Wheels of Terror (24 page)

'No Germans, Herr Soldat, only anti-social elements.'

An ominous almost satanic silence reigned. It enabled the commissar to crawl, back to the other prisoners, but they, his own comrades, drew back in terror.

'So, only anti-social elements,' the Little Legionnaire said, as if thinking aloud. He savoured the word 'anti-social'. His voice rose in a shriek of rage: 'Get up, whore's spawn, or I'll skin you alive!'

He kicked the commissar, who tried to shield himself with outstretched hands.

'You say anti-social, you bloody bastard. Here we're all anti-social in the eyes of your SS chums. You think that gives you the right to make us all half-men? Get his pants off!' he roared.

Tiny and Pluto literally tore the clothes off the commissar who screamed hollowly like a frightened animal.

The Little Legionnaire opened his combat-knife and tried the edge with his thumb.

Just then a sharp command rang through the room.

'Section, attention!'

We started and obeyed.

There stood Captain von Barring, the ordnance officer and The Old Un. Slowly brushing the snow off his greatcoat, von Barring advanced into the bunker. He glanced indifferently at the prisoners, and, at the half-naked commissar creeping into hiding.

'Lay off it, boys.' Von Barring turned to us. 'Prisoners are to be sent to regimental HQ. Didn't you remember?'

Porta started to explain, but von Barring cut him short.

'All right, Porta. I know what you're going to say.' He pointed to the prisoners. 'These fellows will be dealt with, you can be sure, but we're not torturers here. Remember that, and never let me catch you at it again. This time we'll pass it over.'

'Can't we punish them?' Porta insisted.

'No, leave that to HQ.' Von Barring nodded at The Old Un who called in some men, infantrymen from the 67th Regiment. 'Escort the prisoners to the rear,' von Barring ordered a sergeant. 'You'll vouch with your life for their safety.'

As they went Tiny prodded his bayonet into the commissar's thigh.

The ill-treated man gave off a bellow.

'What's this?' Von Barring sounded threatening.

'One of the prisoners stood on a nail,' answered Porta innocently.

Without another word, von Barring and the ordnance officer left the bunker.

'Oh, bloody hell,' swore the Little Legionnaire, 'we were just getting going. Why must von Barring always interfere in our bits of fun?'

'It's unfair competition,' Porta declared and scowled at The Old Un. 'It's your work, isn't it? You told von Barring, eh?'

'Yes, I did,' answered The Old Un firmly. 'You'd all have done the same if you hadn't lost your reason.'

'The next commissar I lay hands on will get a bullet in the back at once,' Tiny announced, swinging his pistol.

'Maybe we'll be allowed to deal with those dirty dogs once Hinka's had his private chat with 'em,' said the Little Legionnaire speculatively ...

With great difficulty the fighting-group fought its way through the impassable terrain. We moved, groaning, stumbling and tottering, through snow which seemed to suck us down with every step.

We did not have to walk far before the weaker types threw themselves down weeping, and refused to go another step. The rifle-butts thundered down on them until they again stumbled along. We resembled a flock of small, black ants in the vast white snow-landscape.

We had to fight for every
kolhoz
and village. When we thought we had cleaned the enemy out they were again over us like wolves.

No. 5 Company went into quarters in a
kolhoz
just southeast of Dzhurzhenzy. We were completely exhausted. We had taken off our greatcoats and equipment and snuggled down in the straw. Then shots rang out. Furious bursts from Russian machine-pistols. We heard shouts and screams.

'Ivan, Ivan, alert, alert!' our sentries warned us and we jumped into hiding firing at the Siberian rifle-men who were pouring in from all sides.

'Out!' cries The Old Un and snatches his machine-pistol and some hand-grenades. He charges without his cap and great-coat.

We stumble about in confusion, but in a few seconds are out in the dark.

Pluto who has been lice-hunting rushes out dressed in pants and boots only. He races round the house with his machine-pistol and runs smack into three Russians. They hang on to him like limpets, trying to get their combat-knives into him. Roaring like a bull he kicks and bites as he fires with his machine-pistol. One of the Russians slides across the yard on his stomach like a sledge. The other two he grabs by the throat and flings them away. One gets his chest nearly carved in two by my machine-pistol and the other sinks to the ground with Pluto's flick-knife deep in his chest.

Porta and the Little Legionnaire are using their automatic weapons like truncheons and raging and swearing.

'Here you are, you Red bitch!' shouts Porta and a whistling blow hits a Siberian fur-clad head.

'
Allah-akbar!
' cries the Little Legionnaire.

Tiny dashes about among the small Siberians, swinging a Cossack sabre like a scythe. It bites both ways, for Tiny has sharpened both edges.

More than a third of the company are dead when two hours later we fight the Siberian troops back.

Again we stumble through the white hell. The fighting-group is slowly but surely being exterminated. The greater part of the troops, frost-curled corpses, lie spread over the snowy wastes.

Round each the snow slowly grows in a drift like a grave.

The village of Dzhurzhenzy is a lonely God-forsaken place with one
kolhoz
and a railway line on its northern fringe.

Here we have to blow up each little mound and fight for hours for each house. Not one of these Siberian rifle-men from the 32nd Regiment gives himself up. Every one is killed in close combat. They do not yield an inch during the battles.

In Dzhurzhenzy, Moller, our holy man, falls. He dies in the arms of Tiny and Porta behind a stack of railway sleepers. It is ironic that Porta is the one to say the last
Paternoster
over him.

We shovel snow on him before going on with our death march.

We are so worn out that we let our friends lie in the snow if they cannot resist the temptation to sink into it and sleep to death.

Almost snow-blinded, sobbing with fatigue and frost pain, we reach something resembling a road indicated by a long row of telegraph poles.

Then suddenly we see in front of us one, two, three, four, oh my God, five, no, many more tanks looking out of the snow-blizzard. The commander of each vehicle sits in the open turret straining to see through the whipping snow.

Dead-beat and silent, we sink down and stare in panic at the huge white-painted monsters. They growl their way along with the long cannons pointing like accusing fingers from the turrets.

Sergeant Kraus from the 104th gunner-regiment stands up and wants to run at them.

The Old Un has to tug him down in the snow.

'Careful, I think it's Ivan. Those fellows are certainly neither Tigers nor Panthers. I wouldn't be far wrong in saying they're KW2s!'

The snow incessantly blinds us as we stare at the growling tanks.

'Oh, my hernia-bandage!' bursts out Porta. 'They're Uncle Joe's lads on a picnic. They've got stars on all their vehicles and Adolf doesn't care for that. So you see, it must be Stalin's transport-business rolling forward.'

As soon as we are sure, we start feverishly digging ourselves in. We use even our fingers to get hidden from the tank-commanders.

We count fifteen T34s and two of the larger KW2s. There may have been more made invisible by the blizzard.

We glare nervously as they disappear like ghosts.

Then suddenly it dawns on us in all its horror that they are advancing at Lysenka. There, our whole Ist Panzer Division is preparing to advance and break us out of the net we are in.

Captain von Barring quickly makes up his mind: we must hurry to Lysenka to warn the Ist Panzer Division of its deadly danger.

Again we move westward in the ever-increasing snow storm which blows straight at us. To walk eight miles through it weighed down by ammunition and heavy infantry arms is not easy. Even if the enemy tanks are bothered by it they stand a better chance to reach their objective first.

The storm makes visibility sink to about two yards. Suddenly machine-gun fire rattles at us. Tank-engines get into lower gear and whine like frightened babies.

Through the blizzard the outlines of tanks show themselves. Our artillerymen and infantrymen run about screaming. They throw away their arms, fall down and are crushed by the heavy caterpillar tracks. Some stop and put their hands up to signal their surrender, but the next moment they are mown down by the whipping machine-gun fire.

The red star shines coldly and mercilessly at us.

Stege and I throw ourselves in cover behind some bushes and press ourselves desperately against them. A few yards away the howling T34s race by, churning up the snow in a dense cloud. The hot exhaust from the pipe hits us like a glowing kiss. Our bodies are goose-flesh.

The rest of the fighting-group run about like scared rabbits. With uncanny precision they are picked off one by one.

A quarter of an hour later we can hear only a few shots being fired in the distance. Tottering on westward again we run into more tanks. They are chasing some infantrymen from the 72nd Regiment.

It is a horrible race. The only thought anyone has is: get away from the fire-spraying steel-killers!

In one place we have to throw ourselves down and let the tanks roll over us, as they told us to do in the training manual.

Panic-stricken, we press ourselves down. Rumbling, rattling and whirring, the vast tonnage of a T34 thunders over us. Its belly strokes us caressingly as it were, over our backs, while the screaming, clanging chains toll past us on both sides.

You are no longer normal when an event like this hits you. You shake and tremble. Your speech is confused and slurred. You cannot believe you are still alive.

Several miles in a south-westerly direction we again make contact with the remnants of the von Barring fighting-group. Only a hundred troops of the five hundred are left. Among the survivors are, to our immense relief, most of our best pals.

Pluto has got one ear torn off. A small shell did that.

Porta bandaged him with something closely resembling a mother's touch.

'What a good thing the pea-shell didn't hit your behind, my pet. This ear was no use to you, my little bird. You never listened to anything sensible people said. Didn't your old father tell you war's disagreeable? But of course you stupid dopes had to go out to get some "Lebensraum". You see what comes of it, you miserable peasant!'

Von Barring had re-established contact with HQ and told them that all the companies had had severe casualties. To our astonishment he received the following laconic orders:

'The von Barring fighting-group will join with the remnants of the 72nd Infantry Regiment. The group will go back to Point 108, position Dzhurzhenzy. If the Russians are again in occupation, win it back.'

'God, what idiots,' shouted Porta. 'This is just a game of musical chairs. Why the hell don't they start a regular tram-service?'

Without any proper Intelligence information or flank-support laid on, we turned apathetically back.

Porta swore that if he had to run away again he would not stop till he reached Berlin.

Morning came with thirty degrees below freezing. Seven men froze to death during the night. They were pushed over our snow-parapet and rolled down towards the other side.

First we examined them to see if it was worthwhile taking their boots off. One of the dead had a pair of almost new felt-boots. They fitted the Little Legionnaire beautifully. He put them on, his face beaming.

'One man's death, the other man's boots,' he grins and stamps radiantly and enthusiastically off.

We try to dig deeper into the ground, but both spades and picks are useless in the iron-hard earth.

In the afternoon the Russian infantry again attacks. Huge numbers storm forward with wild hurrahs.

We open a concentrated fire from our automatic weapons and mortars. Surprisingly the Russians give up soon and withdraw to their own positions.

We ward off eight attacks in forty-eight hours.

But worse than the attacks, the cold, hunger, bombs and shells, is the feeling that has taken a grip on us: the fighting-group has been put in a spot which is lost - given up.

Our call for help to Regimental HQ meets with no response.

After the fourteenth attack von Barring lets our radio-operator send off a desperate S O S:

'The von Barring fighting-group almost exterminated. Only two officers, six NCOs and 219 troops alive. Send ammunition, bandages and rations. Given up. Waiting orders.'

The answer from HQ is short:

'Cannot help. Stay to the last man.'

Army Corps Commander.

The Russians now try to bomb us out. They hit the village with twelve Martin bombers in low-level attack. The bombers unload their deadly cargo over us.

The following night despite orders, to die where we stand, Captain von Barring, risking a court-martial and a sentence of death, orders the fighting-group to leave the village, abandoning the mortars and heavy infantry weapons.

The numerous casualties we place in an even row on the ramparts of our abandoned positions.

With glazed eyes the dead gunners from the 104th Regiment, the panzer-gunners from the 27th and the old grey infantrymen from the 72nd stare at the Russian positions where the Siberian riflemen sit.

Man after man falls like a ripe apple from trees in autumn storms. But we are no longer interested in who receives the kiss of death from the frost.

What's that coming? Tanks? Hysterical with fatigue, completely worn out, we sink into the icy snow-drifts. The tears stream down our cheeks in desperation. We have only hand-grenades to fight steel juggernauts.

The engines jeer and whine at us. They sing our elegy. The elegy of the 27th (Penal) Panzer Regiment.