Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

“Get over there with the rest of them,” snapped the S.S. man. The priest tottered drunkenly towards the women, who made a space for him to sit down.

Pauline Roget grabbed his arm and babbled, “Father, they’re going to kill us.”

Picard took her hand and stood up. He knelt before the altar and crossed himself.

Then they heard gunfire.

The staccato rattle of two machine-guns, drilling like powerful sewing-machines. The firing was coming from outside.

From the square.

One of the women screamed. Maria Pascal murmured one word, “Jean.”

The men, a hundred and fifty of them, were being shot. Cut down like corn with a scythe of lead. Even the watching Germans were mesmerised as they watched the entire male population of a village being massacred.

Herzog shuddered as he heard the firing. Steikel swallowed hard, he felt sick.

“Fire,” shouted Heist and the sound of twenty sub-guns rattled around the church as they were cocked. Another scream.

Then silence.

The men stood facing their intended victims, unable to pull triggers.

“Fire,” screamed Heist again, his voice growing more forceful.

Herzog clenched his teeth until they ached. Kneeling before him in the aisle, two women were praying. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from them. Fritz was shaking, the barrel of the Schmeiser bouncing madly in his grip.

“Tell them to fire,” snarled Heist, pressing the Luger against Herzog’s temple, “tell them.”

Bonhof tightened his finger on the trigger and sent a stream of bullets into the crowd. Half a dozen fell. Blood splashed warmly onto the altar-cloth and onto Father Picard.

He began to pray, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

Herzog began to shake his head.

“Tell them to fire,” shrieked Heist, “fire.”

The next scream Herzog heard was his own. His finger jerked on the trigger and suddenly the church was swallowed up in a wild cacophony of roaring machine-guns and screaming. Herzog shouted something at the top of his voice but he couldn’t hear himself. He saw nothing, his eyes were closed.

“…deliver us from evil, for thine is the Kingdom, the power and the Glory, for ever and ever, amen.”

Amen.

It was a familiar chain of sounds. The dull thud of the muzzle retort, the high-pitched scream as the shell sped to earth and the deafening roar as it exploded.

“Shit,” snarled Steikel, hugging the side of the trench. The flood of earth spattered down into the trench, showering the men. Steikel peered cautiously over the parapet of the trench towards the thick woods from which the shells were coming. Tossed by a battery of British six-pounders.

Banks of mist, combined with smoke, drifted in front of the guns, making them visible only by their muzzle flashes.

Far behind the foremost trench, the big German 75s thundered back, their shells blasting trees into matchwood.

“How much longer?” muttered Fritz, straining his ears for some sound of movement from behind the mist. They had been waiting for hours with nothing but the insistent thundering of the guns. Entrenched, as they were, thirty miles beyond St Sarall which they had left two days earlier.

An optimistic burst of machine-gun fire tore up the ground in front of the parapet. The German artillery replied more positively, momentarily deafening their gunners. Smoking shell-cases dropped from open breeches and hissed angrily on the damp earth.

Steikel sat down on an empty ammunition-box and lit a cigarette. The trench rocked as three explosions tore craters in the ground and spilled the big Austrian from his seat. Swearing, he recovered and took a long draw on the fag. Another blast and, from further down the trench, a scream of agony.

“Some poor sod’s got it,” said Erhardt.

“At least it’s not one of us,” said Steikel thankfully. He blew out a long stream of smoke, watching as it formed wisps in the crisp air.

“Why do they wait?” wondered Fritz. “Why not get it over with?” He kicked the wall of the trench in frustration and rechecked his rifle, adjusting the sight.

“The sergeant’s coming,” said Erhardt, nodding towards a running figure, dodging quickly along the floor of the trench. A shell fell right on the lip, blasting a man into the air. A shower of dark earth funnelled up and Herzog ducked beneath it. He scurried on and finally dropped down again, beside Steikel, just as another shell tore open part of the breastwork.

“They’ve got the range at last,” he said.

Brushing a speck of dirt from the lenses of the binoculars, he crossed to the step and looked out across the stretch of pockmarked ground which separated the British from them. As the mist parted, Herzog caught sight of a tank outlined clearly in the shelter of the woods. A Churchill. He adjusted the focus on the binoculars and scanned the wood, spotting two more of the steel juggernauts. They would be used to spearhead the attack. Herzog lowered the binoculars and ran a professional eye over the German fortifications.

He smiled. They were defending a strong position, the British would have to attack uphill through ground turned to liquid mud by shell-bursts and torrential rain. It was difficult terrain for tanks, worse for men. But on the left of their position was a main road. It offered a firmer base for tanks and might even be used in an outflanking manouvere. That was why Dorn had positioned his Tiger tanks there. Churchills were no match for Tigers.

Herzog pulled the P-38 from his belt and cocked it.

“Now,” he began, “there are more of them than there are of us, so we don’t want any heroics. Dorn and his tanks are covering us so, if it gets too hot, get the hell out. Right?”

“Are those Major Sturn’s orders?” asked Bonhof.

Herzog spun round. “They’re my orders” he snapped.

“They’re coming,” said Erhardt, matter-of-factly. He lifted the MG42 up onto the parapet and opened the tripod. The metal legs sank into the mud. Erhardt squinted down the sight and saw the first wave of British infantry scuttling forward from the cover of the woods, trying to stay behind the five Churchills preceding them. The German artillery redoubled its efforts and more heavy shells began to fall into the sea of khaki which surged forward.

Steikel unscrewed the cap of a stick grenade and leant back against the wall of the trench. Something dug sharply into his ribs and he jumped forward. Muttering to himself, he began to inspect the battered wall and found what he was looking for. It was a small package, wrapped in plastic sheeting, hidden from view by a thin layer of mud.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, tugging at the recalcitrant package which clung firmly to the trench wall despite his efforts to move it.

“It’s dynamite,” said Herzog, flatly.

“Dynamite?” repeated the big Austrian, shocked. He hurriedly released his grip on the package and stepped back.

“The whole trench is wired,” continued Herzog, “two thousand pounds of it.”

“Why?” demanded Steikel.

“In case we can’t hold the position, the second the British get in, the whole lot goes up.”

A shell exploded a yard or two in front of the trench, sending cascades of earth and small rocks into the air.

“What if one of those hits this lot?” asked Steikel, pointing to the dynamite.

Herzog made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Bang.”

“Very reassuring,” muttered the big Austrian and sat down in the mud.

The British were approaching the lines of barbed wire which protected the rise up to the first German trench. They struggled through the glutinous mud trying to run. The muck gripped their ankles, holding them back.