Guns At Cassino (4 page)

They
ran on, zig-zagging between the shell bursts, springing over the sudden holes. From behind came the crump of Schulze's potato mashers. The Vulture had successfully put the French machine-gun nest out of action! The troopers it had pinned down came rushing up to join the confused attack, screaming with rage at the horror and misery of it all. Von Dodenburg blew his whistle shrilly.

`
To
me
-
to
me
,
Wotan
!
'
he yelled desperately and spread his fingers on the top of his helmet in the infantry sign for rally.

They
ran towards him, their rifles tossed to one side, their sweating hands gripping axes, knives, bayonets - anything that would cut and hack and allow them to work off their animal fury.

`Forward!'
von Dodenburg commanded and firing a wild burst from the hip, lead the charge.

Scrambling
over the dead and dying of the first wave, they slammed into the Sengalese line. Like a pack of wild animals, they began the terrible work of slaughter, slashing, hacking, slicing, gouging without mercy.

A
white officer loomed up out of the mist, a revolver in his hand. Von Dodenburg squeezed the trigger of his machine-pistol. Nothing happened. The Frenchman raised his pistol. Von Dodenburg could see his face contorted with absolute terror. In a paroxysm of fear, he brought up the Schmeisseer’s steel butt. It caught the Frenchman under the chin. He screamed. A clot of blood shot out of the side of his mouth. His head flew back, neck broken. As he crumpled another trooper kicked him in the face.

But
von Dodenburg did not have time to look. The Sengalese were everywhere. His hands shaking badly, von Dodenburg tried to fit another magazine to his machine-pistol. He failed miserably. With a curse he flung the mp away and pulled out his pistol.

`
Oh
,
les
salauds
!
'
he heard someone curse close by in the fog.

He
turned and fired instinctively. There was a scream of agony as a big Negro sergeant clutched his chest and dropped. Behind him his companion gave a cry of rage in a language von Dodenburg could not understand and charged at the German officer with a unwieldly, old-fashioned bayonet. He did not get far.

Schulze
popped up from somewhere or other. Von Dodenburg caught a glimpse of the Reeperbahn equalizer Schulze wore on his right hand. A moment later the brass knuckles, propelled by the full strength of his docker's muscles, smashed into the Negro's face. The man staggered back as if he had just run into a brick wall. The rifle fell from his nerveless fingers. His knees began to sag. But Schulze didn't give him a chance. He brought up his big knee cruelly. It crashed into the Sengalese's crotch. His scream was stifled with vomit and he flew backwards, howling like an animal and grabbing frantically at his genitals.

A
single, slow-firing machine-gun barred their way from behind a ruined wall. In front of it were the heaped dead of the first wave. Whoever was manning it was a veteran. He kept sweeping a slow arc of thirty degrees regularly, the red tracer cutting through the darkness like a swarm of angry hornets.

`Flanks
- for God's sake to the flanks!' von Dodenburg yelled desperately.

The
troopers spread out at last. Von Dodenburg picked up an abandoned assault rifle and poured a stream of lead at the gunner. He reacted at once. The fiery tracer hissed towards him. He ducked hastily. His nostrils were suddenly full of the burnt smell of tracer as stone chips flew all around him.

Then
the men on the flanks went in. The gunner swung his machine-gun round. Too late! A parcel of stick grenades hurtled through the air. The gun exploded in a burst of ugly yellow-red flame. The next instant von Dodenburg was up and running forward again. As he sprang over the ruined wall, he caught a glimpse of the dead French gunner sprawled across his shattered gun. Headless.

Five
minutes later the French resistance broke. Just ahead of von Dodenburg a gigantic Sengalese threw away his rifle and yelled in a thick slurred bass, `
sauve
qui
peut!
' But although the cry was almost unintelligible, his comrades understood it well enough.

'Sho
f
ki
poi'
they cried to one another in absolute panic.

A
white officer sprang to his feet in full view of the attacking SS men and screamed at them:

`
Cochons … salauds …
restez
là!
’ He attempted to spread out his hands to stop them. But they jumped from their positions, throwing away their rifles, and swept by him.

The
next moment a German bullet struck him in the chest and he fell to the ground. In their panic the Negroes ran over him, pressing the dying officer deeper and deeper into the blood-red mire. Now they had no other thought but to escape from the murderous German fire. Frantically they fought each other to escape, that animal cry of utter fear following them as they fled down the other side of the mountain!

`
Shof
ki
po ... shof
ki
po
...’

As
the pale winter sun rose above the mountain and the majestic white-capped peak, towering above the exhausted SS men below, came into view, shedding the night mist, the panting, bleeding victors stared at the heap of churned-up rubble for which they had fought and, in some cases, died that night. Everywhere there were bodies, sprawled out in the extravagant postures of the dead: their own and those of the Goums, lean dark men, with cropped hair save for a pigtail which Allah was supposed to grab to haul them to Paradise at the moment of death. But Allah had apparently failed them, von Dodenburg, his chest still heaving hectically, told himself cynically. Their corpses were mingled with those of their heathen Sengalese comrades, firmly rooted on the bloody earth. Gods, Christian or otherwise, seemed to keep their noses out of violent action, preferring the bourgeois peace of the churches.

He
sighed and raising his helmet wiped the sweat from his brow. Despite the dawn cold, he was sweating all over. He walked over to a group of his own men from the First Company who had been caught by a burst of French machine-gun fire. Even in death, their last feverish gestures of devotion to duty were apparent in their postures: one, his hand arrested in mid-air, as if he were about to pull the stick grenade out of his belt and throw it; another killed in the act of changing a magazine in his Schmeisser; yet another, his body arched backwards slightly, an almost triumphant look on his waxen face, as he reached for his pistol to finish off some unsuspecting Negro.

`Sir,'
Schulze's voice cut into his reverie.

He
swung round. The big Hamburger still wore his Teeperbahn equalizer', a dull gleam of blood on the brass knuckles. In his other hand, he had a cheap metal wristwatch and a big thick bundle of French franc notes.

`Finding
things before they're lost again, eh, Schulze?' he asked wearily, slinging the assault rifle over his shoulder.

`The
stiffs won't be needing them no more, sir, will they?' Schulze said with a big grin. 'Stands to reason. Besides I bet they wouldn't object to me having a little bit of the other on the strength of their Marie.(1) Solidarity of the working classes, you know.'

`Go
on, you Bolshevik, you! God knows how you've kept out of the Gestapo's hands so long. I certainly don't.'

`Just
my handsome mug and my natural charm, sir - that's all.' He thrust the looted money in his back pocket. 'Colonel Geier asks if you would walk across to his C.P. They've got a prisoner there - an Ami.'

`An
Ami?'

Von
Dodenburg whistled through his teeth. In his four years of war the young officer had only fought against the Americans once; but it had been a brief skirmish and they had not taken any prisoners.

`Yes,
sir, a citizen of the land of boundless possibilities,' Schulze said, using the contemptuous term for America. 'And I think he's going to do it in his pants before the Colonel is finished with him.'

But
for once the big Hamburger was wrong. The American liaison officer with the French Algerian Division was apparently unaffected by the fact that he was prisoner-of-war now and in the hands of a unit which reputedly did not take prisoners, or if they did inadvertently, ensured that they were 'shot while attempting to escape' on their way back to the cages. Squatting on the ground at Geier's feet, chewing gum while Schwarz interpreted his words, he seemed completely resigned to his fate with a certain cynical nonchalance which von Dodenburg could not help admiring.

`It
was going to be one of the great marches in all military history,' he said without any trace of rancour on his lean handsome face. 'In Africa they told us, we would march up this beautiful country, filled with beautiful people, and be welcomed like Hollywood film stars all the way. Of course, we fellahs from the 36th Division are Texans and we kinda believe tall tales. But all the same the thing had a ring of truth about it. A handsome people, eager to be liberated, the dago red flowing like water and all those Eyetie dames.' The captured Ami kissed his fingers in what von Dodenburg couldn't help thinking was a very un-American gesture.
'Brother
!’

His
cynical grin vanished and his lean face grew harder.

`That's
what they said anyhow. Roses, roses all the way - and what did we get? We got this!' He spread out his hand at the scene of destruction all around him. 'Colder than a well digger's ass up here and not exactly what I'd call hidyho Texas welcome, Colonel!' He looked up directly at the Vulture, who was staring at him, as if he were a visitor from another planet.

`Do
you think we can get anything else from him, Schwarz?' Colonel Geier rasped. 'The American 36th Division in liaison with the French Algerian - so it means we've got the US Second Corps facing us down there.' He indicated the plain below, still shrouded with the December fog. 'Could he tell us anymore?'

Schwarz
shook his head.

No,
sir. The man's a fool. It's obvious - just another Texan cowboy, that's all.'

The
Vulture gave von Dodenburg an inquiring look. The young Major indicated he had no questions to ask.

`All
right, Schwarz, would you take care of him, please?' the Vulture snapped. 'Von Dodenburg come with me please.'

The
American officer's lean face paled a little, but if he knew what was coming, he gave no sign of it. Obediently he let himself be led away by the one-armed Captain.

`Roses,
roses all the way - that's what they said,' he muttered, as they disappeared behind one of the shattered walls. 'And we believed it.'

A
moment later a single shot rang out, and Schwarz came back alone.

Four

`Oh, those goddam Frogs,' the tall craggy-faced commander of the US Fifth Army groaned when he had read the message. `Why the hell does everyone always let me down in this command?' He jerked his head up and looked accusingly at the assembled brass from the Second Corps. 'What the Sam Hill were the Frogs doing up there on that mountain - getting in some sack time?'

Captain
Pearson, General Clark's aide, who had brought the message in, recognized the signs. The Commander of the Fifth Army took anything which stopped or hindered the race up Italy towards the prize of Rome as a personal insult. His colossal vanity made him think that everyone was out to sabotage his chances of becoming the head of the US Army one day.

`No,
sir general,' he said boldly, feeling sorry for the French who had to fight, using the cast-offs of the British and American Armies. 'They were alert - in fact they were standing to when the Ted hit them. (1) But there was a thick mist at the time - ’

The
Commanding General turned from the window and strode across the farmhouse kitchen which served as the Second Corps HQ, bending his head to avoid hitting the ring of garlic hanging from the low beam.

`Don't
give me that, Pearson,' he snapped, 'I know the Frogs. I served with them in France in the First War - and I've goddam seen enough of them in this war in North Africa. They let me down then and they've let me down again now.' He shook his head in disgust and stared down at the map of the front spread out on what had once been a kitchen table. 'A goddam lot of YBSOBs!' He spelled out the letters of his favourite curse - 'Yellow-bellied sons-of-bitches' with relish.

For
a few moments there was no sound in the little Italian farmhouse. Outside there was the steady rumble of the heavy guns, the constant background music of war, and the dry cough of a jeep's motor being turned over and failing to start in the icy cold. Then General Walker, the stocky commander of the 36th Infantry Division, said: