Authors: Sven Hassel
"Stick a cork up your ass," suggested Tiny.
"Germany's secret weapon," I said sourly. "The human champagne bottle. Turns his back on the enemy and wipes out whole regiments at a fart."
"Oh, cut it out!" snarled Porta.
We crept on toward the river. We were almost on top of the Russian trenches now and had to crawl on our hands and knees. We could see the enemy machine guns looming up ahead, and Porta got caught on some barbed wire and exercised his ear-splitting physiological weakness for so long as we tried to rescue him that Tiny lost his nerve and threatened to cut his throat if he didn't stop. It was as much as I could do to prevent full-scale combat on the spot, and I whispered myself hoarse telling them to keep their raucous voices down.
We yanked Porta free at last, only to stumble almost immediately on an enemy battery, where a sentry demanded to know the password. We froze into horrified silence. Finally, for want of anything better, Porta shouted back an obscenity. The sentry promptly replied in kind. We stood there, waiting to be shot, but nothing happened. Either the Russians were in the habit of using pornographic passwords, or the sentry had been so insulted that he could no longer be bothered with us. In any event, after a few more seconds' hesitation we moved on into the darkness and were allowed through with no more questions asked.
Another ten minutes and we were nestling together in a deep, dark shell hole, Tiny shading the flashlight with one hand while I held the map and Porta licked the end of a pencil stub and laboriously marked in all the Russian positions between point X and Yersovka. Our mission was completed. It was now only a question of returning safely to our own lines.
We stayed in our shell hole a while, sharing our last cigarette between the three of us, huddling into our coats and listening to the silence. Occasionally it was broken by the distant sound of gunfire, but for the most part the night was still and untroubled. The snow had stopped falling and the sky was crisscrossed with searchlights. We were reluctant to leave the comfort of our nest, but the colonel had given us six hours and we had in any case to beat the dawn if we wanted to survive.
We moved off again into the treacherous night. With the velvet-black sky above, and the thick untrodden snow underfoot, deadening all sound, we could run into an enemy patrol at any moment and never even know what had hit us. We came at last to a point where the trail forked. After a short discussion, we turned to the right, but about a mile farther on I drew to a halt and looked reluctantly about me.
"What's up?" demanded Porta impatiently.
"I'm not sure--it's just a feeling, I may be wrong, but I don't think this is the right direction."
"Balls!" said Porta. "We looked at the map, didn't we?"
"Sure we looked at the map."
"What is it, then?"
"I don't know," I repeated. "It just doesn't
feel
right."
Tiny shuffled his feet in some anxiety. "All fucking roads are the same, they all lead to the graveyard in the end, so let's get a move on and shut up yakking about it."
We got a move on. We proceeded uncertainly for perhaps another hundred yards, when this time it was Porta who stopped. He stood rubbing his eyes and staring ahead. "Well, well, well!" he said. "Either I'm seeing things or this map's been rigged. Keep calm, you two, don't hang on to my shirttails like that, it'll all come right in the end."
"What the hell are you driveling about?" grumbled Tiny.
"Don't mind me," said Porta. "I'm going gaga." He grabbed Tiny's arm. "You see that great big wood over there?"
Tiny and I both looked in the direction he was pointing. The wood was unmistakable.
Tiny nodded. "So what? I seen a wood before."
"Not one like that you haven't--that's a wood that ain't there. Not marked on the map, see? Don't exist--sort of a mirage."
"Hang on," I said. "Let's have a gander."
We spread the map out and shone the flashlight over it.
"It's there, all right," I told them. "See? We've taken the wrong path. We should've gone left back at that fork. If we'd have gone left, we'd have come to this little river here-- takes us straight back to our own lines."
"So what do we do now?" Tiny wanted to know.
"Search me," I said, folding the map. "I'm a stranger here myself."
"You mean we're lost?" demanded Tiny.
"That's about the size of it," I said.
Tiny turned to stare incredulously at Porta. "You've lost us!" he said. "You stupid great oaf, you've gone and lost us!"
"I knew we were on the wrong road," I said. "I told you it felt wrong."
"Lost in the middle of fucking nowhere," said Tiny. "You'd lose your noodle given half a chance, wouldn't you? You'd lose your balls if they weren't in a bag. You'd lose your . . ."
"Shut up moaning!" hissed Porta. "You had your chance to look at the map the same as the rest of us."
"What d'you figure's our best bet?" I said. "We can either go back to the fork and start again or try to get back this way."
Leaving Tiny to drone on to himself in a disgruntled monotone, Porta and I put our heads together and studied the map. We opted in the end for the wood; time was running out, and the trees at least offered a refuge should we still be wandering around at dawn.
"Good thing you guys got me with you," said Porta, smug as usual. "You never know what interesting information we might unearth in this here wood. Just imagine old Hinka's face if we managed to . . ."
"Pipe down!" I said urgently. "I've got the feeling we're not alone in here."
A few yards ahead, through the trees, could be seen a faint light.
"Russians!" whispered Tiny. "What'll we do? Go and have a look or steer clear of 'em?"
"Best take a look," said Porta. "See how many there are. Hinka might be interested."
"Screw Hinka," muttered Tiny.
Porta ignored him. He gave me a slight push. "Sven, you take the right. Tiny, the left. I'll carry straight on. See you. back here in fifteen minutes."
It was Porta who returned with the news. "It's OK, we can manage 'em. Far as I can see, they're all sleeping their heads off. Bit farther on there's a half-track armored personnel carrier. Looks to me like they're using it as a sub-radar station."
"You're not suggesting we go in and mop them up?" I looked at him, horrified. "If that's a radio truck, you can bet your sweet life there'll be a staff HQ somewhere around. And where there's staff, there's sentries. And where there's sentries, there's trouble. And . . ."
"So what?" said Porta. "All I'm interested in is getting my hands on that truck."
"Take the truck?"
"Why not? Take the truck and scram with it."
"Which way?"
"Way we come. We got transport and we got all the time in the world."
"And how about that battery we had to pass? We fooled 'em once, it's not going to work a second time."
"Why not? Who's to know? You see one of your own trucks going by, you don't stop and wonder if the enemy's inside it."
That, at least, was true. We separated once again and went off on another reconnaissance trip. Twenty minutes later we reassembled to exchange reports.
"Nothing," said Tiny. "I've combed the whole eastern sector. Nothing there."
Porta looked at him suspiciously. "You sure?"
"Course I'm sure! What do you take me for?"
"The biggest con in the whole stinking company!" snapped Porta. He turned to me. "How about you?"
"Well, apart from nearly tripping over four guys having a snooze by the side of the truck, I didn't see a thing."
"That's not so bad," said Porta. "I found a couple snoring their heads off inside a tent* and four more in a pillbox tucking into some grub."
"That makes ten of 'em altogether," I said. "And what's the betting the rest of the battalion's not far away?"
"All right, no need for the jitters," said Porta equably. "We've been in worse holes than this before now. And I'm not letting that truck slip through my fingers. Slog home on foot when we could ride back in style? Not on your life!"
"Come on, let's get started," agitated Tiny. "I'll clobber the pair in the tent."
We split up yet again and crept back into the trees. As I crawled toward the half-track radio car, one of the men in the pillbox stuck his head out and shouted across to the four who were asleep on the ground, at which all hell broke loose. The four men picked themselves up and made a dive for the radio. Before they could reach it, Porta had hurled a clutch of grenades across the clearing and the ground exploded beneath their feet. Seconds later, and I heard the angry chattering of a machine gun somewhere among the trees behind us. A few grenades lobbed in that direction and the gun was silenced. I saw Tiny advance on the tent. From the pillbox came the crackling of an MPI. I tore the pin out of a grenade and hurled it across the clearing. The tent went up in flames. Porta advanced on the pillbox. The grenade exploded and two of the occupants were killed outright. The other two survived uninjured and came stumbling out with their arms held high above their heads. Tiny and I had them trussed up in no time, while Porta shouted triumphantly at us from the truck.
"What did I tell you? A piece of pie! One private car and two prisoners--what more could you want?"
It suddenly occurred to him what more in fact was to be had. He left the truck and dived down into the pillbox, yelling at us to follow. We pushed the prisoners ahead of us and found Porta already tucking in to the remains of a hearty meal. Tiny and I eagerly helped him clear the plates and finish off a bottle of vodka, while the prisoners looked on sullenly.
"Here, what's all this garbage?" asked Tiny, picking up a briefcase. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and studied them upside down with illiterate interest. "What's it all about, d'you suppose?"
Porta took the papers from him and glanced through them. "Letters," he announced importantly. "Dispatches-secret documents. This here's a note from a general. Sent to another general." He frowned. "The one that sent it must be quite a big noise. I guess the other's just a little fellow."
"How do you make that out?" I demanded.
"Easy. Read what it says:
MY DEAR STEICKER,
I SUGGEST THAT AS A MATTER OF URGENCY YOU SELECT ONE OF YOUR MOST CAPABLE STAFF OFFICERS AND HAVE HIM TRANSPORTED TO BERLIN TO LET THE FUHRER KNOW FIRSTHAND THE IMPOSSIBLE POSITION IN WHICH WE FIND OURSELVES AFTER THE RUSSIAN BREAKTHROUGH AT KALTSCH.
YOURS VERY SINCERELY,
SCHMIDT.
Porta looked at me triumphantly. "Get it?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean," I agreed.
"I don't," said Tiny.
We tried to explain to him. A really big noise--a field marshal, for instance--could well address a subordinate as "my dear Steicker" and sign himself "your very sincerely." But just let the subordinate try the same tactics with the field marshal and his name would soon be mud! Tiny scratched his head and said he supposed so, but something still seemed to be bothering him and it was obvious that he wasn't convinced.
"It's a matter of psychology," explained Porta earnestly. "Yeah, but . . ."
"Listen to this one," I said. "This couple weren't exactly in love, were they?" I read it out:
TOP SECRET
GOLUMBISKAYA, NOVEMBER 16, 1942
TO: GENERAL SEYDLITZ
REORGANIZATION OF THE FOLLOWING IS URGENTLY REQUIRED: 16TH AND 24TH PANZER DIVISIONS; 3RD INFANTRY DIVISION; 100TH ARTILLERY; 76TH, 113TH AND 384TH INFANTRY DIVISIONS. KINDLY ATTEND AND EXPEDITE MATTER.
HEIL HITLER!
"Very cold," said Porta, drawing in his breath. "Very nasty atmosphere. Cut it with a knife."
"Listen," said Tiny, "I don't understand. Why's he going on about the 16th, eh?" He looked at us, round-eyed. "That's us, that is. That's us he's talking about."
"Jesus, he's right!" said Porta, gathering all the papers together. "What's Ivan doing with our letters?" He shook his fist at the silent prisoners. "What're you doing with other people's mail?"
"No wonder we don't get none," grumbled Tiny. "The bastards must've knocked off a whole sackful."
Porta looked across at the prisoners with a gleam in his eye. "I bet we could make 'em talk easy enough. How about it? Just give me five minutes alone with 'em . . ."
"To hell with that," I said, making for the exit. "Let's concentrate on getting back home. Take the letters with us. Hinka can have himself a ball with 'em."
We pushed our prisoners into the truck, closed all the observation slits and nosed our way out of the woods, back toward the fork where we had gone wrong. There was more activity on the road now. We passed several Russian convoys, but no one attempted to stop us. On the other hand, the Germans gave us a very hot reception as we attempted to cross back into our own lines.
"Stupid bastards!" cried Tiny, already busy with the cannon. "They're asking for trouble, carrying on like that!"
"We're the ones that are asking for trouble!" I retorted, holding on tight as the truck bucked and swerved. "We'll be lucky if we get back in one piece."
Porta somehow managed to plow through unscathed. With a magnificent flourish, he pulled up directly outside the command post, literally at Colonel Hinka's feet. He jumped down and saluted. "Obergefreiter Joseph Porta presenting his report, sir! Mission successfully accomplished."
Hinka stared past him openmouthed at the truck. "Where the devil did this thing come from?" He waved a hand the red star on the turret. "What's been going on?"
"Nothing, sir." Porta turned his puzzled gaze from Hinka to our vehicle. "You mean the truck, sir?" He shrugged. "We were running a bit behind schedule. We needed it to get back on time."
"But where in heaven's name did you get it?"
"Well, it was like this, sir." Porta tried unsuccessfully to stand to attention while containing a familiar rumble in the region of his bowels.
Hinka clicked his tongue impatiently. "Well? I'm waiting!"
"Well--it was a sort of accident, really, sir. We was in this wood, you see. You know what Russian woods are like, they go on for miles, and like I said, we were running behind schedule." He looked vaguely at the truck. "We just sort of bumped into it. It seemed like a good idea--oh, and incidentally," he added, turning back again to the colonel, "we've brought along a couple of prisoners with us, sir. And a stack of mail."