by Sven Hassel
Kleber cocked an eyebrow at Porta.
‘Well?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Porta. ‘How about this one?’
He whistled a few bars.
‘Ah, yes!’ said the policeman. ‘Deep River . . . I know that one.’
‘Hang on,’ said Kleber. ‘Don’t rush me.’
He was the artist now. He had them in his power and he knew it. He made them wait.
And the old blues melody caught them all and held them, and they heard the compulsive rhythm of the slaves, the beat of a million marching feet, the pounding of horses’ hooves across the hard ground, the throbbing advance of tanks and motorized vehicles on their way to meet the enemy . . .
Kleber stopped playing. He was out of breath. He turned again to Porta.
‘Now what do you think?’
Porta looked at him.
‘Heard worse,’ he admitted. ‘I have heard worse.’
‘I should think you have!’ said the policeman, indignantly. ‘What more do you want?’
Porta looked at him.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘This lad wants to play officially, like. For the Company . . . You got to have the touch of the gods to do that . . . Not like playing with a band. Anyone can do that. You play for us, out at the front—’ He looked hard at Kleber – ‘you’re sending men off to their death, aren’t you? Last thing some of ’em will ever hear, that old tin trumpet of yours . . . know what I mean, do you?’
There was a silence. Porta had touched upon a world to which the rest of them had never belonged. A world where death was the only familiar, dependable fact, and where grown men became as babies as they struggled out of this life and into another.
‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ said Kleber. ‘I never thought of it that way before.’
‘It’s not like playing for a grand parade,’ said Porta.
‘No, I reckon you’re right . . .’
‘It’s not like playing at one of Adolf’s lousy banquets.’
Kleber pursed his lips.
‘How about this one?’ he suggested, suddenly brightening. ‘The Death of a Musician . . . Viva la Muerte . . .’
The trumpet’s sweet-strident voice rose sobbing into the still night air. It rose and it fell, weeping, sighing, trembling, as it told of the musician who played himself to death. Kleber bent down to the earth beneath his feet and bent back to the sky above him. The air was full of sorrow.
Viva la muerte. Viva la muerte . . .
‘All right,’ said Porta. ‘I’ll see to it. You can play for the Company, I reckon you’ll do.’
They went off together, without a word to the police constable or the two girls.
Eight days later, the Regiment received its marching orders and at once there were the usual scenes of feverish activity in the barracks. For ourselves, we still had not been sent a replacement for Lt. Ohlsen. Colonel Hinka was going to take over temporarily, until we reached the front. By then, they would surely have sent us someone else? But for the meantime we were quite content to have the Colonel. He was preferable to a stranger, he had commanded the 5th Company in the days before his promotion and he was known to all of us old hands.
Before we left, our new musician showed us what he could do. He played the fanfare of farewell, while we all stood listening.
‘Adieu, vieille caserne,
Adieu, chambrées puantes . . .’21
We were off again. Back to the front. It caught you unprepared every time. We had known how it must be, we had known it for sure these last few days, but still it caught you unprepared, and Kleber’s plaintive trumpet calls brought lumps to many hardened throats.
Slowly the train pulled out of the station. Out of Hamburg, out of Germany, on our way back to the front. On our way to Monte Cassino. We didn’t know it then, of course, Colonel Hinka hadn’t yet opened his sealed orders. But that was where we were going. To Monte Cassino . . .
21 Farewell to the barracks, farewell to the stinking barrack-rooms
