Reign of Hell by Sven Hassel

the best loader we had. He was fast and accurate and apparently tireless. He could carry on for hours at a time without flagging. He might not have been too sure about two plus two equalling four, but he certainly knew how to handle a mortar.
    ‘Three-fifty metres,’ said the Old Man.
    ‘Prime, load, fire,’ chanted Tiny, as one reciting a litany. ‘Off you go, my sweetheart . . .’
    Human remains were spouting into the air, but now the Russians had opened up with covering fire for the would-be comrades who were hurrying to join them. Grenades began bursting around us, uncomfortably close, and Porta swore and jammed his hat further down on his head.
    ‘Bloody Russians,’ he said. ‘Bloody Russian swine. You know they use women to fire those things? Must have biceps the size of bleeding footballs, that’s all I can say.’
    An hour later, the barrage from both sides had petered to a standstill. Only a few of the deserters had successfully managed to leap out of the Nazi frying pan and into the Communist fire. A few had been recaptured and put under arrest. Many more lay mangled and dying in the churned-up mud of no-man’s-land. Meanwhile, there was hysterical activityall the way along the line, with telephones ringing non-stop and messengers dashing to and fro with their usual self-important fervour. Both Security and the Secret Police had been informed of the débâcle, and we settled back gloomily to await their arrival.
    A lieutenant-colonel of the Gestapo was sitting in a corner with his head in his hands. His uniform was still new and shiny, but his face looked furrowed and aged before its time. Not only had twelve of his NCOs deserted with the WU contingent, but now they informed him that one of his captains also had defected. The lieutenant-colonel had pleaded with Hinka to report the captain as killed in action, but Hinka was stern and adamant.
    ‘You can have a word yourself with Security,’ he said, which of course was the very last thing that any man in his right senses would want to do.
    A little before midnight, the Russians opened fire on the divisional HQ. Their range and direction were uncannily accurate. The ammunition dumps went up one after another. Tanks under camouflage were picked out with calm precision. It seemed obvious that someone on the staff must have succeeded in deserting and supplying the other side with much valuable information.
    With the slow coming of a grey dawn, we awoke to a witch hunt of those WUs who either through choice or necessity were still with us. It was partly a form of reprisal; partly a desire to find a scapegoat, to demonstrate loyalty to the Führer and hatred of his enemies by striking down a few defenceless men. I saw Parson Fischer attacked in the middle of a prayer by an infuriated Sergeant Linge, who slashed him across the face with the rim of his helmet. I saw Oberwachtmeister Danz come running up to join in the fun. I saw him slam the butt end of his revolver into the Parson’s jaw and grind his face down into the mud with the heel of his boot. And then I saw the pair of them go rollicking away in search of new victims. Parson Fischer staggered to his feet with blood pouring out of his broken mouth and down his chin. It could have been worse. At least he was still alive. Thelieutenant-colonel whose captain had deserted him had been found earlier on with his brains blown out.
    Later in the morning we were relieved by an infantry regiment. The ragged remnants of 999 battalion were rounded up and marched off to a nearby village, where they were eyed with much astonishment and misgivings by the troops already in occupation.
    ‘Prisoners,’ said one man knowledgeably to his neighbour. ‘That’s what they’ll be. Prisoners.’
    ‘Spies,’ said another.
    It never occurred to them that these half-naked skeletons could possibly be their own countrymen; that this wretched collection of skin and bones had been sent from Germany to die. The Führer in his