bareheaded blond trooper swung a shovel at him and sliced his face almost in half with the keen blade.
A couple of Negroes almost hidden in captured foxholes held them up for a few minutes with well-directed fire from their BAR. But an SS man pulled the china ring from a stick grenade, counted four aloud and flung it hissing in their direction. The two disappeared in a blinding burst of flame. When it cleared the two Amis lay there, mangled and bleeding. Someone finished them off with a vicious high-pitched burst from a Schmeisser.
And then, suddenly, the Negroes broke completely. Streaming wildly down the snowy mountain side, skidding and sliding, they threw away their weapons, fighting each other to get away from that terrible fire, carrying their officers and NCOs with them; and behind them the Nationalist Socialist Leadership officer began to go from one wounded Negro to the next, turning their heads gently, pressing his pistol against their cropped heads just behind the right ear and blowing out their brains.
The American artillery reacted at once. With a roar like that of an infuriated beast cheated of its prey, the guns of the Second Corps opened up.
The veterans of the Wotan Battle Group knew that strange sound well enough. Paralysis descended upon their positions at once. The rattle of their spandaus died immediately. The crews huddled together expectantly, their heads buried in the stinking uniformed body of the man next to them. In the rifle pits, the troopers cowered in the mud, bodies rolled into tense balls, trying to present the smallest possible target. In that same instant, the first hundred or so heavy shells straddled the perimeter, bursting in a deafening thunder. Immediately all hell was let loose. Purple searing flame, the choking smell of cordite, pieces of shrapnel and copper shellbands hissing through the air, as big as a man's fist, slashing showers of earth and mud. Mangled, screaming men were flung high into the air.
A platoon of rear echelon stallions approaching the Twin Tits' HQ, carrying the breakfast rations for the Vulture's staff, were caught by a direct hit. Black army ration loaves and the kettles of hot giddi-up soup flying crazily through the vicious storm. A runner was caught out in the open, his head severed neatly by a piece of glowing metal. A group of reinforcements, boots polished, rifles neatly oiled, running panic-stricken through the hellish barrage and taking casualties all the way, dropped gasping into the perimeter trenches, dirty, bloodied and already completely demoralized.
In the Twin Tits' CP the assembled officers looked at each other, faces pale with shock, eyes wide and staring, as the big dugout shook and swayed with each explosion like a ship at sea hitting wave after wave. In the corner, the Creeper crouched in the foetal position, knees tucked up tightly under his chin, eyes closed, and hands pressed tightly to his lips. Next to him, Metzger, his normally ruddy face now drawn and ashen-grey, took surreptitious gulps from his bottle of grappa , his one consolation in this crazy murderous front-line world.
But despite the tremendous barrage, the Vulture was his usual self. Calmly he polished his monocle, and seizing a brief pause in the shelling, rasped:
`You have done well gentlemen. I am pleased with you. Our defences have held well.'
`But they were only niggers - little better than Jews and animals,' Schwarz said contemptuously. 'There is no victory in defeating such creatures.'
The Vulture looked across at the one-armed captain almost sadly. Everyone in the Battle Group knew now that Schwarz was mad; he had to be treated gently.
`No you are wrong, Captain,' he said. 'The black men were very brave, but poorly led and inexperienced. After all they did penetrate our positions.'
He turned to the others.
`One thing we have learned this night, however, is that we need more strength. If we had had the new paratroop recoilless rifle, we could have broken up
A couple of Negroes almost hidden in captured foxholes held them up for a few minutes with well-directed fire from their BAR. But an SS man pulled the china ring from a stick grenade, counted four aloud and flung it hissing in their direction. The two disappeared in a blinding burst of flame. When it cleared the two Amis lay there, mangled and bleeding. Someone finished them off with a vicious high-pitched burst from a Schmeisser.
And then, suddenly, the Negroes broke completely. Streaming wildly down the snowy mountain side, skidding and sliding, they threw away their weapons, fighting each other to get away from that terrible fire, carrying their officers and NCOs with them; and behind them the Nationalist Socialist Leadership officer began to go from one wounded Negro to the next, turning their heads gently, pressing his pistol against their cropped heads just behind the right ear and blowing out their brains.
The American artillery reacted at once. With a roar like that of an infuriated beast cheated of its prey, the guns of the Second Corps opened up.
The veterans of the Wotan Battle Group knew that strange sound well enough. Paralysis descended upon their positions at once. The rattle of their spandaus died immediately. The crews huddled together expectantly, their heads buried in the stinking uniformed body of the man next to them. In the rifle pits, the troopers cowered in the mud, bodies rolled into tense balls, trying to present the smallest possible target. In that same instant, the first hundred or so heavy shells straddled the perimeter, bursting in a deafening thunder. Immediately all hell was let loose. Purple searing flame, the choking smell of cordite, pieces of shrapnel and copper shellbands hissing through the air, as big as a man's fist, slashing showers of earth and mud. Mangled, screaming men were flung high into the air.
A platoon of rear echelon stallions approaching the Twin Tits' HQ, carrying the breakfast rations for the Vulture's staff, were caught by a direct hit. Black army ration loaves and the kettles of hot giddi-up soup flying crazily through the vicious storm. A runner was caught out in the open, his head severed neatly by a piece of glowing metal. A group of reinforcements, boots polished, rifles neatly oiled, running panic-stricken through the hellish barrage and taking casualties all the way, dropped gasping into the perimeter trenches, dirty, bloodied and already completely demoralized.
In the Twin Tits' CP the assembled officers looked at each other, faces pale with shock, eyes wide and staring, as the big dugout shook and swayed with each explosion like a ship at sea hitting wave after wave. In the corner, the Creeper crouched in the foetal position, knees tucked up tightly under his chin, eyes closed, and hands pressed tightly to his lips. Next to him, Metzger, his normally ruddy face now drawn and ashen-grey, took surreptitious gulps from his bottle of grappa , his one consolation in this crazy murderous front-line world.
But despite the tremendous barrage, the Vulture was his usual self. Calmly he polished his monocle, and seizing a brief pause in the shelling, rasped:
`You have done well gentlemen. I am pleased with you. Our defences have held well.'
`But they were only niggers - little better than Jews and animals,' Schwarz said contemptuously. 'There is no victory in defeating such creatures.'
The Vulture looked across at the one-armed captain almost sadly. Everyone in the Battle Group knew now that Schwarz was mad; he had to be treated gently.
`No you are wrong, Captain,' he said. 'The black men were very brave, but poorly led and inexperienced. After all they did penetrate our positions.'
He turned to the others.
`One thing we have learned this night, however, is that we need more strength. If we had had the new paratroop recoilless rifle, we could have broken up
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