SS General (3 page)

We had been promised one day of leave for every twenty recruits we managed to salvage from the field of slaughter, but it was a dangerous game and for the most part we resisted the temptation. More men were lost as they squelched through the mud in search of survivors, slipping on pieces of raw human flesh and tripping over mildewed bodies, than were ever recovered. The Russians were on the lookout for such rescue attempts and they had an unnerving tendency to release a barrage of fire at the least sound. Seven of our own men were lost this way, and from then on, the rest of us turned our backs on the lure of extra leave and let others chase after the mirage if they would.

The net slowly tightened around Stalingrad, where three Russian armies were said to be trapped. "The greatest victory of all time!" screamed the propaganda machine, but we no longer cared for victory. All we wanted was to save our own skins and see out the end of the war. Only Heide showed any signs of enthusiasm.

"You just wait!" he told us, with a fanatical excitement that left us totally unmoved. "After Stalingrad--Moscow! We'll be there, you see if we're not!"

"Fuck Moscow," grumbled Porta. "Moscow can go and screw itself for all I care."

I think Porta probably spoke for all of us. Heide was something of an exception, and his views could never be taken as representative of any but the lunatic fringe.

The Italian Eighth Army had requested of the German High Command the privilege of being the first to enter Stalingrad, which was fine by all of us. Whether the Italian troops were so pleased is, of course, something else again, but as far as we were concerned, the Spaghettis were welcome to all the honor and glory they liked. Strangely enough, the Rumanians also stepped in and demanded pride of place, so we simply sat back smugly and waited for them to fight it out between them.

"Who the hell cares?" said Porta. "Who the hell cares
who
takes the fucking place so long as it's not us?"

"It's odd, though," mused Barcelona. "The Spaghettis don't usually go in for the death and glory stuff."

The countryside for miles about became suddenly thick with Italian and Rumanian troops. We used to watch from our dugouts as long columns of men swung past, singing as they marched to Stalingrad.

One day, while we were still waiting for news of victory, we were given a mission behind the Russian lines. It was a little matter of blowing up a bridge; a bridge that was essential to the enemy supply line and so well camouflaged that our planes could not spot it from the air. We were casually informed that although it would be the devil's own job planting the explosives owing to the bridge being guarded day and night with as much loving care as if it were the Kremlin itself, the stickiest part of the mission would be to reach the thing in the first place.

"We've only got to crawl across a bog," said the Old Man sourly. "Miles and miles of goddamn bog on our hands and knees!"

I thought he was exaggerating. I thought the bog would probably turn out to be a mud patch the size of a large duck pond set in some generally harmless area of fens and marshes. No such luck. It took us several days to cross it, during which I discovered that a Russian bog is one of the most treacherous bastards you could ever wish to meet.

In the first place, each of us had to carry forty-five pounds of dynamite in a container anchored to his chest, which in itself was enough to make life a misery. In addition, we traveled by night and spent the day shivering in the bushes and within forty-eight hours we were up to our knees in mud and water. All around us were inviting tussocks of coarse grass, but these were treacherous and we stuck to the path way--a trail of tree trunks, just wide enough for one man sunk a foot and a half beneath the surface. We had to fee our way blindly, and God help anyone who slipped. The bog was waiting on either side, thick and brown and evil, ever greedy for prey. And not only the bog, but a variety of man-made traps strewn along our path by the thoughtful enemy. Push an overhanging branch to one side, and the ground suddenly opened up beneath your feet; pull on it and you found yourself split in two by a concealed bayonet. Catch hold of an innocent-looking creeper to help maintain your balance and the chances were you'd set off a whole flight of arrows, enough to kill an entire column of men. One particularly nasty trick was to plant poisoned bayonets along the side of the path at one of its narrowest points. These were bayonets that had been dipped in a dripping mass of putrefying flesh; one scratch while you concentrated on remaining upright and passing safely by was enough to give a man tetanus.

No wonder our nerves were on edge. No wonder Gregor went berserk and hurled a grenade at an impudent frog that leaped croaking hideously from the reeds and gave us all the fright of our lives.

The sound of the explosion rang across the marshes. Terrified, we crouched down and waited for something to happen. A matter of seconds and we heard voices, a motor being started up, the grinding of tank tracks.

Porta, who was in the lead, turned and whispered, "Ivan's spotted us."

"Let's get the hell out!" urged Gregor.

We looked at him pityingly. Out where? Out into the bottomless marshes that lay all round us? Straight on along the path toward the waiting Russians?

The olive-green nose of a T-34 appeared, questing and sinister among the trees. The cannon swung round and pointed out over the marshes, over our heads. They fired three shells and then very slowly, very quietly, with the minimum amount of fuss, the heavy vehicle began to roll down the banks toward the edge of the bog. We watched, horrified but thankful, as it slipped ever nearer the waiting brown waters. For a moment it rallied and we thought it might hold firm, but then in a final burst it performed a mad elephantine zigzag, turned turtle and disappeared. Seconds before, there had been an enemy tank; now there was only a thick sucking and thubbing as the bog smacked its lips contentedly together.

Some figures in brown appeared among the trees. They crept cautiously down the bank in, search of their lost companions, exclaiming and pointing. Barcelona turned his submachine gun on them and we sat hunched up in the reeds awaiting developments. There was a brief silence, and then a short, stocky sergeant appeared from the shelter of the trees and called out to the men behind him to get cracking with a peremptory
"Davdi, davdi!"

They came tumbling out and Barcelona opened fire. The first to fall was the sergeant. For the rest, some ran back into the trees and others crumpled up and lay still. After it was over, we lay still ourselves, crouched in the stinking brown waters, not daring to show our heads.

And hour passed. Another hour began. The boredom and the discomfort were growing intolerable, but at last the enemy tired of waiting and struck blindly into the heart of the marshes. A second tank was sent to investigate. Ponderously it positioned itself among the trees; slowly and silently it pointed its flamethrower in what was roughly our direction. A fierce tongue of fire shot out and looped across the marshes. It just missed us, but the heat was intense. They had two more tries. The marshes were ablaze all around us as we squatted deeper in the muddy waters, catching our breath and trying not to cough. They would surely not miss if they made a fourth attempt.

There was a pause. Porta cautiously peered out through the reeds. A brown-helmeted figure had hoisted itself out of the turret and was staring out across the marshes, peering about to see what damage had been done.

Porta raised his flamethrower. Those of us who could see what he was doing could scarcely bear to watch; if he missed his target and gave away our position, we should all be done for.

I held my breath and kept my hands over my eyes until the shattering sound of an explosion forced me to look up. It was the tank. Porta's shot had landed true and the entire vehicle was in flames.

We picked ourselves up, cramped and stiff, and continued on our way. Porta was still in the lead, testing every inch of the path before him, Tiny one pace behind with his heavy revolver at the ready, on the watch for snipers. We knew from experience that no one could touch the Russians in the art of camouflage, and some of their men had apparently! endless patience and powers of endurance. A Siberian we ha once encountered had been capable of remaining at his post at the top of a tree for twenty-four hours at a stretch, becoming so much a part of his hiding place that even the birds ha accepted him and had gone to roost on his shoulders.

Suddenly, without any warning, Porta dropped to his knee in the water, his head alone above the surface. He signaled to the rest of us and we dived instantaneously, pulling out our respirators and clamping them over our mouths. Our camouflaged helmets were all that remained visible. For ten loo minutes, which seem more like ten long hours when you're submerged in filthy water, we remained hidden. Nothing happened. It was either a false alarm or the danger had passe by. Either way, such incidents were trying on the nerve

After another mile or so, our eyes were caught by most curiously enchanting bird. Green and yellow, perched on a rotten branch, it performed a little' dance of welcome intended no doubt to intrigue and invite. It wagged its tail from side to side like a dog, laid its head on the ground an its rump in the air like a courting pigeon, whistled a tune an rolled its bright button eyes at us. That bird was there for purpose. A trap for the unwary. But we were too long in the tooth to take beautiful performing birds at their face value. We knew that somewhere nearby the enemy was in hiding, waiting for us to take the fatal step.

Porta ducked under the water and slowly waded forward. Only the faintest of ripples betrayed his presence. The little Legionnaire dived after him, his knife clenched tight between his teeth. The rest of us sank down and watched.

Porta reached the bird and gently surfaced. A quick loo around, a hand stretched out--and on the instant, two shadows rose up ahead. Two shadows dressed in green uniform But before they could carry out their task, Porta had turned his gun on the one and the Legionnaire had planted his knife in the other. The bird, released from its role of decoy, rose squawking into the air and flapped off toward the nearest trees.

"Christ almighty!" said the Old Man, straightening up. "What a life!"

He took a step forward, his foot slipped and he swayed sideways. As he did so, he instinctively threw out his hand to save himself, clutching at the nearest clump of vegetation.

"Watch it!" screamed Barcelona.

He caught the Old Man just in time and they lurched back together onto the path. Trembling, Barcelona pointed to the bushes at the side. We saw a couple of wires disappearing snakelike into the water and curling under the tree trunks. We could only guess at the explosive that was packed away down there.

"Jesus, what a life!" repeated the Old Man, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "What a fucking awful life!"

A few hours later we softly approached a hut improvised from branches and balanced on one of the firmer areas of the marsh. We had spotted it from a distance and kept careful watch, detecting no sign of enemy activity. Inside the hut we discovered five of the partisans, three men and two women, who based themselves in the marshland and disguised their faces with hideous green masks whenever they went on operations. These particular five were in no state to offer any resistance. The vodka bottle had obviously been circulating and they were lying in a heap with their arms around one another and their mouths wide open. We disposed of them quickly and callously and threw their bodies into the marsh, then spent the night in the hut disposing of the remains of their vodka and a case of dried fish we found there.

The following day we arrived at our objective: the bridge that we were to blow up. It was a big, heavy, unexpectedly imposing bridge. The prospect of destroying it was quite daunting, and I began to wonder whether our journey might have been a waste of time.

Halfway across, snug in his box, stood the sentry. He was leaning back smoking, his rifle propped negligently at his side. As far as we could see, the reports had been wrong and the bridge was guarded by only the one man. On the other hand, it was strong enough to defeat the most determined of sabotage efforts and it was so well camouflaged that it would certainly have been invisible from the air.

As we watched, a column of tanks and light trucks rolled across. The sentry stubbed out his cigarette, snatched up his rifle and stood to attention until they had passed, when he at once relapsed into his daydreams. He lit another cigarette and the air became alive with the sharp smell of the pungent Russian
machorka
tobacco. I guessed that, like us, this man was quite indifferent to the outcome of the war if only he could be left in peace to follow his own life. He was not young. They had probably dragged him away from his farm or his village to come and strut and pose on their ridiculous bridge night after night, and he made a sad figure, with his drooping Chinese-style mustache, his fur bonnet, his long crumpled boots and his thin summer tunic.

"Look at that," whispered Tiny gleefully. "Fancy wearing a thing like that in this weather! He's either crazy or they're just as badly off as what we are--you can have boots or a coat, but not both. Sorry, pal, but you'll just have to take your choice."

We crawled along in the darkness, underneath the bridge, fixing up the explosives. It was a long and tedious job, with the Legionnaire doing more than anyone. He seemed able to see perfectly well in the dark, and he swung like a monkey from one arch to the next. We finally withdrew to a safe spot and listened to Tiny and Porta arguing about which of them should be allowed the privilege of pressing the plunger.

Another column of trucks came across the bridge. They were preceded by a jeep flying a red flag, and Porta looked at them longingly. "Ammo trucks! Let's blow 'em up along with the bridge!" He looked appealingly at the Old Man. "Think of the show it would make! Come on, don't be a spoilsport! I'm game if you are."

"Shut up and sit down," said the Old Man curtly. "I have no wish to be blown to kingdom come for the sake of a pretty firework display, thank you very much."