by Sven Hassel
Heide loaded his machine-pistol.
"Padre, you saw that ersatz-leutnant chuck it at my head!"
"Are you crazy, Unteroffizier Heide?" Padre Emanuel asked with well-feigned horror in his voice. "No leutnant would throw spaghetti at a subordinate's head."
Heide turned swiftly to Eagle.
"Panzerschutze Stahlschmidt, on your feet. Pull your bones together when an Unteroffizier addresses you and don't lie to me, your superior and Group-leader. There's a courtmartial with a rope on the table awaiting you, if you do. You heard what the Leutnant said?"
Eagle was shaking all over. His water bottle was full of schnaps--fell from his hands.
"Well, you down-at-heel jail-bird, did you hear what I asked?" Heide roared, excitedly.
Eagle was about to reply, when Porta banged the back of his head with the empty mess-tin.
"You heard what Heide said about the Fuhrer, didn't you, Stahlschmidt? This is the moment when you decide whose side you're on, Panzerschutze Stahlschmidt."
Eagle was deathly pale. He gulped, moistened his cracked lips with the tip of his tongue.
Heide cleared his throat impatiently, flexed his knees. Eagle had almost taken his decision, when his eyes fell on Porta, who was nursing a flame-thrower in a most significant way.
"I heard Unteroffizier Heide say that the Fuhrer was a great arse-hole."
Heide was beside himself.
"You great, fat, lousy traitor! I'll settle with you one day. Meanwhile, dream of prison, because, believe me, that's where you're going." He pointed his bayonet at him. "Stahlschmidt, I shall personally take you in chains to Torgau."
"Don't preach so much, Julius Jew-hater." Porta interrupted, prodding Heide in the stomach with the flame-thrower. "Out with those opium-sticks of yours. That perhaps will teach you not to steal peaceable people's spaghetti. In this country that's a sacred dish, that even the Pope eats."
"You're not getting a thing," Heide announced, selfassuredly and kicked at the flame-thrower.
"Aren't I?" laughed Porta and sent a jet of flame spurting over Heide's head. It was so close, we could smell singed hair.
"Stop that tomfoolery," Major Mike called, looking up for a moment from his louse-hunt.
Heide leaped behind a rock for cover.
Another jet of flame.
Heide emerged from behind the rock, blackened and with fear in his eyes.
"Stop that. Or you'll burn me!"
"Only just realised that?" said Porta with a devilish smile and got ready to give him another burst of flame. "Hand over or I'll turn you into a handful of ashes."
A roll of narcotic cigarettes came flying through the air. Porta picked them up, smelled them and gave a nod of satisfaction.
"And now you'll get me a mess-tin of spaghetti with diced pork and tomato ketchup. And I wouldn't say no to a little browned onion."
Heide capitulated, but at the same time swore by Padre Emanuel's prayer book that he would be avenged on all leutnants in the great German army. Then Mike summoned him and sent him to Divisional HQ as orderly. Objective: obtaining cigars for Major Mike.
Heide asked for more detailed instructions.
"It's not my farting business, where you get them," roared Mike. "You can pull them out of Kesselring's arse, as far as I'm concerned, but don't you dare come back without a box of cigars. And if you aren't back within six hours, I'll post you as a deserter and put the Military Police on to you."
Swearing and fulminating, Heide set off on his quest, Porta calling advice to him, as he went.
"Holy Mother of God, look at that!" Padre Emanuel was pointing up at the sky.
We looked up and refused to believe our eyes. Innumerable vapour trails were shining in the cloudless sky. An enormous swarm of bees. Only the bees were colossal bombers.
We fought for the field glasses.
"Jesus," murmured Barcelona, "there are at least a thousand! And they're American Flying Fortresses. I wouldn't like to be where they unload."
"They're B 17s," whispered Leutnant Frick fearfully and instinctively crept further into the dug-out.
Mike let a louse go, as he stared up at the sky.
"Where the hell have they come from? They're coming from the bloody North!"
We didn't realise then that that great shoal had taken off from aerodromes in England that same morning. Swarms of fighters had escorted them across France. They had ruthlessly violated the neutrality of Switzerland, where gunners in near-mediaeval helmets had shot at them without so much as scratching their paint. Our Focke-Wulffs had gone for them, but they had kept on their course. It was not for nothing we called them the Pig-headed. Their navigators were given a course at the start, and that is what they flew, even if the devil in person appeared in front of them. The twenty-four year old pilots sat in their cockpits chewing gum. Their faces were covered with oxygen masks. A couple of bomb aimers new to the game, went off their heads. One leaped out through the bomb-hatch, followed by an oath.
Hour after hour the great engines roared. They went bald-headed through a thunder storm and on into a barrage of ack-ack. They tore off their oxygen masks. The second pilot handed a thermos flask to the pilot. The navigator put five Camels in his mouth, lit them together and handed them round. They smoked as they gazed at the red notice saying "Smoking prohibited." They looked at the muzzle flashes of the 8-8's. A Focke-Wulff, its nose painted like an attacking shark, came for twenty-two year old Captain Boye-Smith's B.17.
"Get that filthy kraut," he called to his tail-gunner.
Whether it was that that tail gunner was a magnificent shot or just wonderfully lucky, at all events his first burst hit the screaming Focke-Wulff, which shot past beneath the bomber with a plume of thick smoke streaming out behind it, then reared up like a horse before an exploding shell and described a figure of eight in the air, before hurtling down to earth. It fell in the village of Pantoni, west of Firenze, killing two children and a young wife, who was washing clothes. The pilot, Baron von Nierndorf, was killed by the first spurt of flame high up in the air.
The leading arrow-head of fifty B.17's was exactly over Monte Cassino. The air roared, as a hurricane of steel was born.
"What the hell," exclaimed Mike in the act of holding a louse up for inspection.
We rolled over onto our bellies, crawled in under an overhang of rock and waited for death.
The Americans in their positions were just as surprised. GI's everywhere were diving for shelter. "Damn it, they're bombing us!"
The first rain of bombs shaved the mountain. A line of houses in the valley was blown right away. A heavy ack-ack battery, lurking behind the locomotive-sheds in Cassino, was wiped out in a second.
Then the next wave came. More bombs plummetted on to the monastery. Everything was enveloped in a venomously yellow mist. The holy mountain was enveloped in a flame-spluttering hurricane. After the B.17's came British Mitchells, so-called precision bombers that went straighter for their objective.
Wave after wave came. That night One-Eye appeared with his adjutant, Oberleutnant Hartwig, who had lost his right arm at Charkov a year before. That time, when we were fighting in the dentist's apartment.
One-Eye summoned the company commanders.
"We're disengaging tonight," he said. "But they must not notice a thing on the other side. The paratroopers are to pull out first. Then No. 1 Battalion. No. 5 Company will be the last to go. But, no matter who is here or is not here, you leave this shit here at 2.05 precisely. One group will remain. Two batteries will lay down harassing fire higher up."
"And that last group," Porta called from the background, "is of course No. 2 Group. Haven't you nearly had enough, my heroes? Rejoice, children will read of us in school. My top hat and my dentist's forceps will end in a museum."
One-Eye looked at him thoughtfully.
"As you've suggested it, Porta, so let it be. No. 2 Group."
"Will you never learn to hold your bloody tongue," said Barcelona.
Porta lobbed a
hand grenade at Eagle, who sat cowering in a corner.
"Don't look so unappreciative, you halting hero!"
The Companies peeled off at the times ordered, floating away from the positions without a sound.
"Good luck," whispered Leutnant Frick, just before he disappeared.
Major Mike patted the Old Man's shoulder.
"Be seeing you, Beier." Then the darkness swallowed him up.
Feeling somewhat nervous, we huddled behind our machine guns.
"If they get the least suspicion that our chaps have pulled out," Porta whispered, "they'll be over us in a trice."
"I'm shitting my pants with fright," Barcelona muttered.
"If they come, I'll give them one belt, but don't count on me after that," Porta said in a subdued tone of voice. "I shall run for it, and run as I've never run before. I'm not going to Texas to break stones as a defeated kraut."
The Old Man was studying his watch.
"In five minutes the artillery starts up," he whispered. "Dismantle your MG and keep yourselves in readiness. Tiny, you take the mortar."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Tiny protested. "If you want that old stove-pipe along, you can bloody well tote it yourself. The Legionnaire has given me my job. I'm taking care of the jar with the booze."
"I'm in command here, and you're taking the mortar," the Old Man said furiously. "Your brew is no concern of mine. Understand?"
"I'm not deaf," growled Tiny.
"Then repeat the order."
"What order?" Tiny was pretending to be dumb, a usual trick of his, when there was something he wanted to get out of.
The Old Man swore savagely.
"Don't play the idiot, you great bog, and listen to me. If you haven't got the mortar with you, when we get to Via Appia, I'll put you on charge."
"Come on, Old Man, show a little humanity and understanding," Tiny pleaded. "I can't lug both tie mortar and the booze."
"You take the mortar," the Old Man cut him off.
The guns began thundering. Porta took hold of the machine gun and swung it onto his shoulder. I clapped the tripod together. Barcelona helped me heave it onto my back. We divided the long cartridge belts between us. Porta blew a kiss towards the Americans.
"Good-bye, Sammy, see you later! Don't cry, when you find our dug-outs empty."
"How we love each other," grinned Barcelona genially. "Know anyone else who knocks so energetically on the door."
"That love will be the death of us," Heide said.
Noiselessly we began the climb down. A series of clattering bangs frightened us out of our wits and made us freeze to the mountain side.
"What the hell was that?" the Old Man asked in a scared voice. "Are they after us already?"
Out of the darkness came Tiny's self-satisfied voice: "Mightily beg your pardon, Old Man. That bloody mortar leaped from my hands and slipped off down the slope. It was all because you insisted I should lug it along as well as the booze."
"You didn't spill any of that?" Porta asked apprehensively.
"By the patron saint of cannon, the holy Barbara, I swear that not a drop has been lost. I'm very conscientious where valuables are concerned."
"You super-idiot!" the Old Man growled. "You're to get hold of another mortar, and it's no concern of mine where you get it from."
"I'll borrow one from Sam," Tiny answered happily. "He's lots of that shit."
Sweating, we laboured on, clinging to every jutting bit of rock. Our hands were bleeding.
"I can't do any more," I groaned. "I'm chucking the tripod."
"No need for that," Barcelona said consolingly. "Give it me."
Where a piece of rock looking like a horse's head jutted out, I eased the tripod off my back and gave it to Barcelona, getting the flame-thrower instead. It was just as heavy, but easier to deal with.
We balanced our way along a narrow ledge. There was a ridge we had to get over. Tiny was lying on his face a bit further up. He had tied his feet to a tree. He reached down a hand: with a quick jerk he heaved me up. Barcelona came after me. Then Porta. One after the other.
"Strong aren't I," Tiny boasted. "You'd have gone on your arses without me." He threw a stone into the chasm. We heard it rolling and bouncing down through the dark. "Hell of a long way to the bottom," Porta muttered.
A star shell soared up. We flung ourselves behind cover, tried to merge with the ground. The slightest movement meant death.
Slowly the glaring light died away. Guns were rumbling in the east. That was Castellona, height 771. We did not know it, but it was the beginning of the American's break through. The 168th US infantry regiment overran our 139th. At the same time the US 142nd settled the hash of our 200 Panzergrenadiers.
There was roaring and flashing all round the horizon. Hundreds of guns were spitting fire. Blood flowed in torrents.
"Take up your arms," the Old Man ordered. "Single file--follow me!"
The Company had dug itself in between some houses. Tiny set the great jar of booze carefully on the ground.
"Shall I open the bar?" he asked the Legionnaire.
The Legionnaire nodded. A door was torn from its hinges and placed across two drums. Mugs were arranged neatly. Porta seated himself on a shell, produced a medium sized cash-box and an altar bell. Tiny took up position behind him, a flame-thrower in his hands. Our new minstrel put his trumpet to his lips and blew the Assembly.
Inquisitive heads popped up from the various shell-holes.
Mike came striding up, a large cigar in his mouth, for Heide had returned with what he had been ordered to get.
"What the hell are you up to? Stop that trumpeting. The Americans know an assembly call when they hear one, too. You might bring them over here."
"Haven't anything against American customers," Porta said. "Dollars are hard currency."
"Don't put on airs," said Mike. "You've never even seen a greenback."
Without saying a word, Porta thrust his hand into the top of his boot and pulled out two fat bundles of dollar notes.
Mike's jaw fell. For a moment he was dumb with amazement.
"Where the hell did you get those freckles from?" he exclaimed.
"From General Ryder's and General Walker's boys. We happened to meet behind the monastery and I convinced them that they had no further use for this dough."
"You know perfectly well that foreign currency has to be handed in to your Company Commander or the NSFO,* don't you?"
*Nationalsozialistischer Fursorgeoffizier (political).
Porta put the money back in his boot, smiling craftily.
"Yes, Herr Major, I know that. I and our NSFO are good friends." He gave a little cough and held a miniature spy's camera up for us to see. "And this little box is the reason why. I am quite crazy about photography, only I can never remember where I put the films. A couple of days ago I happened to snap our NSFO while he was busy seducing a very young Italian boy. We had a bit of a chat about the film afterwards, and we agreed that it would not be an awfully good thing, if it got to Prinz Albrecht Strasse."
Mike whistled and gazed intently at Porta's boots.
"Suppose I put in a report about the boy and the film?" he said in honeyed tones.
Porta grinned unconcernedly.
"As would only be your duty, Herr Major. But remember that every report must go through the Divisional Commander, General-Major Mercedes, and I wouldn't like to be there, when a report for the RSHA lands on One-Eye's desk. If it got through successfully, it would go on to a chap I've never met, but I've heard a lot about him. He can't stand the black boys of Prinz Albrecht Strasse either, but perhaps you know him personally? I mean Herr Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring. Who knows if he's not another who's changed his name, like the famous Herr von Manstei, who, so I've heard, used to be called Lichtenstein."
Heide spat.
"Was his first name by any chance Nathan?"
Porta shrugged.
"If it was, that'll explain why he changed it. It's not a name
that is exactly popular these days."
Mike leaped forward. He would gladly have gone for Porta's throat. His cigar jerked from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"One day you'll dangle, Porta," he prophesied kindly, and in his mind's eye saw Porta's body swaying from a cork-oak beside the Via Appia.
Major Mike looked tired. He sat down heavily on the bottom of the trench, using Eagle's helmet for a chair, which the latter politely pushed under his broad backside.
"A drink, Herr Major?" Porta enquired with a neutral smile.
The major emptied the mug at one draught. It was 88 per cent rice spirit. He got to his feet, broad and tall, and slowly put a fresh cigar between his teeth. Eagle lit it obsequiously.
The major did not even look at him. He fingered the machine pistol that hung on his chest, and smiled a rather forced smile.
"Porta, you should have been chief of staff. You'd give even marshals stripes on their bottoms."
"Oh, hell, Herr Major. I'm the same as that marine from Texas, a simple soldier who has learned to safeguard himself in all directions. My motto is: regard everyone as a limb of satan till the opposite is proved, and it very seldom is."
Major Mike drew a deep breath, almost swallowing his cigar.
"Once more, Porta, you would look well at the end of a rope."
Porta shrugged.
"You know yourself, Herr Major, one piece of decoration does not make a Christmas tree."
The major disappeared muttering something incomprehensible. We only caught the word "bugger".
Porta began ringing his altar bell wildly and bellowing:
"Bar's open. Bar's open."
They came in clusters and formed a queue.
"Mug in the right hand, money in the left! Payment to be made just before pouring!"
The price differed though the measure was always the same. An SS-Oberscharfuhrer had to fork out more than a Panzeroberfeldwebel. On the other hand, a battalion clerk had to pay twice what had been exacted from the Oberscharfuhrer.
Twice Tiny had to come into action and prevent a fight. One blow on the back of the head with his flamethrower restored peace. Then in the middle of it all they were over us. Without our noticing a thing, the brownburnoused Moroccans had cut the throats of our pickets. They came leaping down the cliff, firing at us from three sides.
