Monte Cassino (2 page)

"God does exist," said the Legionnaire. "Lay hands on a Mohammedan and you insult God. The Pope is great, greater than anyone. But let's wait until we see the order, before we discuss what we're going to do. There's always a way out. We could even turn the guns the other way and paint a couple of keys on the turret."

"You're crazy," Porta jeered. "They'd send a couple of SS divisions against us and they'd soon burn us out."

"The Legionnaire's idea is not all that mad," put in the Old Man thoughtfully, "They have their own broadcasting station in the Vatican. Suppose the world heard that a German Panzer regiment was defending the Vatican against a German attack. That would make headline news Berlin wouldn't like."

"You're pretty naive," Heide said sarcastically. "We know that they've smuggled
provocateurs
into the Vatican, and they won't hide in the cellars when the fun starts. They'll make straight for the transmitter and tell the world that the Holy Father has asked for German protection, and once the Pope's paid a little visit to Prinz Albrecht Strasse, he'll dance to SS Heini's pipe."

"Your talk's on the level of your intellect," Porta said, "but at the moment we're sitting here waiting for a pack of baying Yankees. You shake the double and you are entitled to six throws."

We forget the Pope for the dice. There were six of them, golden dice with diamond eyes that Porta had "borrowed" from a gambling joint in France. He had had a machine pistol with him the evening he borrowed them and a woman's stocking pulled over his face. The Military Police spent a year running round in circles searching for the culprit, who was considerably nearer than they ever realised.

A horde of infantry came storming past our hide-out.

"They're in the hell of a hurry," Porta remarked. "Think they've met an ogre?"

Another lot came running along, as if the devil himself was after them. The Old Man climbed up onto the tank and had a look towards the south through his glasses.

"It looks as though the whole front's disintegrating. I haven't seen running like this since Kiev."

One-Eye came bustling up with Leutnant Frick at his heels. "Beier," he called excitedly to the Old Man.

"Yes, One-Eye," the Old Man replied, for General Mercedes insisted on being addressed thus, when we were in action.

"You are to hold this position. Porta, give me a schnaps." Porta held out his leather field water-bottle.

The obese general drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Slivovits," he growled appreciatively. "Don't be surprised, if you suddenly see Japs in front there. The 100th Battalion is made up of naturalised US-Japanese. Don't let them near. Kill them. They have Samurai swords and are as fanatical fighters as their fellow-countrymen in the Pacific. There'll be Moroccans too. You may come across Gurkhas. They'll cut your ears off to flaunt when they get home. At the moment, you're the Southern Army's one fixed point. Everyone else is running."

"Herr One-Eye," croaked Tiny nervously, as usual putting up a finger. "Will these devils really cut our ears off?" Major-General Mercedes nodded. "That's all right, then," Tiny announced happily. "From now on I'd recommend the chaps on the other side to wrap their ears up carefully, because now I'm collecting listening-flaps too."

"I prefer gold teeth," Porta said. "Cranium fins have no commercial value."

"You can expect the whole lot pretty soon," the general went on. "And God have mercy on you, if you do a bunk."

"We know the programme, One-Eye," Porta cackled. "To the last man and the last cartridge."

One-Eye nodded assent.

"It'll be an unpleasant little surprise, when they run into our Panthers. So far they've only met our P Ill's and P IV's. They laugh at those. There'll be an SS-division on the way. They'll take over from you, if there're any of you left. Look out for Jabos. They're shaving the roads. They've already landed half a million men. Another schnaps, Porta, please."

"That's a whole litre you owe me, One-Eye," Porta remarked drily, as he handed the general the water-bottle for the second time.

Then the fat general disappeared over a mound of earth with Count Frick at his heels.

Porta rolled up Palid Ida's green baize, brushed his yellow top hat on his sleeve and edged himself in through the driver's hatch. I jumped into my place at the periscope, Tiny got his shells ready and we tested the electrical equipment. Porta started up the many horsepowered motor and rocked the tank backwards and forwards a bit, then put her into neutral. Another flock of infantry sped past, most of them without their helmets and rifles.

Porta laughed maliciously. "They're in a hurry, aren't they? They seem to have tired of being heroes, and I always believed what Adolf said." Imitating Hitler's voice, he went on: "German women, German men, our barbarian enemies, Russian swamp-dwellers and American gangsters, French syphilitic alfonses and homosexual English aristocrats, say
t
hat the German armies give way, but where a German soldier has once set foot, there he stays . . ." Porta laughed. "Unless I've got shit in my eye, at this moment the German soldier is very busy doing a bunk."

An infantry feldwebel stopped beside me, gasping.

"Get out of here," he called. Then he leaned exhaustedly against the front of the tank. "Got a mouthful of water? They've wiped out the whole of my lot." He drank greedily from Heide's water-bottle.

"Come now," said the Old Man reassuringly. "You've been seeing things. Tell us what's happened."

"Tell?" the feldwebel gave a tired laugh. "All at once they were behind us, in front of us, over us, swarms of tanks and Jabos. In ten minutes my unit had gone, crushed in their foxholes by the tracks. They aren't taking prisoners, just shooting the wounded. I saw one group surrender, engineers from my own division they were. They snuffed them out with their flamethrowers."

"Which is your Division?" the Old Man asked steadily.

"16th Panzer. 46th Panzer grenadiers."

"And where are your 46th grenadiers?"

"In hell."

"The tram for Berlin stops just round the corner," Porta said with a malicious grin. "You'll probably get a seat on the back if you hurry. I've been told that Adolf's driving it."

"You'll soon be laughing on the other side of your face," said the feldwebel angrily. In three days there won't be a live German soldier in Italy."

"Oh, rot," said the Old Man.

"Best start up your old crate and bugger off," the feldwebel suggested.

"Can't do that," Porta said with a sorrowful smile.

"Haven't you any petrol?"

"Masses, but Adolf said we weren't to. And we're good little boys, who always do what they're told."

"Arseholes," was the reply. "You should have seen our freshwater-salts, who were supposed to hold the coastal forts. They were roasted by the first Jabos with napalm. Our grenadiers chucked their shooting irons away

and tickled the soles of the angels' feet, but the Yankees haven't time to take prisoners. They just lay you flat."

"How many times have you shat your pants since you saw your first Coca-cola drinkers," Porta asked sarcastically.

Leutnant Frick walked up to us, a wry smile on his face. He had heard Porta's remark to the agitated feldwebel.

"How many tanks have you seen, Feldwebel, and what type were they?" he asked quietly. He produced a map and spread it out on the Panther's fore-hatch. "Show me where you last saw them."

The feldwebel bent over the map, casting a nervous glance towards the South. It was obvious that he was wanting to bolt and cursing himself for having stopped and spoken to us. Now he was caught.

"We were in positions north of Bellona. They were across the Volturno before we even realised what was happening."

"But they couldn't have got across without a bridge," Leutnant Frick protested.

"Herr Leutnant, I don't suppose you'll believe me, but they drove across."

Thoughtfully Frick lit a cigarette. "You saw tanks crossing the river?"

"Yes, and trucks, Herr Leutnant."

"Ordinary military trucks?"

"Yes, Herr Leutnant, big trucks and the river's deep, I know."

"Partisans," said Frick, thinking aloud. "Under water bridges. A fine mess." He looked at the feldwebel searchingly. "And once they were across, you did a bolt."

"It was all so quick, Herr Leutnant. They crushed every single man in the foxholes. And they're not taking prisoners."

"How many tanks were there?"

"Several hundred, Herr Leutnant."

Porta guffawed. "You're confusing tanks and footsloggers, you idiot!"

"Just wait till they come along and blow that yellow tile off your dome. I was at Stalingrad, but I've never seen war like this."

Frick held out a cigarette, smiling. "Take a deep breath and think. Where were all these hundreds of tanks?"

"In Alvignano."

Frick consulted the map.

"Were they all in the village?" Porta asked spitefully. "It must be a bloody great village. How many tanks can you see here? A thousand? Are you quite sure you haven't come from Rome and are bolting in the wrong direction?"

"Shut your mouth," the feldwebel snarled furiously. "There were so many we couldn't count them."

This was a familiar phenomenon. The infantry always saw double, when they were ridden down by tanks. In all probability the feldwebel had seen twenty-five tanks and not one more. With wide, staring eyes, he explained to Leutnant Frick how these numbers of tanks had wound in and out among the houses in the village, shooting down all living creatures. It was obvious that the man had been through hell.

"Come now, Beier. We must go forward and see what's happening. And you, feldwebel, show me the way," ordered Leutnant Frick.

"Yes, but, Herr Leutnant, the American gangsters are in the village now," he said.

"We'll go and see," Leutnant Frick said.

"Herr Leutnant. There are Japanese too, with Samurai swords."

Leutnant Frick laughed quietly and fanned some dust off the cross that hung round his neck. He was the most dapper officer in the division. His black panzer uniform was always immaculately clean, his tall boots shone so that you could see yourself in them. His left sleeve was empty. He had lost that arm at Kiev, crushed by the turret-hatch, when his tank was hit by a 4-inch shell. He turned to the rest of us.

"Two volunteers to come with us."

The Legionnaire and I stepped forward. We had to, for we took it in turn to volunteer. I swung the light machine gun over my shoulder and we got down into the ditch. Leutnant Frick went first.

We were in Milan being re-equipped. We drifted round while the others did the work. We threw our weight about in Biffi and Gran Italia, having rows with officers of different nationalities. They couldn't stand us, because we smelted of death and talked in vulgarly loud voices, but we made friends with Radi, the waiter. He composed our menus. That was at Biffi opposite La Scala. In the galleries and terrace cafes we drank fresa, which has a wonderful taste of strawberries.

Heide and Barcelona had a fit of megalomania. They went to La Scala every night. They thought that was the right thing to do, for anybody who was anybody in Milan went there.

I fell in love. You do, when you drink fresa at one of the small tables in the galleries. She was twenty. I wasn't much older. Her father kicked her out, when he found us in bed; but when he saw my uniform he turned pleasant. It was the same with most people in Europe in those days, at all events as long as we were within sight and hearing, they were as pleasant as could be.

I decided I was going to desert, but unfortunately I got drunk on fresa again with its lovely taste of strawberries and confided in Porta, After that they would not let me go out alone any more. Deserting was a stupidity that could have unpleasant repercussions on one's friends.

We played a football match with an Italian infantry team. The game was a draw because both spectators and the two teams began fighting.

When they chucked us out of Biffi's, we fornicated behind the pillars in the galleries and then drank ourselves silly with the ack-ack gunners on the roof.

People said there was a lot of unrest in Milan, but we never noticed any. Perhaps that was because we were drinking chianti and fresa with the partisans.

When Biffi closed, we often went back to Radi's. He lived in a basement that had patches of damp on the walls and springs protruding from the mouldy seats of the chairs.

Radi would take off his shoes and pour mineral water over his feet. He said it helped them.

We could hear violent gunfire to the southwest--the wicked, sharp reports of tank-guns mingled with the uninterrupted barking of machine guns; flashes and flames spurted up beyond the trees.

An amphibian came lurching along the road, braking so fiercely that it skidded sideways for quite a distance. Even before it stopped, a colonel with the red stripes of the General Staff had leaped from it, spattered all over with mud. The edelweiss in his beret showed that he belonged to the Mountain Brigade.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he called excitedly. "Are you from the 16th?"

"Forward reconnaissance, Herr Oberst," Leutnant Frick answered. "No. 2 Troop, 5th Squadron, Special Duties Panzer Regiment."

"Panthers," the colonel exclaimed delightedly. "Just at the right moment. Where have you got your crates?"

"In the woods, Herr Oberst."

"Splendid, Leutnant. Bring them up and bowl the gangsters over. Get the old goloshes moving, gentlemen. The Division was to be pulled out, but forget that."

Leutnant Frick clicked his heels together.

"Very sorry, Herr Oberst, but it's not as easy as that. I have first to investigate what's going on. Then I must report my observations to my Company Commander. A tank, Herr Oberst, cannot attack blindly. Excuse me, Herr Oberst, I'm not trying to teach you your business."

"I should hope not, my dear fellow or I'll have something to teach you." The colonel's voice boomed. It was a voice accustomed to command.