Assignment Gestapo

by Sven Hassel

  ‘That’s what you think!’ Paulus came striding towards us, his grey eyes contracting pinpoints. ‘You seem to have forgotten that I’m an Unterscharführer—’

  ‘Filthy shit, more like.’

  ‘You dare to talk to me like that?’ demanded Paulus, almost as taken aback as I was myself.

  ‘Why not?’ said Porta, with one of his evil grins. ‘You can’t do nothing to me . . . not without I spill the beans about that raid you carried out at No. 7 Herbertstrasse . . . You hadn’t forgotten that already, had you? Because I can assure you that I hadn’t. In fact, I been thinking, Paulus: we got room for someone like you in our regiment. How’d you like to leave the SD and come and join us, eh? Chaps have come to us for doing far less than what you’ve done.’

  The man’s eyes widened, and then contracted again.

  ‘What do you know about Herbertstrasse?’ he asked.

  ‘I know you’re a thief, for a start—’

  Paulus drew himself up very stiff and raised a cold eyebrow.

  ‘Are you presuming to call an Unterscharführer of the SD a thief?’

  .’You heard,’ said Porta, cheerfully. ‘And I’ll say it again if I feel like . . . whenever and wherever I feel like it . . . Why, anyway? You got any objections, have you?’

  Paulus heard the lift arriving. He pursed his lips to a thin line and strode away, not looking back in our direction. Porta watched him, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

  ‘That’ll give him a few sleepless nights, the bastard!’

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘What went on at Herbertstrasse?’

  We turned back again, into the rain.

  ‘To tell the truth,’ admitted Porta, ‘I don’t really know, except it’s where they picked up those two whores, a few days ago. The ones that had been hiding a couple of deserters. Apparently they done a raid on the place, and whatever went on there it was enough to make old Paulus think twice, wasn’t it? You see the way he changed colour?’

  ‘Yes, but surely to God,’ I said, ‘you know more about it than that?’

  Porta shrugged.

  ‘Only by hearsay. One of the whores that lives at No. 7 – not the two they took away, another one. The place is lousy with ’em – well, she was telling me that Paulus and another bloke nicked the girls’ ration cards and walked off with their savings. I wasn’t sure it was true until just now.’

  ‘You mean, you tried it on without actually knowing?’ I said, aghast.

  ‘why not? Nothing venture, nothing gain, as some other geezer once said.’

  ‘So what happens? You going to shop him?’

  ‘Not before I’ve squeezed him dry,’ said Porta, callously. ‘When he ain’t no more use to me, I’ll make bloody sure he’s sent off to Fuhlsbüttel . . . and on the day he finds himself landed in a disciplinary unit, I’m going to go out and paint the town the brightest bleeding red you ever saw!’

  I grunted.

  ‘Always assuming you’re still alive to do it. One of these days you’re going to bite off just a bit more than you can chew. One of these days you’re going to meet up with someone who turns round and tells you to get stuffed—’

  ‘Ah, bollocks!’ said Porta. ‘You think I don’t know what I’m doing? They’re all the same, these types, right from Himmler downwards. The minute you try a little bit of the old blackmail lark on them, they all get the wind up and start shitting blue bricks . . . they’ve all got something to hide, see? All you got to do is find out what it is.’

  We stood in silence a few moments, contemplating the empty street. The rain blew into our faces and got into our eyes and down our necks.

  ‘I wonder what that little old girl had done?’ I said.

  ‘I dunno. Opened her mouth too wide, I expect.’

  ‘You reckon they’ll give her the full treatment?’

  ‘Why not? Only reason they bring ’em in, to see how loud they can make ’em shout . . .’

  We tramped along by the side of the building, our heavy boots resounding on the pavements. The pale light of the streetlamps was reflected in our wet helmets and rifles.

  ‘I could fancy a cup of tea and Slibowitz right now,’ said Porta, longingly.

  ‘Make it Slibowitz and tea,’ I said, ‘and I’ll join you . . . three-quarters Slibowitz and the rest tea . . . and God in heaven!’ I added, irritably, as I felt my shirt flapping damply against my back. ‘I’m sick to death of this pissing awful rain! I’m sick to death of the whole bleeding war, and everything to do with it! We’re all sick to death of it! They’re sick of it, we’re sick of it, so why the hell don’t we all call it quits and go home again?’

  ‘Some hopes,’ said Porta, cynically. ‘It’s only the people what have to fight the bleeding thing what are sick of it . . . And they’re not the people what can call it off. Them as starts it and them as finishes it aren’t nothing to do with the likes of you and me. They don’t give a fuck what we feel about it, and they’re not going to get sick of it all the time they’re making so much bleeding money out of it, are they? They’ll just go on until we’re all dead and buried. Much they flaming well care . . . And them over there,’ he said, pointing wildly in the direction which I conceived to be England and the rest of Europe, ‘they’re just as bleeding bad as them over here. Revenge, that’s all they want. Revenge and money, that’s all any of ’em bleeding wants.’

  ‘It’s like the Legionnaire said the other day,’ I agreed. ‘They call this the Second World War, but really it’s just the same as the First World War and every other war that’s ever been fought. It’s all one great big war that never ends. We think it ends and then another one starts up, but he’s quite right, it’s all the same one, just fought on different fronts at different times with different weapons . . .’

  I remembered very clearly the Legionnaire saying that.

  ‘It won’t ever end,’ he said, ‘because They don’t want it to . . . Why should they? As long as the war goes on, then capitalism can flourish. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? So of course they’re going to keep it alive. It might die down from time to time, but they’ll damn well make sure the fire never goes out altogether. There’ll always be someone there to fan the flames.’

  ‘That’s treason!’ shouted Heide. ‘I could denounce you for that! That’s Communist talk!’

  ‘Balls,’ said the Legionnaire, distastefully. ‘Communist, capitalist, Nazi, I hate the whole damned lot of them . . . I’m just a soldier, doing what I’m told to do.’

  The Old Man looked at him a moment.

  ‘Do you enjoy being a soldier?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ said the Legionnaire, with a shrug. ‘It’s just a job, same as any other job. No one ever bothered to ask me what I’d ENJOY doing. I didn’t have any choice in the matter.’

  ‘So that’s why you do it?’

  ‘Well, look at it this way.’ The Legionnaire leaned forward towards him. ‘Do YOU like being a soldier? Did YOU have any choice in the matter? Does anyone? Why do people go on paying their taxes? Or not driving without a licence? Or paying for their food instead of stealing it? Because they ENJOY doing these things? Or because they don’t have any choice in the matter? Effectively, because they don’t have any choice in the matter. It’s either obeying the law or going to the nick. Or in my case, originally, being a soldier or starving. Or in our case, now – your case and my case and Sven’s and Porta’s and Tiny’s – being a soldier and doing what they say, or being stood against a wall and having our brains blown out.’ He sat back, shaking his head. ‘And if you call that any sort of choice, then I don’t’

  I sighed and watched the rain falling steadily off my helmet.

  ‘Sodding guard duty,’ I said. ‘Seems like it goes on for weeks at a stretch.’

  ‘Let’s pray for a pussy cat,’ said Porta. ‘A nice fat black pussy we can shoot at . . . Anything to relieve the monotony . . .’

  We had retraced our steps and were back near the entrance to the building, at a part wh
ere the wall was crenellated, with loopholes and small turrets.

  ‘Let’s slip behind there and have a fag,’ said Porta. ‘we can get out of the way of this God awful rain then. No one won’t come looking for us here.’

  We slipped behind the wall, settled ourselves in a dry spot and removed our helmets. There was only a quarter of an hour to go before Heide and Tiny would turn up to relieve us. Doubtless they would bring something strong and warming to drink with them.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Porta, hopefully. ‘we stay here long enough, we might even give some poor sod just the opportunity he’s been waiting for to send the whole perishing lot of ’em up in flames . . . In fact, anyone come up to me with a bomb in his hand and asked me to look the other way for a bit, I’d do it like a shot. He wouldn’t even have to bribe me . . .’

  ‘Talking of money,’ I said, squatting on my haunches, ‘what about those steel helmets the Legionnaire nicked from Supplies? What’s happening to them?’

  ‘They’re with a Swedish concierge in the Bernhard Nachtstrasse at the moment. He says they’re safe as houses, but they can’t stay there for ever. There’s a locksmith in Thalstrasse who’s willing to buy ’em, but he wants us to dump ’em all in a depot in Ernst Strasse – just opposite Altona Station. Problem is, getting ’em there. We can’t use our own trucks, we’d never get away with it.’

  ‘How much is he willing to pay?’ I asked. And then added, ‘As a matter of fact, I know where we can lay hands on a quantity of howitzer shells, but again it’s a question of transport. We’d have to go early in the morning and we’d have to have an SS truck. Not only that, we’d need a special permit signed by the SS, or they wouldn’t let us collect the stuff. They’ve been a bit jumpy ever since some geezer managed to walk off with a couple of engines that didn’t belong to him . . . Still, if we could get the necessary transport it’d be worth a try . . . I was tipped off by a chap I know in the SS. He’s got a chip as big as Mount bleeding Everest on his shoulder on account he once tried to do a bunk and they caught up with him.’

  ‘This locksmith,’ said Porta. ‘He’s giving us 67 pfennig a kilo. We’d probably be able to screw him a bit more for the shells. Say 69 . . . Any rate, like you say, it’s worth a try. Tiny could manage a nice new set of number plates, and if we took the big Krupp I reckon we might get away with it. That’s a twin brother to an SS truck, near as damn it’

  ‘How about the permit?’

  ‘Couldn’t your pal in the ss fiddle it for us?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. How much do you reckon we’d have to pay him for it?’

  ‘A kick up the arse,’ said Porta. ‘We’ve got a hold on him, don’t forget. One squeak out of us and he’s for the high jump.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ I broke off and closed a hand over Porta’s wrist as I heard footsteps approaching. ‘Watch it! Someone’s coming . . .’

  We sat there a moment, our ears strained, and then Porta poked the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole.

  ‘If it’s a Gestapo bastard I shall shoot him,’ he decided. ‘Anyone says anything, we’ll tell ’em we thought it was a saboteur. They’re always going on about saboteurs.’

  ‘Don’t be sodding stupid,’ I said. ‘we’d never get away with it.’

  Porta suddenly lowered his rifle, obviously disappointed.

  ‘It’s only Tiny and Heide.’

  We peered over the top and saw them slowly approaching. They were talking earnestly and waving their arms about, and Tiny had a bottle clenched in one vast paw.

  ‘Thank you, God, for the Emperor,’ breathed Porta. ‘And specially for his horse . . .’

  We heard Tiny’s loud laugh, and then the lower tones of Heide, grumbling and cursing.

  ‘He’s a shit, he’s a sod, and he’s a bastard, and he’s going to get what’s coming to him. Great finicking stupid queen . . . well, he’s pissed his kipper this time, and so I tell you.’ He paused, spat on the pavement and ground it in with the heel of his boot. ‘You wait till I get my hands on him. You just wait!’

  ‘I don’t like him, either,’ said Tiny.

  ‘Biggest load of shit I’ve ever met in the whole of my life,’ said Heide, vindictively.

  Porta laughed and jabbed me in the ribs.

  ‘That’ll be Feldwebel Brandt . . . take a bet?’

  ‘Like hell!’ I said. ‘It’s practically a certainty.’

  ‘Well, it was time he was bumped off. Sounds like Julius might have something in mind.’

  ‘I’m game,’ I said. ‘I can’t stand the bastard.’

  ‘Suppose I jumped up and down on his stomach till he farted his guts out?’ we heard Tiny suggest, in a helpful way.

  Heide looked at him, a fanatical glare in his eyes.

  ‘Jesus Christ, only to think of the swine makes me feel sick! I still don’t know how it happened . . .’ He stopped and held out his arms appealingly. ‘Tiny, just tell me: aren’t I the cleanest, smartest, best-groomed soldier in the whole Regiment? In the whole Division? In the whole damned Army?’

  Tiny looked at him and nodded vigorously.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I reckon that’s right.’

  ‘Of course it’s right! Look at my chin strap – look at it, go on, look at it! I’ll give you my next five years’ pay if you can find even the slightest mark on it . . . well, you can’t, I promise you that, so don’t yank my bleeding head off!’ Heide jerked himself away from Tiny, who had taken the offer literally and was peering closely at his chin strap, clutching it with one big paw. ‘You know what,’ continued Heide, ‘when I was going through training – and this is Gospel truth, so help me God – they used to end up looking at our arses if they couldn’t find anything else to get us on. And you know what? My arse was the cleanest bloody arse in the whole company! And it still is! You could look up my arse any day of the week, any minute of the day, and you’d find it as clean as a new pin. I swear to you,’ cried Heide, growing ever more excited, ‘that I wash the damn thing out three times a day!’

  ‘I believe you!’ shouted Tiny, becoming infected with some of Heide’s own enthusiasm. ‘I believe you, you don’t have to show me!’

  ‘Look at my comb!’ Heide pulled it out of his pocket and thrust it beneath Tiny’s face. ‘Cleaner than the day I bought it! And just tell me, what’s the first thing I do when we’ve had to dig ourselves in somewhere? What’s the first thing I do?’

  ‘You clean your finger nails,’ said Tiny, positively. ‘I’ve seen you do it’

  ‘Precisely. I clean my finger nails. And what do I do it with? I do it with a nail file . . . Not with the point of my bayonet, like you and the others.’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Tiny. ‘That is quite right.’

  ‘And what about this!’ Almost beside himself, Heide dragged off his helmet and pointed to his head. ‘Not a hair out of place! All cut according to regulations . . . combed according to regulations . . . even the perishing fleas march single file on the right! But Leopold Brandt, the Feldwebel of the Devil, God rot the balls off him – Leopold Brandt has to haul me up on account of my parting isn’t dead straight! Me!’ screeched Heide, turning purple. ‘Me, of all people!’

  ‘It’s a diabolical liberty,’ said Tiny, earnestly.

  ‘It’s more than that, it’s a bloody outrage!’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Tiny. ‘It’s an outrage.’

  ‘The man’s a sodding nut!’ cried Heide. ‘He even had me standing at one end of the courtyard while he climbed up on to the roof of the Third Company H.Q. and looked at me through a bleeding range finder! Just so he could PROVE the bloody thing wasn’t straight!’

  ‘That’s madness, that is,’ said Tiny.

  They walked forward, caught sight of us and slipped behind the shelter of the wall to join us.

  ‘What’s all this?’ demanded Porta. ‘You got it in for Brandt, have you?’

  I’il tell you something,’ offered Heide, ‘only keep it under your hats . . . if we can manage to get friend Leopo
ld as marker on number three next time we have rifle practice with real ammunition—’ He paused, significantly, nodded and winked. ‘That’ll be the end of that creep.’

  ‘How come?’

  Tiny turned to whisper in Heide’s ear.

  ‘Shall we tell ’em?’

  ‘If they swear to keep their big mouths shut.’

  Porta and I instantly swore. Tiny took a jubilant swig of Slibowitz from his bottle and handed it on to Porta.

  ‘It was like this,’ he said. ‘It was me what thought of it in the first place, and it’s me what’s arranged it all . . . It was when I was out on the rifle range last week. I suddenly had this idea come to me about how we could polish the bastard off. It was just a question of having the opportunity.’ He took back the bottle and had another swig. ‘Well, I had the opportunity a couple of days ago. I was sent off with another guy to change the plate on number two. While we was doing it, he had to go off to the bog to have a slash – being as Hinka does his nut if the place starts stinking of urine. He can’t stand to have blokes pissing on the Third Reich . . . Anyway, while he was gone I took the opportunity to take the plate off of number three and fix it on again a bit too low down, see?’ He demonstrated, with one hand beneath his chin. ‘Result is, anyone stands on the butt and his head’s unprotected and liable to get blown off . . . and nobody to say who’s responsible for it’

  ‘Very clever,’ I said, ‘but how can you ensure that it is Leo pold who’s on number three at the right time?’

  Tiny tapped his head with a finger.

  ‘I’m not as stupid as you might think. I got it all worked out, don’t you worry . . . First, it’s the Legionnaire what draws up the lists, so he can easy arrange for Leopold to be on number three; second, we all know that Leopold likes showing off when he’s out there; and third, we always finish up by firing with telescopic sight, and it’s always at number three . . . Am I right?’

  ‘I guess so,’ I said. ‘But what’s supposed to happen?’

  ‘Well, now, someone—’ and he looked meaningly at Heide and Porta – ‘someone has to go out and finish the job by fixing a few explosives in the loophole where Leopold’s going to stick his pretty head . . . and then it won’t be your fault if you fire a bit to one side, will it?’