by Leo Kessler
Thus, before an astonished Matz could stop him, Schulze strode boldly forward into the circle of light cast by the mobile ovens, hands dug deep into his greatcoat pockets, as if he had not a care in the world.
The three Russians, greasy, unshaven, their uniform stained with cooking in the fashion of army cooks the whole world over, swung round and stared open-mouthed at the gigantic figure in German Army uniform who had appeared from nowhere.
Almost casually, Schulze commanded: ‘Rukki verkh!’, hands still dug deep into his coat-pockets.
Behind him Matz watched in amazement, as the three greasy cooks begin to raise their hands, the middle one still holding the ladle with which he had stirred the soup, their dark eyes abruptly full of fear. Schulze did not seem to notice. Instead, he started to rap out commands to left and right, as if the little grove was surrounded by a large force of German infantry, ordering the machine gun section to take up its positions to the rear, hurrying scouts out to both flanks, commanding the radio operator to signal their success to HQ.
Behind him an impressed Matz whispered, ‘Christ on a crutch, Schulzi, you ought to have been on the stage!’
Schulze was not listening. His mind was concentrating on the problem of how to get the goulash-cannon safely back to their own lines and whether the three cooks were sufficiently impressed by his little trick to be trusted that far. He decided to make the attempt.
Approaching a little closer and feeling a little faint as he caught a delicious whiff of the sweet smell of boiling horsemeat, he barked, ‘Ponemayista vu pa nemeski!’
The middle one with the ladle nodded his head cautiously. ‘Da, da, speak German,’ he said in thick, heavily accented German.
‘Horoscho!’ Schulze said and indicated with a nod of his head the three of them could lower their hands. ‘See this?’ he indicated the SS runes on his coat collar. ‘We SS... we killers,’ He drew a thick finger across his throat to make his point quite clear. ‘No prisoners.’
‘No prisoners,’ the one with the ladle quavered and for one moment Schulze thought he might burst into tears.
‘But today, German holiday. Christmas Eve,’ he continued, speaking in slow clear whisper so that the cook could understand him. ‘We friends.’
‘Druga,’ the cook explained to his terrified comrades and instantly their mood changed and they rolled their eyes and made kissing sounds with their lips, repeating the word several times.
‘Christ,’ Matz said in disgust, ‘they’re a lot of warm-brothers!’
‘Knock it off,’ Schulze snarled out of the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s all brotherly love and goodwill to men now.’
He turned to the beaming Russian cooks once more. ‘You come with us. No harm. German – Russian friend.’
Behind his back Matz sneered.
Schulze ignored him, a big fake-smile on his broad face. ‘You help German with food,’ he indicated the bubbling goulash-cannon, ‘we friends.’
‘Da, da,’ the cooks agreed excitedly. ‘We help.’
Schulze stepped forward, confident now that he had the situation well in hand. But that was not quite so. He froze suddenly. There was a low menacing growl to his right and from beneath the second goulash-cannon, an ugly beast emerged, ears flat against its wolflike skull, large pointed yellow teeth bared threateningly. Schulze shot a quick glance at the cooks.
‘Sotnik dog,’ the one with the ladle explained. ‘Ne horosscho. Bad, bad...’
As if to emphasize that he was really bad, the evil black dog poked its ugly snout forward and made a quick snap at Schulze’s leg. The big NCO darted back swiftly, hand fumbling for his pistol, while the frustrated animal, cheated of its prey, growled menacingly, its tail rigid in the manner of a dog which is about to do battle.
The cook raised his ladle. ‘I kill?’ he queried, indicating that he was quite prepared to smash the dog’s head with the heavy wooden instrument.
‘Yes, you k—’ Schulze caught himself just in time, a sudden unholy smile flashing across his broad face. ‘No, no, kill! Take with us.’ He picked up one of the pile of horse-bones which lay on the top of the second goulash cannon and tossed it to the brute. With a reluctant growl the animal squatted in the snow and deigned to accept the bribe. ‘Good doggie,’ Schulze soothed it. ‘Good little doggie. You eat nice and quiet now while Uncle Schulze does a little wheeling-and-dealing.’
‘What’s your game, Schulze?’ Matz growled and accepted a canteen of the steaming hot goulash from one of the beaming cooks.
Schulze winked solemnly and said: ‘Matzi, I don’t think, my little crippled friend, you are yet fully attuned to the spirit of Christrrias, the season of goodwill to all men, including that pig of a Golden Pheasant and our dearly beloved Sergeant-Major. But Uncle Schulze is.’ He dared to bend down and pat the black brute, which gave off a warning growl, as it gnawed at the bone. ‘Oh, yes Uncle Schulze is definitely full of the Christmas spirit at this moment.’
Matz farted and then swallowing the rest of the burningly hot goulash set about helping Schulze to begin their trek back to their own lines.
The ‘Great Goulash Raid’, as it later became known in the annals of SS Assault Battalion Wotan, and what was to follow, had begun successfully, very successfully indeed...
SEVEN
There was a hushed sigh as Gerda came ceremonially through the door into the room, which now housed as many of the German defenders as possible who could be released from their frontline duties for this occasion. Clutched to her magnificent bosom, the steam wreathing up around and about her beaming fat face and making it gleam with moisture, was a huge cauldron of giddi-up goulash. Solemnly she placed it in the centre of the room, while the soldiers gazed at the steaming cauldron almost as if they could not believe the evidence of their own eyes, their stomachs rumbling in anticipation, saliva trickling down their bearded chins from the sides of their mouths.
‘Holy strawsack,’ Matz exclaimed amused. ‘There’s so much chin-water around here, I could float the Deutschland on it.’
Gerda ‘s ladylike smile vanished for a moment and she cried, ‘Knock that shit off, Corporal. Remember this is Christmas Eve.’
‘Sorry, gracious miss,’ Matz said, abruptly contrite.
Schulze grinned at his running-mate’s discomforture and then beamed as Gerda indicated that the starving men should form a line and receive their share of the steaming goulash. They needed no urging. Suddenly the spell was broken, and pushing and shoving, the Wotan troopers fought to gain a place at the head of the queue, while Gerda, a piece of fir-twig tucked into her dyed hair, attempted to keep them in order with well-directed blows from the iron ladle which the Russian had just handed her to dish out the mixture.
Schulze nudged Matz. ‘Come on, fart-cannon, let’s get on with it.’
‘Can’t yer wait a minute?’ Matz protested, indicating Gerda who was now bending down to serve the first portion and was revealing an ample section of her black-stockinged thigh as she did so. ‘It ain’t often that a poor stubble-hopper gets to see anything like that on a Christmas Eve.’
‘Holy, holy, shitting holy,’ Schulze said and gave him a mock blessing. ‘Remove such ignoble thoughts from your mind this night. Besides we do have our duties to perform.’
Reluctantly Matz followed the bigger man to the temporary kitchen where Piotr, the Russian who spoke some German, was busy basting the roast which had already turned an attractive, succulent brown.
Schulze paused dramatically and sniffed the air. ‘Exquisite,’ he breathed.
Piotr beamed. ‘Not bad,’ he said, pouring yet another spoonful of the candle fat which Schulze had obtained for him over the roast.
Matz looked doubtful. ‘It’s a bit big for a roof-hare,’ he said.
Schulze nodded his agreement. ‘You’re right, little man, but when the Butcher told me that Little Napoleon would give us a bottle of firewater for the choicest piece, I said it would be something on that line.’
For a moment
or two the running-mates pondered the problem, while Piotr busied himself with the final preparations. In the end it was Matz who had the solution. Picking up the tail which lay on the floor at Piotr’s feet, he dipped it into the thin layer of flour which Little Napoleon had given them for this Christmas Eve feast, twisting it back and forth until the furry thing was a dull white colour.
‘What’s that supposed to be?’ Schulze asked.
‘Steppe-deer,’ Matz announced triumphantly, draping the tail across the roast. ‘One of the boys shot it out there. Now we’re offering it to our Spanish ally as a token of our esteem.’
‘Of course!’ Schulze exclaimed happily. ‘Steppe-deer it is.’ He winked hugely at his fellow conspirator.
Thus as ‘steppe-deer’, the sizzling roast was ceremonially handed over to the waiting trio of Little Napoleon, Golden Pheasant and the Butcher, with much smacking of lips and eager anticipatory belches, a bottle of Spanish cognac being given to Schulze and Matz in return. Even before the two of them had reached the door, the three of them were hacking away at the roast greedily, each man trying to carve off the best portion for himself, elbowing his neighbour out of the way, as he dug his knife into the ‘steppe-deer’.
Occupied as they were, the three of them did not see Matz pause at the door and raise one leg in the traditional pose of the canine breed establishing its territory, making soft barking sounds as he did so. Next moment they were hurrying down the corridor, precious bottle clutched to Schulze’s massive chest, ready for their own little private celebration with Gerda, barking and laughing as they went....
*
They were drunk, very drunk all three of them. They had told the fat whore the tale of the roasted dog at least four times, embellished each time by Matz’s imitation of a hound howling at the moon, so that Gerda had shook with laughter, the tears streaming down her fat face, making damp trails through the flour she had used as powder. Now they sat there reflectively, each one of them with his paw clasped possessively around one of her massive breasts, listening to the howl of the wind outside, remembering past times, telling themselves that even now a thousand kilometres to the rear in the Homeland, there would be well-dressed people going to church, raising their hats politely to each other, asking about one another’s health, making forecasts about the Christmas weather, complaining of having eaten too much carp or sausage and sauerkraut.
‘It ain’t fair,’ Matz said apropos of nothing.
‘What ain’t fair?’ Schulze queried, roused out of his drunken reverie sufficiently to give Gerda’s right nipple a playful nip.
‘Life.’
‘Life, oh yes, life!’ Gerda quavered, tears of sadness this time beginning to stream down her fat cheeks. She took a tremendous swallow of the cognac. ‘If I remember the sweet innocent thing I was once, I could sob my heart out.’ With her free hand, for she determined now not to let go of the bottle, she fumbled automatically with Matz’s flies.
‘Don’t cry, little woman,’ Matz sighed, drunkenly aware of the delicious new warmth that was beginning to steal through his loins now. ‘I’ll look after you this night, beloved.’
The statement penetrated Schulze’s melancholic, drunken haze.
‘What’s this — I’ll look after yer tonight, beloved, crap?’ he growled aggressively.
‘Well, we are almost engaged, you know, Schulze,’ Matz answered seriously, running his paw up between her spread legs to show that Gerda belonged to him.
‘Get that dirty mitt out of there!’ Schulze said, clenching his free fist. ‘If Gerda’s opening her pearly gates for anyone this Christmas Eve,’ Schulze rapped his fist against his big chest, ‘it’s for Mrs Schulze’s handsome son. I mean everybody knows that your little dingleling couldn’t make a female gnat sigh!’ He beamed at Gerda, who was still sobbing, obviously delighted with his own brilliant humour.
Matz scowled. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Why, you big horse’s ass,’ Matz snarled. ‘You couldn’t get it up — even if they pulled at it with a crane!’
‘What was that, arse with plush ears?’ Schulze raised his fist threateningly. ‘One more word from you and you’ll get a knuckle-sandwich.’
‘And one from you and you’ll be bloody well lacking a set of ears, Schulze, I’m warning you...’
‘Meine Herren, meine Herren!’ Gerda protested releasing her ample bosom from their grasp and looking from one angry flushed drunken face to the other. ‘Remember this is the season of goodwill to all men.’
‘But he ain’t a man, the crippled little fart-cannon!’ Schulze began.
But Gerda raised her plump hand imperiously for silence. ‘Enough,’ she commanded. ‘Now that’s quite enough.’ Suddenly her eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘This is how we’re going to do it so that both of you get a turn.’ She giggled and pressing her lips close to Matz’s ear, whispered something to him; then it was Schulze’s turn.
For a moment the two of them, abruptly sober, stared at the smiling fat whore dumbfounded. ‘But that ‘s impossible!’ Matz breathed.
‘I’ve... I’ve never tried that before,’ Schulze stuttered.
Gerda winked solemnly and tapped the side of her big nose. ‘Don’t worry, my darlings, Big Gerda’ll make it all come true.’
Matz looked at Schulze and breathed. ‘I think I’m beginning to believe in Father Christmas after all...’
*
But the two running-mates were not destined to enjoy the strange favours that the big whore had promised them for that snow-bound Christmas Eve.
Just as Matz had begun to unscrew his wooden leg and join the other two already writhing on the makeshift bed, the night silence was alarmingly rent apart by the shrill whistles of the duty NCOs, the sudden cries of badly frightened men, and the first wild shots of rifle fire.
‘Gross Kacke am Christbaum!’ Matz paused in the middle of his contortions, wondering whether he should continue with his preparations for the orgy or not. At his feet, Schulze and Gerda still writhed like a couple of small elephants under the grey blanket tent.
The shooting intensified. Now the Spaniards were sounding the alarm everywhere along the perimeter, beating gongs made of empty shell-cases, swinging their gas rattles, and in one case blowing a bugle. Matz, veteran that he was, did not need to be told that this was an all-out attack. As usual the Russians had taken advantage of the well-known trait of the German soldier of celebrating on every possible occasion. Now they had hit the German line, obviously expecting most of the defenders to be passed out in a drunken sleep. Matz kicked the shape closest to him.
‘Get yer dirty salami out of that,’ he growled. ‘The Popovs are attacking!’
Gerda popped her head out, hair in disarray and the fir strand hanging limply over her right ear. ‘What, my darling? ‘
‘The Popovs are attacking, darling!’ Matz sneered, busily engaged now on fixing his leg once more.
‘Tell me when you’ve won,’ Schulze’s muffled voice came from below.
‘But it’s the Popovs!’ Gerda cried fearfully.
Schulze’s head appeared. For some reason he now had Gerda’s black knickers draped over the back of his skull. ‘Don’t bother me with such little things, Matzi, will yer?’ he cried irritably, his hands busy beneath the blankets. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘Get outa that candy crack!’ Matz yelled, as the firing outside drew ever closer, pulling on his equipment with frantic fingers.
‘If the Popovs catch you with yer shivvies off, yer’ll need a team of master-plumbers to get your outside plumbing fixed again.’
That terrible threat worked. Schulze sprung out of the blankets as if he had been bitten. Hurriedly he jumped into his clothes and grabbed his rifle, black knickers still adorning his shaven head, he followed Matz through the door, heading for the sound of the new battle.
Behind them Gerda lay back on the blankets, confused, frightened and not a little frustrated, for she was still too dr
unk to be overly worried much by the danger the Popov attack presented. She sighed and said half-aloud, ‘Well, who needs men anyway? Happy Christmas Gerda darling!’
And with that she pulled the blankets over her head and occupied herself with herself, the noisy bloody world of men forgotten this particular Christmas Eve....
EIGHT
CRUMP!
Schulze and Matz reeled back, as the world was turned upside down, filled with a great tearing wind that bore all before it in a red-roaring fury. Before them, a yawning smoking chasm opened up as if by magic. Whirling flailing bodies hurtled through the air.
They gasped for breath. Weak, pitiful cries escaped from their strangled throats, as the blast tore the very air out of their lungs, and their nostrils were assailed by the biting acrid stench of cordite.
Everywhere men screamed. Others moaned piteously. ‘Sanitater... Sanitater!’ the cries for help rose on all sides. ‘Mother... God help me, please....’ But neither God nor Mother was present this terrible crazy night — just Death.
The salvo went its murderous way, tearing huge gaps in the defenders’ positions and then, as the last obscene howl of the mortar echoed into the distance, the Popovs came running forward through the whirling snowstorm once again.
‘Stand-by!’ Schulze yelled desperately, and flung himself behind the MG 42, while Matz pushed aside the dead loader, the left side of his face gone.
To their right, Little Napoleon pulled the cork out of his mouth and cried urgently, ‘A la battalla!’
‘Arriba Espana!’ his men roared back, tucking, their rifles into their shoulders, as more and more dark figures were outlined against the white wall of snow.
Whistles blew. NCOs shouted orders in German and Spanish. Flares hissed into the sky on both sides of the line to descend like falling angels. ‘URRAH!’ the massed Russian infantry cried.
In the fantastic, eerily glowing light of the flares, the sabres of the Russian officers gleamed as they brought them up. The long pointed bayonet sparkled. Even as he brought the final pressure to bear on the machine gun, while Matz holding the long belt of ammunition tensed at his side, Schulze could not quite repress his awed admiration for the Popovs. They were advancing to a certain death, yet they did not hesitate, their broad Slavic faces full of determination and glowing with the vodka they had been drinking for hours before the surprise attack.