Authors: Sven Hassel
Several generals looked at one another silently but not one protested.
We are lying in the shade from a row of fruit-trees. The autumn leaves fall gently on and around us. It is a beautifully warm autumn day, one of those late summery days which only occur in Russia.
The regiment is well behind the front line waiting to be reorganized. Of our two hundred tanks only sixteen are left. More than sixty-eight percent casualties amongst the men.
New tanks have already started to arrive. We’ve been here five days now. Some of us feel they’re the best five days of the whole war. The supplies people have made a fortunate mistake. The company is still getting supplies for 220 men and that’s not bad when we number no more than about 60.
At the canteen the QM’s going crazy with only 60 men to consume all those rations.
‘What the hell can I do?’ he cries in despair. ‘I’ve
signed
for 220
men
! And those bastards who ain’t here ‘ve let themselves
get killed by the bloody
untermensch
and who’s it to
go
to? Somebody ought to get the wall for this!’
‘Give us the bloody lot,’ shouts Porta happily from the queue. ‘You’ll be surprised how fast
we’ll
get rid of it!’
A hot discussion commences. The QM can’t make up his mind what to do. Not even when Tiny offers to beat his brains out if he doesn’t pass the rations on.
Anything might have happened if Oberst Hinka hadn’t come past and ordered the QM to distribute the lot to the men.
The QM goes amok! The Old Man gets an extra stick of chewing tobacco, and the rest of us two cigars over the ration.
Porta
, of course, gets a whole carton of cognac.
And now we’re lying stretched out under the apple trees. We’ve put on half a stone in weight in under a couple of hours.
Porta looks as if he’s on the verge of giving birth. Twins at least. He’s not only eaten his own rations, but has also been over to No. 4 Company and finished up all their leavings.
He is sitting on an oil-drum which he uses as a latrine. We’re doing things the high society way. Puffing at big cigars. Using our military ranks when we address one another; and drinking cognac from real glasses. But when Porta begins to use a knife and fork we give up and send for the medical orderly and a strait-jacket.
Porta is wearing his monocle in honour of the day and Tiny has fixed a hen’s wing to each side of his bowler. He feels it gives him a distinguished appearance. Our boots are off for the first time in six weeks and it feels good.
‘Our padre’s a bleedin’ drunk,’ remarks Tiny suddenly between two slugs of cognac which he chases down with a beer.
‘Which one?’ asks Porta interestedly. ‘The one with the yellow badges or the white one?’
1
‘’Is riverence with the white pipin,’ answers Tiny, rolling
his eyes skywards in the manner appropriate when referring to holy things or to persons belonging to the holy hierarchy.
‘I hope for your own sake that you can prove your accusation against this virtuous officer, Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt,’ threateningly from Porta.
‘Goddamn it, I
can
!’ shouts Tiny. ‘That bleedin’ bible-puncher was pissed as a coot yesterday, an’ ’ad ’is ’and up the clouts of that ‘umpty-backed old ‘ore of a
babuschka
2
down at the bleedin’ ferry.
An
’ ’e’d got a look on ’is face like a Jew with ‘is ’and fulla bleedin’ gold ducats. ’Ard luck it was gettin’ dark so I ’eard more’n I seen, but ’e was soakin’ the piss up like a sponge.’
‘How d’you know that, if it was dark?’ asks Barcelona suspiciously.
‘I got all ’is empties over where I was lyin’ listenin’,’ answers Tiny injuredly. ‘They went orf singin’. ’Im tellin’ ol’ ’umpty as ’ow she was ’is only true love an’ ’ad bin sent from Garwd. It’s true, by Christ, as ’e was sent to the front for ’ittin’ the piss. Nobody’d ’ave nothin’ to do with ’im in Leipzig because of it. When ’e was preachin’ ’is last sermon in the garrison church there, ’e fell outa the bleedin’ pulpit into the Commandin’ General’s bleedin’ lap as ’e was explainin’ the parable o’ the man sick o’ the bleedin’ palsy. ’E’d just got to the well-known words: “Pluck up thy pailliase and piss orf promptly!” when over the railin’ ’egoes an’ picks up ’is ticket to points east!’
‘It reminds me,’ Porta takes up the thread, ‘of the time I was chief clerk to Padre Kurt Winfuss of the 7th ID at München. He was what you’d call a happy maniac with his nose into everything he should’ve kept it out of. One evening he decided to make a check on the prevailing rumours of drunkenness and immorality in München and we started at the Hofbräuhaus where the good citizens and the villains meet over sauerkraut and beer and where you can slip your dicky into a few fur coat without too much difficulty. We got
there about eight o’clock, when the crowd waiting to get in is always at its worst. You couldn’t hardly’ve got a postage stamp in edgewise. Everybody and his brothers and sisters were there!
‘“We’re all right now, boys,” shouted a well-oiled infantryman, “there’s a sky-pilot in the party so neither the wallop
nor
the crumpet’ll go off tonight.”
‘“They’ve come to set up an altar to the god of Germany right here in the Hofbräuhaus!”
‘And all these rude soldiers began to sing:
Onward Christian soldiers
Onward as to war
With the cross of Jesus
Going on before
. . . . .
‘If I could’ve got through the mob I’d have sent that pig of an infantryman for a burton. My padre took it pretty hard.
‘They were at him all the time we were in that queue. I was promising bashings right, left and centre but they couldn’t’ve cared less. Booze and bints was all they’d got in their heads.
‘We got inside eventually, the soul-saver and me, in the posh part of course, up on the first floor. There we planned our campaign against drink and immortality. We stood in a corner so’s not to get pissed on by the customers as they came swaying in.
‘“Porta,” said the padre, “I trust you. You are a young, intelligent man in whom I find much that is good and laudable. You are hard-working, modest and have attained an understanding of the work of the Church in the military field. You have never made a muddle of things as did my earlier assistants. I have never seen you smoke or drink. During the period in which you have filled the position of chief clerk with me not a drop of altar wine has ever ‘evaporated’ and we have never ‘run short’. You do not gamble and where women are concerned your papers are
unsmirched. As far as I am aware you have no debts, and you are a good comrade, often helping those who are in need. The pay sergeant tells me that you have never asked for an advance of pay. I have been happy to find that you are quick and efficient at paperwork and your handwriting is as good as an academician’s. It has been of satisfaction to me, furthermore, to note that you are economical with paper and turn envelopes so that they may be used twice. You allow nothing to go to waste. You are the first to arrive at our field services, straighten and snuff the candles and call to order those who spit on the floor during our holy celebrations. You type almost without error on any make of machine. No sacristan could be an improvement on you. And at High Mass you never go wrong in the singing. My last assistant always got Our Father and the Creed mixed up. Your uniform is perfect, your boots well-polished, your neck-cloth clean and white. I will, therefore, now confide to you a great and dangerous task, but do not allow yourself to fall into temptation! The Devil is everywhere in this the Sodom of Bayern. You will now go down into the common hall and observe what is happening. Here is 100 marks for your expenses since I do not wish you to use your own money. I will go up to the Ludwigssaal which the officers use. Tomorrow we will write a report on what we have seen and heard. We meet at nine at the Field Chapel.”
‘“Jawohl, Herr Padre!” I roared in a voice which lifted three drunks, coughing and farting in chorus, up in their chairs. We didn’t take any notice of this, the padre being of the opinion that farting was a human reaction condoned by circumstances and surroundings.
‘I went down to Pay-Sergeant Balko who sat waiting for me in the middle of a lively party. I let him order a 4-litre
3
tankard for me before asking him for my outstandings – 700 marks.’
‘Were you an eighty percent man even then?’ Barcelona Blom asks with interest.
‘I was
that
long before I got to the Divisional Chapel at München and took over the souls of the infantry there.’
‘Didn’t your religious superior know about this?’ asks the Old Man with a glint of humour in his eye.
‘No,’ grins Porta. ‘He only knew what I felt he ought to know – about me.
‘But it was Balko’s night, so he started immediately with a new loan of 700 marks. I did pretty good business whilst I was with the Army Soul Service.
‘We drove back to barracks in horse-drawn carriages and by the time we got home the horses were as drunk as we were. They even whinnied in tune with the choruses of “
Oh du schöner Westerwoll
”. They slept it off down behind the guard-house. They wouldn’t come up with us.
‘But my holy boss had fallen in with bad company. A party of officers had fixed him with raspberry juice which they’d “blessed” in advance, so that he was well cut when we met in the Field Chapel around midday. He promised me the hand of a sister I knew he hadn’t got, and then he tried to get me into bed with him in the belief that I was Louise from Zell-am-See. Later on he confided to me a great deal about the sex life of John the Baptist. Finally he began to cry and asked me to beat him for he had sinned. I fulfilled his wish but unfortunately hit him too hard and
he
wound up in the garrison infirmary and
I
wound up on a charge. He accused me of having shit in his dress boots but he’d done that himself. The officers at the Hofbräuhaus had given him laxative pills instead of aspirins when he’d become dizzy during the party.
‘On CO’s orders I was sentenced to 21 days for having struck the padre. Our Oberst wouldn’t hear of any heavier punishment. As I was marched away between two guards with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets there stood the padre in his field uniform, waiting for me outside the garrison gaol.
‘“You are a lying scoundrel,” he raged at me with an expression on his face like that of a martyr being torn with glowing pincers outside the gates of Rome. “God and I will
have nothing further to do with you,” he stated, and pointed towards the clouds where he thought God lived. “It will go badly for you if you continue on the broad path leading to damnation!”
‘After a while he became more human and gave me two packets of Juno. He was rash enough to promise that Jesus would forgive me if I soon returned to the Lord’s little vineyard. He followed me right into the guard-house and ordered the glass-house Warrant Officer to treat me well and without brutality. I must be allowed to keep the cigarettes. I was a God-fearing man who had been tempted into evil ways by low persons. Next day he sent his batman with a basket of extra rations. In amongst all the sausages there was a Field Bible bound in green, the colour of hope. On the fly-leaf he had written: Soldier, Turn towards God! Do not forget to pray! And the star of Hope will illumine your dark cell. We had light enough from the carbide-lamp so Jesus was saved the trouble.
‘The Glass-house WO moved into my cell as soon as he discovered this horn of plenty.
‘My cell-mate, a transport soldier, who looked for all the world like an export-quality pig, could imitate all kinds of animals. He had been on the stage before he became a soldier and had been a favourite in the country districts where the rustics think it funny to hear a city dweller grunt like a pig or cackle like an old hen.
‘At two in the morning there were complaints about the noise from the gaol-house. We answered them with:
Mein Hut, der hat drei Ecken,
drei Ecken hat mein Hut,
und hat er nicht drei Ecken,
dann ist er nicht mein Hut
.
‘Then we moved on to the song of the 10th British Hussars “Moses in Egypt”. The transport soldier did the trumpet. The Warrant Officer imitated horses’ hooves with two mess-tins
and I did the kettle-drums. What a row! It sounded as if a whole regiment of cavalry was drilling in the gaolhouse. But we were having a wonderful time. We got schnapps and beer sent over from the café “Friends of Gaiety”. The cell we were using was really the death cell. There were a lot of interesting things written on the walls. One of the newest was a crisp military message:
Calling all bastards!
Feldwebel Paul Schlüntz.
Born on the Führer’s birthday, 20th April.
Leaving 3rd May (1938).
Unfortunately
he
will not be accompanying me
.
‘On the other side of the wall was written in very large letters:
SS-man Boris Brause, shot by
Swamp Germans 7.4.38.
“They said I would go to Valhalla,
But I couldn’t accept their views.
So I’ve booked myself a ticket
For the Paradise of the Jews,
And Oberstürmbahnführer Ritter,
Can shove
that
up his shitter!
Every Christmas!
Heil Me!
‘Under the window a short sharp missive: