Blood and Ice (3 page)

‘But that’s mountain country, sir,’ Schulze objected. ‘Difficult for tanks and armoured vehicles.’

Habicht beamed at him. ‘Exactly! That is why General Balck picked the area for the
4th SS Panzer Corps
. The Reds will never expect us to attack through the mountains, especially in winter. It will be the task of the Viking to roll through the Vértes Mountains and take as its initial objective Bickse, which should place the whole southern Hungarian road network in our hands, a network that is particularly important to German High Command.

‘That is where
Europa
comes in. You see General Balck has honoured the Regiment with a special task.
Viking
will have as its initial object Bickse. On our left flank,
Death’s Head
will have as its object Zsambek. Both will use the only road network through the mountains to reach those objectives. Accordingly once the Reds tumble to what is going on, they will attempt to block those road networks.

But there is one road through the Vértes Mountains which our Intelligence is sure that they do not know about. And even if they did, they would hardly imagine we would attempt to use it in the depths of winter because it is one thousand metres or more above sea-level, running here,’ he tapped the map, ‘between the twin objectives. Our object then is to slip in and through the Red lines without their spotting us, until we reach the road network beyond.’

‘And then, sir?’

‘Then, Schulze, we shall race towards Budapest at the head of the
SS Panzer Corps
.’ His hawklike face gleamed with sudden, almost crazy fanaticism. ‘Imagine it, Schulze. We will be a symbol of hope and renewed courage for the Fatherland – a symbol for the whole Western World. A regiment of European volunteers sacrificing their blood to save one of Europe’s oldest cities from the Bolshevik horde. The Western World will acclaim our success. We start in two days’ time. At twenty-two hundred hours on the first of January, 1945.’

‘
Happy shitting New Year
,’ Schulze thought with a helpless sinking feeling.

Note

1.
  An attack formation used in conjunction with a tank.

‘
As the New Year begins, my dear Folk Comrades, I should like to thank all of you, men, women and the children of the Hitler Youth for what you have suffered, tolerated, done, achieved. Don’t despair! I want you to continue fighting with the utmost fanaticism in this moment of crisis for our nation...
’

Sergeant-Major Schulze let the words of the Führer’s New Year message to the nation drone on. ‘The Hawk’
1
had insisted that everyone in the Regiment should listen despite the fact that most of the European troops could not understand a word of it.

Moodily Schulze lounged in the lice-infested straw next to Chink and surveyed the young soldiers of his new company, dressed in full battle-kit minus their helmets. The men were pale and tense. They smoked a lot and went often to the evil-smelling thunderboxes at the end of the long barn to urinate. They were scared; after all they were going into action for the first time.

Outside it had been snowing heavily all day long. Schulze could imagine what the roads up in the mountains were going to be like.

‘
I devote every hour to building up the will to resist of my armies, introducing new weapons, forming new divisions. And I assure you, Folk Comrades, our enemies will soon learn that I have not been sleeping...
’

‘You shouldn’t have bothered to wake up, bastard,’ Schulze mumbled under his breath.

‘
I cannot close this message without thanking the Lord God on high for the aid he has always given to me and my Folk, which has made us stronger than our enemies...
’

‘Bloody hypocrite!’ Schulze snorted and pushed aside the black-out curtain.

Half an hour later,
Obersturmbannführer
Habicht stamped through the snow to where Schulze and the Chink were working their way down the long line of waiting vehicles, checking tracks and suspension. In spite of the weather, he was beaming ‘You heard the Führer’s speech?’

‘Sir.’

‘Wasn’t it magnificent?’

‘Sir!’ Both of them replied woodenly again.

The Hawk smiled fanatically. ‘It would be an honour to die for a man like that.’

Inwardly Schulze groaned, and said: ‘We have checked the vehicles’ tracks. They’re too tight for deep snow. Once we get up there in the mountains –’

The Hawk waved aside his objection. He was in a tremendous mood, almost as if he had been drinking. ‘A mere bagatelle, my dear Schulze. We shall get through. Now order of march. I shall give myself the honour of leading in the command halftrack. You will follow in the VW jeep, leading the rest of the halftracks with the grenadiers. Convoy distance between my vehicle and yours will be two hundred metres. Understood?’

Schulze gave a little sigh of relief. At least he was not going to be at point. If the Hawk bought it, he’d be two hundred metres away; that would give him and the Chink a chance of making dust. ‘Sir.’

‘We’ll be in constant radio communication, of course. Therefore if I run into trouble – which I don’t anticipate – you will bring up the grenadiers. The Royal Tigers will bring up the rear. I don’t want one of those monsters getting into trouble in the snow and blocking the road. When we are through and down on the plain again on the other side, they can then take the lead.’

‘If,’ Schulz thought grimly.

‘All right, Schulze. We have the cover of darkness now almost. It will take us three hours to get to the start line. I suggest you call out the men and mount up.’ Suddenly he shot out his one hand and said with surprising formality. ‘
Hals und Bienbruch, Schulzel
.’
2

Schulze took it uneasily. The hand was hot with suppressed fervour. ‘
Hals und Beinbruch, Obersturmbannführer.
’

It was too late now to be afraid. Standing on his command halftrack, head ducked inside his camouflaged hood against the icy wind that blew across the limitless field of snow, Habicht looked at the green glowing dial of his watch. It was almost time to go. The feeling of heady excitement had been replaced by one of controlled happiness, like that of a child who knows he was soon going to receive a present.

Germany was returning to the offensive again. Month after month, the Fatherland had suffered defeat after defeat. Russia, Poland, Rumania, Bulgaria, now Hungary – it seemed that nothing had been able to stop the Red Army. For every battalion the hard-pressed German forces had destroyed, a regiment had appeared; for every tank troop wiped out, a squadron; for every plane, a flight. The Reds seemed to possess an inexhaustible supply of men and material.

Yet Habicht knew they
could
be beaten. Now it was no longer Germany on the march, fighting for some selfish imperialistic gain; it was Europe, striving to stop for good the Red tide which would swamp and drown it, if nothing were done soon.

SS Regiment Europa
would only be the start. Once Budapest was theirs, their success would bring thousands, hundreds of thousands of eager young men from all over Europe flocking to the silver banner of the SS. By then he might well be dead. But what did his sacrifice matter if the success of his Regiment meant that Young Europe would spring to the Germanic Cause, and put an end to the Reds.

His fingers trembling with excitement, he pulled out his signal pistol. ‘One…two…three…’ he counted off the seconds in a shaky voice, ‘nine…ten.’

His finger crooked round the trigger of the clumsy pistol. A soft plop and then a slight hush. The flare climbed rapidly into the dark night sky and exploded in a burst of bright green.

It was the signal!

All along the long column, the engines of the halftracks, jeeps, tanks burst into noisy, crazy life. Habicht, possessed by an almost uncontrollable excitement, slapped his hand on the driver’s shoulder. ‘FORWARD! …WE MARCH!’ he cried.

‘REGIMENT EUROPA ADVANCE!’

Notes

1.
  Habicht means ‘hawk’ in German.

2.
  Roughly ‘happy landings’.

Dark clouds parted in the moon’s path for an instant. Schulze, crouched next to Chink and a couple of Cheeseheads they had brought with them for extra fire-power – in case – caught a quick glimpse of the distant peaks. But it wasn’t the scenery that held his attention. It was the little bunker, almost covered by deep snow, to the right of the mountain road, fronted by a very deep drop. Then the moon disappeared beneath the clouds again and an almost total darkness engulfed them.

‘What do you think, Chink?’ Schulze whispered.

Chink sniffed the air a couple of times like a dog.

‘Ivans,’ he announced finally. ‘Chink can tell. You smell.’

Schulze sniffed. Yes, the little
Hiwi
was right. There were Russians up there in the bunker, as the Hawk had predicted.

Schulze thought for a moment. The Hawk would want to attack – would want a ‘sacrifice of blood’ – but that was not the way he saw it.

‘Listen, we’re gonna take out that bunker ourselves. The four of you Cheeseheads will advance to the base of the slope, that’s about fifty odd metres from the Popov bunker. Me and Chink here will come in at the same time from the flank. When we’re in position, I’ll whistle twice. You open up with all you’ve got. Then –’

Chink beat him to it. His long curved knife gleamed wickedly in the faint light. ‘Sergeant-Major and Chink cut throats.’ The
Hiwi
giggled.

Next to him the Limburger shuddered.

‘All right,’ Schulze commanded, ‘that’s the plan. Let’s get on with it. Move yer arses!’

Schulze slid through the snow-heavy bushes, grateful for the mountain wind and flurries of snow muffling their approach. Behind him Chink made no sound whatsoever. Schulze could not even hear him breathing despite the steepness of the ascent to the bunker. He was obviously an expert at this sort of thing. Metre by metre they crawled nearer to the still bunker, silhouetted against the night sky. Had they sentries posted somewhere outside? Schulze asked himself. German sentries would have crawled back into the warmth of the bunker, confident no officer would be around, but the Popovs were different, he knew that. They could endure a tremendous degree of cold, and besides in the Peasants’ and Workers’ Army it was not unusual for an officer to shoot a common soldier out of hand for the slightest dereliction of duty. Schulze decided there would be Popovs outside somewhere or other.

They were about fifty metres away from the bunker. There was no sound save for the howl of the wind in the firs. Schulze stopped suddenly, as Chink pressed his shoulder firmly. Very deliberately the little
Hiwi
brought his mouth close to Schulze’s ear. ‘Ivan,’ he whispered, ‘to right!’

Schulze felt his heart beat more rapidly. Two dark shapes detached themselves from the shadows cast by the trees and plodded across their path in the slow weary manner of infantry men all over the world, carrying out sentry duty in the middle of the night.

‘
Shit!
’ Schulze cursed to himself. The two sentries were directly to their front. He had to get rid of them before they could tackle the bunker, but the ten or fifteen metres of ground which separated them was devoid of cover. The Popovs would spot them before they managed to cover it. He remembered the Cheeseheads down below. If they opened up, it might well distract the sentries. They might run forward to the edge of the drop to check what was going on. In those few seconds, he and Chink would be on the bunker. A grenade through the door and they would be in. They could worry about the two sentries later.

Schulze straightened himself slowly and whistled shrilly, hoping that the sentries would take the sound for that of some night bird. Nothing happened. Neither the sentries stirred, nor was there any reaction from down below.

Schulze glared at the darkness angrily. Nothing!

He tried again – again nothing.

‘They’re petrified down there, Chink. They’re not gonna move. The Dutch bastards have left us in the lurch!’

Schulze was suddenly seized by an all-consuming rage. He pulled the heavy stick grenade out of his belt, ripped out the china pin and counted
one-two-three
. Then he hurled it over the edge of the drop down to where he imagined his men to be. It was an old trick. But it worked. In the same instant that it exploded in a vicious burst of scarlet just behind the Dutch men’s positions, they opened fire in wild, fearsome abandon. The sentries shouted something and ran to the side of the slope. Schulze waited no longer. ‘Come on Chink –
at the double!
’

They pelted across the snow and hit the bunker. From inside came the sounds of men stirring in alarm. The door was flung open. Chink moved first. His knife flashed and the Russian gurgled once as it opened his throat from the jugular to the carotid. He went down, drowning in his own blood.

Schulze sprang over his writhing body. A half-naked soldier ran down the narrow corridor screaming. Schulze ripped off a burst with his Schmeisser instinctively. The man jacknifed, a froth of pink foamy blood spraying from his wide-open mouth. Behind him Chink opened the first wooden door to their right, tossed in a grenade and pulled it closed again. The wooden wall seemed to bulge like a live thing. Abruptly the room was full of screams and wild, agonized yells. In a flash, the whole corridor reeked of cordite, blood and death.

The two of them ran on. Another little room to their right, the door wide open. Legs spread wide apart, big body half crouched, Schulze clutched his machine pistol to his right hip and sprayed its occupants as they still lay in their beds, tumbling them out of the crude bunks like beetles from underneath a suddenly upturned stone. It was a massacre.

Chink came running up to him, chest heaving, his knife gleaming scarlet now. ‘All gone!’ he gasped. ‘Chink fix!’

‘Good for you, you Siberian shit!’ he gasped himself, trying hard to control his harsh breathing. ‘Not bad for an honorary Aryan –’ Suddenly he remembered the sentries. ‘Chink, the other two. Come on!’