The next instant we were engaged in murderous hand-to-hand fighting. Tiny whipped up the jar of booze and took it to a place of safety inside one of the houses. Then he stormed out, his flame-thrower spitting fire. The Legionnaire was standing with his back to a wall plying an axe.
Then the Jabos arrived and swept the scene with their machine cannon. The brown men had got too far in front, and the devilish fire of the American fighters sent them spinning.
The houses went up in flames. One old peasant made desperate attempts to put his out with a saucepan. Then the saucepan flew from his hand, water splashing in all directions, earth spurted up and the shadow of a fighter-bomber brushed him.
Artillery fire. Swarms of infantry. We withdrew. The few of us, that is, who survived and could drag ourselves along. We fell in by the side of the road. The ambulances were parked under cover of the trees. We placed the Old Man in one of them, though it took all our Grifas and all Porta's dollars to get him a place. One lung appeared every time he drew a breath. We squeezed his hand; then the ambulance drove off towards Rome at breakneck speed.
Mike was put in an army truck with four other seriously wounded. His right arm was smashed. We placed his box of cigars beside him, and he nodded gratefully.
We buried Eagle by the roadside. A hand grenade had taken off both his feet. We did not dig deep and he got no cross or helmet over him. We just trampled the earth down a bit.
"Burn slowly in hell, you dirty prison fart," said Barcelona.
Leutnant Frick came across to us. He had a bandage round his head that only left one eye and his mouth visible.
"Pick up your arms. We're going forward again. The grenadiers have withdrawn, and the position has to be held at all costs. I am responsible with my life."
We swung the machine guns up onto our shoulders. Whining shells landed among us.
Barcelona collapsed. Two paratroopers carried him back. He had shell splinters in his abdomen. Heide went spinning and the machine gun fell from his hands. The back of his neck and shoulders were one gaping, bleeding wound. We sent him back with some grenadiers.
Leutnant Frick had his head severed. A fountain of blood rose from his gaping neck.
We took up position in a shell-hole full of mud, Porta, Tiny, Gregor Martin and I. The last of No. 5 Company. All the others were in hospital or buried. I suddenly found myself elevated to company commander, commanding a company of four. Other little groups, joined us, the remains of companies and battalions. We held out for another five days and nights. Then the trucks fetched us. Paratroopers covered us.
The last battle of Monte Cassino was over.
Dear Reader, if your holiday should take you through the village of Cassino, stop for a moment, when you get to the road leading up to the monastery. Get out of your car and bow your head in reverence for those who died on the holy mountain. If you listen, perhaps you will still be able to hear the roar of the shells and the screams of the wounded.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
At fourteen Sven Hassel traveled around the world as a cabin boy on a freighter. In 1930 the unemployment situation in Denmark caused him to emigrate to Germany, where one could still find work. He enlisted in the German army in 1937 and was wounded in a cavalry regiment while fighting on the Polish Front. He was then transferred to the Second Tank Regiment which took part in the invasion of Poland in 1939. In 1941 he was sent into a disciplinary regiment that fought in Russia under the worst conditions. He took part in military operations on all except the North African Front. Mr. Hassel is the author of four novels: Gestapo, The Legion of the Damned, S.S. General and The Beast Regiment.
Scanned June 2004 by CaptainBen
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Sven Hassel, Monte Cassino
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