The Luftwaffe officers had a good look at each of us. Some trucks came jolting up.
"No. 5 Company, board. Those picked out to the left," Mike ordered.
The delighted lucky ones clambered up on to the tracks and waved to us. We spat at them. That wasn't enough for Tiny. He threw a great stone at them.
"Pick up your arms. Single file. Follow me!" ordered Leutnant Frick.
Luftwaffe trucks drove us to Teano. There we lay all day behind the station, waiting. Half of a soldier's time is spent waiting.
We played pontoon. When dinner time came we broke into a supply wagon standing on a siding. Two cases of cognac made us take a somewhat brighter view of life. Porta found four sucking pigs which we roasted on a spit.
"That's plundering," the Old Man muttered. "You could be hanged for that."
Porta said: "At least I'd go out with a full belly."
It was midnight when they woke us and marched us to a thick wood, where fifteen SS trucks stood waiting. That was a surprise. The trucks all belonged to the 20th SS Grenadiers, a division that consisted largely of men from the border states. We had met the division once, in White Russia. In the trucks, at the back, were SS greatcoats and helmets.
"What the hell's this?" the Old Man growled, amazed. "Are they going to try and shove us into the SS?"
Barcelona and Tiny were already delightedly trying on greatcoats. Tiny had put on an unterscharfuhrer's and was walking around in it, showing off. He pointed contemptuously at the Old Man, who gaped at him.
"Pull your old bones together, you antique, when an Unterscharfuhrer passes! Or would you like a spell in a concentration camp to learn manners? I'm a big wig. I once kissed the Fuhrer's arse. Remember that!"
Leutnant Frick appeared from behind one of the trucks.
"Take that greatcoat off, Creutzfeldt, and keep your mouth shut!"
"Jawohl, Untersturmfuhrer, SS Unterscharfuhrer Creutzfeldt begs to report his departure." He chucked the greatcoat and helmet into the depths of the truck, walked up to Leutnant Frick again, banged his heels together. "Herr Leutnant, Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt, reporting back."
Leutnant Frick waved him away with a gesture of irritation.
"Get into the back of that truck and do me the favour of going to sleep there."
Shortly before daybreak we swung into the open space in front of the monastery of Monte Cassino, where a number of heavy Luftwaffe trucks were already standing. Some young officers from the Hermann Goring Panzerdivision were bustling about. They ordered us to camouflage our trucks and take cover. Some men were already obliterating our trucks' tracks.
Tiny could not contain himself. He again put on a SS greatcoat and helmet. A Luftwaffe major ticked him off roundly and threatened all sorts of disasters, if he let himself be seen in that uniform again.
We waited all morning without anything else happening, but Allied bombers flying overhead leaving vapour trails in the sky. We had had the foresight to supply ourselves from the railway truck and Porta had a quarter of a sucking pig in the pocket of his greatcoat.
"We've to blow the whole shitting place up," Tiny told us, his face beaming.
"Blast them," Porta exclaimed angrily. "They could let the engineers do that. This is gala night at Palid Ida's. She's got a lot of fine tarts coming from Rome, all fragrant with rose water."
Tiny let his prurient imagination have full rein. He dribbled at the mouth.
"There are nuns in this holy building."
Heide's eyes narrowed.
"Freedom to loot would suit you nicely, wouldn't it?"
Tiny swallowed, then licked his lips.
"Don't talk about it. I'm almost bursting out of my trousers."
Porta took a mouthful of sucking pig. His face glistened with fat.
"Have I ever told you about the time I was gardener to a nunnery?"
We laughed and edged closer together under the lorry, settled our gasmasks comfortably under our heads.
"Was that down on the river Dubovila?" the Old Man asked.
"No, no! It was when I was on loan to the 2nd Panzer Regiment."
"I certainly don't remember you being that," laughed the Old Man with a sideways glance at us.
"Your memory has never been anything to boast of," retorted Porta. "But we, No. 2 Regiment and I, that is, were somewhere down among the Black Sea farmers. I was wandering about on my own looking for something important."
"Cunt?" Tiny asked, suddenly interested.
"That's the only idea you've got in that thick head of yours," Porta said. "I was looking for defeat."
"Was it supposed to be found round the Black Sea?" the Old Man asked, amazed.
"I had just heard that morning on the Tommy radio that defeat was imminent. The fighting in the Struma valley was going to be decisive. So I was searching with my magnifying glass behind every stone. All at once, I heard women screaming. Aha, I thought, there are some who have found defeat. But judging by the sounds it was knickers rather than flags that were being hauled down. The screams came from a nunnery. I swung myself up onto the wall and stuck my tomato inside. Imagine what I saw. Our faithful allies were busy helping the nuns. I can't remember what I said to them, but they withdrew at some considerable speed. I landed in a bed of tulips and received an excellent reception."
Porta's absorbing tale was here interrupted by Leutnant Frick ordering us to fall in.
An Oberleutnant with the white collar tabs of the Hermann Goring Panzerdivision, looked us over.
An observer 'plane was circling over the monastery.
"Artillery observer," Heide said. "If he catches sight of us ..."
Some monks brought us hot tea. We tipped half of it away and filled the cups up with rum. We still did not know what we were there for. We could hear hammering and sawing inside the monastery and in the distance the gunfire was unceasing.
"They're hard at it beyond the hills there," said the Old Man thoughtfully. "There's something brewing. I can feel it in my bones."
Whenever the Old Man said that, it was so. He was an old sweat and as such could smell dirty work a mile away.
"What are we here for?" Heide asked, addressing himself to no one in particular, and gave himself a shake.
"No idea," muttered the Old Man, giving his nose a tug. "I don't like all these people with the white tabs and the SS uniforms in the trucks. It stinks of hanky-panky.
They've threatened us a hundred times with God knows what, if we go near the monastery, and now here we are at it, and armed to the teeth. I wonder if the Catholic hunt hasn't perhaps started?"
"God preserve us, if that's the case," Barcelona said. "We'll be wading up to our chins in blood, if it is."
The Old Man slowly lit his pipe.
When night sank over the mountains hiding them, we backed the trucks to the monastery door. No lights were to be used in any circumstances. An elderly Luftwaffe leutnant ordered us to put our weapons in the driver's cab. No one was to enter the monastery armed. Somewhat reluctant, we chucked our automatic pistols into the cab. We felt naked without our arms.
"Take off your equipment and arms," the strange leutnant ordered heatedly.
Tiny tried to dart inside with a P. 3 8 sticking out of his trousers pocket. The leutnant called to him hectoringly:
"War without shooting irons is crazy," Tiny could not help saying.
"Shut that mouth of yours, obergefreiter," the leutnant fumed.
The Legionnaire came gliding up with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He laughed openly at the leutnant. He had his heavy Russian pistol hanging provocatively on his chest.
"Court martial, Herr Leutnant?
Merde dors!
You must be joking."
"What's this behaviour, man," the leutnant exclaimed indignantly.
"That's what I would ask you, Herr Leutnant. I would be most interested to know what a court martial would say to these goings-on." Casually, the Legionnaire lit a fresh cigarette and puffed the smoke into the Luftwaffe officer's face. "We refuse to hand over our arms, Herr Leutnant, and we will not take part in sabotaging orders. You and your colleagues have more reason to fear a court martial than we."
"Have you gone off your head," the leutnant cried in a voice that had a nervous quaver in it. "What's this nonsense of yours?"
The Legionnaire grinned impertinently. He turned to the rest of us, who were listening with intense interest.
"
Il
nouse casse les couilles!"
"I understand French, you lout." The leutnant was almost beside himself with rage.
"Je m'emmerde!"
laughed the Legionnaire.
We thought for a moment that the leutnant was going to go for the Legionnaire, who continued unconcernedly to examine the magazine of his heavy pistol.
We were openmouthed with amazement. We could not understand it. The Legionnaire was hundred per cent a soldier. He never went too far. He could be more impudent than most, but he never took risks. He must have been onto something big. Without quite knowing how, we had got hold of our arms again and had closed up behind the Legionnaire.
The leutnant turned and rushed up the steps.
"Now the balloon'll go up," Rudolph Kleber whispered. "This is like the Florian Geyer* mutiny."
*Famous SS cavalry regiment.
"Nothing's going to happen," the Legionnaire said with calm assurance. "If they become impertinent, we'll shoot them down. We'd get medals for doing it."
"What's happening?" Heide asked. "You might at least tell us. I'm almost pissing my pants with excitement." Greedily he flourished his automatic pistol, an Italian Biretta.
Porta heaved the container of his flamethrower on to his back and pulled the straps tight.
"Let's singe the hair off their balls," he said and put the setting to close range.
"Hamdoulla"
(slowly) said the Legionnaire. "If we're to shoot this
bande de funistes,
I shall shoot first."
"Well, for Christ's sake explain," Marlow said irritably.
"C'est le bourdel.
They're sabotaging a special order from Adolf himself and Kaltenbrunner."
A group of officers came hurrying down the steps. Our Leutnant Frick came sauntering along behind, smiling. He knew us. He obviously wouldn't have any funny stuff.
The little Luftwaffe leutnant was cackling like an old hen. A broadshouldered major shut him up. None of them was armed. They did not even have their belts on.
Some of us took cover behind the pillars in the cloisters. The Legionnaire seated himself provocatively on the parapet of the well in the central court. He had one finger on the trigger. He was as assured as a Russian commissar who had Josef Stalin behind him.
The broadshouldered major took up position in front of him. He was twice the Legionnaire's size. His greatcoat was open. There was no doubt that he was unarmed.
They regarded each other in silence.
Porta toyed thoughtfully with his flamethrower.
"Bon, mon Commandant? What now? Court martial! Drum head perhaps?"
"I would like a word with you in private."
The Legionnaire smiled enigmatically.
"Non, mon Commandant. I don't aspire to a bullet in the back of my head in some dark cellar. I have heard of so-called officers' special courts. I am not an officer. I am only a
caporal-chef,
an unknown without name or honour, from La Legion Etrangere."
A hauptmann took a couple of steps forward, but was halted by the major.
"I give you my word of honor, Unteroffizier, that nothing will happen to you."
"An officer's word to a lousy soldier?" The Legionnaire shrugged his shoulders.
The major took a deep breath. His face was suffused.
Tiny opened his mouth to give his contribution, but Porta gave him a warning kick on the shin.
Unconcernedly the Legionnaire lit a fresh cigarette.
"What is it you want, Unteroffizier? Do you think we should destroy a thousand-year old culture, because a madman has ordered it?"
"Madman? That remark could cost you your head, mon Commandant."
The major took a step forward and made as though to set his hand confidentially on the Legionnaire's shoulder; but the Legionnaire avoided it with a twist of his body and thrust him back with the barrel of his pistol.
"A subordinate must stand three paces from his superior, mon Commandant."
Again the hauptmann wanted to intervene.
"I have told you to keep quiet," said the major angrily; then, turning to the Legionnaire, he said: "Unteroffizier, do you know what Monte Cassino is? Do you know that it is the oldest cultural centre in Europe? It is the Benedictine's original monastery, and in it are Christianity's most sacred relics? Do you want a library of 70,000 irreplaceable volumes to go up in flames? A library it has taken the Benedictine monks many centuries to collect. To say nothing of paintings by famous masters, age-old crucifixes, historic carvings in wood and wonderful goldsmith's work. Will you with a clear conscience let all that be destroyed because of a crazy order? You are a hard and a good soldier, Unteroffizier, that I know. You are proud of having served in a famous corps of brave men under the French flag, but don't forget that that same French army throughout the centuries has protected the Christian faith. Will you now, a French soldier, for that is what you are, prevent us saving all that? You and your comrades can kill all of us here in the monastery. You can start with me and end with the arch-abbot Diamare. Nothing will happen to you, if you do. You might even be decorated for doing it; but I can assure you that the French army will have nothing more to do with you. They will deprive you of the red ribbon you wear over your breast pocket. I am not afraid of dying, Unteroffizier. Nor are my officers. We know that we are staking our lives in doing this, but we do not intend to let all this be destroyed. We are merely people. We can be replaced, but not one splinter, not one document in there could ever be replaced. The Benedictine order has had its home here since the year 529. In a short time Monte Cassino will be the centre of desperate fighting. Its walls, statues, the basilica, all these lovely buildings," he raised his hands in a desperate gesture, while the wind tugged at his greatcoat and ruffled his grey hair, "these we cannot save from destruction. They will be razed to the ground, and thousands of young men will be killed and maimed. But the unique, irreplaceable treasures that the holy monastery contains can all be taken to safety in Rome in two or three nights."