"I'm in command here, and you're taking the mortar," the Old Man said furiously. "Your brew is no concern of mine. Understand?"
"I'm not deaf," growled Tiny.
"Then repeat the order."
"What order?" Tiny was pretending to be dumb, a usual trick of his, when there was something he wanted to get out of.
The Old Man swore savagely.
"Don't play the idiot, you great bog, and listen to me. If you haven't got the mortar with you, when we get to Via Appia, I'll put you on charge."
"Come on, Old Man, show a little humanity and understanding," Tiny pleaded. "I can't lug both tie mortar and the booze."
"You take the mortar," the Old Man cut him off.
The guns began thundering. Porta took hold of the machine gun and swung it onto his shoulder. I clapped the tripod together. Barcelona helped me heave it onto my back. We divided the long cartridge belts between us. Porta blew a kiss towards the Americans.
"Goodbye, Sammy, see you later! Don't cry, when you find our dugouts empty."
"How we love each other," grinned Barcelona genially. "Know anyone else who knocks so energetically on the door."
"That love will be the death of us," Heide said.
Noiselessly we began the climb down. A series of clattering bangs frightened us out of our wits and made us freeze to the mountain side.
"What the hell was that?" the Old Man asked in a scared voice. "Are they after us already?"
Out of the darkness came Tiny's self-satisfied voice: "Mightily beg your pardon, Old Man. That bloody mortar leaped from my hands and slipped off down the slope. It was all because you insisted I should lug it along as well as the booze."
"You didn't spill any of that?" Porta asked apprehensively.
"By the patron saint of cannon, the holy Barbara, I swear that not a drop has been lost. I'm very conscientious where valuables are concerned."
"You super-idiot!" the Old Man growled. "You're to get hold of another mortar, and it's no concern of mine where you get it from."
"I'll borrow one from Sam," Tiny answered happily. "He's lots of that shit."
Sweating, we laboured on, clinging to every jutting bit of rock. Our hands were bleeding.
"I can't do any more," I groaned. "I'm chucking the tripod."
"No need for that," Barcelona said consolingly. "Give it me."
Where a piece of rock looking like a horse's head jutted out, I eased the tripod off my back and gave it to Barcelona, getting the flamethrower instead. It was just as heavy, but easier to deal with.
We balanced our way along a narrow ledge. There was a ridge we had to get over. Tiny was lying on his face a bit further up. He had tied his feet to a tree. He reached down a hand: with a quick jerk he heaved me up. Barcelona came after me. Then Porta. One after the other.
"Strong aren't I," Tiny boasted. "You'd have gone on your arses without me." He threw a stone into the chasm. We heard it rolling and bouncing down through the dark. "Hell of a long way to the bottom," Porta muttered.
A star shell soared up. We flung ourselves behind cover, tried to merge with the ground. The slightest movement meant death.
Slowly the glaring light died away. Guns were rumbling in the east. That was Castellona, height 771. We did not know it, but it was the beginning of the American's break through. The 168th US infantry regiment overran our 139th. At the same time the US 142nd settled the hash of our 200 Panzergrenadiers.
There was roaring and flashing all round the horizon. Hundreds of guns were spitting fire. Blood flowed in torrents.
"Take up your arms," the Old Man ordered. "Single file--follow me!"
The Company had dug itself in between some houses. Tiny set the great jar of booze carefully on the ground.
"Shall I open the bar?" he asked the Legionnaire.
The Legionnaire nodded. A door was torn from its hinges and placed across two drums. Mugs were arranged neatly. Porta seated himself on a shell, produced a medium sized cash-box and an altar bell. Tiny took up position behind him, a flamethrower in his hands. Our new minstrel put his trumpet to his lips and blew the Assembly.
Inquisitive heads popped up from the various shell-holes.
Mike came striding up, a large cigar in his mouth, for Heide had returned with what he had been ordered to get.
"What the hell are you up to? Stop that trumpeting. The Americans know an assembly call when they hear one, too. You might bring them over here."
"Haven't anything against American customers," Porta said. "Dollars are hard currency."
"Don't put on airs," said Mike. "You've never even seen a greenback."
Without saying a word, Porta thrust his hand into the top of his boot and pulled out two fat bundles of dollar notes.
Mike's jaw fell. For a moment he was dumb with amazement.
"Where the hell did you get those freckles from?" he exclaimed.
"From General Ryder's and General Walker's boys. We happened to meet behind the monastery and I convinced them that they had no further use for this dough."
"You know perfectly well that foreign currency has to be handed in to your Company Commander or the NSFO,* don't you?"
*Nationalsozialistischer Fursorgeoffizier (political).
Porta put the money back in his boot, smiling craftily.
"Yes, Herr Major, I know that. I and our NSFO are good friends." He gave a little cough and held a miniature spy's camera up for us to see. "And this little box is the reason why. I am quite crazy about photography, only I can never remember where I put the films. A couple of days ago I happened to snap our NSFO while he was busy seducing a very young Italian boy. We had a bit of a chat about the film afterwards, and we agreed that it would not be an awfully good thing, if it got to Prinz Albrecht Strasse."
Mike whistled and gazed intently at Porta's boots.
"Suppose I put in a report about the boy and the film?" he said in honeyed tones.
Porta grinned unconcernedly.
"As would only be your duty, Herr Major. But remember that every report must go through the Divisional Commander, General-Major Mercedes, and I wouldn't like to be there, when a report for the RSHA lands on One-Eye's desk. If it got through successfully, it would go on to a chap I've never met, but I've heard a lot about him. He can't stand the black boys of Prinz Albrecht Strasse either, but perhaps you know him personally? I mean Herr Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring. Who knows if he's not another who's changed his name, like the famous Herr von Manstei, who, so I've heard, used to be called Lichtenstein."
Heide spat.
"Was his first name by any chance Nathan?"
Porta shrugged.
"If it was, that'll explain why he changed it. It's not a name that is exactly popular these days."
Mike leaped forward. He would gladly have gone for Porta's throat. His cigar jerked from one corner of his mouth to the other.
"One day you'll dangle, Porta," he prophesied kindly, and in his mind's eye saw Porta's body swaying from a cork-oak beside the Via Appia.
Major Mike looked tired. He sat down heavily on the bottom of the trench, using Eagle's helmet for a chair, which the latter politely pushed under his broad backside.
"A drink, Herr Major?" Porta enquired with a neutral smile.
The major emptied the mug at one draught. It was 88 per cent rice spirit. He got to his feet, broad and tall, and slowly put a fresh cigar between his teeth. Eagle lit it obsequiously.
The major did not even look at him. He fingered the machine pistol that hung on his chest, and smiled a rather forced smile.
"Porta, you should have been chief of staff. You'd give even marshals stripes on their bottoms."
"Oh, hell, Herr Major. I'm the same as that marine from Texas, a simple soldier who has learned to safeguard himself in all directions. My motto is: regard everyone as a limb of satan till the opposite is proved, and it very seldom is."
Major Mike drew a deep breath, almost swallowing his cigar.
"Once more, Porta, you would look well at the end of a rope."
Porta shrugged.
"You know yourself, Herr Major, one piece of decoration does not make a Christmas tree."
The major disappeared muttering something incomprehensible. We only caught the word "bugger".
Porta began ringing his altar bell wildly and bellowing:
"Bar's open. Bar's open."
They came in clusters and formed a queue.
"Mug in the right hand, money in the left! Payment to be made just before pouring!"
The price differed though the measure was always the same. An SS-Oberscharfuhrer had to fork out more than a Panzeroberfeldwebel. On the other hand, a battalion clerk had to pay twice what had been exacted from the Oberscharfuhrer.
Twice Tiny had to come into action and prevent a fight. One blow on the back of the head with his flamethrower restored peace. Then in the middle of it all they were over us. Without our noticing a thing, the brownburnoused Moroccans had cut the throats of our pickets. They came leaping down the cliff, firing at us from three sides.
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 flamethrower 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.
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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