Monte Cassino

by Sven Hassel

  "Get out of here," he called. Then he leaned exhaustedly against the front of the tank. "Got a mouthful of water? They've wiped out the whole of my lot." He drank greedily from Heide's water-bottle.

  "Come now," said the Old Man reassuringly. "You've been seeing things. Tell us what's happened."

  "Tell?" the feldwebel gave a tired laugh. "All at once they were behind us, in front of us, over us, swarms of tanks and Jabos. In ten minutes my unit had gone, crushed in their foxholes by the tracks. They aren't taking prisoners, just shooting the wounded. I saw one group surrender, engineers from my own division they were. They snuffed them out with their flame-throwers."

  "Which is your Division?" the Old Man asked steadily.

  "16th Panzer. 46th Panzer grenadiers."

  "And where are your 46th grenadiers?"

  "In hell."

  "The tram for Berlin stops just round the corner," Porta said with a malicious grin. "You'll probably get a seat on the back if you hurry. I've been told that Adolf's driving it."

  "You'll soon be laughing on the other side of your face," said the feldwebel angrily. In three days there won't be a live German soldier in Italy."

  "Oh, rot," said the Old Man.

  "Best start up your old crate and bugger off," the feldwebel suggested.

  "Can't do that," Porta said with a sorrowful smile.

  "Haven't you any petrol?"

  "Masses, but Adolf said we weren't to. And we're good little boys, who always do what they're told."

  "Arse-holes," was the reply. "You should have seen our freshwater-salts, who were supposed to hold the coastal forts. They were roasted by the first Jabos with napalm. Our grenadiers chucked their shooting irons away

  and tickled the soles of the angels' feet, but the Yankees haven't time to take prisoners. They just lay you flat."

  "How many times have you shat your pants since you saw your first Coca-cola drinkers," Porta asked sarcastically.

  Leutnant Frick walked up to us, a wry smile on his face. He had heard Porta's remark to the agitated feldwebel.

  "How many tanks have you seen, Feldwebel, and what type were they?" he asked quietly. He produced a map and spread it out on the Panther's fore-hatch. "Show me where you last saw them."

  The feldwebel bent over the map, casting a nervous glance towards the South. It was obvious that he was wanting to bolt and cursing himself for having stopped and spoken to us. Now he was caught.

  "We were in positions north of Bellona. They were across the Volturno before we even realised what was happening."

  "But they couldn't have got across without a bridge," Leutnant Frick protested.

  "Herr Leutnant, I don't suppose you'll believe me, but they drove across."

  Thoughtfully Frick lit a cigarette. "You saw tanks crossing the river?"

  "Yes, and trucks, Herr Leutnant."

  "Ordinary military trucks?"

  "Yes, Herr Leutnant, big trucks and the river's deep, I know."

  "Partisans," said Frick, thinking aloud. "Under water bridges. A fine mess." He looked at the feldwebel searchingly. "And once they were across, you did a bolt."

  "It was all so quick, Herr Leutnant. They crushed every single man in the fox-holes. And they're not taking prisoners."

  "How many tanks were there?"

  "Several hundred, Herr Leutnant."

  Porta guffawed. "You're confusing tanks and foot-sloggers, you idiot!"

  "Just wait till they come along and blow that yellow tile off your dome. I was at Stalingrad, but I've never seen war like this."

  Frick held out a cigarette, smiling. "Take a deep breath and think. Where were all these hundreds of tanks?"

  "In Alvignano."

  Frick consulted the map.

  "Were they all in the village?" Porta asked spitefully. "It must be a bloody great village. How many tanks can you see here? A thousand? Are you quite sure you haven't come from Rome and are bolting in the wrong direction?"

  "Shut your mouth," the feldwebel snarled furiously. "There were so many we couldn't count them."

  This was a familiar phenomenon. The infantry always saw double, when they were ridden down by tanks. In all probability the feldwebel had seen twenty-five tanks and not one more. With wide, staring eyes, he explained to Leutnant Frick how these numbers of tanks had wound in and out among the houses in the village, shooting down all living creatures. It was obvious that the man had been through hell.

  "Come now, Beier. We must go forward and see what's happening. And you, feldwebel, show me the way," ordered Leutnant Frick.

  "Yes, but, Herr Leutnant, the American gangsters are in the village now," he said.

  "We'll go and see," Leutnant Frick said.

  "Herr Leutnant. There are Japanese too, with Samurai swords."

  Leutnant Frick laughed quietly and fanned some dust off the cross that hung round his neck. He was the most dapper officer in the division. His black panzer uniform was always immaculately clean, his tall boots shone so that you could see yourself in them. His left sleeve was empty. He had lost that arm at Kiev, crushed by the turret-hatch, when his tank was hit by a 4-inch shell. He turned to the rest of us.

  "Two volunteers to come with us."

  The Legionnaire and I stepped forward. We had to, for we took it in turn to volunteer. I swung the light machine gun over my shoulder and we got down into the ditch. Leutnant Frick went first.

  II

  We were in Milan being re-equipped. We drifted round while the others did the work. We threw our weight about in Biffi and Gran Italia, having rows with officers of different nationalities. They couldn't stand us, because we smelted of death and talked in vulgarly loud voices, but we made friends with Radi, the waiter. He composed our menus. That was at Biffi opposite La Scala. In the galleries and terrace cafes we drank fresa, which has a wonderful taste of strawberries.

  Heide and Barcelona had a fit of megalomania. They went to La Scala every night. They thought that was the right thing to do, for anybody who was anybody in Milan went there.

  I fell in love. You do, when you drink fresa at one of the small tables in the galleries. She was twenty. I wasn't much older. Her father kicked her out, when he found us in bed; but when he saw my uniform he turned pleasant. It was the same with most people in Europe in those days, at all events as long as we were within sight and hearing, they were as pleasant as could be.

  I decided I was going to desert, but unfortunately I got drunk on fresa again with its lovely taste of strawberries and confided in Porta, After that they would not let me go out alone any more. Deserting was a stupidity that could have unpleasant repercussions on one's friends.

  We played a football match with an Italian infantry team. The game was a draw because both spectators and the two teams began fighting.

  When they chucked us out of Biffi's, we fornicated behind the pillars in the galleries and then drank ourselves silly with the ack-ack gunners on the roof.

  People said there was a lot of unrest in Milan, but we never noticed any. Perhaps that was because we were drinking chianti and fresa with the partisans.

  When Biffi closed, we often went back to Radi's. He lived in a basement that had patches of damp on the walls and springs protruding from the mouldy seats of the chairs.

  Radi would take off his shoes and pour mineral water over his feet. He said it helped them.

  PANZER ATTACK

  We could hear violent gunfire to the southwest--the wicked, sharp reports of tank-guns mingled with the uninterrupted barking of machine guns; flashes and flames spurted up beyond the trees.

  An amphibian came lurching along the road, braking so fiercely that it skidded sideways for quite a distance. Even before it stopped, a colonel with the red stripes of the General Staff had leaped from it, spattered all over with mud. The edelweiss in his beret showed that he belonged to the Mountain Brigade.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he called excitedly. "Are you from the 16th?"

  "Forward reconnais
sance, Herr Oberst," Leutnant Frick answered. "No. 2 Troop, 5th Squadron, Special Duties Panzer Regiment."

  "Panthers," the colonel exclaimed delightedly. "Just at the right moment. Where have you got your crates?"

  "In the woods, Herr Oberst."

  "Splendid, Leutnant. Bring them up and bowl the gangsters over. Get the old goloshes moving, gentlemen. The Division was to be pulled out, but forget that."

  Leutnant Frick clicked his heels together.

  "Very sorry, Herr Oberst, but it's not as easy as that. I have first to investigate what's going on. Then I must report my observations to my Company Commander. A tank, Herr Oberst, cannot attack blindly. Excuse me, Herr Oberst, I'm not trying to teach you your business."

  "I should hope not, my dear fellow or I'll have something to teach you." The colonel's voice boomed. It was a voice accustomed to command.

  Leutnant Frick studied his map.

  "There should be a bridge here, Herr Oberst, but can it take the weight of our 50-ton Panthers?"

  "Of course," the colonel stated with the utmost self-assurance. "Our assault guns were driven across it several times."

  "Allow me to say, Herr Oberst, that there is an essential difference between assault artillery and a Panther tank. Fully laden, our tanks weigh nearly twice as much as an assault gun and our tracks are three times the width."

  The colonel's voice took on a dangerous, quiet note. "Let me just tell you this, Leutnant, that's nothing to do with it, but if you don't bring up your tanks pretty sharp and clear the village of the Americans, you'll have a hurricane on your hands."

  "I'm sorry, Herr Oberst, but I have orders from my regimental commander to find out what's in the village, and so I cannot carry out your order."

  "Are you out of your mind?" the colonel roared. "Your army book!"

  "I cannot show you my army book, Herr Oberst. I have no guarantee that you are what you say you are. I am Leutnant Frick, troop commander in No. 5 Squadron of Special Duties Panzer Regiment, and our regiment, Herr Oberst, comes directly under C-in-C South."

  "Now you come under me. I'm Chief of Staff of the Division in this area. I order you immediately to fetch your squadron. Refusal smacks of cowardice."

  "Herr Oberst, I cannot carry out your order."

  "Arrest that man!" the colonel roared furiously. None of us moved. He pointed to the Legionnaire.

  "Didn't you hear? Take hold of that man!"

  The Legionnaire smacked his heels together with a tired movement.

  "Je n'ai pas compris, mon commandant."

  The colonel's red, brutal face gaped.

  "What the hell's this?" He turned to me. "Arrest that officer." His amazement only increased when I answered him in Danish, gaping at him with an uncomprehending expression on my face. He was almost beside himself with fury and kicked at a stone; and when he turned back to Leutnant Frick his roar had become a shrill squeak and the words came tumbling over each other. "You, Leutnant, order your scarecrows to arrest you! Hell's bells, do something." He cursed, swore and threatened.

  All at once, Leutnant Frick had had enough. He swung his machine pistol up under his arm and ordered:

  "Reconnaissance group, single file, after me!"

  The colonel tore his pistol from its holster and his voice thundered.

  "Halt or I shoot!" It was a roar that could have stopped a division in flight. And it stopped us for a moment. Then we walked on without looking back.

  A burst of pistol shots followed.

  "Il est fou," snarled the Legionnaire, as the bullets whistled round our ears.

  The colonel was roaring savagely behind us. A fresh burst of fire pursued us.

  I glanced across my shoulder. He had gone amok. He was kicking at the amphibian; then he leaped into it, tried to start it, but it had gone on strike. He leaped out again, pistol in hand.

  "Look out!" I yelled and flung myself in the ditch. The next moment Leutnant Frick and the Legionnaire lay beside me.

  Only the strange feldwebel did not have time to fling himself flat and the entire burst hit him in the back. He collapsed with blood spurting from his mouth and his helmet rolled homeless across the road.

  "Jamals vu si con," swore the Legionnaire. "Pot him, Sven!" I pulled the LMG's legs down.

  "No," muttered Leutnant Frick. "It's murder."

  "Shut your eyes, Herr Leutnant," suggested the Legionnaire, "or comfort our dying pal there."

  I tucked the butt into my shoulder, set the visor, loaded, turned the LMG. The colonel had put a fresh magazine in his machine pistol. A rain of bullets spattered round us. His great figure was balanced neatly in my sight.

  "Nice fine bead," I grinned to the Legionnaire, but I had aimed short and the bullets spattered the road a couple of yards in front of the colonel, who gave a bellow and leaped for cover behind his car, roaring: "Mutiny!"

  A whining swish almost burst our eardrums as a shadow swept across us and we rolled into the bottom of the ditch as a Jabo straffed us. Its cannon banged and a couple of rockets registered bulls on the colonel's amphibian, flinging it away into the trees, where it was consumed in fire, leaving no more than a charred mummy of the man who had so short a while before been a colonel.

  Leutnant Frick got to his feet, shouting: "Follow me."

  I broke off half the dead feldwebel's dog-licence and took it with me. We crept right up to the village, on the outskirts of which our infantry and gunners were still running about wildly, hotly pursued by Americans drunk with victory.

  A captain landed literally in our arms, sobbing: "Finished. The regiment's wiped out. They overran all our anti-tank guns. I managed at the last moment to get out of the window of the room I was sitting in with my NCO. Hand grenades came flying round our ears. I was the only one who got out alive. The entire company office was wiped out."

  "But hadn't you put any pickets out?" Leutnant Frick asked, amazement in his voice.

  The captain tore the cap from his head.

  "We felt so safe. Yesterday evening they were 100 miles away. A couple of their regiments had been pushed back. We had some prisoners brought in from the American 142nd Infantry Regiment and they weren't worth much. We were getting ready to celebrate a victory and I had only set ordinary sentries. Our anti-tank guns were in position behind the houses with muzzle covers on, their shells packed away in the trailers."

  "But what about sentries?" Leutnant Frick asked.

  "The Amis throttled them with steel nooses." The captain sat down wearily between us. He was quite old and had white hair and was the kind that had believed in the invincibility of the German soldier right up to the moment when the Americans' Shermans overran his regiment; a learned chap, a doctor of something or other at the university in Freiburg, the kind of person who regards anyone under thirty as a child. But the twenty-year old American tank men had taught him differently. He had seen 4,000 troops go up in flames in twenty minutes and now he was sitting in a ditch being questioned by another twenty-year old, a young puppy in a black tank uniform with a decoration round his neck, who was telling him what he should have done.

  "One should never feel safe," Leutnant Frick smiled. "When I go to bed, I have my machine pistol in my arms. Your experience was a common one in Russia. War is all cunning and foul play."

  The captain regarded his iron cross from the first world war. "In '14-18 things were different. I was in the Uhlans, attached to Count Holzendorf*. I was only called-up again three months ago. This is an evil war." Leutnant Frick nodded. "And I believe we're going to lose it," the captain whispered.

  * C-C of the Austro-Hungarian army in 1914-18.

  Leutnant Frick did not answer. Instead, he watched for a moment the macabre spectacle being enacted in front of us before he let his glasses drop onto his chest.

  "What happened out there, Captain? Could you tell us quickly, we're in rather a hurry."

  The Legionnaire lit a cigarette and stuck it in Frick's mouth.

  The captain gaped.

&n
bsp; "They were just suddenly there," he resumed.

  Leutnant Frick laughed. "That I realise," he said.

  The captain looked reproachfully at the laughing lieutenant. He picked up a stick and drew in the sand.

  "I imagine they must have come in here."

  Leutnant Frick nodded. "Obviously. I would have broken in there too. Then they knocked out your guns according to the book."

  "I suppose so." He hid his face in his gloved hands. "I cannot understand how I escaped. My No. 2 lay across the table with his back torn open. He was full of promise. We had just been saying that he must come to Freiburg. He knew everything about Kant."

  Leutnant Frick laughed ironically.

  "It would have been better, if he had been a specialist in automatic cannon and lateral security. It's soldiers we need just now, not philosophers."

  The captain looked up. "There's another time coming, young man."

  "Most certainly. But in all probability you won't see it, any more than your philosopher-second-in-command."

  "Are you intending to report me for dereliction of duty," the captain asked anxiously.

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Leutnant Frick answered casually. "How many tanks do you estimate there are in the place?"

  "At least a battalion."

  "Hm," Leutnant Frick snorted. "Sounds incredible, but you must know what you've seen. But do you realise how much space a tank battalion occupies? 80 to 100 tanks plus all the accessories. It's traffic enough to make the hair of even a French policeman stand on end."

  "It was absolute slaughter," said the captain defending himself. "I saw my batman being crushed under a Sherman. He was a law student, from a good Viennese family. We had a lot of promising young men in our battalion, academically, I mean. Now they've all been killed. We had a sort of lecture-circle. The regimental commander was a university professor. We honoured the academic spirit."

  "I can't say anything about that," Leutnant Frick remarked drily. "But it seems to me, it would have been better if you had been military-minded. You might have saved half of your battalion, if you had." He brushed an imaginary grain of dust from his sparkling grand cross. "The philosophic approach is no use for commanding a battalion."