Authors: Sven Hassel
When the attack came, it came suddenly, unexpectedly, just as it always did. No matter how long you sat and waited, it always took you by surprise. There was a loud explosion and the solid bunker shuddered. Another, somewhere outside. Then a whole series of explosions, some very nearly direct hits. Inside the bunker there were pockets of calm and occasional bursts of panic, when men fought to get out and had to be restrained.
Very suddenly the bombardment ceased and the silence seemed sinister and unnatural, so that men held their breath and wondered what new horrors were about to be launched upon them. The Old Man pushed his pipe into his pocket, helped himself to some hand grenades, picked up his submachine gun and called to the second section to follow him.
Out in the trenches it was like a lunar battlefield. The scene was stark and desolate, the ground torn into craters, the snow gray and dirty and the sky bleak. We dug ourselves in as best we could and settled down for yet another waiting period.
They came at us suddenly, in waves, one after another, endless and inevitable as the tides washing the beaches. To us, in our ruined trenches, they were a vision from hell. An invincible sea of soldiery, howling as they plunged forward behind their gleaming bayonets.
I heard Captain Schwan's whistle, followed instantly by the massed chorus of our machine guns. The first wave of Siberians fell beneath the onslaught, but the second and third waves rushed on, pitilessly trampling their torn and bleeding comrades into the snow. They used the corpses to throw onto the barbed wire, massing them up until they formed a bridge.
A smell of sulphur wafted into the trenches, burning men's throats and lungs. We pulled on our gas masks and turned back to the approaching enemy. Porta was firing the machine gun like an automaton. From left to right, from right to left, back and forth, back and forth. It was comforting, almost hypnotic in its regularity. I felt that Porta was immortal, that no bullet, no shell could ever stop him firing that gun.
A hand grenade came straight for us, heading into the trench. I acted instinctively, plucked it out of the air and hurled it back over the top. But there was no time to congratulate myself, for now the machine gun was in difficulties. Porta the automaton was still in working order, but the gun itself was not. The breech mechanism was blocked by a bullet, and since the special tool for removing such obstacles had long ago been lost, stolen or sold, we had to dig it out ourselves. It was not until the gun was firing again that I realized it had been red-hot and that I had badly burned one of my hands on it.
"Watch it," I told Porta, spitting on the burn and waving my hand in the air. "There's only another 1500 rounds left."
"They're there to be used!" he retorted.
I turned and grabbed some grenades, ready for the moment when we should run out of ammunition, but now the Siberians had broken through farther along the lines and we had to pick up the machine gun and make a dash for it. I stumbled along with the tripod on my shoulder and my head directly beneath the muzzle. After a few yards we threw ourselves to the ground and took up firing positions again, but then for the second time the gun became blocked. We couldn't stop to put it right, we abandoned it on the spot and continued the fight with the first weapons that came to hand. I fixed my bayonet and plunged forward. I had acquired a Russian rifle that was far better than our own outmoded 98. Porta had snached up a stray shovel and bashed it straight into the face of an oncoming Russian. Nearby I caught a glimpse of Tiny. He seemed to have disdained all mechanical aids and to be using only his feet and his fists. As I rushed past him, I saw him snatch up two Russians and bang their heads together, but I was unable to stop long enough to see the outcome.
The trenches were awash with blood. Mangled bodies, both Russian and German, lay at the bottom or hung over the sides. The air was full of shouts and cries and screams of agony. All up and down the narrow trenches men were locked together, fighting and killing each other.
The attack lasted some hours and was then quite suddenly brought to a halt. We never knew what lay behind the order, but it gave us a desperately needed respite. The two sides parted company and sat back to lick their wounds and to count their dead, but out in no-man's-land men still lay writhing and moaning. The smoke still rose wraithlike into the air. the new silence was still occasionally torn apart by the screams of dying men.
We pulled off our gas masks and quenched our thirst with great handfuls of snow. The snow was dirty, men had bled in it, spat in it, trampled in it, but our throats were dry as sandpaper and every time you swallowed, it was as if you had a razor blade in your gullet.
At the foot of the trench there was a tangled crush of bodies; some dead, some still dying. We threw ourselves down among them, too exhausted to care. The enemy could attack again at any moment, but in the meantime it was every man for himself and to hell with the weak and the wounded. The Old Man appeared, with his inevitable pipe. Porta produced some opium cigarettes and handed them around. Gregor and Tiny came up from opposite directions, and shortly afterward we were joined by the Legionnaire. He was covered in blood, yet he seemed unhurt.
"Been sticking pigs?" suggested Gregor. The Legionnaire gave him a look of withering distaste. "Some damn fool officer got a bayonet stuck in his neck. Jesus, what a mess! Like a goddam geyser, blood spouting out all over the place. It went all over me."
The whole of our group had survived, but Captain Schwan had disappeared. We found him several hours later, lying on bis back with his belly ripped open and his intestines torn out. Nearby, with half his head gone, was Porta's friend Franz Krupka. We had to bury everyone, Russians and Germans alike, in the same grave
.
We dug a shallow pit, bundled the bodies in pell-mell, packed them with snow and planted rifles alongside. We had neither the time nor the energy to give them a more seemly graveyard.
The regiment was withdrawn to be re-formed. In our company alone we had lost sixty-eight men, and at first we thought our fat friend Wilke was among them, because the field kitchen was now being run by someone else.
"Hallo, there!" said Porta, surprised. "Where's Sergeant Wilke gone? Don't tell me a stray shell got him at last?"
"No, he went off this morning in a plane with General Hube."
"He what?" said Porta.
"Went off in a plane. Back to Germany, the lucky bastard."
"You're joking!" Porta tossed his head in an attempt at bravado, but we could see that he was shaken. "Where's he really gone?"
"I told you, didn't I?" said the man irritably. "What's the matter with you, you deaf or something? I told you, he's gone back home."
Porta's jaw dropped open and his cigarette fell to the ground. He stooped unsteadily to pick it up. He had the look of a man who has just been punched in the face.
"By the way," continued the new cook, "you don't happen to know a guy called Joseph Porta, do you? Wilke left a parcel for him. Said he was the best pal he'd ever had. I don't know what he was talking about, but I've got the parcel right here. If you meet this Porta fellow, you might tell him to come and pick it up."
Porta staggered away without another word. It was the first time I had ever seen him at a loss. While the rest of us settled down to sleep, Porta walked up and down feverishly muttering to himself, and not until the Legionnaire threatened to put a bullet through him did he come to his senses. He went striding out to see the new cook, and with grunts of relief we closed our eyes and lost consciousness. But scarcely five minutes later, Porta was back again. He banged something down in the middle of the floor, and we were resentfully back into wakefulness.
"What the hell's going on?" snarled the Legonnaire. He shot upright and saw Porta. The great scar down the side of his face glowed bright red with anger. "It's you again!" He sounded incredulous. "I told you once, you're asking for trouble!"
He snatched up his revolver, but before he could fire, Porta had held up a restraining hand. "Just take a gander at this bit of loot," he suggested.
The Legionnaire peered forward suspiciously. "What is it?"
"Vodka." A blissful smile painted itself across Porta's face. "A whole crate of vodka."
There was a stunned silence. The Legionnaire slowly put his revolver away and staggered out of bed.
"Where did it come from?" demanded Tiny, digging his knuckles into his eyes and blinking.
"My friend Wilke," said Porta nonchalantly.
"Your friend Wilke?"
"Yeah--I did him a good turn. Got him a ticket back to Germany."
We looked at him; six pairs of eyes, all disbelieving.
"How?" asked the Old Man bluntly.
"Well, that's the trouble," confessed Porta, with a frown. "I don't know how--I only wish I did, I'd do the same for myself!"
Some time later, when Porta was wandering around inebriated with a bottle in his hand, he bumped into a new lieutenant who had recently joined us. The lieutenant was young and zealous. Newly hatched from his egg and still with some of the yolk behind his ears. He and Porta had not crossed paths before. The lieutenant stood back, evidently awaiting some sign of respectful acknowledgment from Porta. Porta stared up at him from little glittering eyes that were full of frank condescension.
"You! Corporal! Don't you know what the Fuhrer's orders are?"
Porta opened his eyes wide. "Sorry, sir. He hasn't been able to give us any orders since the enemy tore him in half yesterday evening. We buried him in one of the trenches."
The lieutenant stiffened. "Are you trying to be funny, Corporal? Are you deliberately insulting your Fuhrer?"
Porta clicked his heels together and saluted with the hand that was holding the bottle. "Certainly not, sir. I wouldn't dream of it, sir."
"Then what the devil do you mean by saying that you buried the Fuhrer in one of the trenches?"
Porta looked innocently into the tight-lipped face of the lieutenant. His blue eyes slowly cleared. "Oh, you mean
that
Fuhrer, sir!"
"Who did you suppose I meant?"
"I thought you meant
our
Fuhrer, sir. Captain Schwan, who was killed last night. When you said the Fuhrer's orders, I thought you was referring to the captain." Porta smiled brightly. "He was the only one around here ever gave us any orders, sir. We wouldn't have taken them from no one else."
The lieutenant stretched his neck out of his collar and swallowed in a somewhat strangulated fashion. "What are your duties in the company, Corporal?"
"Well, a little bit of everything, really. I'm in charge of the third section just at the moment."
"Then may God preserve us, that's all I can say! Which cretin promoted you to be a section leader?"
"Sir," said Porta earnestly, "it doesn't give me no pleasure to have men under my command. It's what I call a duty more than a pleasure. But orders is orders and everyone knows that us corporals is the backbone of the German Army. Officers, if you'll forgive the liberty, sir, because I'm only saying what's the truth, but officers is just sort of icing on the cake-- if you'll pardon the expression," he added ingratiatingly.
"Not meaning to be rude, sir, but where'd we be without us fellas?"
"I'm warning you, Corporal! You'd better watch what you're saying!"
"But, sir ..."
"The Fuhrer himself--the Fuhrer Adolf Hitler--" The lieutenant broke off and glared at Porta. "Stand to attention when I speak of the Fuhrer!"
"All right, sir. Can I just put this bottle down? It makes it easier when you're not holding a bottle in your hand."
"You have no right to be holding a bottle in your hand! You have no right to be gorging yourself on drink! False courage is forbidden!"
"Jeez," said Porta.
He was an expert in officer-baiting. From a safe distance we sat and drank and watched the fun.
The young lieutenant drew himself up very straight and his pale cheeks acquired a hectic purple flush. "Corporal! It is the solemn bounden duty of every German citizen, man, woman or child, soldier or civilian, to have the strong red blood of pride running through his veins!"
Porta stood blinking. The lieutenant gulped some air and came down to a more mundane level of speech. "From now on," he said pettishly, "I shall be the one to give the orders. You understand? You're under my command now, and I suggest you remember it. I'm a stickler for discipline! The men under me must be as strong as Krupp steel! No slacking, no backsliding!"
"I couldn't agree more," said Porta. "May I go now, sir?"
It was not a good day for the new lieutenant. A couple of hours later he was foolish enough to cross swords with Tiny. The two men were hurrying in opposite directions. Tiny was carrying a bucket of water in either hand, on his way to the field kitchen. He had his head down, and the lieutenant was riffling through some papers. They jostled each other as they passed. Some of the water slopped over the side of the buckets, and Tiny swore aloud as he went on his way. The lieutenant stopped and looked back, to see what ill-mannered oaf was daring to swear at an officer.
"Hey, you, soldier! Don't you salute your officers in this part of the world?"
Tiny continued stolidly walking with his buckets. This was not the first officer who had joined us fresh out of training school and thought the war could be won by a smart salute and a row of brass buttons.
"You!" screeched the outraged lieutenant. "It's you I'm talking to! You with the buckets! What's your name?"
Tiny paused, then turned politely toward the officer. As Porta often remarked, if you wanted to survive in this war, you had to play along with them to a certain extent; you had to humor their whims and their odd flights of fancy.
"The name's Creutzfeld," said Tiny. "And if I'd realized it was me you was shouting at, I'd have stopped straightaway, sir."
"Well, now that you do know, you might care to answer my question."
"What was that, sir?"
"I asked you whether you don't salute your officers in this part of the world!"