Liquidate Paris by Sven Hassel

Author:Sven Hassel [Hassel, Sven]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: War & Military, Fiction
ISBN: 9780297865803
Google: rsXeEjkxxvwC
Amazon: 0304366897
Publisher: Orion
Published: 1968-01-01T14:00:00+00:00

Far away in the distance a battery of artillery burst into action, as if in response to our song. We followed the blazing trails of the rockets, doubtless heading for Caen. Seconds later we heard the explosions. And seconds after that the whole sky was lit up and the air was full of shrapnel. Porta, his flute at his lips, danced gleefully round the trench like some wild creature celebrating midsummer rites. The rest of us more prudently took cover. The American private flung himself flat, Barcelona dived head-first into a pile of farmyard manure, Wither, one of the S.S. men, attempted to seek shelter in a chicken run and became wedged fast in the doorway, half in and half out. He was set free by Little John, who tugged at one of his legs and brought the whole flimsy construction down about his ears. Chickens flew hysterically in all directions.

‘What the hell’s going on here now?’

It was Lt. Lowe again. I crouched trembling beneath a pile of empty grain sacks and prayed that I was invisible. Porta was still dancing and playing his flute, and now the American corporal and Little John had joined him, with the banjo and mouth organ, all three crazily cavorting round the trench.

‘What’s that Yank doing here?’ demanded the Lieutenant.

He fought his way forward through a demented flock of chickens, but before he had gone very far the situation had abruptly and incredibly altered. Loud bursts of machine-gun fire ripped the night apart. I felt a stream of bullets tearing the grain sacks off me,.and in a panic I dashed forward towards the ruins of the chicken run. As I did so, the American corporal gave a loud shriek, spun in a circle and collapsed at the bottom of the trench. I saw running figures silhouetted against the skyline, and realized with horror that the English were almost on top us. I could see their bayonets gleaming and their already raised to start showering us with grenades. It no use seeking for shelter, it was every man for himself in hand-to-hand fighting.

We defended ourselves with whatever weapons were most readily available, knives, pitchforks, shovels, naked fists. It was difficult, in the turmoil, to keep any sense of purpose other than just staying alive, but at last I managed to fight my way over to the spot where we had the M.G. camouflaged, Little John joined me, and together we set it up. A few paces ahead of us we saw Wither stoop to pick up a grenade that was rolling innocently towards us. Before he could hurl it back at the enemy it had exploded in his face. The next second it was Winter’s severed head, and not the hand-grenade, that was rolling towards us. Barcelona stopped a bullet in his right lung, and Gregor, panting and gasping and bleeding like a pig from a head wound, dragged him to comparative safety behind the M.G. Concerned though we were about Barcelona, we had no time to pause and inquire as to his state of health.

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