Sven Hassel - Assignment Gestapo (Cassell Military Paperbacks)

By Sven Hassel

Wheels of Terror

Monte Cassino

SS General

Legion of the Damned

Blitzfreeze

Comrades of War

Reign of Hell

Liquidate Paris

Assignment Gestapo

March Battalion

Court Martial

The Bloody Road to Death

The Commissar

Ogpu Prison

Each to his own, said Tiny pompously. Were here to kill, so I do it the way I like best. Everyones got their favourite way of doing it.

It was true, I suppose. We each had our own preferred methods. The Legionnaire was a devotee of the knife, while Porta was a crack shot with a rifle. Heide liked playing about with flame throwers, while for myself I was accounted pretty hot stuff with a hand grenade. Tiny just happened to enjoy strangling people...

ALL of us that remained of the Fifth Company were stretched out on our bellies beneath the apple trees, watching dispassionately as the reserve troops came up. We had been waiting for those troops for the last four days, and by now we were past caring whether they sent them or not. They arrived in trucks, moving slowly up the road in a double column. Their uniforms and their arms were still brand new, smart and shining and almost unbelievably virginal.

We watched them come with jaded eyes. No comments had been passed, and none was necessary: the approaching troops spoke for themselves. It was obvious to us that we could have nothing in common. We were soldiers, while they were only dilettantes. It showed in the careful way they carried their equipment; it showed in their stiff and shining boots. So beautifully polished and so utterly useless! No one could march very far in boots of such uncompromising newness. They had yet to be rubbed with their baptismal urine, which was the best treatment we knew for softening up and at the same time preserving the leather. Take Portas boots, for an ideal example of a soldiers footwear: so supple that you could see every movement of his toes inside them. And if they gave off an almost overpowering stench of urine, that seemed a small price to pay for comfort.

You stink like a thousand pisshouses! Porta was once told, rather sharply, during the course of a parade.

That was our Colonel, sometimes irreverently known as Wall Eye, on account of the black patch he wore over one empty socket. It seemed to me significant that in spite of his testy observation on the subject of urine, he never put a stop to our habit of pissing on our boots. Hed been in the Army long enough to know that its the feet that make the soldier. You got bad feet and youre worse than useless.

Tiny, still watching the arrival of the reserve force, suddenly nudged the Legionnaire in the ribs.

Where.dyou reckon they dug that lot up from? Jesus Christ, its enough to make a cat laugh! The Ruskiesll mop them up before theyve even found out what theyre supposed to be doing here... He nodded importantly at the Legionnaire. If it werent for people like you and me, mate, wed have lost this perishing war years ago.

The Old Man laughed. He was trying to shelter from the pouring rain beneath a rather pathetic bush.

High time they gave you the Knights Cross... a hero like you!

Tiny turned and spat.

Knights Cross! You know where they can stick that, dont you? Right up their bleeding arses... I wouldnt give you tuppence for it!

There were sounds of cries and curses from the officers at the front of the approaching column. One of the privates, a little frail creature who looked older than God, had lost his tin helmet. It had rolled to the side of the road with a noise like a hundred tin cans collapsing, and the old chap had instinctively scrambled off the truck and gone toddling after it.

Get back into line! roared an Oberfeldwebel, outraged. What the bleeding hell do you think youre bleeding playing at?

The old boy hesitated, looking from his precious helmet to the apoplectic Oberfeldwebel. He scuttled back into the ranks and marched on, and the Oberfeldwebel nodded grimly and remained where he was, blowing his whistle and every so often shouting his lungs out, intent on hustling these raw amateurs on their way to certain death.

As I watched the column advancing, I could see that the little old man was already near to breaking point; both physically and mentally, I guessed. The loss of his tin helmet had probably been the final straw.

Lt. Ohlsen, our Company Commander, was standing to one side chatting to his counterpart, the lieutenant who had led the reserve troops up here. Neither of them had noticed the incident, neither of them had noticed that one of their men was on the point of cracking. And even if they did, what could they do about it? At this stage of the war, it was a commonplace occurrence.

The old chap suddenly fell to his knees, began crawling down the hill on all fours. His fellow soldiers looked at him nervously. The Oberfeldwebel came running up, bellowing.

Stand up, that man there! What do you think this is, a bleeding tea party?

But the old man never moved. Just lay on the ground, sobbing fit to break your heart. He wouldnt have moved if hed been threatened with a court martial; he couldnt have. He didnt have the strength left, and he didnt have the will any more, either. The Oberfeldwebel walked up to him, stood over him chewing at his lower lip.

All right... all right, if thats the way you want to play it, Ill go along with you... Youve got to learn a thing or two, I can see that... You think youre exhausted, eh? Well, just you wait till youve got a load of screaming Ruskies coming at you, youll move fast enough! He suddenly stepped back and rapped out an order. Pick up that spade and get digging! At the double, if you dont want to get mown down!