by Sven Hassel
‘Shaved, dearie,’ she giggles, ‘a special effect. Usually costs 10% more, but you’re so handsome I won’t charge you extra. 500 for the night. What d’you say? French, German, Swedish, the lot! Two hundred extra for the Japanese touch.’
‘That the selling price?’ asks Wolf, letting his hand investigate her more closely.
They agree on four hundred, and disappear through the door marked PRIVATE.
A few minutes later Wolf puts his head back through the door and whistles up his wolf-dogs.
Barking happily they bound after him.
‘They gonna fuck ’er too?’ asks Tiny, gaping.
‘Very like,’ says Porta. ‘Wolf’s terribly kind to animals.’
A slim hand, with green painted nails, begins gently to rub the inside of Gregor’s thigh. The hand works its way inside his trousers, in a manner which shows that it has made this kind of entry before.
‘I could sharpen your sabre for you. You’d think you were floating into heaven,’ she says, seductively. ‘I fuck good!’
Gregor giggles with delight.
‘Come on then. Let’s get up there an’ frame ’im!’
‘We dance first and get real warm,’ she twitters, pulling him out on the dance-floor.
Shortly afterwards they too disappear through the door marked PRIVATE.
Albert, who is always a little shy, cackles like a drunken parrot when a girl with slanted, black, business-like eyes takes his hand, and presses it gently between her lep.
‘You are lovely, my black darling,’ she breathes, twisting her hips, and sighing. She rubs herself against bis hand. ‘Come, little soldier,’ she invites him. ‘Let us go in and fuck, so that you will not have to go out and be shot at by those wicked Red Army men without having had a good screw first. You are my first cannibal,’ she confides- to him, as they cross the floor towards the door marked PRIVATE, ‘I will give it to you for half-price. But you must not bite me! I am not food!’
We are hardly back in the bar when a series of animal roars put a sudden stop to the music and the chatter of voices.
‘Ulrich,’ cries Porta, fearfully, letting go of Petunia, who falls to the floor with a crash.
‘Oh, hell!’groans Barcelona, emptying a glass of Krazisom in one gulp. Krazisom is a drink one can get down if one has never developed a taste for nobler liquids, and one’s sense of smell has been reduced to a minimum.
Albert, who is shovelling away at his favourite dish, sour-sweet fish, quite forgets to eat, as he stares at the long black bunch of muscle and sinews hunching by the door, making ready to spring.
The Mongolian boot-black, who is busily polishing Wolfs handsewn riding boots from Rosseli’s in Rome, keels over after two deep breaths when he looks straight into the eyes of the panther, and it wickedly grinds its teeth.
Piercing screams of terror come from behind the door marked PRIVATE. Everybody looks up, forgetting even the panther for a moment.
‘Murder, murder,’ howls the tall, slender lady. She comes rushing in with Tiny roaring after her. He is stark naked, and swinging a chair over his head.
‘Stand still, you dirty arse’ole reamer. I’ll tear your rotten prick off,’ he yells, in a furious rage.
‘Poor unlucky boy!’ The little Legionnaire laughs heartily. ‘He has bought himself a transvestite!’
‘Take that,’ roars Tiny, throwing the chair after the terror stricken transvestite. ‘Five ’undred chips ’e says, an’ only for snatchin’ ’is broken-down, rotten ring!’
The transvestite is so frightened he does not even notice the panther crouched, snarling, by the door. He goes past it with a rush, and slams the door behind him. The panther’s tail is in the way. It gives out a long scream of anguish, which clears the dance-floor in seconds. It whirls and hisses wickedly at the door. With fur standing up all along its back it stretches its muscles in readiness for action. In an elegant spring it is up on the bar. Its hot breath plays across ‘Danube Dolly’s’ neck. She goes down, emitting a strange grunt, with her thickly-painted face in a bowl of warm sweet-sour fish. People standing at the bar drop everything they have in their hands. A roast sucking-pig goes down inside the panther in one long, slobbering gulp. Ulrich marches along the bar-top, and reaches out a great black paw towards a dish of macaroni and kidney. In passing, he gives ‘Shells Carlo’ from the ammunition unit a slap on the shoulder which makes his Army issue dentures fly out of his mouth. He collapses like a house of cards exposed to a high wind.
SS-Oberscharfuhrer Gerner, from the T-Division, who is known for his brutality, pushes his plate of sucking pig away from him, as the panther comes sliding towards him with splayed paws. He only manages to give out a small scream, before the panther crashes onto him. He faints completely away. The panther sniffs interestedly at the still body, then turns to the remains of the sucking pig and begins to consume it, making a crackling sound which everybody thinks is the Oberschar-fuhrer being eaten.
‘There’ll be trouble,’ says the Old Alan, foreboding in his voice.
‘We’d best get him out of here,’ considers Barcelona. He throws a freshly-killed rabbit to Ulrich, who is lying on a broad divan, after having cleared the whole brothel.
‘He’s going nowhere,’ states Porta, angrily, ‘he stays here!’
‘Hell, man, he’s going to cause us incalculable problems,’ cries the Old Man fiercely.
‘The problems are yours’, comes from Chief Mechanic Wolf. 7 never met a panther in all my life. In fact I never even heard of one. Write it down if you like!’
‘You rotten shit,’ sneers Porta contemptuously. ‘I don’t think I know anybody who’s as treacherous and false as you are. Even the Chinese wouldn’t accept fireworks from you, if you had any.’
‘I won’t have my section turned into a sodding Zoo,’ shouts the Old Man, banging his fist on the table.
‘ “Panther-Ulrich” stays in No. 2,’ decides Pona brusquely. He points a dirty finger at the Old Man, ‘If not, both him and me gets us a posting, and that you would surely regret!’
‘I’ll put in a report,’ shouts the Old Man furiously.
‘Don’t make me die laughing,’ grins Porta. ‘That’s just what you won’t do. You know what’ll happen if they find out who’s responsible for all this panther business. They’ll throw the book at him, for everythin’ from illegal exposure to murder an’ high treason, or whatever it’s called. He’ll get life fifteen times over, plus a couple of death penalties for good measure. Him and the panther’ll get strung up side by side, with the wind ruffling their hair, playful-like!’
The very next day the telephone of Staff HQ begins to ring violently.
‘A what? A panther, you say?’ asks the Chief Clerk, Stabs-feldwebel Weingut, blankly.
‘A black panther, dammit,’ shouts the Divisional Clerk, excitedly.
‘You’re crazy,’ says Weingut, with a short laugh. ‘All our Panthers are yellow or grey, and they’ve got a Maibach engine in their arsepart!’
‘Just you wait. You’ll get that grin wiped off your face,’ threatens the Divisional Clerk, darkly. ‘General von Hühners-dorf’s hoppin’ mad! Went straight up out of his boots! Our telephone exchange is jammed with calls complaining about panthers. ’Fore we know where we are the Generalfeld-marschall’ll be here in person to see first what’s goin’ on!’
‘I can’t see what your complaints have got to do with us,’ answers Weingut, pleasantly. ‘Our Panthers are where they’re supposed to be. The only people who can complain about them are over on the neighbour’s side, and I don’t reckon complaints signed by Ivan carry much weight!’
’You’ve got a black panther, and it’s running round giving people heart-failure, and brain lesions. The General demands an investigation. A thorough investigation. Mark that, my dear stupid pig of a friend!’
‘Why don’t you just nip down to the M.O. and get yourself a powder?’ suggests Weingut, in a fatherly voice. ‘There’s nobody here at 27. Panzer Regiment who
’s weak-minded enough to go pissing around with anything as nutty as a black panther. They bite people, you know!’
Half an hour later the Divisional Adjutant is on the telephone.
‘What’s all this about your having a black panther with you?’ he asks the Regimental Adjutant, an inexperienced young Leut-nant, newly arrived from the depot. ‘There are all sorts of wild rumours down here at Division.’
‘What colour Panther?’ asks the Regimental Adjutant, blankly. ‘We haven’t got any black Panthers!’
‘Hell, man, it’s not tanks I’m talking about,’ snarls the Divisional Adjutant, wheezing like an overheated steam engine. ‘It’s a big cat, a real jungle cat, that eats Watchdogs by companies. Do you realise that the Watchdog battalion’s CO. is lying in a strait-jacket out at the looney-bin after a meeting with your bloody, black panther?’
‘But, sir, I can assure you we have no black panther,’ whines the Regimental Adjutant, in a servile voice. ‘The only animals we have are two wolf-hounds, belonging to Chief Mechanic Wolf, and these are properly taken on strength, by permission of the C.O.’
‘Animal crackers,’ sighs the Divisional Adjutant, resignedly. ‘You can look forward to one hell of a row about this. Rumblings are coming down already from Corps, and complaints are pouring in from the civilian population of the area!’
‘Sir, I don’t understand a word of it,’ replies the Regimental Adjutant, helplessly. ‘I know nothing about a black panther at 27. Panzer. It must all be a regrettable mistake. Why not ask the Veterinary Corps?’
‘You’ll be advised,’ grins the Divisional Adjutant, maliciously, banging down the receiver.
Oberst Hinka is shaving when the telephone on his direct line begins its excited, impatient ringing.
‘Hinka,’ he says, brusquely.
‘Hühnersdorf! What the devil’s going on at your regiment?’ the General of the Division commences, without any kind of polite preliminary.
‘What is happening?’ asks Hinka, with a certain trepidation.
‘You’re the C.O., aren’t you? If you don’t know what’s happening then who the devil should? But I can inform you that your people are playing around with some kind of a carnivorous animal, and frightening everybody in the area into fits! Half my Watchdogs are already in the nuthouse because of it. If you tell me you know nothing about this, Oberst Hinka, then I must tell you that you are the only person in the whole of 4. Panzer Army, who doesn’t! The Generalfeldmarschall himself demands a clear report on the matter, within the hour!’
‘It all sounds like some kind of crazy joke, General,’ answers Hinka, truthfully enough. ‘What kind of carnivorous animal is it?’
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ roars the General, raging. ‘It’s a panther, in the name of all the hells! A black panther called Ulrich!’
Hinka closes his eyes and curses silently. He is no longer in doubt of where to find the black panther, Ulrich, and his human accomplices.
He takes a couple of deep breaths, and wipes the lather furiously from his face.
‘A report will be forthcoming within the hour, sir,’ he promises.
‘I hope so for your sake,’ hisses the General. ‘This case is more serious than you think. The Generalfeldmarschall has demanded the panther shot, and the guilty men in front of a courtmanial. Damnation, Oberst, this is rough. I want your report inside sixty minutes!’
‘Oberleutnant Soost,’ roars Hinka, in a voice which rings throughout Regimental HQ. ‘Oberleutnant Soost,’ he repeats impatiently, throwing his towel violently into a corner.
‘Oberst, sir!’ stammers his adjutant in terror, clicking his heels together.
‘Find that villain Porta and drag him here,’ curses Hinka, viciously.
‘Porta?’ asks the adjutant, who has never heard of anybody called Porta.
‘Dammit, man,’ roars Oberst Hinka, ‘don’t you understand anything? Obergefreiter Porta, in hell’s name! No. 5. Company, 2. Section. The scoundrel is to report to me now, immediately, and to bring a black panther called Ulrich with him!’
The adjutant staggers out into a Kübel, firmly convinced that he has been posted to a regiment which is completely made up of maniacs.
‘Where to, Oberleutnant, sir?’ asks the driver with a wide grin, dancing his foot up and down on the accelerator.
‘To arrest an Obergefreiter Ulrich, and a panther named Porta,’ stammers the adjutant confusedly, lighting a cigarette with shaking hand.
‘5. Company, that’ll be, then, sir,’ grins Obergefreiter Helmer, taking off like a rocket.
‘Drive properly,’ the Oberleutnant scolds, straightening his uniform tunic nervously.
‘That’s just what I’m doin’, sir,’ grins Obergefreiter Helmer, beginning, unregimentally, to open a large sandwich packet as they pull up in front of 5. Company Office.
Staff and Hauptfeldwebel Hoffmann sit, broad-shouldered and self-confident, behind the large desk he has inherited from a former Political Commissar. This early in the day he is still wearing his Russian morning slippers. He snaps off a salute, and positions himself so that the adjutant cannot see his red embroidered footwear.
‘By order of the Commanding Officer I am to arrest a panther,’ yells the adjutant, attempting to look severe. ‘It’s name is Ulrich,’ he adds, after a long, painful silence.
‘Very good, sir,’ mumbles Hoffmann, already seeing problems of unbelievable dimensions towering up. ‘Gefreiter Müller,’ he roars to the company runner. The soldier is standing by the filing cabinet, close to him so that his roar is quite unnecessary. He could have whispered. ‘Off with you, you sad sack. No. 2. Tell Obergefreiter Porta and the panther Ulrich to report to me on the double. Has it got through? Come back without ’em and I’ll see you further! Further on over to the neighbours, where a hero’s death is waiting for wetnecks like you!’
Most of an hour has gone by before Porta turns up. He thunders into the Company Office, where he clicks his heels three times, twice for the adjutant and once for Hoffmann. He gives a Nazi salute and a ringing ‘Heil’ in front of the large picture of Hitler, which has taken the place of one of Stalin.
‘That’s enough of that,’ warns Hoffmann, sending a glance at him which is so hard it should have knocked his teeth halfway down his throat.
‘Am I not allowed to salute the Führer?’ asks Porta, with assumed astonishment.
‘Idiot,’ roars Hoffmann, ‘not when he’s hanging there!’
‘Where should he be hanging then?’ smiles Porta.
‘You’re under arrest,’ roars the adjutant, in a cracked voice. ‘You’re under arrest,’ he repeats, pointing accusingly at Porta.
‘Arrest?’ asks Porta, blankly.’Me? What for, sir?’
‘For running around with a panther, and frightening the life out of people,’ screams, the adjutant, who is beginning to lose control of himself.
‘Ain’t we allowed to keep pets in the German Army any more?’ asks Porta, naively, clicking his heels together again, three times. He is about to give Hitler’s picture another salute, when he catches Hauptfèldwebel Hoffmann’s vicious look, and stops himself.
‘A panther is not a pet,’ decides the adjutant, shortly.
‘Beg to state, Herr Oberleutnant, sir,’ babbles Porta, in his usual village idiot manner, ‘there’s all kinds of pets all over, sir. The Emperor of Abyssinia keeps lions for pets, sir, an’ in India they keep elephants. So why can’t I have a sweet little panther for a pet?’
‘You are under arrest,’ declares the adjutant, red in the face. ’You can explain about your pet to a courtmartial. You and your panther’ll go in front of a firing squad. You’ve ruined the morale of half the Wehrmacht!’
‘Very good, sir,’ answers Porta, turning his eyes up towards the ceiling, resignedly. ‘Beg to say, sir, that as a German soldier I have the right, in accordance with Army Regulations, paragraph 209, sub-paragraph 5, subject: arrest and detention of military personnel, to resist any arrest not in accordance with t
he Greater German Wehrmacht military penal code. Beg the adjutant to be allowed to report, sir, that Obergefreiter Porta. Joseph, resists arrest on the grounds that the charge is without foundation.’
‘Are you completely and entirely out of your mind, man?’ froths the adjutant, losing control of himself completely. ‘Don’t you try to tell me, an officer! Do you understand what you are saying, Obergefreiter?’
‘Beg to report, sir! The Obergefreiter understands perfectly, sir!’
‘Shut your mouth!’ cackles the adjutant, hysterically. His fingers play nervously around his yellow pistol holster, as if he were thinking of shooting Porta.
‘Back to regiment,’ he orders Obergefreiter Helmer, as they come out to the Kübel. Helmer, who is consuming a leg of turkey and a jam sandwich, pretends not to hear the order. He looks quietly at the turkey leg before taking a bite at it.
‘Are you deaf, man? Didn’t you hear my order?’ screams the adjutant, at white-heat.
‘What order?’ asks Helmer, his mouth full of turkey.
The adjutant loses his self-control completely. He throws out a mixture of undecipherable orders and threats, to the unconcealed enjoyment of Porta and Helmer. Behind the smeary window of the Company Office, Hoffmann’s fat, piggy face can just be seen.
‘Beg to report, sir,’ trumpets Porta, ‘am I a free German Obergefreiter, sir, or an arrested German Obergefreiter, sir?’
‘You’re under arrest,’ howls the adjutant, madly, without taking time to think about why the question has been asked,
Helmer salutes, dismounts from the Kübel, and removes the keys.
‘Where the devil are you going, man?’ roars the adjutant.
Helmer salutes again, and smashes his heels together so hard that mud splashes up all round him.
‘Beg to report, sir, accordin’ to Army Regulations, sir, prisoners under arrest may only be conducted by authorised personnel. Only personnel who have taken a special oath, can be ordered to service of that nature, sir!
‘Then march back to HQ,’ decides the adjutant, shortly. ‘Give me the starting-keys and the vehicle documents.’
