Free The Commissar by Sven Hassel Page A

moaning at one another we pull our equipment together. We seem, by now, to have assembled a fantastic collection of gear. Light and heavy machine-guns,clumsy gun mountings, machine-pistols, combat knives, collapsible spades; cartridge belts criss-crossing our bodies, grenades filling our pockets and stuffed into the tops of our jackboots. Add to this, wire-cutters, magnetic charges, batteries and signal telephones, field-lamps, map-holders and compasses.
    ‘God what a load of shit,’ pants Porta, struggling with his gasmask pouch. ‘Stay here, while I bring up the limousine!’
    ‘That’s in order,’ answers the Old Man. ‘Drivers pick up their waggons, but quick’s the word, mind! Let’s get this lousy war over with, so we can go home again!’
    ‘Let’s hope the neighbours’ nasty boys haven’t pinched the chariots out from under us in the course o’ the night,’ chuckles Porta, as he goes off whistling with the other drivers of the section at his heels.
    ‘If anybody wants my opinion,’ says Tiny, importantly, ‘I reckon we ought to set a guard on them waggons when we’re in the sack. If we don’t the insurance won’t cover us. Well that’s up to you fellers. I’m goin’ to go down an’ get the bleedin’ pigs.’
    ‘You’ll stay here,’ the Old Man flames up, furiously, but Tiny doesn’t hear him. He is already out of sight, with a grenade in one hand and an mpi in the other.
    After a while the days and nights flow together into one grey blur. We cannot remember the difference between one town we have stormed through and another, and it is a long time since we stopped counting the dead. There are too many of them for us to keep up any interest.
    Out in the fields lie the carcasses of piebald cows blown up like balloons and with legs jutting upwards stiffly.
    Porta almost cries at this insane waste of good food, and embarks on a lecture on the correct preparation of
Osso Buco
with rice and a piquant sauce.
    27 Panzer Regiment
is withdrawn from the attack. Most of its companies have shrunk to reduced section size. Our company has three vehicles left. The rest are junk.
    *
Panjemajo
: Russian for understood?

When we left the soil of our fatherland, they told us that we were going out to defend the holy rights
.
    Marcus Flavius
    It was early in the morning. He ran wildly down through the valley. He was the last man of his section. Most of his comrades had already fallen, crossing the stream, when a Russian SMG which was covering its banks opened up. The water rippled a deep red behind him. He reached the top of the hill, and felt a burning pain in Ms side. It had been ripped wide open. Everything went black
.
    Well into the afternoon he came to himself again, The air was shimmering with heat, the sun burning down on him. He attempted to turn his head away from it. His greatcoat was torn open. Buttons gone. His right side was one bloody mash; minced flesh, crushed bones and tatters of uniform
.
    ‘
Water,’ he groaned. ‘Water,’ he repeated, but nobody heard him
.
    The battlefield was silent
.
    A short distance from him lay two Russians. One of them had died several hours ago. His face was a mask of blood. The other soldier still moved slightly now and then, and a rattling sound came from his ruined mouth. His stomach had been slashed open
.
    A swarm of flies crawled busily about on the protruding entrails
.
    Water!’ he mumbled again. ‘Thirsty!
’
    The whole of the long valley was a jumble of empty cartridge cases. Down by the bank of the stream stood a burnt-out T-34. A little further off lay the shot-away turret of a German P-IV. The lush, green grass had been flattened by the tread of countless heavy boots; tank tracks had slashed open the soft earth
.
    A swarm of flies buzzed up, suddenly. Some of them lighted onhis face, crawling between his parted lips, and up into his nose. He tried to raise his hand, and then to shake his head, but the orders from the brain resulted in no more