by Sven Hassel
‘Quick into yard,’ he shouts. ‘Shitty NKVD come with machine-gun. Not think we chase bad men!’
We rush madly through a yard and swing over a series of fences. A policeman shouts at us and draws his pistol, but before he can pull the trigger the Legionnaire’s steel wire is round his neck and the life is choked out of him.
We push the body into a dustbin out of sight of passersby. Tiny wants to try on the uniform.
‘I’ve always wanted to be a pavement admiral. Now I got the chance over ’ere with Ivan and you won’t let me! Call yourselves mates! I could spit in your bleedin’ eye, every one of you!’
‘You crazy take shitty policeman coat,’ says Vasilij. ‘Policemen pigeon-shit on Red Square, say NKVD man. You be glad you green on uniform. In Soviet paradise, green only colour. No green on shoulder soon no turnip!’
One of the Brandenburgers goes mad suddenly. He runs in circles screaming in German.
One of his own party is on him like lightning and slashes his throat open. Screams die away in a hideous rattle.
On Suvorovsky Boulevard we go into an Intourist office, the door of which is standing invitingly open.
‘We’re closed,’ says a tight-lipped elderly woman with hair tied in a bun at the back.
‘Je te pisse au cul!’27 snarls the Legionnaire wickedly, bringing the back of his hand across her face.
‘Germanskij!’ she whispers hoarsely in terror, falling back into her chair so hard that it cracks warningly. ‘Germanskij,’ she repeats, staring at us with bugging eyes.
‘No, love, we’re the last of the Mohicans,’ grins Porta, ‘Come to take your scalp!’ He chucks her under the double chin. ‘A well-upholstered overweight sow like you is just what I need. It’ll feel like a great gate pressing down over you, and I can assure you, my dear, that the key’ll find its way into the keyhole every time!’
A BT-5 tank with the characteristically high turret stops outside. The Commandant tries to see through the almost frozen windows.
‘Watch it!’ warns Barcelona. ‘If he gets suspicious he’ll put a banger into us!’
The tank backs onto the pavement with a scrabbling of tracks. The wind pleads at the frozen windows, powdering them with snow. The tank’s engine roars and it scrapes noisily along the wall.
A piercing scream from the fat woman makes us jump with shock. She vaults amazingly over the counter, slides across the floor and bangs into a cabinet, which falls, spreading papers all over the floor. She screams, terrifyingly, again.
With a long leap the Legionnaire is on top of her. She rolls away under a desk, where she gets hold of a metal lamp and throws it at the window. Vasilij intercepts it.
‘Let air out of shitty dam bitch quick! She dam shitty dangerous!’ The woman springs straight over the Legionnaire and hits the Old Man like a battering-ram. He goes one way, his Mpi clatters the other.
I try to catch her feet, but get a kick in the face so that I see stars. Porta grabs her by the jacket but she slips out of it and screams for the third time.
If the tank’s motor hadn’t been speeded up to a roar they couldn’t have helped hearing her.
She’s nearly at the door when Tiny gets an arm round her and shoves his combat knife into her between the neck and shoulder. The broad blade sinks slowly into her body. It catches! Irritably he wobbles it loose! Blood pumps up over his hand in short spurts!
The woman struggles like a wild animal in his iron grip. Carefully he withdraws the knife and drives it with all his force between her breasts.
‘What the ’ell’s wrong with you, sister?’ he growls with a kind of brutal friendliness. ‘It’s too late now. You’ve signed your own pass!’
He presses his knee into her back and with a quick practiced movement slits her throat.
A half-smothered guttural noise bubbles from the gaping slash in her throat, then she goes limp in his arms.
A great pool of blood spreads across the floor and sinks into the carpet.
Tiny looks at the body for a moment; wipes the knife and his hands on her dress.
‘Holy Mother of Kazan!’ he mumbles. ‘It’s a thing I’ll never get bleedin’ used to! No wonder they give you the last shave for it in peace-time!’ He throws up into a bucket standing by the wall.
‘C’est la guerre, mon ami,’ says the Legionnaire, indifferently.
‘Get her out of sight,’ orders the Old Man, his face like stone. Porta and I push her into a cupboard. A green coat with worn fur trimmings is hanging there. On a shelf above, an old-fashioned brown hat with a feather.
‘Crazy woman no scream, no die,’ says Vasilij laconically, opening a packet of sandwiches he has found in a drawer. He offers them round. There’s enough for one apiece.
‘Pity she die! Make good food!’ says Vasilij, with his mouth full. ‘Goat milk cheese and red salad, good!’
When we leave the travel bureau we hang the ‘Closed’ sign inside the door.
At Smolenskaya we take cover from a big parade of troops taking the oath with their commanding general. Here we split up from the Brandenburgers and arrange a rendezvous a little way behind the Russian front line.
We go on down Lenskaya Quay and hide in the Zoological Gardens for the night. Porta, Tiny and Vasilij go in advance through the Krasnopresnensky park. They are to wait for us at the first lake. There we cross the river. Crossing the railway on this side is impossible. We have to go south of Kutuzovo Station, up over the Pakionnaye heights and from there to the Mozhaishkoe road. Several hours go by and we’ve heard nothing from them. The Old Man decides to move the entire section down towards the park in as spread order as possible. Their silence can mean that they are either taken prisoner or dead.
‘Nobody fires without my express orders,’ he snarls. ‘If it comes to a fight use close combat weapons only! The sound of a shot carries a hell of a distance in this frost!’
After a lengthy search we find them by the long lake. They are hiding behind a huge statue, set up on the top of a hill, from where they have an excellent view.
‘What the devil are you doing farting about here?’ scolds the Old Man. ‘Why haven’t I had a report?’
‘Take a pew and let peace sink over you,’ grins Porta easily, putting the glasses to his eyes. ‘The bridge is still occupied. A German louse couldn’t get across. But we’re all right here!’ he adds, with a lascivious chuckle.
Tiny is panting and scratching feverishly at his crutch. He too has his eyes pressed to the glasses.
‘Gawd’s truth,’ he whispers. ‘This is better’n a bleedin’ cunt exhibition!’
‘Dam shitty nice nanny! Vasilij think we go meet!’ says Vasilij, and whinnies lecherously.
‘What the devil are you looking at?’ asks the Old Man irritably, tearing the glasses from Tiny. ‘Now I’ve seen everything,’ he mumbles, a flush of rage mounting from his neck up into his face. ‘Have you three crazy bastards been lying here watching bloody girls all day long?’
‘Know of any better occupation?’ asks Porta. ‘I’m satisfied with the entertainment!’
‘Feldwebel, Vasilij think good plan we go down catch soldier women. Then we take shitty long rest on soft groundsheet before trot back by dam HKL!’
‘God damn you sons of pigs,’ curses the Old Man viciously. ‘You’re that bloody randy you’ll be fuckin’ the statue next.’
‘They’re taking showers over in that house,’ grins Porta and points to a long red house with lighted windows, even now in daytime.
‘We can see the ‘ole of their bleedin’ bodies,’ giggles Tiny without removing his eye from the glasses he is sharing with Vasilij.
‘Shitty good nanny,’ says Vasilij. ‘Them shave off hairs! No give crab! Chita girl all shave! China man no like weed round garage! Come take little look, Feldwebel! Wife Berlin no give shit! No get baby, make lovely music, with only look!’
‘By God,’ the Old Man swears, viciously. ‘We’ll soon have to be asking the enemy to order his women soldiers t
o draw the blinds when they strip off.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ says Barcelona, taking the glasses from Porta.
Soon the whole section is enjoying the sight in rotation. The girls are singing and chattering away.
‘What are they saying?’ asks Porta, throwing his Mpi behind him. It is getting in his way!
‘Not understand all,’ answers Vasilij. ‘Talk dialect! Grenadier women from Caucasus! Not talk proper language!’
‘Why are they bathing all the time?’ asks Stege in wonder. ‘They practically live in that shower-room.’
‘Them shitty shitty from Caucasus! Stink like goat! Vasilij thinks. Wash much now! Moscowman not like stinky woman!’
‘Do you mean to say they give it to the bleedin’ goats in the Caucasus?’ asks Tiny. ‘What a bleedin’ waste!’
‘Do now with goat! All men gone war!’ answers Vasilij.
‘There’ll be hell to pay if they catch us peeping,’ says the Old Man doubtfully. ‘Women have a sense for that kind of thing.’
‘We use sleepy-gun them keep mouth shut tight,’ considers Vasilij, optimistically. ‘You no be sour, Feldwebel! Take look! Not every day see so good thing in time war!’
‘What about makin’ a little check-up,’ suggests Tiny. ‘They ain’t gonna say no to green braid!’
‘Vasilij think plan good,’ says Vasilij, beginning to climb to his feet.
‘Holy Mother of Kazan,’ moans Barcelona. ‘Have you seen what’s coming our way? I’m near fainting when I think what she’s hiding under that uniform.’
‘Jesus, Son of God Almighty!’ cries Porta, his jaw falling. ‘She’s bloody well coming over here! Open your flies, boys, and get ready for shopping at the fur counter. It’s not every day it comes calling in wartime!’
‘We’ve got to get away,’ half-shouts the Old Man. ‘If she sees us she’ll give the alarm!’
‘You forget, we belong to that tough NKVD lot,’ says Porta, calmingly. ‘We’re like snakes and other forms of political reptile. People are hypnotized at a glance.’
‘Oh Hell! I’m scared,’ pipes the Professor. He is down at the bottom of a deep hole with his fur cap pulled over his ears. He must think like an ostrich. When he can’t see them, then they can’t see him either!
‘It’s all right,’ says Tiny, licking his lips expectantly. ‘Just sit still, like an old tomcat sittin’ ’avin’ a shit on a ’ot tin roof.’
‘If one of those girls comes by here,’ says Barcelona, ‘then you must forgive me, because I will not be able to help myself!’
‘She’ll get herself a gang-bang that quick you’d think it was a flock of sparrows!’ grins Porta.
‘Moscow ain’t so bad when you get used to it,’ says Tiny. ‘I’m sorry, really, we’re leavin’. It’s like bein’ in a ’ospital in a way. When you been there a bit you don’t even want to go outside! ‘Ow’d you lot feel about changin’ FPO numbers?’
‘You must have your balls where your brains ought to be,’ says Barcelona. ‘They’d knock us off in a minute or I’ll eat my helmet!’
‘Up on your feet!’ orders the Old Man, sharply. ‘We’re moving to the top end of the lake. They can’t see us there.’
Slowly and unwillingly we follow the Old Man. We were doing all right.
From our new hiding place we can see a lot further into the park, right over to the railway station, but we can’t see the bathroom anymore. We can see a woman officer changing her uniform but only half of us get a look before she’s finished. We’ve only three pairs of glasses to go the rounds between twenty men. We quarrel continually about who’s next.
We make ourselves comfortable, loosen our equipment, wrap ourselves in our long Russian greatcoats, pull the fur collars up round our ears and build up a little wall of snow around us to keep off the keen wind.
‘Just like Christmas!’ says Porta. ‘What about it. Let’s hang a few cartridge belts on this fir tree here, and play Christmas Eve. Then we could go over and get some of those grenade tossers and dance round the tree with ’em.’
Four girl soldiers come along arm in arm, singing. They wobble out on a narrow jetty with girlish squeals, knock a hole in the ice and pull up a long line. There are half a dozen perch wriggling on it.
‘I thought fish slept in the bleedin’ winter!’ cries Tiny in amazement.
‘Why should they?’ asks Heide. ‘You don’t go to sleep just because it’s cold.’
‘You’re bleedin’ stupid!’ shouts Tiny, contemptuously. ‘Bears bleedin’ well sleep in the winter, don’t they? They fill their bleedin’ gut all summer, then they roll up in a ball soon as the snow comes, and snore til the sun an’ warm comes back again. There’s plenty more animals as do that too, ain’t there? Then why’s it so bleedin’ funny, you brown-nosed bastard, if I think bleedin’ fish do, eh?’
The girls pull in another line, but with only a roach on it, and that such a small one they leave it on the hook for bait. They bait the other line again and let it down through the hole. Then they cover it with grass mats to make it easier to find again.
They sit down for a moment on a stone stub close to the bank. After a while they get up and walk straight over towards our hiding place.
We lie quiet as mice, hardly daring to breathe we’re so excited.
A few yards away from us they stop and haul some boxes from under a low shelter. They are slim, clean-looking girls. One of them is really beautiful with masses of golden hair which makes her side-cap look too small.
Tiny drops the glasses! They roll noisily down the slope. The sound makes them look over towards us. They don’t know it, but their lives are hanging by a thread. Two steps more towards us and we’ll take them and then rape them before we kill them! That’s war! Even with a gun pointed at us the Old Man couldn’t prevent it.
A group of girls under command of a fat woman sergeant march past us and disappear behind the trees over towards Selsoyu Street.
‘Let’s capture them!’ suggests Porta, lecherously. ‘It’ll only be two of us to each one of them. It ain’t bad stuff. I’ll take the fat ’un with the tapes. Jesus, I’ve never shagged a sergeant before, and now I can do it without getting me rod brown!’ He laughs, so loudly that the four girls over by the shelter get up and look questioningly towards us.
‘You mad bastard!’ scolds the Old Man, raging. ‘Now you’ve done it! Get ’em if they start to make a run for the barracks. They mustn’t be allowed to give the alarm.’
The girls settle down again.
Suddenly Tiny throws a snowball and hits one of them on the back of the neck.
‘Jesus, no!’ groans the Old Man, and throws his gun down on the snow in despair.
‘Hoo-oo-oo-hoo!’ howls Tiny, throwing another snowball.
‘Vasilij stand up. Girls see NKVD uniform. Pissy much danger now!’ says Vasilij nervously. ‘You ready with strangle-wire nanny try run!’ He gets to his feet, and waves his fur cap above his head.
The girls cry out with pleasure and four snowballs are on their way towards Vasilij.
Soon after we are all throwing snowballs.
The Old Man leans against a tree with a sour look on his face. ‘The maddest bloody lot on the whole of the Eastern Front! Playing with snowballs while they’re on a desperate commando raid behind the enemy lines! I can’t even report it! Nobody’d believe it!’
A hard snowball hits him slap in the face. He hesitates, and is about to shout but checks himself. Instead he throws a snowball back at them.
The girls scream with laughter every time they score a hit and we hit them almost every time.
The party from before comes back and joins in the battle.
Girlish screams and shouts of laughter can be heard a long way off. The snowfight doesn’t stop until darkness falls. They wave goodbye to us. A last snowball flies through the air and catches the fat sergeant squarely on the nape of the neck. She turns round and shakes her fist at us.
Porta jumps up and down like a giant f
rog shouting like a happy boy. He is quite smitten with the fat girl.
‘This is the best long distance warm-up I’ve ever struck!’ he shouts excitedly.
An hour later we’re on our way. We cross the ice by the Dorogomilovsky churchyard, and pass a great pile of bodies awaiting burial. Casualties from the air-raid and the artillery attacks. We move round a small house and are challenged by a guard.
‘Better me speak,’ whispers Vasilij. ‘He no get dead scare, shout out!’
In the wink of an eye the Legionnaire has strangled the officious guard. We throw his body, still warm, up to the others.
Tiny turns over one of the bodies.
‘What about a little gold minin’, eh?’ he asks, nudging Porta.
‘Just try it!’ snarls the Old Man pointing his gun at him. ‘Try it! That’s if you want to join the great majority of the Goddam pile here!’
‘Fuck me, but you’re difficult!’ shouts Tiny, irritated. ‘The face you been goin’ round with just lately ain’t good for our nerves, you know. It’s psychological cruelty, that’s what it is. You can get divorced for that!’
By the film studios we run into a large column of militia. An old major blows himself up to the size of a general and demands propusk.
He can’t see our badges in the dark and Vasilij has to make it clear to him that he is talking to the NKVD and risking a long holiday in Ljubjanka and Kolyma. Without more discussion we march off. Vasilij on the flank of the column.
The major remains, standing stiff as a poker at the salute, for as long as we are in sight.
As soon as we’re across the railway line we run as fast as our legs can carry us. You never know what an old officer like that can hit on when he’s had time to do a bit of thinking.
On the Mozhaishkoe road we hitch on to a large troop unit, so that it looks as if we belong to them, and are soon in open country.
A storm blows up that makes every step a battle. Mountains of snow drive across the road. We hold on to one another’s belts to avoid getting lost in the white hell of the blizzard. We take a couple of hours rest in a deserted sheepfold and reach the front area the following day. There we meet the Brandenburgers who are nervous, and vocally irritable, at having been kept waiting.
