Authors: Sven Hassel
‘Oh, I don’t think we’re as bad as all that!’ says Tiny, trying to force a smile onto his dejected face.
‘It’s not you I’m thinking of,’ says the Commissar, holding out a hand for Porta’s vodka bottle. ‘You’re just Fritzs like our lot are Ivans. It’s your Gestapo, SS and all the other rottenness I meant!’
‘They’re no worse than your filthy OGPU,’ shouts Heide furiously.
‘All Secret Police are an invention of the Devil,’ says the Commissar, harshly.
‘I still think you ought to come with us,’ says Gregor. ‘We’d get you in the Hiwis
*
easy, until we say goodbye to the army some day and
really
go fishin’ in Sweden!’
‘No!’ says the Commissar decisively, shaking his head. ‘Life’s a game of chance! A man doesn’t give up when he loses once! If I go with you now, I’m a loser! I’ve only gained a little time. I reckoned on it perhaps going wrong for us this time, and I’ve got my back covered. Another thing is I haven’t got the nerve to stay around you lot much longer!’
‘Moscow,’ mumbles Porta, thoughtfully. ‘So you’ll be going via Tambow?’
‘Yes, and after that Stalinogorsk,’ ‘Frostlips’ grins without humour.
‘Devil of a way you’ve got to go, there,’ nods Porta, peering to the north-east. ‘And there’s bad weather coming up!’
‘You can be on the other side of Kursk in four days,’ explains the Commissar, ‘but don’t go through Voronez! Can’t spit there for OGPU!’
‘This is goodbye then,’ says the Old Man quietly. ‘It’s a bit sad. We’ve got to know you!’
‘We like you too,’ smiles ‘Frostlips’, putting an arm round Porta’s shoulder. ‘How stupid war is!’
‘You’ll be shittin’ your pants when you cross Dzherzhinski Square,’ says Gregor, shivering in his cape.
‘Not us. We’ll get by all right,’ laughs the Commissar, self-confidently. ‘I’m more doubtful about you fellows! You must have something to tell ’em when you get back!’
‘Our orders were to pick up some general, and invite him home with us,’ says Porta, ‘but where we going to find one of them?’
‘Frostlips’ spreads out a map on the Panther’s front apron and makes a ring with a crayon.
‘Here’s 38 Motorized Brigade. It’s been strengthened with a cavalry regiment, which is
here
! You’ve counted seventy-somethin’ tanks of types KW-2 and T-34/85, and the usual filler of obsolete BTs!’
‘Now you
are
certain that brigade
is
there?’ asks the Old Man, doubtfully. ‘They’ll soon find out if it’s a wrong ’un. and that’d be worse than coming back empty-handed!’
‘Be easy,’ answers the Commissar. ‘“Frostlips” knows what he’s talking about!’
‘We’d better give you something in return.’ says Porta, bending over the map. ‘Here, along the Merla by Solotev’s 23 Panzer, and they’re piss-poor! They’ve lost the most of their tanks. A medal-hungry general can win a couple for himself right there!’
‘That’s treason,’ rages Heide. ‘It’ll cost you your head if I report you to the NSFO!’
‘But you’re not going to,’ smiles Porta, coldly. ‘Don’t forget you were here! We’re in the same boat, my son!’
‘What about swoppin’ tanks?’ asks ‘Frostlips’, with a sneaky grin. ‘We come home with your Panther, and you take in our T-34/85. They’d like
that
! The latest new creations of the tank modistes!’
‘Maybe it’s
not
such a bad idea,’ says the Old Man, thoughtfully. ‘We’d get through the Russian L of C a lot easier, and if nothing else we could lie in wait for an attack and slip through easy as winking!’
‘Let us say goodbye properly,’ laughs the Commissar, opening the first bottle of vodka.
Porta wipes his porcelain cup on an old sack. It doesn’t make the cup any cleaner, but at least he
has
wiped it.
‘Bring out our little surprise!’ The Commissar turns to ‘Frostlips’. He chuckles and trots over to the tank, and comes back with a case of red caviare. None of us have ever set eyes on red caviare before.
‘You are all my friends,’ hiccoughs the Commissar, knocking the neck off a fresh bottle of
Moskovskaja
. ‘Everyone of you is my very good friend, and I shall always be happy to see you again!’ He takes a long pull at the bottle, shovels down a couple of spoonsful of caviare and belches loudly: ‘Life is a good thing, don’t you think?’ he says, dreamily. ‘There are always new surprises. You’ll see! Some day there will be some other gold we can take off after!’
‘Without me,’ says the Old Man. He is half seas over by now and is explaining to ‘Whorecatcher’ how to make a chest-of-drawers.
‘The most important thing,’ the Commissar goes on, in a drunken voice, ‘is to have good friends spread about all over the world! Then you can always help one another!’ He lifts a finger and points it at Porta. ‘Where we Russians stop thinking, that’s where you Germans step in! Let us drink to friendship and the small, forbidden thoughts! It is quite wrong of us to fight one another,’ he sniffles.
‘A health to the Soviet people,’ shouts Kostia. He rolls his black, Asiatic eyes confusedly when he realizes that there is something wrong with his toast. Although there are 250 million people in Russia, even the dumbest OGPU man
knows that nobody cares to be called a Soviet citizen. He pushes a handful of caviare into his mouth and pours vodka on top of it. Then he toasts himself.
‘A toast to Berlin!’ suggests the Commissar, pleasantly.
‘To Moscow!’ hiccoughs Porta. He carries the chipped porcelain cup to his lips, and almost falls over.
‘Not forgetting Hamburg!’ roars ‘Whorecatcher’.
‘Thank you,’ sobs Tiny, moved. ‘You are all’ereby invited to’ Amburg! We’ll meet at the fur Jew’s kid David’s place at ‘
Ein’ Oyerstrasse
no 10, and there’ll be a red alert out to all the ’ighclass ’ores from “Chéri”.’ He gets to his feet, swaying. ‘To Tashkent!’ he sobs, lifting his tin cup. It is a mystery how he knows there is a town called Tashkent, but, as always, he is full of surprises. Some people have died from them.
Heide is exercising Kostia. He is teaching him the German salute and the Prussian goosestep. Unfortunately every time Kostia gets his foot up on a level with his belt buckle he falls over backwards. In the end he gives up and sits looking sadly up at the racing snow-clouds.
‘Thank God I am not a German!’ he groans. ‘They are far too energetic!’
It is icy cold when we wake up in the old roadmender’s hut.
Porta puts both hands to his throbbing head. It is possible he may have felt worse at some time in his life, but just now he cannot remember when.
‘
Job tvojemadj
!’ groans Kostia, looking as if he has just been shot. ‘What
have
they done to Kostia?’
Albert laughs loudly. He is one of those happy people who never have hangovers. Hangovers are always amusing – for those who do not suffer from them.
‘You black cannibal,’ screams Tiny cantankerously, making a face at him. ‘If I wasn’t sick I’d give you
such
a bashin’. You rotten apeman, you!’
The Commissar wakes up with a piercing scream. He thinks that the worst thing that can happen to a Russian has happened to him. He has been locked up in the cellars of the Lubyanka. He begins shouting at us in Odessa Yiddish, then
goes over to German and claims he is chief of the SS.
‘They must’ve put something really Russian in that
Moskovskaja
,’ moans Gregor, his eyes brimming tears. ‘It was strong enough to knock over a tree and turn it into sawdust!’
‘It was bleedin’ strong, I can tell you,’ mumbles Tiny, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘I got a little bleedin’ drop of it on my finger, an’ now the nail’s gone!’ He has forgotten he has caught his fingers two days earlier in the turret hatch.
‘I have suddenly realized, Josefvitschi,’ says the Commissar to Porta, with a broad smile,’ that you are a crazy fellow. The most crazy fellow I have ever met! How the devil did you ever become a soldier?’
‘Yes, I’ve wondered about that myself, ‘Porta laughs, heartily. ‘But, as you must know, the most important jobs in the world are being a soldier or a whore!’
‘There’s only two kinds of bints,’ shouts Tiny, with a cunning look on his face. ‘The’ ores an’ the dumb ’uns!’
‘Let everybody think you’re an ordinary, dumb twit,’ explains Porta, ‘an’ you can stay standing upright on the crust of the earth enjoying watching the rest of ’em fall off!
It is late next day when we finally take leave of one another. We cannot stop embracing, and agreeing meeting-places after the war.
High on a hilltop Porta stops the T-34, and we wave a final goodbye to our Russian friends who are disappearing in the distance on the road to Moscow.
‘Sag’ mir beim Abschied leise Servus,
ist ein schöner letzter Gruss,
wenn man Abschied nehmen muss . . .
*
’
Porta hums. Resolutely he starts the Otto motor up again.
As we get closer to the front line, traffic increases. We get tied up in traffic jams several times. There are Russian MPs everywhere. We are glad we are riding in a T-34, which does
not draw the slightest attention.
We come to a halt. Papers are to be checked. Our hands grip mpis and grenades nervously. Porta shows our
propusk
and chatters in a mixture of Russian and German.
‘Volga Germans,’ mumbles the fat MP, and looks as if he would like to eat us.
‘Right
tovaritsch
!’ smiles Porta, offering him a swig from the water-bottle.’
The long column of artillery and tanks begins to move forward again.
The MP jumps down from the T-34 and waves us on.
For several hours we drive on in the middle of the column. Then Porta manages to turn off into a narrow forest path. Well into the woods he stops. We jump down and run about in the snow to thaw out our icy feet.
‘I’m fed up!’ says Tiny. ‘I want to go home!’
‘Good heavens, a general!’ whispers Gregor. fearfully.
Three fur-clad forms appear from the closely ranked trees. It is a Lieutenant-general and two staff officers. They are carrying heavy briefcases, chained to their wrists.
‘Who the devil are you?’ snaps the general, in a deep, guttural voice. His sharp blue eyes peer at us from below white bushy brows.
‘Volga Germans,
gospodin general
,’ answers Porta in his best Russian.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ the general goes on suspiciously. He takes a red and white packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights one and blows smoke thoughtfully through his nose. ‘Aren’t you, rather, deserters? It seems to me very strange that you have stopped here to take a rest. You’re a long way from the tank positions!’
‘We lost our way,’ answers Porta, throwing his arms wide.
Propusk
!’ the general demands, putting out his hand.
A lot of things happen in a very short space of time. The general is down in the snow, stretched there by a blow from the edge of Tiny’s shovel of a hand.
A short burst comes from the slim colonel’s machine-pistol. A bullet burns across the side of Tiny’s head. Blood
pours down over his face.
The Legionnaire smashes the colonel’s face in with a butt stroke.
The third officer, a lieutenant-colonel turns and begins to run off through the knee-deep snow.
‘
Stoi
!’ shouts Barcelona, readying his mpi.
Stoi
!’ he repeats, sending a short burst of bullets whipping around the officer.
The lieutenant-colonel stops and raises both hands above his head.
‘
Germanski
?’ cries the general, in amazement, getting slowly to his feet. He rubs his neck and swears softly.
‘Well, we did get our general!’ grins Porta, happily. ‘See what they’ve got in those briefcases!’
‘Well, look at
this
!’ cries Barcelona, in surprise. ‘They’re draggin’ a whole army corps battle order with ’em out here in the forest! They won’t only kiss our cheeks, they’ll kiss our arses too when we get back with this lot!’
The general tries to do a deal with us. He offers us the world if we’ll let him turn the tables and take us in.
‘Think we’re
that
stupid?’ jeers Tiny, with a roar of laughter.
‘Don’t forget dancing’s better than hanging!’ says the general, with an obviously threatening tone in his voice.
A German SP section breaks through the sapling trees.
Like lightning the Legionnaire is out there, waving a snow camouflage shirt.
With a deafening crash of tracks the leading SP comes to a halt. A hard-looking major with a machine-pistol in his hands leans out of the turret and snaps, harshly:
‘
Halt! Hände hoch
!’
Two artillerymen jump from the gun with mpis at the ready. They order the Legionnaire over to the major, who breaks into a roar of laughter at the very idea of our being Germans. He changes his mind, however, when he sees the contents of the Russian briefcases.
‘Well I’m damned,’ he mutters. He salutes the captured general, who looks like a man who has lost everything he owned at poker.
‘We’ll meet again,’ he says to Porta, and sends him a look which ought to have sent his army teeth down his throat.