Reign of Hell (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

by Sven Hassel

  ‘Come on over!’ he yelled. ‘There’s nothing to it!’

  ‘Next one,’ said the Old Man, curtly.

  The way he said it, you’d have thought we were queueing up for the dentist. He looked anxiously over his shoulder in the direction from which we had come. Somewhere deep in the forest we could hear gunshots. It could mean only one thing: the NKVD were on our trail.

  ‘Get a move on for God’s sake!’

  The Old Man snatched at the person nearest to him and gave him a shove towards the edge of the cliff. Had it been me, I would have taken to my heels and galloped off to seek help and comfort from the advancing Russians rather than follow Tiny and his display of acrobatics across the yawning chasm. As it was Barcelona, he merely swore terribly and sat down to take his boots off.

  Half-way across the trunk, he suddenly stopped. Until that point he had been moving forward with all the assurance of a circus tight-rope walker, using his rifle as a balancing rod. He never once stumbled or slipped. What happened to upset him, I never knew. Perhaps he made the mistake of looking down at the torrent below. Or perhaps, because it was at that same half-way mark that Tiny had come to grief it was purely psychological. But whatever it was, Barcelona was at a full stop and neither the Old Man’s threats, nor Tiny’s cries of encouragement, could persuade him to go on.

  ‘So now what do we do?’ said Gregor, and I thought I detected a faint note of relief in his voice. As if to say, well, that was that, we might as well call it a day and go home. No one could be expected to cross to the other side with Barcelona cluttering up the middle of the gangplank . . . ‘What happens now?’ he said.

  The Legionnaire pursed his lips together.

  ‘Someone has to go and shift the stupid cunt,’ he said, savagely.

  He slung his boots round his neck and set off to the rescue. Small and lithe, and sure-footed as any cat, he never looked as if he were in the least danger. But he had the terrified Barcelona to cope with, and Barcelona was by now beginning to lose control. His rifle fell from his hands and went spinning into the abyss. Barcelona swayed and would have fallen straight after it had the Legionnaire not reached him in time and clamped a firm hand on his shoulder. For a moment they crouched there together, frozen like statues, perilously perched on the extreme edge of nowhere. And then slowly, very slowly, Barcelona began to crawl forward.

  The combined weight of the two men was about as much as the trunk could stand. When Tiny suddenly bounded out from the far side with the intention of extending a helping hand, there was a protesting groan and the whole thing began to sag.

  ‘Get back!’ yelled the Old Man. ‘Back, for God’s sake!’

  Tiny fortunately realised the danger just in time to avert a triple catastrophe. He edged his way back to the cliff top and contented himself with plucking Barcelona to safety the minute he came within reach. The Legionnaire finished the journey without difficulty and stood calmly smoking a cigarette while he waited for the rest of us. The Old Man turned to Porta and jerked his head.

  ‘Off you go.’

  ‘What, me?’ said Porta.

  ‘Yes, you,’ said the Old Man.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Do I have to?’ said Porta.

  ‘I think it would be advisable. I shouldn’t like to have to make an example of you.’

  ‘No,’ said Porta. ‘No, I can see that. I can see you wouldn’t like to have to make an example of me . . .’ He pulled a wry face and slung his rifle over his shoulder. ‘OK, then. Here goes.’

  ‘What about your boots?’ objected the Old Man. ‘You’ll never get across there with your boots on.’

  ‘Fuck the boots,’ said Porta, cheerfully. He turned and blew us a kiss. ‘God bless you, my children!’

  Porta, of course, no more than Tiny had, could make the crossing in a conventional manner. Porta chose to sit astride and play ride-a-cock horse all the way over. Half-way across he felt the need of a little refreshment, so he pulled a flask from his pocket and had a drink. It must have been something a great deal stronger than raspberry wine, because from then on he sang lustily at the top of his voice and only interrupted himself from time to time to crack an imaginary whip against his meagre backside and shout, ‘Giddyap, there!’ before going on his way at a pace which appalled me.

  ‘Sergeant, what is wrong with that man?’ said the Colonel. ‘Is he simple-minded?’

  Gregor was the next to go. He was sweating profusely and was obviously scared to death, but Gregor was not one for histrionics. He seated himself astride the trunk as Porta had done, and he dragged himself very slowly and carefully, from one side to the other, where he was dragged to safety by several willing pairs of hands. He passed out the moment he got there, but it had been an impressive display nevertheless.

  ‘You see?’ said the Old Man. ‘It’s all perfectly simple.’

  Heide was already half-way across. He had his boots tied neatly round his neck and he was marching with head held high and shoulders well back as if he were on the parade ground. He made it look absurdly easy.

  Others were not quite so lucky. Lutz had to be driven across at gun-point, and never reached the other side. Two others followed him into the abyss. We heard their screams echoing as they fell.

  And now there were only four of us left. The Colonel, the Old Man, Kuls and myself. My turn had come, I could put it off no longer, and the Old Man was prodding me forward towards the edge of the chasm.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No! I’m not going over, I’d rather stay here and wait for the Russians, I’d rather stay here and die!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said the Old Man, calmly. He bent down and undid my boots for me. ‘Off with them, and be quick about it.’

  ‘I’m not going!’ I said. ‘You go! You and the Colonel! I’ll stay here with Kuls and cover you!’

  The Colonel, who until this point had kept in the background, now suddenly became exceedingly agitated and began running to and fro waving his revolver in the air and threatening to shoot me if I refused to obey orders.

  ‘I’m not stopping you,’ I said.

  The Colonel gave a wild cry.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sergeant! If you haven’t got that man across to the other side by the time I’ve counted ten, I’ll shoot the pair of you!’

  The Old Man laid a paternal hand on my shoulder.

  ‘All right, now listen to me, Sven. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you. You’re going to take your boots off, you’re going to step on to that bridge, and you’re going to walk across just like all the rest of them have done. I’m going to be right behind you, so there’s no need to panic. If you start feeling bad, just let me know and we’ll stop and have a rest. There’s absolutely nothing to be scared of. If that tree were lying flat on the ground you’d run along it without even thinking. All you’ve got to remember is, don’t look down. Keep your eyes straight ahead and you can’t go wrong.’

  Under his calming influence, I plucked up sufficient courage to tie my boots round my neck, sling my rifle over my shoulder, and take my first few hesitant steps out into the void. I tried pretending I was a child again, doing a balancing act on a fallen log, or walking along the top of a brick wall. There was nothing to worry about. The Old Man was quite right. If the ground were only a couple of feet beneath me, I would have no difficulty at all in keeping my balance. I could walk straight across without even thinking about it . . .

  I kept my eyes fixed firmly on my comrades, who were waiting for me on the far side. If they could do it, then so could I. There was absolutely nothing to be scared of.

  A gust of wind suddenly came through the chasm. Down at ground level it might have been no more than a gentle zephyr; up there, in the middle of nowhere, it felt like a hurricane. I found myself wavering. I glanced down at my feet on the tree trunk, and I saw the river and the rocks below me. I saw myself crashing down to meet them. I wanted to scream and shout, I wanted to clutch at something to save myself from falling, but there was
nothing to clutch. There was nothing but empty space between me and death, and I stayed where I was, trembling violently from head to foot.

  ‘Keep going,’ said the Old Man. He put out a hand and took a firm hold of my belt. ‘Keep going,’ he said. ‘Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t look down.’

  We reached the last couple of yards where the trunk narrowed and the least movement made it rock and sway. The Old Man took his hand away from my belt and gently propelled me forward. I knew he was indicating that I should finish the journey alone, under my own steam, while he hung back and waited his turn. I knew the last six feet were suspect. I knew it might not take our combined weight, and I knew that I was putting us both at risk. But for all that I was quite unable to continue without the comfort of his guiding hand. They were yelling at me from the bank, the Colonel was shouting furiously from the far side, the Old Man was pushing me from behind, and still I could not move. I crouched down very low, clutching the trunk with both hands, all my limbs petrified with panic. The Old Man crouched down near me.

  ‘Come on now, Sven, pull yourself together. You can’t give up at this stage. We’ve only a few more feet to go. What are you scared of? You’ve seen all the others do it.’

  Yes, I’d seen all the others do it, and I’d seen Tiny hanging upside down and I’d seen three men fall to their death, and any minute now I was likely to join them, because I couldn’t hold on very much longer . . .

  ‘Sven, for crying out loud!’

  The Old Man was growing excited, and no wonder. Who wouldn’t be, perched up in space with a two hundred foot drop below you and a gibbering idiot only a yard away from you who was likely to go mad at any moment and drag you down with him into the void . . .

  ‘I can’t move,’ I said. ‘It’s no use, I can’t move.’

  Scurrying up and down the tree trunk were hundreds of ants. An entire nation of ants. They were swarming along the highways and byways of the various cracks and crevices, some of them taking short cuts over my hands. I watched them toiling up the hillocks of my thumbs and skating down again the other side. I stared as they fought their way through the jungle of fine hairs, and I knew that were I to take my eyes off them for even a second, I should go plummeting down on to the rocks below . . .

  ‘All right, then, stay there! Bloody well stay there and rot!’

  The Old Man had lost patience at last. He clambered over the top of me and scrambled the last few feet to safety. I heard Porta calling to me from the bank, but I had lost all power of movement. I could no longer even raise my head to look at them. And then the branches suddenly sagged under the weight of a new and heavier body than that of the Old Man. A couple of brawny arms reached out towards me, they plucked me off my perch and they held me a moment, suspended in space.

  ‘All right,’ said Tiny. ‘I’ve got the bastard. Haul him in.’

  Hands reached out from all sides and pulled us in like a couple of stranded fish. The very moment I was safely landed, the storm broke. No more friendly smiles and shouts of encouragement. Now it was oaths and curses and angry buffetings from all sides. Only Barcelona, who had had to be rescued himself, gave me a sympathetic and slightly shamefaced grin.

  Suddenly, from the other side of the chasm, came the sound of a shot. Me and my miserable failings were abruptly forgotten as we watched a macabre drama being played out on the far bank. The Colonel had ordered Kuls across the make-shift bridge, and Kuls, in a vicious panic which I could well understand, had pulled out his revolver and taken a pot-shot at his tormentor. The Colonel fired back, but missed, whereupon both men instantly ducked behind the rocks and began a Wild West shoot-up, with bullets flying in all directions. Tiny put two fingers in his mouth and sent a loud, jeering whistle echoing round the canyon. Porta began to stamp his feet up and down and cheer. A bullet caught Kuls in the shoulder and sent him spinning to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and tried to run, but lost his footing on the loose scree and went slipping and sliding down the slope, straight over the edge of the cliff and down towards destruction in the foaming waters far below. Morbidly I stood watching as he fell. When his body hit the sharp edge of a rock it burst open at the seams like a sawdust puppet, and its contents spilled out.

  The Colonel stood sponging his brow with a handkerchief. He put his revolver back into his holster and very slowly sat down to remove his boots. He knotted them together and hung them round his neck. Then he took out his revolver again and carefully checked the number of bullets it contained. For one who had been so eager, he now seemed oddly reluctant to set foot on the swaying tree trunk. Tiny and Porta began a series of catcalls, and the Old Man shouted anxiously:

  ‘Better get a move on, sir!’

  The Colonel cleared his throat.

  ‘Very well, Sergeant,’ he called. ‘I’m coming.’

  Gingerly, he set foot on the tree trunk. He had scarcely taken more than half a dozen wobbling steps forward when a series of gunshots rang out. The Colonel instantly abandoned his upright position and slipped down astride the trunk, pulling himself along in a series of nervous twitches and jerks. From the forest, a horde of Russian troops now burst forth. The Legionnaire swore and threw himself down behind his machine-gun. A hail of bullets and grenades was soon flying back and forth across the gorge, with the unfortunate Colonel caught in the middle of it all. To our astonishment and disbelief, some of the Russians, goaded as usual by their officers, now also began attempting to make the crossing.

  ‘Poor fools,’ said Gregor. ‘Poor bloody fools.’

  They were amazingly surefooted, and seemed quite unperturbed by the bouncing and swaying of the trunk, though they must have known they were walking to almost certain death. We would hold our fire so long as the Colonel was there, but the minute he reached safety we would not hesitate to pick them off, one by one, as they arrived on our side of the bank.

  The Colonel never did reach safety. He was hit in the head by a Russian bullet and was probably dead long before he reached the jagged-toothed water two hundred feet below.

  ‘Right,’ said the Old Man, in brisk tones which indicated that at least one problem was solved. ‘Get that bridge blown and let’s pull out of here.’

  While the rest of us engaged the enemy and Barcelona gave them cover, Tiny and Porta roped together several T mines and attached them in a cluster to the end of the trunk. Seconds later, there was a shattering explosion, which not only blew up the pine tree and its foolhardy line of approaching Russians, but also tore away great chunks of the cliff, starting a landslide of rocks and boulders. That was the end of the enemy’s attempt to come over and join us.

  We set off again. Another weary, footslogging march that went on for hours, through all the usual hazards and discomforts of the rain-sodden countryside. Leather belts and shoulder straps cut through the frayed remains of jackets and shirts and bit deep into bare flesh. Feet without socks were rubbed raw in rotting boots. We had no food or drink left and no idea when or where, or even if, we should meet up with our retreating army. Twice we were forced to dive for cover, flat on our bellies in stinking roadside ditches, as squadrons of Russian Jabos dived out of the clouds towards us.

  Towards dusk, a feeling of despair began to creep over me. It nagged at me like an aching tooth, it throbbed and it pounded and it hammered in my head. Where were we marching and what were we marching there for? What were we going to do when we finally got there?

  What, indeed, were we going to do? The answer was simple: we weren’t going to do anything. There was nothing left to do. There was nowhere left to go. We weren’t actually marching anywhere at all. We were running from the Russians, but we couldn’t go on running indefinitely. The war was over, we all knew that. Germany had been defeated, Adolf Hitler had had his day, and the tattered remnants of the glorious German Army were being chased half-way across Europe and driven into a corner.

  It was all so very pointless. Why spend your life aimlessly marching from one place to another when you mig
ht just as easily stay still and be slaughtered in comparative comfort on the spot?

  ‘Sod this for a laugh!’ I said.

  I threw my machine-gun away and flung myself down at the side of the road, where I sprawled at my ease and watched the feet go by. Poor fools. There they went, with their endless march, march, march, down the eternal road to nowhere. Poor stupid fools.

  A hand suddenly took hold of my hair and jerked me painfully to my feet. Another hand thrust my gun at me. From behind, a boot caught me a hefty clout in the backside. I turned indignantly and saw Porta giving me one of his evil leers.

  ‘What are you bellyaching about?’ he demanded. ‘Christ had his cross to carry, you’ve got your machine-gun. Seems fair enough to me.’

  Before I could think of any fitting retort, we heard a shout from further along the road.

  ‘Halt! Wer da?’1

  Whoever it was, he didn’t wait for a reply. A shot rang out, and Barcelona, who happened to be up at the front, was thrown to the ground with half his left arm and shoulder blown off. We had evidently caught up with our retreating army.

  ‘Which fool did that?’ roared the Old Man.

  A child of perhaps sixteen years of age, wearing SS uniform, appeared nervously from behind a tree. He was dangling a sub-machine-gun from his hand as if it were a child’s toy.

  ‘Are you raving bloody mad?’ shouted the Old Man.

  The boy hung his head.

  ‘I thought you were the Russians,’ he muttered.

  ‘Russians!’ said Gregor, indignantly. ‘Do we look like bloody Russians?’

  He knelt beside Barcelona and tore open the rags of his uniform. His arm was smashed and bloody, but the bullet had missed the bone. He could count himself fortunate, indeed: by the time he was fit once more for active service, the war would almost certainly be over. I wouldn’t have minded a shattered arm myself.