Wolf Kruger - Blood and Honour

The roaring of the guns hardly seemed to have eased since dawn. Way off to the north, plumes of dark smoke rose like ethereal geysers, gradually combining to form one immense, oppressive cloud. It hung over the town, blotting out the sun like some kind of man-made eclipse.

Sergeant Wolf Herzog spat into the river and watched as the town was obliterated. Dotted around him, in various postures of rest, were the men of his platoon. The motley group giving off a collective stench of dried perspiration mingled with the acrid smell of smoke.

Herzog took off his steel helmet and wiped a bloodstained hand across his forehead, drawing a long red smear in the grime. Eyes the colour of a June sky sparkled from beneath his heavy, deeply furrowed brow. He exhaled deeply and knelt wearily beside the river, scooping up a handful of the green water to splash his face, quite oblivious to the fact that further up one of his men was urinating into the water. The sergeant filled his helmet with water and allowed the cooling liquid to pour over his hands, enjoying its cooling contact with his hot flesh.

Reiner Steikel, seated beside him, pulled a crumpled pack of French cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to Herzog who shook his head, instead fumbling in his own pocket for a bar of chocolate. He broke off a square and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Three immense explosions funnelled up from the mosaic of demolished buildings and Herzog shook his head, stroking his heavily stubbled chin contemplatively.

Steikel lit his cigarette and sucked deeply on it, drawing the smoke into his lungs. He handed it to Karl Langer who was lying alongside with his head resting on a gas-mask case. He thanked the big Austrian and jammed the cigarette between his lips. Steikel pulled off his boots and began massaging his swollen feet.

“Put the bloody things back on,” insisted Langer, wrinkling his nose, “or the British will find us by following the smell.” The Austrian ignored him and reached for the cigarette.

Further down the long road, which ran alongside the river, stood two Tiger tanks. Their crews were sitting contentedly on the hulls sunning themselves.

“It must be like an oven inside one of those things,” said Steikel, pointing towards the stationary vehicles. Langer followed his finger.

“Maybe,” he snorted indignantly, “but it beats walking.”

Herzog looked at his watch. The glass of the face was cracked but he could see that it was still ticking by the steady sweep of the second-hand.

“We’ll be moving on again, soon,” he announced.

“Christ, we’ve only just got here,” Langer protested.

“Stay if you like, I’m sure the British would be pleased to see you.” He smiled and slapped Langer on the back as he stood up. The private stood up, complaining, performing one or two jerky stretching movements with his bandy legs. He put a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun, and squinted across country at the town which lay about two miles behind them. As he watched, three Hurricanes, flying nose to tail, swept over the town and loosed their bombs. Six tremendous explosions racked the decimated town.

Langer shook his head. “Don’t they know we’ve moved out?”

“They’re just making sure, in case we left any wounded behind,” said Herzog, bitterly. He turned his back on the devastation and looked down at his hand. More especially at the dirty bandage wound round the knuckles. Carefully he began to unwrap it, wincing as the material stuck to the raw wound. A piece of shrapnel had struck his left hand, shattering the knuckle of the middle finger, and, as he tried to clench his fist, pain shot up his arm. Cursing, he began to wrap the wound once more.

“That could do with cleaning,” Steikel observed, indicating the smashed knuckle, “before it turns septic.”

Herzog shook his head. “There aren’t enough medical supplies for those who are really wounded.”

Grinning, Steikel removed his pack and reached inside. With a flourish, he produced a bottle of brandy.

Langer sat up, his eyes aglow.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded.

Steikel jerked a thumb behind him. “One of the houses back there, they had a cellar full of it. I’ve got three more bottles in here.” He patted his pack lovingly, grinning to reveal an array of broken and rotted teeth. Langer leant across and peered delightedly into the pack.

“We’ll get pissed quick on that lot,” he said, rubbing his hands.

Steikel slapped the back of the pack with a large hand. “We’re not drinking any of it yet, it’s purely medicinal.”

Langer grunted and watched as the big Austrian handed the bottle to Herzog. The sergeant pulled the cork with his teeth and sniffed the contents of the bottle approvingly. Then, keeping the cork between his teeth, he poured most of the fiery liquid over his hand. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, biting hard on the cork as pain hammered against his brain. Then he spat it out and raised the bottle to his lips. Langer and Steikel watched as he drained the bottle dry and threw it into the river. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Carefully, he began to rebandage the injured hand. “That’s incentive enough to get wounded,” he smiled, licking his lips.

A lorry passed by on the narrow road, struggling to maintain its momentum. Troops moved resignedly aside having noticed the large red and white crosses on either side of the vehicle. A field ambulance. A chorus of groans drifted from inside, partially drowned by the rattle of the half-track which followed. It was towing an 88mm cannon.

“Where the hell were you when the British tanks arrived?” yelled Langer gesturing angrily at the gunners seated in the half-track.

“Piss off,” one shouted back, ignoring the stream of abuse from Langer which followed.

Herzog looked at his watch and got to his feet. Cupping his hands to his mouth to form a megaphone he shouted, “All right, on your feet. Off your fat arses and let’s go.”

The fifty men scattered along the roadside got wearily to their feet. Half-smoked cigarettes were nipped out and stuffed into pockets ready for the next stop. Equipment was adjusted, helmets replaced. The engines of the two Tigers roared into life, blue smoke billowed from the exhausts. The commander of the first tank pulled down the peak of his cap and squinted through his binoculars. Ahead of him the road ran straight for about a mile, flanked on one side by the river and on the other by a line of poplars. Both road and river ran parallel until they disappeared into dense forest. Beyond this forest lay a range of low hills, masking the outskirts of a small village named St Sarall.

Uli Erhardt sighed deeply and cast a final reflective glance around him before lifting the heavy MG 42 to his shoulder. Before the war he had been a farmer and the sight of land torn apart by conflict hurt him far more deeply than any amount of human suffering. He had always considered the land as a friend as much as a source of livelihood and he felt a personal attachment to it which he was convinced no other man experienced. Now, as Herzog’s order echoed down the column, he struggled despondently to his feet, treading carefully through the long roadside grass, anxious not to disturb the occasional clutches of wild flowers which grew there. He drew himself to attention alongside Willi Feld and the young boy smiled sheepishly at him.