by Sven Hassel
We never see him again. A runner’s life is a short one at the front.
‘Move!’ orders Oberleutnant Moser. ‘All equipment. Beier place the explosive charges! We don’t want to make Ivan a present of anything!’
Porta hangs a giant charge up in the doorway. God help the man who opens it!
Tiny pushes a stick of dynamite into a hollow log and puts it on top of the log-pile temptingly ready to hand.
‘Pity if Ivan was to get chilly!’ he says, and bends over grinning with laughter.
A piece of half-rotten meat is laid in the middle of the table with a short fuse. If it’s touched the whole dug-out will go up.
‘They’ll be sorry they couldn’t stand the stink when they throw that out,’ laughs Porta in happy anticipation.
We position a bundle of grenades underneath a body. If they move it the grenades will go off.
On a tree we’ve hung a large picture of Hitler. No Soviet soldier could resist tearing it down. When he does he’ll have set off a stack of 6 inch shells two hundred yards further along the trench. Barcelona nails a crucifix to a door and connects it to fifty small charges.
‘Anybody can see you don’t like commissars,’ grins Porta. ‘Very clever indeed. No Russian foot slogger’ll touch that crucifix. He’ll bow his head and cross himself, but the dear heathen of an NKVD commissar’ll go straight for it. Remove that shit – boom! – no more commissar! Far away in the Siberian villages it’ll be rumoured how Christ looks after the godless! I do believe Saint Peter’ll give you a medal for this when you get to Heaven.’
‘It’s really a pity we can’t sit up in a tree and watch what happens when they move in,’ says Stege.
‘Come and see what I’ve done,’ says Porta pulling him over to the latrine. ‘Take a seat on one of these planks for a comfortable shit and I promise you you’ll get your arse polished like never before. Before you’ve even slacked off your ring, twenty-five 105 mms’ll ensure you’ll never be troubled with piles again. I’ve attached the plank to a Bowden cable. And there’s another little finesse here that’ll make you split your sides. The boys who’re waiting for a shit jump straight down into the split trench when the bang comes, and then there’ll be a new bang, because I’ve put the rest of our shells under the planks down there. They won’t forget that trip to the shithouse in a hurry.’
‘I think we’d better not fall into the hands of the people you’re doing this to!’ says Barcelona drily.
‘We’re not going to,’ grins Porta, unworried. ‘Ivan just can’t run that fast!’
‘Fingers out!’ shouts the Old Man. ‘Ivan’s on his way! Porta, drop that supplies sack! Take grenades instead!’
‘Can’t eat grenades when I’m hungry,’ answers Porta, ‘and hungry’s what I always am!’
‘You can’t defend yourself with ’em!’ shouts the Old Man angrily.
‘What the hell’d I want to defend myself for if I was dying of hunger?’ shouts Porta, hanging on to his supplies sack.
The advance party is already over the river when we hear the firing of a Stalin Organ in the distance.
‘Get on! Faster, faster!’ shouts the Oberleutnant, impatiently chasing us. ‘They’ll be here in a minute!’
Most of us are across by the time they start to drop into the river. Black water is thrown high into the air, and yardthick ice-floes fly into the forest.
Barcelona screams terribly from out on the ice. The blast has thrown him into a fissure. His screams turn to a gurgle as he disappears under the icy water.
In seconds we have tied our slings together. Porta snaps the hook on to his belt and crawls out over the ice to where Barcelona has disappeared.
Tiny and I are anchor-men. Others come running to our assistance.
Barcelona appears and disappears again under the ice.
Porta drops into the water and gives a shocked cry. The water is so cold it feels like red-hot pincers tearing great chunks of flesh from his body.
‘Crybabies,’ roars Tiny, enraged. ‘Gimme the line!’
‘Where the hell can I make it fast?’ I ask, in confusion.
‘Wrap it round your prick, if you can’t find anything better,’ he yells, irritably. ‘My bleedin’ iron could ’ave a T-34 parked on show on it!’
When I leap back again, two or three great ice-floes break away, but by some miracle I don’t go into the water.
The Old Man pulls me to the bank and gives me a terrible scolding.
Tiny is lying on the floe and pulls Porta up to him. Together they get a grip on Barcelona and haul him out by the feet like a sack of potatoes.
‘Some weather for a river picnic,’ coughs Porta breathlessly. ‘Jesus, but it’s cold!’
We make a ring of fires and put Porta and Barcelona in the middle of them.
When Barcelona stands up water pours from his buttonholes.
‘Jesus’n Mary,’ cries Porta. ‘You’re like a leaky bucket! I wouldn’t have believed you could’ve held so much!’
We force Barcelona to roll naked in the snow. We’ve got to get his blood circulating. He’s alive but he’s like ice inside. You don’t take a bath in the Moscow at 52 below and live, without the roughest kind of first aid treatment. He cries, sobs, curses us, but we are merciless. We’re going to take our Spanish orange farmer home with us. In a couple of hours we’ve saved him. Porta has looked after himself. He has put on a dead German major’s uniform, and insists on Tiny saluting him every time he passes, which he does continually. At last this gets too much even for Tiny. He demands a posting to another division. There’s too much saluting in 6 Panzer.
We reach a deep ravine and Moser orders us to swing ourselves over on the overhanging branches. The last man, Gefreiter Kono, disappears into the depths with a scream, as the branch breaks..
‘They might have warned us,’ grumbles Barcelona. ‘Save their own bloody skins and piss on us!’
‘We have never retreated before,’ states Heide, proudly. ‘The decadent German aristocracy is behind this. The Führer should have slaughtered every one of the noble swine long ago.’
‘German soldiers only learn how to attack,’ says Moser. ‘The word retreat is unknown at the German officer factories.’
‘Considered immoral, I suppose?’ sighs the Old Man disillusionedly.
‘Of course,’ Porta laughs contemptuously. ‘It’s bad for fighting morale, but all the heroes are getting so tired they soon won’t give a fuck which way they’re going!’
‘You talk like a lot of bleedin’ books,’ growls Tiny. ‘Let’s talk about bints instead.’
‘How was that Russian nurse you raped the other day?’ asks Porta, scratching himself under the arm, where his lice have their favourite place of rendezvous.
‘Dry as a ‘ambone that’s been ’angin’ ’undred years in the rotten pantry,’ grumbles Tiny, disappointed. ‘They don’t understand ’ow to make the most of their big moments in this country. It’s somethin’ I’ve been experimentin’ with for years.’
‘What have you been experimenting with?’ asks Porta, in astonishment.
‘’Ores an’ orgies, of course,’ answers Tiny, irritably. ‘When you’re goin’ to arrange an orgie the first things to lay on are buckets o’ wollop an’ a bunch o’ itchy-arsed bints. It’s best if the bints roll up about an hour’s time after the boys’ve filled their gut. Me an’ a mate o’ mine ’ad a quiet place at Hein Hoyer Strasse, 19. The shack belonged to the Yid fur bloke, Leo, properly, but ’e nipped off smart when Adolf started comin’ round the bleedin’ mountain. Even though ’e was always dressed in black, ’e wasn’t a bit like Reichs-’Eini’s black boys, an’, of course, there ain’t no really normal people as are!’
‘You’ll answer for those opinions, Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt! Your cup will soon be filled to overflowing!’ shouts Heide solemnly.
‘Must’ve run over long ago,’ replies Tiny, consideringly. ‘All them reports you’re goin’ to put in I reckon there’ll be a big paper shor
tage when we get back. But just give your jaw a rest for a bit, Julius. Stick a couple o’ bullets in your ear-’oles and think of somethin’ else. Well, when we started ’avin orgies we didn’t understand it much and just pulled in passin’ crumpet off the street. This meant we only got casual customers,’ continues Tiny. ‘There was even some as asked for credit. A bleedin’ nit from Bolivia wandered in one night straight from the bleedin’ jungle. ’E thought it was all free an’ we ’ad to throw ’im out.
‘“Cerdo, cerdo,” ’e ’owls from the other side o’ the road, and we thought this was some kind o’ political party cry at first. But soon as we found out that it meant “swine”, we rung over to the boys at Davids Strasse. “There’s a pointy-’eaded bastard from South America down on the street shoutin’ ‘Adolf, cerdo! Adolf, cerdo!’”, we said.
‘“That’s nice,” says the desk-man, with the sleep still in ’is eyes. “’Ope ’e keeps on with it!”
‘“What’s it mean then?” we ask ’im
‘“Look it up in a Spanish dictionary,” ’e suggests. “Probably the Spanish for ‘Eil!’”.
‘But they must’ve looked it up for themselves,’ continues Tiny, ‘cause they was all there with blue lights, truncheons, the lot, in under seven bleedin’ minutes. That “cerdo” bleedin’ Indian got whipped off quicker’n the devil takin’ a nun off on Easter mornin’!’
‘Pick up your arms! Single file after me!’ orders Oberleutnant Moser.
A couple of miles further on we are fired on from the darkness of the forest. A rain of bullets cuts the bark from the trees around us, ricochets plow channels in the frozen snow. The moon hides behind a cloud. The impenetrable darkness is split by flashes from hand-weapons.
Tiny has taken up position with the LMG behind a large fir. He is firing whenever he sees a muzzle-flash.
‘Move, boy!’ he snarls at the Professor. ‘Don’t you know we’re fightin’ for Newropa an’ lebensraum! Untermensch must be wiped out to make room for more Germans!’
The firing dies away slowly and the sound of running feet can be heard disappearing into the forest. Frozen twigs snap loudly.
‘Sections space out!’ orders the Oberleutnant. ‘No. 2 Section take the lead. The enemy will try to split us at the break in the woods but we’ve got to get through. All wounded will be taken with us. If a single one is left behind I’ll have every NCO court-martialled. I hope I have made myself perfectly clear?’
The company advances in open order. We are continually forced to take cover from furious bursts of MG fire. Why not surrender? On the Eastern Front nobody surrenders.
Three men from No. 4 are wounded. Unteroffizier Lehnart gets his knee plowed open by an explosive bullet. He cannot stand on the leg, but we make him a support out of a carbine tied tightly to it so that the butt serves him as a foot. He groans loudly at every step, but it’s better than being left lying in the snow.
It’s unbelievable what a human being can endure. We have often observed this with wounded men. Leutnant Gilbert walked several miles holding his entrails in place with his hands. Oberschütz Zöbel crawled across a ploughed field with a smashed hip. Pioneer Blaske hobbled to the main dressing station with his whole face shot away and one leg crushed. Not to speak of Hauptfeldwebel Bauer, who dragged himself to the doctors with both feet hanging around his neck on a string. He thought they could be sewn on again. Fahnenjunker West, his father was a general by the way, lay out in no-man’s-land for three days, spitted on the posts of the barbed-wire with his lungs hanging out of his back expanding and contracting like great balloons. Porta and I brought him in. He lived four days at the dressing station. I could go on and on like this.
We have become experienced veterans, although most of us are no more than twenty-two. We know all about how to kill people. We know, too, whether or not a wounded man will make it. We have a name for every way in which a man can be wounded: Full lung perforation, lung penetration, flesh wound, belly perforation, explosive scrapes, infantry stab, grenade lesions, disjointing shot. We have sixty different names for the various kinds of head wound. Our anatomical knowledge is astounding. In a clearing in the forest a halt is called to get the company together. Signals Feldwebel Bloch has had his shoulder torn open by a ricochet. The bleeding is ugly. With the help of a sling Sanitäts-soldat Tafel manages to stop the bleeding. He works quickly and professionally. Tiny helps him, handing him the required instruments. He sews up the wound with skilled fingers.
‘You’ll be all right now, Herr Feldwebel,’ he says moodily, as he finishes dressing the shoulder.
‘You’re quite a bleedin’ bone carpenter,’ exclaims Tiny, astonished.
‘You might say that,’ answers Tafel, looking away. Tafel came to the unit straight from Germersheim.
‘I mean like a real doctor feller as can turn an honest copper fixin’ up a singed prick that’s been out ploughin’ up the open market,’ continues Tiny.
‘All right then!’ snaps Tafel, irritated.
‘Are you a real doctor with diplomas an’ university degrees an’ all that?’ shouts Tiny enthusiastically.
‘Yes, I am! So what? Now I’m a Sanitätsgefreiter and that’s enough of that.’
‘Porta,’ screams Tiny. ‘Our bleedin’ Sani’s a real gut-scraper. Come an’ take a look at ‘im. Some unit we got!’
‘If you’re a real doctor, why the hell aren’t you an officer?’ asks Porta wonderingly. ‘What did they send you to Germersheim for?’
‘Oh, very well!’ replies Tafel unwillingly. ‘I knew you’d find out sooner or later. But I’m not going to make a public confession to you lot. You can ask me to go, and I’ll go, because there’s just one thing you can note down, and that’s the simple fact that I look after you because it’s my duty and apart from that I just couldn’t care less what happens to you!’
‘Herr Oberleutnant,’ shouts Tiny, in pretended horror. ‘Our Sani’s run his head into a newspaper. He don’t care a fart if you’re playin’ the ’arp tomorrow or not!’
‘I didn’t say that,’ says the Sani indignantly.
‘You said you couldn’t care less about us,’ Porta breaks in.
‘If it means so much to you,’ replies the Sanitäts-Gefreiter, sullenly. ‘All right; I was a doctor.’
‘Then you’re still a doctor,’ states the Old Man, puffing hard on his silver-lidded pipe.
‘I am not allowed to work as a doctor. It’s surprising they let me work as a medical orderly.’
‘Did somebody go an’ drop dead while you was pressin’ ’is bollocks?’ asks Tiny interestedly.
‘Shut up,’ snarls the Old Man, ‘You can’t understand what it’s all about anyway, that’s certain.’
‘No, thank Gawd,’ sighs Tiny happily. ‘The bleedin’ upper classes make such a lot o’ bleedin’ piss over fuck-all. Things they fix with a couple o’ loose teeth, on the Reeperbahn.’
‘Are you quite finished?’ asks Porta. ‘How you do go on!’
‘I had a great many wealthy patients, hypochondriacs every one of them,’ continues Tafel, wearily. ‘After a while they began to irritate me. An upper class lady had invented some of the most mysterious illnesses. I sent her to Bad Gastein to get rid of her and gave her a sealed letter to my colleague and friend, the doctor at the health resort. He is also a medical orderly now.’
‘Did you give her the letter to take with her?’ gasps Porta. ‘You must’ve been out of your bloody mind!’
‘Clear as mud,’ chortles Tiny, pleased. ‘This old mare’s gone ’ome fast as ’er pumps could carry ’er ’an steamed the bleedin’ letter open. Who wouldn’t? Everybody wants to know what’s wrong with ’em.’
‘What the devil did you put in it?’ asks Stege.
‘It was foolish, but I was so annoyed with the bitch that I wrote to my friend: Herewith Europe’s most hopeless case of malingering. There is nothing wrong with her but too much leisure and too much money. Dip her in your warm swindle bath with ten pounds of kitchen salt in
it and then pack her down in the most stinking mud you’ve got. Both she and her husband are the parasites of the age. Write her a huge bill and she will think you are a genius.’
‘Very well,’ nods Porta. ‘I don’t even need to put on my glasses. One night there’s a knock on your door, and with classic stupidity you open it instead of shinning out of the back window and over the balcony. Even a newborn babe from Weding would have known that a couple of snap-brims in leather coat were marking time outside your door.’
‘Yes,’ admits Tafel, tiredly.
‘An’ who was this psycho-dame’s feller?’ asks Tiny, with interest.
‘SS-Brigadenführer,’ answers Tafel. It sounds as if he is saying ‘Death!’
‘You’re more’n bleedin’ stupid,’ says Tiny, contemptuously. ‘They must’ve scraped you out with a bleedin’ spoon at the maternity clinic.’
‘Why didn’t you give her a trip on the banana express?’ asks Porta. ‘What d’you think she was paying you for, anyway?’
‘Leave him alone, now!’ snarls Oberleutnant Moser. ‘Let’s get a move on. The new German positions can’t be far off. There can’t be more than a day’s march to them.’
‘The cowardly swine are already in Berlin,’ says Stege, pessimistically.
‘So would we be,’ grins Porta, ‘If we’d had the chance.’ No. 3 Section is sent out on reconnaissance. They curse bitterly as they disappear across the creaking snow.
‘Maybe they’ll go in the wrong direction,’ says Barcelona, listlessly, ‘and walk deeper and deeper into the snow.’
‘West is always right for us,’ answers Porta, sawing a piece of a long Russian loaf which is frozen to the hardness of iron. He shares it out amongst those closest in the leading section.
A recruit stretches out his hand.
