Authors: Sven Hassel
The general turned back to look at his long column of men. They were sullen now, with disappointment and despair. Sooner have stayed in Stalingrad than march all this way to join an army that no longer existed.
"Let's press on!" Augsberg waved his hand in a circular motion and pointed ahead, up the slope. "See what we can find."
All we came across was one abandoned P-4, camouflaged by great drifts of snow. It had obviously belonged to Man-stein's armored division which had failed to get through with our supplies at Christmas.
"Don't see why they left it here," said Porta as we brushed off the top layers of snow and examined the vehicle. "Seems to be in perfectly good condition. It's the tracks that are mucked up, that's all. Get them in working order and I guess we could make use of it."
A section of sappers were called up and the problem put to them. Their young lieutenant looked dubious. "Could be done, sir, but it would take time."
"How much time?" demanded the general.
"Hard to tell--six hours perhaps. Maybe a bit longer. We've got no proper tools, we'll have to improvise."
"Well, give it a go. We could do with some transport."
It took them eight hours, by the time they were through. Eight hours of hard slog, reconstructing the shattered tracks. And then, with Porta at the wheel and a crowd of men pushing, the heavy vehicle heaved itself slowly out of its bed of ice and nosed forward across the snow.
The general turned to the one MO we had with us. "Dr. Heim, it's up to you to decide which men need to be transported and which are still capable of walking. Any who try to malinger can stay here and rot, I'm not carrying passengers. Only the worst cases of frostbite and other injuries are to be allowed into that vehicle. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly, sir. But there'll be more genuine claims than there are places."
"I leave it to you."
The doctor turned away to select his chosen few, and the general called up the Old Man.
"Feldwebel Beier, I'm putting you in charge of the vehicle. Anyone who tries to climb aboard without authorization, I give you my full permission to shoot. Corporal Porta can be your driver, Sergeant Heide can man the cannon and the radio. Sergeant Martin--" He beckoned to Gregor, "take the machine gun." His gaze wandered around and came to rest on a badly wounded sergeant major, whose feet were no more than two raw and shapeless masses. "Do you have' any experience of tank armaments?"
"Yes, sir."
The sergeant major hobbled hopefully forward on the rifles he was using as crutches. The general looked him up and down with narrowed eyes, then nodded. "All right. In you get."
We set off down the other side of the steep slope toward the frozen river. The tank was skidding so badly we thought the improvised tracks must surely break, but Porta was an experienced driver and handled tanks with the same love and care a man might give his horse.
The main body of us crossed the river and turned to watch the halting progress of the P-4. The danger now was that the ice would crack under the three tons of steel, for the Don never froze right down to the bottom. Everyone except Porta had left the vehicle. He pushed it forward slowly, slipping now and again on the glassy surface, and we heard the warning groans and then the sharp retorts of the ice splintering under the weight. At last he reached the great misshapen blocks that lay between the frozen water and the riverbank. The tank ground its way over the top of them and fell to the other side in a shower of crystal sparks. A great cheer went up and the privileged few climbed back into their seats. We had crossed the Don.
My eyes were hurting again, aching and throbbing in spite of the few precious drops of medication the doctor had given me. If only we had had some Alpine troops among us, Porta would almost certainly have been able to beg, borrow, steal or extort a pair of dark glasses for me. But the High Command had not seen fit to issue such luxuries for ordinary troops.
"Damn lunatics!" snapped the Legionnaire, putting out a hand to steady me as I tried to stagger along with my eyes closed. "Send an army into the depths of Russia dressed in their fucking nightgowns and expect them to fight a battle! Murdering swine!"
It was rare for the Legionnaire to be moved to such invective, but he was perfectly correct. They had sent over a whole army totally ill-equipped to deal with the prevailing weather conditions, and they had not even the excuse of ignorance. For ten years, German officers had taught in Russian military academies and had actually helped the Russians evolve the best equipment for troops fighting through the hard Soviet winters!
We marched for six hours before we were allowed a rest, and we fell about in the snow, exhausted and almost beyond caring.
"Watch what you're doing with that thing," warned Tiny as I threw the machine gun carelessly away from me. "We could be in need of that sooner than you think."
"To hell with it," I muttered. "It's like an incubus."
"I dunno about that," said Tiny doubtfully. "But what about antifreeze? You got any of that for it, have you? The Legionnaire's got a whole can of it, I saw him pinch it out of the P-4."
"He wouldn't let me have any," I said, too lazy to bother to find the Legionnaire and request some.
"You asked him?" demanded Tiny.
"No, I haven't," I said. "I don't care about antifreeze. I don't care if the damned thing gives up the ghost. I only wish it would, and then maybe I could stop lugging it about with me everywhere I go."
"I'll ask him," said Tiny equably. "You stay here. I'll go and get some. Don't want it to freeze up on you, do you?"
I felt quite guilty when he returned a few minutes later, cheerfully swinging a can of antifreeze.
"Gave it me without a murmur," he told me. "I thought I'd have to twist his arm, but. . ."
He broke off, listening. I sat up and shaded my eyes, squinting into the sky.
"An airplane!"
"One of ours!"
It was a Focke-Wulf. We scrambled to our feet, aching limbs forgotten, and began waving and shouting. Gregor let off a flare, and the Focke-Wulf banked slightly, circled around us and flew over our heads at a height of six hundred feet or so. We could see the crew signaling to us. We could see the black crosses on the wings. We threw our arms around each other and jigged about in the snow.
A steel helmet was tossed out of the plane. The pilot gave us a heartening thumbs up, circled again and flew off westward. We made a dive for the helmet. Inside, a hasty message had been scrawled:
Hold tight, we'll be back! Keep an eye open for us. Good luck!
"They're coming to fetch us!" screeched Gregor, leaping into the air and throwing his arms wide.
One of the pilots from the Condor shook his head with a kind of sad scorn. "No such luck! They might just about be able to land here with an empty crate, but they'd never be able to take off again. Not in a month of Sundays. Not even empty, let alone with a full load."
"He's right," said the Old Man reluctantly. "We're not going to get much help from that direction." He jabbed his finger into the air. "Not from God or from airplanes. There's only one way we'll get out, and that's by using our feet."
"Using our feet?" moaned Porta. "How much longer we got to go on using 'em? We got as far as the Don and didn't find nothing. How much farther we got to go? Next stop the Rhine? Jesus Christ, I'll never make it!" He suddenly clapped a hand against the right side of his chest. "I'm not a fit man, I shouldn't be here, I've had a heart murmur since I was six."
"Not surprising," muttered the Legionnaire. "Seeing as you've got a misplaced heart."
Porta glared at him briefly and moved his hand over to the left side.
"I had rheumatic fever when I was seven," he insisted. "I've had pneumonia three times. I shouldn't ought to get wet and cold like this, I shouldn't ought to be here in the first place. I can't go on marching all the way to Germany!" His voice rose to a quite alarmingly shrill pitch. "I've got a bad heart, I tell you! I need help! I need a doctor! I can't go on like this!" He gave a loud yell of pain, doubled over, staggered a few paces in convoluted fashion, then collapsed moaning into the snow.
"What is it? What's happening?" The MO, alerted by Porta's melodramatic shrieks, came rushing up to us. "What's the matter with this man?"
We stood around in a circle, staring down at the writhing Porta. The doctor spoke impatiently. "What's wrong with you? Why are you making all that noise?"
"He's a sick man," said Tiny. "Got a bad heart. Ever since he was six." He cocked a hopeful eyebrow. "Alcohol, sir?"
"What do you mean, alcohol?"
"That's what he always takes when he comes over bad. It sort of stimulates the action of his heart, if you see what I mean."
The doctor looked uncertainly from Tiny to Porta. "Has he really got a weak heart?" he asked. "Or is he putting it on?"
"Putting it
on?"
repeated Tiny.
"Putting it
on?"
echoed Gregor.
"That's a sick man," said the Legionnaire. "He's had pneumonia three times."
The doctor was fresh out of medical school. He had come straight to Stalingrad full of good intentions, and it was a hard training ground. He knelt uncertainly by Porta's side, while Porta gave a fair imitation of a man on the point of agonizing death.
The crowd now parted to allow the general and the young lieutenant a ringside seat. They looked down at the badly overacting Porta.
"All right, all right!" said the general irritably. "That's enough of that. This is no time for histrionics."
Porta opened his eyes and rolled them in the general's direction. "Vodka--" he mouthed pitifully.
"Pull yourself together, man!" The general turned and walked away. The lieutenant grinned.
"Vodka--" moaned Porta, transferring his attentions to the young officer. "Vodka, for the love of God."
"The love of God be damned!" said the lieutenant, holding out his flask.
Porta snatched it eagerly and fell back. He drank greedily, with his mouth wide open and the flask upended.
"You've saved my life, sir. How can I ever thank you? Shall I ask the Fuhrer to give you a medal? You deserve one. You . . ."
"Spare my blushes! Just give me back the rest of my vodka!" The lieutenant walked off laughing in the wake of the general.
The doctor still looked doubtful. "They shouldn't be sending men with weak hearts into the front line," he said. "You ought to be demobilized . . ."
We dug ourselves in and prepared to spend the night in the same spot, just in case the Focke-Wulf returned. In the distance we heard the roar of engines.
"Heavy trucks," said the Legionnaire. "If we could only swipe a handful, we'd soon be home."
Away to the east, the night was lit up with a red glow. It was Stalingrad, still burning. To the north, flashing streaks of light darted across the sky, striping it black and white like a monstrous zebra.
"Artillery," said Heide.
"Balls!" Gregor turned on him challengingly. "There's nobody left to fight up that way!"
"Can't help that," Heide dismissed it. "It's still artillery. It might be ghosts using it, but if so, they've got mighty big guns for ghosts. Come on, stop arguing and get those cards dealt!"
"You'd do better to sleep," advised the lieutenant, as he walked past.
"I can never get to sleep with the light on," said Porta, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the glowing sky.
The lieutenant smiled. "Sorry about that. I can't put out the flames of Stalingrad for you."
We played cards throughout the night. The fever of gambling was on us. Safe in the knowledge that nobody had more than a few small coins on him, we were able to win and lose vast sums without a qualm. All amounts were solemnly entered in Porta's little black book, but what if you did finish the night owing a small fortune? The final reckoning was never likely to come.
"We shall all be dead before then," comfortably remarked the Legionnaire, who had gambled away his entire earnings for the next five years.
The morning saw us red-eyed and and foul-tempered. Porta took his seat in the P-4 and drove off at the head of the column. The rest of us followed on foot.
"How far do you figure it is to Germany?" asked Tiny earnestly, as if confidently expecting me to know the answer down to the last few inches.
"A good long way yet," I said sourly.
We had done about an hour's marching when the promised airplane appeared in the skies. Not the Focke-Wulf this time. A Heinkel-111. We sent up flares and waited patiently until it was overhead. We were too tired now to sing and dance; and some of us could remember that other occasion, when they had sent us pictures of Hitler, and flea powder. But not this time! This time it was for real. The canisters that floated down to us beneath their parachutes contained sausages, ham, bread, sardines . . .
"Collect the lot of it!" bawled the general over the noise of the stampede as men seized on the canisters and tore them open with bayonets. "Collect it all together! Everything must be rationed out! Don't eat it all at once!"
"A message, sir." The Old Man handed him a note that had been found in one of the canisters:
Strong concentration of cavalry seven miles to the northwest of the Nizh-Chirskaya-Ternis railway line. Proceed with caution. Kamensk-Stalingrad line in enemy hands. Bridges patrolled by tanks. Heavy formations advancing west to south. Kalitva occupied by enemy troops. Bridge impassable without artillery support. Heavy fighting near Aidar. Nearest enemy position, thirty miles to the north of you.
"Bunch of morons!" snarled the general. "We don't want to know where the enemy are, well find that out soon enough for ourselves! More to the point if they told us where to find our own damned troops!"
The Old Man was staring into the distance, where the departing Heinkel was now no more than a dot in the clouds. His face looked shriveled and shrunken, and he shook his head in despair, as if the aircraft's departure spelled the end of our hopes of survival.
"I guess they've already crossed our names off," he murmured. "That's the last time they'll bother with us."