Monte Cassino

by Sven Hassel

  "Of course," said the Old Man.

  Porta grinned, fished his black book out of his pocket and made a careful note in it.

  "That .was a bad mark against you, and only the total defeat of Germany's arms can wash you clean of it. If I was you, I'd go to our padre and get him to help you pray for the speedy entry of the American marines into Berlin." Then he produced his flute and we all sang: To Hell with Hitler and all the Nazi baiters Wipe your arse with the swastika flag And open your arms to all good traitors

  "You're crazy," Marlow laughed. "Hoffman will get his own back."

  Porta gave the cat in the parrot cage a piece of sausage.

  "If he comes back, it will be to join the game. From now on he'll lick my boots, if I want. Have you seen his green cushion with horns on that he's so fond of? He'll make me a present of that tomorrow."

  "Fancy you've never been made feldwebel," Marlow muttered admiringly.

  "Idiot! As obergefreiter I'm the army's spinal column. It's me decides whether my immediate superior shall have toothache, lumbago or what. When we were in the Ukraine, we were saddled with a hauptmann called Meyer, an upstart village school master. He died."

  "What happened to him?" Gregor Martin asked, curious.

  "He happened to out his broad bum on a T-mine," Porta said genially. "Come along, stake your money. One green dollar to a thousand Hitler units."

  "Will you take Churchill money?" Gregor Martin asked.

  "Of course, as long as it started life in the Bank of England. As far as I am concerned, you can stake yen roubles, zlotys or kroner. The rate is fixed by me and New York. But beware of marks, they're falling in value every hour. Pearls, gold and like articles are valued in dollars. No proof of ownership required. By the time we've finished, it will be mine anyway."

  The dice rolled. Hour after hour. The sun went down. The mosquitoes buzzed and bit our bare arms and necks, but we never noticed, all our attention being concentrated on the dice. The room filled with smoke; the lamp on the table guttered, unable to get enough oxygen; pearls, rings, paintings, dollars, pounds, Danish and Swedish crowns, Polish zloty, Japanese yen, Indian rupees, favourite pistols and close combat weapons changed hands in that ramshackle Italian mountain hut.

  Feldwebel Marlow went out for a while shortly before dawn and returned with three rolls of silk. An Italian Bersaglieri lieutenant, a count of the blood, flung a bundle of documents on the table in front of Porta, the deeds of some castle near Venice.

  "20,000 dollars," he muttered.

  Porta passed the documents to the Legionnaire, who examined them carefully, then whispered something to Porta. Porta glanced up at the Count.

  "As you're Italian, I'll give you 17.5. If you had been a Prussian with two iron crosses and pour le merite round your neck, you'd have got 10."

  "18," said the Count, trying to look as if he did not care.

  "17," said Porta with a smile.

  "You said 17.5 before," the Count protested.

  "Too late, my dear Count. World history changes from minute to minute. Your castle may be requisitioned tomorrow by farmer-boys from across the seas, and who the hell can sell a requisitioned castle? Not even a Jew could manage that, even if he had ten Greeks and five Catalans to help him."

  The Count gulped.

  At that moment an oberjager threw cameron. With an avid look he scraped a large pile of green banknotes to him.

  The Count stared as though hypnotised at Porta's yellow hat, then his gaze moved up to the cat in the parrot's cage, saw the oberjager win once again. He had no idea that this was arranged, part of Porta's psychological tactics. Suddenly, he made up his mind that his castle was an old ruin, and he shrilly accepted Porta's offer, and crumpled his feathered cap in his hands. The six dice rolled and he was then the late owner of a castle outside Venice. He managed to say a few foul-mouthed things before Tiny chucked him out.

  "I am a lieutenant in the Royal Italian Army," he shouted at the dawn.

  "You won't get fat on that," was Tiny's parting shot, before he slammed the door shut.

  In deep depression, the Count walked off down the path. Just before it joined the road at the three twisted cork oaks, he ran into a joint military police patrol commanded by an Italian fascist captain and a German Oberleutnant. As the Count had left his pocketbook with his papers in Porta's hut, the patrol gave him short shrift. The whole country had just been put under military law, because so many were deserting.

  "Badoglio swine," the captain shouted vindictively, as they forced the Count to his knees. They kicked his feathered hat, tore the shoulder straps and ribbons from his jacket. Just before they shot him, he called out something about an "illegal gambling den and robbery".

  "What a swine," snorted the fascist captain and spat on the corpse. "Calling Benito's Italy a gambling den."

  At three a.m. a staff M.O. appeared. He lost his entire field hospital, but Porta magnanimously gave it him back on loan for the rest of the war.

  When the sun was about to set again and Porta announced a three hour interval, there were wild protests from those present, but Tiny made everyone see reason with the help of his truncheon. Porta announced with no little satisfaction that the bank had not lost. Quite the contrary. We felt the need to celebrate and our cat, Stalin, was told that it was his birthday and in record time we had procured the two essentials of any feast: beer and women.

  Tiny and Porta had 'found' an overfed pig, which we pronounced Oberleutnant and honorary member of the Party. Two men took the feldwebel to the depot and there, with the help of a bottle of brandy and threats of court-martial, Gestapo and military police, got the largest uniform jacket they had. It almost fitted the pig, except that we could not get the collar done up. The pig was loud in its protests against having to wear German uniform. We tied it to a chair which we nailed to the wall and there it sat, the exact image of a dyspeptic overfed German LOC officer. The Old Man laughed so much he put his jaw out of joint and Tiny had to put it in again with a blow of his fist. It was hopeless to try and get boots on the pig, but we gave it trousers and a field cap.

  Marlow pinned a notice on its chest: "I, Oberleutnant Porker, am the only decent swine in the German army."

  "To hell with this," Heide exclaimed. "I know nothing about this, make a note of that."

  "Bugger off, then," Porta suggested with a superior air. "Nobody's keeping you here."

  "Bugger yourself," Heide replied angrily. "You know perfectly well that I can't do without you."

  "Shall I give him one on the napper?" Tiny asked bloodthirstily, swinging his long truncheon.

  Heide drew a hand grenade from his boot.

  "Hit me, if you dare, you great shit-house."

  Tiny began brandishing his arms in a frenzy. The word 'dare' never failed to get him worked up.

  The M.O. and Oberfeldwebel Wolf rolled in a 20-gallon barrel of beer, helped by the quartermaster-sergeant, Krabbe. Some time before, after reading a book about the soldiers of Charles XII, Krabbe had appointed himself quartermaster. He was a dangerous competitor of Porta's. You could buy anything and everything from Krabbe, even a battle cruiser if you happened to need one. Porta and he hated each other, but were always courteous and polite.

  "Well, I'll be damned," Porta exclaimed, when he saw the barrel come rolling in, "Krabbe, you haven't been committing larceny?"

  Krabbe drew himself up to his full height, which was no mean one.

  "That is a grievous accusation to make against a quartermaster, Obergefreiter Porta. This beer is saved up rations. When I heard you were having a celebration, I thought it was the right occasion to drink it."

  "Krabbe, you are our guest this evening; but first bring me Eagle. I have need of an orderly."

  "You can soon have him," Tiny put in. "I caught him down by the Regimental HQ, slinking about with a long report in his hand. I've tied him outside there on the midden and had to stuff a pair of dirty pants into his gob because he bawled so unpleasantly when I told hi
m we would make a bonfire of him in the early morning."

  "Produce him," Porta ordered.

  Eagle was brought in. He rolled like a ball to Porta's feet, impelled by Tiny's boots.

  "Stand at attention, you scum," Porta commanded, "and don't blink your peepers so idiotically. Tonight you have been allotted to me as my personal orderly, but first salute our CO. in the chair there and sit down beside him."

  Eagle had to salute the uniformed pig; first, five times doing an eyes right as he marched past him; then facing him. Every time the pig grunted, he was to ask: "Herr Oberleutnant wishes?"

  The pig was given a bucket of beer and schnaps, and Eagle was to see that Leutnant Porker got a good gulp of the mixture every quarter of an hour. When the pig had had its drink, Eagle could take one from the bucket too.

  "What's good enough for one pig, will do for another," said Porta and chuckled delightedly. "Between drinks park your arse on a chair in front of the Oberleutnant and salute."

  Eagle protested, but Tiny soon made him see reason.

  "Reminds me of the parish priest in Pistolen strasse who wanted to put in a complaint about Bishop Niedermeyer," Porta put in. "He wrote for three days. . . ."

  "Oh, shut up, Porta," the Old Man called. "We can't stand that again today."

  Porta nodded understandingly and pointed to Eagle.

  "There you see, you moth-eaten prison fart, how little weight people attach to complaints. No complaint has yet found a place in world history. If you're fed to the teeth with us, just regard it as a necessary evil. Behave properly and your life will be more or less tolerable. Otherwise I shall hand you over to Tiny's jurisdiction. He will blaze you off like a rocket on December 31st at five minutes to twelve."

  Eagle got to work, pale but composed.

  After his third mug of ale, Porta asked one of the girls, why she had knickers on.

  After the seventh glass of beer Krabbe proposed a quick game of strip poker. Beer by itself no longer appealed to us. It was too slow to take effect. The big barrel was half empty and we now filled it up with whisky, chianti, vodka, genever and to make it really tasty, we topped it up with a bottle of Worcester sauce. The smart set did that when they made cocktails, Porta said.

  Eagle had to trundle the barrel twice up and down the hill to mix it properly. He was weeping by the time he had finished.

  Tiny got to his feet, hitched up his trousers, picked a length of rope from the floor, and, as he strode towards Eagle, made a running noose.

  "Everything comes to an end," he said genially, placing the loop round Eagle's neck. "Here's a nice bit of rope. Go outside now, find a nice tree and be a man and dangle yourself out of this world."

  Eagle shot out of the door with Tiny at his heels. A loud screech came from him, as a well-placed kick sent him sprawling down the slope, the rope's end fluttering behind him.

  "When you get to the bottom, you'll find a good tree right on your left."

  "That was a sight to gladden my eyes," said Porta laughing. "Tiny has the morale you others lack."

  Our young M.O. had got fearfully drunk and was paying court to the quartermaster-sergeant in the mistaken belief that he was Greta Garbo.

  "Your knickers are made of very coarse material, Miss Garbo," he said with a loud hiccough.

  Krabbe hit him over the fingers with his bayonet:

  "Claws off, you enema-specialist!"

  The M.O. burst into tears. Then his face suddenly lit up, like at the end of a funeral, and he spat on the floor.

  "I shall do you a death certificate," and he wrote on one of the girl's slips: "Ex-Stabsfeldwebel Stahlschmidt is dead. Suicide." Then he fell upon Marlow, who was lying on his back drinking: "You're a corpse," he exclaimed, which was very nearly the truth. "I won't have a corpse lying here boozing. Under the sod with you! Or I'll send for the military police."

  "And we won't allow Padre Emanuel to bless Eagle. And he's not to have extreme unction either!" Heide called.

  "God have mercy on him, if he has the cheek to come to life again," said Porta threateningly. "Now let's give thanks."

  Heide leaped to his feet and began to beat time, while with our arms round each other's shoulders and Tiny weeping emotionally, we sang.

  We then began the ritual salutation; the superior inviting the subordinate, or, if both were of the same rank, the one with more decorations, the one with fewer, to drink with him. Porta started. He raised his mug to the M.O.

  "You have sneaked into our trade union by the back door from your university stupefying institute. You wear our uniform, but you don't even know the difference between a machine gun and a catapult. You have no idea how to order a flock of hungry cocks to meals. I salute you."

  The M.O. got unsteadily to his feet, stood swaying, raised his mug and drained it, as the rules prescribed.

  Then Heide saluted the M.O. Then Marlow. By the time it was the Old Man's turn, the young doctor could take no more. He collapsed like a punctured balloon and was borne out on a stretcher to the strains of a funeral dirge and dumped on the midden.

  Wolf wanted to drink with Porta, but was derisively refused. Proudly patting his be-ribboned chest, Porta said:

  "You bloody sparking plug, do you think I'm a distributor that you can just tell to make a spark! Go and fetch me a lock of a US marine's hair and you'll have a slight chance of being allowed to drink with a front line obergefreiter."

  "You must excuse me," hiccoughed Wolf and tried to bow, but lost his balance and fell at the feet of the uniformed pig, which he mistook for one of the girls. "My dear young lady, your behaviour is scarcely decent," he exclaimed, "Going about in public without knickers." Then he gave the pig a resounding kiss right on its snout, grinned idiotically and cried: "Your lips are cool and irresistible." Then he became coarse; but in the middle of a sentence caught sight of the badges of rank on the pig's jacket: saluted awkwardly with wide-spread fingers. "At your service, Herr Oberleutnant. I'm at your service, Herr Oberleutnant, you're a swine!" He then subsided onto the floor.

  A fresh funeral then took place. Raised high above our heads we carried him out to the midden and laid him there beside the corpse of the doctor.

  Padre Emanuel appeared. He stood for a moment in the doorway watching us and shaking his head. Marlow invited him inside. Tiny staggered stubbornly after him, but collapsed exhausted on the midden. Seeing the doctor's lifeless body, he was overcome with grief and begged his forgiveness for killing him. He swore he would never do it again. Then he discovered Wolf and began sobbing broken-heartedly.

  "Good God, I'm a mass murderer!" Then he began thinking of all the insults Wolf had heaped on him in the past and began spitting on the corpse instead.

  Then something happened that almost made him pass out: the corpse sat up! Tiny uttered a screech of terror, grabbed his pistol and emptied the magazine at the ghost, but fortunately all eight shots missed.

  "What the hell's this!" exclaimed Wolf, pulling a hand grenade from the leg of his boot, which he flung at Tiny, but forgot to pull the fuse cord.

  Tiny burst into the hut.

  "There's a corpse chucking hand grenades at me!" he cried. "I'm going home now, I've had enough of war."

  Wolf staggered in. He pointed an accusing finger at Tiny:

  "Murderer!"

  Tiny seized an automatic pistol, which we had the utmost difficulty in wresting from him. He only calmed down when Wolf invited him to drink with him.

  Suddenly Marlow, the ex-paratrooper, leaped to his feet and listened intently. On the floor beside him lay a girl, legs wide spread. Tiny was lying on top of another paying what he liked to call court to her.

  "Tanks coming," Marlow bellowed.

  That sobered us. We seized our weapons and heard the familiar clanking sound that can freeze the blood in the veins of even the bravest.

  "Marines," Porta laughed and tied four hand grenades to a bottle full of petrol.

  "Nom de Dieu, they've heard of our little celebration," laughed t
he Legionnaire.

  The door was flung open, a steel-helmeted sentry stuck his head inside and gasped: "Alarm. Sound of tank tracks from the valley."

  Barcelona swept him aside.

  "Bugger off, little boy. We'll deal with this."

  Tiny was flat on his face searching for a panzerfaust under the bed. One after the other, we staggered outside where we could hear the sound of the engines. The Old Man went first, a bundle of grenades in either hand. Mar-low followed just behind, carrying a T-mine.

  "Maybach engines," Oberfeldwebel Wolf announced.

  "And Tiger tracks," Porta replied with the assurance of the professional.

  "There's something wrong about this," Wolf said. "We haven't any tanks at the repair shops, and we're the only Tiger battalion in this sector."

  We peered through the trees down the serpentine road. There were at least five or six of them. We heard voices cursing in German.

  "Change gear, you arse-hole!"

  A grinding of gears followed; a motor roared; Porta and Wolf looked at each other.

  "Amateurs," Wolf muttered.

  "They've never learned to drive Tigers," Porta said. "I believe they're gypsies."

  "Sinister, anyway," Barcelona put in, swinging a Molotov cocktail. "I'll teach them a lesson."

  Porta took up position in the middle of the road, feet wide apart and firmly planted. He rubbed his hairy chest with a hand grenade. In his left hand he had a jug of rice spirit.

  The clatter of tank tracks became deafening. Barcelona set up the machine gun behind a fallen tree. He had to do it single handed, for he had no helper. He trod the three legs of the tripod into the ground, checked the level and adjusted the elevation; then he placed three Molotov cocktails beside him.

  Marlow and Wolf hung a 7.5 centimetre grenade in a tree, connected various wires to it, thus transforming it in a few seconds into a lethal baumkrepierer. Woe to anyone who ran into any of those wires!

  The Legionnaire was lying up on the hillside behind two linked flame-throwers. If they tried to withdraw, they would be as good as dead, for they would have to go through a wall of burning oil.