by Sven Hassel
‘What the hell’s wrong with that big shit?’ whispers Gregor, in alarm.
I pull a hand-grenade from my boot and arm it.
‘Watch it with that banger, then,’ warns Barcelona.
Rasputin creeps slowly forward with Porta just behind him, but suddenly he refuses to continue. Growling softly, he stares up into the leafy canopy of a great tree.
‘Bloody neighbours,’ whispers Porta.
Three Russians are sitting up in the tree-top with a heavy machine-gun. A first-class position has been built up there and beautifully camouflaged. Thanks to the bear we have seen them first.
‘Get them down out of there,’ whispers the Old Man to Porta, ‘but without noise.’
Porta rises and walks jauntily forward down the narrow path. Tiny holds on to the bear which protests, growling, against Porta leaving it.
‘Hi, tovarítsch,’ yells Porta, pushing the green cap to the back of his head in NKVD lower-rank fashion.
‘Who are you?’ comes a screaming voice from the tree. ‘Give the password!’
‘Job tvojemadj!’ shouts Porta back, pointing his kalashnikov playfully up to them. ‘Up you’s the password, you yellow monkey, you! Know what this is?’ He pats the green hat on the back of his head.
A broad Mongolian face comes into view from the thick foliage. ‘Up you, too, Moscow peasant,’ screams the Mongol. ‘Go home and learn good Chita Russian, so proper Russians can understand what you say!’
‘Come down here, you woodpecker,’ shouts Porta, his voice echoing through the woods. ‘I’ll pull your liver up through your tonsils, I will!’
‘What do you want?’ shouts a sergeant, showing his face alongside the Mongol’s.
‘Come down!’ answers Porta, with an air of authority. ‘I have an important message for you!’
‘Can’t you do it from down there?’ asks the sergeant, arrogantly.
‘I disodar,’ roars Porta, harshly, in the tone people use when they feel they have authority behind them. ‘Dawai, dawcd! The Sampolit wants to tell you something.’
‘What’s he want to talk to me about?’
‘How the hell do I know, djadja8? All he said to me was: “Corporal Joseph, get your arse out of here and tell those three duraks9 up in the tree I want them.” I think you’re going to be given special treatment.’ Porta laughs noisily. ‘Have you begun to believe in God?’
‘Are you alone?’ comes doubtfully from the tree.
‘Djadja, djadja, did you knock your head crawling up in that tree? Can you see anybody besides me? Now I can stay no longer talking to fools. I will go back to the Sampolit and tell him you refuse to obey his orders. Dassvadanj10, little duraks!’
‘Take it easy, comrade,’ shouts the sergeant, nervously, beginning to climb down the tree, closely followed by the two others.
The sergeant’s feet have no sooner touched the ground than the bear has him and kills him with one bite. Frightened, the Mongol loses his grip and falls out of the tree. The third soldier manages to draw his Tokarew pistol but the Legionnaire is faster with two well-aimed shots from his Mpi.
The Mongol has broken his back and blood trickles from the corners of his mouth. He is not much longer for this world.
‘We are going to visit a Herr Oltyn,’ explains Porta, with wide swings of his arms. ‘We have an invitation for him. Can you tell us the quickest way?’
The Mongol spits blood.
‘Do you mean the Vajenkom?’ he asks weakly.
‘Clever lad. Ten out of ten,’ smiles Porta. ‘That’s the very gaspodin we’re looking for!’
‘When you enter Olszany, it is the third house from the end of the broad street. A red house with blue windows.’ The Mongol coughs, and a stream of blood jets from his mouth.
‘Germanski?’ asks, weakly.
‘You must be clairvoyant,’ laughs Porta. The Mongol’s body jerks convulsively and he dies.
‘It must be a bleedin’ surprise to a bloke to get eaten by a bear in the middle of a war,’ says Tiny, stirring the bodies with the muzzle of his Mpi.
‘Lots of funny things happen in wartime,’ proclaims Porta, solemnly. ‘you go along enjoying life to the full and suddenly there you are, gone!’
‘I don’t like the sound of that commissar in the red house,’ says the Old Man reflectively.
‘Why not?’ asks Porta. ‘If a Soviet commissar isn’t to be found in a red house, who the hell can be?’
‘That’s not what I mean, you fool,’ growls the Old Man, irritably. ‘That captain said he lived in a white château and now we’re told he’s dossing down in a red house. If you’ve got a château available it’s unlikely you’ll move into a house, however red it is.’
‘You don’t understand politics!’ shouts Porta, knocking the dust out of his NKVD cap. ‘A communist commissar with any respect for himself can’t go farting about in a white bloody chìteau when there’s a nice red proletarian hut close by just waiting to be taken over.’
At a narrow bridge two sentries stand leaning over a half-rotten, wooden fence. They take turns spitting into the water out of sheer boredom. They have been so careless as to leave their weapons leaning against a post. They cannot dream of anything unpleasant happening here. Everything breathes quiet and peace. The frogs are the only things making a noise.
‘Sacha, I’ve made up my mind to rape Tanja tonight,’ says one of them. ‘I’ll tell you what it was like tomorrow.’
‘It’ll cost you your life,’ murmurs the other. He gets no further. His throat has been cut. His comrade suffers the same fate. Neither of them saw or heard Barcelona and the Legionnaire behind them.
‘Come death, come . . .’ hums the Legionnaire, sadly, through his nose. ‘This is what happens to part-time soldiers who do not realize that every minute of a soldier’s life is dangerous.’
‘They got a good quick death,’ considers Barcelona, ‘They never had time to get frightened, even!’
Cautiously we move through Olszany and soon find the red house in which the Vojenkom is supposed to be living. There is only one man on guard. A corporal of Jaegers, who is sitting on a stone at the corner of the house, cutting strips from a piece of smoked pork. He stretches himself lazily and yawns audibly. The yawn is cut off abruptly by the Legionnaire’s garroting wire.
Porta and Tiny sneak over to the window and peer through a hole where the black-out material has broken away. They see a low-ceilinged room. A man lies asleep on a wooden bench. The commissar. The cloak and cap lying across the table are unmistakable.
‘There ’e is, that bleedin’ ex-German, layin’ there ’avin’ a snooze in a Ivan uniform!’ whispers Tiny, angrily, spitting on the window.
‘We’ll get him easy as the devil gets a nun’s maidenhead at Whitsuntide,’ says Porta, resolutely, pulling the heavy Toka-rew from its yellow holster.
Don’t fuck it up, now!’ warns the Old Man. He’s not to make a sound!’
‘Just ’ave a seat ’ere and get quietly on with your knittin’,’ Tiny calms him. ‘One little tap ’tween the eyes with this ’out!’
‘Jesus Christ, slow down, man!’ snarls the Old Man. ‘Throw a blanket over his head, but don’t knock him out or we’ll have to carry him!’
‘We’ll treat him gentle as a young virgin the white slavers are gonna make a packet out of in Hong Kong,’ says Porta, grinning.
‘Why don’t we knock ’im orf?’ suggests Tiny. ’Why go to all this trouble with a bleedin’ torturer who’s in with the ’eathens! They’ll do ’im in when we get ’im ’ome, anyroad. Let’s just cut ’im in bits and ’ang ’em on the bleedin’ walls. ’Is prick’d just fit that bleedin’ flower-vase over there with the bluebirds on it. They ain’t never seen a flower like that before!’
‘You’ll go in front of a court-martial if anything happens to him,’ threatens the Old Man, furiously. ‘This picnic’s been laid on to bring that bastard back alive. An order’s an order! Understood?’
‘Couldn’t we even
scratch ’is bollocks a bit for ’im with our little German knives from Solingen?’ asks Tiny disappointedly.
‘Do as I order!’ the Old Man closes the discussion.
‘Why not send him a written invitation, with swastikas and those bloody birds and everything?’ suggests Porta.
‘’E’d only wipe ’is arse on it!’ decides Tiny.
‘Get him!’ snarls the Old Man. ‘You can undress him and bring him naked if you want, but not a scratch on him, understand!’
‘Come on then,’ says Porta, ‘let’s get the introductions over with! The start of a party’s always the worst!’
In the doorway Tiny turns his head and looks at the Old Man.
‘It ain’t our fault if ’e dies of a ’eart-attack out of pure ’ap-piness at the sight of ’is fellow countrymen!’
Gregor has the greatest trouble holding the bear in. It always gets uneasy when Porta is out of sight.
Noiselessly they enter the low-ceilinged room. A half-bottle of vodka catches Tiny’s eye. He empties it on the way in two long swallows.
‘Bottoms up, tovaritsch,’ he whispers, putting the bottle down again carefully.
As Porta bends over the sleeping man, he opens his eyes and a half-strangled scream escapes him. His instincts have warned him of danger.
Tiny drops down on him and pushes the green commissar cap into his mouth. In a moment they have him tied up.
‘No nonsense, now,’ threatens Porta. ‘Or off go your bollocks, and you know how little a man and his bollocks are worth apart from one another!’
‘’Ow do, tovaritsch’, Tiny greets him, saluting. ‘You’re goin’ on a trip, mate, ’ome to Adolf’s Mafia! There’s somebody wants to ’ave a little chat with you!’
They leave the town at the double. Tiny manages to take a large jar of preserved tomatoes with him.
They stop a good way inside the forest. The cap is removed from the commissar’s mouth.
‘You are War Commissar Oltyn?’ asks the Old Man, in German.
‘Njet, njet, nix panjemajo11!’ howls the terror-stricken prisoner.
‘Cut out the piss, son,’ says Porta, catching him by the front of his uniform jacket. ‘When our tovaritsch feldwebel says you’re Oltyn then you bloody well are Oltyn! Think we’re nuts, do you?’
‘Pull ’is arsehole up over ’is bleedin’ ears,’ suggests Tiny. ‘Make’im think better, it will!’
‘Nix Oltyn,’ howls the prisoner, stubbornly.
‘Who the bloody hell are you then?’ roars the Old Man, furiously.
‘Politkorn12 Alexej Viktorowitsch Sinzow. Nix Vojenkom Josef Oltyn!’
‘Confess, what was your mother’s name?’ roars Porta.
‘Anna Georgijewna Poliwanow!’
‘What the ’ell’s ’is ’ore of a bleedin’ mother to do with us?’ growls Tiny. ‘Cut ’is bleedin’ guts open an’ let the bear ’ave what ’e’s got in it. It ain’t ’ad its breakfast yet.’
‘Don’t, just don’t tell me you’ve got the wrong man,’ shouts the Old Man, despairingly, gripping his head with both hands.
‘Bien sûr que si, mon sergent? the little Legionnaire chokes with laughter.
‘That Soviet bleedin’ miscarriage could at least ’ave introduced ’imself,’ says Tiny, sourly. ‘Any soldier knows that’s what ’e ’as to do when strangers come to inspect ’im.’
‘Listen now,’ says the Old Man, sitting down resignedly by the side of the frightened prisoner. ‘You are not Vojenkom Oltyn, then?’
‘Njet, njety,’ howls the prisoner, ‘njet Hromoj13.’
‘Up with you, you Communist beetroot,’ orders Porta, ’and God help you if you limp.’
The prisoner runs up and down the road without the slightest trace of a limp. But Porta makes him goosestep, dance with Tango as a lady, do knees-bend and stand on one leg and pirouette.
‘Njet Hromoj,’ howls the prisoner in between the tests. ‘Me little Politkoml Vojenkom Oltyn, he big swine!’
‘He’s telling the truth,’ says Porta, shrugging and holding his hands out to both sides. ‘I sincerely regret it, old ’un, but we’ve nabbed the wrong piece of Soviet shit. Just goes to show it’s right what they say. Those Russians are twisters all along the line!’
‘Let’s do ’is knee for ’im so ’e will be bleedin’ lame then,’ suggests Tiny, ‘then we can take ’im back an’ swear ‘e’s the real shit, only lyin’. The bleedin’ Gestapo’ll make ’im confess ‘e’s Hromojl They’ve fixed bigger blokes’n ’im!’
‘Nonsense,’ snarls the Old Man. ‘What a shower to get saddled with!’
‘Let’s go back to town and ask ’em where big, bad Mr. Oltyn hangs out, then,’ grins Porta.
‘We can just say we’re some of ’is tovaritsch pals come to town to look ’im up,’ suggests Tiny.
‘I wish the devil had you two shits,’ the Old Man scolds them. ‘That I should have the bad luck to have to command the craziest section in the whole bloody Army!’
‘Well, you can’t say you’ve ’ad many dull moments with us lot,’ considers Tiny. ‘If they give you a new lot you’d soon be longin’ for us. There ain’t many sections like us.’
‘Listen here, tovaritschj says Porta, patting the Politkoni’s cheek, ‘you’ve got yourself mixed up in a very annoying mistake.’
‘Two,’ Tango breaks in, ’the first ’e made was getting himself born in Stalinland!’
‘Yes,’ smiles Porta, ‘but now it is the last one for him. We’re going to have to squeeze you, tovaritsch, or you’ll be sending all your Communist pals after our arses. You understand we owe it to ourselves not to let you go!’
‘I will give word of honour, say nothing,’ shouts the prisoner, despairingly.
‘Ain’t he a nice feller,’ says Buffalo. ‘Lower your sabres, boys!’
The Old Man sits down on a stone and shakes his head violently. He is trying to think things out
‘There’s nothing else for it,’ he says finally. ‘That damned War Commissar has got to go back with us.’ He looks over at Julius Heide. ‘You must find out from him where his big colleague is hiding. We’ll pick him up tonight!’
‘Reckon there’s a good ’otel around ’ere where we could get a rest an’ a bit of a snack while we’re waitin’ for night to sneak up on us?’ asks Tiny.
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ says Porta. ‘There are no good hotels in this area. The cooks’ve all joined the Army.’
‘Stop that childishnonsense,’ shouts the Old Man, angrily. ‘It’s hard to believe that you are grown men, and soldiers to boot!’
‘Do you ’ave to be grown-up to be a soldier?’ asks Tiny. ‘The most of them I’ve met don’t look more’n twelve years old.’
‘Shut up, you great dope!’ snarls the Old Man. ‘This is dangerous business we’ve got into here.’
‘Count me out, then,’ shouts Porta, dancing away down the path singing,’ ‘I’m going home . . .’
‘Heimat, deine Sterne . . .’
‘What’ll we do with the prisoner?’ asks Barcelona, practically.
‘Liquidate him, as soon as we have obtained the information we need,’ says Heide, coldly.
‘You’ll shoot him perhaps?’ asks the Old Man sarcastically.
‘Why not?’ answers Heide, murderously, drawing his Toka-rew. The Fiihrer’s orders of August, 1941, state that all commissars and Jews are to be neckshot.’
‘The poor chap’s shaking like a jelly from fear and terror,’ says Porta, patting the prisoner on the shoulder in kindly fashion. ‘He’s no worse than anybody else, even if he has got himself a green hat. He’s just smart, that’s all, and has found out being a commissar’s a good thing!’
The whole section looks at the prisoner, who is chalk-white in the face with fear. He knows we cannot let him go and he knows what we want with his colleague. Feverishly he begins to tell us about the Vojenkom, whom he paints as black as possible in an attempt to soften us up.
‘Communism, and all Jews, ar
e pests,’ he cries, throwing out his arm convincingly.
‘You can’t mean that,’ laughs Porta, heartily. ‘Think of all the pretty little Yiddisher bints there are in the world. Give me a dozen of ’em here and now and see what’d happen!’
‘It’s obvious enough. He’s an anti-Communist and has been our Adolf’s pen pal all his life,’ grins Buffalo.
‘’E’s a shit of a traitor to ’is Fatherland,’ shouts Tiny contemptuously. ’It’s bleedin’ ’orrible to ’ear for a real ’onest idealist, ’ow ’e, who is a Politkom, can turn ’is wicked tongue on old Uncle Joe.’ Tiny collects all his pretended contempt into one enormous gob of spittle.
‘Let’s hang him up by the feet, and let the sense run back into his head,’ suggests Tango.
‘Tie him to a tree,’ orders the Old Man, ‘then he’s at least got a chance of being found. If they don’t find him that’s his bad luck.’
The Legionnaire and Barcelona tie the unhappy prisoner to a tree. Tiny says we could have tied him to an anthill, then at least he’d have had some company if he didn’t get found.
‘Shall I send a message to the regiment?’ asks Heide, ready at the little short-wave sender.
The Old Man thinks about it.
‘It’s a bit risky. They could get a bearing on us.’
‘Impossible,’ says Heide, pulling up the antenna. ‘I’ll send it short and sharp. It’s Oberfunkmeister Müller on the other end, and nobody can send too fast for him.’
The Old Man nods his agreement.
The short wave bands are thickly populated and very lively. There is in particular one very powerful Russian Army station.
‘You can give that up,’ sighs the Old Man, when he hears the confused howling and buzzing. ‘You’ll never get through to our lot.’
‘Leave that for radio people to judge,’ answers Heide, sourly, going right out to the edge of our sending-range. He is one of the best telegraphists in the Army.
Suddenly our identification signal is on. The powerful Russian Army station breaks in continuously, asking us irritably for identification.
‘Job tvojemadj, you Red shit,’ Heide morses back, furiously.
Suddenly the identification signal comes loud and clear.
