The Bloody Road To Death (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

  After ten miles of it they take a rest, soaked to the skin and tired, in the ditch at the side of the road.

  ‘Jesus, I’m tired,’ groans Carl shaking water from his cap. ‘If my legs wasn’t plainly visible, I’d think I’d worn ’em off.’

  ‘You’re all right,’ says Porta, pouring water from his boots. ‘You’ve only got another ten miles to go, but we’ve got it to do all over again, and who’s to say the regiment’s still at Corfu? They might have moved. Might be up in the north of Finland. You’ve got to take all that sort of thing into account when you’re travelling on Army business.’

  ‘Holy Mother of Kazan!’ shouts Tiny, in fright. ‘From Corfu to the north o’ bleedin’ Finland. I don’t think I’d make it.’

  ‘Those whom God loves, he sends out into His world,’ says Porta quietly.

  ‘’E must bleedin’ love us lot,’ considers Tiny.

  ‘Let’s get in the dry,’ says Porta, getting on to his feet.

  ‘Here He comes on heavenly wings

  A wondrous message to you brings . . .’

  sings Tiny loudly. His voice rings out over the fields.

  At Russheim they reach the Rhine. They seat themselves on the wet quay and watch the river boats.

  ‘If we could snitch one o’ them,’ says Tiny, thoughtfully, ’we could sail to ’Olland with no sweat.’

  ‘What would you do in Holland?’ asks Porta in wonder. ‘The German liberators are there too, you know.’

  ‘You’re bleedin’ silly,’ shouts Tiny, waving his arms in the air. ‘Don’t you know that when you’re in ’Olland you’re right up against the bleedin’ sea? At the Munich station I see a map as shows as England ain’t no farther from ’Olland than you can piss, with the wind behind you.’

  That’d be great,’ sighs Carl. ‘They say it’s lovely in Scotland.’

  ‘You’d have a good time there as an anti-German,’ grins Porta.

  ‘Look at that current!’ says Carl, pointing at a river boat which sweeps past at speed with the strong current behind her.

  ‘The Rhine runs fast,’ says Tiny.

  ‘Who wouldn’t,’ grins Porta. ‘It’s passing through Germany.’

  At Sondenheim they go into an old inn, the host of which Porta knows from his time at Germersheim.

  The inn-keeper, an old man, is overcome with joy when he sees Porta come through the doorway.

  He makes pancakes when he hears where Carl is going.

  ‘Heavenly Lord God!’ sighs his wife. ‘Is he for the fortress? Won’t they ever stop putting people behind bars, the fine gentlemen?’

  ‘A battalion left for the east yesterday,’ declares the innkeeper, as he brings in the pancakes.

  ‘There was a former oberst from Karlsruhe with them,’ says his wife, blowing her nose. ‘Such a nice man. Always treated his soldiers well.’

  ‘That’s probably the reason they broke him,’ considers Porta. ‘The service of the Fatherland requires you to be hard as Krupp steel or you’d never be able to make anybody go to war and let themselves get killed.’

  ‘Have you come a long way?’ asks the inn-keeper’s wife, smoothing her starched apron.

  ‘You could say that,’ says Porta. ‘We come from the land of the gods.’

  ‘Oh indeed?’ says the woman smiling and not understanding a word of it. She shovels a large pile of pancakes on to each plate and pours a generous helping of jam over the food.

  ‘What’s happening out there?’ asks the inn-keeper, lighting a long porcelain pipe.

  ‘Ruins, bodies, trouble an’ woe, but us Germans can still cross the frontiers without a passport,’ says Tiny importantly.

  ‘Yes, it’ll be a serious hardship,’ sighs Porta, ’when we can’t get by with a gun in lieu of documents.’

  ‘Been in the army long?’ asks a guest from over in the corner.

  ‘Too long!’ confesses Porta. ‘I was homesick after the first hour of it.’

  ‘Aren’t the NCO’s nicer now?’ asks the old woman. ‘We’ve heard some of them have been shot in the back by their own soldiers.’

  ‘Now and then one kicks the bucket like that,’ Tiny admits. ‘A nickel-jacketed bullet in the back of the neck makes some impression even on the most, stupid:’

  ‘The only good NCO’s are dead NCO’s,’ says Porta with a curt laugh. ‘At least they keep their mouths shut.’

  ‘It must be terrible at the front,’ says the woman, thoughtfully.

  ‘Here on earth you can have it any way you want it,’ says Porta. ‘You just have to fit in.’

  ‘Is it true what they say about the treatment they give the prisoners in the fortress?’ asks the man in the corner.

  ‘At Torgau they made us form a living bridge with planks on our backs, and then they drove lorries over it,’ says Tiny seriously, and remembers, with a shut-off expression on his face, the hell of Torgau.

  ‘Lord save us!’ whispers the inn-keeper’s wife, and heaps Carl’s plate with fresh pancakes.

  They spend the night at the inn.

  We’ve been so long on the road, a day more or less can’t hurt,’ says Porta.

  The following morning they walk into the village of Germersheim with Carl between them. A cold wind is blowing from the river, and it is still raining. They have turned their greatcoat collars up around their ears, and shiver in their wet uniforms. They stop and look out over the Rhine, before proceeding down the steep road which leads to the military prison.

  Outside a pub, the ’Hapsburg Court’, Carl stops abruptly.

  ‘Shall we take one last one for the road? Your road!’

  ‘Why not?’ says Porta.

  They order sausage and potato salad. It’s the only thing on the menu.

  Porta orders beer and Wildkatze.

  They make a leisurely meal before continuing on towards the prison. When they are almost at the gate they stop, hesitantly.

  Porta looks at Carl with a little smile.

  ‘Bad shit, mate. And just because you wouldn’t kill a few people. It’s more often for doing just the opposite people get sent to jail. Should we take a stroll in the park?’

  They sit down on a mound between the trees. Porta pulls a recorder from his boot. Tiny knocks out his mouth-organ. They play together softly and look out at the rain:

  ‘So weit, so weit ist der Weg zurück ins Heimatland . . .’

  Porta drops a hand on Carl’s shoulder.

  ‘Run for it, if you want! We won’t shoot, and we won’t report for a couple of days that you’ve gone missing.’

  ‘You’ll be jailed yourselves,’ says Carl.

  ‘To ’ell with that,’ says Tiny. ‘We know what it’s like.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get far. The headhunters’d get me,’ considers Carl.

  ‘Get to bleedin’ ’Olland,’ suggests Tiny. ‘You could ’ide on a bleedin’ river boat an’ swim to England, mate.’

  ‘You can’t swim to England,’ protests Carl.

  ‘Some lucky bleeders’ve done it,’ says Tiny, optimistically.

  ‘With just a little bit of luck I’d’ve been born somewhere else than in Germany,’ sighs Carl despairingly.

  ‘Luck’s everything’ says Tiny, spitting into the wind.

  ‘I want to thank you for looking after me the way you have,’ says Carl. ‘I didn’t mean what I said when I bawled you out.’

  ‘’Ad a bit o’ fun, didn’t we?’ asks Tiny.

  ‘You’re telling me! says Carl with a quiet smile. ‘But in one way I’d sooner have had a quicker trip here. Being with you two makes the jail seem worse somehow.’

  ‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ Porta consoles him. ‘But don’t cross ’em. Whatever they say do it without question. You can get what you want from life long as you can fit in!’

  ‘You can’t beat them bastards,’ says Tiny knowledgeably. ‘I was the toughest bastard they’ve ever ’ad. They still boast about me. But they broke me inside two months.’

  They didn’t m
ake you soft!’ says Carl with a crooked smile, eyeing Tiny’s huge, muscular body.

  ‘No, nobody can do that,’ says Tiny with conviction. ‘I’d let ’em kill me first! No, I saw the bleedin’ light an’ did what they told me. Then they left me alone.’

  Thanks for ‘the advice,’ nods Carl. ‘I’ll remember it.’

  ‘Im buying,’ says Porta. ‘Wildkatze!’

  They go back through the park to the ’Hapsburg Court’. They get down several Wildkatze.

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ says Carl decisively. ‘I feel easier about it now.’

  They pull their equipment into position, and check one another.

  A former feldwebel, too old for Hitler’s army, inspects them carefully. He nods, satisfied.

  ‘Now you can go in there without a qualm. You’re more correctly dressed than the drawings in the bloody manual.’

  ‘Boot studs!’ shouts their host, in fear.

  The feldwebel looks their boots over. Tiny is short of three studs. One of the guests rushes out and procures them. They are ready to go.

  They swing their Mpi’s over their shoulders and place Carl between them.

  ‘If I run into ’Ell’ound ’Einrich I’ll let the shit out of ’is ’ead on the bleedin’ spot,’ promises Tiny, patting his Mpi.

  ‘Don’t,’ says the old feldwebel from the Kaiser’s army. ‘Wait till the war’s over. In the disturbances that will follow it you can fix him any way you want to.’

  Then I’ll pull ’is bleedin’ lights out through ’is arse’ole an’ push ’em into ’is bleedin’ ears!’ shouts Tiny, enraged.

  Take it easy,’ pleads Carl. ‘Ten years is enough for me.’

  The guests stand in the doorway to see them off.

  The Guard Commander, a feldwebel, regards them suspiciously with ice-cold eyes. They have entered a different world. A cold, silent world. Here there are no people. Merely automatons.

  Take the prisoner to the office,’ he snarls.

  They march across the courtyard. The barred gate closes behind them. Prisoners are running in a circle. In the centre of the circle stands a feldwebel with polished boots and brilliant leather equipment. His holster-flap is unbuttoned. In his hand he swings a long rubber truncheon. With narrow eyes he watches for mistakes in the drill.

  The sound of rattling keys comes from A-Block. Steel against steel and heavy doors closing. Whistles shriek and harsh commands are heard.

  Outside B-Block they are drilling. At the double with packs filled with sand on their backs.

  Three men lie slumped in the middle of the courtyard. One of them is a broken oberst. He coughs and is close to dying.

  The oberfeldwebel kicks him in the ribs.

  Weak old bastard!’ he snarls, contemptuously.

  The oberst is dead.

  In the office they meet Hellhound Heinrich, the notorious Stabsfeldwebel Heinrich Lochte.

  Carl empties his pockets and hands in his equipment.

  Trained hands search him. He signs some documents.

  Two well-developed unteroffiziers stamp in.

  Hellhound Heinrich points silently at Carl, and almost before Porta and Tiny realize it the prison has swallowed him up.

  When they are a little way away, just before entering Fischerstrasse, they turn and look up at the fortress. Grey and gloomy it towers in the pouring rain.

  ‘Good thing we’re walkin’ away from that bleedin’ place,’ says Tiny, turning up his coat collar.

  ‘Poor Carl, poor bugger,’ sighs Porta. ‘Jailed for not murdering people! Bad show!’

  Yes, ’e can’t even ’ave the pleasure of sittin’ in there an’ thinkin’ ’e’s done some bastard like ’Einrich,’ says Tiny.

  They catch a lift on a Pioneer battalion truck as far as Karlsruhe. In Munich they suddenly remember the black pig. They haven’t seen it since the ’Hapsburg Court’. They talk about going back for it but decide, in the end, it is too risky.

  In Budapest they are held back for three days because of a forgotten stamp on their movement orders.

  In Belgrade they visit the hospital to crack a yarn but meet only strange faces.

  Outside Niz they get in a fight with the partisans. Between Salónica and Athens their train is blown up.

  At Athens the feldwebel in the RTO’s office looks at them thoughtfully and leafs through their various movement orders.

  ‘You’ve been around, eh? Looks like you’ve been exploring ’stead of escorting. Keep moving, laddies, you’ve got a long way to go yet.’

  Grinning, he hands them their new orders.

  ‘Brest-Litovsk!’ cries Porta, looking at the documents.

  Tour regiment’s in Russia, boys, chuckles the feldwebel, ’and if you two are as long about getting back as you’ve been getting out, the Third World War’ll be half over before you get there.’

  So back they have to go through Prague, Berlin, Warsaw, where they get arrested when Tiny steals a hen which is the property of an oberst.

  At Brest-Litovsk they are sent by mistake to Riga. Nobody will believe that they are there by mistake and they get arrested. Released after a few days they are sent in the direction of Minsk.

  ‘If they send us back from there,’ says Tiny tiredly, 7 am goin’ over to the bleedin’ enemy. I’ve got to get back into the war an’ get a bleedin’ rest!

  One morning early, they are walking along a muddy road. Tanks and artillery rumble past, splashing them as they go.

  In the distance they can hear the rumble of the front line. Thousands of explosions paint the sky a bloody red. The final part of the trip they make on motorcycles.

  They’re back at last.

  ‘Still alive I see,’ says Oberst Hinka, a trifle surprised, apparently. ‘How are things at home?’

  ‘Ploughed under, sir,’ answers Porta. ‘Our enemies are really going to town on the Fatherland. They’ve begun to take things far too seriously.’

  ‘Herr Oberst, sir,’ grins Tiny. ‘Request to report the enemy ’ave finally learnt real German thoroughness!’

  ‘Your task is to execute the orders I issue and not to discuss them.

  ‘Go back to your work, gentlemen, and do not entangle yourselves in politics.’

  Hitler to a group of generals,

  October, 1937.

  Without our oberst none of us would’ve got out. They shot at everything that moved, even our signal-dogs,’ explains an obergefreiter with bandaged eyes. ‘Companies were down to fifteen or twenty men, and there were fires everywhere. More than five hundred wounded were laid out in the factory. A lot of them killed themselves by rolling over to the hoists and letting themselves drop. Nobody was in any doubt about what’d happen if they fell into the hands of the Russians . . .’

  ‘But how did you get out?’ asks a gefreiter amongst the crowd standing around the bed.

  Well, see, that was a case apart. It was sabotage of orders, as they call it, or certain death, but our oberst made a firm decision and ordered us to retreat. That was after both his sons had fallen. They were both leutnants and had command of companies. Wounded were to go with us, ordered the oberst. They were loaded on sleds and off we went into the snowstorm. A lot died during the march. We marched through the Russian lines with our oberst in the lead with an Mpi under his arm. Ski-troops were bashing at us all the time. The oberst had all the guns spiked, so’s we could use the horses to pull the sleds with the wounded.’

  What the devil are you saying, man?’ shouts a feldwebel, indignantly. ‘Ruin your own artillery? A fine leader, by God!’

  ‘You weren’t there, chum. You had to go through it to realize what it was like. Cossacks with drawn sabres, and ski-troops with flaming Mpi’s. 45° Centigrade below and a snowstorm! You’d have loved it, wouldn’t you, mate?’

  ‘Who’re you ceiling mate?’ roars the feldwebel ’Can’t you see Pm an NCO?’

  ‘I can’t see anything at all nowadays, chum! I lost my eyes in the snowstorm. Ice, you understand. To me
you’re just a voice.’

  ‘Blind or not you’re still a soldier, obergefreiter!’ roars the feldwebel, fiery red in the face. ‘You can stand to attention still Pull yourself together, now, or I’ll have you on orders for refusing to obey an order. Let’s see your paybook!’

  The blind man turns his paybook over to the feldwebel, who prints name and unit down, conscientiously, in a notebook.

  All round him wounded soldiers are growling under their breaths.

  ‘Quiet!’ roars the feldwebel, ’or I’ll have the lot of you on orders.’ He stamps out of the field hospital.

  ‘What about this oberst of yours who blew up his guns?’ asks a Pioneer who has had both legs amputated.

  ‘An oberstleutnant from GEFEPO came and took him away the day after we broke through. Two days later he was in front of a board. All the witnesses were on his side and our divisional general spoke for him but they still shot him the day after. You know the charge. Sabotaging his orders.’

  ‘Swine!’ comes from over in the corner. Nobody takes the feldwebel’s part.

  1. Barras: Slang term for the Army.

  2. Iron Gustav: See March Battalion.

  3. Ausbildungskompagni: Instruction company.

  4. Job tvojemadj (Russian oath): Go fuck your mother.

  5. WH (Wehrmacht-Heer): Army (WD).

  6. Ajutante di Battaglia: WO.1.

  7. Grôfaz (Grôsster Feldherr aller Zeiten): The greatest military leader of all times (cant name for Hitler).

  8. Flak: Anti-aircraft

  9. Suomi: Slang for Finnish Mpi.

  10. Hug ind, etc.: Strike hard, Northern boys!

  11. Malo, etc.: Many thanks.

  12. Nic hamm, etc.: We have nothing to eat.

  13. Nicn ham: Nothing to eat.

  14. Jabo’s: Fighter bombers.