Authors: Sven Hassel
'Did you know, it's one of the great holidays today?' asks Porta. 'All the war-extenders are in church today singing hymns. And here we are, rushing around in the snow, and knocking in one another's heads!'
'It's one of the great German feast days,' Heide tells us, proudly.
'Yes indeed! A thousand
years
ago our
German
forefathers consumed a lot of crisp wild-pig on this day!' grins Porta, clicking his tongue.
'Is it
redly
Christmas Eve?' says the Old Man, staring up at the flashing iridescence of the Northern Lights.
'Think the war'll be over by next Christmas?' asks Gregor.
Nobody cares to answer. We've said the same thing every Christmas, and the war is still going on when the next Christmas comes.
'Come on! Up you get, you weary sacks,' shouts the Old Man, cheeringly. 'Only a little way now, and we're home and dry!'
'We'll
never
get through,' groans Gregor, pointing at the huge clouds of snow whirling in front of us. A new storm is blowing up.
An Mpi rattles, out in the whirling snow, and we hear the long, high scream of a woman. The Mpi rattles again.
'Down!' orders the Old Man, diving behind a great wall of snow.
A flare goes up, bathing the unbelievable whiteness of the snow with ghostly light. The flare hangs in the air, swinging slowly, for a few minutes. In its light our faces look like those of corpses.
'I've knocked off one of the neighbours,' shouts Tiny, above the noise of the storm. It is racing across the tundra in a series of roaring blasts. 'The shit walked straight into my arms carry-in' a big bag of Christmas presents with 'im!'
Another flare goes up, and explodes with a hollow thump.
'Wish they'd stop doing that,' scolds the Old Man. 'Up their arses with their flares! Where's the body?' he hisses, pushing Tiny.
'Out there! Dead as a nit!' replies Tiny, pointing to a dark patch on the snow.
'It's a
woman
!' cries Porta, in surprise, when he reaches the body. 'A bloody
woman
! Got a kid with her too! We only need the husband now! Then we've got the whole family!'
In curiosity we bend over the body. She was a pretty, young woman. The child was not hit by Tiny's bullets, but appears to have frozen to death.
'Did you
have
to knock her over straight away?' asks the Old Man, reproachfully, looking at Tiny.
'Dammit man, I thought it was one o' them Soviet chaps comin' after us!' Tiny excuses himself.
'What a dope
you
are!' says Barcelona.
'You can't see no difference 'tween a feller'n a bint this weather,' shouts Tiny, angrily. 'Anyway what's she doin' steppin' around in the snow in the middle of a war with a kid on 'er arm?'
'She was a pretty girl,' says the Old Man, quietly, getting to his feet.
'I didn't
mean
to do it,' grumbles Tiny, swinging his Mpi on to his shoulder. 'Always after me you lot are! I'll be off soon, though, an' then you can win your own bleedin' war any way you
like
!'
'Hell, you big dope,' the Old Man explodes, in a thick voice, 'one more trick like that and I'll shoot
you
on the spot! Now you bury those two, and put a cross on the grave. Where'll you get the wood for it? I couldn't care
less
! But a cross she
gets
!'
'Mad,' Tiny defends himself. Why should they 'ave a cross? They're Commies ain't they?
They
don't believe
any
of what the parsons preach about!'
'I said they get a cross,' roars the Old Man, furiously, throwing himself down into a hollow in the snow, and pulling his hood up over his head to get a little sleep.
Tiny digs a hole, and pushes the bodies into it. He hammers something into the snow, which might, with plenty of imagination, be taken for a cross.
The Old Man ought to go shit in 'is 'at,' he confides to Porta. ''E's 'ard to get on with ain't'e? Next time I meet one of the neighbours' boys I'll ask him to stand there an' wait while I go back and ask the Old Man if 'e minds me shootin' 'im!'
'Shut your face,' growls the Old Man, from down in his hole.
'Bloody Army,' sighs Tiny, jostling down by the side of Porta. 'Can't even
talk
any more, an' special permission needed to blow the Commie breath out of one of the neighbours' shit-'oles. Life's that sad, it ain't worth livin' it.'
We feel as if it's only been a few minutes when the Old Man starts shouting.
'Come on,' he chases us, impatiently, 'pick up your shit, get your arses moving, before Ivan comes and cuts 'em off!'
'Can't the bloody Army ever give
anybody
any peace?' shouts Porta. 'When, sometime in the future, I become a civilian, I just want to
see
the bloke that'll ever order me out of bed again!'
'We've only marched a few miles, when we are stopped by wild shooting from up on a high wall of snow.
At the sound of the first shot I drop down into the snow and sight at a figure on top of the snowbank, but the Mpi sticks. The lock is frozen. I hammer at it, viciously, and the bolt comes loose. I fire off a whole magazine, and the figure disappears from sight.
'Back, back, get
back
!' booms the Old Man's commanding voice.
A rain of bullets falls around us, throwing the snow into the air.
'Covering fire, damn you,' shouts the Old Man, furiously, as the section retreats in disorder. 'You cowardly sods! I didn't give you the order to retreat!'
Heide comes running. He is hopping like a wounded hare. The SMG opens up. We work our way, in short one-man spurts through the deep, powdery snow.
The Russian firing, from the hill-top, grows weaker, and soon stops altogether.
Gasping, groaning and angry, we get up to them. Despite the Arctic cold we are sweating as if we were inside a sauna.
There are only four of them left, and one of these is at the point of death. The two others put up their hands, and do their best to tell us how they have longed for the arrival of the German liberators.
'Where's the rest of 'em?' asks the Old Man, looking around him.
'Taken it on the lam to Moscow,' grins Porta, pointing to the tracks in the snow.
'Seems they don't
all
want to be liberated,' laughs Gregor.
Tiny presses the muzzle of his Mpi against the neck of the nearest prisoner and pretends that he is about to liquidate him.
'
Njet Bolsjevik
,' cries the prisoner, falling to his knees in fear.
'Bloody
tovaritsch
commissars, that's what you are!' shouts Tiny, accusingly, pushing the prisoner roughly so that he falls on his face.
'
Njet
commissar,' they assure him, all talking together. '
Polittruken
is hiding in "The Red Angel". You can find him there.'
With the two converted Nazis guiding them they march into the village. It is literally buried in snow. We move carefully, from house to house, kicking open the doors and sending an Mpi salvo into the dark rooms. If there is a cry we keep firing until there is silence.
A herd of reindeer come galloping, terrified, down the main street. Snow flies about our ears.
Close to one of the houses lies a man wearing an armlet. He is dying. He stares at us wide-eyed and begins to try to crawl away from us. His fur coat is filthy with blood. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and continues to crawl away from us. He is like a man lying on a beach and withdrawing all the time from the tide, which continues to approach him, mercilessly.
'He's mad with fear,' says Gregor, poking him with his Mpi.
'To be expected,' says Barcelona. 'They've probably told him some good stories about us!'
'Let's let the wind out of 'im,' suggests Tiny. 'It's cruelty to animals lettin' 'im lie there sufferin' like that!'
'
Par Allah
, he took the whole burst in his guts,' says the Legionnaire.
'To hell with him,' reckons the Westphalian.
'He's only got himself to thank for it!'
'Put him under cover down by the stables,' says the Old Man. 'We can't do any more for him. Let's move!'
Somebody is waving energetically, with a red curtain, from one of the windows in a long house.
'That's "The Red Angel",' the prisoners tell us. 'That's where the commissar has gone into hiding!'
'They're certainly in a hurry to surrender,' grins Gregor. 'We must
really
have a bad reputation!'
Above the door a wooden sign swings. On it is painted a red angel astride a green elk.
We knock the windows in and send a few shots through them to shake the nerves of the people inside.
'
Vigi ores
60
,' shouts Heide, in a piercing voice.
They come out one at a time, all of them, both men and women, looking anxious and confused. Last is a big, fat woman with half a shotgun in her hand.
Porta nips the cheeks of her behind in a friendly manner, and runs his hand up under her skirt.
'Where have you been all my life?' he says, lecherously. 'If I'd only known
you
were here I'd've come sooner!'
'Any of these shits still inside?' shouts Heide, importantly, expanding his chest for the benefit of the prisoners.
'Shut it, you sod,' says Porta, looking down his nose at him. 'Which of you is the commissar?' asks Gregor, with a pleasant smile.
'He's been shot,' says the fat woman, 'right through the forehead.' She puts her
finger
on her own forehead so that there can be no doubt of where the commissar was shot.
'Jesus, but she's
ugly
!' says Tiny, pulling a face.
'She's
lovely
,' says Porta, trying to get his arm around her. 'Just let me get the feel of you,' he smirks, and purses his lips for a kiss.
'You're
pretty
,' she says, pressing him to her huge breasts so closely that his head disappears completely.
'Well, let's you an' me go somewhere and forget the war,' he suggests with a lecherous grin.
'We can go up to my room,' she says, closing her eyes. 'I'm a civil servant and I've got good bed-clothes!'
'Are you a commissar?' asks Porta, and shouts 'Red Front!' quickly three times.
'No,' she said, 'I run "The Red Angel". She throws out her arms like an emperor who has won a great victory.
'Holy Raphael, protector of travellers, what can a busy man ask for better than a lady innkeeper for a girl friend?' grins Porta.
Tiny is getting on well with a tall thin girl with thick pigtails, the colour of new ale, hanging down her back. His entire arm is out of sight under her skirt.
'What do you Soviet people
do in
this 'ole, when you're not killin' Germans that is?' he asks, pushing his hand out through the neck of her dress and waving at himself.
'We discuss the new five year plan,' she says, giving out a little whine and biting his fingers.
'You must be bored to bleedin' death then,' decides Tiny. 'We've only discussed
one
five year plan, an' that took a 'ell of a time. Let's go to your place,' he suggests, 'so I can show you how we roll a girl out on a sheet!'
Suddenly a man rushes out of a doorway, swinging a
Kalashnikov
above his head. He slides down into a potato pit, in a cloud of snow, and begins to shoot to all sides.
'Our commissar,' says Mischa, rolling his eyes towards the heavens.
'I thought he was dead,' says Porta, pinching the fat woman's wobbly cheeks.
'He must've come to life again, then,' she answers, carelessly.
'Looks
like
it,' shouts Gregor, sliding head first into cover. 'If he ain't he's the first corpse I've seen shoot like that!'
'See if you can get him,' says the Old Man to the Legionnaire, who is keeping an eye on things from a window.
'German swine,' shouts the commissar, from the potato trench, 'you'll never get
me alive
. I'll kill the lot of you!' Another burst showers down dust from the ceiling and walls of the bar-room.
Cautiously the Old Man peers from the window, makes
a
trumpet of his hands, and shouts: 'Drop your shooter,
tovaritsch
, and come over to us. We won't hurt you!'
A new salvo is the only reply. It rattles against the wall.
'The devil take you, you treacherous
schweinhunde
. You're not fooling me!' The
Kalashnikov
roars again.
'Gregorij, Gregorij,' Dimitri tries to entice him. 'Stop all that nonsense and come down and meet the Germans. They're
nice
people!'
'Shut up you
izmeejik
61
. You don't fool me!
Germanski
, I
am
an important man and not easily taken prisoner,' Gregorij shouts, from the potato pit.
'
Tavaritsch
,' begs Mikhail. 'Be sensible!
Come
over and let us celebrate our liberation together. The Germans know you're a big man, and will treat you accordingly!'
'You'll soon realise I'm not a man who can be taken lightly,' comes from the potato pit. Another burst sprays the wall.
'You're nothing but a madman, Gregorij Antenyjew,' cries Fjedor, angrily. 'We've concluded a peace with these Germans, and if you don't come out quickly they'll come and get you, and shoot you on the spot like a mad dog!'
'If we could get
you
over there you could knock his brains out with one blow of your tits!' says Porta to the fat woman.
'I'll strangle the bastard if I ever get my hands on him,' she swears viciously.
'He's a dangerous man,' warns Yorgi. 'He has been to the sniper's school at Moscow and almost always hits what he aims at.'
'Must be out of form today,' says Porta. 'Up to now he's been wasting his powder.'
'He usually has some hand-grenades in his pockets,' says Mikhail, darkly.