by Sven Hassel
‘Be a good boy, now, brat,16 or I’ll have to ask my Commandant to send you to Kolyma with ten kicks up the backside first for delaying an important mission!’ Vasilij commands.
‘Propusk!’ screams the corporal stubbornly, putting out his big policeman’s hand, with the thick, black leather glove, again. Vasilij throws up his hands hopelessly and unbuttons his fur jacket as if he were finding some papers.
‘You brought it on yourself, brat,’ he says sorrowfully. ‘Your mother will cry for you!’
A blade flashes and the corporal’s head is rolling along the pavement, the cigarette still between his lips. The headless body sways a moment, and a jet of blood spouts from the neck.
The Legionnaire and Tiny are on the two paralysed NKVD men like lightning. Combat knives glint. Kalashnikovs rattle to the pavement. A column of T-34s roars past. Leatherclad heads can vaguely be seen poking up from the turrets.
We push the bodies into a cellarway where they are quickly covered by snow.
Vasilij kicks the corporal’s head through the window of a ground-floor flat, where it frightens the life out of two sleeping cats. He slaps his thighs and roars with laughter at the sight of the cats going spitting and squalling through the snow.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ gasps the Old Man, shocked.
We rush down narrow side-streets, crawl over fences and find ourselves suddenly in the middle of a mob of people, being held in check by an NKVD section with submachine-guns at the ready. The end of the street is blocked by two T-34s.
‘Shit!’ whispers Vasilij. ‘Crazy arseholes been looting. NKVD catch, now make example. Shoot one in three so Moscow people understand looting risky work.’
An NKVD man calls to us authoritatively.
Vasilij reports himself smartly as being a guard officer on duty.
‘Propusk,’ snarls the NKVD officer, coldly unimpressed, and looks casually at our papers. ‘Get your people together and get the hell out of here!’ he orders.
‘We’re on our way, tovaritsch,’ grins Vasilij, and begins to curse and swear at us in true Russian Army style.
The first civilians are already being liquidated as we turn the corner. Looters get short shrift. In Berlin as well as Moscow. Tomorrow their names will be posted on red handbills on the street corners as a warning to others.
‘See the way ’e lopped the ’ead off the NKVD corporal,’ says Tiny respectfully. ‘Alois the Axe from Bernhard-Noecht Strasse couldn’t ’ave done it better, an’ ’e was good, when in practice. Nine ’eads ’e took off before the bleedin’ Kripos diddled ’im. Nass an’ ’is blood’ounds was really after grifas smugglers and ’ad just drove into the elevator at Gate 3 on Landungsbrücke when out of a dark corner comes a ’ore’s ’ead ’oppin’ an’ dancin’ right up to the feet of Inspector Nass. I see it myself. I was just on the way with a basketful of fish.’
‘What the devil? Have you dealt in fish as well?’ asks Porta, wonderingly.
‘I was in Green Gunther’s ’aulage set-up. All the ’erring was filled with grifas. I ’ad to keep kickin’ all the time at one of Nass’s bleedin’ police dogs as kept sniffin’ away like a mad thing at me an’ my delivery bike. Nass an’ the Kripo bulls thought it was the fish ’e was after. Schaefer’s with a bit of Dobermann in ’em are mad on Gefüllte Fische,17 the Yid scoff. They won’t ’ave Dobermann’s as police dogs no more ’cause they reckon they’re imitation Schaefer’s bred special by international Jewry. I was sittin’ one evenin’ mindin’ my own business, in “Wind Force II”, when in comes four bleedin’ great Yid Dobermanns drippin’ at the jaws. They’d been after a coupla German crooks all the way over from Gänsemarkt, but crossin’ the ’Ansa Platz they’d suddenly got wind of the Brust Flanken18 our ’alf-Jew cook was puttin’ together, an’ off they went, an’ to ’ell with the villains. They shot into that kitchen so fast there was no doubt left they ’ad Jew blood in ’em. This cook’d just got ’is discharge from the army.
‘The Wehrmacht slung ‘im outa the skeet-club soon as they found ’im to ’ave false blood in ’is veins. An’ was ’e sorry? Not on our life ’e wasn’t! The Brust Flanken was on for that very reason. Any’ow the Kripo bulls went barmy when they found their four-legged mates sittin’ round this Yid cook an’ ‘is oven. The immitation Schaefers were discharged without pension. They shoulda been glad they didn’t get the bleedin’ gas-chamber.
‘“In the name of the Führer, I arrest you all!” screamed Nass, wakin’ up the echoes in the elevator.
‘But they soon let us loose again, when they found Alois the Axe rolled up under a lorry. Nass just got ’is napper out the way of the axe in time. If ’e ’adn’t it’d’ve been the first time for years anybody’s seen Otto Nas without ’is snap-brim on. They got at least twenty pairs of cuffs, chains and Gawd knows what else on Alois before you could say Jack Robinson. When we got to the bottom they threw us all out of the elevator. Nass an’ ’is posse couldn’t get back to the station fast enough, to get the news out to the reporters. They’d been after the Sankt Pauli axe murderer for four years an’ ’ere ’e was served up on a plate with all the evidence needed, ready for Marabu’s19 executioner. Nass got ’imself a big swelled-up napper all right that day. They called ’im sharpwitted in all the papers. ’E never told ’em just ‘ow it ’appened, you see. They even give ’im a decoration for it. ’E was on special duty at ’eadquarters as a luxury inspector on permanent day duty, but they threw ’im out before long. ’Is worn-out old leather coat didn’t fit in at the mornin’ conferences.’
A long column of strangely uniformed soldiers went past us, moving towards the bridges over the Moscow.
‘Suicide companies,’ Vasilij explains with a casual gesture. ‘Hole-in-head from Tanganskaya.20 Them pardoned. No go Kolyma. Shoot crazy Germans instead. Stalin clever man. Him not shoot shitty politicals stick neck out ask better deal. Stalin say: Them want die hero. Let crazy Germans knock off. Soviet no problem, no charge.’
At Pavlet Station there is a road block swarming with NKVD. Even large military units moving in order of march are checked. A bulldog of a colonel with straps crossed over his chest steps towards us with a kalashnikov under his arm.
‘Holy Virgin, be merciful to us,’ groans the Old Man, resignedly.
At the corner of Marko Street four officers are neck-shot. The bodies are thrown into an open lorry waiting on the pavement. Bloody icicles hang from its sideboards.
We disappear up Tatarsk Street with Vasilij, grinning happily, in the lead. Completely unworried he leads us to the middle of the bridge where they are sluicing people through the barriers.
‘It won’t go,’ groans Julius Heide, fearfully. ‘They only need to ask one of us something, anything at all, and we’re lost. The Red Army don’t enlist deaf mutes!’
‘I’m playin’ barmy,’ declared Tiny, rolling his eyes.
‘Not necessary,’ says Julius. ‘You’re born to the part. Can’t understand why they haven’t gassed you long ago with the rest of the mental defectives.’
The Old Man and the Legionnaire ready their Mpis. They obviously expect to have to fight.
‘If they uncover us, use your peacemakers for all you’re worth!’ whispers the Old Man. ‘It’s our only chance! If they catch us in Russian uniforms they’ll cut us to pieces slowly before they let us die!’
‘Amen,’ says Porta, crossing himself. ‘Light a candle for poor old Porta.’
Even Vasilij seems to grow thoughtful after having talked to an NKVD sergeant, sitting half-asleep on a vehicle.
‘Shitty NKVD catch other German Brandenburger commando,’ he whispers. ‘You ready fix with chopper, make many bodies! Now come big row! NKVD know crazy Nazis on tourist trip Moscow! Hell, shitty much danger for us. Come here phony paper, stolen uniform!’
‘What a bloody prospect,’ whispers Porta, nervously. ‘I’d rather be at home. Let’s fall out smartly and let Ivan keep this bloody rotten power station!’
The Old Man considers it
and looks enquiringly at Vasilij.
Vasilij replies with a wide, white smile which can mean anything or nothing.
‘No-o-o,’ says the Old Man, thoughtfully. ‘That yellow chimpanzee isn’t just a guide, he’s also our jailer. He’ll let us be liquidated if we give way now.’
Vasilij grins and slaps the Old Man on the shoulder.
‘You very clever, Feldwebel. Wise man go with Vasilij so German turnip stay on shoulders!’
‘Long as you don’t lose yours,’ mumbles the Old Man ominously.
‘Me no care about own turnip,’ grins Vasilij, happily. ‘Me no have face longer great Kunfu want. When Kunfu make choice you go.’ He pulls Tiny by the arm. ‘You strong Russian bear, smash Red skull one blow. You stay with Vasilij, come back to village with turnip on, play games with djaevuschka.21 You no do what I say, you choke on old whore rjaegully!’22
Tiny, who doesn’t understand half of it, nods violently and swears a solemn oath of allegiance with three fingers raised.
How we got through I can’t remember. A sergeant wipes me across the face, which all the green crosses seem to find amusing.
When we finally reach the Kozhukhovo quarter a swarm of our own Stukas come howling out of low cloud cover.
Heavy bombs explode all around us, pulverizing buildings and the railway area. Finally they saturate the district with incendiaries and sweep it with their machine-guns.
‘Stukas do work for us,’ whoops Vasilij, enthusiastically. ‘All NKVD in cellar, protect Commie lives. Now we fix plastic bomb, blow Stalin factory up under NKVD arse. Walk back Hitler army, have good sleep ready next trip.’
A Brandenburger Gefreiter falls between two concrete blocks and when we try to pull him free one of the blocks slips and catches him. His screams go echoing through the night.
The Brandenburger Feldwebel puts his pistol to his neck. It’s a silenced Beretta specially made for the job. Commando soldiers are finished if they can’t keep up. Nobody must be allowed to fall into enemy hands alive.
We roll more concrete over the spot where the Gefreiter’s body lies jammed. Perhaps their patrols won’t find him right away. The bombs have broken down the wall round the Zim factory at several points. We go in from Lizina Street. We should have gone through Tyufalev Street but Vasilij, who has reconnoitred it, says we can’t go that way. There’s a whole column of light armour halted there. Whether they’re really an NKVD guard company watching for saboteurs he can’t say. But the vehicles have no corps designation and are manned. Even with our two Degtyarev anti-tank rifles we can’t take on these armoured vehicles in a fight. We decide to go the other way.
Vasilij agrees with the Old Man and the Brandenburger Feldwebel that we march in in column of threes like a unit. He thinks his NKVD captain’s uniform will get us in, and we have, in any case, a propusk giving us priority permission to enter the Zim works. There’s a risk they may have instituted a password, and we can’t guess what that is. It can be the most logical, or the craziest, combination. They might, for example, shout ‘Ivan the Terrible’ and the right answer be ‘Dead rat’.
Vasilij takes a look at the entrance point. We’re lying between some goods wagons in the Kozhukhovo Station, from where we can see them moving the wounded from Kashirskaya Hospital which has been set on fire by the incendiaries.
‘Gawd, take a look at the cunt in there,’ mumbles Tiny, who is lying there watching the nurses through artillery glasses. ‘Jesus Christ almighty what a fuckin’ arse she’s got on ’er. It’s screamin’ for it. Gawd, ‘ow I could rip it up ’er right now.’
A short silent struggle for the glasses ensues.
‘Jesus me old rollockers are playing up!’ giggles Porta. ‘It’s been a long time since me old pal’s had a new fur-coat on!’
‘You shoulda banged it up that sow at Klimskaja the way I done before we slaughtered it,’ says Tiny, ‘Just shut your eyes an’ imagine it’s a lovely bit of ‘Amburg cunt as’s gone to a ball without ’er drawers on.’
‘Shitty NKVD go up through hair,’ Vasilij comes up panting. He’s just been on an investigatory tour. ‘Many dumb Commies lose life in air raid, but we no make big boom now. Them take wounded away. NKVD come with armoured cars. Me think good wait one hour. Kunfu say: “Never move too fast.” Take easy, keep turnip on shoulders. Me learn codeword. We march in to attention. Move in one hour, maybe keep head while yet. Them shout “war”. We shout “green apple” and march on. Then not look close. Shitty pig colonel say password while me listen under car. Them know crazy Brandenburger in Moscow. Him cut prick off and eat without salt, say shitty colonel. So not good pet prisoner. Better more legs fast when bomb go up. Them be crazy in head, chase shitty dumb German all over Moscow.’
‘Shouldn’t wonder when we’ve just blown a factory out from under ’em,’ remarks Stege drily.
‘What you see?’ asks Vasilij pushing his machine-gun into Tiny’s shoulder. All this time the big man has been lying with the field glasses glued to his eyes.
‘Soviet cunt,’ breathes Tiny, with a lustful grin. ‘When they go up the stairs, I can see up their skirts. Should’ve joined the fuckin’ medicine-men. Be more fun stickin’ glass cigars up dirty great soldiers brownies than racin’ round blowin’ up bleedin’ factories.’
‘Vasilij have little look at nanny! Long time since little boy have good time in nice warm house.’
Before Tiny realizes properly what is happening Vasilij has taken the glasses. But he soon has them back.
‘Me make suggestion,’ says Vasilij, ‘make clever plan. Take Commie nurse back home Hitler Army. Say them know secret medicine things. We have good fun before we give to General. They shout rape, we shout Dirty Commie propaganda. What you say?’
‘He ought to be in the Ministry of Propaganda,’ grins Porta. ‘I could find it in my heart to promote him brother to me.’
‘When shitty war over, peace break out, we throw chopper down, you go with Vasilij on big trip my cousin Hong Kong. Him have eating-house “Little Hen.” Many China man come selling forbidden thing. Cousin make big eating. First serve Tang-ts’u-yu. That be sweet pickled fish. Then we eat beautiful Fuh-rung-chi-p-ien. That be velvet hen with shrimp. Now finish first course, give good appetite Pao-yang-reo, back of sheep with vegetable. We take little rest now, go then to Cheng-chiao-tze, steamed spring roll. Now many pretty nanny come from joy-house and play game with us, we wash throat with sake.’
‘Can you learn to eat with chopsticks?’ asks Tiny doubtfully. He tries to pick up a piece of ice with two bayonets, but keeps dropping it. ‘Can’t even pick up a bleedin’ piece of ice,’ he breaks out irritably. ‘’Ow the ’ell’d you ever get a mouthful of rice ’tween your choppers?’
‘Let’s move,’ says the Old Man, tightening his shoulder straps.
Detonators and P-2 sticks are shared out. As soon as the oiled paper covering is torn from a couple of sticks of explosive a heavy odour of marzipan spreads around us.
‘Queer how a little roll of dough like this can blow up a whole factory,’ says Barcelona, pushing pencil detonators into sawdust bags.
‘No fumbling now!’ says the Old Man, sternly. ‘If you get wounded and can’t keep up, then finish yourselves. The straight trip to Heaven’s better than the detour through the NKVD interrogation cells!’
‘You sound like a bloody parson,’ jeers Heide. ‘You forgot the Amen!’
‘I wouldn’t in the least mind leaving you behind with a wound,’ snarls the Old Man. ‘It’d be interesting to see whether you’d have the nerve to finish yourself! Wouldn’t you think the Führer’d expect it of you?’
‘They’ll mash our bollocks for us,’ says Porta, laconically.
‘They’ll have a job with Tiny. His are as tough as the balls on a granite boar. They’ll have to machine ’em down with special tools!’
‘Shitty NKVD got such tool,’ Vasilij informs them, happily. ‘NKVD got all tool for them job in Ljubjanka. Very clever people. Got all thing make hole-in-hea
d German sing pretty song for NKVD.’
The back of the factory is on fire. Three large fire-engines stand just inside the gates, and brass-helmeted firemen are rolling our hoses.
‘The things you do see in wartime!’ whispers Tiny, thrilled. ‘I love fire-engines. I’d really rather’ve been a fireman ’n join the Army. But they wouldn’t ’ave me ’cause I’d ’ad a trip inside for a bit of arson as didn’t even catch light properly an’ was only attempted really.’
‘What were you trying to burn?’ asks Porta, with interest.
‘Davidswacht Police Station! Them wicked bastards caught me red’anded when I was stackin’ it. A trick cyclist save me from the nick. Said I ’ad a complex about coppers in uniforns. If ’e’d said I ’ad a complex about Inspector Otto bleedin’ Mass ’e’d ’ave been a lot closer. I ain’t really got anythin’ against Schupos.23 There’s many a little warnin’ note I’ve ’ah stuck in me ’and when I been called in to ’ave a coffee with Otto. I ’eard, not so long since from a chum from ’Amburg, as Nass was due for a trip. ’E’d ’eard ’e was posted to Copen’agen. If ’e does I ’ope the bleedin’ Danish underground turns ’is toes up for ’im. If they don’t, then they ain’t the Vikings there’s such a lot o’ talk about.’
‘Shut your face, Tiny,’ whispers the Old Man. ‘You’re making enough row to be heard in the Kremlin. If those chaps on the gate as much as hear us draw breath in German they’ll open up with their choppers straight off.’
‘It’s bloody dangerous with all these different languages,’ mumbles Tiny. ‘If everybody talked German there’d be no trouble. The Russians’ve got you straight away. All they need to do is ask you to say the “Our Father” in Russki and where are you? Out on your arse!’
‘Do the Commies all know the “Our Father”,’ wonders Stege. ‘It’s supposed to be forbidden.’
‘If it’s forbidden then everybody in Russian does know it,’ says Porta. ‘They learn it from their grandmothers before they can walk even. Old whores always go holy when they’re getting towards the end.’
We tramp in step through the gates. No trouble. The Germans and the Russians both goose-step.
