Blood and Ice

by Leo Kessler

  He blew three shrill blasts on his whistle. The Eagles reacted automatically. They knew the drill well enough. As the German gun fired yet again, every second man left his foxhole and started to retreat to the centre of the perimeter. ‘Down the slope to the right,’ Suslov commanded, standing proud and erect as was expected of an officer whom Stalin himself had called the ‘boldest of the bold’.

  The men ran for the cover of the eastern, slope, grateful to be allowed to escape the terrible fury of that murderous gun. Suslov blew his whistle again – twice this time. As the great gun thundered, as if enraged that its chosen victims might yet escape, the last defenders of the perimeter ran out of their foxholes and followed in the direction of the others.

  Suslov glanced at his radio operator. ‘Pack up and run after them,’ he ordered. ‘We’re finished here now.’

  Major Suslov took, one last look at the bodies of his dead littering the perimeter and saluted. Grabbing the shell-torn flag, he turned and began running after the radio operator.

  The Battle of Grey Eagle Mountain was over. The way to Budapest was open again.

  SECTION FOUR:

  BREAKTHROUGH

  ONE

  ‘Flight leader here,’ Rudel pressed the throatmike, ‘are you reading me?’

  ‘I read you…I read you.’ The wingmen’s answers came back in a quick, metallic blur of words. Colonel Rudel was a strict disciplinarian. In the Immelmann Battle Wing, he did not tolerate the easy-going, happy-go-lucky behaviour common to other Luftwaffe wings. Rudel believed that one remained alive in combat by minute planning and strict unquestioning discipline.

  ‘Close up…close up…now,’ Rudel commanded and eased the throttle of his twin-engined Me 262 jet back slightly.

  The two wingmen responded at once. Satisfied he jerked his thumb downwards. They both nodded their understanding. At 550 kilometres an hour, they hurtled out of the sky towards the ground and levelled out at 300 metres.

  Now they were roaring along above the mountain road, Rudel leading the flight, while the two wingmen searched the ground for the missing SS regiment.

  Rudel did not like the assignment his Wing had drawn one bit. Flying in the mountains in this kind of weather was decidedly dangerous, especially with the raw pilots who made up most of his Wing these days – the veterans had been shot down years before. All the same, he realized that the missing SS regiment’s new role was indirectly due to his suggestion. He had a duty to help them the best he could. Besides, he told himself, with a bit of luck and his help, the SS might just win through.

  ‘Colonel Rudel…Colonel Rudel,’ a voice filled his ear phones abruptly.

  He squeezed the throatmike. ‘Yes?’

  ‘To port, sir, looks like a wrecked halftrack.’

  Rudel saw it immediately. A burnt-out halftrack, abandoned in a patch of scorched snow, with dark shapes littering the area around it, which he knew were dead men. ‘One of ours,’ he said over the intercom. ‘It’s them all right.’ They flashed on, the bright white light of the mountain sun gleaming off their canopies as they swung due east, dragging their monstrous black shadows across the snow behind them. To his front Rudel spotted a long line of black dots, moving across the snow at a snail’s pace.

  ‘Watch out for flak!’ he warned the other two. ‘Going down now!’

  As one, their wings not more than twenty metres apart; the three planes roared down low, coming in out of the sun to the rear of the convoy to blind their flak gunners. But there was no need for this precaution. Every second vehicle had the swastika recognition flag draped over its bonnet, and the white faces looking up at them were smiling; men were waving their hands in greeting. They had found SS Regiment Europa. As the lead halftrack drew away beneath them, Colonel Rudel waggled the wings of the jet in acknowledgement and swept on down the road to check out the opposition undoubtedly awaiting the condemned Regiment.

  An enormous black shadow shot over the road. The Guards Cavalry troopers cast frightened eyes upwards, as the second jet came screaming in, its cannon chattering. They scattered wildly, horses snorting wide-nostrilled with fear.

  Rudel came in for his run. He glanced in his mirror. That last glance had saved his life many a time in the last years, but there was no Russian fighter on his tail. The roadblock had no air cover. He eased the stick back. The engine noise died to a whisper. The jet seemed to drop like a stone. The stall warning buzzers started screaming. Rudel ignored them, as he continued with the manoeuvre for which he was famous throughout the Luftwaffe. The ground was only fifty metres below him now. He could make out the fleeing Russians quite distinctly.

  The scream of the warning buzzers had reached a peak. If he did not react soon, the plane would crash. He pressed the firing button. The cannon sputtered. Twenty millimetre shells hissed at the Russians like angry red hornets. Men fell everywhere. A horse had its hind legs blown off, but tried to struggle on over the snow, dragging its intestines behind it like an obscene grey-green snake.

  Rudel caught the jet just in time. He was thrust back hard against his seat, as both engines regained full thrust, and zoomed high into the sky, leaving his two wingmen the job of demolishing the hastily erected road block with their cannon. His message was simple. ‘Rudel to Europa. Road out of the mountains clear now. Courtesy Immelmann Battle Wing. Good luck!’

  Half an hour later, the advance party of SS Regiment Europa came to a halt at the site of the massacre, and the two vehicles rolled to a stop. Cautiously Habicht and Schulze, followed by the Chink and a couple of other troopers, advanced on the shattered mess up the road. But there was no need for their caution. The men lying everywhere in the shell-pitted snow were dead.

  Habicht thrust his pistol back in its holster and placing his leather map case on the rump of a dead horse, spread his map, while behind him the Chink began to loot the bodies, quietly but efficiently. Habicht looked up at Schulze: ‘Sergeant-Major, I want you to listen carefully. In perhaps another kilometre or so, we shall be out of the mountains and joining the main road network to Budapest, which is exactly twenty kilometres away from that junction. A mere twenty kilometres, imagine that.’ He looked at Schulze almost proudly.

  Schulze’s broad red face remained expressionless, not revealing his misgivings about the great offensive, which had been growing throughout the morning.

  ‘Now we know that the bulk of the Red forces are located in front of the Bickse and Zsambek positions where the Viking and the Death’s Head are attempting to make their main break-outs. We can assume that the main east-west axis from Budapest should be packed with second-line troops, the rear echelon and the like. With the men at our disposal we cannot cope with that kind of thing. Besides I don’t want to get involved in unnecessary minor action. So we must find another road to Budapest.

  ‘A secondary road – something of that kind – which would be big enough to take the Royal Tigers, possibly running parallel but to the south of the main axis. Now once the regiment hits the main road here, I cannot afford to hesitate. Hesitation could well mean we could become bogged down in some Red counter-attack. When we arrive there, I want to be across that main road and on my secondary road immediately.’

  Schulze knew he was a fool even as he posed the question. ‘But how will you know which secondary road to choose, sir?’

  Habicht smiled at him but there was no answering warmth in that glacial-grey eye of his. ‘You will tell me, Schulze. You are the only man capable of it.’

  ‘You mean, sir, you want me to carry out a forward recce and radio back the details of the way ahead to the rest of the Regiment – all the way to Budapest? He looked at the Hawk aghast. ‘For twenty kilometres behind the Popov lines?’

  Habicht ignored the shocked look on the NCO’s face. ‘Yes. That little Hiwi driver of yours speaks fluent Russian and I believe I have a ploy which will conceal you from discovery.’ He extended his one arm at the dead Russians lying everywhere in the bloody, scuffed snow. ‘You could wear Russian uniform �
�� you and your Hiwi.’ He smiled at Schulze, as if it were the most obvious thing to do in the world.

  ‘But, sir,’ Schulze said, ‘may I point out to you that the Popov shoot people who wear their uniform. In their naïve manner they seem to think that they are spies.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they do,’ Habicht answered easily. ‘But that, I’m afraid, is a chance you will have to take.’

  Schulze and Chink had just completed their transformation into Russian soldiers of the Guards Cavalry Division when the shooting began.

  The Hawk had intended to use the prisoners taken on the mountain as a human protective screen to walk in front of the column and force whoever was holding the expected barrier on the road to surrender or shoot their own comrades. But Rudel had taken care of that particular problem for him. Now he had no need of the Grey Eagles, and with his habitual desire to rid the world of as many Russians as possible before he died, he had them lined up in the snow and mown down by machine-gun.

  Chink watched with a look of disapproval on his yellow face. ‘Chink think no good,’ he mumbled. ‘No shoot prisoners in Red Army – well not much.’

  Schulze looked at the fat little Hiwi. ‘Better dead than red, Chink,’ he said without too much conviction, adjusting the collar of his newly acquired overcoat.

  ‘No good – very bad,’ the Chink persisted.

  Gloomily he stamped towards the jeep, its bonnet camouflaged with netting to hide the telltale swastika, while Schulze went across to take leave from Habicht. The Hawk was in one of his heady, electric moods. He took his gaze from where the two Frenchmen were draping the Europa across the dead Russians’ chests, as was the Regiment’s practice and said joyously. ‘Well, Schulze, all ready to go?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘You know just how important the mission I’ve given you is. Find me that road to Budapest and you can have anything that it is my power to give you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘I know you will, Schulze.’

  The big NCO strode back to the jeep, where the Chink was already gunning the motor noisily, as if he could not wait to get away from the grim sight of the murdered paratroopers. A moment later they were on their way.

  Up on the heights, Major Suslov lowered his binoculars slowly, the tears streaming unrestrained down his handsome face. He had seen enough. His brave Eagles had been slaughtered in cold blood by the Fritz swine.

  While the survivors of the battle stared at him in awed silence, Major Suslov wiped the tears from his eyes and said in a strained voice, full of anger and anguish. ‘Grey Eagles, I swear to you I will kill every one of the fascist pigs for what they have done to our comrades down there. I swear!’ He raised his right hand into the air, as if he were pledging a solemn oath.

  And then the German jets were coming again, winging low over the snow at a tremendous speed as part of the cover supplied by Immelmann Battle Wing and the Grey Eagles were scattering wildly for the safety of the nearest fir wood.

  TWO

  On the fifth day of the surprise German offensive, which now seemed to be slackening off in the Vértes Mountains, Marshal Tolbuchin’s troops assaulted and captured the most important height on the western bank of the Danube: Gellert Hill. Rising steeply to a height of nearly 250 metres, it dominated the Buda half of Budapest, which was held by Colonel Doerner’s Germans and their still loyal Hungarian allies under the command of Colonel-General Ivan von Hindy, some 70,000 men in all.

  As soon as the news came in that the assault of his picked storm troops had been successful, Tolbuchin ordered the General commanding the attack on the remaining half of the city to rush his artillery up the Gellert Hill and begin a systematic destruction of Buda. ‘Smoke the rats out,’ he commanded, ‘and then send in your tanks to finish the job off. I want Buda captured without delay.’

  The local commander obeyed with alacrity. Every gun available was rushed up the height to commence the destruction of Buda, which was cut off from Pest by the destruction of the eight bridges spanning the Danube. Hour after hour they poured their fire into the old town around the Castle Hill.

  The German–Hungarian resistance along the Danube line began to weaken. One by one their defence posts crumbled under the massive bombardment. The first T-34s started to cross the Danube and attempted to penetrate deeper into Buda, flight after flight of rockets covering their progress across the burning water.

  The defenders retreated, blocking key intersections with overturned trams, interlaced with timbers and torn-up tramlines. They had few anti-tank weapons but plenty of ingenuity. They greased the old cobbled streets with engine grease, waste oil and industrial liquid soap. When the T-34s hit the greased patches, they slid and skidded violently, their drivers swiftly losing control, making themselves easy targets for the volunteers with their Molotov cocktails.

  Similarly hollows or depressions in the well-worn streets were filled with petrol and when the T-34s rattled through what they took to be water, a soldier hidden in a doorway would fling a phosphorous grenade into the petrol, swamping the tank in a sudden awesome blaze.

  Brown earthenware plates of the kind used by poorer Magyar families were strung across the roads so that they could be easily seen and taken for a daisy chain of mines by the Soviet tank crews. Fearful of rolling over them, the tankers would back down the narrow streets to run right into a chain of hand grenades suddenly pulled into their blinded rear. Trams, packed with high explosives, were set hurtling down the steep narrow streets of the Castle Hill district to ram the invaders. High tension wires were dropped upon them as they passed by, electrocuting their crews. Empty oxygen cylinders were rolled under their tracks as they ground their way round the treacherous bends of the narrow, steeply inclined streets sending the great machines crashing against the buildings.

  But still they pressed on, followed by assault squads of picked infantry, who were armed with flame-throwers and burnt their way systematically from house to house and from street to street with their terrible weapons, leaving behind them a fearsome smoking wreckage of crashed trams, ruined houses, wrecked tanks.

  Siberian infantry followed and died in the German fire by their hundreds. The fact they were simply cannonfodder to be used up before Tolbuchin sent in his élite Guards did not seem to perturb them. They died in the same manner as they raped the screaming Hungarian housewives and their daughters, impassively and without comment.

  As night fell on that fifth day, the Siberians broke into the German telephone HQ, manned by a handful of middle-aged soldiers and a hundred or more ‘field mattresses’, as the German soldier called their female auxiliaries contemptuously. The drunken Siberians threw their lives away foolishly, forcing the German soldiers back and back into the telephone building until all of them were dead and the screaming terrified women were theirs. They knew no mercy.

  Hidden beneath a dead body, the lesbian supervisor of the exchange, feigning death and looking no different, in her Wehrmacht trousers and cropped hair, than the dead soldiers all around her, took in the terrible mass rape. She watched how three of them raped little Ingrid, the virgin for whom she had lusted herself; how they ripped the clothes off a screaming ‘Fat Erna’ whose enormous breasts fell down to her bulging stomach when they cut away her bra; how they fought each other with knives and bayonets to enjoy the favours of ‘Granny’, the white-haired, eldest member of the troop, because they believed that an old woman had a special magic.

  And before she fainted with revulsion, she saw how one of them, enraged beyond measure by the fiery resistance of Eva, the one-time German Maiden leader, smashed an axe against her face, causing a horrific gaping wound. When in his drunken state he could not make love to her bleeding unconscious body, he thrust the axe handle up between her thighs and raising his booted foot, gave it a vicious kick which sent it deep into her cruelly tortured body, the hot blood seeping out from between her legs in a scarlet stream.

  When the middle-aged Doerner heard of these outrages,
he ordered the immediate evacuation of the remaining auxiliaries to the suburbs where SS Obergruppenführer von Pfeffer Wildenbruch held out with his two SS cavalry divisions. He spoke on the telephone to Colonel-General von Hindy, Commander of the 1st Hungarian Corps, and asked him to counter-attack immediately with his two weak infantry divisions.

  Von Hindy was obviously at the end of his tether, but he was the typical old school K-u-K1 officer. ‘My men are hungry. They have no ammunition to speak of and nothing more than machine guns to ward off the Russian tanks –’ he began.

  ‘The situation is desperate, I know,’ Doerner exclaimed. ‘But I must ask you to do your best.’

  Von Hindy did not seem to hear Doerner’s words. He continued, ‘But we are Hungarians and Hungarians have always been fools about such things. Colonel we shall attack as soon as it grows dark.’

  ‘Brave fools,’ Doemer said to himself as he put down the phone and began the virtually impossible task of trying to re-establish his crumbling line with the middle-aged policemen who made up his command.

  Thus it was that Colonel-General von Hindy’s surprise counter-attack into Buda caught Tolbuchin unawares and forced him to withdraw the Guards battalions, which had been dug in behind the main Bickse–Budapest road, to use them against the new threat.

  It was into this suddenly open gap that Chink and Sergeant-Major Schulze slipped, as that terrible Saturday finally came to an end.

  THREE

  The jeep rolled cautiously the first village Schulze and Chink had encountered on their reconnaissance drive.

  Chink changed down to second, while Schulze, his finger round the trigger of the round-barrelled Russian machine-gun stared at the single storey, tumbledown cottages with their crooked chimneys from which no smoke rose. The place looked empty. But he knew they could not be too careful.