by Sven Hassel
‘Something’d turn up while you’re doin’ the job,’ Wolf rallies him.
No good,’ Gregor rejects the idea with decision. ‘Dangerous as all get-out.’
After a long conference Tiny and Gregor agree to go into Petsamojoki and do the job quickly and efficiently.
‘Every evening Sieg leaves his place of duty, and returns to his quarters in Starja Street,’ Porta explains. ‘The shit’s usually on his own. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to knock him off when he’s on his way down Jyväskulä Alley. If both of you let go at him at the same time one of you’s sure to blow his candle out!’
‘What about if he’s got one of these Lapland whores with him?’ asks Gregor, worriedly.
‘If she’s in the way, knock her off, too,’ decides Wolf, loftily. ‘Women like that have got to learn it’s dangerous to run around with Germans, and particularly dangerous if they’re MPs. It might even be of preventative value, so the MPs can’t get hold of cunt any more, and that I would be happy to see.’
‘I don’t like it,’ says Gregor, uneasily. ‘My primitive instincts tell me it’s wrong. What if there’s a lot of trigger-happy types around? Bullet’s ain’t choosers. They don’t give a sod who they perforate.’
With some anxiety they scramble into an amphibian, which Wolf has organised for the job.
‘Take him when he turns into Starkaja Street,’ suggests Hofmann. ‘It’s black as the inside of your hat there. You can knock him off easy as a cannibal pickin’ a banana!’
‘Do cannibals eat bananas?’ asks Tiny, with a simple look on his face.
‘Don’t ask silly questions, Creutzfeldt,’ says Hofmann, sharply. ‘Off you go and reduce our load of troubles by one!’
As they swing down Tölö Street, they catch sight of Emil Sieg.
‘Holy Mother of Kazan, there’s our mark,’ screams Gregor, excitedly. In a colossal jump he is out of the vehicle and goes at Sieg like a tank aiming to run over a frog.
Tiny swings the amphibian up on to the pavement immediately in front of Sieg, who has to jump quickly to one side to avoid being crushed against the wall. The amphibian crashes into the wall.
‘Why don’t you stand still, you cowardly sod?’ shouts Tiny, indignantly.
Sieg lets out a hoarse scream and looks round despairingly for help.
‘Oh Cripes!’ roars Tiny, jumping from the amphibian with his pistol ready in his hand.
Sieg whirls round. He knows what is happening and tears at his holster, but it is one of the new, elegant types which is not easy to get open.
Tiny lifts the Nagan and stretches his arm towards him.
‘Now you’re goin’ to die, you twisted son of a bitch,’ he screams, murderously.
Sieg drops down like lightning and rolls under a parked lorry.
‘Send for the undertaker, he’s a corpse already!’ howls Gregor enthusiastically, going down on his knees to liquidate Sieg whom he thinks is under the lorry. But all he sees is Sieg’s officer’s boots, drumming through the half-melted snow so that it spurts to all sides.
Without regard for passers-by Gregor fires at the boots, but only succeeds in hitting the tyres of a Finnish artillery lorry. The whole street is in an uproar. Three MPs drop down and open fire in the wrong direction.
Some Supplies Corps soldiers say they have seen five Russian paratroopers running through the streets pulling a German General after them on the end of a rope.
Tiny and Gregor jump into the amphibian and drive after Sieg, who is now a good distance away.
He runs down an alley which is too narrow for the vehicle to enter.
‘Now we’ve got him,’ howls Tiny, looking like a bulldog which has found the bone somebody had stolen from it.
On foot they go after Sieg, who is in no doubt that he is running for his life. He curses himself for having gone into the blackmail business.
Behind him come the two assassins, thundering down the alley like a couple of express trains on their way through a tunnel, and ready to spread death and destruction around them.
‘Come out, you crooked dog, so I can put a bullet in you,’ Tiny bawls. ‘We’re gonna fix you right! Count on that!’
A couple of shots crack down the alley and bullets ricochet from the walls of the houses. The alley is a long one, but some way down it there is an elbow, with a little passage into which a man can disappear if he knows where it is. Sieg knows. A few days ago he caught a deserter in that same passage.
He checks and almost flies through the air as, at the last minute, he turns the corner into the passage.
Two and a half seconds later Tiny and Gregor blunder past, splashing melted snow up the walls from their boots.
Sieg just catches sight of Tiny’s pale-grey bowler, which is pressed firmly down on his head.
The alley ends in a wall, the end wall of a five-storey building. They brake to a halt, their studded boots striking sparks from the stones, and stare in amazement at the impassable wall.
‘Where’d that cow get to?’ asks Gregor, open-mouthed.
‘’E ain’t climbed that,’ says Tiny. ‘Even a Finnish cat couldn’t get up there. They do say as fear can put wings on people, but that’s a load of bull like a lot of other things. That bastard’s sittin’ around ’ere somewhere waitin’ to get shot. God ’elp ’im when I get my teeth in ’is arse. I’ll tear ’is eyes out, I will, and then I’ll rip ’is bleedin’ ears off. What a rat! Runnin’ away like that when we’re comin’ to shoot ’im up!’
They creep up some backstairs and almost frighten the life out of an old woman coming down with a pail of garbage.
Tiny asks her if she’s seen a man who’s going to be shot and she throws the pail at his head. He falls over backwards and takes Gregor with him a good way out into the yard.
‘You sure that wasn’t him?’ asks Gregor, brushing potato peelings from his uniform.
‘That was an ugly Lapp woman,’ snarls Tiny, picking eggshell out of his ears. ‘She thought we were the dustbin!’
‘Do we look like dustbins,’ asks Gregor, insulted.
‘In the dark it’s easy to make that mistake,’ considers Tiny, ‘but Emil’s goin’ to pay for this too! I’ll tear ’is bollocks off, I will, and stuff ’ em straight up ’is stinkin’ arsehole!’
Soon after, they catch sight of somebody, standing close to the wall, further down the alley.
‘Holy God’s mother, that’s him!’ roars Gregor, and empties the magazine of the Nagan so fast it sounds like an Mpi.
The shadowy person disappears into a gateway leaving a respectably sized pool of blood. The spots of blood lead into a house, but tail off little by little.
‘We made a ’ole in ’im any road,’ says Tiny, with satisfaction, spitting contemptuously at the blood spots.
‘He’ll bleed to death like a sick rat,’ says Gregor, pleased.
‘Should that bastard survive all this, we ain’t gonna be sittin’ so pretty, though,’ says Tiny, worriedly.
‘Jesus, no,’ says Gregor, blackly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
‘I reckon we can go back ’ome and tell ’em we’ve punctured that lukewarm turd,’ says Tiny, resolutely. ‘The blood can’t leak out of the sod if there ain’t a ’ole in ’im, can it?’
‘They’ll strangle us if they ever find out we’re taking the piss out of ’em,’ says Gregor, pessimistically.
‘Stop your cryin’, then,’ says Tiny, calmly. ‘If we ain’t made a big enough ’ole in ’im, then we’ll come back an’ do it better next time. But ’e must be dead. ’Ell, ’e must’ve lost at least five gallons of ’is rat’s blood, which is more’n God give anybody to lose!’
‘It’s odd,’ Gregor admits, ‘let’s have another look. I’d rather go home and be able to say I’d taken a kick at his body. But the body we saw, ran bloody off, didn’t it? And it’s not often bodies do that sort of thing!”
‘Maybe we’ve frightened him enough to make him keep his mouth shut,’ thinks Tiny.
‘Tell me, now,’ says Tiny, nervously, pushing the bowler to the back of his neck. ‘You don’t think it’s some other silly cow we’ve ’ad a bang at and who’s lost all that blood we saw back there?’
‘I think that’s it,’ Gregor nods, with conviction. ‘That sod we shot was too big to be Emil. And I think he was wearing a Finnish uniform!’
‘Jesus, Jesus,’ shouts Tiny, clasping his hands as if in prayer. ‘Let’s not ’ave any more to worry about! If we’ve shot one of them polar blokes they’ll be complainin’ to the German authorities. Emil knows we were close to ’avin’ ’is arse in that alley an’ the case’ll go to is section. Ain’t no Sherlock needed to sort out who it was ’ad a crack at an arctic ’ero!’
‘You’re right,’ says Gregor, weakly. ‘It’s a black outlook. But no matter what, we stick to it that we’ve fixed him good. We didn’t leave the body till it was full of blue-bottles, understand?’
‘I ’ope you know what we’re doin’,’ mumbles Tiny with a grimace, ‘but don’t forget Porta an’ Wolf! Those two treacherous sods’ll be askin’ questions all over the shop, and if the rat’s still alive they’ll find out for sure!’
The same evening a happy wake is held in Hofmann’s quarters, with Tiny and Gregor as the guests of honour.
‘That’s the way to treat blackmailers,’ shouts Barcelona, enthusiastically. ‘No talk. Lightning-fast action!’
The beer is laced with Slivovitz, and the gaiety of the party rises to unprecedented heights. The singing can be heard all the way over in the Russian lines:
Denn wir wissen, dass nach dieser Not50
uns leuchtet hell das Morgenrot!’
‘We ’it ’im right between the eyes,’ lies Tiny, with practised ease, believing it for a moment himself. ‘The bullets went “smack” as they went into ’im!’ he boasts, bringing both hands forcefully down on the table.
‘And the blood spouted out of him,’ grins Gregor, happily. ‘There was blood all over! It went streaming down the gutters! It was like the Stockhold bloodbath!’
‘I put three shots straight up ’is jacksey ’fore we got out,’ states Tiny, impudently, crooking his forefinger.
‘Merde alors! What did you do with the body?’ asks the Legionnaire, practically.
‘We slung it down into a ’ell of a deep cellar,’ explains Tiny, eagerly. ‘Should’ve ’eard ’im splash when ’e ’it bottom.’
‘I suppose you could find that cellar again?’ asks Porta, with a suspicious gleam in his eye.
It is Hofmann who exposes them next morning.
‘There was a lot of blood yesterday?’ he asks sarcastically, and stands in front of Tiny.
‘That’s right,’ Tiny assures him. Tour or five gallons at least!’
‘And the body you threw into a deep cellar?’ continues Hofmann.
‘Word of honour,’ Gregor gives the guarantee solemnly. ‘We heard the thud when it hit bottom.’
‘Then perhaps it would interest you to know that I have just spoken to the body on the telephone, and that the body has promised to give us his very special attention!’
Tiny is about to turn and run for it, when the muzzle of an Mpi is pushed against his stomach.
‘Stay put,’ smiles Porta, dangerously. ‘Or I’ll show you how lying bastards like you get blown off the face of the earth!’
‘There must be some mistake,’ stammers Gregor, confusedly.
‘Sure! One of the big ones,’ snarls Hofmann, grinding his teeth. ‘But one thing’s a certainty. It was Emil Sieg I talked to. It may also interest you to know that an attempt to murder a Finnish sergeant has been reported, and that Sieg has been given the case!’
‘Doesn’t sound so good,’ sighs Tiny, in a small voice.
‘Let’s have the story,’ demands Porta, narrowing his eyes.
‘Well it was black as a cannibal’s arsehole,’ explains Gregor. We shot some silly bleeder, but it doesn’t seem it could’ve been Emil when the Herr Hauptfeldwebel here’s talked to him on the phone today. It doesn’t often happen the dead ring up!’
‘There is simply no other way,’ says Wolf, decisively. ‘We’ve got to chill the bastard!’
‘You’re telling me,’ says Porta. ‘He’s dangerous as a cobra in a warm bed, and now he’s mad on getting back at us!’
‘Can’t we report him to the police?’ suggests the Westphalian, na‘vely. ‘It’s a crime to blackmail people.’
‘You’re that stupid it’s a wonder you know enough to stay breathin’!’ shouts Tiny, contemptuously. ‘Only the feebleminded ask the rozzers to ’elp ’em!’
‘I suggest we storm his lair and shoot his head off,’ says Gregor, filling up the glasses from Wolf’s stock.
‘It’d be difficult to get in to him,’ says Barcelona, doubtfully. ‘He’s sitting pretty there right in the middle of the old fort. The gates are strong as them in a prison.’
Porta picks up his beer and drinks deeply, then bites off a chunk of hot pork.
‘I know that bloody fort. The only way we’d get in there’d be with a big, big load of TNT. That’d send the lot of ’em up, but it could mean sudden death for us too if we made a balls of it. Gimme a cup of coffee, and I’ll think of something else!’
‘I got a plan,’ says Tiny, twirling his Mpi. ‘Let’s invite the silly sod out to us an’ give ’im the treatment. I know a way as’d make a nice, considerate citizen of ’im.’
‘No good,’ says Porta. ‘He’s a crook, and he won’t stop until he’s taken us for everything we’ve got.’
‘I can turn ’im into a Sunday School teacher,’ shouts Tiny, cocksure of himself. ‘Listen! It’s a great plan. When ’e arrives we give ’im a welcomin’ glass for old times’ sake. Then we attend to ’is personal comfort. ‘E’ll no doubt be in need of a pedicure. I pulls out me battle-knife an’ amputates the little toe on ’is left foot. So there’ll be more room in them narrow officer’s boots of ’is. If ’e still won’t come to ’is senses we explain to ’im as ’ow both parties are wastin’ their time talkin’ an’ might as well go ’ome. On the way out of the door we notice the poor bleeder is limpin’, because ’e ain’t got the same number of toes on both feet. Now what do old friends do to ’elp the louse?’ asks Tiny, looking around and proud of himself.
‘Hit the back of his neck with an acid drop,’ suggests Porta, large-mindedly.
‘No, no! No brutality,’ Tiny turns the suggestion down. ‘We leave that sort of thing to Nazis and Commies. We are ’umane. We don’t shoot a man just because ’e limps. No, we take off ’is right boot, and ’elp ’im off with ’is right little toe. Then the boots fit ’im, and ’e don’t get corns!’
‘I don’t think he’d like that,’ says Barcelona, looking tenderly down at his own feet.
‘Nobody’s askin” im to,’ says Tiny, companionably. ‘But I’d expect ’im to stay with us a bit after that to discuss things. At any rate ’e’d ’ave the thought that ’e still ’ad eight toes, ten fingers, two flappin’ great ears an’ a big, ugly nose in the middle of ’is kisser, as we could ’elp ’im off with one by one.’
‘Don’t forget he’s got a prick too,’ whoops Porta. ‘We’d cut that off an’ stick it in his mouth so’s he’d think he’d come to a fairies’ party!’
‘No good,’ says Barcelona, gloomily. ‘If we can’t pay the bastard to keep quiet there’s only one thing to do: Liquidate him like the rat he is! Be the first sensible killing in this whole war!’
‘My feeling too,’ agrees Hofmann.
We agree to get things moving right away.
Inspector Sieg is not feeling too well when he leaves his office. He leaves early. He goes cold, and beg
ins to sweat at the same time, when he hears that ten kilogrammes of TNT have been stolen, in the course of the night, from an ammunition store close by. From what he knows of Porta it can only be he who has stolen it to use in an effective liquidation.
With all his senses working overtime he walks along, keeping close to the walls and taking cover behind other people the whole time. Every time he sees an amphibian he stops in terror. He realises suddenly that blackmailing is a very dangerous business.
He gives a terrified start when a vehicle brakes hard out on the road and takes cover behind a perambulator containing a pair of wailing twins.
With his hand on his pistol butt he sneaks along. He stands still for a long time, watching the house in which he is quartered. He enters it only when he is satisfied that nobody is lying in wait for him.
He changes to civilian clothes and congratulates himself on having had a really clever idea. Those fools will be looking for a man in a uniform of a poisonous-looking green colour. Civilians will be about as interesting to them as a bunch of carrots to a well-fed dog.
Part of the way down Hollanti Street he again thinks he has caught sight of Tiny and Porta and pulls the pistol from his pocket. To his huge relief it turns out to be a couple of ordinary infantrymen, who are trying to hit it off with three Finnish girl soldiers. He has realised long ago that he cannot follow the usual service procedure and hand over the case to a colleague. If he does, he himself will end up behind bars.
The devil!’ he curses, thinking with longing of how pleasant it would be to be living a boring civilian life, paying taxes and rent, and going to bed at ten o’clock every night with a wife in hair curlers.
With these melancholy thoughts running through his mind he sneaks into Hurme’s Bar for a cup of coffee and a large cognac. That should pull him together a bit. If there is anything he needs now it is clear thinking.
There are only a few people in the long bar-room. The barmaid is leaning, half-asleep, on the bar. Without a word she shoves a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac towards him. He squeezes into a dimly lit stall, and swears viciously when he scalds his tongue on the hot coffee. Carefully he pours it into the saucer and blows on it. He slobbers it down, noisily, and begins to feel a little better.
