by Sven Hassel
The new referee rushes forward, arms flailing, only to find himself on the receiving end of a kick which sends him flying over the ropes. The medical orderlies carry him off to their first aid post behind the dustbins, where his colleague is still lying, trying to regain his breath. It is not a boxing match anymore. It has turned into a murderous fight, in which every dirty trick, any hard-boiled American movie has ever shown, is being used. Growling they go into a clinch and fall to the floor. They roll round the ring in a knot of twisted, intertwined muscle.
The Caucasian lets out a scream of anguish, as the German’s teeth bury themselves in his testicles.
‘Not goin’ to fuck for a bit, that boy,’ roars Porta. He kicks at an empty beer barrel, which rolls into the standing room area, knocking over spectators like ninepins.
With an upward kick, and a punch which lands on the German’s neck, the Caucasian gets free and up on to his feet. The German is no slow-coach, either. He starts off like Jesse Owens, moving at a pace which would leave a world champion sprinter standing. He sinks a right, deep into the Caucasian’s middle region. The Russian responds with a straight right, which seems to make the German sag, followed by a sizzling left, which, would have sent him straight to the heavenly hunting grounds if it had connected.
With the exception of the boxing fanatics, who do not like it, the crowd roars ferociously. Seats are torn up. Boots thud on the floor.
‘Tear ’is ears off!’ comes from the cheap seats.
‘Jesus’n Mary, this is the best fight I ever did see in all my life,’ shouts Tiny, happily. A size 15 boot crashes into the German’s knee. He screams and goes down, both hands clasped round the smashed kneecap.
‘I’ll flatten you,’ he hisses, getting back on his feet with a face twisted with pain. ‘Say your prayers, you Russian bastard. You’re for the boneyard!’ In his rage he has apparently completely forgotten that he is supposed to lose in the final round.
‘Kill him,’ roars Porta, excitedly, as the two boxers, clasped in one another’s arms, sway round the ring employing, as certain circles say, ‘every dirty trick in the book’!
The boxing enthusiasts rage in protest. They do not want, they say, to see a good boxing match turned into a street brawl. But all the others who, like Tiny and Porta, think they have never seen such a lovely boxing exhibition, hit them on the heads with whatever is to hand.
The fight goes on. The noise resembles that of an air raid on a large-sized industrial city. Suddenly it stops. It is as if we were at the quiet vortex of a typhoon. There is a dead silence. The German lifts the Caucasian, holds him for a moment above his head, and throws him to the canvas. He lies there, unmoving.
The 8th Panzer Regiment rises to its feet in a body, and begins to sing, solemnly, ‘Wacht am Rhein’
‘These bloody patriots,’ says Porta. ‘They don’t know where they are half the time. They shouldn’t be singin’ “Wacht am Rhein”. “Wacht an der Volga’s” the thing!’
The Russian is on his feet again, and the match moves into its final phase. The German patriots are at fever pitch, as their man draws back his left for the decisive punch. But the Caucasian goes at him again like a weasel at a deeping hen.
He kicks him on the wrist, then brings down both fists on top of his head. His entire skeleton gives off cracking sounds. The German’s mouth opens in a scream of agony, and he bends forward. The blow that follows, from the Caucasian’s right hand, throws him into the air. He almost somersaults, and in some unexplainable way lands on his feet. He smashes his right into the Caucasian’s face. In his rage he forgets his broken left and sinks it with all his force into his opponent’s solar plexus.
‘Oh, no!’ moans Wolf, seeing his winnings begin to fly away from him.
Porta begins to make panicky plans to desert to the Russians. If the Caucasian loses, which now seems probable, there is no earthly possibility of them being able to pay out the winners.
But the Russian is not finished yet. He literally jumps at the German, who whirls like lightning in an 80° turn, and aims a wicked kick at the Caucasian’s crotch, but misses his mark. The Caucasian evades the kick, and attempts a risky manoeuvre aimed at breaking his opponent’s neck. The German has seen it and jumps high and to the right. From there he rushes forward and hammers a right into the Russian’s shoulder. The Russian gives out a roar as he sees the opening to the German’s throat. The German’s head rocks back twice. It is as if it had been torn loose from the spine. With a scream he falls to his knees, spits, and grunts, and goes purple in the face. Quite slowly he falls over on his side, and brings up what is in his stomach. With great difficulty he gets to his knees, spitting a great deal of blood. With the aid of the ropes he brings himself to his feet.
‘Now that German shit’s gotta be finished,’ roars Tiny, delightedly. ‘The neighbour’s boy’s only got to give ’im one more, an’ ’e’s out!’
But Tiny is wrong. The German is not finished. After his seconds have emptied a couple of buckets of water over him, he is back again hammering away at the Caucasian like a mad elk which has been chased away from the cows. The Caucasian lands a blow on his throat, directly on the larynx. He is thrown back over the ropes, smashing his stool and flattening a water bucket in the process.
The Caucasian goes roaring round the ring with his hands above his head. Every now and then he takes a kick at the German, who is lying stretched out in the ring like a man who has been crucified.
The crowd goes wild. A Bavarian Unteroffizier rushes down to the ringside seats, swinging a bag above his head. When he catches sight of Chief Mechanic Wolf, in his tailor-made uniform, he throws the bag straight in his face. It breaks open, and smashed tomatoes, corn cobs, pieces of roast duck, and many other things fly through the air.
A fat Feldwebel from the Air Supply Service comes yelling down from the cheap seats with one boot dragging on the end of a boot-lace behind him. He demands his money back. The match was a swindle, he claims.
Porta makes a V-sign with the forefinger and middle-finger of his right hand.
‘Faites vos jeux!’ he yells, and drives his fingers into the eyes of the onrushing Feldwebel.
‘Long live Greater Germany,’ screams an Obergefreiter from 8, Panzer Regt., fanatically. He presses a large black bucket down over the head of a Feldpolizeiispektor. The stinking contents spray up over his own face.
‘Good God Almighty,’ shouts Porta, jumping to one side. ‘What’s in that’d kill a man off quicker’n a whole chemist’s shop!’
Soon after, the Bavarians begin using the noodles and black puddings, which they have brought with them for lunch, as missiles. In only a few minutes of time the whole storehouse begins to look like a blown up field-kitchen. A huge soft cheese sandwich, with onions, comes flying through the air and smashes, like a grenade, against the wall, close to the Old Man.
A piece of tripe comes arcing towards us. Porta ducks and it hits Tiny in the face with a loud slap. Porta turns round to see where the tripe has gone and gets a large meefischli in the neck. The head of the fish flies off and sticks in Gregor’s open mouth, almost choking him.
Porta goes after a little artilleryman, attempts to kick him but misses and goes down on his back. The artilleryman picks up a soft salami and smears it round in Porta’s face. Porta gets back on his feet, trips the man with an osotagari swing of his foot and sends him stumbling away.
Tiny saves Albert from being strangled by two Rheinlanders, at the very last moment.
‘The panther,’ screams Porta, ‘let that black bastard loose, somebody. He’ll show ’em where Moses used to buy his beer!’
With a great deal of shouting and jungle roars Tiny gets the black panther up the stairs and into the ordnance stores. The panther can smell food. Its tail begins to whip from side to side. It shows its long fangs.
‘Jesus Christ,’ shouts Tiny, expectantly. ‘The sod’s started! Go on Ulrich, you can ’ave ’em all!’
‘Old men are often better of
f dead,’ shouts Porta, swinging a plank at an elderly Stabsfeldwebel from Divisional Workshops.
The panther gives out a rolling roar, and prepares to spring.
‘No-o-o!’ howls an artillery Wachtmeister, in terror, swinging a broken bottle above his head. He looks into the panther’s open jaws, and his legs give way under him. It hunches its back, measuring the distance to the long counter, which is swimming with burst salami sausage, fish, tripe and sauerkraut.
Two alert-looking Watchdogs, the half-moon badge winking on their chests, stop in horror, as the panther shoots through the air like a black arrow, lands on the counter with a heavy thud, and slides in the slippery mess of food. It begins to eat, as if it were preparing for ten lean years.
One of the Watchdog’s tears off his helmet, and throws it to one side. He sinks to the floor onto a heap of tripe.
The other Watchdog, whose nickname is ‘Bollock-breaker’, because of his preferred method of interrogation, stares, with rolling eyes, at the panther’s open mouth, and feels the heat of its breath. Shaking with fear he rolls down behind the counter, and forces himself in under a shelf where there is not normally space for more than a ten-year old child, and certainly not room for a 200 pound Watchdog.
Ulrich looks down curiously. He is probably wondering if he can get himself in under that low shelf.
‘Mein Führer, save me!’ screams ‘Bollock-breaker,’ helplessly.
The panther’s yellow eyes glitter in the half-light. With a pleased grunt it puts out a large paw, and pats ‘Bollock-breaker’ playfully.
He had had enough.
‘He’s goin’ to eat me,’ he screams. With a long-drawn whine he rolls out from under the shelf, and crawls rapidly across the floor, sliding in the thick layer of food-scraps which covers it.
Ulrich believes he wants to play.
Happily, he springs through the air, and lands with a hollow roar on the back of the terrified Watchdog. He gives him a little friendly slap with his paw.
The Watchdog emits a long howl of terror, and rolls over onto his back, arms and legs thrashing.
Ulrich is having a wonderful time.
He bites the Watchdog’s foot, playfully, then slaps his shoulder. His uniform jacket is slashed open. He looks into Ulrich’s open mouth with its huge fangs. It is the last thing he sees in this world.
‘Shock,’ says the doctor, who examines the body.
‘Two large vodkas, and a bottle of red wine to wash ’em down,’ says Porta, provocatively, when we arrive, noisily, at ’Natascha’s’.
‘No credit here,’ shouts ‘Anna the Bait’, keeping a tight hold on the bottles.
‘Credit?’ grins Porta, pulling a large bundle of notes from his pocket. ‘I can buy the place, if I want to!’
Anna’s eyes open wide, and she suddenly becomes very friendly.
‘Would you like to see my pussy-cat?’ she asks Tiny, liberally filling his glass.
‘Not interested,’ says Tiny, turning his nose up. ‘Probably all wrinkled up an’ old-lookin’, anyway!’
‘No trouble-makin’ here,’ warns ‘The Drummer’, who is in reality a Feldwebel of Security ordered to the brothel to keep the peace. He is called ‘The Drummer’ because he was a drummer before the war. In the nightclub ‘The Yellow Wolf in Leipzig.
‘You can just shut your face,’ says the Old Man, hiccoughing into his vodka glass.
The Drummer goes red in the face and gives out a cackle of protest.
‘I said you can shut your face,’ hiccoughs the Old Man, stubbornly. ‘I’m an Oberfeldwebel, an’ I’ve got a star more’n you’!
‘It’s got fuck-all to do with stars,’ screams Drummer in a womanish voice. ‘You all behave yourselves the way I say.’
‘Wonder if he ever had sexual intercourse with his mother?’ grins Porta noisily.
‘They sent ’im to war ’cos ’is sister was frightened of ’im,’ roars Tiny. He doubles up with laughter at his own wit.
‘Now you all be nice to one another,’ admonishes Anna. ‘We’d all be sorry if we had to throw you out!’
‘Why don’t you try that? Now, for example!’ whinnies Barcelona. He bangs a chair down on the floor, challengingly, in front of Drummer.
‘How’d you get so black?’ asks ‘Danube Dolly’, a girl who has been extradited from Rumania. She pushes Albert ingratiatingly.
‘ ’E’s black ’cos ’e’s a Prussian nigger,’ explains Tiny, with almost closed lips, in the Humphrey Bogart manner. He is a fanatical admirer of Humphrey, and does his best to imitate him. They once showed a film at the front in which Bogart pushes two old ladies in wheelchairs down a steep flight of steps, and then cuts their throats. Tiny was so enthusiastic about this film that he stayed and saw it three times. The following day he stood three hours in the queue to make sure he was the first to get a ticket at opening time.
‘You are a lovely bit o’ stuff an’ no mistake,’ fawns Tiny, posturing idiotically in front of a tall, slender girl who is sitting on a barstool showing every bit of leg worth showing. He bends over her and says, in the middling loud lion’s roar which he thinks is a whisper, ‘I’d like a lot to get a feel of you. An’ you could play a bit with me, too!’
‘Tryin’ to be funny?’ she asks in a deep, husky voice, putting half a yard of cigarette holder to her crimson lips.
Tiny whimpers with pleasure, and runs a none too clean finger up and down an area of bare leg.
‘Not too far, now, big boy,’ she husks, sensuously, smacking his hand. ‘I ain’t a fan of Frankenstein’s, nor his descendants. Just remember that, soldier!’
‘Obergefreiter, please,’ Tiny corrects her, ‘the backbone of the Army. Take ’eed of that, lady!’
‘The bottom end of it?’ she smiles, sweet as sugar.
‘ ’Ow should I know?’ roars Tiny, missing the point. He sniggers, happily, pinches her in the breast and gives her a noisy smack on the behind. She lets out a scream of pain. Porta has taught him that when ladies defend themselves they mean just the opposite. ‘You’n me lady, we’re goin’ to play the zoo outin’ game!’ He explains himself by giving the international sign for a round of sexual intercourse.
‘I never go into the monkey-house,’ she replies in rebuff, pushing at his broad chest with both hands.
‘Whatcha mean, monkeys?’ grins Tiny. ‘Once you’ve intertwined your legs with mine, you won’t have any use for monkeys!’ He drags her firmly out onto the dance-floor, where the trio has started up with a rousing hot number.
‘My toes!’ she groans.
‘Stand up on my feet,’ he suggests. ‘It’s the easiest way to learn ’ow to dance. I tell you, I learnt ’ow to in “Lausen” on the Reeperbahn at ’Amburg.’
‘I bet the ambulances were doubled-parked outside,’ she says, sarcastically.
‘No, there ain’t no fightin’ allowed at “Lausen”,’ explains Tiny, belligerently. ‘You’re thinkin’ of “The Red Lantern” on Davidstrasse. A set o’ teeth goes out there every night.’
She gives a shrill scream when Tiny executes a step which he believes to be part of the tango, and kicks her above the knee with his steel-tipped size 14 boots.
‘Where’s that horse that just kicked me?’ she asks, rubbing her aching leg.
‘Shall us two go upstairs?’ asks Tiny with a wolfish grin.
‘For what?’ she asks, tearing herself from his grip.
‘Don’t keep it goin’ too long,’ he warns her threateningly, whirling her round and going into the kind of spin he has seen professionals do on the pictures.
She groans loudly as her head contacts a chair with a crash.
‘Goin’ up for a rapid round of all-in without shorts?’ asks Albert, dancing past with a girl whose head comes no higher than his navel.
‘Won’t be long now,’ roars Tiny, spinning his partner again. This time she hits her head on the floor. She forgets to call him out. Porta passes, dancing at such a rate that they are pulled after him by the suction o
f the slip-wind.
‘What in the world was that?’ she asks, staring after Porta. He thunders on over the dance-floor with a matronly lady known as ‘Petunia the Pig’, because she is so enormously fat, and because her mouth resembles a pig’s snout.
‘I don’t feel like dancing any more,’ says the tall girl, going over to the bar. She sits down, deliberately on the other side of the bar from Tiny, and asks for three aspirins.
‘Where you come from?’ roars Tiny across the bar.
‘Moscow,’ she answers, sourly.
‘Many ’ores there?’ asks Tiny.
‘Swine,’ she snarls at him.
‘You two feel like nippin’ upstairs with us an’ puttin’ our things together?’ asks Porta frankly as he and the sweat-dripping matron reach the bar.
‘You two are, perhaps, the harbingers of German culture?’ asks the tall lady with a sneer.
‘You’ve ’it the nail on the ’ead,’ answers Tiny, proudly, sticking out his chest so far the stitches of his uniform begin to stretch threateningly. ‘When we’ve been here a bit you lot won’t be wipin’ your arses with gravel any more. You’ll be usin’ paper, just like us westerners. Can all that bleedin’ eargas, now, an’ let’s get up them stairs so’s we can show you ’ow a cultured people does its mountin’!’
‘You goin’ to buy a drinky-winky for your little girl?’ Petunia asks Porta, sending him a false smile.
‘Crimean rum and orange,’ he orders, rapping in a lordly manner on the bar.
It soon gets round that we have money. A lot of money. Suddenly we are surrounded by willing ladies. Two girls, who have been dancing together, make inviting, money-laden eyes at Wolf. He is half sitting, half lying, on one of the special bar-stools with a moveable back rest.
‘You look as if you’d like to do more than drink,’ fawns one of the girls, rubbing her body in catlike fashion, up and down his left side. ‘I don’t think I’m wrong in thinking you want to fuck?’
‘That is maybe what they call a hint in the Soviet Union?’ grins Wolf, slipping a finger up between her thighs. ‘Hell, you gone bald?’ he asks, in surprise, lining up her dress.
