The Bloody Road to Death (34 page)

‘My company,’ gasps von Pader, and creeps still deeper into the hole.

His company is a long way off. It is engaged in fierce fighting for the Russian positions.

I see two heads behind a Maxim and send a stick-grenade whirling at them. I watch carefully to see it doesn’t come back again. We are not up against recruits.

The grenade whirls straight down into the MG nest. A khaki-uniformed body is thrown into the air together with an SMG.

I sprint forward with the LMG under my arm. It is one of the Russian models, an excellent weapon for close quarter work. I go down behind the sandbagged wall of the nest. The air cuts at my lungs as I breath. That damned lung wound. I’ll never be rid of it.

A Russian sergeant moves close beside me, but before he can fire his pistol I have crushed his head with the LMG butt. Feverishly I ready another grenade.

As if in slow motion I see Gregor come racing out of the bush, spit a Russian captain on his bayonet, tear it out and smash the officer’s face with the butt. A kick in the crotch and he disappears into the connecting trench.

Up on the heights an SMG rattles unceasingly. A violent blow almost knocks my legs from under me. A bullet has torn off the whole side of the boot. It burns and smarts, but it is only a crease. If that had been an explosive bullet my whole leg would be gone, I think in horror, as I tear the burning leather away. But then I would have been out of it all. Or would I? They are even sending amputees back into action again now.

With wheezing, painful lungs I spurt to the next piece of cover. In a few minutes I have got my wind back again. I am covered with blood. Terrified, I feel myself all over. Nothing wrong.

We run heavily down the narrow trench, throwing hand-grenades into dugout openings.

Mpi’s spit death. Half the trench blows up behind us. The trap was sprung a couple of seconds too late. Otherwise none of us would be alive now. A miracle of war.

I find Porta and the Legionnaire in a deep shell hole which is still smoking from the explosion. We load magazines. Fill our pockets, our boot-tops, our belts, with them.

Gregor and Tiny slide down to us. They have a whole bunch of Russian water bottles with them.

‘’Ere’s a drink fit for ’eroes,’ says Tiny, sharing out the bottles between us. The neighbours must’ve just got their rations when we come visitin’. Pity, ain’t it?’

The bear lies down close to Porta. It has a nasty bullet burn across the shoulders. We clean the wound and bandage it. It gets two Russian beers as solace and almost swallows the bottles as well.

‘You should see him fight,’ says Porta, proudly. ‘Sometimes he takes two at a time, and smashes ’em together. They break up as if they were made of glass.’

‘
Pravda
’ll make a good story out of this,’ laughs the Legionnaire. ‘They will say, no doubt, that we have suffered such great losses that we are having to train animals as soldiers.’

‘He must
really
be fed up with the Bolsines,’ reckons Gregor,
scratching the bear’s neck. ‘What if we were to send him to a meeting of the Party? Be fun if he felt the same way about our golden pheasants!’

‘I’m sure he does,’ considers Porta. ‘Socialist dictatorships are not his cup of tea!’

‘Come on then! Come on!’ shouts the Old Man, impatiently. ‘Peace isn’t going to just lie waiting around until you’ve got time for her, you know!’

The field artillery lays down a close barrage. We press ourselves down into the shell holes. Earth and stones rain on us. We have to keep hard at work digging ourselves out again. There is a stench of picric acid from the exploding H.E. It tears at our throats like the fumes from an acid vat.

The Russians pull back. They run over ground which has been shaved clean. The earth trembles like a wounded beast.

Our heavy artillery at Elipsy is shelling the Russian backward positions. Where these 380mm shells fall they do unspeakable damage. The blast alone is enough to blow a human being to atoms.

I take cover by the side of Julius. He has one of the new MG-42’s and is as proud of it as if he had invented it himself.

‘Holy Mother of Kazan! This is a
real
German weapon!’ He presses his feet against a rock. It is difficult to lie still with the ’42. He laughs with glee. ‘With a chopper like this a fellow can really show the Bolshies the way home!’

A long burst kicks up the ground in front of us. Scared, we slide rapidly down to the bottom of the shell hole.

‘Those
swine
!’ snarls Heide, wickedly.

‘Gimme coverin’ fire,’ roars Tiny, from another shell hole.

‘Are you ready?’ shouts Julius, releasing the safety catch of the ’42.

‘You just fire your bleedin’ gun off, you brownie twit,’ screams Tiny, infuriated. ‘But don’t you ’it
me
, you sod, or I’ll ’ave your bleedin’ guts for bootlaces!’

Heide fires short well-directed bursts.

Tiny comes thundering. It is a mystery to us how such a mountain of a man can move so fast. He is past us like a whirlwind. As usual he is talking to himself.

‘I’m comin’ to get you, you wicked sons o’ Stalin! It’s your own fault, too!’

I jump to my feet and follow him. We climb up an almost vertical slope. Tiny throws the LMG over the brow and swings himself after it.

‘Shoot at Tiny would they, the godless bleedin’ ’ell’ounds!’ He throws two grenades one after the other. ‘We got the
German
God on
our
side!’ he roars with the full strength of his lungs. ‘I’m comin’ over an’ blow you Soviet arse’oles straight to ’ell!’ He empties the LMG in one long, rattling burst. Then he jumps forward into close combat. Skulls crack. ‘You should’ve stayed in bed, Ivan, then you might’ve kept your brains inside your head!’

The machine-gun barks viciously. Hand-grenades whirl through the air in both directions.

‘Get your bleedin’ finger out!’ rages Tiny, giving me a push that sends me flying forward.

I throw a stick-grenade and rush forward as it explodes.

Julius Heide is at our heels, with the ’42 cradled in his arms.

‘Goin’ like a bomb, ain’t it?’ screams Tiny, thrusting his combat knife into the middle of an infantryman, who comes up from a dugout with a large loaf under his arm.

I snatch the bread and push it into my belt. There is a little blood on it, but that can be cut off.

We are into the narrow connecting trench. I turn a sharp corner and a Soviet soldier comes rushing at me. Before I know what is happening I am down. A steel-shod boot is swinging at my face.

I have just time to think, this is yours, you’ve had it! Then the Russian is lifted into the air, his feet kicking at space. There is a horrible sound of bones snapping and his lifeless body falls across me.

A pair of hairy legs brush by me, and a fierce growling pierces even the noise of battle. Porta’s bear has saved me.

Two Soviet soldiers gape at the sight of the bear, with a German helmet strapped to its head, coming lolloping along the narrow communicating trench. It rears up and, catching both of them, smashes them together with supernatural force. Then it gallops off again on all fours. It has learned long ago
how to take cover from all the whining and screaming pests which infest the air out here. It throws a Russian body into the air and tramples on it when it comes down.

None of us understand what has given it such a terrible hatred of khaki uniforms.

Porta is at its heels. When he peers over the parapet of the trench, the bear stays down behind him watching with interest, but as soon as he goes over the top it is right behind him. When Porta takes cover it imitates him. It does its work like a veteran infantryman, experienced in trench warfare, who never goes into an enemy dugout unless a hand-grenade has gone in first.

A shell from the heavy artillery lands on a mass grave, throwing remnants of bodies to all sides. The whole terrain is like one huge slaughter-house. Torn-off legs, heads and entrails hang in the trees, as if some madman had attempted to decorate them in preparation for a sadistic Christmas.

A whole transport section’s trucks and horses are thrown high into the air and explode like giant sparklers. Telephone poles snap like matchsticks. Wires swish through the air. A house splits from top to bottom and falls into dust. A blinding yellow flash lights up the sky. They are blowing up everything behind them. That several hundreds of their own men go with it is apparently of no consequence. Josef Stalin has never concealed the fact that a million lives more or less are of no importance in the big picture. So what does it matter that several hundreds are blown to bits here in pursuance of his plan?

I take my arm well back, and throw the next hand-grenade. We have reached the outskirts of Jassy now. It looks as if the big offensive is going to succeed. The Russians are on the run everywhere, but we will soon have reached the limit of our strength. Cautiously we sneak through the deserted streets. The 104th Rifle Regiment is in the lead. They have to fight their way from house to house.

In front of us is the 6th Motorcyle Regiment and No. 2 Section is lying on the slope down to the river close by the bridge. We are waiting for the signal to move forward again, and this short break saves our lives.

‘See them?’ cries the Old Man, pointing up at the sky.

A huge formation of bombers is coming in over the town.

Fearfully we press ourselves even more tightly into the slope.

The next moment the air is filled with a dreadful howling noise. The long street with tall houses on each side is lifted into the air as if by a giant hand. For a few seconds everything seems to shimmer like a mirage. Then it falls back to earth again with a shattering roar. It is a fantastic sight. People fly across the nearby fields only to be mown down by roaring Jabo’s skimming close to the ground.

The great fleet of bombers turns towards the east. It seems to disappear into the sun. The town no longer exists. It has been converted into a rubbish tip of beams, stone, wood and iron, from which project feet, bodies, heads and arms.

A sweetish odour is carried to us on the wind.

‘What the military
can
do!’ says Tiny, solemnly. ‘’Alf-an-hour ago a nice neat market town, an’ now nothin’ but a bleedin’ great shit ’eap!’

Breathlessly we jump down into a trench, where young Russians lie in rows, killed by a tank salvo. Some of their faces are pushed in, flat as a piece of cardboard. Strangely enough, although they no longer have profiles, they retain their individuality of appearance, and could be recognized. The dead men are young officer cadets who have remained at their posts and have been steam-rollered over by three hundred tanks.

The attack rolls mercilessly onwards. Death takes its toll amongst the ruins. A khaki-clad soldier falls with his hands pressed against his middle. Blood oozes between his fingers.

The little Legionnaire jumps nimbly over him and a short burst from his Mpi accounts for another who comes rushing at him.

‘
Vive la mort!
’ he screams, fanatically.

Tiny gives a hollow laugh, and splits open the jaw of a captain.

‘That’ll per’aps learn you not to aim at Tiny from the bleedin’ Reeperbahn again, my son!’ He drops just in time to avoid catching a burst from an Mpi. ‘Treacherous Soviet sods!’ he yells, throwing a hand-grenade.

I dash after Porta down into a cellar. Shots ring out. Bullets
fly in all directions. Plaster and whitewash spray from the ceiling. Some water-pipes are hit. Fountains of water spurt out over us.

Something comes whirling down the corridor. I grab it and throw it back where it came from. There is a thunderous explosion and a hot wave of air rolls over us.

The Old Man pats me approvingly on the shoulder. If I had not caught that Russian pineapple and thrown it back the whole party would have been killed.

We clean up the cellar rapidly. Those still alive are neck-shot irrespective of whether they are civilians or military. We cannot take prisoners and the hard school of experience has taught us that even the seriously wounded can summon up the strength to throw a hand-grenade after those who have just shown them mercy. Dugouts and shelters are gone through with a fine-toothed comb. We grab whatever is useful to us.

Porta is staggering under the weight of two sacks. An aroma of coffee hangs about him.

Tiny drags three heavy wooden cases after him on a wheeled MG carriage. We are like crazy men. It’s as if it were Christmas, and the presents just shared out. We open tins of food and stuff ourselves regardless of what the contents are.

A machine-gun rattles viciously. Siberian infantry counterattack, but we managed to dig ourselves in and they meet death in our concentrated defensive fire. For the rest of the afternoon our section of the front is relatively quiet.

Hauptmann von Pader arrives, and tries to be comradely.

‘You’ve done well, Feldwebel Beier,’ he flatters. ‘I was sorry not to be able to be with you during the latter part of the attack, but I was put out of action by shell-shock,’ he explains, with a forced smile.

The Old Man turns on his heel and walks off without either saluting him or answering. Hauptmann von Pader looks wickedly after him.