by Sven Hassel
The Old Man sends up a flare, and containers begin to fall from the machine.
Two other aeroplanes come roaring out of the snow-haze, circle for a moment above us, and literally shovel their containers out one after the other.
‘They seem in a hurry to get away again,’ says Porta, sarcastically, banging the inside of his elbow.
The last of the planes swings about uncertainly. One of its motors splutters and backfires. The next moment it hits the earth, ploughs through the snow and turns a somersault. One of the wings flies off and flames spring up from the wreck.
‘Leave it,’ says the Old Man, shortly. ‘We couldn’t get ’em out anyway!’
A huge explosion drowns his voice, and pieces of the wreck are thrown far and wide.
‘That bang must’ve made ’em get up off their arses far away as Murmansk, says Tiny, shocked. He throws a piece of the wing away from him across the lake.
We have just managed to finish collecting the dropped material together when a volley of shots comes from the forest. We rush to take cover and get ready to fight.
The shots go off in volleys, but oddly enough we do not hear the whistle of the bullets.
‘It’s only the frost,’ grins Porta, ‘cracking the trees.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Adolf wouldn’t like seeing his heroes get frightened at such a little thing!’
The Old Man chases us and shares the heavy stores between us. The officer guests accept their burdens unwillingly.
Suddenly we stop and look in fear towards the north, where the whole of the horizon seems to be on fire. Thin streaks of flame shoot in bunches across the sky and change in a moment to green, red, white tongues of light, which die out and then grow up again. Each second we expect to hear the roar of explosions but not a sound reaches us.
Even Porta’s reindeer snuffles in surprise and looks, blinking, towards the northern sky.
In slow-motion the lances of light change to long, gleaming, glassy rods, like those which hang from an antique chandelier.
The glittering rods dance all around the horizon, turning slowly from white to red-gold, then change suddenly to waves of fire which chase one another across the heavens. Far out over the White Sea new lightnings flash. It seems as if the whole world is coming to an end in a volcanic explosion of colour. Around us it is as light as on the brightest of sunny days.
Suddenly everything goes black. It is as if a black velvet cloak had been thrown over us.
The reindeer snuffles and stamps the ground with its forefeet.
The lights come rushing across the sky, even more violently than before, and directly towards us.
Quickly we take cover in the snow. The strange phenomenon wheels away from us and disappears out over the sea. The snow gleams and glitters as if strewn with millions of diamonds,
‘Fantastic,’ mumbles the Old Man, fascinated.
‘What’s doin’ it?’ asks Tiny, with respect in his voice.
‘It’s quite natural,’ says Heide, who, as always, knows all about it.
‘If that’s God playin’ games, a man could easy go and get religious,’ mumbles Tiny, uncertainly.
The Old Man orders an igloo to be built. Nobody protests. Everybody is looking forward to getting under cover and having a few hours’ rest. The moon hangs in the sky like a huge glowing disc in the midst of all the green and red. Its light is pale, but bright as an acetylene lamp which is about to explode. On the horizon clouds appear. At first they are the steely blue of icebergs then, suddenly, they light up as if studded with sapphires. The snow becomes a sheet of crackling silver foil, completely blinding us.
‘This on its own’s worth the whole trip,’ cries Barcelona in amazement.
‘It’s the Northern Lights,’ explains Heide, instructively.
‘Makes me think of a pub in Davidsstrasse called “The Northern Lights”,’ says Tiny. ‘The nobs used to come there to take a gander at the natives. Part of the round trip they used to call “Hamburg bei Nacht”. Me ’n’ old “Bannister Monkey” ran into three ’igh-class bints as was sittin’ waitin’ for a real good Reeperbahn bang. We squeezed down between ’em an’ begun to feel ’em up, the way we always used to in “The Northern Lights”.’
‘Can’t you talk anything but filth?’ hisses Heide, scandalised.
‘Stick your fingers in your ears an’ keep your mouth shut,’ advises Tiny. ‘It’s accordin’ to the spirit of your Führer! The one I’d fished up was named Gloria and she looked it too. On the way out to Blankenese we fell out with the taxi-driver, a spaghetti-German from Innsbruck, who didn’t like us throwin’ bottles out of the window. As we turned the corner into Fischermarkt we thought it was time ’e took a bath so we threw ’im into the Elbe. To save ’im the trouble of walkin’, over on the other side, we pushed the taxi after ’im, after settin’ the meter back to zero so’s the ride was free.
The last part of the trip we done in a police car a couple of Schupo’s ’ad left parked in a side street. We give it the lot, siren, blue lights an’ all. The bints was crazy with it. It was the first time they’d ever been for a ride in a police car.
‘Gloria ’ad a smashin’ place with a lovely big lawn with cows on it to keep down the grass. She said the cows was English and was more racially pure’n most Germans was. One of ’em tried to ’ook me, so I grabbed it by the ’andlebars and swung it round as if it wasn’t no more’n a consumptive goat. Gloria goes into a Wagner act and sets a vicious, bleedin’ Dobermann on me, but I got a ’old of ’im an’ sent ‘im on the longest airtrip ’e’d ever ’ad. Then she bit me. ‘Avin’ no dog any more, I suppose she felt she’d better do the job ’erself. Well after a bit we got ’er quietened down and nipped into ’er monkey’s nest.
‘We struggled up a spiral staircase an’ down a long passage like the tunnels under an old fort. All over the place there was pictures of ’ungry-lookin’ skeletons fuckin’ away so ’ard steam was coming out o’ their arseholes!
‘“Classical reproductions from Pompeii,” explained Gloria, as if it was the Kaiser’s bollocks preserved in spirit she was showin’ off.
‘“Gawdl ’Ow long was you there?” I asked ’er, thinkin’ it was some sort of a brothel where perversions was their speciality.
‘“Dope,” she snarled, with the charm of an adder. “They’re from the time of the Romans!”
‘“Did they used to fuck then, too?” asks “Monk”, showin’ what a dumb shit ’e was.
‘They started pourin’ glasses o’ port ’n’ sherry, but me an’ “Monk” didn’t fancy it so we nipped down to the Elbe and got us a box o’ Löwenbräu, and then we got goin’.
‘Gloria was whinin’, with passion tannin’ out of ’er ear’oles, but just as I’m goin’ to throw meself on to ’er she’s over an’ up the other end o’ the bed like a shot. That bed was big enough to’ve took drivin’ lessons on it in a lorry.
‘“Why are you so primitive?” she sighed, slingin’ down ’alf a port. Then she started takin’ off ’er clothes bit by bit, like they do in Café Lausen when the peasants come in from the marshes of a Saturday. When she’d finished she pointed ’er legs at the ceilin’ and started wagglin”er flamin’ toes.
‘I was on me way into ’er old gondola when she kicked me straight out o’ bed and started givin’ me a lecture on ’ow us Germans was a cultured people. It was that solemn I come near to standin’ up an’ givin’ the Fihrer’s salute with me prick.’
Well did she hit you in the balls with a hammer? Or pour vitriol on your cock?’ asks Porta, with a lascivious grin.
‘No, better’n that,’ answers Tiny, bursting into a roar of laughter. ‘One of ’er eyes was a glass ’un, an’ she could pop it right out so’s you could see inside ’er ’ead.’
‘“Like me to blink it off for you?” she asked, pullin’ at me old pud.’
‘Stop it, you filthy-mouthed swine,’ roars the Old Man, with every sign of disgust.
‘A pig like that to be allowed to wear the honoure
d uniform of Germany!’ rages Heide, turning disgustedly away.
The two officer guests look at one another in silence, and think about the Army to which they belong.
‘Did you really get it blinked off?’ asks Porta, curiously, after a long, painful silence.
‘She wanted to,’ answers Tiny, without a sign of shame.
‘You were taking a big risk,’ muses Porta. ‘Think if you’d got her pregnant and she’d had a kid with a glass eye in the middle of its forehead! They’d have charged you with racial pollution!’
In the course of the night the wind has dropped, and the sun, just above the horizon, is so big and red that it seems as if a man could touch it just by stretching out his arm.
The Old Man spreads a green army handkerchief out in a hollow in the snow.
‘Piss on it,’ he says to Porta.
‘Why not?’ grins Porta, and empties his bladder on to the handkerchief. Slowly it changes colour from green to white with a reddish tinge.
The Old Man stretches the handkerchief out on the stub of a tree, looks through the sighting mechanism of the special compass, twists the adjusting screw a few times, and finally presses both sides of the instrument. A narrow green tape appears at the top, by the adjusting screw. He tears it across, breaks off the top edge, makes a square frame of the tape, and lays the compass in the middle of the square. The colour of the handkerchief is now rose, like the piping on our uniforms. He notes some figures down from the compass, and looks up at the sun, which is about to disappear. Then he clips the handkerchief firmly to the frame.
‘I’ll be damned,’ cries Porta, in astonishment. ‘Is my piss so strong it can make a snot-rag go all different colours?’
Without replying, the Old Man twists the noses from two cartridges, and blows gun-powder across the handkerchief until it completely covers it. He waits a few minutes and then blows it away.
He places the compass in the top right hand corner and presses a tiny screw. The compass throws a sharp blue light over the handkerchief, which has now become a topographical map on which even the tiniest insertion can be read. When the material is lighted from below he can read the name of the objective for our top-secret mission.
‘Nova Petrovsk,’ he says, shortly, rising to his feet.
‘Where the hell’s that?’ asks Barcelona. ‘I’ve never even heard of it!’
‘Plenty more haven’t either,’ says the Old Man, drily. ‘Nova Petrovsk is so secret it’s never officially existed. Abwehr51 has its information from Russian V-men.† There is no town, only a huge camp, camouflaged to look like a forest, with a defence zone 100 kilometres in depth. If you are found inside that area without permission it’s good-bye to life. Our job is so GEKADOS52 that only the top officers on Canaris’s staff know about it. The rockets the supply-planes dropped us are of a completely new design. Nothing concerning them must fall into the hands of the enemy. I imagine I have made myself clear enough?’
‘Us Germans are a bright lot,’ says Tiny. ‘We rub our ’eads up an’ down the wall an’ out comes something like that ’andkerchief trick. I’ll bet both my bollocks that if the neighbours catch us they’ll blow their noses all over that snot-rag without ever findin’ out they’re wipin’ their ’orn on the German GEKADOS job of the century.’
‘Are there mines where we’re goin’?’ asks Barcelona, with fear in his voice. Since that time in the minefield he has been neurotic about mines.
‘Course there’s bloody mines,’ answers the Old Man, gruffly. ‘What did you think there’d be? Whatever you do, walk in the front man’s tracks. Our lives can depend on a step an inch to the wrong side . . . If one of you treads on a mine it won’t only be him that goes up but half the section with him.’
‘Mines aren’t nearly as dangerous as people think they are,’ says Feldwebel Schröder, with a superior expression.
‘You sound off like you knew what you were talking about,’ Barcelona answers him. ‘I’ve been blown up three times, that high I could’ve tickled Jesus’s footsoles, and I know what mines are!’
‘And you they made a Feldwebel,’ jeers Schröder.
Barcelona is about to go for him, but the Old Man steps smartly between them.
‘When we’ve blown this shit away you can cut one another’s throats all you want. Until then save your energy! This is the most dangerous and serious action we’ve ever gone on. Now there’s three hours’ rest, and stoke up on the rations. There’ll be neither food nor rest from the minute we march out of here till we’ve smashed that bloody camp.’
We dig ourselves in in the snow. Away from the icy wind, which sweeps across the snowy waste with a long drawn out, melancholy sound.
Porta opens some tins and shares out the contents between us.
‘The rockets’ll be released with the help of a launcher which is in that green case,’ explains the Old Man. He holds up one of the new rockets, so that we can all see it. ‘Listen closely,’ he continues, ’you too, Tiny! If you make a balls of it with one of these there won’t be as much as a button left. You turn this dial to the left and stop at the figure 5. Push it up until it clicks. Turn the dial to the figure 9. Push it in and turn it back to figure 5. Now the rocket is armed, and nothing can stop it exploding in five hours time. The rubber gadget on the top of the rocket is a suction cup, which attaches itself to the object hit. If anyone attempts to pull it loose the rocket will explode in that person’s hands. As soon as all the rockets have been fired the launching apparatus will be destroyed. Nothing, not the slightest fragment, must fall into the hands of our neighbours! If you should happen to be surprised whilst preparing for the launch, pull out this pin and one second later you and the rocket will have been blown to atoms! Understood?’
‘The bleedin’ Army’s got us by the balls all right,’ says Tiny, apathetically. ‘Now they’ve got us committin’ suicide by numbers!’
‘Life is a throw of the dice,’ sighs Porta. We’re shooting for a six every single day!’
‘I won’t pull any pin out,’ says Gregor with certainty. ‘The fellow who does that is, to my mind, the dumb cluck of the world. The safest way to live through a war is to meet up at the enemy’s place with something top secret in your pocket!’
‘Wouldn’t it be a better bet to go straight over to Ivan and pass ’im the lot, an’ fuck the Fatherland!’ suggests Tiny.
‘High treason!’ howls Heide, furiously.
Leutnant Schnelle shakes his head, and moves pointedly away from Tiny and Gregor.
‘Each group will be issued with three rockets and a homing device,’ continues the Old Man. ‘You will inform me, by radio, as soon as the rockets are armed and ready to fire, and I will fire them. Once more: turn only to the left and remember you must hear the click. If it does not click, or you turn the dial to the right, the whole lot’ll go off in your hands! Did you understand, Tiny?’
‘Completely,’ Tiny assures him, knocking his knuckles on his forehead. ‘It’s chiselled into me bonce for ever an’ ever amen! Instructions on explosives I listen to, mate!’
‘I bloody well hope so,’ laughs Porta, ’or it’s good-bye for now, see you later!’
‘Let’s get going,’ says the Old Man, working the bolt of his machine-pistol. ‘No smoking whatever permitted!’
Every now and then a blue flash lights up the sky above the forest. The sound of engines grows louder and louder.
In the course of the night we creep past the outer A-A positions. We are so close to them we can smell their machorka. ‘Mines,’ warns the Old Man, lifting his hand as a signal to us to take even greater precautions.
The Legionnaire takes a mineprobe from his pack and offers it to Feldwebel Schroder with a sarcastic smile.
‘peau de vache, this must be just the job for you,’ he whispers, wickedly.
Schröder shakes his head nervously, and withdraws a pace.
‘I have no experience of that kind of thing!’
‘Then keep your blasted mouth shut a
nother time when somebody’s talking about mines,’ growls Barcelona, tautly.
‘Cuillon,’ snarls the Legionnaire, jeeringly, and works a wooden mine carefully from the snow. ‘Come death, come . . .’ he hums, while Tiny cuts the cables.
The Old Man turns on the blue compass light and measures the distance on the chart. ‘The V-men’s information’s dead right!’
Step by step the section works its way through the mined area. The least mistake and a roaring explosion will tear us to bits.
Fähnrich Tamm nearly steps on a string but the Legionnaire grabs his foot and puts it down gently alongside the innocentappearing cord.
‘You bloody cow,’ the Old Man rates him. ‘My God, to think of being burdened with a moron like that!’
‘Par Allah,’ hisses the Legionnaire. ‘Do that once more and I will take your life with my cord.’
Out in the darkness a dog barks furiously. Two others answer it from further away.
‘Bloody dogs,’ curses Gregor. ‘I’ll kick their curs’ arses for ’ern if they come here!’
A spotlight goes on. A finger of light searches over the snow, stopping at intervals. It sweeps round in a wide half-circle, turns suddenly back, and stops, just before it reaches me. Paralysed with fear I press my body into the snow and await a deadly MG salvo. The guards shout reassuringly to one another. We know how they feel. Sentry-go in the dark is frightening for anybody. When a sentry is killed at his post it happens so quickly that he hardly knows he is dead, before it is a fact.
We crawl the last part, and despite the heavy equipment we are dragging with us, we pass through the defences quickly. No sound of treacherous metal against metal is heard, to warn the sentries in the darkness.
Lorry after lorry rolls through the two great wooden doors of the fortress-like depot camp. Field lamps shine briefly as the NKVD guards check the lorries’ papers. Nobody gets into this place without high-priority authorisation.
‘Ivan’s on his toes all right,’ whispers Porta, tensely. ‘They don’t even trust their own coolies!’
