Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

“What difference does it make,” asked Driest, “if you get shot in snow or sunshine?”

Zorn finished loading his P-38 and stuck it back in the holster.

“Like a kid with a bloody toy,” said Schiller, derisively.

Zorn ignored him. “You’d do well to clean your equipment, my friend, you never know when you are going to need it.”

Schiller pulled out his pistol and brandished it at Zorn. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he said, smiling. “Put a stop to any Russian, that will.” He reholstered it.

“Let’s hope so,” said Herzog, suddenly appearing behind him. He sat down beside the barely glowing fire and stretched out his hands towards it, as if trying to pluck the warmth from the air.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” asked Driest, nervously.

Herzog shrugged. “I wouldn’t like to lay money on it.”

Schiller sat up. “Even money, corporal, that we make it.” He held out his hand. Herzog slapped it good-humoredly. “I only bet on certainties,” he said.

Vogel grunted. “One thing’s for certain,” he said. “If I don’t get a woman soon, I’m going to go mad.” He paused reflectively. “Fancy Ritter shooting that crumpet! What a waste, we should be fucking them, not shooting them.”

Herzog laughed. “She’d have had your cock off with a knife if you gave her the chance.”

Vogel covered his groin protectively.

“Yes,” added Schiller, “it was probably them who cut the choppers off those poor bastards back in the forest.”

“No, that was partisans all right,” said Synovski, “no one else kills like that. Those tarts were too scared to do anything like that.”

“Partisans,” said Driest, resignedly, “they’ve probably been following us all the bloody way.”

“Could be,” Herzog agreed.

“I wonder if Ritter is married?” said Zorn, reflectively.

“Yes,” said Herzog, “he’s married to the fucking army.”

Moller laughed. “I’ll bet he does everything by numbers.”

Schiller grinned. “Even having a crap.” He got up and began strutting about, imitating the officer. “Trousers down,” he shouted, “prepare to shit.” He saluted; giggling, the other men momentarily forgot the cold. “In the name of the Führer I will now empty my bowels.” He farted loudly and collapsed on the ground, the happy laughter of his companions ringing in his ears.

“You should be locked up,” said Herzog, grinning. “You’re mad.”

“We’re all mad,” added Driest, “for being here.”

“You know, Driest,” began Foss, lighting a cigarette, “I think you’ll be disappointed if you survive this bloody war.”

Driest shrugged and began drawing patterns in the earth. “What do you think will happen to those two kids we found?”

“On the farm?” wondered Schiller.

He nodded.

Herzog took a bar of chocolate from his pocket and broke off a square. “The Russians will probably kill them for being spies.”

“But they didn’t help us,” said Zorn, naively.

“That doesn’t matter,” explained the corporal, “the Russians won’t know that.”

“What a war!” muttered Synovski.

Schiller spat. “Well, us sitting here and worrying about it isn’t going to make it end any quicker, is it?” He reached across and took the vodka-bottle from Kahn. “Here, give me that, you slant-eyed bastard.” He tipped his head back and drained off most of the remaining liquid. Kahn returned to cleaning his sword, polishing the blade until it sparkled in the moonlight.

“How did you ever get into this bloody mess, Kahn?” asked Herzog. “What the hell is a Jap doing in the Germany army?”

Kahn shrugged. “I born in Germany, German citizen, fight for Germany.”

“Yes, but what about all this master race crap?” Herzog persisted.

Kahn smiled. “Japs fighting on same side as Nazis, they think I all right to wear Nazi uniform.”

The corporal nodded.

“Hitler has to be grateful for what he can get,” said Foss, staring down at the river. He flicked his cigarette-butt into the darkness and dragged himself to his feet. “Come on, Driest, it’s our turn for guard.” Muttering, Driest got to his feet and trudged off after the sergeant. The men they were to replace had been positioned just over the crest of the hill and, as he reached the top, Foss could see one of them leaning against a tree.

“I bet the bastard’s asleep,” he murmured under his breath and lengthened his stride, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Driest came puffing up behind him. “What’s the matter?” he asked, seeing the expression on the sergeant’s face.

“That’s Von Roder,” he explained, “and the bastard’s asleep on duty.” He smiled. “I’ve been waiting for this chance for a long time.”

With an expectant grin on his grizzled face, Foss reached out a hand and grabbed Von Roder’s arm.

“Wake up, you…”

The words froze on his lips. Von Roder toppled to one side and fell on his back, sightless eyes staring at the moon.

His throat had been cut, and recently by the look of it, the flaps of skin at either side of the gaping wound moved gently in and out as the thick blood bubbled from the ends of the severed arteries. The throat pulsed gently, sucking like the gills of a fish, a faint gurgling noise reached Foss’s ears as he stood staring at the blood, bubbling up like fermenting red beer.

“Partisans,” he muttered under his breath, turning his back on the corpse. “You stay here,” he told Driest, “I’ll find Ritter.”

Driest nodded and looked down at the body of Von Roder. He felt his heart quicken and he squinted into the gloom of the night, his rifle held tightly. The breath caught in his throat. God knew how many partisans were out there. Perhaps one had a rifle trained on him at this very moment. He shook his head, driving the thought away.

Foss picked his way through the men until he found Ritter. The captain was laying amongst the engineers, wrapped in a groundsheet and trying to sleep. Foss snapped his heels together and coughed exaggeratedly. Ritter opened his eyes and looked up.

“What is it, sergeant?” he asked wearily.

“Partisans, sir,” said Foss, flatly.

The captain pulled the groundsheet away and scrambled to his feet, drawing the Luger from its holster. He looked anxiously at the sergeant.

“How many of them?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen them, sir, but…”

Ritter cut him short angrily. “Then why did you wake me? What makes you think there are partisans about?”

“We found one of the sentries with his throat cut,” snarled Foss, trying to keep his voice low.

“Tell the men to stand ready,” ordered Ritter, kicking the sleeping men around him. They looked up in bewilderment and, grumbling mutinously, dragged themselves up.

The word was spread before the order.

‘Partisans’.

Silence descended on the moonlit hillside, bathing the Germans in a cold white light, making them visible for miles. Men shivered, a mixture of fear and cold. Hands felt clammy against the cold of gun-metal. Men squinted through the darkness, trying to shield their eyes against the snow. They saw things that weren’t there, heard noises where there was only silence.

Far away to the north, the sky was beginning to turn red; a steady rumbling of cannonfire rolled across the land but the men couldn’t hear it. Their problems were more immediate. Herzog felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck and, despite the cold, he felt the perspiration sticking hotly to his back. The reality of hand-to-hand combat didn’t bother him, at least he could see his enemy face to face, but standing impotently waiting to be shot down by an unseen assailant, the idea horrified him. He swallowed hard and chanced a glance around. The others were as nervous as he was, fingers rested uncertainly on triggers and a vast hand of fear slowly enveloped the men.