Free Assignment Gestapo by Sven Hassel

addresses?’
    Too stunned to speak, Dose staggered from the room. He spent the rest of the night alternately looking up non-existent or out-of-date addresses in an address book and praying feverishly for a passing aeroplane to drop a bomb on top of the Colonel’s quarters.
    Despite all his efforts, he succeeded in rounding up only nine of the I,800 men who had left the barracks.
    On Monday, according to their habit, the remaining I,791 rolled up at various different times of the day, according as fancy took them, looking forward to a few hours of peace and quiet in which to recover from the debauches of the weekend. And for each man, a shock was in store: the entire barracks had been changed overnight from a free and easy and relatively luxurious hotel to a disciplined military establishment. On every officer’s desk was a terse note to the effect that the Colonel wished to see him straight away.
    The youngest and least experienced dropped everything and ran. The more prudent put in a few telephone calls to see the lie of the land, and several of them at once fell gravely ill and were taken away by ambulance.
    Amongst the former was Captain (Baron) von Vergil. Three hours after reporting back to barracks he found himself with orders to proceed to the Russian front. Promoted, it is true, to the rank of lieutenant colonel, but that was small comfort when he considered the probable horrors of front line warfare. Not only the danger, but more than that, the discomfort. He thought of lice and mud and stinking bodies and rotting feet, and it was almost too much for a white man to bear. He could have cried very effectively, had there been anyone likely to sympathize with him.
    Eight days after the arrival of Colonel Bahnwitz, the 49th Infantry Regiment had disappeared, along with its famous wine cellar. Each officer had carried away his share of the booty. No one had left with less than two trucks full of wine, and the Baron had taken three.
    And now here he was on the Eastern front, experiencing the harsh facts of warfare. In what must almost certainly have been record time he had succeeded in getting himself and his men hemmed in by the Russians. He had at once sent out furious appeals for help in all directions, and had been soothed and reassured: help was on its way. And now help had arrived, and what help it was! A tank company without a tank to its name; band of ruffians and scoundrels wearing filthy rags and stinking to high heaven. It was little better than an insult. Colonel von Vergil, after all, could not be expected to know that this band of ruffians, led by two tough and experienced officers, was a gift from the gods and probably his one chance of getting out alive. This one company, in fact, was worth an entire regiment of sweetly smelling, freshly laundered troops from a barracks at Breslau.
    Colonel von Vergil sipped his wine and stared over his glass at the white ribbon fixed to Lt. Ohlsen’s left sleeve. On the ribbon were the words, ‘Disciplinary Regiment’, ringed with two mutilated death’s heads. The Colonel twitched his nostrils: the Lieutenant smelt of blood and sweat and looked as if he had not seen a bar of soap since the start of the war. The Colonel put down his wine and took out a cigarette to drown the stench of unwashed body.
    ‘Thank you for your report, Lieutenant.’
    He paused a moment, lit the cigarette with a gold lighter and leaned back in his chair.
    ‘You are aware, of course, that according to Regulations each soldier—’ and here he leaned rather heavily and meaningfully on the word ‘soldier’–‘each soldier is obliged to clean his equipment and see to his uniform immediately after combat. In this way it will not deteriorate and should remain in much the same condition – allowing, naturally, for normal wear and tear – as when it was first issued. Now, Lieutenant, I think you’ll agree with me that one quick glance at your uniform is all that is required to convince