Reign of Hell by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online Page A

left half his face behind at Smolensk, in a battle between German Tigers and Russian T34s. Von Gernstein had been the only survivor to crawl out of the hatch of a burning tank. But he had paiddearly for the privilege. His right eye was fixed for ever in a sightless glassy stare, and one of his hands was a withered talon. And yet it was impossible to feel sympathy for the man. His character repelled you, and after five years of war we had seen far too many obscenities inflicted on the human body to be easily moved to pity.
    According to his batman, von Gernstein used to sit up till four o’clock in the morning playing poker with Death and the Devil. He swore that one night he caught a glimpse of them, Death was dressed all in black from head to foot with the cross of the Hohenzollerns round his neck and the Devil in the uniform of an SS Obergruppenführer. A fanciful tale, but some of the more credulous among us actually believed it to be the truth. Many were the rumours of von Gernstein communing with the Devil, von Gernstein holding black masses, von Gernstein resurrecting the dead . . . It was certain, however, that there was some mystery about the man. The light burned in his quarters throughout the night, and always at his private door were parked two big black Mercedes, which arrived every night, punctually at midnight and left again at dawn.
    Porta and I one bold, fine day, stoned half out of our senses, risked our lives taking a look inside the Colonel’s quarters. For once even Porta was deprived of speech. It was like coming across Aladdin’s cave in the middle of the Sahara Desert. There were thick pile carpets and Persian rugs all over the floor; Old Master paintings hanging nonchalantly on the walls; rich velvet curtains at the windows and a glittering chandelier winking at us from the middle of the ceiling . . . It scarcely seemed possible that such splendours could exist within the squalor of Sennelager.
    One night, I remember, I was on guard duty with Gregor Martin and Tiny. We were standing near the garages and we were watching the thousand flickering lights of the chandelier in the Colonel’s apartment. Quite suddenly, Gregor yelped like a startled dog and dropped his rifle. I jumped backwards with a muffled squawk of terror, and Tiny turned tail and went galloping off with a shout into the night. Forthere, in profile at the window, there before our staring eyes, was the dread figure of Satan himself . . .
    We stood transfixed, Gregor and I. Even when the figure slid out of sight we were unable to take our eyes off the window. Gregor sagged at the knees and clawed about the ground for his rifle, his head tilted back at an angle and his gaze rigid. Tiny, back at the guardhouse, had obviously made his point with some force, for it was only a matter of seconds before Sergeant Linge appeared on the scene demanding to know what all the panic was about. Gregor straightened his sagging knees and extended a tremulous hand towards the window. He opened his mouth and made a croaking sound like a toad with a fishbone stuck in its throat.
    ‘It was the Devil—’
    ‘The Devil—’
    ‘In uniform—’
    ‘Uniform—’
    ‘
Uniform?
’ Linge looked from one to the other of us. ‘What the hell kind of uniform?’
    ‘SS,’ moaned Gregor.
    ‘Obergruppenführer,’ I added, feeling it was about time that I made some kind of original contribution to the proceedings.
    Linge looked exasperated.
    ‘For Chrissakes,’ he said. ‘All SS Obergruppenführers look like the Devil. Tell me something new!’
    ‘This one had horns,’ said Gregor, on a note of sudden and desperate inspiration. ‘Bloody great filthy horns . . . two of ’em, sticking out of his forehead . . . And what’s more,’ he added, with a touch of defiance, ‘he was drinking smoke.’
    ‘Drinking
smoke
?’ said Linge.
    ‘Sulphur,’ I said. ‘Sulphur and brimstone, that’s what it was.’
    By this time, the area around the garages was