Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

Standing back to back, Herzog and Foss fought off challenge after challenge with their bayonets but, standing close, they were an easy target and, drawing close, a Russian sapper swung his sub-gun on them. Kahn saw the danger but, too late, he struck the man’s head from his body. Herzog was thrown back by the impact of the bullet. It carved a path through his upper arm, ripping away muscle and sinew and sending a burning pain as far as his fingertips. He shouted and turned and Foss fell at his feet. He propped himself up on one elbow, staring at the embroidery of bloody perforations which had been bullet-stitched across his chest. Blood was bubbling thickly from each of them and dribbling from his mouth. Herzog hauled him to his feet and supported him as far as the church, with Kahn hacking a path through the throng of Russians.

Schiller saw them and joined, firing his rifle until it was empty and then using it as a club.

“Fall back,” bellowed Herzog, “into the church.”

Those that could followed. Russians fired wildly after them and a salvo of grenades flew towards the wooden door. There was a roar and a shrieking of snapping wood. Moller was decapitated by the blast; his body remained upright for a second, blood spurting from the severed arteries, then fell forward.

Vogel picked up the MG 42 and fired from the hip, gripping the steaming barrel with hands which were little more than gigantic blisters. Pus mingled with the oil of the gun and the stench was appalling. Ganz hurled down a handful of grenades from the bell-tower, watching with satisfaction as a group of Russians were obliterated.

Synovski and Kahn dragged Foss to the altar inside the church and laid him beneath it; his eyes were open but there was nothing behind them. Only the almost imperceptible movement of his punctured chest told them that he was still alive.

One of the engineers tried to scramble through the church door beside Driest, the clumsy flame-thrower tank on his back making passage more difficult. With careful precision, a Russian captain put one bullet into the tank and the fluid ignited. Man and weapon disappeared in a ball of orange and black flame and Driest, sandwiched next to the man, was set ablaze. He shrieked and threw himself to the ground, rolling over madly in an attempt to extinguish the greedy fire which devoured his skin and uniform. He could feel his eyeballs boiling in their sockets, the blood bubbling in his veins. His skin turned black and, as he dragged himself along the floor, he resembled a gigantic slug, even down to the slime trail of his own melted flesh which he left behind. Babbling in incoherent agony, he rolled onto his back and waited for death.

Zorn vomited, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the corpse. Schiller seized him by the collar and slapped his face, pointing towards the horde of Russians who had just burst through the door. The two men dropped down behind pews and opened fire, joined by Vogel who was still holding the MG 42. From point-blank range, men were cut in half by the hail of bullets but the number of Russians seemed unending because they swarmed in over the piles of dead, some even throwing grenades.

One landed near the pulpit and exploded with a hollow boom. Synovski shouted and clutched at his back as a fragment of metal exposed his spine. He crumpled up beside a fragment of broken glass which had failed from one of the stained-glass windows. It showed the face of Christ. The Pole gritted his teeth and smiled down at the image, dragging himself to his feet and staggering across to the altar where Kahn and Vogel had set up the MG. Beneath them, Herzog knelt over the body of Foss and spattered the oncoming Russians with fire from his sub-gun.

Schiller felt a burning pain in his right hand and the pistol was torn from it. Blood was spouting from a hole in his palm and the hand was shaking uncontrollably. The bullet had hit a nerve. He pressed the shaking limb to his side and snatched up a Russian sub-gun and, holding it in one hand, fired. Zorn scrambled to his feet, the blazing Schmeisser gripped in his hands. He saw the Russian sight the rifle and, under better circumstances, he would probably have successfully identified the weapon, but this time all he saw was the puff of white smoke as it went off.

The bullet hit him in the left eye. He screamed and clapped a hand to the socket, drilled empty by the bullet. Blood and vitreous liquid spurted onto his hand and he crashed forward across a pew.

Schiller prodded him, then got up and ran. He was the only German in the church who did not see the tank as it bulldozed its way in. The T-34 ploughed through the brick and mortar as if it had been dried mud, great clouds of asphyxiating dust flooded the church, immersing the place in a kind of white fog. Through it lumbered the tank. Schiller heard the drone of its turret and threw himself down. There was a boom and an explosion the like of which he had never heard and tons of rubble descended. When the smoke cleared he could see that, fortunately, the shot had missed and the only damage done was a gaping hole in one of the walls. He scrambled to his feet and felt something brush past him. It was Kahn.

The Jap was carrying a handful of grenades. Like some huge monkey, he scrambled up onto the hull of the T-34, ripped open the turret hatch and threw them in. Then he hurled himself to the floor and covered his head.

For a second, the church glowed, an inferno of blazing petrol and oil, then it was engulfed by a cloud of choking black smoke, the virulent stench of charred flesh mingling with the acrid fumes of oil and gunpowder. But for the roaring of the flames, the church was silent.

Very slowly, Schiller got to his feet and staggered out of the enveloping black smoke. Kahn appeared at his side, his uniform drenched in blood, some of it his own. His jacket had been torn open to reveal an ugly wound just above the hip and blood pumped thickly from it every time the Jap put his foot down.

Vogel was wrapping lengths of torn-up uniform around his blistered hands while Synovski tried drinking from a discarded water-bottle. Every mouthful was agony; he coughed and dropped the bottle, supporting himself against the altar.

“Well,” said Herzog, indicating the smouldering wreck of the T-34, “at least we’ve blocked their way in.”

“Want to bet?” said Schiller, suddenly turning round.

More Russians were swarming through the hole made by the tank shell, led by an officer with the order of Lenin pinned to his chest, they flooded into the church, grim determination etched on their faces. A hail of bullets met them and brought them down in blood-spattered heaps but, urged on by their officers, they charged on. A fusillade of fire swept the remaining Germans.

Vogel staggered back clutching his heart, blood spraying from the wound like water from a hosepipe. He loosened his grip on the MG and dropped to his knees, finally sprawling in a pool of his own blood. The crimson liquid continued to gush violently from his death-wound and, as Herzog stepped over the corpse, he nearly slipped in it. He seized the MG and swept the Russians.

Schiller battered a corporal to death with his empty pistol, the weapon finally becoming too slippery to hold. He tried to roll clear of the body but two Russians dove at him. He avoided the first bayonet but the second slashed open his chest and tore the lung, it punctured like a balloon and Schiller felt the breath torn from him. He gasped and tried to get up but the Russians drove the blade down again, through his thigh. From the fountain of blood which spurted upwards, he realised that it must have severed his femoral artery. Gasping for breath, he rolled aside, his desperate fingers finding a rifle. He lunged forward and drove the bayonet into the Russian’s shin. The man screamed and stepped back. He didn’t see Kahn. The Jap brought the sword down and split the man’s skull in two. It fell open like an eggshell, spilling its sticky grey contents onto Schiller. He felt sick, the blood was still jetting from the severed artery and he could feel himself becoming weaker. Practically exsanguinated, he flopped onto his back whilst what little blood he had left drained slowly out through his leg.