On the Devil's Tail: In Combat with the Waffen-SS on the Eastern Front 1945, and with the French in Indochina 1951-54 by Paul Martelli & Vittorino dal Cengio

Author:Paul Martelli & Vittorino dal Cengio [Martelli, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: HISTORY / Military / World War II
ISBN: 9781910777527
Publisher: Helion and Company
Published: 2015-01-19T05:00:00+00:00

Hope Fades

It was almost impossible to move by day without attracting the attention of the Russian fighter pilots. In one of these frequent aerial attacks, I slipped on all fours into a narrow tunnel dug under a secondary road. Russian aircraft zoomed overhead; bullets smacked against the road surface or ricocheted from stones and the metal parts of trucks and cars. This was supplemented by a brief but intense barrage from the enemy’s artillery. I stayed holed up to await the end of that hammering, plugging my ears as best as I could, my back pressed along the vault, my body shored up by my feet and elbows in a futile attempt to avoid the ten-centimeter-deep water in the bottom of the tunnel. I stared down at the black, oily surface, dreading the appearance of the streaks of red that might flow into my refuge at any moment.

The bombing ceased but the cries and the death rattles of the wounded lying on the road continued, incessant and heart-rending. I pressed my hands against my ears to block out those harrowing screams, to keep them from entering my brain where they might take up residence. On the road above my head I knew there were broken bodies, scorched faces. The wounded would be writhing in agony, pleading for help when there was none. The contents of my stomach pushed their way up to my throat, acidic and burning. Using all my remaining strength, I remained in that position, propped up on aching limbs, on the verge of unconsciousness. I was desperate to breathe clean, fresh air but knew that by now the road surface would be spattered with the torn organs of those caught in the open, that the air would reek with the sickly-sweet, vaguely metallic taste of blood.

My muscles quivered, exhausted by the long-held and awkward pose I had adopted within the tunnel. If I stayed there, in that tunnel, I would soon collapse into the cold and muddy water. Crawling like some underground insect unable to move backwards, I made my way to the opening at the other end of the tunnel and then into the roadside ditch, into the light. On the road, the survivors, dazed and with limbs still shaking with fear, were forming a new but ragged column. Some were tending the wounded, vainly trying to stem the flow of blood from horrific wounds. I went back and forth, my eyes darting from person to person, hoping to catch sight of someone from my section but there were none to be found. A group had already made some progress down the road ahead. I hurried after them, closing the gap, searching for familiar uniforms and faces but unable to find my comrades from the mortar section. Damn! I‘d lost them. In frustration I kicked a helmet at the edge of the road, thinking of Oberscharführer De Ville’s words, which I had heard many times: I don’t tolerate laggards. There seemed nothing better to do than

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