by Sven Hassel
‘You don’t really mean to say that we airmen are worth all that much?’ asks the Obergefreiter with assumed pride.
‘Of course,’ Porta grins across a mouthful of brawn. ‘You’re a rarity out here in the war. We only see you lot when decorations or supplies are being dished out.’
‘I know,’ replies the Obergefreiter honestly.
‘When you get tired of Minsk,’ Porta goes on, ‘there’s three roads you can choose between. Through Brest-Litovsk is the quickest but I wouldn’t take it myself. You’re bound to run into trouble. Better to nip through Brohobitz near Lemberg. If we’d taken Charkov you could’ve gone that way and carried on along the Black Sea through Bulgaria and Rumania. Might’ve got a lift on one of the Danube boats right through to Vienna. From there there’s the autobahn to Berlin via Munich and Plon. Plenty of nice rest-stations along the road. You can go north along the Baltic, but that’d mean going through Reval where the SS and the Jews annoy one another. I wouldn’t recommend it. As a member of the Luftwaffe you wouldn’t be made welcome by either lot. It’d be all up with you. Neither the hooks nor the SS are sympathetic towards your Reichmarschall.’
‘It’s a dangerous world we live in,’ says the Luftwaffe Obergefreiter worried.
‘You couldn’t be more right,’ replies Porta. ‘Take old Herr Niebelspang who used to deal in used bottles in Berlin-Moabitt. He once had to travel to Bielefeld, on account of the death of an aunt and a letter about it from an attorney. The letter read like this:
Dear Herr Niebelspang,
Your aunt, Frau Leopoldine Schluckebier has departed this life by fastening her neighbour’s clothesline around her neck and thereafter attempting to step down from a blue kitchen-chair.
As sole heir you must inform me immediately whether or not you accept the inheritance with the assets and liabilities of the deceased. In this connection I can inform you that the neighbour has demanded replacement of the clothes-line.
‘“Hurra!” shouted the bottle-dealer from Moabitt in undisguised glee over the old lady’s departure by way of the clothes-line. All he thought of was the inheritance until his friend Fuppermann, who was a “No. 7”8 in an upper-class district of the town, drew his attention to the innocent little word “liabilities”.
‘“Yes, but she was such a nice old lady who lived quietly behind drawn curtains,” explained the happy heir.
‘“There y’are,” grinned the No. 7 “Drawn curtains! What was they drawn for, I asks? For that the nice people outside shouldn’t see what was goin’ on inside! Don’t be the least bit surprised if it turns out your nice old auntie was just an old drunk as pissed persistently on the parson’s prize pelargonias. You’d never believe the wicked things that come out after a sudden death like that.”
‘But Herr Niebelspang wouldn’t listen to the No. 7’s words of wisdom. He took the Berlin-Bielefeld passenger train, changing at Kassel, and arrived at Bielefeld on a dark night, snowing something cruel. It was a Wednesday and he had to be back in Berlin-Moabitt on the Friday to take delivery of a consignment of bottles he was expecting from Leipzig. So that he steamed straight over to the attorney’s place without thinking of how late it was and rang the bell. There was a sign that said: Ring and wait! Open the door when the buzzer sounds! But the door didn’t buzz. Instead a coarse, irritable voice said:
‘“What bloody idiot’s that who’s ringing the bloody doorbell at this time of bloody night?”
‘“Herr Niebelspang from Berlin,” answered the bottle-dealer truthfully. “I have come to accept the assets and liabilities of my aunt, Frau Leopoldine Schluckebier, deceased.”
‘“Get the bloody hell out of here after your fucked-up aunt! And when you find her shit on her and rub it in for me!” roared the voice with true German courtesy.
‘Herr Niebelspang withdrew in haste and passed the night on a bench in a park belonging to the Nunnery of God’s Own Sisters. He felt that a holy place was most suitable now that Aunt Leopoldine had passed away.
‘Stiff with cold he arrived at the solicitor’s office next day, and signed a statement accepting his aunt’s assets and liabilities. Then they explained to him that his entire inheritance consisted of a large debt. He was ruined and had only one choice left: the Army, the last refuge of the luckless social loser. He joined the 46th Infantry Regiment at Neumunster, and with this fine body of men he left for France with the rank of Unterfeldwebel. God’s hand protected him. The very first day he was honestly wounded, the German artillery dropped a barrage short and massacred the unfortunate 46th, and since there were only a few left on whom to hand the Iron Crosses which 10th Army Corps had sent down, Unterfeldwebel Niebelspang was one of those so decorated. When he came out of sick-bay they sent him to 9th Army Corps as a despatch rider. There his troubles really began.
‘He was given a BMW solo job with reverse gear and horizontal valves and sent rushing around with messages of vital importance. It was nice in the summer, but then the winter came with snow and ice and rain and hail and skid-marks in the Wehrmacht underpants. One day the Unterfeldwebel was sent on a secret mission to Berlin. They gave him a lovely black briefcase with eagles on it so that nobody could be in doubt about his being a traveller in military secrets. But very soon he and his official briefcase had the men in black suits after them. Good friends advised him to travel by way of Stuttgart. The people there have only one thing in their heads: Mercedes cars. But the dummkopf chose, unluckily for him, to go via Hamburg. In Bremen the Schupos picked him up at a check-point. It took them four days to find out that they needed a government warrant to sniff about in the briefcase. They didn’t get it, but instead were given strict orders to release the despatch rider and the briefcase, and my unfortunate friend sputtered away again along his Via Dolorosa on his BMW solo job with reverse gear and horizontal valves.
‘At Hamburg he ran into an SS road-block. They were shadowy men from the SS-regiment “Der Führer”. Since the “day of awakening” in ’33 they had regarded Hamburg as their personal property, and they dragged him off to Lange-horn Barracks. There they only kept him for three days while the SS-men used his arse for football practice.
‘Without pausing he continued his journey with briefcase and BMW. At Trave on the Lübeck autobahn he was beaten up by the Security Police for not lifting his arm high enough in the Nazi salute. By mysterious and complicated side-roads he at last arrived at the autobahn leading to Halle, where he had no reason to be at all. There he met a homeless prostitute and gave her a lift. She was on the run with the Vice Squad nipping at her neat little arse. He would’ve done better to think of his briefcase and leave the Halle pro’ to the tender mercies of the cunt-hounds. Just before Willmannstadt, there where the old Gallows Hill lies, the district police were standing around waiting for something to turn up. “Halten sie sofort, oder ich schiesse!9” screamed an Unterwachtmeister who was under his wife’s thumb. He was a bit of a twirp who’d had one of his balls shot off by the Frenchies in the Battle of the Somme in 1916. I should mention that his name was Unterwachtmeister Müller II since there was another Unterwachtmeister with the District whose name was also Müller.
‘“You are a spy!” screamed Müller II in a voice which sent the crows fluttering up from the ancient Gallows Oak close by. They disappeared in the direction of Poland cawing excitedly as if denying the accusation.
‘“Anything whatever you say will be used against you! You are not required to make a statement but I would advise you to confess at once, you traitorous schweinhund! You don’t know me, and you are going to wish you’d never met me. I am Unterwachtmeister Müller II, Herbert Carl of the 7th Police District, Halle. I have caught bigger crooks than you in my time: two murderers, four larcenists, three embezzlers and a traitor. Every one of ’em lost his top!” he added with an enjoyable policeman’s smile.
‘“Herr Unter . . .” my friend attempted.
‘“Keep your mouth shut until you’re told to open it!” screamed Unterwachtmeister Müller II.
“In Halle we maintain order. Make a note of that! You have the right to refuse to make a statement but don’t try to exercise it or you’ll wish you’d never been born. We’ll make mincemeat of you and serve you up for Saturday supper. So you admit you’re a Soviet spy? Your scoundrelly face gives you away. You want to undermine the Fatherland. You are an enemy of the people. Gentlemen of the 7th District, beat the bastard up!”
‘The squad drew their truncheons and my friend was in a happy state of unconsciousness when they dragged him into the No. 7 District station. Gendarm-Rittmeister Sauerfleisch went to town in a big way on Unterwachtmeister Müller II after a pleasant conversation with General-Commando III in Berlin.
‘Afterwards Unterwachtmeister Müller II and my friend went over to “The Crooked Cop”, on the corner of Erika Strasse and Hermanngasse, for a quiet lager. On the way home they sang blissfully:
Oh Lord, don’t let me stand
Outside your pearly gate.
Oh Lord, give me your hand
Don’t say I’ve come too late!
‘“Our society is built on our mistakes,” hiccups Polizei-Unterwachtmeister Müller II before they fall asleep, happily arm-in-arm.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asks the Luftwaffe Obergefreiter quietly.
‘To prepare you for your march to Berlin. You’ll go through some terrible experiences on your pilgrimage through our three dimensional National Socialist state.’
‘I protest!’ cries Julius indignantly. ‘High treason, enemy propaganda!’
‘What the hell kind of spook’s that?’ asks the Luftwaffe Obergefreiter in surprise.
‘There’s a clown in every good circus,’ smiles Porta. ‘In No. 5 Company we have Unteroffizier Julius Heide.’
‘The kooky types you do meet in the forces,’ sighs the Obergefreiter apathetically. ‘Did your friend ever get to Berlin with his express message, by the way?’
‘Yes, he got there in the end,’ continues Porta, ‘but the Chief-of-Staff’s adjutant got a funny look on his face when he looked at the date on the messages. If they had got there in time they could’ve changed the history of the world. My friend was arrested and locked up in Gross-Lichterfelde. You should’ve seen the charge-sheet they made out for him. He found out just how much easier and less risky it was to deal in used bottles than to be despatch-rider for a German General Command. The Judge Advocate enjoyed himself with him for three or four weeks. A carpenter came and measured him for a wooden one-piece to be delivered immediately after receipt of twelve rifle-bullets. Then 9th Army Corps required him sent to Strassburg. He’d been posted in orders with the MPs as a deserter for quite a long time, and now to their surprise he turns up in III General Commando’s jug. This they found a bit annoying. In Leipzig he met Herr Luske who ran a blackmarket slaughter-house and invited him to dine on “nervous pork with sauerkraut” washed down with poor-man’s champagne. Whilst they sat filling themselves with fat pork . . . .’
‘What are you doing here still?’ comes an enraged shout.
‘Didn’t I order you to report to the Reichsmarschall? Down on your face! Twenty push-ups.’
With unbelievable slowness and complete indifference the Luftwaffe Obergefreiter drops down in front of his officer and carries out the required twenty push-ups.
‘Don’t bend your elbows so much,’ whispers Porta. ‘It takes more energy to come up.’
‘Up, Obergefreiter!’ shouts the Leutnant hoarsely, realizing suddenly that he is only making himself a laughingstock.
For a moment the Obergefreiter lies motionless, simulating unconsciousness. It almost always works. Push-ups are forbidden in the Prussian Army. They’ve cost too many broken blood vessels over the years and if a story like this gets to the ears of a court-martial it can have unpleasant consequences.
‘Your officer wants you to stand to attention,’ says Porta with his mouth full of brawn.
The Leutnant goes for Porta without thinking.
‘You! Obergefreiter there! Keep your mouth shut! Can’t you see you’re addressing an oficer of the Luftwaffe?’
‘No sir, sorry sir, I don’t see anything for the moment, I’ve got my eyes closed, sir. Closed by order of my CO, sir, Oberst Hinka, sir. According to HDV no tank driver must be irritated or ordered to carry out work of an unproductive nature. As soon as the vehicle stops the driver must rest!’
The officer makes odd noises. His eyes roll in his head and his colour changes.
Porta regards him with an adoring expression. As if the Leutnant were his newly-returned beloved prodigal brother.
‘Request to be allowed to ask the Leutnant, sir, if the Leutnant knows Herr Judge Advocate Plazek from Wiener-Neustadt?’
The Luftwaffe officer regards Porta with a look of wonderment.
‘Judge Advocate Plazek was the life and soul of the garrison prison,’ continues Porta with a friendly smile. ‘Each new arrival was met with the following beautiful speech: Confess, you criminal, and you’ll get on well here. Refuse and God and the Church will turn from you in horror. The reason for your being here does not interest me. I want to know what you were doing before the authorities uncovered you? Tell me everything about the murder at 27 Kaärtner Strasse! Then you will find in me a faithful friend who will stand by you in court.
‘Most often prisoners refused to confess but sometimes Herr Plazek met a sensible person. There was, for example, Waffenmeister Kleinhammer who took great pleasure in confessing. He confessed not only to the murder in Kaärtner Strasse but also to countless other unsolved murders throughout Central Europe. The Judge Advocate and the Waffenmeister had fun with one another for several months. But when the court-martial began to check up mathematically they found that Herr Kleinhammer must have committed a murder every single day of his life from the age of three. This was no great problem for the lawyers and the court psychiatrists. But to make matters worse the defending officer proved that Herr Waffenmeister Kleinhammer had never been out of the Tyrol. Born in Innsbruck, he had gone to school at Innsbruck, and been officially enrolled in the 6th Artillery Regt. at Innsbruck. The nearest he had ever been to a foreign country was a period as a frontier guard on the Brenner. It made a great noise when the court dismissed the mass-murderer, who had been talked about for months, with only a warning.
‘The defending officer got a terrible rocket for insulting the Army by getting his client off. They sent him to Salzburg where a court-martial worked him over. The President of the Court was transferred to Klagenfurt, where he was stabbed by a chap from Trieste in ’39. An ordinary murder for gain made out to be a political assassination for the sake of appearances. They hung the black-eyed scoundrel who did it, in reprisal for something else. I don’t remember exactly for what but I think it was something to do with a Herr Giodonni from one of the islands where they make glass.’
‘That’s enough of that, you, you – Obergefreiter,’ screams the Leutnant desperately and begins to gabble quite horribly.
‘I order you to march to Berlin,’ he squeaks finally.
‘Sorry sir, sorry, but I’m sorry to say that I’m afraid that can’t be done,’ smiles Porta patiently. ‘There’s nowhere I’d rather be than in Berlin. D’you know “The Sitting Bear” in Bernauergasse? There’s a pavement-pounder there called Long Lean Lily who has a regular beat between “The Gypsy Cellar” and “The Bear”. In the winter you can meet her playing the lady in the Turkish Mocca Room, where they hold their cups daintily with only two fingers. The same thing happened to her as to Herr Pampel in Fasanenstrasse who put water in the beer . . .’
But the officer has had enough, and runs, sobbing weakly, back to his overturned lorry.
From the distance Porta’s voice follows him:
‘This Herr Pampel fell into the clutches of Judge Advocate Liebe at Sennelager. They shot him at the back of the Panzer Barracks at Paderborn. You know sir, you know, he cried when they shot him.’
‘That’s the way it always goes,’ Porta turns to the sol
diers crowded around the tank, ‘they arrive, puffed-up and self-assured with their swords clanking against their legs, and dried-up and deflated we send them away. If I was an officer I’d never have anything to do with Obergefreiters. I’d carry on my war without ’em!’
‘Then you’d lose your war,’ grins Barcelona.
‘I’d do that anyway,’ replies Porta, ‘but if I kept away from Obergefreiters I’d lose it without being made a laughing-stock of.’ Slowly Porta takes his leather gauntlet off and looks at his right hand with slowly-dawning recognition. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ he breaks out in pretended astonishment, ‘there you are you pretty little chap!’ He pats the hand tenderly. ‘You’ve grown since I saw you last, you little devil you!’
Hauptfeldwebel Edel comes slowly over towards the P-IV. In true Hauptfeldwebel style he plants both clenched fists on his hips. He stops by the P-IV and sends Porta a killing look.
Porta lies to attention.
‘Herr Hauptfeldwebel, Obergefreiter Porta reports complying with CO’s instructions: Resting as soon as becomes possible.’
‘Porta,’ snarls Edel viciously through thin, pale lips. ‘You’ll end your days dangling at the end of a good, stout Wehrmacht rope. I’d be a liar if I said I won’t be glad to see you dangling. The cleverest thing you can do is to get yourself a hero’s death p.d.q., Obergefreiter Porta. You are a shameful blot on the Greater German Wehrmacht. If the Führer ever gets to know that you’re a member of his Armed Forces, he’ll retire immediately and go home to Austria.’
‘Request Herr Hauptfeldwebel’s permission to send a postcard?’ Hauptfeldwebel Edel turns on his heel and stalks off. From bitter experience he knows how unwise it is to enter into a discussion with Porta.
Porta turns back to the large ring of soldiers round the P-IV and speaks to them of the new times and the happiness which comes to the cheerful in heart.