The Bloody Road to Death (29 page)

‘We ain’t in Siberia though, Porta,’ Wolf reminds him.

‘You’ll get there sooner or later,’ Porta warns him, ominously.

‘Yeah, the way the sun seems to be settin’ over the German Reich, with the strong possibility of a new movement of the German peoples northwards, you may be right,’ Wolf points at the bear. ‘It’s possible there’s many like him in Siberia but they haven’t all learnt to drink beer and swing a club.’

‘You’re wrong, man, wrong! Haven’t you heard,’ cries Porta. ‘The Siberian bars are full of ’em till far into the night!’

They go over to discuss Caterpillars, and when they finally agree, and Wolf has seen them and found that they are so new that the protective grease has not yet been removed, he cries, in wonder:

‘Hell, Porta. Did the Yanks consign these straight to you?’

‘Not far wrong,’ Porta boasts, gesturing broadly with his hands. ‘They’ve come by rail direct from God’s Own Country via the Arctic Circle. There’s even a Bible installed just behind the carburettor!’

‘Jesus, boy,’ comes admiringly from Wolf. ‘Keep on like this an’ you’ll soon be sunnin’ yourself along with the big Greeks in Monaco!’

They drive home to Wolf to have a drink on the bargain. The bear rolls itself into a ball in the corner and eyes the wolfhounds with contempt. They keep a respectful distance.

‘To prove I am your true friend,’ begins Wolf, solemnly, ‘I will give you the bear as a present!’

‘
That
is meant friendly?’ asks Porta suspiciously. ‘You
want
to get him out of your hair, Wolf! He’s unsaleable, and those brown boys eat more than a hungry German who’s lived through the last three wars. To be perfectly honest I don’t care much for your present. It’ll certainly bring me more problems than pleasure. Before you know where you are you get blistered on a monster like that. Remember that pig we had. The one we couldn’t bring ourselves to slaughter. If the neighbours hadn’t captured Sophie we’d’ve had her yet, and that brown boy there looks to have more charm than Sophie
ever
did! Pets don’t belong in the Army. Look at his eyes! What he needs is a good home, to ensure him a happy old age. What’s his name, by the way?’

‘I’ve asked him, but he don’t say! Want to see him drink beer?’

Without waiting for an answer Wolf places four bottles of
Schlosspilz
on the table and beckons to the bear.

‘Aren’t you going to open them first?’ asks Porta, wonderingly.

‘No, no, no, no! He does that himself!’

The bear waddles over to the table, takes a bottle and bites the cap off with his teeth. Then he empties the contents down
his throat with the speed of a thirsty docker, throws the empty bottle at the wolfhounds and picks up the next.

‘Holy Mother of Kazan!’ cries Porta, in amazement. ‘Well I’m
damned
! D’you think he could be taught to fire a
kalashnikov
?’

‘Sure,
sure
! says Wolf. ‘Teach that bear anything, you can! A
very
clever animal. He was with a special unit in Moscow before he came to the circus.’

The bear waddles over to Porta, lays a huge paw on his shoulder, and gives him a great wet kiss in the middle of his face.

‘He
likes
me!’ shouts Porta enthusiastically. ‘There ain’t many who do, you know!’

Coffee is served to Porta and Wolf. They agree to pick up the tractors in the middle of the night. Preferably between 02.00 and 04.00 hrs. That is the time of night when the guards are at their sleepiest.

Wolf’s big white tom-cat comes strolling arrogantly from the neighbouring storeroom.

Porta calls to it. He loves cats. He has never really got over the loss of Stalin
²
. Wolf’s cat ignores him completely. It swishes its tail angrily when he calls to it again and offers it a piece of pâté.

‘He’s a French cat,’ boasts Wolf, on behalf of his cat. ‘From Paris!’

‘That’s obvious. A strong sense of patriotism.’

‘Too right,’ says Wolf. ‘My French prisoners are the only ones he’ll let touch him and give him food.’

‘Won’t he let
you
touch him?’ asks Porta.

‘
Non, monsieur!
Don’t reckon he’s ever got over us stealin’ Alsace-Lorraine in 1870.’

‘That
was
a typical German thing to do to good neighbours,’ admits Porta, solemnly. He watches the cat admiringly, as it passes the wolf-hounds with tail up and an air of the deepest contempt for all dogs in general and those two in particular.

When Hauptmann von Pader hears about the bear, he gets straight on to Regimental HQ.

‘Porta and a bear, eh!’ laughs Oberst Hinka. ‘Take it on
strength. There’s nothing in the manual that forbids keeping bears.’

‘Do you want it to parade?’ asks von Pader, crestfallen.

‘Your business! You’re the OC!’ Oberst Hinka cuts him off, uninterestedly.

The bear parades with the company. After a while everybody gets used to it. The only thing that enrages it is the sight of khaki uniforms. These change it from a good-natured giant to a snarling beast of prey. Its eyes get smaller and glint dangerously.

We hold a gigantic christening party for it and name it Rasputin. There is something about the bear which reminds us of the Russian monk. Especially when it drinks beer.

Wolf arrives at the party with his private choir.

Between the songs speeches are made. Heide becomes so drunk that he lets himself be converted to Communism. Later that night he gets qualms of conscience, becomes a Catholic and is given absolution by Porta who was once with the Padre Corps
³
.

The Old Man rises with difficulty. Stubbornly he tries to seat himself in a wheelchair and finally succeeds. The result is wonderful. Off goes the chair across the storeroom. Tiny opens the double doors politely and he rolls swiftly down the narrow path and straight into the river. A rescue chain is quickly arranged.

‘Honoured singers,’ he babbles when they get him back on shore. ‘That man there,’ he hiccups and points waveringly at Gregor. ‘That man . . . That man there! He sings like a pig! Just like a pig!’ He looks at Gregor again. ‘And he has
three
heads!’

Gregor gets on his feet with great difficulty. Schnapps has reached the level of his tonsils. Uncertainly he supports himself against a 20mm cannon.

‘I must tell you,
sir
!’ he hiccups, and tries to spit in the Old Man’s direction. ‘I must tell you that you are the dumbest dummy I have ever met! You are a real shit, sir!’

The Old Man falls across the table face downwards into the floral decoration.

‘German soldiers! Cannot sing! Be shot at dawn! Not worthy live!’ he mumbles, his voice stifled by petals. He is eating the table decoration.

‘Sing, you bastards!’ screams Gregor. He has crawled up on to the little seat behind the 20mm. ‘One, two, three,
sing
! No more 0’ this idlin’,’ he snuffles. ‘If we can’t sing there’s nothin’ left. Song is the, the, the bloody, bleedin’ backbone of the Army!’ He carries out the loading drill on the gun.

‘Sh-sh-sh-sh-shoot me at last!’ stutters Porta, sitting by the side of Rasputin and stinking drunk.

‘I’ll shoot who I like an’ when I like I’ll shoot who I like,’ stammers Gregor, and suddenly throws up all over the gun.

‘You’ll clean that gun,’ roars Heide in a rage. ‘If you’re a thousand times an unteroffizier, you’ll
clean
it, boy!’

The gun goes off, sending a whole clip of 20mm shells through the roof. Luckily they are armour-piercing and not HE.

‘Stop your nonsense, now,’ Wolf admonishes them in a fatherly tone.

One of the shells took his cap off. ‘We are a sober choir engaged in honouring a christening and not a war-mad shooting club on militia exercises in the local park on a Sunday morning.’

‘Feldwebel Beier will sing the next song,’ drools Gregor, in a thick voice, falling off the gun.

‘I’ll have
you
picked up by the MP’s!’ shouts the Old Man. He is trying to swallow the long stem of a carnation. He thinks he is eating asparagus.

‘Unteroffizier Gregor Martin!’ shouts Heide. ‘You are a disgrace to the German unteroffizier corps. The men
laugh
at you! Unteroffizier Martin, you are a blot on the corps!’

‘Members of the corps who do not understand that the troops must be kept down by the exercise of strict discipline should never have been made unteroffiziers,’ roars Wolf, solemnly. He attempts to get up from his chair, but fails completely. Instead he falls under the table where the Legionnaire has arrived before him and is sitting giving orders to a camel squadron. He thinks he is somewhere in the Sahara.

‘
Mille diables
, can you smell the date palms,
mon ami
?’ They are in bloom at this time of year.
Allah el Akbar
, on your knees in prayer!’ he yells, knocking his forehead piously on the floor.

Wolf pulls himself up again into his chair, falls on Heide’s neck and tells the world how happy he is to have found his eldest sister, whose husband has left her, again.

‘We’ll break those fuckin dogfaces!’ roars Heide.

‘It’s us he means,’ says Porta, insulted. He puts his arm in comradely fashion round Tiny’s shoulders. ‘He doesn’t understand the true military rank classifications, the brown turd.’

The bear lifts its head and growls threateningly at the word ‘brown’.

‘Unteroffizier Julius Heide,’ says Porta, condescendingly. ‘You have shit where your brains ought to be. I came close to saying you were dumb as a German, but I rarely shit on my own doorstep.’

‘’E’s a stupid quim,’ drools Tiny. His eyes go glassy and he falls on to the dogs who bite him in the leg. Fortunately he is too drunk to feel it. ‘Julius,’ he hiccups, ‘Don’t you know that us obergefreiters in some ways rank equal to staff officers. You don’t always find an unteroffizier or a feldwebel with the General Staff, maybe not even a leutnant. What you
do
find is ’alf a score o’ us obergefreiters runnin’ round keepin’ the bleedin’ morale o’ the place ’igh.’

‘Tiny knows what he’s talking about,’ Porta praises him. ‘We carry with dignity and pride the two tapes that are only handed out to soldiers with grey matter inside their skulls. Listen you shits of unteroffiziers,’ he continues in a voice which cuts through the hellish din. ‘In some beds obergefreiters outrank bloody generals!’

‘Just you lot don’t forget as the German Supreme Commander ain’t no more’n a gefreiter,’ grins Tiny, glassily. ‘An’ ’e never did get the other bleedin’ tape!’

‘As I say,’ drawls Porta, ‘it takes grey cells to get to be obergefreiter.’

‘Let ’im watch ’imself,’ warns Tiny, belching resoundingly.

‘Brüder, zur Freiheit, zur Sonne . . .’ sings Porta in a shrill voice.

‘High treason!’ howls Heide, enraged. ‘I ought to have you arrested.’

‘Die Strasse frei. SA marchiert . . .’ he screams, trying to drown out Porta’s Communist hymn.

‘Arrest ’em,’ grins Wolf foolishly, scrabbling on the floor for his belt and holster.

His wolfhound, Satan, brings it to him in its mouth.

Wolf salutes the dog and thanks it. With difficulty he draws the 08 from its holster. He holds the pistol in front of him with both hands and attempts to take aim at Heide. The muzzle swings to and fro, covering first one then another.

‘Unteroffizier Julius Heide, you drunken twit, you are under arrest. If you attempt to escape I shall fire on you,’ He falls over the table, and his gun goes off. A bullet whines past Heide’s face and bores itself into the wall behind him.

Heide looks about him in terror.

‘Partisans,’ he whispers, rigid and shaking with fear.

‘
Nix partisanski
,’ grins Porta, and sings:

‘Heute sind wir roten
  Morgen sind sir toten.’

‘What the hell?’ babbles Wolf, swaying dangerously, and describing circles in the air with the muzzle of his pistol. ‘Didn’t I get you, Julius? Let’s have another go! If at first you don’t succeed. . .’

‘
Fire!
’ commands the Old Man, who is by now half-asleep.

Heide emits a shrill scream of terror, and dives under the table. Two shots whine past him.

‘I’m wounded, I’m dead, orderlies!’

‘Are you balls!’ chatters Wolf, leaning on his Russian bodyguard. ‘Just you wait though, Julius, we’ll get you. If we’re allowed to liquidate Communists then why not bloody Nazis?’

‘Prove you’re Chief Mechanic and also responsible for ordnance,’ Barcelona encourages him in happy drunkenness.

‘Straight in front, brown target, fire!’ roars the Old Man energetically.

Wolf picks up an Mpi turns it at the table and lets off a burst. Glass, wine and beer rain about our ears.

‘I’ll shoot your prick off,’ promises Wolf, changing clips. ‘You’re as hard to hit as that bloody Russian chum’s cat
⁴
.’

‘I’m dying,’ howls Heide from under the table, waving a white flag of truce.

Wolf pulls himself up and salutes the Russian bodyguard.

‘Sergeant Igor, get on your bicycle, ride to Moscow and report that we have beaten a Nazi battalion!’