Blood and Ice (2 page)

Their rescuers kicked and shoved the Cossack prisoners on to their knees in the snow in a long line, their backs to the Royal Tigers. A tall emaciated officer in the uniform of an
Obersturmbannführer
limped towards the first of the prisoners, pistol already in hand. The left eye of his skinny, hawklike face was covered with a patch and his left sleeve was empty, tucked into the side of his gleaming black belt. From the way he limped, Schulze guessed most of his left leg was missing too.

Carefully the
Obersturmbannführer
placed the muzzle of his pistol behind the right ear of the first prisoner. The Cossack tensed expectantly, but did not cry out. The officer’s face tightened. He pressed the trigger. The pistol jerked upwards and the back of the prisoner’s head disappeared in a sudden gush of bright red blood.

The officer’s face was expressionless. Turning for a moment, he cried to the awestricken young soldiers with the
Europa
armband: ‘Another Russian pig less!’

He stepped over the body and placing his pistol against the base of the next man’s skull, pressed the trigger.

‘Who the hell is he?’ Schulze asked the two young troopers of the rescue force standing next to him.

‘
Niet verstan
,’ the one said. ‘
Comprends pas
,’ said the other. Schulze groaned to himself, knowing instinctively that he had landed himself in yet another hole.

‘Who is the senior non-commissioned officer?’ rasped the hawkface
Obersturmbannführer
. Behind him two of his men were draping the black and white
Europa
armbands across each of the dead Cossacks – ‘so the pigs will know who did it when they come to collect their carrion.’

‘Sergeant-major Schulze,
Obersturmbannführer
! he bellowed, knowing that he could not pull any of his old
Wotan
stuff with this man.

‘Report, Sarnt-Major?’

‘Report respectfully, survivors of
SS Panzer Regiment Wotan
, thirty effectives, eighteen wounded,
Obersturmbannführer
!’

The skinny officer took in Schulze’s impressive bulk – the Silver Wound Medal, Tank-Assault Badge in Gilt, the German Cross in Gold, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross at his throat – and seemed pleased with what he saw.

‘My name is Habicht,’ the officer said. ‘I welcome you and your men to
Viking
1
and, in particular, to
SS Regiment Europa
. We have need of experienced men like yours, especially NCOs.’

Schulze ventured a question. ‘But are your men German, sir?’

‘Only a few of them – and they are Ethnic Germans. The rest are from half a dozen European countries. All volunteers, fighting for the cause of Europe against the Red plague. His solitary eye gleamed with sudden fanaticism. ‘And we shall triumph. Final victory will still be ours, come what may… All right, tell your men to mount. We must get out of this damned partisan country before the Bolshevik swine return.’

Schulze stood in silent amazement. Were there still officers, even in the Armed SS who believed in final victory? Everybody knew that Germany was beaten. The sparrows were singing it off the roofs, if there were any roofs left, that was. Slowly Sergeant-Major Schulze stamped across the scuffed, blood-stained snow, telling himself glumly that the survivors of
Wotan
were in the shit again, right up to their necks in it.

As the three halftracks, led by the troop of Royal Tigers, swung into the main street of the little Hungarian town of Komarom, Schulze could see that his guess was correct. On both sides of the main street there were piles of ammunition boxes and jerricans full of petrol, ready for immediate use. In an alley there was a line of armoured halftracks, their sides painted with a big red cross.
Hiwis
2
mostly yellow-faced, slant-eyed Turcomen and Siberians, were everywhere, stacking fresh crates of food. It was clear that a new offensive was about to begin and
Europa
would undoubtedly be part of it.

Schulze, satisfied everything was under control, walked wearily to the tumbledown wooden hut that the guide had said was his, and thrust open the door, ready to fling himself on his bunk and sleep.

But the hut was already occupied. A yellow-faced
Hiwi
was sitting there, a bland smile on his lips, a thin black moustache reaching down below his double chin, happily running a lighted match along the seam of his shirt to kill the lice.

‘What the hell is this?’ Schulze bellowed. ‘Am I in a Jewish whorehouse or something?’

The
Hiwi
smiled happily at him and blew out his match. ‘You want whorehouse, Sergeant-Major? Not Yiddie. But Hungarian girls make fucki-fucki very good.’ He made his meaning quite clear with an obscene gesture of his thumb and fingers. The Hiwi got to his feet and began putting on his tunic. ‘I Chink. All German soldiers call me Chink. I driver – your servant, Sergeant-Major.’

He completed putting on his tunic and Schulze gasped. It bore the
Europa
armnband. He moaned and clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘A bloody Chink in SS uniform; What would the Führer say!’ Schulze slumped into the only available chair. ‘All right, you slant-eyed Siberian shit. There’s a tin of fifty cigarettes in my pack. Take it. Get me a woman, a bottle of firewater and a packet of Parisians
3
extra strong. I hear all these Hungarian whores are poxed-up to the eyes. And then trot back here with them – double-time.’

‘Chink, he back in double time,’ he cried and went out, clutching the tin to his fat chest, as if it were the Holy Grail itself.

‘Oh, my aching back!’ Schulze gasped in wonder as Chink proudly escorted the whore through the door, a bottle of schnaps in one hand. The red-haired Hungarian girl seemed to have been sewn into her short, tight skirt. It revealed the soft rounded curve of her buttocks and her crotch, as if she were naked. Her frilly embroidered peasant blouse was little better. She had pulled it so tight that her large, well-nippled breasts seemed about to burst through the semi-transparent material. Schulze rose to his feet, big paws stretched out eagerly. The girl giggled hysterically, revealing a mouthful of gold teeth, as Schulze hands sought and found her breasts, which were as big and as firm as fresh melons.

The Chink beamed his approval and put the bottle on the rickety wooden bed. ‘Watch bed, Sergeant-Major. He not much good for fucki-fucki.’

But Sergeant-Major Schulze was not fated to enjoy the Hungarian whore’s ample charms that particular afternoon. Abruptly a shadow darkened the entrance to the little hut and
Obersturmbannführer
Habicht was standing there, his hawk-like thin face wrinkled in disdain at what he saw within.

‘Enough!’ Habicht cried. ‘Get rid of the whore. I want to speak to you.’

Schulze shrugged eloquently at Chink. ‘You, take the Hungarian lady back where you found her. She’ll have to come back later to do my washing and sewing!’

The Hungarian whore looked from him to Schulze, then shook her head as if in complete bewilderment. As she went out, Schulze savoured the wonderful mechanical action of the girl’s buttocks, as she wriggled down the little street. Then sadly he began to pull on his ‘dice-beakers,’ while
Obersturmbannführer
Habicht tapped his pistol holster with his fingers impatiently, as if time were running out very fast.

Notes

1.
  The 5th
SS Panzer Division
, to which the
Europa
belonged.

2.
  Former Russian POWs in German hands who had volunteered for auxiliary service in the German Army. By 1945 there were 600,000 of them.

3.
  Slang word for contraceptives.

Together the Regimental Commander and big Sergeant-Major walked down the lines of the
Europa
, speaking little but noting the busy activity on all sides with professional eyes. The men were mostly in their teens, poorly trained and probably unable speak anything but their native languages.

For a while they paused at the outskirts of the little town and watched a group of smooth-faced, teenaged lieutenants uder the command of an older captain, whose left arm was in a sling, practising an infantry attack. But they obviously did not know the first thing about how to use the cover of the
Royal Tiger
which was leading the feigned attack. Their ‘grape’
1
was too far behind the tank – probably they were too scared to get close enough to its roaring tracks.

In the end Habicht barked: ‘Captain, punishment drill for your group. They are very idle and slack!’

The captain did not hesitate. ‘
Hinlegen!
’ he bellowed.

As one the young officers flopped face downwards into the thick grey mud churned up by the tank’s tracks.

‘
Aufstehen!
’

They sprang to their feet again, their uniforms grey and soaked with mud.

‘
Hinlegen!
’ the captain barked again and they fell to the ground once more like a series of wooden puppets.

‘Straight from Bad Tolz cadet school,’ Habicht commented. ‘Seventeen year olds, the lot of ’em. Four months ago, they were still rubbing the seats of their trousers shiny in high school.’

‘Sir.’ Schulze said, but nothing more. He was wondering why he had been picked out for this guided tour of
SS Regiment Europa
’s weaknesses and deficiencies.

Habicht seemed to be able to read his mind. He suddenly said, ‘Probably you are wondering why I am showing you all this, Schulze?’

‘Sir.’

‘I shall tell you. The great days are long past when we of the Armed SS got the cream of the Fatherland’s new recruits. Not a man under one metre eighty, not even accepted if he had a single filling in his teeth. The barrel is about scraped clean. But there is no purpose in complaining about it. We must do what we have to do with what we have – those raw young officers and my Europeans. What they lack in experience and training, they make up for in fervour and their belief in the Folk, Fatherland, and Führer.’

‘But that won’t stop the Popovs’ bullets, sir,’ Schulze said.

The light died in Habicht’s eye. ‘Agreed,’ he said as coldly as before. ‘That is why I requested
Reichführer SS Himmler
personally to let me have a cadre of experienced SS NCOs for my regiment. You and your comrades of the
Wotan
form that cadre.’

In silence the two men walked to the shabby one-time synagogue which now served as the
Europa
’s HQ At the door Habicht crooked his linger at one of the two sentries, armed with machine-pistols, and barked, ‘
Sturmmann
, to my office, guard the door until I have finished my talk with Sergeant-Major Schulze.’

Carefully Habicht locked the door behind a mystified Schulze and pulled the blackout shutters closed before putting on the light, a single fly-blown electric bulb without a shade.

‘Schulze,’ Habicht began slowly, ‘I’m going to tell you some thing which so far I have only told to my senior officers. I’m going to have to rely heavily on you and your Wotan men in what is to come. You have seen the standard of training of my young officers. I’m going to attach two of your veterans to each one of them. They will give him the experienced support he will need. You must give them the necessary motivation. The situation here in Hungary is very grim. Last November, as soon as the mass of the Hungarian Army began surrendering to the Reds, our whole front was forced back to the Danube and the Fatherland threatened anew. Our war economy depends on the Hungarian bauxite and one third of the crude oil we use in the refining industry to make the
Luftwaffe’s
aviation spirit comes from this country. As a result we tried to hold on to Budapest and stop the Reds driving any further into Hungary.

‘But while our forces were occupied with the task of keeping Malinovsky’s Army out of Budapest, that damned cunning Tolbuchin moved up from Belgrade and crossed the Danube near its confluence with the Drava. We had not expected the Reds to cross there but they did and driving rapidly north-west to Lake Balaton, they upset the whole German front in Hungary. By Chrisimas Eve, the two Armies completed the encirclement of Budapest, cutting off 150,000 of our troops, including comrades of ours of the 8th and 22nd SS Cavalry Divisions.’

Habicht strode over to the big wall map. ‘Remember now, Schulze, what I am telling you now is absolutely secret. It will cost you your head if you breathe a word of it to anyone.’ Habicht drew himself up proudly. ‘Schulze, the German Army in Hungary is going over to the offensive again. The rot has stopped. There will be no more retreats. Soon we march again!’

‘General Balck of the 6th Army has decided that with the support of his infantry divisions, we of the
Viking
and our comrades of the
SS Death’s Head Division
will break out without any preliminary artillery or air support from the north – here.’ He tapped the map.

MAP 1: The situation in Hungary, 1st January, 1945