Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

Herzog walked off and motioned for Kahn, Vogel and Synovski to join him. The four of them scuttled off towards the hut while the other men took cover behind trees and bushes. Ritter watched them, ducking behind trees, crawling occasionally, blending in with the subdued floor of the forest. Like huge insects they scuttled up to the hut, thanking God that it had no windows through which they could be seen. The dog continued to growl and as it approached Vogel he swung his rifle butt and clouted the animal across the head. It dropped soundlessly and lay still.

“Fucking dogs,” he grunted.

Herzog pressed himself against the wall of the hut and readjusted his grip on the MP 40. He looked across and saw Kahn draw his sword. The Jap nodded to him and the corporal edged towards the corner of the building. Cautiously, he peered round.

In a small fenced-off area before the hut, a number of chickens strutted, pecking at the moss-strewn earth in search of worms. A pig nosed inquisitively in a pile of grey embers, stirring the ash and sending a plume of white smoke into the damp air. It grunted angrily as Kahn edged round the corner towards the hut door. The Jap eyed the pig hungrily for a second, remembering that he hadn’t eaten for two days, but a nudge from Herzog dissolved his fantasy of pork and apple sauce. The Jap nodded and groped his way along the remainder of the wall until he was near the door. On the other side, Synovski and Vogel appeared. The Pole nodded to Herzog who had his hand on the rough latch.

Before he could lift it, the door was opened from the inside and he found himself staring into the face of a woman. For brief seconds they both froze, then he realised that she was wearing a uniform. A Russian uniform.

She opened her mouth to scream but, quick as a flash, Kahn stepped forward. Herzog saw the sword-blade wink at him as it shot past, burying itself in the woman’s throat. Blood spurted from the wound, spraying him. The woman fell forward.

As her blood splattered him, Herzog regained his wits. He kicked the door open and stepped into the hut, MP 40 at the ready. Synovski and the others followed him in. All four of them stood in silence, guns trailed on the occupants of the hut. It was Vogel who broke the silence.

“Fuck me,” he gasped, delightedly, “the place is full of bloody crumpet.”

There were three women in the room, one of them naked on the rickety bed. It was towards this one that Vogel turned his attention. The other two sat at a table eating. Both wore uniforms. The third had removed hers and had been trying to sleep; now, as she saw Vogel’s hungry eyes running up and down her naked body, she reached for her jacket.

“Leave it,” snapped Herzog, swinging the sub-gun round.

The girl’s arm dropped. Herzog nodded to Synovski and the Pole grabbed the jacket, rummaging through the pockets. He found nothing and flung it back at the girl who pulled it on.

“What did you do that for?” groaned Vogel.

“Shut up,” snapped Herzog. He turned to the two at the table. “Do either of you understand German?” he asked.

One of the women, in her early thirties with long dark hair tied up in a bun, nodded.

“Fetch Ritter,” snapped the corporal and Kahn hurried off.

Herzog shook his head. “Women.”

“They’re regular army,” said Synovski pointing to the uniforms, “the Russians must be getting as desperate as us for troops.”

“Fancy using crumpet,” said Vogel, “what a fucking waste, having to shoot it when you could be screwing it!” He sighed wistfully and looked at the third girl. She was young, in her late teens, he judged and the rough material of her uniform scarcely concealed her ample breasts. Vogel licked his lips expectantly.

Herzog watched as Synovski collected up their weapons and laid them out of reach. This done, he stepped back beside the corporal, keeping his Radom pistol pointed at the two women at the table.

“You,” said Herzog to the one who understood German, “where is the rest of your unit?”

In faltering German she told him, “that way,” and motioned to the north.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

The woman told him they had become separated from the rest of the unit about three days ago as they moved through the forest. The corporal frowned. Then it was true, the Russians must have got in front of them.

“How many were in your unit?”

She told him about six hundred.

“Christ,” muttered Synovski, “there’s enough of these bints to wipe us out.”

Herzog nodded. “Let’s just hope their unit don’t decide to come looking for them.”

Ritter arrived, accompanied by Foss. The captain seemed quite unmoved by the fact that there were women facing him.

“This one speaks German,” said Herzog, pulling the woman towards him. “She told me that their unit is north of here, it looks as though the Russians are closer than we thought.”

Ritter eyed the woman for a second, then he turned to Herzog. “That is all we need to know.”

He looked at the woman. “Can you lead us out of this forest?”

She nodded.

Ritter turned to leave. “Bring her.”

“What about the other two?” Herzog protested.

In one movement, Ritter brought the Luger up and fired once at the girl at the table. The bullet caught her in the chest, the impact flinging her off the chair. Then he turned and shot the girl on the bed, the force of the bullet slamming her head back against the wall. She slumped forward, blood pouring from the wound in her forehead.

The three Germans stood rooted to the spot, not quite believing what they had just seen. Ritter holstered the pistol and strode out into the cool of the wood.

“Well, he snapped, “come on.”

Pushing their prisoner before them, they filed out of the hut.

The girl told them a little more, but nothing of any value. She was frightened but did a good job of concealing it.

She took them as far as the edge of the forest then Ritter shot her too.

A strong wind tossed the first flecks of powdery snow across the hilltop and swept it down towards the swiftly flowing river. It coursed along the valley floor like a silvery tongue, reflecting the light of the moon like a fluid mirror.

The sixty men on the hillside huddled around their fires and pulled their greatcoats tighter, trying to keep out the icy fingers of frost which stuck needles into their skin.

A metal girder bridge straddled the river, pushing its concrete legs deep into the water. It offered the only safe crossing-point for twelve miles and the Germans sat gazing at it, as if they were afraid it was going to get up at some stage during the night and walk away, cutting them off on this hostile bank. The ground which separated them from his last hope fell away in a series of small plateaus which, from a distance, made it resemble a vast grassy staircase. Dotted with trees, it stretched out before them bisected by stone walls and hedges. Perhaps it had once been used as farm-land, at least to keep grazing animals, but of the farm itself there was no trace. It had been erased, foundations and all, leaving not even a scar on the land.

The ground on the opposite side of the river sloped up sharply again, disappearing into another thick wood. A mask for the area of marshes beyond it. The area was clearly marked on the map though and a well defined road ran through the middle of it.

That road led straight to Poznan.

Schiller lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. He blew out a stream of smoke which mingled with his own hot breath.

“I wondered how long it would be before the snow got here,” he said shivering.

“I hate the cold,” added Vogel. “Why the hell couldn’t we have been posted to Greece or somewhere else warm?”