Reign of Hell (9 page)

Dotted all round us in the trenches were the prominent red badges of the WUs. Cannon fodder pure and simple. They had been promised free pardons if they distinguished themselves in battle, but we knew and they knew, that this was merely a myth for the credulous. They were lost men. They were there to swell the numbers. They were there to die. They huddled together in groups, full of resentment and misery, waiting only to be herded out into the middle of a minefield, or kicked out of the trenches to meet the first blast of the Russian guns. No one took any notice of them save to curse or kick them. Like loathsome prisoners of war, they were avoided and treated with contempt. When the fighting began, they would be of no use to themselves nor to anyone else. They had nothing left to live for and might just as well die.

Shortly after 2000 hours the fun started. For some time we had listened to them shouting and laughing over on the far side of the marshes, bracing ourselves for an attack. But mortar grenades are no easier to live with simply because you’ve been expecting them. They were aimed with uncomfortable accuracy, and a couple of WUs were blown to shreds before Tiny (who was always one of the first to jump into action), had a chance to retaliate with his machine-gun. After that it was phosphorus bombs which caused wholesale panic when they exploded directly in front of the unfortunate WUs, who ran about screaming in all directions like sheep with a wolf in their midst.

The firing went on spasmodically throughout the night. We had a short burst of peace during the morning, and then in the afternoon the snipers started playing havoc with us. They were Siberians, perched like great black crows in the treetops. I swear they must have been handpicked for the job, because they never wasted a shot. If you showed your head over the edge of the trench for even a hundredth of a second, you’d get a bullet straight between the eyes. They were devils in disguise, those Siberians. Even the Russians
themselves feared them. They killed for the sheer animal joy of killing, counting their toll day by day, saving up the corpses for a medal as other people save sixpences for their grandmother’s birthday present. Still, I suppose we could scarcely complain. We had almost their exact counterpart in the Tyroleans, who showed the same zeal and accuracy in splattering people’s brains about.

It was the little Legionnaire who scored our first definite hit in reply. I saw him shoulder his rifle, take careful aim, fire, and from one of the topmost branches of an oak tree a body came hurtling to the ground. We had barely finished congratulating him when Porta followed suit and a second Siberian came skydiving out of nowhere and plummeted down into the marshes. For a brief moment the sun appeared from behind the clouds, and a stray metal object in the bushes glinted in a shaft of light. Barcelona grabbed Porta’s arm and pointed.

‘There he is . . . over there in the reeds with bits of grass stuck on his head, stupid git—’

Porta, in his excitement, snatched the field-glasses away from Barcelona and pushed him to one side to take a closer look. An explosive bullet thudded into the ground where he had been standing. Porta wasted no time. The field-glasses were abandoned. He stood up and fired three shots in quick succession, and out of the reeds, a body reared up. The top half of its head had been blown off. It threw its arms into the air, took a step forward into the mud and collapsed. In a few moments it was sucked out of sight, down into the depths of the heaving marshes. Only a few, obscene brown bubbles in the mud were left to mark its downward passage. The area was becoming one vast burial ground. One day, perhaps, when all the fighting was over, the bog would release its numerous victims and all the empty skulls would be thrown back to the surface to float in silence on the sea of mud. That would be a sight worth seeing. That would be a fine memorial to five years’ butchery.

While Porta was still gloating over his triumph, a well-aimed shell obliterated the entire 1st section of the Seventh
Company. All that was left was one empty coat-sleeve drifting in the air. When the dust had settled, we discovered a few fragments of bone and pieces of twisted metal. The WUs were thrown into such a state of panic that we were given orders to shoot if need be.

Parson Fischer was cowering in a dugout with an ex-postman from Leipzig. The postman had been caught stealing registered packets (an offence which carried the death sentence), but the man must have had friends in high places for he escaped with his life and ten years’ imprisonment. He had been lured like a fool into 999 battalion with promises that if he behaved himself he would be reinstated in his old position at Leipzig. There are some men who will believe anything, even Nazi propaganda. It had taken only a short time at Sennelager to dispel the illusion, but by then, of course, it was too late to back out.

‘Eh, parson!’ he said, digging the trembling Fischer in his skin-and-bone ribs. ‘How about if we made a run for it?’

He jerked his head in the direction of no-man’s-land. Fischer hesitated. He stared out across the marshy wastes towards the Russian front line.

‘The way I see it,’ said the postman, ‘it can’t be any worse on that side of the fence than it is on this.’ Fischer turned a pair of filmy blue eyes on him. They seemed in some way to be questioning the assertion. The postman grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Look at it this way,’ he said. ‘They’ll kill us for sure if we stay on here—’

Even as he spoke, the firing came to a sudden halt. A thick curtain of silence fell over the marshes. And then slowly, one by one, a whole new range of little sounds came creeping in towards us. We heard the crackling and spitting of fire as a nearby village went up in flames. We heard the distant lowing of terrified cattle. We heard the groans of the wounded, and the calls of the dying for their wives and their mothers.

And suddenly a new sound. The sound of men’s voices raised in song. It was the old German tune of ‘Alte Kameraden’ – and it was coming to us from somewhere behind the Russian lines . . .

‘See what I mean?’ whispered the postman, excitedly. ‘See what I mean?’

The music faded away. We heard the sizzling of hidden microphones, and then a whole network of loudspeakers burst into life.

‘The Red Army salutes number 999 battalion – and in particular all political prisoners who have been forced against their will to fight for a corrupt régime. We urge you to use your best endeavours to bring Hitler’s infernal war machine to a halt! We are your comrades, and you shall have all the support we can give you . . . Listen to us, German soldiers! Hear what we have to say to you! This morning you were told that your rations had been cut to half because saboteurs had blown up the railway line. That is a lie! That is a Nazi lie! Your supply lines are still open. We know, because we are out there, waiting to cut you off whenever we feel like it. But for the moment we are staying our hands. We have seen the trains come in. We have seen the food unloaded – enough for everyone, and some to spare. So where has it gone, you ask? Look to the viper in your bosom, German soldiers! Ask your Sergeant-Major Bode of the Eighth Company what he has done with your rations . . . Ask him where he has hidden the two hundred cartons of cigarettes and the twenty-three bottles of vodka! And if he refuses to talk, look for yourselves behind the truck which is numbered WH6 651.557. Look underneath the petrol tank, and see what you will find there. And if you should have any difficulty, get the Polish woman, the whore Wanda Stutnitz, to take you there and show you . . . Tomorrow evening, your General Freiherr von Weltheim is throwing a party at Matoryta. Laskowska Street, Matoryta. Remember the address, German soldiers! All the drinks and all the cigarettes are being supplied by Quartermaster-Sergeant Lumbe. They have been stolen by him from the Fourth Tank Regiment . . .’

The voice stopped, and the speakers blared forth once again with the menacing strains of martial music. No one spoke. No one moved. We just stood still and stared, glassy-eyed and vacant, like a herd of bovine creatures waiting for
the butcher’s axe. The music crackled into silence and the harsh, guttural voice of a German-speaking Russian returned with more propaganda.

‘Comrades! German comrades! Hear what I have to say! Throw down your arms and liberate yourselves! Throw off the yoke of imperialism and come to join your brother workers! The Free Army of the Socialist Peoples is waiting to welcome you. Marshal Rokossovsky offers you an honourable place among his troops. Here you will be treated as one of our own Russian soldiers. Your Nazi officers call us a sub-species – low, mindless creatures of the bogs and the marshes. We laugh in their faces! Who is it, I ask you, who is it who has won victory after victory ever since the débâcle of Stalingrad? You of 999 battalion who have been forced against your will to take up arms to defend your overlords – it is you to whom I address myself. Throw off your shackles and join us in our fight for freedom! Have they promised you rehabilitation? And have you trusted them? Have you put your faith in them? Have you believed them in their lying promises? Comrades, do not let yourselves be deceived! You will never see Germany again. None of you. Your death warrants have already been signed. You have been sent out here to die for them. You have been sent out here for us to kill . . . But we do not want to kill you! Come to us now, while there is still time, so that we may avoid spilling the blood of our brothers! We can offer you the hope of a new life. We can offer you a war of revenge against the Nazi criminals who are condemning you to die for them . . . We shall fight and we shall be victorious! We shall not stop until we reach Berlin! Come and join us in our struggle. We shall not let you starve, nor go to your deaths in a dishonourable fight of worker set against worker . . . This evening we shall be waiting for you to come to us. Between 1900 and 2100 hours. We shall give you covering fire and protect you on the crossing. Take heart and have courage! Rise against your persecutors and put them to flight!’

The voice shouted itself to a raucous halt. In their dugout,
the postman and the parson sat together shivering. The postman was the first to break the silence.

‘You heard him,’ he whispered. ‘You heard what he said. It’s only the same as it was earlier. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? There’s only one sensible thing to do, and that’s get the hell out while there’s still a chance . . . How about it, padre? You coming with me?’

Slowly, Fischer shook his head.

‘I can’t;’ he said. ‘I wish you luck, but I cannot desert my people. They have need of me and I must stay with them.’

The postman stared at him.

‘Are you off your saintly rocker? You must be raving bloody potty! What’s the point of staying here to succour that load of perishing shits? You want to be a martyr, do you? Is that what you want? You want to be a bloody martyr like that Jehovah’s flaming Witness?’

‘Christ died on the cross,’ murmured Fischer, a trifle obscurely. ‘I will meet whatever fate the Lord has in store for me. I will not turn my back on what I consider to be my duty.’

‘Duty!’ said the other, scornfully. ‘Well, it may be your idea of duty to stay here like a sitting duck and get your holy head blown off, but it certainly ain’t mine! I’m going to make a break for it while the offer still holds good.’

Fischer turned a pair of mild blue eyes upon him.

‘If I were you,’ he said, gently, ‘I shouldn’t place too much reliance on the Russians keeping their word. They also have their concentration camps and their political prisoners. I fancy they will use you little better than the Nazis.’

The postman shrugged a shoulder.

‘That’s a risk I have to take, old man. It may not be much of a chance, I grant you that, but at least it’s better than nothing . . . I hope you won’t shoot me in the back as I make the crossing?’

‘I would never shoot any man,’ said Fischer, gravely. ‘May God go with you.’

In all the other shellholes and dugouts, the WUs were
mumbling and muttering among themselves as they considered the implications of the Russian offer.

‘You heard what they said? You heard what they just said?’ Paul Weiss, ex-banker, ex-swindler, ex-con man, turned agitatedly to his companion. ‘Why don’t we give it a go? Eh? Why don’t we give it a go? I’d as soon die fighting for the Reds as for the Nazis. Sod the Party and the lousy flaming Fatherland! What have they ever done for the likes of you and me? There’s certainly never been any freedom in Germany. Not in my lifetime, there hasn’t. Every move you make, there are Gestapo snapping round your heels like a pack of starving dogs. Why not make a break for it and see what the world looks like from the other side of the fence for a change?’

Shortly before 1900 hours it began to rain; a tremulous grey drizzle quickly covered the area in a watery haze. Almost at once, the Russian barrage began. The artillery fire, which until then had been spasmodic, gradually gathered in intensity. Shells began ripping up the earth in front of the trenches, and a shower of napalm bombs set the ground alight behind us. This was no doubt the Russians’ subtle way of encouraging any would-be deserters, by demonstrating just what would be in store for them if they chose to stay behind and fight for Hitler.

Promptly at 1900 hours, the firing stopped. Only one large shell broke the sudden silence as it exploded. The noise came from behind us, somewhere near the village where Hofmann was still amusing himself with his two female telephonists from the Luftwaffe.

‘Let’s hope it got the bastard,’ muttered Tiny, with all his accustomed goodwill towards his superiors.

From their forward position, Paul Weiss and his companion peered through the creeping mist towards the enemy lines, which appeared to be deserted. We knew we were being spied on from all directions, but there were no signs of activity anywhere.