Claws of Steel

by Leo Kessler

  ‘Attack at zero three hundred hours as soon as you hear the diversionary attack on the embankment put in by the Third,’ the Vulture concluded. ‘And the best of luck von Dodenburg.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Now I suggest you get some sleep before you attempt to get across that stream.’

  But despite his weariness, there was no sleep for von Dodenburg that evening, nor for the rest of his Company. Instead he sat next to Schulze lazily watching the men heating cans of Old Man over the petrol fires, their faces hollowed out and made old and worn by the flickering blue flames. All was silent save for the low murmur of the troopers’ conversation and the dry pistol cracks from Schwarz’s lines. As usual the Second was shooting prisoners again. Schulze lit another of the long-stemmed black tobacco Russian cigarettes, exhaled a thin stream of evil-smelling smoke and coughed thickly. He pulled a wry face.

  ‘Christ this mahorka,’ he cursed softly. ‘Makes yer mouth taste like a gorilla’s armpit!’

  Von Dodenburg laughed. ‘Should be glad you’ve got them. Over in the Third they’re down to smoking tea leaves in pieces torn from the Schwarze Korps.’1

  ‘Ugh,’ Schulze said. ‘That’d be enough to put anybody off these cancer sticks for good.’ But the usual broad grin was absent from his tough waterfront face.

  ‘What’s up, Schulze?’ von Dodenburg asked. ‘You’re looking like the celebrated pregnant duck at the moment.’

  Schulze did not answer immediately. Instead he stared at a trooper who was mixing a fresh mixture of dirt and petrol to the consistency of porridge before lighting it to heat another can of the Old Man.

  ‘It’s the future, sir,’ he said at length, his face suddenly illuminated by the whoosh of the petrol stove igniting. ‘I hate to sodding well think what it’s gonna bring.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Schulze jerked his head in the direction of the Second’s lines. ‘That.’

  ‘How?’ von Dodenburg queried.

  ‘We can’t get away with that kind of shitty carry-on much longer sir.’ He prodded the SS runes on his collar, sparkling in the blue light of the stove. ‘Half the world these days is scared shitless as soon as they see these – even in the Reich. And the other half hates our guts so much that all they can think about is arranging for us to look at the potatoes from underneath. We’ve got too much blood on our hands – Belgium, France and now Popovland again. Everywhere the sods hate us.’

  ‘But someone’s got to do the job, Schulze,’ von Dodenburg said seriously. The Reich is fighting for its survival and we’re the Führer’s Fire Brigade.’

  ‘I know that, sir. I know that. But look what it’s made of us. Those troopers who pushed the Popovs in the shit-pit this afternoon were still learning Schiller’s crappy poetry at school six months ago – all full of nobility and the sodding German spirit. And that corp over there? He indicated the heavy-set NCO who had pulled the knife on the Soviet Commissar. ‘A year ago when he first joined the mob, he used to cry himself to sleep because he thought he’d never make a soldier and because he missed his big-titted Mummy. Look at him now, a killer – a cold-hearted killer. Just like the rest of us.’

  Von Dodenburg looked at Schulze hotly. ‘We’re not killers, Sergeant Schulze. We are soldiers – the elite of the nation, the best Germany has.’

  But Schulze was not impressed by von Dodenburg’s attempt to pull rank. ‘We’re damned,’ he said dourly. ‘You and me, Wotan, the whole sodding SS – all of us, we’re damned.’

  A twig cracked underfoot.

  ‘Watch yer sodding feet,’ a dozen voices hissed angrily.

  Cautiously von Dodenburg put his right foot into the dark swift-running stream. The current was strong but not too strong. ‘Hold tight,’ he whispered and moved in up to his waist. Behind him the men holding the rope tight around him took the strain.

  ‘Here, give it me,’ Schulze snapped and took hold of it. He was his usual businesslike self again. ‘Some of you stupid bastards’d lose yer eggs if they weren’t sewn up inside a sack, never mind this rope. All right sir, I’ve got it now. You can go ahead.’

  Cautiously von Dodenburg began to wade his way across, his machine pistol held above his head. The current started to tug at his feet. Below them he could feel the smooth stones roll and slip. Suddenly the current took away his grip. Instantly Schulze held the strain. But von Dodenburg had been prepared for the effect of the current. With his right hand he began to strike out for the bushes fifty metres or so downstream, while Schulze and the rest played out the rope behind him. A few minutes later he was treading water and then clambering up the muddy bank, trying to make as little noise as possible.

  Hurriedly he fixed the line and gave two rapid tugs on it to signal Schulze that he was across. Crouched in the bushes, machine pistol at the alert, he could hear the big NCO propelling himself across without the aid of the rope. And he wasn’t even breathing hard when he dropped at von Dodenburg’s side, shaking the water off his pants and pulling on his tunic at the same time.

  ‘Where are they, sir?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Can’t you smell them?’

  Schulze turned his head slightly to one side and sniffed the faint breeze. ‘Yeah, I can now. The Ivans are pretty damn good at camouflaging themselves, but they can’t hide that pong of theirs.’

  Von Dodenburg nodded. There was an unmistakable odour about the Russian soldier – a compound of black tobacco, their hard yellow washing soap and the garlic sausage to which they were addicted – which always gave them away.

  ‘Over there – fifty metres or more. At two o’clock.’

  ‘That little hillock, sir?’

  ‘Yes. That’ll be it. They’re dug in on the other side of it in their usual way with a look-out behind that central bush more than likely.’

  For a moment or two they stared at the seemingly innocent rise; then Schulze whispered, ‘What’s the plan?’

  In answer, von Dodenburg drew out the soldier’s bayonet he had brought with him for this job. Its blade gleamed wickedly in the thin yellow light of summer moon which had just peered from behind the clouds.

  ‘Get you, sir,’ Schulze said hoarsely. ‘I’ll use my Reeperbahn2 equaliser.’ Swiftly he slung his machine pistol and reaching in his pocket, slipped on a set of brass knuckles. He clenched his hamlike fist and spat on them for luck. ‘They’ve knocked out more choppers, sir than you’ve had hot dinners.’

  ‘No doubt, Schulze,’ said von Dodenburg. ‘But let’s get the men over first before you start your disgraceful waterfront tricks.’

  ‘Yeah, before them mothers’ darlings over there start peeing their pants with fear.’

  Hastily they brought the rest of the company across and left them crouching in the bushes while Schulze and von Dodenburg advanced cautiously on the first Russian outpost, the only sound their tense breathing and the faint rustle of the yellow grass. As usual the Russian position was so well camouflaged that they had almost bumped into it before they noticed it. Suddenly von Dodenburg’s heart gave a leap. A Popov was crouched right in front of him, the top half of his body clad in an earth-coloured smock. For one long moment they just stared at each other. Then the Popov’s broad peasant face began to register the fact that the man crouching in the darkness five metres away was an enemy soldier. His mouth opened.

  Von Dodenburg did not give him chance to shout. With a great leap he was on him. ‘Not the helmet,’ his brain screamed at him. ‘The bayonet will glance off! The throat!’ With a crash he hit the Popov. The bayonet bored deep into his neck. There was a sound like air rushing out of a suddenly holed pipe. Together they tumbled to the bottom of the trench. He felt the Russian’s body beginning to go limp beneath him. He dug the bayonet in again. Hot blood spurted over his knuckles and ran up his sleeve. Still the Russian did not die.

  ‘Croak, you bastard!’ he cursed vehemently and thrust the bayonet home once more.

  The sentry’s face contorted in agony. A clot of
blood shot out of the side of his mouth. His head fell to one side. He was dead. For one long second, von Dodenburg felt absolutely exhausted, his mind an aimless blank. But gradually the sounds of a new danger penetrated his consciousness. He pulled out the blood-stained bayonet and scrambled like a lunatic out of the hole.

  Two Popovs were running awkwardly at Schulze, great long bayonets pointed at his belly. Schulze did not move. He waited for them.

  ‘Move it!’ von Dodenburg screamed a warning, though he dare not say the words aloud.

  When it seemed that the Russians would run Schulze through the guts, he acted. Swerving abruptly to one side, he kicked the first Popov in the crotch and launched a terrible punch at the second one. The first man went down screaming horribly. The other’s false teeth – a stainless steel set, which gleamed in the moonlight – bulged suddenly out of his mouth.

  ‘Stop that bastard screaming,’ Schulze ordered and threw himself on the second man.

  Von Dodenburg dived on the Russian writhing on the ground, the vomit spurting up from between his teeth clenched in agony. With one swift movement he drew the razor-sharp bayonet across his exposed throat. For what seemed an age nothing happened. Then, a thick red line appeared along the whole length of the stricken Russian’s neck. Von Dodenburg pressed his hand across the man’s mouth to prevent him screaming and did it again.

  Above him Schulze drew back his fist and smashed it into the other Popov’s face. Von Dodenburg could hear his nose-bone snap like a dry twig. Blood spurted out of his smashed nose. Still he did not go down. Schulze hit him again. The Russian’s right eye disappeared in a mass of thick blood. But although he was now swaying badly like a very drunken man, he still remained on his feet.

  ‘Go down you shitty Popov bastard,’ Schulze cursed sotto voce. ‘Do you want to die a sodding hero’s death or something?’

  The Russian muttered something, blood pouring from his terribly mutilated face. While the man on the ground died, von Dodenburg’s hand pressed over his mouth so that he Wouldn’t scream, the young officer watched as Schulze prepared to hit the wildly swaying Russian again.

  ‘Right you brave sod!’ Schulze hissed. ‘Take that!’ With all his enormous strength he crashed his metal fist right into the centre of the Russian’s brow.

  The Popov shot backwards to hit the ground three metres away. Schulze did not give him a chance to get up again. He threw himself forward. His big hob-nailed ‘dice-breaker’ crashed down on the man’s ruined face. Once, twice. Von Dodenburg could hear the facial bones splinter and crack. Still the Russian tried to get up.

  ‘Christ on a crutch, man!’ Schulze cried beside himself with rage and despair. ‘Do you soddingly well want to live for ever?’ With the last of his strength he launched one final kick at the Russian. It caught him at the point of his shattered jaw. His scream of agony died abruptly under the impact of that tremendous blow. His head shot back. Something snapped and he was dead before his head hit the ground.

  Five minutes later the storm broke. First there was thunder, as bad as a heavy bombardment with air support from Stukas. Lightning ripped the darkness apart. Then it came down in torrents. Enormous drops started pattering against their steel helmets. Hastily the troopers pulled their camouflaged capes about them and started to plod forward. The ground turned into a thick red mire almost immediately, but it had the advantage of muffling any sound they made as they began to advance towards the main Soviet positions, guided by the agreed-upon signal flares fired from their own lines. Doggedly they slogged their way through the quagmire, the young officer and Schulze in the lead, their machine pistols held at the alert.

  ‘Holy straw sack,’ some young soldier mumbled just behind von Dodenburg, ‘just think of being at home in a warm clean bed tonight and able to sleep the clock round—’

  ‘Twice,’ someone else said next to him, ‘At least twice.’

  ‘Yeah, and then good bean coffee and hot rolls.’

  ‘With apricot jam. You’ve got to have apricot jam with hot rolls.’

  ‘And what about a little bit of soft titty too?’ Schulze’s voice butted into their reverie. ‘Knock it off, you silly young sods! What do you think this is – a shitty girls’ school’s outing or something!’

  Von Dodenburg smiled thinly to himself in spite of the raindrops trickling down the inside of his jacket. Trust old Schulze for bringing even the greatest dreamer down to earth with a crash. Suddenly an urgent foreign-sounding voice called through the dripping darkness.

  ‘Over here, Fritz – Fritz, can’t you hear me?’

  The smile vanished from von Dodenburg’s wet face. He froze. Behind him in the pouring rain the company came to a ragged halt.

  ‘Nobody move – nobody answer!’ Schulze hissed at his side. Carefully he began to raise his Schmeisser, peering into the darkness.

  ‘Fritz – over here,’ the strange disembodied voice called again. ‘What’s wrong with you Fritz, can’t you hear me?’

  ‘Down,’ von Dodenburg commanded in a tense voice.

  The strange voices came from all sides now. ‘Fritz here … Fritz, what’s wrong … Fritz.’

  But the old hands knew the Popov trick. The veterans among them clapped their dirty, muddy paws over the mouths of the recruits to prevent them calling out. A single shot rang out from somewhere to the left. It echoed hollowly through the rain. An age seemed to pass while they searched in vain through the darkness for the enemy. Another shot rang out.

  And another, from a different direction.

  It was a nerve-racking business and von Dodenburg, hugging the mud with the length of his soaked body, breathed a silent prayer of thanks that not one of his men had fired back and betrayed their position. The Popovs were just as puzzled as they were. The sniping continued for some time. Twice slugs sliced the air just above their heads, and once the firing seemed to come from somewhere behind them. Then it stopped as abruptly as it had started, leaving behind an echoing silence.

  ‘Standfast,’ von Dodenburg hissed. He knew that this was the worst test of all. If their nerves broke now and they started to move – either forward or backwards – the Popovs would annihilate them. But the First Company held steady.

  The minutes passed leadenly. Then they heard a soft movement up ahead to their left. The Popovs came as silently as they could. Their boots would be off and any part of their equipment which might clink would be muffled in rags or removed. But they were coming all right.

  Von Dodenburg nudged Schulze. ‘Can you hear them?’

  ‘Yes! I’ll pass the word.’

  Hastily the alarm ran from mouth to mouth, as the faint sounds grew louder. There seemed a lot of them, and now von Dodenburg could hear them slipping in the mud of the slight incline immediately ahead of them. Carefully he pulled out his only incendiary grenade.

  A dark hesitant shape loomed up ten metres away. And another. By the very way they stood, he guessed they did not realise how close they were to the German positions. The first man raised his hand, as if signalling to the rest to follow him. Other dark squat shapes appeared out of the streaming rain.

  ‘Now!’ von Dodenburg screamed and hurled the grenade at the first shape.

  It exploded instantly. A fierce spurt of bright white flame shot up the Ivan’s body. A wildly contorted, terrified face came into view, and disappeared screaming in the flames. The next instant the vicious volley hit the Russian line. A dozen of them were bowled over, yelling with the shock of it.

  And then they were charging the Germans. Almost at once the muddy field became a bloody chaos, with little groups of cursing, screaming men stabbing, shooting, clawing each other in the red morass, skidding from side to side like ice skaters. ‘Christ, he’s stabbed in the guts … I’m stabbed … Stretcher-bearer … I’m shot … The sodding bastards have shot me …’ The frenzied frightened agonized cries rose on all sides in Russian and German.

  An enormous Ivan, stinking of garlic and black tobacco launched himself at von Dodenb
urg. The officer let him have a burst in the guts. He flew backwards and sat down in the mud. Von Dodenburg jammed his butt in the man’s face. Something snapped and the man toppled backwards. Another trooper stepped on his face, pressing it deep into the mud. An Ivan loomed up out of the streaming rain. He clutched a round-barrelled tommy gun to his side. But von Dodenburg fired first. His arms fanned the air as he fell over, gurgling horribly through his punctured wind pipe.

  Then 1st Company’s only flame-thrower hissed into action. A long tongue of flame licked the Ivans’ front rank. A squat officer with enormous epaulettes screamed as his body went up in flames. The terrible weapon cut the night again. A young Popov was engulfed by the stream of fire. Screaming hideously he rolled down the other side of the slope, his arms and legs flailing madly in his immense agony. Another followed him like a human catherine wheel. And another. Panic broke out. The Popovs started to throw away their weapons, clawing at each other to get out of the way of that monstrous flame.

  And they had burst through them and were running madly across the soaking steppe into the darkness. By the time the urgent Popov signal flares had begun to hiss into the sky to be followed by the first howls of the Stalin organs on the position they had just held, the survivors of the 1st Company had vanished into the streaming rain, leaving only their dead and dying behind them.

  Notes

  1. The newspaper of the SS (transl.)

  2. The notorious red light district of the great port (transl.)

  FOUR

  Like grey Russian timber wolves they sneaked out of the shattered fir forest towards the unsuspecting Popovs. It was now nearly three, time for the diversion. Behind them the angry Russian mortar stonk had died down. It had given way to short nervous bursts of machine gun fire, as if the Russian gunners still thought they were out there somewhere on the soaking steppe.

  Von Dodenburg crouched and gave a hand signal. A couple of the veterans hushed forward, unarmed save for the trench knives clasped in their big muddy fists. The Popov sentries did not even move as they tugged back their helmets, pulled hard at the straps to strangle their first surprised cries of alarm and slid the razor-sharp knives between their ribs.