by Sven Hassel
‘But only if you’re wearin’ a rubber, mate,’ titters the smallest of them, pointing suggestively up under her dress.
‘Later, later,’ Porta waves them away. ‘Give us the one about the orphaned children first.’
‘No, the one about death as turns up after midnight,’ hiccups Tiny, laughing foolishly. ‘We’re on our way to the clink with four candidates for the chopper,’ he confides to the two patriotic ladies.
‘And they look such nice chaps, too,’ giggles the tall thin one.
“They are that,’ grins Tiny. ‘They’ll make four lovely corpses.’
‘What’ve they done, then?’ comes inquisitively from over by the long table.
‘Nothing much,’ smiles Porta. ‘The footslogger there cut the throats of his two newborn twins. The gunner beat his wife to death with some part or another of a gun, and the fat chap, who’s a butcher in civvy street, made sausage meat out o’ two whores.’
‘That’s enough of that,’ shouts the Wachtmeister, indignantly. ‘None of us is a murderer. We’re politicals, we are!’
Suddenly everybody wants to buy a round.
‘The Fatherland has had it,’ intones Porta, over the heads of the crowd, which exudes a mixed atmosphere of beer and street-walker love.
‘After us the bleedin’ flood,’ announces Tiny, excitedly, and drinks a sleeping guest’s beer. ‘Our wicked enemies are takin’ the piss out of us,’ hiccups Gregor, staggering threateningly.
At the long table the convalescents and their lady-friends begin to sing:
Germany you ancient house,
Your blood-stained banner hangs in tatters. . . .
‘As a servant of the state I cannot continue to listen to this sort of thing,’ protests a long, thin man in a black leather coat. He resembles an eagle with a bad cold.
‘Sit over in the corner then and stick your fingers in your ears,’ Porta advises him. ‘What you don’t hear won’t hurt you.’
‘Let’s get on to the bloody glasshouse,’ begs the artillery Wachtmeister, unhappily. ‘This whole thing is madness! As a military prisoner I must strongly protest.’
‘Your lice must be ticklin’ up your liver,’ growls Tiny. ‘What the ’ell’s it to do with you, anyroad? You’re not a servin’ soldier just now. ’Ave a bit o’ fun. It’s the last chance you’ll bleedin’ ’ave before you get court-martialled. After that you won’t be laughin’ all that much. Then you may realise World Wars just ain’t funny!’
The infantry Gefreiter is drunk and dancing a weaving tango with the patriotic little whore. She has a good grip on him to prevent him falling.
‘I know a bloke who’s gonna get his nut chopped off,’ he confides to here with a skull-like chuckle.
‘The good go first, always,’ she consoles him, and follows her words up with a hearty belch.
‘Yesterday a rotten bastard give me a set o’ phony ration cards for an all-nighter,’ says a girl, sadly.
‘You couldn’t’ve satisfied ’im, then, could you?’ says a one-armed Feldwebel.
‘Aren’t you scared they’ll escape?’ asks a civilian. He smells like police.
‘They don’t dare,’ grins Porta. ‘They’d get shot for desertin’ as well as what they’re gonna get shot for now, an’ that’s enough to give the toughest nut in the world the pip.’
‘You must know, as an NCO, that it is strictly forbidden to take prisoners into public houses?’ The plain clothes policeman turns to Gregor. ‘I refer you to page 176 in regulations for military escorts. The prisoner is to be taken straight to the place of imprisonment and placed in solitary confinement. He is in no circumstances to be allowed to come into contact with other persons. If communication with him becomes necessary, such communication will be confined to as few words as possible.’
‘Dead on, matey,’ Tiny burbles, foolishly. ‘Prisoners will be treated like tiny little babies, they will. They are not to be contaminated by contact with drunks, nor ’ores neither! Any on ’em as does talk to ’em’ll be clapped in bleedin’ irons an’ took straight in front of the judge.’
‘Fifty for a shot?’ a ratty little man whispers. ‘Dead good, it is,’ he whispers, and nudges Porta conspiratorially. ‘Ether an’ benz. Three days time and all China’s got the black plague. If you’re the last German soldier alive none of ’em’ll care tuppence.’
Too soon, my son, too soon,’ says Porta, without interest. ‘I’m one of the happy few who’re still enjoying a good, good war.’
Shortly after the weird little man disappears into the toilet with his hypodermic syringe and four war-weary infantrymen. When they come back they exude a new optimism.
The noise level in the bar increases. Two of the prisoners have dropped off to sleep in the dog’s basket by the stove. The dog is not happy about this. It growls, shows its teeth and nips at their legs. But to no avail. Resolutely it lifts a hind leg and pisses all over their faces.
‘A couple o’ pints o’ water a day is good for you,’ mumbles the sleeping infantry Gefreiter.
‘Chew your food twenty-seven times before swallowing’ snivels the Pioneer, working his jaws like a masticating cow in a warm stable.
‘Take me home to jail,’ demands the Wachtmeister, severely. ‘I’ve the right to be taken straight to jail. I’m a bloody prisoner an’ I’ve got more rights’n any other bloody soldier in the army. You lot don’t only have to see to me not runnin’ off, but also that I don’t come to no harm. It’s a very serious matter, it is!’ He points accusingly at the two prisoners in the dog’s basket. ‘The judges aren’t gonna like that, y’know! Prisoners drunk as lords.’
‘I’m hungry,’ announces Porta, with an echoing belch. ‘What about a round o’ “shit on a shovel” to stay the pangs? Eight “shit on a shovels” ’ he shouts through the kitchen hatch.
-Very soon eight steaming plates of hash appear from the kitchen.
The miserable grey morning light of November begins to appear and Gregor feels it’s about time they rejoined the service and began to try to find their way to the jail.
‘Maybe it’s gone away!’ slobbers the Pioneer in the dog basket.
‘Think so?’ asks the infantry Gefreiter, an expression of hope spreading across his face. He looks like a starving man who has found a well-filled wallet.
‘They ain’t gonna like it if we arrive in the middle o’ breakfast,’ mutters Tiny, darkly.
‘Right you are,’ admits Porta, thoughtfully. ‘Particularly the way the boys in the dog basket stink of beer an’ schnapps.’
‘What do we do then?’ sighs Gregor indecisively, suddenly feeling rather lonely.
‘We bomb England to bits,’ declares a drunken airman, banging his fist on the table. ‘There’ll be nothin’ left but a bloody big hole in the sea!’
‘God love us,’ shouts Gregor, with a hashy belch. ‘We never should have had a soddin’ air force.’
‘Just what I say,’ shouts the infantry Gefreiter in the dog basket. ‘Brave foot-sloggers an’ artillery as can aim straight. A shower o’ shells on top on ’em an’ over the top we go!’
‘Yeah, we’ve lost a lot of wars that way,’ sighs Porta, tiredly. ‘The foot-sloggers foot-slogged themselves straight to hell. When they got to the day of victory there was nothin’ left of ’em but the rings of their arses. All the shiny Krupp guns were so worn out they shot backwards an’ plastered the gunners all over the landscape.’
‘If you don’t come now,’ shouts Gregor, angrily, blowing himself up like a poisoned pup, ‘I’m off. Damned if I’m not.’
‘Woof, woof.’ barks Tiny. ‘Barmy as a Prussian without anybody to give orders to, you are. Listen now, Gregor. You are an escort! If you’re on your bleedin’ own ’ow can you be an escort. They’ll courtmartial you, they will. Count on it. The commander of a escort without no escort nor no prisoners neither. A very, very serious matter, indeed!’
‘Oh, they’d kick his arse all the way up to the back of his neck, they would. He’d have
to stand on his head to go for a shit,’ confirms Porta, scratching his ear. ‘One glance at Army Regs an’ anybody can see it’s no fun being put on escort duty.’
‘What the Bible is to the Pope an’ the Koran is to the Muslims that’s what Army bleedin’ Regs is to the German Army,’ shouts Tiny, solemnly. ‘If Moses’s son Job ’ad ’ad Army Regs to ’ave a gander at ’e wouldn’t never’ve been barmy enough to cross the bleedin’ Rhine an’ go walkin’ in the German soddin’ jungle’n gettin’ the lot on ’em suffocated in ’eathen sauerkraut.’ Tiny is firing off his usual strange mixture of history and the Bible.
‘Tell me, gentlemen. Tell me please. Where am I?’ asks the medical officer suddenly. He gets to his feet with considerable difficulty, his legs wobbling under him.
‘Doctor, sir! You are amongst friends! Porta assures him, smashing his heels together. ‘You, sir, are in “the Frog”, sir.’
‘Comrade, shoot me,’ the M.O. demands, with a very German look on his face. ‘I am a boozy rat. Shoot me!’ he repeats, tearing open his tunic and baring his breast.
‘If you wish, sir,’ replies Porta, obediently, placing the butt of his rifle with difficulty to his shoulder. He wavers dangerously, the muzzle of his rifle pointing all over the place. ‘Stand still then, doctor, so’s I can shoot you as ordered,’ he shouts through the din.
‘Fire!’ orders Tiny, in a stentorian voice.
A deafening roar splits the air, and plaster powders down from the ceiling. The bullet ricochets round the room and ends in a beer cask, from which the contents begin to spout.
‘I’m killed, I’m bleeding,’ whimpers the M.O. miserably, as the beer drenches him. Wailing, he crawls under the table, and hitting his head on a supporting crosspiece discovers he is not dead yet. He staggers to his feet with difficulty, stands in front of the mirror, and points at himself. ‘Aha, there you are,’ he says, cunningly. ‘Thought you could fool me, did you? I see straight through you, you doctor you. No malingerers with me. Fit for duty and back to the front! Kick me!’ he orders, in a severe voice.
‘Order carried out, sir!’ shouts Tiny, sending the medical officer flying across the room with a well-directed kick.
‘It’s the Russians!’ screams a tiny woman, who seems to be exceptionally patriotic, jumping up on the sleeping Schupo’s back. She bites him savagely in the neck and pulls his ears back with both hands.
The traindriver, who has been lying across a table, snoring like a runaway circular saw, wakes up suddenly at the sound of the Schupo’s screams.
‘Zurücktreten, Zug fahrt ab!’ he roars, sitting himself crossways on a chair with a traindriver look on his face. Whistling, and making steam-engine noises he hops around the room on the chair.
‘They’ll put that bastard inside for sure!’ prophesies the Wachtmeister watching the whistling, steaming traindriver with a sombre mien.
‘We’ll all end up there sooner or later,’ says Gregor, darkly.
‘Verweile Augenblick, du bist so schön,’ Pona quotes from Goethe, solemnly.
The traindriver knocks the M.O. over. He crawls along the wall and gets up in front of Tiny. ‘I’ve found you, my son! I’ve found you!’ he slobbers, idiotically. ‘How’s dad, son? Fit for duty is he?’
‘Not really,’ answers Tiny. ‘They cut ’is bleedin’ ’ead off in Fuhlsbüttel on New Years mornin’, 1938!’
‘The ways of God are mysterious,’ sobs the medical officer, crossing himself. ‘Head or no bloody head, who cares? He’s fit for duty, I say. What use’s a German soldier got for a head anyway? First day he gets in barracks they tell him to stop thinkin’. Leave all that to the horses. That’s why God’s given ’em such big heads. What am I doin’ in “The Frog” anyway?’
‘Replying as ordered, doctor sir!’ hiccoughs Porta. ‘You are getting yourself blind pissed, you are, doctor sir, and you are telling all the guests present that they are quite, quite fit for duty!’
‘Impossible,’ protests the doctor, his mind clearing for a moment. ‘I am not on duty an’ when I’m not on duty nobody can be declared fit for duty. You must report me. I am asking for a court-martial. Now I will fall down,’ he shouts in a piercing voice, and falls limply across the host’s table. ‘It’s you I’ve been looking for. Tomorrow we’ll open up your lungs. People who ain’t fit for duty don’t need lungs anyway. You have been ruined by your milieu!’
‘Up you, you drunken bastard!’ screams the host, pushing him off the table.
‘Jesus an’ Mary!’ cries Porta. ‘The nerve of that shitty-arsed sod! What’ll we do with it?’
‘Cut it’s bleedin’ throat for it,’ suggests mine host, oozing with the milk of human kindness.
‘That’s enough!’ shouts Gregor, suddenly, tightening his belt. ‘Up you drunken shower. Up on your feet! Attempt to escape, and we will use our weapons.’ He cocks his P-38 noisily. Suddenly the energy oozes out of him, and he orders another beer.
‘Don’t leave me, boys,’ begs the M.O., looking up the taller of the patriotic ladies’ skirts. ‘Arrest me! Lead me to the scaffold! This head’s too heavy for me!’
‘Sounds promisin’,’ sighs the host, sadly. ‘Do us all a favour an’ take ’im with you!’
‘Why not!’ Gregor gives in. ‘Put him in irons with the four other villains!’
‘What, what, what!’ protests Porta. ‘You can’t just do that. We are eight escorts and four prisoners, just like it says in Army Regs. If we’re goin’ to take that bastard with us, you’ll have to find two more escorts. Otherwise you go before a court for breach of regulations. Where’d we be, if just anybody was allowed to pick up extra prisoners on the road? ’Fore we knew where we were we’ld be looking like some kind of a pilgrimage, or a crusade or somethin’.’
‘I’ll go along as an extra guard,’ says a Jaeger, who looks rather like a soaking-wet goat. ‘My leave was over two days ago an’ I could do with a good excuse for goin’ over time.’
‘Got a gun?’ asks Gregor, prosaically.
‘’Ere you are, then!’ brays the Jaeger, happily, taking a riñe from behind the counter. ‘And live ammo’, too. I’m on me way to the Caucasus front.’
‘Take you a while,’ Porta nods. ‘We need one more.’
‘He’s here!’ rumbles a voice from the door, and an ebony figure in panzer uniform looms up.
‘Has Africa surrendered, then? asks Porta, in amazement. ‘Where the devil’ve you turned up from?’
White teeth flash in the black face.
‘I’m German. Stabsgefreiter Albert Mumbuto, 11. Panz-erersatz Abteilung. My father was staff-bugler in 2. Leibkusaren Regiment. He has shaken hands with the Crown Prince and seen the Kaiser. I am now transferred to 27. Panzer Regiment. z.b.V.’
‘That’s us,’ grins Porta, happily. ‘Heartily welcome, black man! Now we know what to do. Arrest the doctor!’
‘Come ‘ere you crooked son of a bitch,’ shouts Tiny, clicking the handcuffs on the doctor’s wrists in true American style. ‘You’re under arrest, buddy, so stop callin’ me buddy, as of now!’
‘Holy, holy, holy!’ the M.O. intones, clapping his handcuffed hands together, and lifting them in priestly fashion towards the heavens. He breaks into a happy laugh. ‘Let’s go, boys. Now we’re all fit for duty. I’m a swine. A giant swine,’ he admits with drunken truthfulness.
The escort swings into Gips Strasse, and he shouts, to a sleepy couple.
‘Hey you there! Hey! You want to get to know Dr. Alfred Hütten? Not to be confused with his cousin Dr. Oskar Hütten, the veterinary, who’s a drunk and some sort of a heathen! He does not believe in the Führer, nor in the Holy Trinity!’
‘Watch it, crab-catcher,’ snarls Gregor, irritably. ‘Or you’ll get your bloody nose flattened.’
‘How right, how right, Herr Oberjaeger,’ the M.O. smiles weakly, and spirals his body around a lamp-post.
‘Let’s dump him in the park,’ I suggest, when we finally unwind him from the lamp-post. He has cocked his leg
up against it as if he were some kind of canine.
A Feldwebel from the Luftwaffe watches us interestedly.
The medical officer salutes him.
‘There you are at last,’ he shouts, happily. ‘Is England demolished? Is the German Sea Washing over it? The Luftwaffe are a fine set of boys,’ he states, a little later, imitating an aeroplane with outstretched arms. ‘The Reichsmarschall bears Germany’s highest order. Made specially for him!’
‘Fat German throats have to have fat German orders,’ Porta philosophises.
‘Halt! Where are you taking these men?’ comes a deep voice from the darkness. A corpulent Staff Padre with his cap turned backwards rolls out of a little door behind the Erlöser Kirche. ‘Answer, man! Answer me!’
‘Prisoners and escort, halt!’ commands Gregor, with an unhappy look on his face, as if he is already regretting this meeting with the spiritual arm of the service. ‘Herr Staff Padre, sir! Escort with five prisoners from Panzer Barracks proceeding to Garrison Prison.’
‘Well, well, well, well!’ says the Staff Padre, pleasure in his voice. ‘So you’re on your way to jail, are you? I think I’ll accompany you. They’ve got a good cook in that officers mess, and if I’m not wrong today is brown bean day. Anybody here like beans? Take one pace forward and I’ll shoot you!’ He shakes his head so violently that his cap flies off and goes rolling across the street.
‘Drunk!’ says Porta, knowingly.
The padre falls down twice trying to pick up his cap. When he finally catches it he puts it on crossways.
‘That’s to confuse the enemy,’ he confides, with a sly grin. ‘Follow me!’ he orders. ‘By order of the Führer we will take over “The Rosy Maid”, and there I will set ’em up. Don’t I know you?’ he asks Porta.
‘Herr Staff Padre, sir, yes sir! I was formerly chaplain’s assistant at 7. Infantry Division in Munich8. Transferred, sir! Transferred because my faith was not strong enough, sir!’
‘D’d’don’t he believe in God, then?’ babbles the padre, holding on tightly to a lamp-post.
‘Only when I’m scared,’ Porta admits. ‘Like when the enemies of Germany throw shells at me. Padre, sir, in ordinary circumstances I don’t know the difference ’tween a Holy Roman pigeon an’ a Finnish wild-cat with wings, I don’t really, sir!’