Wheels of Terror (12 page)

But Pluto almost surpassed Porta. One day he invited us for a trip in a training tank, which is a tank with the turret hatches removed. It resembled a bathtub on tracks. He whizzed about the garage area at a speed of 40 kilometres per hour, even though the speed-limit was 15 km.p.h. for all vehicles.

When we had completed four or five circuits with roaring engine and rattling chains, Pluto let go of the steering rods and turning to us in our bathtub said:

'I'll bloody well show you that the old jalopy can do more than forty.'

Covered in a huge cloud of dust, with a roar we jumped out on the road. Then like a jack-in-the-box a little Opel appeared. What followed happened in a flash. We hit the car with a bang and it flew across the ditch and landed on the parade ground. There it turned over three or four times. Two wheels were torn off and careered desperately along to be stopped by the wall of the dining-hall.

'Thank you very much, Pluto,' said Porta with admiration. 'Blimey, what a kiss you gave that pram. You don't do anything by halves, do you!'

'Now we'll see who'll win the slanging match, the master-driver Pluto or that chump in the Opel,' said Pluto calmly.

To our horror our adjutant crawled out of the smashed car with his uniform in shreds. When he reached our training-tank he swore furiously at the dumbstruck Pluto.

That joy-ride cost Pluto fourteen days in a dark cell and the rest of us our trip to Russia. Maybe it was cheap at the price.

In anger Porta threw down his equipment on the floor of the cottage we were billeted in. He shouted at the old Russian who sat in the corner by the stove scratching his lousy back against the wall:

'Joseph Porta has arrived. You've got plenty lice, dear Soviet citizen?'

The Russian grinned without understanding a word so Porta went on in Russian:

'You see, comrade, Joseph Porta and his followers have arrived on the Eastern Front again. Even if I'm a damned good soldier the whole Germanski war apparatus will soon turn west to the good city of Berlin. Your very red brothers will soon be here to set you free, and make you happy and content with lots of dialectics before they hang you.'

The Russian stared and stuttered:

'Germanski go? Bolshevik soldiers come?'

'That's it, comrade,' Porta grinned.

Porta's prophecies took immediate effect and the nine civilian Russians in the cottage held a whispered conference in the stinking room. One made off, presumably to spread the rumour in the sad, grey village. Some of them secretly packed their belongings into bundles. Porta made them start by shouting:

'Don't forget your victory flags!'

Pluto was on his knees fixing his bedding on the floor but Porta's commentaries made him collapse with laughter.

When he recovered he picked up his machine-pistol, patted it significantly and announced in broken Russian:

'When tovarich commissar come, you dead quick because you not partisans. Hurry up and be partisans!'

The old Russian went across to him and said with an odd dignity:

'You not funny, Herr soldier.'

With our gas-mask containers serving as pillows and wrapped in our greatcoats we tried to snatch some sleep before moving into our battle positions. Rumour had it we were to serve as infantry. We had heard that the 19th Panzer had been wiped out by our Russian colleagues. All our own tanks were lost too.

'We've landed in a real muck-pot,' said Stege. 'But, of course, we're the whipping-boy for all Hitler's army!'

'You've said it,' said Moller, 'a chap from the regimental staff told me that the whole of the 52nd Army Corps had run for it with Ivan at their heels.'

'God help us,' Pluto burst out. 'If that's right we're going to get it bloody hot. But those beauties in the 52nd were always ready enough to run.'

'They've mostly got mountain-monkeys,' said Stege, 'I never could stand those hill-billies with their imbecile Edelweiss on their caps and sleeves. Looked like a bunch of wreaths when they were on the march.'

Slowly peace fell over the room. The last speech we heard was the Little Legionnaire swearing in German, French and Arabic at the biting lice. Soon an orchestra of snores was the only sound.

It was still dark when a foot kicked us awake and a voice whispered: 'Alert!'

Porta, half-asleep, muttered angrily:

'What are you whispering for? Do you think Ivan's out there with his ear stuck to the keyhole? Get out of it, you sod, or I'll bash your skull in!'

Slowly we got up and collected our equipment. We crossed to the assembly area swearing and stumbling in the night. There we joined the rest of No. 5 Company. We were all dirty and frowsty with sleep.

Flash-lamps blinked as papers and maps were studied. Low-voiced commands, the clicking of steel against steel filled the wet night. Tiny gave off abuse, threatening to fight anyone who came near.

Von Barring who came along in his long coat with a hood attached - the kind privates wear on guard-duty - was without shoulder-tabs or badges. He quickly interrupted the talk between Sergeant-Major Edel and the section-leaders:

'Good morning, Company! Ready to march?'

Without waiting for an answer he ordered:

'Company, attention! Rifles will be slung. Automatic weapons will be carried as most comfortable. No. 5 Company right turn. Follow me. March!'

Both Porta and the Legionnaire were cheekily smoking. Several more followed their example. We marched in a lumpy confusion. Friends sought friends as a protection against fright and darkness. Porta put an egg-grenade in my hand and said:

'I've no room for this muck, you take it!'

Without a word I put it in my pocket.

The equipment rattled and jingled. Everyone was jittery. The rain ran off the steel-helmet down the back of the neck. We went through a spinney and then across a trampled field of sun-flowers.

Tiny, all the time quarrelling with the others, was getting very loud. A fight was imminent.

Von Barring stopped and let the company pass by. Lieutenant Harder was alone in front swinging his machine-pistol by the leather strap.

When Tiny came past von Barring we heard the captain say in his gentle but firm manner:

'You, I've seen your papers and heard about you. I warn you. We don't stand any form of provocation. You're in a decent company. We treat everybody properly. But don't forget we have our methods with scoundrels and rascals and we're not afraid to use them!'

Von Barring marched up to his position beside Lieutenant Harder again. He wore an officer's cap. From his right shoulder dangled his machine-pistol. On his way up he hit Porta on the shoulder and said:

'Hey, you red-haired monkey!'

'Same to you, sir,' responded Porta familiarly. He turned to The Old Un and me and announced loudly: 'Barring is one of the few officers I know who isn't a complete swine.'

'Shut up, Porta,' von Barring's voice came through the darkness. 'Or else there'll be extra parades when we get back.'

'I report, sir, that Corporal Joseph Porta has corns and is flat-footed. The doc has exempted him from extra parades.'

A quiet laugh came from von Barring.

The artillery-fire was not heavy. Rather dispersed and desultory shooting came from both flanks. Now and again machine-guns barked. It was easy to tell the Russian ones from ours. Da-da-da said the Russian, our MG 38 sounded more like tik-tik, and the new fast-firing MG 42 was one long evil snarl.

Round about tracer-bullets opened up and sank to the ground in a blinding white light. Stege started to laugh hysterically:

'I once read a book about a soldier: "He was a solider and feared nothing. He was big and brave. Death was his friend and helper. He behaved with sureness and confidence as only the brave do"! The writer-sod who wrote that should see us now as we march the steppes, shaking with fear.'

'Shut up, Stege,' said The Old Un.

He was walking slightly bent smoking his ancient pipe. He had put the hand-grenades in his long boots, and his fists were buried deep in the pockets of his greatcoat.

A short distance in front of us a whining shell fell in a field and exploded with a bang.

'15.5,' said The Old Un, and pulled his head even lower between his shoulders.

Some of our new men threw themselves into shelter. Porta started jeering.

'The depot-stallions like the smell of the Russian earth!'

'Do you mean me?' snarled Tiny behind us. He too had thrown himself down.

'Does the cap fit?' asked Pluto.

Tiny shovelled his way through the ranks and grabbed Pluto. Porta jerked his sniper's rifle forward and hit Tiny a colossal smack in the face with the butt.

'Be off, you fat pig,' he hissed threateningly.

Half-stunned, Tiny whirled round, waltzed out of the ranks and fell to his knees with blood spurting from his nose.

Quietly The Old Un stepped out of the column and with the barrel of his pistol pointing at the kneeling giant said calmly:

'Get up and join the ranks where you belong, or we'll kill you. If you're not in place in ten seconds, I shoot!'

Tiny stood shakily up and growled, but a well-timed thrust from the muzzle of The Old Un's pistol silenced him.

'Split up,' von Barring's voice came out of the darkness. 'Put the fags out.'

Whee! Crump! exploded a new 15.5. Da-da-da stuttered a heavy machine-gun.

Porta laughed a little.

'Just like coming home again. Good morning, pisspots,' he greeted a couple of panzer grenadiers crouched under a tree. 'Corporal Joseph Porta, graduated State-murderer, humbly reports back to the Eastern Front "slaughter-house".'

'Look out, when you get to the ruin in front there,' said one of the grenadiers mechanically and without rancour. 'Ivan can spot you there. When you walk through the trench you'll come to a place where there's a dead Russian lying. Get down flat there. Ivan is using him as an aiming-mark for his machine-guns. We lost nine men there yesterday, so you're likely to have a few crosses among you, too!'

'God, you're cheerful,' said Porta coolly.

Pluto and the Little Legionnaire looked at each other.

'Do you smell corpses, chum?' asked the Legionnaire. 'Like Morocco, in the old days, only the pong was stronger there.'

'Ho, ho,' cackled Pluto. 'Just you wait till an east front partisan explodes. Then you'll see what your own innards'll look like, you Arab. You'll drool for sweet smells of sunny Morocco!'

'A couple of Ivans won't scare me. I've got the cross with four palms and three stars for fighting in the Riff mountains and Indo-China,' said Kalb.

'Ha,' jeered Porta, 'even if you've a cross with a whole forest of palms from your desert trips you'll be desperate here when Ivan is in form. Just wait for the Siberians to come and cut your Adam's apple out to play ping-pong with!'

'We'll see, we'll see,' said the Little Legionnaire. 'Allah is wise. I'm a damned good shot, and can use my knife. My cradle stood in Moabitt!'

'Be careful you don't win the war single-handed,' The Old Un said ironically.

The company slid and slipped on the slimy, muddy path which led past the ruin of a farmhouse.

A little in front where the trench was shot to pieces the whole company sought shelter like a fan suddenly folding. We had to crawl past the dead Russian who lay on a small mound and gave us a little cover.

Whispering, von Barring announced.

'Quickly, get to the other side. One at a time. Press yourselves flat, use the Russian as shelter. We have a heavy Russian machine-gun to the left just in front. If you are seen you've had it!'

The rattle of equipment had ceased. We were like wild animals ready to pounce, silent as the night.

Porta crouched at the edge of the trench with his sniper's rifle at the ready. In a corner of his mouth hung a dead cigarette butt. At his side stood the Little Legionnaire who had developed a dog-like devotion to the red-haired street urchin. He had his light machine-gun on his hip, prepared to fire.

The first of us were already past the danger-point. Then a star-shell burst over our heads, its blinding white glow lighting up the whole area.

The next few desperately pressed themselves down by the fallen Russian.

The Old Un swore:

'The whole fireworks is coming now. Ivan must have smelt us here.'

He had scarcely finished when it started. Tra-tra-tra the heavy machine-gun yammered. The corpse jumped as if life had returned to it.

Rusch-ram-rusch-ram boomed the mortar-bombs and splashed us with mud. These small devil-bombs could be heard only when they exploded near us. More machine-guns joined in the concert.

'Quiet, quiet, don't shoot,' von Barring's voice came soothingly through the darkness. He was pulling himself along on his stomach past the whole company.

Perhaps it lasted an hour, perhaps three minutes. Then it was all over and we again started to slide past the Russian in his brown uniform.

The Old Un gave me a light tap on the shoulder to indicate it was my turn.

I nearly vomited as I lay beside the corpse. It was swollen and gruesome with green liquid pouring out of nostrils and mouth. The stink was terrible. After me came Porta and the Little Legionnaire. They were the last. A mortar made us all fall flat. Behind us someone started to yell. Another few mortar-bombs landed in the mud, soaking us.

'Blimey, what a spa we've landed in,' Stege moaned.

The Little Legionnaire took a deep breath.

'This must be what is called a Russian bath.'

'No. 2 Platoon take up their positions here,' ordered Lieutenant Harder. His voice shook a little. He was not yet front-trained.

Pluto had difficulty with his huge machine-gun and swore grimly as he arranged sandbags in the right places.

A bullet hit one of them with a smack just by his head.

'You Russian muck-heaps!' bawled the big docker.

'Good thing we know where to find you, you bloody eunuchs. I'll smash you into pulp!'

Furiously, he threw a hand-grenade across just to underline his threats.

'Take care, lads,' warned The Old Un. 'He's a sharp-shooter across there, and uses real bullets!'