The Bloody Road to Death (43 page)

Suddenly a tall, broad figure appears at the head of the castle steps. A long cape flaps about him. He wipes at his completely bald head. A soldier runs, bowing and scraping, to bring him his cap and pistol belt.

¹⁸
Cest lui1’, whispers the Legionnaire, hoarsely. ‘No more mistakes now!’

Nach der Tur zur Hintertreppe,
auch ais Hintertür bekannt,
lebt im Haus ein schwarzer Kater,
der dort seine Wohnstatt fand. . .
¹⁹

sings the commissar loudly in German.

By the door to the back stairway,
Also called the backstairs door,
Lives a dirty great black tomcat,
And it sleeps upon the floor.

‘We’ll give him tomcats,’ growls Gregor, sucking at a dry cigarette butt.

The commissar takes a few dance steps. He is drunk and goes three steps down and two up, then suddenly roars with laughter.

Porta breaks out of the bushes, marches noisily up the gravel path, and throws his helmet clownishly up in the air.

‘What the hell, you dog, you,’ roars the commissar, in amazement, ‘are you drunk then, you son of a bitch?’

‘
Job tvojeniadj
, dad,’ shouts Porta, laughing foolishly.

‘
Stoi
, you bastard, you,’ screams the commissar.

‘
Job tvojemadj
,’ Porta repeats the insult.

‘
Stoi
,’ roars the commissar, raging, and rushes down the steps. ‘
Stoiy
you son of all the stinking Mongols from the steppes. I’ll have you in the cage at Vladimir for this!’

Porta stops in front of the lilacs where the section is hiding. The commissar rushes over to him.

‘You damned Kalmuk hyena, what do you thinkyou’reup to?’

‘Easy now, dad, easy now,’ hisses Porta, pressing the muzzle of his Mpi against the commissar’s stomach.

‘What the . . .’ The rest is smothered in the heavy cloak which is thrown over his head. A pair of mighty arms press the breath from his lungs.

‘’Ome to the family you’re goin’, me old troll o’ the German forest!’ grins Tiny. ‘’Ome to the dear ol’ Fatherland!’

The commissar kicks and struggles desperately. Gregor and Barcelona catch his legs and pull him to the ground. Tiny hugs him in a crushing grip and falls heavily on top of him.

‘Careful, now,’ warns the Old Man. ‘Don’t hug the beggar to death!’

Porta lifts his
Tokarew
and brings the butt down on the commissar’s neck.

With a grunt the big man collapses. Quickly we tie his arms behind his back. A loop goes round his neck which will tighten at the slightest movement. Like a sack of potatoes the bound commissar is thrown into the back of the lorry.

Tiny sits on him. Porta starts the truck, with a noise which makes the air tremble. A nearby rookery is awakened and protests harshly at the noise.

‘If we get out of this I’ll
run
to Mass every Sunday from now on,’ promises the Old Man, solemnly, wrapping his fists tightly around his Mpi.

‘’E
is
the right Commie,
this
time, isn’t ’e?’ asks Tiny, nervously. ‘There’s that many of ’em around ’ere it’s easy enough to make a mistake!’

‘Wrong ’un or right ’un, he’s the last I’m fetching out,’ says Gregor, with decision.

‘It’s OK,’ says Buffalo. He limped like a goat with three legs. He’s gotta be this
Hromoj
guy!’

‘He’ll get a surprise all right, when he meets his fellow countrymen again,’ laughs Barcelona.

‘
Then
the bleedin’ starlin’s gonna be let ’ave a crack at the tomato, son,’ says Tiny, drily.

‘He’ll hang,’ confirms Heide, brusquely.

‘He ought to be hanged five times over,’ adds Gregor.

‘Yea-a-a-h, an’ with thin violin strings, the way they do in Plôtzensee,’ suggests Tiny, radiantly.

The second truck is following close behind us with the Legionnaire at the wheel. Porta drives like the devil himself. We have to hang on to the sides of the truck to avoid being thrown out.

Soon we have left Juraciszki behind us. Shortly after, Porta swings away from the main road and on to an uneven, broken, side-road, but without reducing his speed.

‘He’ll smash the sodding axles,’ shouts the Old Man, banging on the wall of the cabin with the butt of his Mpi. Porta pretends not to have heard him, and increases his speed even more.

Rasputin has one paw round Porta’s shoulders and growls lovingly as he licks the back of his neck. The bear is happy to see him back again.

The Old Man smashes the tiny window with his Mpi muzzle.

‘Reduce speed, you bloody madman, you’re nearly killing us in the back here!’

‘So what? If you’re killed one way or the other, what’s the difference?’ As he speaks he tramps on the brake and we are all thrown violently forward against the cabin wall.

Three Russian MP’s, each with an Mpi at the ready, have
made a cordon across the road and are swinging a red lamp in circles.

‘Drive over them!’ orders the Old Man, sharply.

Porta tears at the gears and switches on the headlights. The Russians are completely blinded.

The heavy personnel truck jumps forward.

‘Gome death, come . . .’ hums the Legionnaire.

The three guards are thrown up in the air. One of them lands with a bang on the shield, but slides straight down to the road. We feel the bumps as all three sets of wheels go over him.

The two others lie stretched out on the road behind us.

At breakneck speed Porta races on down the narrow forest road and wrenches the wheel round suddenly. The heavy half-armoured vehicle bounces up and over a hill and across a half-rotten bridge which sways threateningly. Without hesitation the other truck follows us at the same breakneck speed.

With a cracking rumble the bridge collapses behind us, and disappears into the river.

‘All you need’s just a
little
bit of all the luck there is in the world, to get by with,’ grins Tiny, in satisfaction.

Soon after we are out on a wide main road again, and Porta draws to a halt.

‘Where the devil
are
we?’ he asks, looking about him.

‘We have, of course, gone wrong,’ answers the Old Man, grumpily, studying the map. ‘Why the devil do you have to drive so damn fast? You’ve been driving towards Rakow. We’ll have to turn back!’

‘Back?’ cries Gregor, fearfully. ‘Not me!’

‘Back at least fifteen miles,’ says the Old Man. ‘We’ve got to get to Gawja, but there’s no danger till we get to the Lida crossroads. They’ve got a special checkpoint there, by what the captain said. We go through at top speed! It’s an ordinary green-cap point with no heavy weapons. They shoot at us, we shoot back! Down behind the sideboards and MG’s in position! Any questions?’

‘Will we be home in time for coffee?’ asks Porta.

‘Shut
up
,’ growls the Old Man, and crawls up into the truck.

In Wolozyn Porta turns off and drives straight towards Iwje without our seeing a living soul.

It is growing light when we near the Lida crossroads.

‘They’ll get a balalaika turn as’ll take their breath away,’ says Tiny, lifting his
kalashnikov
.

‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,’ the Old Man warns him. As the words leave his mouth Porta brakes violently, locking the wheels. Like lightning he is out of the cabin and has the motor cover open. He pretends to be making repairs.

‘What’s up?’ whispers the Old Man.

‘Stay inside,’ warns Porta. ‘Half the neighbours’ bloody Army’s up at the crossroads looking through their Commie glasses. They’re certain sure out looking for the wicked men who’ve pinched their
Hromoj
!

Carefully the Old Man positions his binoculars behind one of the truck’s narrow firing-slits.

‘They’ve sent out an alarm! No doubt about it,’ he says. ‘There’s four tanks behind the house. Now they’re turning their turrets this way. We’ve got to get out of this place. Can you turn here?’

‘Leave that to me,’ snarls Porta. ‘Hold on tight in there! We’ll be movin’ but
fasti

‘Where the devil are the others?’ asks Barcelona, and looks back down the road.

‘They’ve stopped round the bend,’ says Tango. ‘They must have seen the heathen before we did.’

‘You Fascist swine aren’t going to get away with this,’ growls the Commissar, who has regained consciousness.

‘
Hromoj
, keep your bleedin’ mouth shut, an’ speak when you’re spoken to!’ says Tiny, treading heavily on his stomach. ‘Otherwise we just might serve you up for breakfast to Rasputin!’

‘We can’t get away with it,’ mumbles Barcelona as Porta begins to move slowly forward. ‘Soon as we start to turn they’ll do us with their bloody tank guns!’

‘Nothin’ bad can ’appen to me,’ says Tiny, with assurance. ‘I’m goin’ to ’ave an ’appy death with no pain. Far as I’m concerned they can shoot as much as they bleedin’ like!’

‘Turn, for Christ’s sake!’ snarls the Old Man, impatiently.

‘Not yet,’ says Porta. ‘Further on. Then I can get round in one go without having to back.’

Tiny peers over the sideboard of the truck.

‘Swarmin’ with bleedin’ green-caps. They’ll make mincemeat of us, if they ever get ‘old of us!’

‘They’ll gouge out your eyes,’ promises the commissar, spitefully.

‘We’ll ’ave cut your bleedin’ belly open first, though,’ Tiny assures him, wiping his long, pointed combat knife along the man’s upper lip. ‘
An
’ we’U’ve cut you up a bit longways an’ crossways, just to make your mates laugh, an’ your Commie bleedin’ arms we’ll ’ave ‘angin’ round your neck, so you won’t need a tie no more, even if you ’ad arms to tie it with!’

A tank rolls out from behind the house and stops across the road.

‘Those dopes must think we’re coming straight through,’ grins Porta. ‘Take a lame-brained Russian to think that one out!’

‘They’ll shoot you to pieces,’ laughs the commissar, tauntingly.

‘’Ere now, me old Commie bell-weather,’ Tiny pricks his chest with his knife. ‘When we’ve ’ad our fun with you we’ll take a trip to your ’ome town an’ ’ave your ol’ mum’s eyeballs for breakfast, we will!’

‘I’ll take care of you personally,’ the commissar promises, taut with rage.

‘You’re full o’ shit,’ replies Tiny. ‘You ain’t got more’n five days left! By then you’ll be danglin’ from a piece of good German rope an’ the crows’ll be sittin’ on your shoulders ’avin’ a good time with
you
!

Porta moves forward slowly in first gear. I bite my lips with excitement and press the machine-gun into my shoulder.

‘Hold on!’ shouts Porta, tearing the wheel round. The engine whines at maximum revolutions.

We roar out into a field, The truck rocks, and is close to turning over, but we make it back onto the road.

‘Fire!’ screams the Old Man, and all three MG’s rattle away at the astonished NKVD troops by the road-block.
Several of them fall, but then there comes a short sharp report close behind us and a shell drops on the road in front of us.

Another tank gun fires and the shell explodes a little closer. Then we are round the curve.; The truck is on two wheels and comes close to turning over.

Seven miles further on we meet the other truck. We wave to them without lessening speed.

Porta swings into the forest along a road which is no more than two wheel tracks, and stops under some trees. In the distance we can hear the drone of the tanks. Shortly after they roar past along the road leading to Oszmiana.

‘Go on,’ orders the Old Man and waves a signal to the other truck.

After a few miles a deep roaring makes us look up. Low down over the road a ‘Crow’
²⁰
comes rushing. It swings off into a steep climb, then comes down at us in a howling dive. It is so low that we can see the pilot clearly.

Two bombs fall right behind us but do no more damage than to throw a great deal of stones and dust up into the air.

‘That sad sack’s in contact with the green-caps,’ shouts Porta. ‘There’ll be a shower of tanks trying to work it up our arses before long!’

‘I’ll fix him,’ boasts Heide, swinging his MG round.

‘You couldn’t
touch
him with that ant-piss syringe!’ says Gregor, contemptuously. ‘Don’t you know Crows’re armoured against MG fire?’

‘The
untermensch
in the cockpit isn’t, though, snarls Heide, wickedly.

The Crow comes at us again, this time swooping down from the opposite side.

Heide opens fire immediately. Bullets splatter and rattle off the Crow’s armoured sides.

Bombs go off in front of and behind us.

Heide fires like a madman, but without hitting the pilot.

‘Another of these mad bastards who shoot at people without hitting ’em,’ shouts Porta, raging. ‘That’s the kind of idiots who bring all the troubles of a war down on us!’