Cauldron of Blood (14 page)

‘
What’s your game, Schulze?’ Matz growled and accepted a canteen of the steaming hot goulash from one of the beaming cooks.

Schulze
winked solemnly and said: ‘Matzi, I don’t think, my little crippled friend, you are yet fully attuned to the spirit of Christrrias, the season of goodwill to all men, including that pig of a Golden Pheasant and our dearly beloved Sergeant-Major. But Uncle Schulze is.’ He dared to bend down and pat the black brute, which gave off a warning growl, as it gnawed at the bone. ‘Oh, yes Uncle Schulze is definitely full of the Christmas spirit at this moment.’

Matz
farted and then swallowing the rest of the burningly hot goulash set about helping Schulze to begin their trek back to their own lines.

The
‘Great Goulash Raid’, as it later became known in the annals of SS Assault Battalion Wotan, and what was to follow, had begun successfully, very successfully indeed...

SEVEN

There was a hushed sigh as Gerda came ceremonially through the door into the room, which now housed as many of the German defenders as possible who could be released from their frontline duties for this occasion. Clutched to her magnificent bosom, the steam wreathing up around and about her beaming fat face and making it gleam with moisture, was a huge cauldron of giddi-up goulash. Solemnly she placed it in the centre of the room, while the soldiers gazed at the steaming cauldron almost as if they could not believe the evidence of their own eyes, their stomachs rumbling in anticipation, saliva trickling down their bearded chins from the sides of their mouths.

‘
Holy strawsack,’ Matz exclaimed amused. ‘There’s so much chin-water around here, I could float the
Deutschland
on it.’

Gerda
‘s ladylike smile vanished for a moment and she cried, ‘Knock that shit off, Corporal. Remember this
is
Christmas Eve.’

‘
Sorry, gracious miss,’ Matz said, abruptly contrite.

Schulze
grinned at his running-mate’s discomforture and then beamed as Gerda indicated that the starving men should form a line and receive their share of the steaming goulash. They needed no urging. Suddenly the spell was broken, and pushing and shoving, the Wotan troopers fought to gain a place at the head of the queue, while Gerda, a piece of fir-twig tucked into her dyed hair, attempted to keep them in order with well-directed blows from the iron ladle which the Russian had just handed her to dish out the mixture.

Schulze
nudged Matz. ‘Come on, fart-cannon, let’s get on with it.’

‘
Can’t yer wait a minute?’ Matz protested, indicating Gerda who was now bending down to serve the first portion and was revealing an ample section of her black-stockinged thigh as she did so. ‘It ain’t often that a poor stubble-hopper gets to see anything like that on a Christmas Eve.’

‘
Holy, holy, shitting holy,’ Schulze said and gave him a mock blessing. ‘Remove such ignoble thoughts from your mind this night. Besides we do have our duties to perform.’

Reluctantly
Matz followed the bigger man to the temporary kitchen where Piotr, the Russian who spoke some German, was busy basting the roast which had already turned an attractive, succulent brown.

Schulze
paused dramatically and sniffed the air. ‘Exquisite,’ he breathed.

Piotr
beamed. ‘Not bad,’ he said, pouring yet another spoonful of the candle fat which Schulze had obtained for him over the roast.

Matz
looked doubtful. ‘It’s a bit big for a roof-hare,’ he said.

Schulze
nodded his agreement. ‘You’re right, little man, but when the Butcher told me that Little Napoleon would give us a bottle of firewater for the choicest piece, I said it would be something on that line.’

For
a moment or two the running-mates pondered the problem, while Piotr busied himself with the final preparations. In the end it was Matz who had the solution. Picking up the tail which lay on the floor at Piotr’s feet, he dipped it into the thin layer of flour which Little Napoleon had given them for this Christmas Eve feast, twisting it back and forth until the furry thing was a dull white colour.

‘
What’s that supposed to be?’ Schulze asked.

‘
Steppe-deer,’ Matz announced triumphantly, draping the tail across the roast. ‘One of the boys shot it out there. Now we’re offering it to our Spanish ally as a token of our esteem.’

‘
Of course!’ Schulze exclaimed happily. ‘Steppe-deer it is.’ He winked hugely at his fellow conspirator.

Thus
as ‘steppe-deer’, the sizzling roast was ceremonially handed over to the waiting trio of Little Napoleon, Golden Pheasant and the Butcher, with much smacking of lips and eager anticipatory belches, a bottle of Spanish cognac being given to Schulze and Matz in return. Even before the two of them had reached the door, the three of them were hacking away at the roast greedily, each man trying to carve off the best portion for himself, elbowing his neighbour out of the way, as he dug his knife into the ‘steppe-deer’.

Occupied
as they were, the three of them did not see Matz pause at the door and raise one leg in the traditional pose of the canine breed establishing its territory, making soft barking sounds as he did so. Next moment they were hurrying down the corridor, precious bottle clutched to Schulze’s massive chest, ready for their own little private celebration with Gerda, barking and laughing as they went....

*

They were drunk, very drunk all three of them. They had told the fat whore the tale of the roasted dog at least four times, embellished each time by Matz’s imitation of a hound howling at the moon, so that Gerda had shook with laughter, the tears streaming down her fat face, making damp trails through the flour she had used as powder. Now they sat there reflectively, each one of them with his paw clasped possessively around one of her massive breasts, listening to the howl of the wind outside, remembering past times, telling themselves that even now a thousand kilometres to the rear in the Homeland, there would be well-dressed people going to church, raising their hats politely to each other, asking about one another’s health, making forecasts about the Christmas weather, complaining of having eaten too much carp or sausage and sauerkraut.

‘
It ain’t fair,’ Matz said apropos of nothing.

‘
What ain’t fair?’ Schulze queried, roused out of his drunken reverie sufficiently to give Gerda’s right nipple a playful nip.

‘
Life.’

‘
Life, oh yes,
life
!’ Gerda quavered, tears of sadness this time beginning to stream down her fat cheeks. She took a tremendous swallow of the cognac. ‘If I remember the sweet innocent thing I was once, I could sob my heart out.’ With her free hand, for she determined now not to let go of the bottle, she fumbled automatically with Matz’s flies.

‘
Don’t cry, little woman,’ Matz sighed, drunkenly aware of the delicious new warmth that was beginning to steal through his loins now. ‘I’ll look after you this night, beloved.’

The
statement penetrated Schulze’s melancholic, drunken haze.

‘
What’s this —
I’ll
look
after
yer
tonight
,
beloved
,
crap
?’ he growled aggressively.

‘
Well, we are almost engaged, you know, Schulze,’ Matz answered seriously, running his paw up between her spread legs to show that Gerda belonged to him.

‘
Get that dirty mitt out of there!’ Schulze said, clenching his free fist. ‘If Gerda’s opening her pearly gates for anyone this Christmas Eve,’ Schulze rapped his fist against his big chest, ‘it’s for Mrs Schulze’s handsome son. I mean everybody knows that your little dingleling couldn’t make a female gnat sigh!’ He beamed at Gerda, who was still sobbing, obviously delighted with his own brilliant humour.

Matz
scowled. ‘What did you say?’

‘
You heard me.’

‘
Why, you big horse’s ass,’ Matz snarled. ‘You couldn’t get it up — even if they pulled at it with a crane!’

‘
What was that, arse with plush ears?’ Schulze raised his fist threateningly. ‘One more word from you and you’ll get a knuckle-sandwich.’

‘
And one from you and you’ll be bloody well lacking a set of ears, Schulze, I’m warning you...’

‘
Meine
Herren
,
meine
Herren
!’ Gerda protested releasing her ample bosom from their grasp and looking from one angry flushed drunken face to the other. ‘Remember this is the season of goodwill to all men.’

‘
But he ain’t a man, the crippled little fart-cannon!’ Schulze began.

But
Gerda raised her plump hand imperiously for silence. ‘Enough,’ she commanded. ‘Now that’s quite enough.’ Suddenly her eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘This is how we’re going to do it so that both of you get a turn.’ She giggled and pressing her lips close to Matz’s ear, whispered something to him; then it was Schulze’s turn.

For
a moment the two of them, abruptly sober, stared at the smiling fat whore dumbfounded. ‘But that ‘s impossible!’ Matz breathed.

‘
I’ve... I’ve never tried
that
before,’ Schulze stuttered.

Gerda
winked solemnly and tapped the side of her big nose. ‘Don’t worry, my darlings, Big Gerda’ll make it all come true.’

Matz
looked at Schulze and breathed.
‘
I
think
I’m
beginning
to
believe
in
Father
Christmas
after
all
...’

*

But the two running-mates were not destined to enjoy the strange favours that the big whore had promised them for that snow-bound Christmas Eve.

Just
as Matz had begun to unscrew his wooden leg and join the other two already writhing on the makeshift bed, the night silence was alarmingly rent apart by the shrill whistles of the duty NCOs, the sudden cries of badly frightened men, and the first wild shots of rifle fire.

‘
Gross
Kacke
am
Christbaum
!’ Matz paused in the middle of his contortions, wondering whether he should continue with his preparations for the orgy or not. At his feet, Schulze and Gerda still writhed like a couple of small elephants under the grey blanket tent.

The
shooting intensified. Now the Spaniards were sounding the alarm everywhere along the perimeter, beating gongs made of empty shell-cases, swinging their gas rattles, and in one case blowing a bugle. Matz, veteran that he was, did not need to be told that this was an all-out attack. As usual the Russians had taken advantage of the well-known trait of the German soldier of celebrating on every possible occasion. Now they had hit the German line, obviously expecting most of the defenders to be passed out in a drunken sleep. Matz kicked the shape closest to him.

‘
Get yer dirty salami out of that,’ he growled. ‘The Popovs are attacking!’

Gerda
popped her head out, hair in disarray and the fir strand hanging limply over her right ear. ‘What, my darling? ‘

‘
The Popovs are attacking,
darling
!’ Matz sneered, busily engaged now on fixing his leg once more.

‘
Tell me when you’ve won,’ Schulze’s muffled voice came from below.

‘
But
it’s
the
Popovs
!’ Gerda cried fearfully.

Schulze
’s head appeared. For some reason he now had Gerda’s black knickers draped over the back of his skull. ‘Don’t bother me with such little things, Matzi, will yer?’ he cried irritably, his hands busy beneath the blankets. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

‘
Get outa that candy crack!’ Matz yelled, as the firing outside drew ever closer, pulling on his equipment with frantic fingers.

‘
If the Popovs catch you with yer shivvies off, yer’ll need a team of master-plumbers to get your outside plumbing fixed again.’

That
terrible threat worked. Schulze sprung out of the blankets as if he had been bitten. Hurriedly he jumped into his clothes and grabbed his rifle, black knickers still adorning his shaven head, he followed Matz through the door, heading for the sound of the new battle.

Behind
them Gerda lay back on the blankets, confused, frightened and not a little frustrated, for she was still too drunk to be overly worried much by the danger the Popov attack presented. She sighed and said half-aloud, ‘Well, who needs men anyway? Happy Christmas Gerda darling!’

And
with that she pulled the blankets over her head and occupied herself with herself, the noisy bloody world of men forgotten this particular Christmas Eve....