by Sven Hassel
‘You’d better shut up, you bull,’ Heide shouted and threatened him with his knife. ‘Some day I’ll get at you! You may take my word for it!’
Porta was about to jump at Heide, but the Old Man held him back.
‘Why don’t you cut out your perpetual squabbles and fighting! Use your strength when we get to Ivan!’
‘And become the heroes of Greater Germany,’ Porta scoffed. ‘Just wait and see! We’ll have our portraits displayed in Potsdam, with inscriptions in gold lettering: “The heroes from the 27th.” I hope we won’t choke on our own bravery!’
‘I am brave,’ Tiny said. He made a threatening movement with his head toward Porta. ‘I’ve more guts than anybody else in this whole war,’ he cried loudly. He snapped a rifle butt with a single blow. ‘I’ll take care of my enemies in the same way. You’re one of them, Julius Jew-hater,’ he said, turning to big brawny Julius Heide.
At the same moment Lieutenant Ohlsen entered the bunker.
‘Here are some letters,’ he said, throwing them on the wooden frame table. ‘There’s one for you too, Tiny.’
Tiny was speechless with amazement. His lower jaw dropped.
‘Letter for me?’ he stammered, glancing almost timidly at the dirty gray envelope inscribed, in pencil, with childish clumsy letters: Panzer Corporal Wolfgang Creutzfeldt, Panzer Replacement Unit 11, Paderborn. Obviously, the sender hadn’t been in contact with Tiny for a long time. It was more than four years since Tiny had been at the Paderborn garrison. The garrison unit had written our field post number underneath: 23745.
‘Holy Mother of Kazan!’ Tiny whispered, ‘it’s the first letter I’ve received in my whole life. I haven’t the damnedest idea how to open it.’
‘Oh, come now,’ Lieutenant Ohlsen said, ‘that shouldn’t be a problem.’
Clumsily Tiny tore the envelope with his finger and pulled out a piece of gray wrapping paper, covered with grubby writing.
We nearly had a shock when we saw him turn pale as he laboriously spelled the letter through.
Julius Heide raised his eyebrow and asked circumspectly: ‘Bad news, Mac?’
Tiny didn’t answer, only stared at the letter as if hypnotized.
Heide nudged him with his elbow. ‘What’s happened, Mac? What’s made you so blue about the beak? Tell us. Why, you look like a poisoned abortion.’
Tiny flared up. ‘What damn business is it of yours what has happened? Do I ever ask you about your crap?’
‘Come now,’ Heide reassured him. ‘Why get excited, you stupid boor? I meant well, you know.’
Tiny let out a scream. He grabbed Heide by the throat and flung him against the wall. Then he pulled his knife and rushed at him.
‘Now you’re going to die, you wretch!’
Lightning-quick the Legionnaire tripped him. He tumbled right in front of Heide, who was paralyzed with fear.
Tiny whirled around and glared madly at the Legionnaire. ‘I’ll get your head for that, you Arab gigolo!’
The Legionnaire wasn’t insulted. He quietly lit a papirosu.
‘He’ll never be a gentleman,’ Heide muttered. ‘His language isn’t decent.’
‘Nor do I want to be,’ Tiny yelled. He got up and walked over to the furthest corner of the room, picked up the letter he’d flung away and smoothed it out on his knees. Then he began slowly struggling through it again.
The Old Man sat down beside him. He rolled two cigarettes from bits of an old newspaper, handed one to Tiny and took the other himself.
‘Can I help you, my friend?’
‘Yes,’ Tiny growled, ‘by leaving me alone till Ivan or the SS puts a bullet through my head.’ He stood up, pushed the Old Man aside, crumpled up the letter and threw it on the floor. Then he made for the exit. With a kick he sent a bag of hand grenades lying by the door to the other end of the bunker. He gave a big NCO in his path such a punch in the belly that he lost his foothold and keeled over with a groan. He kicked the unconscious man, then turned to us, watching for his chance. ‘One word more, you crappy heroes, and I’ll strangle you slowly one after another!’
He picked up a machine gun and hurled it at us. Then he vanished into the trench.
The Old Man shook his head, picked up the letter and unfolded it. ‘It must be a tough letter making him act up like that.’
‘He’s a stupid bastard,’ Heide muttered, stroking his tender neck.
‘So are you,’ Porta said grimly.
‘We can report him, you know, and get him removed,’ said one of the fresh recruits, Corporal Trepka, whose father was an infantry colonel.
‘Why don’t you do it?’ Heide said, shifting his feet.
‘Well, why not?’ Trepka said and walked over to the table. ‘The nasty fellow is a criminal and ought to have been stuck up against a wall long ago.’
The Legionnaire muttered a French oath and glanced at the Old Man.
‘Are you going to report Tiny?’ Heide asked watchfully, looking at Trepka.
‘If you like,’ Trepka answered. He pulled out a piece of paper and started writing.
Heide was looking over his shoulder as he wrote.
‘That’s a great report,’ Heide leered. ‘Hand it over to the commander of the regiment! I can promise you his eyes will pop out of their sockets!’
‘No,’ Trepka said, ‘the Commander won’t get it, the Political Commissar will. He’ll get it when we are relieved.’
He put the prepared report in his pocket. The report would mean execution for Tiny.
The Old Man waved the Legionnaire and me over. He handed us Tiny’s letter, which we read together:
My dear son Wolfgang,
I have rheumatism in my legs, but I’ll write to you anyway to let you know you’re not my son any more, even if I did bear you. I curse that day! Your father, that scoundrel, was a regular drunk, but you’re a thousand times worse. You’re a criminal, and your poor mother has to pay for it. I got a pair of woolen stockings from Mrs Becker yesterday. I’m sure you remember Mrs Becker, she helped me place you in that institution with the good brothers and sisters. She wished only the best for you, as she does for everybody. But you were ungrateful and ran away from there just because of a little flogging, which I’m sure you honestly deserved. You’ve always made mischief. You’re a regular good-for-nothing. Many fine ladies and gentlemen wanted to help you when I did their cleaning. I was so ashamed when you stole a mark out of greengrocer Müllerhaus’s frock pocket. The Schupo’s ought to have finished you off when they beat you up for drinking Police Sergeant Grüner’s milk. You excused yourself saying you were thirsty, you rascal, as if water wasn’t good enough for a guttersnipe like you. I, your poor mother, have done so much for you. The day you went to the reformatory you got a pair of brand new wooden shoes and two pairs of socks, and the rheumatism in my shoulder didn’t keep me from thrashing you every day you needed it. All those wet blots you see on the letter are the tears of your poor mother. On the work assignment card it says you’re a habitual criminal, and Herr Managing Clerk Apel, who’s such a good person and fine gentleman, says that if only you were dead I could get work again, but you’re an anti-social element and a clog around your mother’s rheumatic feet, but when you’re dead they will review the case, says Herr Managing Clerk Apel. I’ve got a new red coat, Wolfgang, with nice gray fur on the collar. It’s so becoming. Herr Breining, who presented it to me, tells me the same. Now be a good boy, little Wolfgang, and give your poor mother just one little joy. Hurry up and get killed. It can’t be so difficult out there in Russia. Everyone says it’s very easy. But of course you won’t do it, you scoundrel, just because you want to distress your mother. Wolfgang, we don’t have any coke left at all. It’s your fault, I’m told at the distribution office. The other day Herr Schneider at the post office, you know, the man at window 3, where you pay money you owe, said to me when I was over there to pay four marks for something that’s none of your business, you punk: Is your disgusting son still alive, little Mrs
Creutzfeldt? Like all the other fine gentlemen he says it’s terrible I should have to be burdened with you, you sot. Your poor mother is cold, Wolfgang, it’s very cold here, and my rheumatism is bad. I’ve even gotten three catskins to apply. Every night the Tommies come dropping bombs, and though you get to hear a lot of news in the cellar, it’s still bad. Yesterday I managed to exchange a butter coupon for a coffee coupon. This was with Mrs Kirse on the second floor. But now, really, be a good son, Wolfgang, and hurry up and get killed, so I can go up to Distribution and say: My son Wolfgang Helmuth Leo Creutzfeldt has died for the Führer and the Fatherland. I cry bitterly when I come to think how well off we could have been if you’d been a good boy and joined the Party like Mrs Schulze’s Carl on the third floor. You know, those people who had a gray cat with a white tail which you threw into the Elbe. Carl is now a fine gentleman. Comes often home on leave. He is SS Unterscharführer and has many decorations. Mrs Schulze says he has seen the Führer, and SS Himmler bawled him out once. He’ll become something grand, mixing as he does with such distinguished gentlemen. Mrs Kirse thinks so too. His mother has great joy of him. Last time he was on leave she got a ring and a necklace of real gold and with a red stone in it and ten butter coupons and a piece of pork. He had received the jewels from an antisocial element to spare the monster’s life, one of those who exploit us poor Germans. But trust me, the SS know how to take care of those nasty people. Carl has been telling us about it. We were lucky we got the Führer to clean up this mess. Wolfgang, now I hear Mrs Schulze calling me. I’m going up for coffee. Be a good boy now, you drunk, and die like a hero so your poor mother can get her coke. I don’t wish to send you my love, you bastard. Your birth was so hard, but you’ve always been inconsiderate.
Your faithful mother,
Mrs Louise Creutzfeldt
née Weidner
Bremer Chaussée 65.
Ask your comrades to send me a picture of your grave when you’re dead, so I can show it to Herr Managing Clerk Apel.
‘By Allah, what a nasty old bitch of a mother,’ the Legionnaire exclaimed.
The Old Man nodded with clenched teeth.
‘Let’s get Tiny before something happens!’
Heide asked what was in the letter.
‘Why don’t you ask Tiny?’ the Old Man said, putting the greasy letter in his pocket.
We found him by a battered machine gun bunker. When he saw us he let out a grumble.
‘I’ve read your letter, Tiny,’ the Old Man said. ‘Your mother’s a swine!’
Tiny was puffing away at his papirosu. For answer he made a deep growling sound, like that of a bear ready to attack.
‘My mother is a stinking bitch, a sewer. She once reported me to Kripo for cleaning out a rotten cigarette machine. I even gave her three packs. She wanted to have half of it, that bitch, but I refused to give it to her, and so she reported me. When Stapo once came visiting and found some magazines around which one of her fine gentlemen had left behind, she simply said, cool like anything, that they were mine, but, hell, everybody I knew could swear I never fooled around with crap like that. And every time the same story. I’ll eat my steel helmet if she won’t be on her way to the Gestapo again pretty soon to put one over on them about me. As you can see from the letter she has become stuck on the idea that I must die.’ His eyes burnt ominously under his heavy bushy eyebrows. ‘You see, Old Man, I was born like a rat, grew up like a rat, was chased like a rat, and now they want to have me killed like a rat!’
The Old Man patted him on the shoulder.
‘Take it easy, Tiny. It’s true, when you joined our gang long ago you didn’t introduce yourself in any specially nice way and you’ve brought loads of trouble on our necks. But little by little we’ve come to like you. And though Colonel Hinka and Captain von Barring have given you hell for being a pig, they like you and will stand up for you if the SS try to get you.’
The Legionnaire gave Tiny a friendly poke in the belly with his clenched fist. ‘When we’re through with this war some day, you’re welcome to come with me if you’ve no other place to go!’
‘So you don’t believe that Emma meant a word of what she said. Did she say it all just to get me hepped up?’
‘No, no, Tiny, of course she meant it, but all sorts of things can happen,’ the Legionnaire consoled him.
‘Christ, I was so happy when Lieutenant Ohlsen handed me that letter. It was the first letter I’d ever received and I said to myself: Damn it, Tiny, you’re a fine gentleman now, receiving a real letter with stamp and everything. I sat thinking about all the people who’d troubled themselves over my letter. And then, look what a crappy letter it turned out to be.’
‘You shouldn’t let that worry you,’ Julius Heide cut in. ‘A great many people write letters that should never have been sent. I bet your mother has regretted it already.’
‘Do you think so, Julius?’ Tiny asked skeptically. ‘It would be darned wonderful if she had.’
At this moment something happened we’d have thought impossible and never would believe if anyone told it to us: Tiny, with his ice-cold eyes, burst into tears. Tiny, whose eyes never smiled even if his whole body shook with laughter. The tears made light stains on his grimy cheeks.
Julius Heide put his arm around his shoulder.
‘Hell Tiny, cut that out. I swear you’ll make me cry too. My mother makes the best potato pancakes in the world, and in my house I’ll let you eat as many as you want when the war’s over. You can sleep in my den. We’ll take turns sleeping in the hay. Say to hell with your mother, that bitch. She isn’t worth crying over, and if someone is out to hurt you, just let Julius Heide know about it. If we two stand back to back we can fight a whole panzer army.’
But Tiny was crying to break one’s heart.
We gave him schnapps. We gave him cigarettes. We gave him pictures of girls, the kind he used to collect.
Gifts were piled up before him on the edge of the trench like birthday presents.
The East Prussian handed him his jackknife and said with a lump in his throat: ‘You can have my knife!’
But Tiny was inconsolable. The griefs and privations of years had broken through. No one had ever said good night to him or stroked his hair when he was a little boy. You don’t do that with a rat.
Lieutenant Ohlsen came by and asked what was wrong. He looked at Tiny in amazement.
Without a word the Old Man handed him the letter. He read it and shook his head.
‘There’s just no limit to human meanness,’ he said in a low voice. He gave Tiny a tap. ‘Hold your head high, my boy! You have us and we’re your friends. I’ll give this letter to the Commander.’
The head officers of the Division were throwing a party. The wine had loosened their tongues.
No one cared to hide his contempt for the conduct of the Government. In their eyes, it consisted of people who weren’t fit for their exclusive company.
‘What good would the Party be without us?’ said the commander of the artillery regiment. He looked around the circle of officers, all with high combat distinctions on the breasts of their uniforms.
Like most high officers, they showed in opposition when they felt sub rosa. It was part of good form to express reservations about the Party, but the critical pronouncements were not rooted in principle. They sprang from self-interest.
For, actually, they didn’t have very strong objections to the Party. They only resented the fact that it didn’t recognize the sovereignty of the Armed Forces.
They had nothing much against Hitler and his war. Only, they didn’t like to see the former corporal assume the pretentious role of an expert strategist.
The aristocratic staff officers wanted to win the war, even if Hitler and his Party would be the real victors.
XIV
Behind Enemy Lines
Just before midnight we were in the field waiting for zero hour.
‘Extra portions of schnapps and the whole afternoon off,’ Joseph Porta
muttered. ‘That means we’re really in for it. A triple portion of schnapps means slaughter!’
The Division had altered its order of 12 noon, so that now not only two platoons but all of 5 Company were to push ahead for deep penetration recon. The company would be divided into two independently operating units.
‘Not a single man will get back,’ Lieutenant Ohlsen had said, shaking his head.
The Legionnaire was feverishly polishing his machine gun, an MG 42, a new quick-firing weapon.
‘All the same, one feels quite at home with this sprayer,’ he said, whisking away a speck of dust from the lock. ‘There’s a lot to be said against our trip to the woods but nothing at all against this sprayer. With this rod it isn’t half bad even if the whole field swarms with Russkis.’
‘Really, come down to earth, will you,’ the East Prussian muttered. ‘Let’s continue our talk in six to seven hours, if we’re still alive!’
We were equipped with camouflage from our helmets to our boots. We looked like spacemen. A never-ending, unchanging line of men armed to the teeth.
‘Thirty seconds,’ Lieutenant Ohlsen croaked. He stood between the Legionnaire and Tiny, sub-machine gun across his shoulder and stop watch in his hand. ‘Forward,’ he commanded. Like weasels we clambered over the edge of the trench.
A grenadier first lieutenant said ominously: ‘I’m glad I’m not going. It will turn out badly.’
‘Squirt,’ Porta grinned, hustling after the Legionnaire and Heide.
One after another the squads vanished over the edge and plunged into the darkness.
To throw the Russians off the scent short fierce artillery fire started up in the adjacent sector.
‘Watch your snouts!’ Tiny warned. ‘There are mines around. I can smell those contraptions ten yards away.’ He wormed his way ahead of the squad and piloted us across the tightly packed minefield. ‘Forward, heroes! Follow Tiny!’
‘For Christ’s sake, shut your trap, Tiny,’ the Old Man said. ‘You’re blabbering so loud it can be heard for miles!’
