.

  Russian machine-gun fire sweeps away the last of our wounded.

  ‘Shall we stop and pick them up?’ asks the Old Man uncertainly.

  ‘Can’t be done,’ says Porta. ‘The accelerator’s stuck fast, and will continue to be so until I see nice square German heads around me again!’

  A hit fires the motor. Flames lick through the cowling into the cabin.

  Tiny gets the automatic fire-extinguisher going with difficulty. The fire dies away. The motor thunders again. It’s beautiful music to our ears. He wipes the sweat from his powder and oil blackened face.

  ‘Bleedin’ lucky we got them extinguishers,’ he just manages to say before a bolt of lightning smashes down into the tank and tears the hatches from their hinges.

  I am thrown from the gun-seat and a giant hand seems to press me into the deck under the gun. A thick jet of blood splashes down over my face, blinding me.

  Tiny falls unconscious amongst his shells. The explosion throws him straight across the gun. His leather helmet splits open against the ammunition locker.

  Barcelona’s mouth is torn open. Along his cheeks the teeth are bared like those of a skull.

  The Old Man thinks his back is broken but fortunately it is not quite that bad. Working together we get his joints back into place. His screams of agony could’ve been heard miles away.

  ‘The old coffin’s finished,’ confirms Porta drily. ‘I can’t move her! Bugger all to do! Pull the chain and off we go.’

  ‘Out!’ orders the Old Man. ‘Demolish vehicle!’

  I am last man out and trigger the demolition charge in the turret.

  ‘I do believe we’d do well to pick up our skirts and get out of here in one helluva rapid manner,’ says Porta pointing to a small birch wood from which Russian soldiers are stretching their necks inquisitively and staring at us.

  Barcelona is already over the top of the hill together with the other crews. We follow quickly. The blood races in our ears and we have difficulty in breathing. Our lungs hurt and our nasal membranes feel dry and rough from the heavy powder fumes in the compartment.

  The Russians can see everything we’re doing and could easily shoot us down.

  ‘Move!’ says the Old Man curtly. ‘We’ve got to get over those heights. The others are already well ahead.’

  ‘Why the devil isn’t Ivan shooting at us?’ asks Porta breathlessly. ‘He could drop us like lame hares!’

  Heide stumbles on a helmet and bangs his forehead against a large stone.

  He is unconscious for a moment.

  Tiny and I pull him to his feet.

  ‘We might just as
well stay here,’ he moans, wiping the blood from his face. ‘They’ll mow us down with an MG any minute. We can’t get away!’

  ‘Get your bleedin’ finger outa your nick, you Nazi superman!’ growls Tiny. ‘Over that bleedin’ ’ill-top there’s a ’ole plateful of boiled swastikas waitin’ for you and as a special treat we’ve ’ad ’em sprinkled over with essence of dried BDM-quim!’6

  ‘I’ve had it!’ gasps the Old Man worn out and letting himself fall. ‘I’m too old for this piss. I can’t run any more!’

  ‘Turn your old cherry back over your shoulder, my old son,’ grins Porta. ‘And I do believe you’ll feel in quite a hurry to get back to Uncle Adolf’s chimney-corner!’

  Now we understand why the Russians are holding their fire. They want us alive. Less than fifty yards behind us a section is coming up at the double.

  The Old Man is on his feet with a speed which is quite amazing.

  All tiredness is gone. We run like Olympic gold-medallists. Jesse Owens would get left behind, even with us in full battle order. A wounded Leutnant is lying in the tall grass. His left leg is crushed, bones showing whitely. We take him with us.

  ‘Thanks comrades,’ he says tears choking in his throat.

  The Russians are overtaking us slowly and we have only bayonets and battle-knives to defend ourselves with. Our personal weapons are in the tank. The Leutnant has a Mauser but that isn’t much against a whole platoon.

  ‘If we only had an MG,’ gasps Porta, out of breath. ‘That’d make those Stalin cock-suckers find something better to do than chase after us. I’d fill ’em so full of rivets they’d think they’d got into a shipyard by mistake.’

  ‘Don’t leave me comrades,’ cries the Leutnant hanging between Heide and me. He isn’t more than nineteen and can’t have been at the front long. Not even a combat medal decorates his green uniform coat, and they’re generous enough with those even if you’ve done no more than wave to the neighbours.

  ‘Fritz, Fritz, idisoder,’7 the Russians call to us. ‘We’ve got girls for you! Fritz, Fritz, idisoder! You come have pretty Russian lady for mattress!’

  They are catching up on us. I look questioningly at Heide. He nods and makes an uncaring movement with the corner of his mouth. We drop the wounded Leutnant. He lets out a heartbreaking scream and hops a little way on his good leg before falling.

  ‘No, no, take me with you, take me with you! Comrades, don’t let Ivan get me!’

  But our lives are at stake. The Leutnant tries to scrabble after us but soon gives up. He scratches earth over himself frantically in the hope that the Russians won’t see him.

  Breathless we reach the hill-top and look down into a valley four or five miles wide in which hundreds of white cows are grazing.

  Crazily, half-running, half-tumbling we race down the hill towards the cows.

  It’s a wonder none of us breaks anything. Tiny goes over a ledge and falls almost forty feet. He drives his combat knife into the ground in a blind rage.

  A couple of shots sound and bullets whistle wickedly, as we dash to cover amongst the cows. It would take artillery at least to get at us amongst all those living breastworks of meat.

  A long, rough tongue licks my face as a cow examines me with friendly curiosity.

  The Russians are shouting and screaming up on the hill. They form a dancing ring around the wounded Leutnant. Two shots from a Nagan sound faintly, followed by shouts of laughter.

  ‘They’ve punctured him,’ says Porta drily, patting a cow on the neck.

  ‘Pity,’ says the Old Man quietly. ‘He wasn’t much more than a kid.’

  ‘He volunteered,’ decides Porta shortly.

  ‘How do you know?’ asks Barcelona.

  ‘Leutnant already, at that age!’ smiles Porta. ‘He took the helmet when he was sixteen. He wanted to be an officer.’

  ‘’E made it too,’ sighs Tiny, shooting a spear of saliva at a bull which is examining him with a wondering expression in its black eyes. ‘Only now ’e’s a dead officer.’

  ‘It’s no fun to shuffle off with a bullet from a Nagan in your neck,’ says Porta thoughtfully. ‘There’s so many nicer ways of sneaking off.’

  ‘Bleedin’ arseholes!’ shouts Tiny in surprise. ‘These four-legged Commies ’ve got milk in their distributors.’ He throws himself down under a ruminating cow and seizing the udder directs a stream of milk into his mouth.

  The Russians are doing something. They are cutting off the Leutnant’s head and sticking it on a pole which they swing to and fro.

  ‘Siberians,’ says Porta, ‘so we know what to expect if they get their hands on us. Where the devil have the rest got to?’

  ‘The speed they was makin’ they’re in Berlin already,’ says Tiny.

  A machine-gun barks. Rifles snap angrily. Bullets smack into the cows, stampeding them. The whole of the great herd is soon in swaying motion and we go with it.

  ‘Hang on to the gear lever,’ howls Porta as he passes us clinging tightly to the tail of a terrified cow.

  We follow his example and catch the tail of the nearest cow and away we go with the wind whistling past our ears. Tiny’s cow steers the wrong way, towards the Russians. He gets angry and, as always when this happens to him he stops thinking altogether. He catches the animal by the horns and tries to swing it round. The cow obviously thinks he wants to fight, and snorting and stamping wildly it butts him on to his back. Now he really gets mad. Head down he rushes at the animal which turns tail with a bawl of fear and gallops after the rest of the herd. But Tiny catches up with it and manages to swing himself up onto its back, and things really start moving. Like a crazy rodeo act the cow and Tiny buck off towards the west. Porta is the first to catch on. He picks on a little white cow, runs alongside it for a while, then swings his leg over its back. It circles and tries to buck him off but Porta hangs on like grim death with both arms around its neck. With a wild bawl it takes off after the others, head shaking from side to side and tail straight up. Somehow Porta hangs on to it.

  We follow suit and go through the same experience as Porta. Heide falls off several times before managing to find out how to keep his seat. He nearly dies of fright when he discovers that the steed he has chosen is a bull. The Old Man gets a kick from two whirling hind legs which knocks the wind out of him. Barcelona is sent flying several yards through the air by a bull which is obviously defending its harem. It is about to attack him again when a Russian bullet fells it.

  The Russians on the hill-top are almost dying with laughter and shout advice down to us. They fire shots in the air to make the herd wilder. Apparently they want to get as much as possible out of the free show we are giving them.

  My cow is dancing around bucking and landing stiff-legged, and it feels as if my kidneys have been pushed up into my throat. I’m convinced that every bone in my body is broken. Suddenly it stops its cavorting and begins to run in zig-zags after the herd. The speed is frightening. None of us had ever dreamed cows could move so fast. We have all our work cut out to hang on to these living battering-rams, which gallop like racehorses over stick and stone, straight through thorn bushes, where we leave half our uniforms and skin hanging on the branches.

  At a terrific pace we thunder straight through a Russian infantry group. The men stare in amazement and completely forget to open fire. In a billowing cloud of red dust we pass the German lines with the herd of cattle bawling at our heels. The fighting stops completely.

  Russian heads pop up from their trenches to enjoy the fantastic sight. Some even cheer us.

  A German regimental staff HQ, set up in a clearing, is sent head over heels, maps and papers flying around their ears. Before they know what has happened we’ve disappeared into a village where cooks and baggage troops fly from us as if we were some new Russian weapon.

  Oh bury me not

  On the Lone Prairie-ie-ie . . .

  yips Porta waving his yellow top-hat above his head.

  At this very moment of triumph his cow
stops suddenly with both front legs planted stiffly in front of it. Its rump lifts straight up into the air until it looks almost like a man standing on his hands. Porta shoots straight on and up like a rocket and lands with a colossal splash in the middle of a stinking midden.

  1 Yellow and white badges: Yellow for Catholic padres, white for Protestant.

  2 Babuschka (Russian): Grandma.

  3 4-litre tankard: Almost 1 gallon.

  4 Deutschland, Deutschland etc:

  ‘Germany, Germany without everything

  Without butter, without meat;

  Even our little bit of jam

  The Civil Servants eat.’

  5 Dulce est etc: A joke is a good thing in its right place.

  6 BDM (Bund Deutsches Mädels): Nazi Girls Association.

  7 Idisoder (Russian): Come here.

  ’But they are mistaken. I am not finished, as they imagine. They are all mistaken. They undervalue me because I come from the lower classes, the scum of the people; because I am not cultivated and do not know how to behave in the manner which, in their small sparrow brains, is considered right.’

  Hitler in a conversation with the Senate President,

  Hermann Rauschning.

  Hitler’s harsh diabolical voice roared from the loudspeaker: ‘German men, German women, I assure you that the power of our criminal enemy has been smashed completely by my invincible Wehrmacht. These untermensch will never rise again. . . .’

  The loudspeakers crackled as applause crashed out from hundreds of beer-oiled throats. ‘Behind my victorious troops lies a conquered area more than four times the size of the great German Reich in 1933, when I took over its leadership, and I can assure you that it will become a hundred times greater! Nothing can stop us! We take what we need! Those who stand in our way will be mercilessly annihilated!’

  Still greater applause from the faithful Party comrades in the Bürgerbräukeller. The sweat and beer fumes could almost be sensed through the loudspeakers.