Death's Head

by Leo Kessler

  “Look at that shitty-arsed Ivan – he’s just pissed on his mate!” someone jeered.

  “Shut your mouth and give your arse a chance,” Schulze said. “Poor bastards!” Standing on the turret of von Dodenburg’s tank, having taken over the post of the dead gunner after his own tank had been brewed up, he shook his head sadly.

  “There are a lot of mothers’ sons there who’ll never see their mother again.”

  Von Dodenburg did not answer. Many of the prisoners looked like undernourished sixteen-year-olds; they would never survive the journey back to the Reich. He knew that Schulze was right; but he knew, too from his racial anthropology classes that the Russians were an inferior race. It would be better if they were wiped out completely.

  A moment later something happened which confirmed his belief that the Ivans were sub-human. One of the village dogs got under the feet of a 45th Infantryman. He kicked it and, as it ran off yelping, dispatched it with a shot from his pistol. Before the guards could react, the nearest Russians had broken ranks and were pulling the dying animal to pieces. They stuffed the bloody pieces of meat into their pockets as a kind of iron ration while the guards kicked them back into the slow moving column.

  But von Dodenburg was not given time to dwell on the sight. The Vulture appeared behind the column, cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Mount up – we’re moving.”

  “Where to, sir?”

  “The bridge-head is secure.” He grinned. “Colonel General Guderian is about to lose SS Assault Battalion Wotan. We’re moving to Brest Litovsk!”

  Towards the end of the day their pace quickened. The Russians were surrendering in tremendous numbers pleading at the roadside to be taken prisoner. As they clattered into decrepit straw-roofed villages, elderly peasants and young girls in country costume came running out of the miserable little houses bearing the traditional peace offerings of vodka, bread and salt.

  Kilometre after kilometre sped by. One of von Dodenburg’s tanks broke a track and had to be abandoned; the Vulture would tolerate no stopping. They were even forced to relieve themselves over the edge of the turret.

  At sunset they passed a large stone sign bearing the legend, deciphered with some difficulty, ‘Brest-Litovsk – three versts’.

  The Vulture stepped up the pace. The noise of the artillery duel grew in intensity and they started to pass the evidence of severe fighting – knocked-out German halftracks and self-propelled guns, their crews sprawled out among the ruins. In the cornfields rifles stuck into the earth by the muzzle with a German helmet decorating the butt indicated where an infantryman had met his death. Suddenly the fields, which up to now had been so full of life, both Russian and German, were empty – they had reached the front. Von Dodenburg nudged Schulze and shouted above the noise of the tank’s engine. “This is it!”

  “Yes, I know, sir. Look up there.”

  Von Dodenburg peered in the direction indicated. Like a ship appearing suddenly out of a fog, a dark shape rose from the yellow-brown smoke of the artillery, to disappear again almost immediately. It was the citadel of Brest Litovsk.

  “The place was built in the Middle Ages,” the Vulture explained, tapping the model that Intelligence had sent up to them. “But as you can see, it has been extensively modernized and is quite formidable, even with modern weapons.” The officers stared down at the model set out on the table of the village headman’s cottage which Geier had taken over for his HQ that night.

  The place was surrounded by moats and arms of the river, and artificial water courses had been used to subdivide the fortress into four small islands, covered by what looked like extensive anti-tank positions.

  “What is the Russian strength?” von Dodenburg asked.

  “According to Intelligence, they’ve got five regiments in the area – two of them equipped with artillery. But with their penchant for only being able to supply half-truths, the Intelligence stallions can’t tell us whether that includes anti-tank weapons.”

  “I see.”

  “One thing is sure – Colonel-General Guderian, that great master of armoured warfare, does not think the place can be taken by tanks.”

  The Vulture could not help sneering at any other commander than himself. “Hence the role assigned to the 45th Infantry. However, Colonel-General Guderian does not know Wotan. If we cannot use our tanks, then we shall revert to the infantry role. Understood?”

  “Yessir,” they said wearily.

  “Good.” He bent over the model again. “This is my plan then. Von Dodenburg and Schwarz will take the weight of the attack. Fick here with his third and Moewe with the fourth’ll make a feigned attack to the centre and flank – there and there.” He stabbed his dirty forefinger at the model. “I’m hoping the Russians will think our armour is attempting to by-pass the place, leaving it to the infantry to do the fighting.”

  “What about the infantry, sir?” Fick asked.

  “The infantry?” the Vulture smiled cynically. “The infantry attack at dawn, start-lines, artillery softening up – the lot.”

  “And do we help them, sir?”

  “Help them? Since when has the Armed SS concerned itself with the infantry? We let them carry out their show and we do ours. It’s up to them what they make of it. All I know is that I want this Battalion to be inside that Citadel by this time tomorrow. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good; you can dismiss.”

  They went out into the flickering darkness. Already the 45th’s howitzers were beginning the softening up for the attack, and the earth shook with the explosions. But they were too tired to notice; they sank down where they were and fell into an exhausted sleep. The first day of Barbarossa was over.

  Notes

  1. German Army slang for a mobile kitchen.

  2. Crude German word for sexual intercourse.

  THREE

  The attack regiment of the 45th Infantry had broken. That was obvious. Hordes of panic-stricken infantry were streaming back through Wotan’s lines, their faces black with smoke.

  A few officers tried to stop the rout, but the Vulture signalled them to stop. Contemptuously he said, “Gentlemen, please don’t dirty your hands on that rabble. They aren’t worth it.”

  “But they’re German soldiers,” von Dodenburg protested. “We can’t let German soldiers run away.”

  The Vulture looked at him cynically. “German infantry – indestructible, eh? Don’t you believe it, my dear fellow. I’ve seen them run before and undoubtedly I will see them run again before I am awarded my general’s stars and leave for the staff.”

  The battle for the Citadel was raging directly ahead. Russian artillery was raking the ruins of the 45th start-line like a monstrous plough, drowning the screams of the beaten infantry stampeding for the rear. The 45th attack regiment was being systematically slaughtered and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Half an hour later the German positions were completely overrun by Soviet infantry and the time had come for the enemy to counter-attack in force.

  It was murderously hot. Buttoned up in their tanks they oozed sweat as they waited, their uniforms black with perspiration.

  Still nothing had moved in the Russian positions. If it had not been for the dull red glow over the citadel, silhouetted against the grey sky, it might well have been a peaceful summer day with a thunderstorm in the offing. Van Dodenburg glanced at the sun. It was a dull copper colour. When the Russians had it directly behind them and glaring into the eyes of their opponents, they would attack. He licked his cracked parched lips. “What’s your oil reading?” he asked the driver.

  “Over two hundred, sir,” the answer came back.

  “Schulze – everything all right?”

  “Sure. I’m bursting for a piss. I can’t touch the sodding breech, it’s that hot, and I’ve a funny feeling that we’re not welcome here. Otherwise everything’s all right, sir.”

  “Very funny,” von Dodenburg said. “With such enthusiasm, you’ll
go far in the Armed SS.”

  Suddenly all the thoughts of Schulze vanished from his mind and the heat was forgotten. The Vulture’s voice cracked over the radio. “Here they come…well in range…estimate figure one five or six.”

  Von Dodenburg pressed his eye to the periscope. A long arrowhead of T-34s was rattling towards them, their headlights full on, the storm clouds darkening the sky behind them and obscuring the sun. A flash of lightning split the sky, followed a moment later by a huge clap of thunder. The T-34s came on, apparently without a sound, the clatter of their tracks drowned by the wind that followed the thunder. Cramped in the hot turret, von Dodenburg swept the silent line of their advance. Ten…fifteen…twenty of them.

  The radio had gone silent, but von Dodenburg knew that all of them were crouched with their eyes pressed to the rubber of the periscopes waiting for the command to fire. The T-34s grew closer and closer. He could see their squat outlines quite clearly and the red stars on their turrets. Their short-barrelled 75mms were now beginning to move from side to side. The lightning crashed again. Heavy thunder rolled after it. The first spots of rain splashed against the turret. Still there was no command from the Vulture. The Battalion waited, hull down, as if they had been mesmerised by the heat and were no longer capable of movement. Then the Vulture’s harsh voice was rasping, “Engage now…engage now!”

  As the storm broke upon them with a furious howl, the rain beating a thunderous tattoo on the turret, the T-34s’ lights went out. They were replaced an instant later by others – ones which flickered a vicious violet as the first AP shells left the Russian guns.

  “Schulze,” yelled von Dodenburg above the roar of the rain, “traverse left.” Schulze fired immediately. Fascinated, he watched as their shell hit the side of one of the T-34’s and went soaring straight into the sky. Von Dodenburg slammed home another shell.

  “Fire!” he roared.

  To their right front a T-34 came to an abrupt halt, sank on its nose and bounced back. A sharp spike of flame stabbed out of the turret. It reared back on its hind sprockets, its nose lifting off the ground, as if it had been rocked by an internal explosion. Then suddenly it exploded outwards, the metal walls falling apart. Exploding tracer ammunition zig-zagged through the cloud of white smoke.

  “We’ve got him!” the driver yelled. “Right up the arse!”

  “Fire!”

  Blinded by the curtain of water sweeping across the steppe, Schulze pulled the firing bar. Whether they were hitting the enemy or not, they didn’t know. In that nightmarish howling darkness, shaken by titanic thunder, the sudden spurts of violet red flame might be lightning or the end of yet another enemy tank.

  Inside the turret, the suction pump could not with draw the smoke quickly enough and they worked in a thick yellow fog, the brass cases falling in piles at their feet.

  Once the wall of water cleared for an instant and a T-34 roared towards them, its driver as blinded as they were, Schulze fired first and the T-34’s turret flew high into the air, as if it were a piece of paper. A cloud of escaping oil followed. Next instant, it exploded, spewing a lava of lead skywards against the crimson background of burning oil. Seconds later the blackness descended once more.

  And then they were hit. A blinding white light exploded in the turret. There was a kind of breathless suction, and von Dodenburg could smell the stink of burning flesh and hair. A current of hot air whined through the hole which had been gouged in the side of the turret and the tank came to a halt.

  Still blinded by the light, von Dodenburg felt himself being lifted by the armpits. His knee knocked against metal. He yelled in agony.

  “Knock it off!” a voice snapped. It was Schulze. Then he could feel the rain on his face. “You’re on the side of the turret – drop to the ground – sharpish.”

  He could see it now. To his right something was burning furiously, throwing a blood-red hue over every thing. He jumped and sprawled awkwardly on all fours. Little tongues of angry yellow flame were beginning to shoot from his tank.

  “Schulze,” he screamed. “Jump for Christ’s sake!”

  “The driver – the sodding driver,” Schulze screamed back. “I can’t get the bastard out!”

  “I’ll help you.” He tried to get up but his legs buckled beneath him. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, feeling the heat grow in intensity as the flames grew higher and higher.

  “I’ve got hold of…” Schulze’s cry ended in a gasp of horror. In his hands he held the driver’s head.

  Metzger looked at the hard slab of Dauerwurst1 and the chunk of black army bread with bits of straw sticking out of it. Even the bottle of vodka he had in his pocket wouldn’t make that very palatable. A soldier should be fed properly after a day’s combat in which he had risked his life for the Folk, Fatherland and Führer.

  Morosely he stared at the Vulture’s back as he crouched at the radio set they had set up by the side of the tank. The CO, as usual, had forgotten that there was such a thing as the human stomach; he was too busy fighting the war, working for a precious piece of ‘tin’.

  A Russian shell howled over his head, but exploded harmlessly several metres away. By now the front was well ahead of them in the yellow haze that covered the battlefield. But Metzger had no eyes for the landscape of battle. His stomach rumbled ponderously and all he knew was that he was hungry.

  He glanced at the Vulture who was still occupied with the radio. Swiftly Metzger calculated the risk. It would take him five minutes at the most to get down to the group of wooden farm buildings below. There’d be eggs there. Half a dozen fried eggs, mixed with the Dauerwurst and a couple of slugs of the vodka – that would be a meal fit for a soldier. His stomach did a back flip at the thought. Taking a chance he slipped out of his foxhole, walked over to the nearest bush as if he were going to take a leak and the next instant was off down the track to the farm.

  Unslinging his machine pistol, his mind dwelt lovingly on a vision of frying eggs, broken here and there by the bits of the Dauerwurst, giving off a light fragrance of garlic. Besides, he told himself, in an attempt to dismiss the sneaking feeling that technically he had just deserted his post ‘in the face of the enemy’, “eggs is good for me. If I could get my hands on half a dozen eggs a day, I’d bet I’d have no more trouble with my Peterman. That’s the real cause – I’m not getting enough proper fodder!” As he walked cautiously into the cluster of shacks, made of rough wooden planks, he had a sudden memory of the old soldiers’ pornographic postcard entitled the ‘leavemen’ which showed a soldier coming on leave, pushing a wheelbarrow in front of him on which rested an enormous erect Peterman, while at the door of his home, his wife waited, her face flushed with excited anticipation. He remembered how Lore, his wife, had been like that when he’d first married her. Of course she still liked her bit, but what would she say when she found that...

  He broke off his train of thought abruptly. The farm was not deserted. A fat woman was coming out of a cottage, a bucket in her red ham of a fist.

  He jerked up his machine pistol. “You, Polack,” he ordered, “where are the men?”

  The woman smiled, revealing a mouthful of bad teeth, and said something unintelligible. “Men,” he persisted. “Where men?” He grabbed the front of his pants and made an obscene gesture.

  “Men, you understand, you stupid Polack sow.”

  The big woman came closer, smiling broadly now, making gestures he couldn’t understand. Yet his eyes told him that she was alone in the farm; the Ivans had fled like the shitty-arsed cowards they were, as soon as they smelt the first whiff of German gunpowder.

  “Eggs. I want eggs.” He went through a dumb show of a chicken laying an egg. “Egg, you understand?” She nodded and crooked a finger at him to follow, laughing and rolling her eyes at him. He followed her across the dirty farmyard. She stopped at a rickety wooden ladder propped against the side of an open barn. Again she made the sign for him to follow and pulling up her skirt started to climb the ladder whi
ch looked as if it would collapse at any moment under her weight.

  He followed. Her vast buttocks seemed to fill the view. As she clambered into the barn, he caught a glimpse of her drawers. They were made of a loose woollen mixture, as if she had knitted them herself.

  The woman scattered the scraggy white chickens with which the upper storey was filled. She bent down, giving him another close-up view of her enormous buttocks, and started picking up the eggs which were lying in the dirty straw, clucking all the time as if she were going to lay one herself.

  When she had picked up a dozen she advanced on him, her stomach thrust out, her hands resting on it as she offered the eggs. Suddenly, before he could stop her, she had slipped a hand containing an egg deep into his pocket. He could feel its warmth through the cloth. Her face wore a look of bovine ecstasy. Her lips parted and she did not attempt to hide her blackened teeth.

  “Hey,” he protested angrily. “Give over!”

  But she wouldn’t give over. Her dark eyes rolling, she thrust another egg in his pocket. But this time she did not stop there. Her thick sausage fingers grabbed him as if she were about to wield a rake handle.

  With his free hand, he tried to push her away. “Get off, you Polack bitch,” he yelled. “What the hell do you think that is – a sodding pump!”

  But she wouldn’t be pushed. She was clearly out to ravish him. There was a mad gleam in her eyes and her massive bosom was jerking back and forth excitedly as they swayed across the floor of the barn, scattering squawking chickens everywhere. The eggs broke and his pocket was filled with warm, wet egg. But still her fingers did not desist. With her free hand she was fumbling energetically with his flies, her breath coming in excited gasps.

  And suddenly under her hard hands, Sergeant Metzger felt another hardening, one that he had not felt for many a month. His mouth fell open in awe. He stopped his struggling.

  With a delighted chuckle, the big Polack ripped off his fly buttons and pulled it out, tugging at it as if she were drawing up a bucket from a well. With her free hand, she was pulling at something between her legs. The next moment the ancient woollen drawers had slipped about her ankles. She was ready for action. An amazed, awed Metzger looked down and saw that he was too. It was like in the old days. “Dobja…dobja!” the big woman breathed hoarsely and suddenly sank down on the straw, her big, dirty-kneed legs falling apart in anticipation.