Monte Cassino by Sven Hassel
Burgdorf shook his head.
"Berlin will be able to do it so efficiently that it will exceed your wildest imaginings. First, the world will be shocked. Then doubts will arise, and before ten years have passed, the bourgeoisie will be refusing to accept the facts. The Pope is afraid of both Stalin and Hitler, as he has good reason to be. We shall take him to Berlin, officially, to protect him."
"After the Vatican has been occupied by German troops?" the feldmarschall asked doubtfully. "You won't get anyone to believe it."
"Do you think that we in Berlin are so clumsy?" Burg-dorf laughed scornfully. "German troops will occupy the Vatican after it has been attacked by a band of partisans under Jewish-communist leadership. Why do you think we have brought a battalion of Dirlewanger Special Duties to Rome?"
"Won't they talk eventually?" the feldmarschall asked thoughtfully.
"None will survive to do so. The Special Duties Panzer regiment will see to that."
"Will Germans shoot at Germans?"
"The Panzer regiment will not be shooting at Germans, but at bandits in Italian uniform."
"The world will never relish extermination of Catholicism," the marschall insisted stubbornly. "It will rouse a storm of indignation."
"The liquidation has already begun," Burgdorf began. "In Dachau we have executed twelve hundred priests. There are several sitting in Plotzensee waiting to be strangled. Have you heard of anyone protesting? I haven't."
"What about the Concordat? Doesn't that come into it?"
"Quite without significance," Burgdorf said. "It's like our promises to the Jews. If you want to avoid panic among cattle due to be slaughtered, you have to pacify them first. On June 12, 1933 the Fuhrer said: 'The Concordat does not interest me at all, but it will let us get on with our struggle against the Jews in peace, and after that it will let us get on and do other things'."
"I can't understand how the Vatican entered into this Concordat with the Reich. There was always a risk of it being used against them."
"A risk the Vatican were compelled to take," Burgdorf replied in an irritated tone. "In order to avoid worse things than the death of a couple of million Jews."
"There are thirty million Catholics in Germany," the marschall put in. "And think of all those in other countries."
"A bagatelle to the Reichsfuhrer. We have ten million fanatical non-believers who would be delighted to cut the throat of every Catholic they can lay their hands on, if the Reichsfuhrer SS gave the word tomorrow."
"I do not see, Herr Burgdorf, why Berlin is so interested in getting the Pope to protest against persecution of the Jews?"
Burgdorf smiled condescendingly.
"I should have thought it was obvious enough and, I am afraid, they are beginning to smell a rat in the Vatican. If the Pope protests against persecution of the Jews now that we have occupied Italy and declared a state of emergency, he would be in conflict with the security regulations and we would have definite grounds for securing his person, as he then will have given public expression to a hostile attitude towards us. Having once got him away from Rome, we shall certainly manage the rest."
"That would mean war against 400 million believing Catholics. Too enormous an undertaking."
"Everything can be done, if one disregards mistaken humanism. At the moment, we are just in the experimental stage of extermination of unwanted elements; and this would be an action that enjoyed Marshal Stalin's entire sympathy. Who knows, perhaps Berlin and Moscow will find each other through this very action. Both Berlin and Moscow realise that we cannot reach our goals without first rooting out Christianity altogether."
"The world will rise in protest," the marschall cried despairingly, "when this comes out."
Burgdorf shook his head.
"The numbers are altogether too great for them really to shock anyone. The ordinary person will be incapable of grasping them. At Kiev in two days we shot 34,000 Jews and gypsies. There are plenty of towns with populations smaller than that. In Poland we are daily executing 4 to 6,000 people. In Oswiecim we have liquidated 600,000. In Auschwitz not quite 300,000. Since 1940 we have killed two million Jews. If we had had time, we would have killed six, ten or twenty million. The world has heard of these ghastly figures long ago. To the average person, the journalists who have written about them are liars. But if, instead, we had executed 800 children and not 135,000 the world would have raised an outcry; because 800 is a figure people can grasp." Burgdorf tucked his cane under his arm, buttoned his gloves, set his cap jauntily on the side of his head. "Herr Marschall," he went on, "if your conscience forbids you to keep your oath of loyalty, drop us a note and you shall at once be relieved of your command." He looked the marschall straight in the face. "But I am sure I do not need to tell you the consequences that would entail. A soldier should never think about the whys and wherefores of the orders he receives, but just carry them out. Some things that he does stink! All that matters to us, is what the Fuhrer orders. His will is our will. His faith in victory is our faith in victory." Burgdorf raised his cane in brief salutation and left the room.
The marschall stood alone in the middle of the floor, gazing after the elegant figure.
IX
Porta drew the bow. The long arrow sped on its way, bored into the neck and appeared out on the other side. The tall, lanky American captain swayed, fell forward and the arrow broke.
Porta was proud.
"They'll make me an honorary chief. If this goes on, I'll adopt the name of 'Red Flame'."
During the next two days he had eight similar hits. The Americans called across to us wanting to know who our bowman was. One of their negroes who was a good shot with a bow had deserted and they thought it was he. They offered us God knows what if we would hand him over.
"We've no niggers here," Heide called. "Nor any damned Schmauses either."
Then we waved a white cloth on the end of a bayonet and Porta climbed up onto the parapet.
"Keep your officers away," Heide shouted. "Red Flame only shoots officers."
Porta swung his yellow hat over his head. His red hair flamed in the sunlight.
"Salutation Pale Faces," he shouted.
The Americans tossed their helmets in the air and jubilated. A gigantic sergeant with battle dress flapping round him clambered up onto the Americans' parapet.
"Here's Grey Bear from Alaska. How many years' service have you, Red Flame?"
"Eight."
"Child, you are. I've done 24. I shot your lousy father at Verdun."
"That's a lie, you filthy Yankee," Porta yelled. "My old man's doing his third year in Moabit, cell 840. An A-prisoner, one of the tough ones."
The American put a forage cap on top of his helmet.
"You miserable kraut, you have appropriated an Indian name. I represent my tribe here. Shoot this cap off my helmet and we will bow to you. There are three of us Indians here. If you miss, you'll be fetched tonight and we'll cut your prick off."
Porta pulled an arrow from the quiver he had on his back, drew the bow and took careful aim.
"Don't try it," the Old Man advised. "If you kill him, they'll avenge it."
"The Holy Virgin guide your hand," muttered Padre Emanuel, crossing himself.
Hundreds of pairs of field glasses were trained on the American's cap. There was a deathly silence. Then with a whine the arrow sped, transfixed the cap and swept it away. A great roar of enthusiastic applause rose from both lines. Helmets and rifles were tossed into the air. We chaired Porta along the parapet. The American sergeant raised his hands in homage to the victor, and at that moment One-Eye appeared.
"What the bloody hell is this? Have you all been bitten by mad monkeys! You deserve to be court martialled!"
The war continued.
MAJOR MIKE'S PRIVATE WAR
The sleet lashed our faces, ran from our helmets down our necks, caught in the stubble on our faces and formed a painful guttering on our lips.
"And this is supposed to be sunny Italy,
We were marching in double file up the mountain side. The monastery lay perched high above us. It was not there we were going, but right across to the other side by Monte Caira. The engineers had told us that there were Japanese holding that sector.
"Close up," Major Mike commanded. "And don't let your tongues wag so much."
Darkness enveloped us. Guns were rumbling away to the south-west. Star shells went shooting up. Incendiary shells traced their course like peacocks' tails across the sky. It was so lovely a sight, you could almost have enjoyed it, if it had not been so damned dangerous.
We were a special task force. That was nothing new for us. Before we left our rest quarters, we had dug three big common graves. None of us believed that they were for us, so the job had left us unmoved. But Porta had made one specially nice place which he said was for Eagle, whom Hauptfeldwebel Hoffman had chucked out of the office. Mike had welcomed him to the ranks with a grin.
"You're too fat, Stahlschmidt. You need to lose weight. You had better be my runner." That was the toughest job in the squadron.
Porta and Tiny at once began instructing Eagle in his duties.
"You just have to use your flat feet," Porta said, "zigzag between the bursting shells and don't shove your fat fizz in front of a sniper's rifle."
Eagle was just in time to see the runner he was replacing. Half his skull had been torn away. He was still alive, but died before we left. Eagle took his message bag.
A shell spattered down near us. In a second the squadron had scattered. We had heard it coming. Mike almost swallowed his great cigar.
"Hombre," Barcelona Blom exclaimed, "those bloody shells always come so suddenly!"
We marched on. Nobody had been hurt. Porta and Tiny went up alongside Eagle and forced him into No. 3 section.
"Nasty world this you've come to, eh, Stahlschmidt? Shells, incendiaries, saw-edged bayonets and nasty samurai swords. They're out to tear your balls off now. Flamethrowers that shave you in a flash. Pah! It was better in your cage in Altona, wasn't it? But war is like the cinema, the best seats are at the back and the front is all flicker. But, take comfort, we have made a nice soft place for you in the common grave."
"Shut your mouth," Eagle snarled. "The laugh may be on you in the end."
"What's the longest a squadron runner's survived?" Tiny crowed maliciously.
"With the engineers a week," Heide said with a satanic chuckle. "In the infantry five to ten days, and with us never more than two."
Tiny made the sign of the cross in front of Eagle's face.
"Are you a Catholic?" he asked.
"What business of yours is that?" Eagle snarled.
"I think you ought to go to the Padre and get your mug rubbed with the last unction before we reach our positions." Tiny whinnied delightedly, thinking himself the wit of all time. He laughed for a good fifteen minutes.
"It really is cruel that such promising officer material should die in his prime," Barcelona remarked.
"That's the harsh rule of war," Porta said and looked searchingly at Eagle. "Are you afraid to squeeze your arse together, Stahlschmidt?"
Tiny demonstratively took hold of the seat of Eagle's trousers.
"Not yet," he announced. "But it's coming."
Eagle hit at him furiously with his message bag.
"I've been a soldier longer than you, you great bog."
"Cardboard soldier," Tiny scoffed. "If Walt Disney had known you, he would have made you the villain in Donald Duck." He collapsed with laughing and rolled about on the ground. He was one of the fortunates who can be amazed by one thing for hours on end.
We had found an old film projector, a great heavy monster, but we carted it everywhere with us. There was only one film with it, or rather half a film, a Pop-eye film. Whenever there was an opportunity, we ran the film through, over and over again, finding it just as funny each time we saw it. Four times already Tiny had dislocated his jaw with laughing at one of the scenes, where Pop-eye drives an old Ford through a band saw.
We came to a wood, where all the trees had been split and splintered by shells. Until you see such a sight, you cannot believe it is possible. Dead trees everywhere pointing accusingly to Heaven. We joked as we marched through it, again at Eagle's expense.
Some shells dropped some distance behind us.
"I don't like this," muttered the Old Man.
We were approaching the death ravine, the most feared sector on the Cassino front, and the air was full of whistles and whines and howls. This was a narrow sector under enemy observation. Hundreds of blown-up bodies of men and horses lay there. Only five per cent of our supply columns came through.
"Distance, distance!" the order was passed down. "No smoking."
A fresh salvo of shells dropped. We began to run. Breathing heavily we toiled along. One of the men dropped a mortar. Shirker-Brandt it was. He was always trying to get out of things. The Old Man threatened to shoot him if he did not pick it up again. A 75 mm whizzed into the ground. Brandt dropped to his knees, a fountain of blood spurting from the place where his head had been. Then he collapsed over the mortar. The Old Man and I flung his body aside and carted the mortar along between us. Brandt was forgotten.
Shells hammered down among us. People screamed. We thought only of ourselves. Our legs worked automatically. We had only one thought: to get out of there and into cover. We did not notice the machine gun banging against our helmets, the straps cutting into our shoulders. On, on! There was no need to urge us now.
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, bo
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.