All along the line, troops spilled out of their dugouts and lined the trench. All eyes turned towards the Russian lines and, a moment later, a horde of brown-clad men came swarming over the lip of their own trenches and across the pockmarked ground that was no-man’s-land.
The Germans poured salvoes into the onrushing crowd and heaps of them fell but they finally reached their objective and, screaming oaths, leapt into the German trench.
Kahn drew the sword from its scabbard and swung it around his head before bringing it down on top of a Russian’s head, cleaving the skull in two. A greyish slop of brain plopped onto the ground. Kahn stepped past it and decapitated another man, stepping clear of the headless body which was spouting blood into the air.
A Russian threw himself at Driest who just had time to roll aside and shoot the man in the face. He scrambled to his feet and bumped into Schiller.
“They’re going to overrun us,” he gasped.
“Want to bet?” said Schiller happily, mowing down a group of Russians with his MP 40.
Herzog emptied his gun into a tall officer, then used the butt to dispatch two more Russians. He retrieved a fresh magazine and began firing again into the seemingly endless hordes of oncoming Russians. Behind them on the hill the 88s pumped shells into the brown sea, blasting men to atoms and hurling them into the air.
Synovski drew his Radom pistol and pressed his back to the trench wall, shooting down two Russians from the trench lip. They fell at his feet. He sidestepped a bayonet-thrust and blew the man’s brains out, a large proportion of them spattering him. Kahn appeared at his side, his sword dripping blood.
“We need tank support,” growled the Pole.
“We get fuck all from the general,” said Kahn, “he hiding in his hole.”
He swung the sword again, slicing off a man’s hand, driving it forward to finish the job.
Herzog grabbed a Russian by the throat and throttled him with the chin-strap of his own helmet. As the lifeless body fell from his grasp he turned to see an apparently defenceless Foss at the mercy of three Russians who were preparing to bayonet him. The former sergeant leapt forward and pushed Foss aside, swinging his MP 40 at the waiting Russians who were swept away by the short-range blast. Herzog extended a hand and helped Foss to his feet. The sergeant grinned and slapped him on the back.
The Germans now found themselves pulling back, moving slowly up the hill to the gun emplacements. They threw themselves behind sandbags for cover and fired at the still advancing Russians.
“I told you they’d overrun us,” moaned Driest.
“Cobblers,” snapped Schiller. “I’ll bet you even money that they pull out again.” A grenade exploded nearby, showering them with mud. “This isn’t a major attack.” He picked a lump of earth from his collar and flicked it at Driest.
Foss and Herzog arrived behind the rampart and threw themselves down behind it. Hacking his way along behind came Kahn. Synovski followed, using a bayonet to deadly effect. A couple of yards away, sheltering behind an overturned jeep, were Ganz and Moller. The latter singing away happily as he fired.
“The Russians are withdrawing,” shouted Ganz, his ear pressed to the radio.
“Says who?” asked Schiller.
“From H.Q.,” he clarified.
“How the fuck do they know?” shouted Foss. “They can’t see through bloody hills.”
“That was the message,” shrugged Ganz.
Gustavus and Vogel arrived at the barricade, Vogel bleeding from a wound in the thigh.
“Hey, Gustavus,” shouted Schiller above the roar of weapons, “you want to have a word with your governor upstairs and see if he can part this ‘red’ sea.” He collapsed into paroxsyms of laughter, nudging Driest in the ribs. “Get it? Red sea. The Russians are Red. Red sea.”
Driest didn’t feel like laughing.
Ganz hurriedly applied a tourniquet to Vogel’s wounded leg, pulling tightly on the length of cloth and knotting it roughly.
“Christ,” moaned Vogel, “the bloody tourniquet hurts worse than the wound.”
Ganz grinned and patted him on the head.
The Russians had paused in the trenches and shells now began to fall amongst them from the 88s. Explosions ripped the length of the line, catapulting bodies into the air. The sea of brown seemed momentarily becalmed, not knowing whether to retreat or advance. They remained sitting ducks for the German artillery and machine-gun posts. One of which was hammering away from behind its rampart of dead bodies. There was a loud explosion and the gun, its crew and all the dead bodies were obliterated. Shattered limbs flew through the air like party streamers, a severed foot landing beside Schiller. He grinned and held it up.
“Look, now they’re firing boots at us.”
The men began to laugh. Even Driest managed a smile. But their laughter was drowned by the high-pitched scream of aeroplane engines. The men looked up.
“Stukas,” said Foss, with relief.
There were three of them, flying nose to tail. Like gigantic metal mosquitos they swooped on the trench, loosing their load of bombs.
Immediately the entire length of the German line exploded into a nightmare of brilliant white flame. It devoured men at a stroke and melted weapons.
The planes had dropped phosphorus bombs.
The entire trench was a sea of flames. They leapt hungrily at the Russians, searing skin from bone and turning men into living torches.
“Some firework display,” said Schiller, in awe.
Then, indeed, the remaining Russians fled. Their officers tried to make them stand but it was impossible. The Stukas chased them back across no-man’s-land, spattering the ground with tracer and bringing down another horde of them, then, tiring of the game, they wheeled away.
“Imagine being under that lot,” said Driest, staring into the raging flames, “it must be a terrible way to die, to be burned.”
“Any way is a bad way to die,” said Foss.
The field was silent for a second then the German guns opened up again. Shells arced over into the Russian positions but no fire was returned.
The Germans, greatly relieved by the temporary victory, stretched themselves out in the mud as if they had been on a Mediterranean island. Schiller lit up a cigarette, Kahn took a bottle of vodka from his pack and handed it round and Herzog munched contentedly on his bar of chocolate.
The field radio crackled and Ganz answered it. He listened intently for a moment, nodding, then turned to Foss and said, “We’ve to reoccupy the trenches, there isn’t enough time to build new ones.”
Foss threw his helmet to the ground in disgust and stalked away, muttering to himself. He slowly turned back and walked across to the half-track where the others were sheltering. Schiller handed him his helmet and the sergeant wiped it on his tunic and sighed.
“Well,” he muttered, “let’s go, we’d better clear things up.”
Grumbling, the rest of the section scrambled to its feet and shambled off down the slope behind him. Herzog felt a hand on his shoulder and looked round to see Kahn grinning at him.
“You good man,” said the Jap, “kill fucking Russians.”
Herzog nodded and watched Kahn for a moment, the long sword clinking against his side.
He looked around him and rubbed his eyes. A Samurai swordsman out here.
It didn’t seem quite real.
Chapter Fifteen
Herzog guessed that it must have taken them nearly two hours to clear the trench of German and Russian corpses. In the last moments they had simply shovelled earth over the bloated bodies, hiding them from view. Now he bent over the washbasin, in the dugout, and splashed his face with cold water. He wiped his hands on his jacket and dropped it onto the bed beside him. He began scraping mud from his boots with his combat knife. The other men were engaged in similar tasks.