Authors: Sven Hassel
"I'll tell you something else," said Porta, putting a consoling arm around him. "Even cooks are going to have to fight from now on--God's truth! No more messing about with the stewpots, you'll find yourself running along in the mud with the rest of us--except it'll be even worse for you, being a sergeant. They'll probably put you in charge of a machine-gun section. That's enough of that, though. I can't stand gossiping with you all day, I've got other things to do. They keep a man very busy when he's a corporal." He patted Wilke on the shoulder and walked off, turning back again as he reached the door. "So I'll tell my friend in Personnel you're not interested, right?"
"No!" Wilke hurried across to him, all his fleshy folds flouncing up and down as he moved. "Of course I'm interested, I'd be a fool not to be!"
"Well, that's what I thought," agreed Porta. "I thought anyone who'd stay on to fight Russians when he could be cooking in Stettin must be a bit of a dope."
"And you can fix it for me?" demanded Wilke breathlessly.
"I'll have a word with my friend in Personnel and he'll see to it you get the job--oh, and I'd better take him his crate of vodka, or the jerk's likely to squeal on us."
"Vodka?" Wilke moved back a pace. "Where would I get vodka from?"
"Search me," said Porta frankly. "I was a bit curious about that myself, to tell the honest truth, but I won't stick my nose in, I'll just take the one case and keep my mouth shut."
"You must be crazy!" gasped Wilke indignantly. "I can't lay my hands on a crate of vodka just like that!"
"Very well." Porta raised a cold eyebrow, he paused a second, then turned on his heel and left the room. He walked singing down the steps, "There's a bullet that's coming this way, for me--or for you--I couldn't say . . ."
Behind him, he heard the patter of agitated footsteps. "Don't be so hasty!" cried Wilke. "Come back a moment and let's discuss terms."
"Not discussable," said Porta. "I already told you what they are. Just say yes or no and stop wasting my time."
"Yes!" screamed Wilke. His puffy fingers pawed at Porta's arm. "I'll give it to you straightaway."
He had hidden the vodka beneath an old tarpaulin. Porta looked the crate over suspiciously and took out every single bottle and held it up to the light before he was satisfied.
"Take it and go," said Wilke, pulling back the tarpaulin. "And make sure it's my name and no one else's you give to your friend."
"You bet," said Porta. He humped the crate onto his shoulder and strode back to our quarters with it. "Feast your eyes on that!" he told the astounded Krupka.
"You got it?" said Krupka. "You actually got it? I've been trying to lay my hands on some of that stuff for the past two months." He looked wonderingly at Porta. "How'd you manage it?"
"Trade secret," said Porta, tapping the side of his nose. "Bit of the old psychological warfare stuff. It always gets "em." That evening we drank ourselves silly. Krupka was the first to go under, followed quickly by Gregor. Tiny staggered about on top of the table, minus his boots and most of his uniform, flapping his arms in the air and making buzzing noises. He seemed to be under the impression he was an airplane.
"Yell for help!" he called down to us. "Yell for help and I'll come and rescue you!"
We all yelled for help at the tops of our voices, not quite sure what game we were playing but interested to see what would happen.
Tiny leaped off the table with a wild scream. "Hold on, I'm coming!" He bounced off the Legionnaire and crash-landed on the floor.
We all turned to look at him.
"Why didn't anyone tell me the water was frozen solid?" he complained, sitting up and holding his head. "I could have had a nasty accident."
Shortly afterward, he passed out.
Meanwhile, those of us that still survived went on steadily drinking. Porta sat cross-legged on the floor and solemnly raised his rifle to his lips. The barrel was filled with a revolting brew of vodka, oil, powder and beer. The object was to swallow it without bringing it all straight up again. If he could keep it down for a long as five minutes, it would be chalked up as a victory. I never discovered whether he did or he didn't, because of my own immediate urge to go to the window and spew.
When I returned, I saw the Old Man running around the room making wild chopping motions in the air with a hatchet. Heide was kneeling on the floor, embracing one of the table legs.
"You're my friend," he was whispering to it. "My one and only friend."
Porta had taken off his tunic and was slobbering over his new stripe. The Legionnaire was holding a conversation with himself in French. I myself felt far better now that I had vomited. I felt happier than I had in a long time. The last thing I remember was laughing so hard that I fell on my face.
The only living creature not to get drunk was Porta's cat. It was a big fat black creature, suspiciously sleek and well fed, and it had taken up residence with Porta the first day we arrived at the barracks. It now sat on its broad bottom in the middle of the room, swishing the tip of its tail and regarding us all out of scornful green eyes. Porta threw a bottle at it, but the cat just sneered and began genteelly to groom itself.
"I hate that cat," said Porta between clenched teeth. "God, how I hate that cat!"
Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich, in response to a summons, knocked at the door of Himmler's office and entered even before the thin voice of the Reichsfuhrer had said "Come in."
"Obergruppenfuhrer," began Himmler without preamble, "I am told that you have a file containing the personal details of every single man in the Party, in the SS, and in the Army. Is this true?"
"Certainly, Reichsfuhrer. Insofar as I am responsible for both the internal and external security of our country, I feel it to be no less than my duty."
"Quite so." Himmler gave him a frozen smile, which Heydrich graciously acknowledged with a slight dip of the head. "I wonder if by any chance you have a file containing my personal details as well?"
"It's more than likely, Reichsfuhrer, but of course I couldn't say for certain without checking. You'll understand, I don't have the time to read through every file for myself. I see a person's details only when it becomes necessary that I should do so--if a person draws attention to himself in any way."
"Of course."
"As a matter of fact," Heydrich leaned back comfortably in his chair, "it Was my opposite number in Moscow who gave me the idea of a comprehensive filing system. I must say it seems to work admirably."
"I'm sure it does," murmured Himmler.
The two men smiled at each other. There was a pause.
"Tell me," said Himmler, "what news from the Vatican?"
Heydrich lightly hunched a shoulder. "I'm surprised you should ask me, Reichsfuhrer. I imagined you would be far better informed on the Vatican than I am."
"Oh? And how, may I ask?"
Heydrich allowed a fleeting frown of puzzlement to brush across his forehead. "General Bocchini--the Italian chief of police--you'll pardon me, Reichsfuhrer, but I understood he was a close friend of yours?"
Under the desk, Himmler tapped a foot with annoyance. His relationship with Bocchini was not one that he wished to broadcast. "So! Your comprehensive filing system from Moscow really does work. I congratulate you."
"Thank you, Reichsfuhrer. But one point I confess has puzzled me. I am most curious to know why you should have sent the general that piece of old wood three weeks ago?"
"Old wood?" Himmler's eyebrows went up, one after the other. "That was not old wood, Obergruppenfuhrer, that was a log from Wotan's oak tree. I've had experts searching all over the place for it, it took them the better part of a year to find it for me. I sent it to the general as a token of our friendship."
"I see." Heydrich nodded pensively. "In that case--I fear you won't be too pleased when I tell you that the general was very much put out by your gesture. To him it was none other than a piece of firewood. He was strongly inclined to believe you were insulting him."
"The man's a fool!" said Himmler sharply. "I hope to Christ he didn't throw it away?"
"Oh, worse than that," murmured Heydrich. "He put it on the fire and set light to it."
Under the table, Himmler's foot tapped itself into a frenzy. Breathing heavily, he leaned over toward Heydrich. "Tell me, Obergruppenfuhrer, do you by any chance have a file on Bocchini?"
"I have a file on everyone," said Heydrich simply.
"Good. In that case, I want you to make arrangements for Bocchini's dossier to be brought to the Duce's notice. Very discreetly, of course. He mustn't suspect where it's come from; I take it there is plenty of--ah--incriminating evidence against our Italian friend?"
"Oh, plenty," said Heydrich with a smile. "More than sufficient for your purposes, Reichsfuhrer."
The Young Lieutenant
Porta and I were servicing the machine gun. We had had two days of comparative calm and were waiting uneasily for the storm to break again.
"I'd like to know what the hell they're brewing up down there." The Old Man jerked his head in the direction of the Russian lines. "Something's going on, you can bet your sweet life." He turned back to Porta and me. "How much ammunition have you got left for that thing?"
"Five thousand rounds and that's the lot."
"Well, I suppose it'll keep us going for a bit," the Old Man said fatalistically.
"So long as the Russians don't suddenly run wild," I said.
"What about those reinforcements they were supposed to be sending us?" grumbled Gregor. "Where have they got to? They should have been here days ago."
"Reinforcements!" Porta gave a cynical snort. "That's a myth if ever there was one!"
"You mean there aren't going to be any reinforcements?"
"Of course there ain't! That was just a lot of bull to keep us quiet for a bit."
"Then what do we do?" faltered Gregor.
"We either get out of this stinking hole by our own efforts or else we commit mass suicide. It's as simple as that. But it's no good sitting on our backsides waiting for something that ain't never going to turn up."
Gregor looked at him blankly. "You're crazy," he muttered. "We haven't a hope in hell of getting out of here by ourselves. Besides, they wouldn't sacrifice a whole army just like that."
"Who says they wouldn't?" jeered Porta.
"It stands to reason," protested Gregor. "A million men! They couldn't afford it. Hitler would have to be a raving nut..."
Porta said nothing; just raised an eyebrow. Gregor broke off in confusion..
"In any case," I said, "it's not a million men any more. Not by a long chalk it isn't. Only a few hundred thousand."
"Yeah, and what's a few hundred thousand more or less?" said Porta. "The Sixth Army's a dead duck and Hitler knows it. He might just as well make a gift of us to the enemy and get on with something more profitable elsewhere. Paulus won't do nothing about it, he always was a flabby bastard."
"I don't believe you," said Gregor stubbornly.
"All right, have it your own way." Porta turned back to the machine gun. "But I'm telling you, they've turned us into goddamn Wagner heroes whether we like it or not. They've made a balls-up, see, and it's us what's got to pay for it. It'll look good in the history books, won't it? In fifty years' time, when they can turn around and talk about a million men in the Sixth Army laying down their lives for the fucking Fuhrer--yeah, I can see it all now," said Porta bitterly. "Filthy great books with gold leaf all around the edges and pictures of Hitler's heroes lying about in the snow with their guts hanging out . . ."
"Lay off it," said the Old Man. "I think something's going on down there."
We turned to look in the direction of the enemy lines.
"Seems the same as usual to me," said Porta indifferently.
The Old Man shook his head. "They're up to something. I don't know what it is, but I can smell trouble."
It was true that the Old Man had an instinct in such matters. I turned back to the machine gun and began frantically reassembling it.
The Old Man jerked his head at Gregor. "Go and tell Captain Schwan I think the enemy's preparing to attack."
"OK."
Gregor loped off, and Porta calmly sat back and lit a cigarette. "What's the rush? Nothing's happened yet."
"It will," said the Old Man.
Porta glanced at his watch. "Ten thirty? Not on your life!"
At 1300 hours on the dot, the Russian batteries opened up in earnest. The ground began quaking beneath our feet and Gregor dived in a panic into the nearest bunker.
"This is it!" he yelled. "They're coming over!"
Porta and I remained in the trench with the machine gun. I knew we were just as safe down there as in the bunker, yet it never felt as safe and I always yearned for a protective layer of concrete above my head. Porta gave me an encouraging grin, and the black cat appeared from nowhere in a great hurry and came running up to us with its tongue sticking out of its mouth.
The first heavy Haubitz shell landed just in front of the trench, covering us in a spray of earth and shrapnel.
"Here comes the next one!" shouted Porta.
Captain Schwan snatched up the field telephone and began speaking rapidly to Colonel Hinka, explaining that we were under heavy fire and that he expected the enemy to launch a full-scale attack at any moment. He requested artillery support, but as usual, Hinka refused to be impressed by the urgency of the situation.
"All right, all right, Captain, let's not lose our heads over a few stray shells. Wait and see how it goes. They'll probably quiet down again in a minute."
"But if they don't, sir . . ."
"If they don't," said Hinka calmly, "we shall review the situation. If it gets any worse, I can let you have a section of light artillery."
"But . . ."
The line went dead. Schwan slammed the telephone down and swore. He snatched up his revolver, stuck his knife down the side of his boot and ran off along the communication trench.
Inside the bunker men sat and waited for the enemy to come. This was the worst part of all--waiting. Not knowing what to expect, nor when to expect it. Whether it would be five minutes or five hours. Tiny was playing his mouth organ, as he always did at such moments. His large, booted foot tapped out the measure, but no one listened to him. The Old Man leaned against the wall, sucking on his empty pipe. The Legionnaire was chewing a matchstick. Gregor was gnawing a broken fingernail.