A feldwebel running beside me had both feet shot off.
Unteroffizier Schrank from No. 1 troop stopped abruptly, gazing in amazement at the machine gun and his severed arm lying together on the ground in front of him. Gefreiter Lazio was sitting in the middle of the path trying to stuff his guts back into his riven belly.
Then we were through, having left a quarter of our number among the piles of dead. Eagle was not the only one who had filled his trousers during that ten minutes run.
We had a breather, our faces were very different now that we were through. The man with the scythe had laid his hand on our shoulders and we were no longer the same. We were killers now; deadly dangerous. You can take cover from a shell, but it is difficult to hide from a scared soldier thirsting to kill.
Snipers sit up in trees with rifles with telescopic sights. They always place their bullets between the eyes. That kills you. Down goes the curtain. A stray bullet or shell splinter can pierce your helmet. At the best you will merely be scalped, but if it should lodge in the soft part at the back, friend, the stretcher bearers must drag you away. You have a chance; but not a big one. If they aren't too busy at the field hospital, they will get it out all right, but it will mean months and months in hospital afterwards. And you will have to learn everything all over again: talking, walking, moving. You won't even be able to smell any more. You will have forgotten everything. Perhaps you will go mad before you have relearned it all.
Die blauen Dragoner sie reiten mit klingendem Spiel durch das Tor . . .
What German soldier has not sung it in the garrison? It is such a glad gay song about the poacher who makes a fool of the warder. But you won't sing it the day you find yourself sitting in a muddy fox hole holding your fingers to an open artery in your thigh, for your hie will be in your own hand, quite literally. You will shout desperately for the stretcher bearers, the front line soldier's friend with the red cross armlet, but he won't come. He has other things to do. He will be busy helping those whose lives can be saved. You are doomed, though you don't realise it. Your wound does not look anything in particular, but one cannot put a ligature on it. Surprised, you see the blood trickling out from under your fingers. In half an hour you will be dead. You will have quietly bled to death.
Aupres de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir. . . .
There are no fifes and drums up at the front. You beseech alternately God and the Devil to help you. But they don't. In a war, both are so busy. Why does God let it happen? you ask. You want to reproach him for it. But it was not God let it happen. He gave man freewill, the liberty even to wage war. A thief or a murderer cannot reproach the police because he is a thief, or a murderer. Nor can you reproach God, because there is a war.
We took over from the paratroopers. They were done. They did not even say goodbye as they marched away. They had only one thought in their heads: to get away. An hour later, we had the first attack. It was the Japs. In a moment we were all rolling about in a savage hand to hand.
The Legionnaire and I got a SMG into position and swept the length of the position. That caused casualties on both sides, but what else could we do? The yellow ones had to be got out and that's what happened. It was the Legionnaire did it. He wrenched the gun off its stand, clasped it to his hip and bawled his
'Allah el akbar! Vive la legion! Avant, avant!'
and we followed him, as so often before in Russia. Even Mike joined in.
Tiny was wielding a sharpened trenching tool. He seized a Jap by the ankles and crushed his head against a stone. In a matter of minutes, they had withdrawn in panic.
We found Barcelona in a bunker with a knife wound in his belly. The man who had given it to him was lying in a corner with a cloven head. We sent Barcelona back to the dressing station. It cost us six cigars, a watch, three opium sticks and twelve French pictures to get him there. It was a stiff price, but Barcelona was a good pal.
The doctor gave him a big shot of morphia.
We were now one fewer in the troop. Just before they took him off, he gave the Old Man the shrivelled orange he had brought from Spain. He had got it into his head that nothing could happen to him as long as the orange was with No. 5 Squadron. The Old Man had to swear on a crucifix borrowed from Padre Emanuel that he would keep it in his righthand trouser pocket until Barcelona returned. Then he waved to us from the improvised stretcher, a greatcoat between two rifles. We watched him until they disappeared up by the ravine of death.
It was that night we captured the boy. He was on his way across the river and ran right into the arms of a patrol. We could not get a word out of him. When they searched him, they found various kinds of seeds in his pockets. Nothing else. When they asked his name, he gave one that tens of thousands of Italian boys of ten have.
The Divisional intelligence officer came up, but he could not get anything out of him either. They sent him back with a patrol, and that evening we heard they had shot him. They had discovered the significance of the seeds: the white ones were tanks; maize was guns, sunflower seeds machine guns; apple pips regiments. He was only ten years old, but a brilliant spy. He had seen his father and mother shot in some sidestreet in Rome and that had made him hate us so much, he had himself cut the throat of a military policeman.
Two days later the Americans made enquiries about him. We told them what we knew. They cursed us and shot five of ours in reprisal.
There was a tree in the ravine of death with a peasant girl strung from one of its branches. She had been caught red-handed burying mines. By the river's bank were two commando soldiers sitting tied together with barbed wire. They had been caught far behind HKL. The headhunters had brought them up, killed them with a shot in the back of the neck and placed their bodies there, right in front of the Americans' noses as an awful warning. They were already beginning to disintegrate, but we were forbidden to remove them under pain of severe punishment. Soon we no longer saw them. They were part of the landscape, like the old willow tree that was trying to drown itself in the river.
It was our instinct told us, the sure instinct of the front line soldier, and so, without anyone ordering us, we began digging one-man fox holes, the infantry's best defence against tanks.
The grenadiers from the 134th laughed at us.
"There aren't any tanks here. You panzer-boys have tanks on the brain."
"Va te faire cuir un oeuf,"
said the Legionnaire. They'll come. Just wait and see."
And they came. At a time of day we least expected: just after midnight.
We ran back from our positions into our fox holes, from which we mowed down the infantry following the tanks and destroyed tank after tank. Thirty six reeking bonfires we lit. Only ten tanks got back.
Porta and Tiny were out hunting for gold teeth, even before the attack was over. They had been told that the Japanese were usually well supplied with them. Loud was their disappointment when an energetic search yielded only nine. They decided that they would examine the corpses again by daylight. They could have overlooked some in the dark. For at least the twentieth time Major Mike threatened to court martial them, but they remained unmoved. Nothing could overcome their hunger for gold. Tiny proudly displayed a magnificent eye tooth.
We were moved to new positions by Hill 593, on the other side of which lay the 34th Texas Division. We could see as far as Rocca Janula, on which shells were raining. Mike spent hours with the glasses glued to his eyes searching for faces he knew, for 133 US Infantry regiment was slightly to one side of us and Mike had been in it as a recruit.
We could see that he was concocting some dirty trick to play on them. He had a grudge against them. Suddenly he saw a few he recognised. He shoved the artillery observer aside, seized the field telephone and demanded to be put through to the major in command of the unit Leutnant Frick tried to stop him:
"Don't, Mike. They'll smash us."
Mike grinned evilly and stuck one of his big cigars into his mouth.
"Bugger off! This is my private war. I've looked forward to this for many years." He summoned Porta, who was going about with a seven foot bow he had found lying beside a dead American. Mike pointed out a target for him. "Can you see those three bushes just beside that five-sided rock?"
Porta nodded.
"Slightly to the right, three fingers about, there's an opening," Mike went on. "Can you see it?"
Porta peered through the glasses, then gave a long whistle.
"I've got it. An observation post."
Mike grinned and chewed at his cigar.
"Not it! It's their command post. There's a turd there, who was in F Company with me. Can you get an arrow across with a note?"
"Could do," said Porta.
Major Mike tore a leaf from his message book and wrote swiftly:
"Joe Dunnawan can you remember Michael Braun? We were in Shuffield Barracks together. You split on me, Dunnawan. It was your fault I was chucked out. Now I'm a major.
"We're coming across to pull your arse hole over your face. There's a lot of interest on our account to be paid, Joe, and Joe, I'm going to get you even if you hide in General Clarke's HQ!
"In exactly three minutes I'm sending a bunch of shells across. Take cover, Joe, or your head will go flying, and I wouldn't like that. I want to get you alive. By Jesus, Joe, you're going to yell, as we slaves in the garrison jail used to when Major One-Leg beat us up.
Be seeing you, Joe!
Mike Braun.
Major Company Commander"
Porta tied the paper to a long arrow, drew the bow, took careful aim and with a whine the message sped away.
Mike started his stop watch, rushed to the field telephone, snatched the observer's calculations and, a satanic smile on his face, gave his orders to the heavy howitzer battery. Then he asked for the rocket battery.
Exactly three minutes after Porta shot his arrow, there was a roar as if a hundred runaway express locomotives were rushing past overhead. Involuntarily we dropped to our knees. A wall of fire, earth and stone rose above the enemy positions. That was the howitzers. Ten salvoes they fired. Five seconds later the rocket battery joined in. The howitzers were nasty, but they were nothing compared to the 30 cm rockets which then came sweeping with long tails of fire behind them. We had experienced it many times, yet it never failed to send us cowering in terror at the bottom of the trench. We knew that the rocket battery had three projectors, but each projector had ten tubes. That made thirty of those terrifying things, and all because Major Mike bore a grudge against a man. There he sat on the bottom of the trench, legs wide apart, an evil smile on his face.
The silence was uncanny after that rain of shells.
"Look out," Leutnant Frick said. "They're bound to answer."
And they did. For a whole quarter of an hour they pounded away with every gun they had. Then peace returned.
Mike was sitting in his dug-out concocting some fresh devilry. Soon after darkness fell there was a call for volunteers, for a storming party we were told. But everyone knew of Major Mike's private war and no one volunteered. Mike jeered and called us sissies, but we didn't care. "I'm leading it myself," Mike said, as if that meant anything. We had no confidence in Mike as leader of a night storming party. He did not dare order us out. It could have had very nasty consequences for him, if he had and things had gone wrong. They weren't amateurs on the other side. So, there was no storming party that night. Mike even promised Porta and Tiny 60 opium sticks and as much gold teeth plundering as they liked, if they could get a group together. They did what they could with threats and wonderful promises, but we just weren't having any.
The next morning the Americans began jeering at Mike. They flung an old infantry boot with a dead rat inside it across to us. The message was obvious. Then they began using an amplifier:
"We haven't forgotten you, Braun. You're the nastiest renegade ever wore American uniform. You fit in well with the krauts. I'm here waiting for you; but don't keep me waiting too long. I don't want a corn on my bum because of you. Ersatz-Major Mike Braun. We promise 20,000 dollars and as many cigarettes as two men can carry, if your squadron will cut your head off and chuck it across to us. And if they don't cut your turnip off, we'll slaughter the lot, when we come to fetch you."
Their snipers were busy all day and killed eleven of us. Just after midnight they killed our sentries, and it was only due to the Legionnaire that they didn't clear the trench. He had gone out of his dug-out to pee and saw them running up. He at once opened fire from his LMG, and it took ten minutes hard fighting to turn them out. That cost us another dozen men. But now we had had enough. They had gone too far.
Mike rubbed his hands delightedly when the Legionnaire came up and reported that the storming party was ready. We were going to slip down and fetch Mike's friend just after 19 hours, when they would be in the middle of issuing rations. They would be intent on their food, and as we had ours doled out at roughly the same time, they would never in their wildest dreams imagine that we would come across at such a time. It was the Legionnaire's idea and met with considerable opposition from the food-hogs like Porta. Mike did not like it much either, but the Legionnaire had his way. Tiny and Heide cut a way through the wire and we crawled through at lightning speed. We assembled in a couple of shell holes in front of the enemy position. We unscrewed the caps of our grenades, undid the safety catches of our pistols. We were so close we could hear them joking about the contents of the mess kids. One said it was a stew of dead German telephone girls. Two were squabbling over a bottle of whisky.
Mike picked out the way through his infra-red glasses. Whispering, he told Tiny to come with him and help bring Joe Dunnawan back. The Americans seemed to have forgotten everything but their food. Mike let his hand fall, the signal to attack.