Free Blitzfreeze by Sven Hassel

boasting!’ jeers Porta. ‘A head as thick as yours pain can’t penetrate! All that’s alive inside it is a bloody woodpecker that thinks he’s found a hollow tree.’
    ‘It flew straight in up his arse without him even feeling it,’ sniggers Heide.
    Tiny throws his battle-knife at him, missing him by a hair as he ducks. ‘You could’ve killed me, you silly bastard,’ shouts Heide, raging.
    ‘No worry,’ grins Tiny, on top again.
    ‘Range 500 metres!’ commands the Old Man. ‘With HE! Load! Fire!’
    Like a gaping beast the breech gulps the shell.
    ‘Loaded, ready!’ rasps Tiny aiming a kick at Heide which drapes him over the wireless.
    ‘You did that deliberately,’ shouts Heide.
    ‘It wasn’t me, it was me foot did it,’ grins Tiny. ‘All the limbs of me body lives together in self-governin’ freedom an’ brother’ood.’ He begins to sing in an excruciatingly cracked bass:
Wählt den Nationalsozialisten
den Freund des Volkes!
Täglich wechseldnes Programm!
Urkomisch! Zum Totlachen!
Kinder and Militär vom Feldweben abwärts
halbe Preise! 2
     
    ‘God knows what the Führer would say to such traitorous filth,’ screams Heide, shocked.
    In a long roaring line the tanks roll forward. An enemy PAK is smashed. The barrel flies through the air, a wheel thumps against a tank turret. The gun-crew is left a bloody tangled clump of meat. The next gun sends a fireball howling at a P-IV. The Russian gun is served by only two men. The aimer and the commander. The rest of the crew lie dead around it. It is a brand-new gun and corporal Pjotr Waska is very proud of it. His militia regiment was formed only eight days ago and has already been destroyed.
    ‘Bravo, Alex!’ screams Pjotr enthusiastically. ‘That’s the fourth fascist bastard we’ve taken!’
    A new shell flies into the breech. Ammunition is heaped high behind them. The heap of empty casings is even higher.
    ‘Smack ’em in the teeth, the German swine!’ he roars and throws his green steel-helmet towards a wrecked tank. He intends to obey the regimental commissar’s order: ‘Stand fast! Don’t give an inch!’
    The two Russian anti-tank men are covered in mud. They look like devils risen from the swamp. They make two more hits. The torn-off head of a German grenadier, still wearing its steel-helmet, lands with a thump beside them. They roar with laughter and take it for a good omen. They plant the head on top of their gun-shield.
    ‘Shoot the arse off ’em!’ screams Pjotr, fanatically.
    The two soldiers work with machine-like accuracy. Their bodies bend, lift, stretch at their bloody work like automatons. They have no thought of flight. Anybody suggesting it would be shot down on the spot. The regimental commissar’s words still ring in their ears: ‘Comrades, kill the Fascist invaders! Crush them, destroy them like the vermin they are! Die before letting them pass. It is the duty of every Russian soldier to take a hundred Fascist swine with him. If you do not reach that target you are a traitor and your family will suffer for it! Long live Stalin! Long live the Red Army!’
    ‘Enemy PAK straight in front!’ sounds the Old Man’s quiet voice as he sights Pjotr’s anti-tank gun.
    ‘Target acknowledged!’ I echo.
    Points dance in the sight. The green lamp blinks.
    The hum of the turret stops. The PAK shows up clearly in the sighting mechanism. The gun-muzzle winks hungrily at the Russian position. There is a short violent explosion of light and sound and the gun commander is flying away from us, the gun turning and twisting end over end until it lands a pile of scrap. As we drive over the position the gunner is caught in the tracks and dragged after us. An arm drops to one side a leg to the other. The lower part of his body catches on the off-side light cowl.
    The incident is over. Forgotten!
    A party of infantry appears in front of us. One of them throws his machine-gun at us in desperation. He dies under the tracks together with