Reign of Hell by Sven Hassel

stood up and fired three shots in quick succession, and out of the reeds, a body reared up. The top half of its head had been blown off. It threw its arms into the air, took a step forward into the mud and collapsed. In a few moments it was sucked out of sight, down into the depths of the heaving marshes. Only a few, obscene brown bubbles in the mud were left to mark its downward passage. The area was becoming one vast burial ground. One day, perhaps, when all the fighting was over, the bog would release its numerous victims and all the empty skulls would be thrown back to the surface to float in silence on the sea of mud. That would be a sight worth seeing. That would be a fine memorial to five years’ butchery.
    While Porta was still gloating over his triumph, a well-aimed shell obliterated the entire 1st section of the SeventhCompany. All that was left was one empty coat-sleeve drifting in the air. When the dust had settled, we discovered a few fragments of bone and pieces of twisted metal. The WUs were thrown into such a state of panic that we were given orders to shoot if need be.
    Parson Fischer was cowering in a dugout with an ex-postman from Leipzig. The postman had been caught stealing registered packets (an offence which carried the death sentence), but the man must have had friends in high places for he escaped with his life and ten years’ imprisonment. He had been lured like a fool into 999 battalion with promises that if he behaved himself he would be reinstated in his old position at Leipzig. There are some men who will believe anything, even Nazi propaganda. It had taken only a short time at Sennelager to dispel the illusion, but by then, of course, it was too late to back out.
    ‘Eh, parson!’ he said, digging the trembling Fischer in his skin-and-bone ribs. ‘How about if we made a run for it?’
    He jerked his head in the direction of no-man’s-land. Fischer hesitated. He stared out across the marshy wastes towards the Russian front line.
    ‘The way I see it,’ said the postman, ‘it can’t be any worse on that side of the fence than it is on this.’ Fischer turned a pair of filmy blue eyes on him. They seemed in some way to be questioning the assertion. The postman grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Look at it this way,’ he said. ‘They’ll kill us for sure if we stay on here—’
    Even as he spoke, the firing came to a sudden halt. A thick curtain of silence fell over the marshes. And then slowly, one by one, a whole new range of little sounds came creeping in towards us. We heard the crackling and spitting of fire as a nearby village went up in flames. We heard the distant lowing of terrified cattle. We heard the groans of the wounded, and the calls of the dying for their wives and their mothers.
    And suddenly a new sound. The sound of men’s voices raised in song. It was the old German tune of ‘Alte Kameraden’ – and it was coming to us from somewhere behind the Russian lines . . .
    ‘See what I mean?’ whispered the postman, excitedly. ‘See what I mean?’
    The music faded away. We heard the sizzling of hidden microphones, and then a whole network of loudspeakers burst into life.
    ‘The Red Army salutes number 999 battalion – and in particular all political prisoners who have been forced against their will to fight for a corrupt régime. We urge you to use your best endeavours to bring Hitler’s infernal war machine to a halt! We are your comrades, and you shall have all the support we can give you . . . Listen to us, German soldiers! Hear what we have to say to you! This morning you were told that your rations had been cut to half because saboteurs had blown up the railway line. That is a lie! That is a Nazi lie! Your supply lines are still open. We know, because we are out there, waiting to cut you off whenever we feel like it. But for the moment we are staying our hands. We have seen the trains come in. We have seen the food unloaded – enough for everyone, and some to spare.