SS General (12 page)

"Don't ask awkward questions," said the Old Man. "Listen, here's a bit might interest you." He had straightened out the newssheet and spread it over a workbench. " 'At Stalingrad, our boys are fighting valiantly. The men of the Sixth Army will go down in history as true heroes of the Fatherland. God is with us! The soldiers of Stalingrad are fighting with faith in their hearts and Bibles in their hands. . .' "

He was cut short by Gregor making sounds of vomiting and Tiny shouting an obscenity.

The Old Man shrugged his shoulders. "I just thought it might amuse you," he said mildly.

We were not left long in peace. Captain Schwan soon called all the section leaders together and gave them new sets of orders, and minutes later we were being turned out once again into the cold.

For us, it was a question of mounting guard at the monstrously ugly and sinister GPU building, where General Paulus and his staff were playing war games in the safety of the cellars. While the rest of us fought and bled and died, they sat smoking and drinking and sticking colored pins in maps of Russia. Those pins represented us; they represented men who were weary and wounded, half starved, suffering from frostbite, appalled by the constant slaughter, living in a state of unrelenting terror. But to Paulus and his staff we were just so many pins stuck in a map, and as they sat smug in their shelters and juggled with our lives, we struggled through the bitter Russian night, hurrying to mount guard over them.

We moved single file along the Street of the Revolution, where most of the houses were still standing. There were gaps here and there, a few walls blown down, a few windows smashed, but on the whole the street had been spared the worst excesses of war. There had been no heavy bombardment, only a few stray shells, and the people had continued to live in their homes, although there was now a straggling line of refugees carrying away their household goods and transporting their wounded on mattresses and in carts. Now and again a child would appear and sidle up to us begging for food. God knows we had little enough for ourselves, but we generally managed to find a spare crust of bread for them.

A small boy suddenly darted out of a ruined building and ran straight up to Tiny, snatching at his hand and staring up appealingly. "Mr. Soldier! Will you be my father?"

Tiny looked down at the child in some perplexity, and the child looked gravely back, hopping and skipping by his side to keep up with Tiny's giant paces. His head was half hidden beneath a German infantry helmet, and in one hand he was clutching a Russian saber.

Tiny bent down and swung the boy up onto his shoulder. "OK, little 'un, if that's what you want." He and the child grinned amiably at each other. "How old are you anyway?" demanded Tiny. "I ought to know, oughtn't I? If I'm going to be your father."

The boy shook his head. "I'm quite old," he said. "Nobody's ever told me, really, but--" He suddenly hooked an arm around Tiny's neck and looked at him out of large round eyes. "Mr. Soldier, would you like to be my sister's father, as well?"

"Now that's quite a suggestion!" said Tiny, swinging the boy back to ground level. "Where is she?"

"I'll go and get her!" cried the boy. "Just stay here and I'll go and get her!"

He shot off again up the road. At that moment someone threw a grenade. Probably a lone Russian soldier hiding out in one of the ruined buildings. We flung ourselves to the ground and covered our heads and the sound of the explosion roared up the narrow street. When we stood up again, Tiny's newly acquired son was nowhere to be seen. All that was left of him was a German infantry helmet and a Russian saber, side by side at the center of the blast.

After two days of guard duty at the GPU building, we were transferred to an infantry barracks and Porta was promoted from lance corporal to corporal.

"Well, I'll be damned!" declared Sergeant Franz Krupka, seeing the additional stripe on Porta's sleeve. "Going up in the world, aren't we? We'll be a field marshal before we know where we are." He flipped a finger at the new stripe. "How about a round of drinks, eh?"

"That's a damn smart idea," said Porta acidly. "What do you suggest we drink? Melted snow? I haven't seen a bottle of anything for weeks."

Krupka glanced over his shoulder and then back at Porta. "You want to know where to get hold of some?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm asking you--you want to know where to get hold of some? Because if you do, I can tell you. Only keep it under your hat if you want to hang onto that nice new stripe."

"You think I was born yesterday?" jeered Porta.

"I was just warning you. Don't let it go any further. It's that fat bastard Wilke, he's managed to swipe four crates of vodka from somewhere."

"Four crates?" Porta's little glass-bead eyes opened themselves wide in greedy astonishment. "Christ almighty, with one of those inside me I could finish this war single-handed! How did that turd get hold of 'em?"

Krupka hunched a shoulder. "Damned if I know. He didn't tell me, and I didn't ask."

"Quite right too." Porta pulled out a pencil stub and began briskly to make out a list. "Let's see, one crate of vodka --I don't suppose we can hope for more than one, so we don't want to divide it too many ways. Just you and me, and the Old Man and Gregor--and Tiny and Sven and the Legionnaire--" He hesitated. "And Heide, I suppose. I'd just as soon be without him, but what can you do? He'll only blow his top if we have a binge and don't invite him."

"That makes eight altogether," said Krupka. "If we can get hold of some beer and mix it in with the vodka, it should be enough to get stewed on."

"Some of us," said Porta, "get stewed more quickly than others--I'm thinking of Tiny. One drink and he's rolling about like a pig in shit with his legs in the air--and that reminds me," he added obscurely, "the Legionnaire owes me a pack of cigarettes."

"Yeah, well you make a note of it and see you get 'em back before we go into action again," advised Krupka. "That bastard Pinsky--you know Pinsky? Well, he's dead now. God himself blown up by a shell a couple of weeks ago. Owed me three packs of
grifas,*
the swine. I won't never see
them
again, will I?" Krupka shook his head broodingly. "I told his section they ought to take over his debts now he's gone, but they weren't having any."

Porta sucked in his breath. "It's disgraceful," he said. "A man oughtn't to be allowed to go into battle in that condition. Not owing money and suchlike, he oughtn't. We ought to have accountants out here."

"I'll tell you one thing," said Krupka darkly. "I've learned my lesson. No more lending from now on. I've been too softhearted with people, they've taken me for a ride. But no more! Not even if they offer me a hundred percent interest. The game's not worth the candle."

"Hundred percent?" said Porta, his eyes at once inflating.

*Opium cigarettes.

"You mean to tell me there really are mugs that'd be dopes enough to give you a hundred percent?"

"They damn well ought to give a hundred percent!" roared Krupka. "When you think of the risks you have to run --never knowing if you're likely to see the color of their money. You know what?" he said incredulously. "A few months back I helped an officer out of trouble when he was on his beam-ends. Now you'd think you could trust an officer, of all people, to behave like a gentleman, wouldn't you?" He turned and spat. "Not on your life! He only goes and throws himself under a T-34, of all things! On purpose, mind you. He done it on purpose. That's what really gets me. My money be damned, just so long as he could pick up his stinking Iron Cross."

"What a shit!" said Porta in disgust. "Times are very hard," grumbled Krupka. "Very hard indeed."

Porta went off in search of Wilke, the big fat cook with the four precious crates of vodka. He was engrossed in stirring a pot of greasy water, which would later be dished up to us under the guise of soup.

"Hi, Wilke!" Porta slapped him amiably on a shoulder. "Heard the latest, have you?"

"Latest what? I'm not interested in the latest. It's all lies, all of it."

"Have a cigarette," said Porta. He pulled out the solid gold case he had removed from the body of a dead general. "You'll need one when I've told you the news."

"To hell with the news! I'd rather stand here and stir my soup and think of my hotel. The news can get on by itself.* "What hotel's that?"

"The one I'm going to build after the war. I'm planning it. It's got--"

"Save your breath," Porta sneered. "You'll be six foot under ground by then, along with the rest of us--new top secret orders came through yesterday. I managed to have a gander at them--never mind how, that's my business. But you know what they said? The German Army's going to fight to the last man and the last bullet--that's as true as I stand here. Top secret instructions from the Fuhrer himself."

Wilke spat into his stewpot and stirred vigorously. "It's all lies," he muttered.

"You think so?" Porta looked at him thoughtfully, then moved closer and hissed into his ear, "As a matter of interest, what would you say to the chance of getting out of it? Eh? Out of Russia? Out of the war? Back home in an airplane, to a nice cushy job."

Wilke turned to look at Porta. "What would
you
say?"

"I'd say, lead me to it! Seriously, though, and don't let it go no further--I was with the CO yesterday, and while I was there I heard a very interesting bit of news."

"He told you himself?" jeered Wilke. "Takes you into his confidence, does he?"

Porta shook his head, with a smile of superior amusement. "You'd be surprised the contacts I have--you get to meet people when you're a corporal, you know. Anyway, to tell you the truth, I didn't take too much notice at first. I mean, you don't, do you, when you don't stand to gain nothing personally? It was only afterward I got to thinking. I thought of all the pals I've got that are cooks. All the cooks that are here in Stalingrad. It's them it concerns."

"What are you getting at?" demanded Wilke.

"Don't believe me if you don't want to," said Porta generously. "But I've heard they're looking for a really good cook, with war experience and all, like what you've got, to take over the catering section at the Military Training School in Stettin."

Wilke's flabby jaw dropped open. His double chin trembled. He stole a cowlike glance at Porta, then turned back to his ruminative stirring.

"You was one of the first I thought of," continued Porta. "I mean, you and me have been through a lot together, one way and another. You remember that time at Paderborn?" he said affectionately. "When I found out you was cheating us on the rations? You remember how I covered up for you? Well, it was the least I could do for an old pal. I couldn't stand by and watch them drag you off to Torgau, could I?"

Wilke suddenly banged down his spoon. "Oh, for God's sake, don't bring that up again! As if I haven't repaid you over and over!" He snorted. "Old pal, my ass! You're nothing but a blackmailing son of a bitch!"

"I've been called worse," said Porta equably. "But anyway, how about going back to Stettin to be a teacher, eh? Better than this hellhole, ain't it?"

Wilke licked his puffy lips. Everyone knew Porta for a thief and a cheat and a liar. It was absurd to believe even a quarter of what he said. And yet, there was always a first time.

"Look," he said earnestly, "you know I'm a married man with two kids, I can't afford to take risks. Is it true or isn't it, this story about them wanting a cook from Stalingrad?"

"It's as true as I stand here," said Porta solemnly. "I only wish to God / was a cook--but as I'm not, I had a word with a pal of mine in Personnel and took the liberty of giving him your name. If anyone can finagle it so you get the job, it's him."

Wilke stood gaping. "You gave him my name? Just like that? For free?"

"Nothing's for free in their horrible world," said Porta. "You know that as well as I do. But he didn't ask much, only a crate of vodka. As far as I'm concerned, it's just a friendly gesture. I don't want nothing for it. Not for putting in a good word on behalf of an old pal. Wouldn't be reasonable, would it?"

Wilke chewed frenziedly at his thumbnail. He could already hear the throbbing engine of a JU-52, waiting to take him home.

"Only thing is," went on Porta, opening the lid of a saucepan and peering inside, "don't say a word to no one or you'll blow the whole thing. It's top secret, see? Morale's pretty low back home and old Adolf's suddenly realized the way to win the war is to keep men's bellies filled. So now there's this great panic on to start training more cooks."

"But why come all the way to Stalingrad?" protested Wilke with a final fling of common sense. "There must be a thousand cooks in Stettin."

"Sure there are," said Porta. "But how many will have had your experience? It's not many cooks that can survive in a place like Stalingrad. Anyway, I just thought I'd mention it. If you're not interested, I'll offer it to someone else. Old Richter, for example. He'd be willing to pay a mint for a nice safe billet like that."

"Willing to pay?" repeated Wilke. "I thought you said you were doing it for nothing?"

"I am," agreed Porta. "It's my friend in Personnel what demands payment--not that you can blame him. He's one of the few men around this place really knows what's going on, and believe you me, things are getting pretty desperate--know what else he told me? On account of we've lost so many men, there's not going to be no more going sick nor nothing of that sort. Don't matter if you got both your legs blown off, they're going to send you right back into the front line. The way they look at it, a man with no legs is just another mouth to feed, so he might as well go and get himself killed by the enemy and save someone more useful getting a bullet through the brain. It makes sense, I suppose." He pulled a face. "What we've been through so far ain't nothing to what's going to come."

Wilke passed a trembling fat hand over his head, which was bald and perspiring. It was said in the company that his hair had fallen out through constant worry about how best to cheat the men out of their rations. Wilke was known as the meanest, fattest and most dishonest cook in the whole of the Germany Army.