Guns At Cassino

by Leo Kessler

  `Young soldiers,' he said softly to Schulze, following close behind him, a sack of stick grenades around his neck. Schulze nodded.

  `Easy meat, sir,' he agreed. 'What's the drill?'

  Von Dodenburg grinned despite the unease nagging at him.

  `The easiest, you big Hamburg clown. We'll go straight in, as if we belonged. You,' he swung round on the Creeper, who crouched, Schmeisser at the ready, as if the whole of the US Army were about to descend upon him personally at any moment. `Kriecher, I mean you.'

  With an effort of will the Creeper pulled himself together.

  `Yes, Major?'

  `I want you to cover us. If you hear anyone firing but ourselves, bring up the rest of the patrol through that side street there.'

  ‘But how will I know the sound of the Ami weapons?' the strange SS officer asked miserably.

  `Ami lead whistles "Yankee-Doodle-Dandy",' Schulze said in disgust and pushed by the cowering officer.

  The village square, illuminated a blood-red by the flames of the burning houses, was packed with Amis. They were obviously beat, squatting on the kerbs, heads sunk between their knees, too worn and dejected to take one of the C-ration cans that a small group was heating in the flames. A big sergeant, who looked as if he hadn't shaved for days, was drinking out of a bottle of what looked like grappa, most of the fiery liquid running down his chin and soaking his shirt.

  Keeping his eyes on them carefully, von Dodenburg used the traditional army hand signals to get his men into position; and like the trained killers they were, they glided noiselessly to left and right through the shadows into their designated spots.

  `Mary, Jesus, Joseph!' one of the Tyrolean boys behind von Dodenburg whispered in awe. 'It's too easy ... too easy, like shooting tame pigeons.'

  `And you'll be a shitting dead pigeon in a minute if you don't hold your water,' Schulze cursed, reaching in his bag to pull out one of the stick grenades. 'Ready, sir!'

  `Good.' Von Dodenburg raised his Schmeisser and tapped the long magazine to check if it were attached firmly. 'When I fire, let them have the first grenade - right in the centre of the square!'

  Von Dodenburg raised the machine-pistol and swung it round looking for his first target. The thin barrel swung by two pale-faced boys dressed in long black raincoats, past an officer who had obviously torn at his badges of rank, as if in despair, and failed to pull them off, through a crowd of broad faces, innocent, von Dodenburg told himself, in a way that could be only American, and came to rest on the unshaven face of the drunken sergeant. For what seemed a long time von Dodenburg studied the face of the man he was going to kill. It was a good, tough face: the face of a man who had been let down and had become cynical, knowing that everyone could be bought some way or other. Suddenly he realized where he had seen that face before. With a sudden burst of rage, he pulled the trigger of his Schmeisser savagely.

  The weapon chattered angrily. A stream of tracer shot through the air. The big NCO screamed, high and hysterical, like a woman. The bottle of grappa fell from his nerveless fingers to shatter on the cobbles. The face that had looked so like Wagner's became a pulp. What was left of his head struck the ground first.

  The next instant the men posted all around the square opened up. Suddenly all was frenzied activity - screams, panic-stricken orders and counter-orders. The survivors of the 36th Division scattered desperately. But there was no shelter for them. A group of men who had been cooking over the flames pelted crazily for a lane. Schulze grunted and lobbed a grenade in their direction. It landed squarely in the centre of them. They went down screaming.

  A hefty sergeant with shoulders bent forward like a footballer's, rushed at the unknown assailants, firing his tommy-gun from the hip. Von Dodenburg let him have a swift burst in the stomach. He careened round, still firing, spraying the sky with his slugs.

  One of the boys in the long black raincoats tore towards the abandoned half-track. Von Dodenburg guessed instantly what he was intending. He pressed the trigger of his Schmeisser. Nothing happened.

  `Great crap on the Christmas Tree!' he cursed bitterly and looked down. He had a stoppage.

  `Get him!' he yelled desperately.

  Zig-zagging crazily, the boy, his coat-tails flying wildly, dodged the stream of white tracer stitching an angry pattern around his heels. He faltered momentarily. He went on, but faltered again. Von Dodenburg could see the back material of the raincoat beginning to shine in the flames where the blood was pouring from the wound in his back. Then without any warning he pitched forward. Despite the vicious snap and crackle of the small arms fire, von Dodenburg could hear the slap of his face hitting the cobbles.

  Now the panic-stricken Texans were beginning to raise their hands everywhere, some of them lifting their helmets like gentlemen passing a woman in a peacetime street.

  `Cease fire,' von Dodenburg yelled urgently. 'Do you hear - save your ammunition, cease fire!'

  Gradually the fire ebbed away, leaving behind no sound save the moans of the wounded and an echoing silence that seemed like eternity.

  `Fifty dead, perhaps the same number wounded, sir,' Schulze reported, pushing back his helmet and wiping away the beads of sweat that had collected in the red puckered mark the helmet-liner made. 'Same number taken prisoner.'

  `Thank you, Schulze,' the officer replied, fitting a new magazine to his Schmeisser, while the long line of prisoners against the wall eyed his movements in dumb apprehension.

  The Creeper pushed his way through the chattering SS troopers, greedily spooning out chopped meat from the looted C ration cans.

  `What are you going to do with them?' he asked eagerly, his nerve recovered now that the shooting was over.

  `What do you suggest?' he answered, slinging the Schmeisser over his shoulder carelessly.

  `Shoot them!' the Creeper rapped.

  `Why?'

  `Don't you see? If we slaughter the pigs,' he jerked a plump, well-manicured red thumb at the frightened prisoners, 'then we create the incident the Führer wants. It will cause an outrage among the Amis. I hear they worry about such trivialities.'

  `Trivialities, eh' von Dodenburg echoed the word thoughtfully. Then his face hardened. 'Listen Kriecher, those are men - not trivialities. It is not necessary to shoot them; therefore they will not be shot. The night is still young and we have a lot to do. Do not fear, Kriecher, you will get your incident and the Führer’s plan will be realized.'

  `And the prisoners, sir,' Schulze butted in.

  `Simple.' Von Dodenburg turned towards the wretched Amis. 'Listen,' he bellowed in halting English. 'I am to count to three. If you are not gone then - you are dead. You understand?' He raised his machine-pistol menacingly to emphasize his threat. 'That way. Now, get ready to run. One - two - '

  Behind his back, the Creeper sneered:

  `Why bother to save such rubbish? They are a burden to humanity. Look at them,' he nudged Schulze in the ribs, as the prisoners broke ranks and ran wildly down the lane leading out of the village, shouting fearfully and jostling each other in order to get out of the line of fire. 'A human rabble, not even worthy of a German bullet.'

  That night the triumphant SS patrol ranged far and wide behind the American lines, burning, looting, destroying with impunity. The whole rear echelon was disorganized and apart from a few wild shots, no one attempted to stop them. A whole truck park went up in flames. A convoy of jeeps, speedily backing down a side road, ran into the looted Hawkins grenade daisy chain which they had spread across it. One after another they disappeared in vicious balls of flame. A group of tankers sleeping around their laager of Shermans were sent fleeing for their lives with a single burst of spandau so that the volunteers could destroy the six thirty-ton tanks at their leisure.

  `Christ on a crutch,' young Bauer breathed, 'I can't believe it - it's just like being on manoeuvres back at Sennelager, with the old gentlemen of the Landwehr playing the enemy!'

  `Don't take it for standard operation procedure, Bauer,' von Dode
nburg warned. 'It isn't always as easy as this. This time we've caught them with their knickers down. But it won't always be like this, believe me.'

  Just before dawn, as they emerged from a thick grove of olive trees, the patrol almost bumped into the tented camp. Von Dodenburg held up his hand in warning. The SS men froze, while he surveyed the circle of bell-tents carefully. As far as he could see there were no guards and no other form of defence. The camp seemed to be asleep; there was no sound save an odd persistent thudding sound, which he could not immediately identify.

  `Looks as if the Amis are getting in some sack time, sir,' Schulze suggested.

  `Could be,' said von Dodenburg, surveying the lonely little encampment.

  `But their security's pretty damn lousy even for the Amis.'

  He made up his mind. In an hour or so, it would be light. This would be their last assignment; then they would have to make a rapid return to their own positions before the Amis were alerted and started to bring up the big battalions.

  `All right, Bauer and you Kriecher, round to the right with your men. I'll take the left flank. And get the lead out of the men's arses - we're not going to spend more than fifteen minutes here. You read me?'

  With the Creeper nervously fumbling with his machine-pistol, the Bauer group disappeared round the side of the camp. Von Dodenburg spread his fingers on the crown of his helmet - the infantry signal for 'rally on em' - and with his men close on his heels, he doubled soundlessly for the nearest bell tent.

  Silently they moved round the circle, scenting out potential danger. But there was no sound save the strange noise von Dodenburg had heard while they had still been in the olives. Now, as they came closer to it, von Dodenburg recognized it as that of someone digging, with every now and again the noise of a shovel being struck against the ground to free it of dirt. He halted a moment.

  `Schulze, I'm going in alone. You cover me. But no firing unless it's absolutely necessary. We don't want to alarm the place until young Bauer has had a chance to get into position. Understand?'

  Cautiously, his body crouched and tensed against the bullets that might come flying his way at any moment, von Dodenburg crept forward. Now he realized that the digging was accompanied by soft toneless humming. He took a deep breath and swung round the edge of the tent, finger gripped tautly over the Schmeisser's trigger.

  A macabre scene met his eyes. In the hissing yellow light of a Coleman lantern, two middle-aged Negro soldiers were digging a hole. Behind them lay four neat lines of khaki-clad corpses, rigid and motionless, staring sightlessly at the night sky, exactly as if they had died on parade. Von Dodenburg realized immediately who they were and what this place was - it was an Ami clearing station for the casualties of the abortive river crossing.

  Waving a relaxed arm at Schulze and the rest to come up he stepped into the circle of flickering yellow light cast by the petroleum lantern resting on a ration box.

  `Hands up!' he commanded.

  The bigger of the two soldiers paused calmly in mid-stroke and raised his head with unhurried nonchalance. The other remained bent. He lifted his head slowly, however, his eyes filled with disapproval at this interruption of their work.

  `I said - hands up!' von Dodenburg snapped as the rest of his men crowded in behind him and took in the strange scene, their tired eyes filled with awe. 'You are my prisoners.'

  The bigger of the two took off his helmet liner and scratched his head with a dirty hand.

  `Prisoners, you say? You a German, man?'

  But before the young officer could answer the question the hysterical hiss of a Schmeisser machine-pistol had cut through the heavy pre-dawn silence.

  As soon as they had burst dramatically into the first tent and found it full of nothing more dangerous than a semi-circle of wounded men lying on the floor, their arms attached to the life-giving drip-drip of the plasma bottles, snoring with the heavy, grating rasp of men under sedation, the Creeper had realized that this was it. As they entered the surgical tent, where the two surgeons were still operating in the blinding white circle of light cast by the hissing lanterns, their aprons stained up to the chest with blood, the Creeper knew definitely that he must seize this great opportunity to make the Führer's plan succeed.

  `What the goddam hell are you doing nurse, to leave - '

  The leading surgeon's cry of anger at the flap being opened behind his back died on his lips as he saw the two officers armed with machine-pistols standing there. Above the tight mask, his eyes flooded with fear. Then he pulled himself together. With a brisk nod, he indicated that the other surgeon, aided by an obviously severely frightened orderly, should continue their work on the leg of the man stretched out naked on the bloody table.

  `What do you want?' he snapped in German.

  `You speak German. Are you a Jew?' the Creeper asked.

  `I asked you a question,' the surgeon retorted.

  Behind him on the table, the other surgeon had begun to slice into the unconscious soldier's thigh with deft strokes. Blood began to gush out of the wounds. The frightened orderly tried to stem the bleeding, but his eyes were still on the intruders.

  `You are in no position to ask questions,' the Creeper barked coldly. 'Here, I am the one who asks questions, do you understand?'

  The head surgeon sighed wearily, his mask moving in and out as he did so.

  `All right, then you are in charge. Now what do you want to know?'

  Behind him the other surgeon had begun to cut through the thigh bone. The finely-toothed saw made a sickening grating sound as it bit into the bone. Bauer swallowed hard.

  `Come on, Kriecher,' he said thickly, his mouth full of bile. `Let's get out of here.' He dragged his eyes away from the blood-stained table. 'I'll puke up my ring soon if we don't.'

  The Creeper did not take his eyes off the surgeon.

  `All right, if you have no stomach for it, you'd better go now, Bauer. I'll handle this myself. Besides there will be worse to come.'

  `What do you mean?' Bauer began.

  But the words ended in a thick retch, as the other surgeon lifted up the nearly severed leg and holding it high with his free hand started to separate it completely from the bloody mess of the thigh. Bauer blundered out hurriedly, his hand pressed hard to his lips. Slowly the Creeper lifted his Schmeisser. The dark eyes watched him warily over the top of the face-mask. As Creeper clicked off the safety-catch, that wariness grew into fear.

  `What do you think you're going to do, man?' the American cried.

  At the table the other surgeon had finished. He allowed the severed leg to fall on to the bloodied floor.

  `Pick it up,' he said automatically to the orderly.

  The orderly did not react. He, like the senior surgeon, was staring as if mesmerized at the SS officer as he slowly swung the muzzle of his machine-pistol round to level on them.

  `Will ya pick up the goddam leg, man. For Chrissake!' the other surgeon snarled angrily as he bent over the thigh.

  Suddenly the orderly's mouth opened wide. His face crumpled. He screamed:

  `Don't shoot - please.' He dropped to his knees, his hands held up in supplication. It was then that the Creeper fired. The blast of slugs at that short range threw the head surgeon bodily against the tent wall. He slumped down slowly, the blood streaming out of a dozen wounds across his riddled chest. The orderly's face disappeared in a welter of blood. The second surgeon slumped over the table, his head buried in the thick red mess of the unconscious man's stump. Wiping his mouth free of spittle with his left hand, the Creeper crossed the tent and held his machine-pistol against the unconscious man's head. He pulled the trigger. It was a short burst. But it was enough. The Ami's head shattered like that of a wax dummy. Blood and white fragments of bone shot everywhere. Suddenly the whole side of the tent was dyed a bright red.

  The Creeper hurried out, wiping his bloodied hand on the dead surgeon's gown with a grimace of disgust. A handful of SS men, who stood in a circle around the retching Bauer, looked
at him in alarm.

  `What's the fireworks for?' someone cried.

  `Hold your trap,' the Creeper snapped, completely in control now. 'You, you and you, fix bayonets and follow me - hurry now!'

  `Fix bayonets - why?' someone queried.

  `Don't ask questions, man,' the Creeper yelled. 'Your job is to obey orders. If you don't want to, you must take the consequences and believe me they won't be nice.'

  Swiftly the SS men clamped their rifles between their knees and began to fix the bayonets to the end of the rifles. Bauer, supporting himself weakly against a tree, asked:

  `What are you going to do, Kriecher?'

  The Creeper didn't answer. Time was of the essence now. He had complete control and he was going to use it. There would be time for explanations afterwards.

  `Follow me – at the double!'

  Together with his squad, he burst into the first tent. It was filled with heavily sedated men. They bayoneted them easily, going from bed to bed with systematic cruelty. One man screamed, his spine arching his body in agony, before he slumped dead on the blood-stained cot. The rest died, not even aware that they had been slaughtered so brutally.

  `Like sticking pigs,' a big rawboned South Tyrolean grunted as he placed his muddy boot on the chest of a dead American and pulled out his blood-stained bayonet, 'only this lot don't make so much noise as pigs do.'

  The next tent's occupants were lightly wounded, and awake. They were desperately slashing at the rear canvas wall with surgical knives to cut a way out before it was too late. The Creeper fired a wild burst. A group of them went down still clawing at the canvas.

  `No more firing,' the Creeper yelled above the screams. `No more noise than necessary ... use the cold steel.'

  A sudden blood-lust had overcome the young SS men. They darted forward, springing over the rumpled beds to plunge their bayonets into the back of the terrified Americans. A big red-haired American loomed up in front of the Creeper. He ripped at the bandages covering the lower part of his face. They came away to reveal a shattered bloody mess below the mouth.