The Bloody Road to Death (41 page)

‘Get him!’ snarls the Old Man. ‘You can undress him and bring him naked if you want, but not a scratch on him, understand!’

‘Come on then,’ says Porta, ‘let’s get the introductions over with! The start of a party’s always the worst!’

In the doorway Tiny turns his head and looks at the Old Man.

‘It ain’t
our
fault if ’e dies of a ’eart-attack out of pure ’ap-piness at the sight of ’is fellow countrymen!’

Gregor has the greatest trouble holding the bear in. It always gets uneasy when Porta is out of sight.

Noiselessly they enter the low-ceilinged room. A half-bottle of vodka catches Tiny’s eye. He empties it on the way in two long swallows.

‘Bottoms up,
tovaritsch
,’ he whispers, putting the bottle down again carefully.

As Porta bends over the sleeping man, he opens his eyes and a half-strangled scream escapes him. His instincts have warned him of danger.

Tiny drops down on him and pushes the green commissar cap into his mouth. In a moment they have him tied up.

‘No nonsense, now,’ threatens Porta. ‘Or off go your bollocks, and you know how little a man and his bollocks are worth apart from one another!’

‘’Ow do,
tovaritsch
’, Tiny greets him, saluting. ‘You’re goin’ on a trip, mate, ’ome to Adolf’s Mafia! There’s somebody wants to ’ave a little chat with
you!
’

They leave the town at the double. Tiny manages to take a large jar of preserved tomatoes with him.

They stop a good way inside the forest. The cap is removed from the commissar’s mouth.

‘You are War Commissar Oltyn?’ asks the Old Man, in German.

‘
Njet, njet, nix panjemajo
¹¹
!
’ howls the terror-stricken prisoner.

‘Cut out the piss, son,’ says Porta, catching him by the front of his uniform jacket. ‘When our
tovaritsch
feldwebel says you’re Oltyn then you bloody well
are
Oltyn! Think we’re nuts, do you?’

‘Pull ’is arsehole up over ’is bleedin’ ears,’ suggests Tiny. ‘Make’im think better, it will!’

‘
Nix
Oltyn,’ howls the prisoner, stubbornly.

‘Who the bloody hell
are
you then?’ roars the Old Man, furiously.

‘
Politkorn
¹²
Alexej Viktorowitsch Sinzow.
Nix Vojenkom
Josef Oltyn!’

‘Confess, what was your mother’s name?’ roars Porta.

‘Anna Georgijewna Poliwanow!’

‘What the ’ell’s ’is ’ore of a bleedin’ mother to do with us?’ growls Tiny. ‘Cut ’is bleedin’ guts open an’ let the bear ’ave what ’e’s got in it. It ain’t ’ad its breakfast yet.’

‘Don’t, just don’t tell me you’ve got the wrong man,’ shouts the Old Man, despairingly, gripping his head with both hands.

‘
Bien sûr que si, mon sergent
? the little Legionnaire chokes with laughter.

‘That Soviet bleedin’ miscarriage could at least ’ave introduced ’imself,’ says Tiny, sourly. ‘Any soldier knows that’s what ’e ’as to do when strangers come to inspect ’im.’

‘Listen now,’ says the Old Man, sitting down resignedly by the side of the frightened prisoner. ‘You are
not Vojenkom
Oltyn, then?’

‘
Njet, njety
,’ howls the prisoner, ‘
njet Hromoj
¹³
.’

‘Up with you, you Communist beetroot,’ orders Porta, ’and God help you if you limp.’

The prisoner runs up and down the road without the slightest trace of a limp. But Porta makes him goosestep, dance with Tango as a lady, do knees-bend and stand on one leg and pirouette.

‘
Njet Hromoj
,’ howls the prisoner in between the tests. ‘Me little
Politkoml Vojenkom
Oltyn, he
big
swine!’

‘He’s telling the truth,’ says Porta, shrugging and holding his hands out to both sides. ‘I sincerely regret it, old ’un, but we’ve nabbed the wrong piece of Soviet shit. Just goes to show it’s right what they say. Those Russians are twisters all along the line!’

‘Let’s do ’is knee for ’im so ’e
will
be bleedin’ lame then,’ suggests Tiny, ‘then we can take ’im back an’ swear ‘e’s the
real
shit, only lyin’. The bleedin’ Gestapo’ll make ’im confess ‘e’s
Hromojl
They’ve fixed bigger blokes’n ’im!’

‘Nonsense,’ snarls the Old Man. ‘
What
a shower to get saddled with!’

‘Let’s go back to town and ask ’em where big, bad Mr. Oltyn hangs out, then,’ grins Porta.

‘We can just say we’re some of ’is
tovaritsch
pals come to town to look ’im up,’ suggests Tiny.

‘I wish the devil had you two shits,’ the Old Man scolds
them. ‘That
I
should have the bad luck to have to command the craziest section in the whole bloody Army!’

‘Well, you can’t say you’ve ’ad many dull moments with us lot,’ considers Tiny. ‘If they give you a new lot you’d soon be longin’ for us. There ain’t many sections
like
us.’

‘Listen here,
tovaritschj
says Porta, patting the
Politkoni’s
cheek, ‘you’ve got yourself mixed up in a very annoying mistake.’

‘Two,’ Tango breaks in, ’the first ’e made was getting himself born in Stalinland!’

‘Yes,’ smiles Porta, ‘but now it is the last one for him. We’re going to have to
squeeze
you,
tovaritsch
, or you’ll be sending all your Communist pals after our arses.
You
understand we owe it to ourselves not to let you go!’

‘I will give word of honour, say nothing,’ shouts the prisoner, despairingly.

‘Ain’t he a nice feller,’ says Buffalo. ‘Lower your sabres, boys!’

The Old Man sits down on a stone and shakes his head violently. He is trying to think things out

‘There’s nothing else for it,’ he says finally. ‘That damned War Commissar has got to go back with us.’ He looks over at Julius Heide. ‘You must find out from him where his big colleague is hiding. We’ll pick him up tonight!’

‘Reckon there’s a good ’otel around ’ere where we could get a rest an’ a bit of a snack while we’re waitin’ for night to sneak up on us?’ asks Tiny.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ says Porta. ‘There are
no
good hotels in this area. The cooks’ve all joined the Army.’

‘Stop that childishnonsense,’ shouts the Old Man, angrily. ‘It’s hard to believe that you are grown men, and
soldiers
to boot!’

‘Do you ’ave to be grown-up to be a soldier?’ asks Tiny. ‘The most of them
I’ve
met don’t look more’n twelve years old.’

‘Shut up, you great dope!’ snarls the Old Man. ‘This is dangerous business we’ve got into here.’

‘Count me out, then,’ shouts Porta, dancing away down the path singing,’ ‘I’m going home . . .’
‘Heimat, deine Sterne . . .’

‘What’ll we do with the prisoner?’ asks Barcelona, practically.

‘Liquidate him, as soon as we have obtained the information we need,’ says Heide, coldly.

‘
You’ll
shoot him perhaps?’ asks the Old Man sarcastically.

‘Why not?’ answers Heide, murderously, drawing his
Toka-rew
. The Fiihrer’s orders of August, 1941, state that all commissars and Jews are to be neckshot.’

‘The poor chap’s shaking like a jelly from fear and terror,’ says Porta, patting the prisoner on the shoulder in kindly fashion. ‘He’s no worse than anybody else, even if he has got himself a green hat. He’s just smart, that’s all, and has found out being a commissar’s a good thing!’

The whole section looks at the prisoner, who is chalk-white in the face with fear. He knows we cannot let him go and he knows what we want with his colleague. Feverishly he begins to tell us about the
Vojenkom
, whom he paints as black as possible in an attempt to soften us up.

‘Communism, and all Jews, are pests,’ he cries, throwing out his arm convincingly.

‘You can’t mean that,’ laughs Porta, heartily. ‘Think of all the pretty little Yiddisher bints there are in the world. Give me a dozen of ’em here and now and see what’d happen!’

‘It’s obvious enough. He’s an anti-Communist and has been our Adolf’s pen pal all his life,’ grins Buffalo.

‘’E’s a shit of a traitor to ’is Fatherland,’ shouts Tiny contemptuously. ’It’s bleedin’ ’orrible to ’ear for a real ’onest idealist, ’ow ’e, who is a
Politkom
, can turn ’is wicked tongue on old Uncle Joe.’ Tiny collects all his pretended contempt into one enormous gob of spittle.

‘Let’s hang him up by the feet, and let the sense run back into his head,’ suggests Tango.

‘Tie him to a tree,’ orders the Old Man, ‘then he’s at least got a chance of being found. If they don’t find him that’s
his
bad luck.’

The Legionnaire and Barcelona tie the unhappy prisoner to a tree. Tiny says we could have tied him to an anthill, then at least he’d have had some company if he didn’t get found.

‘Shall I send a message to the regiment?’ asks Heide, ready at the little short-wave sender.

The Old Man thinks about it.

‘It’s a bit risky. They could get a bearing on us.’

‘Impossible,’ says Heide, pulling up the antenna. ‘I’ll send it short and sharp. It’s Oberfunkmeister Müller on the other end, and nobody can send too fast for him.’

The Old Man nods his agreement.

The short wave bands are thickly populated and very lively. There is in particular one very powerful Russian Army station.

‘You can give
that
up,’ sighs the Old Man, when he hears the confused howling and buzzing. ‘You’ll never get through to our lot.’

‘Leave that for radio people to judge,’ answers Heide, sourly, going right out to the edge of our sending-range. He is one of the best telegraphists in the Army.

Suddenly our identification signal is on. The powerful Russian Army station breaks in continuously, asking us irritably for identification.

‘
Job tvojemadj
, you Red shit,’ Heide morses back, furiously.

Suddenly the identification signal comes loud and clear.

‘P.4-F.6.A-R. KARLA-4, come in!’

‘WERNER,’ repeats Heide five times, with short pauses, and then at a demoniacal speed 90 he sends the report.

Oberfunkmeister Müller is just as fast. Only the very best telegraphists can make anything of a message sent at that speed.

Gregor, who is assistant telegraphist, loses his way early in the signal and never catches up again. Resignedly he lowers his message book.

Heide closes the set and hands the Old Man the clean copied message:
CONTINUE ACTION. PLUCK WHEN RIPE.
REPORT AT AGREED TIME. END OF MESSAGE.

‘It is unbelievable that the
untermensch
have designed so good a transmitter,’ says Heide, admiringly, stroking the little set lovingly. ‘These small Soviet sets are fantastically good.’

‘Yes, there ain’t no limit to what the
untermensch
can do
when they try,’ says Tiny, patting his
kalashnikov
with a shake of his head in acknowledgement. ‘Who else ’as a balalaika like this ’un, ready to reel off a bleedin’ tune at the drop of a ’at?’

We lie in the forest, dozing, for the whole of the day. The prisoner has told us that Oltyn leaves the officers’ mess every night in high spirits. The club is in a small chìteau a short way out of town. He has drawn us a map and given us all the details. We simply cannot go wrong.

Late in the afternoon the Old Man and Barcelona go over to feed the prisoner and find him slumped against the ropes. Strangled!

The Old Man goes berserk and threatens to shoot the lot of us.

‘I want that murderer, and I want him
now,’ he
roars. ‘I’ve had enough! I won’t take any more of this!’

‘Murderers?’ answers Porta, smilingly. ‘Do you intend to insult us?’

‘We could ’ave you
pinched
for sayin’ things like that,’ shouts Tiny.

‘Murderers, I said!’ screams the Old Man furiously. ‘Oh what a lot of wonderful bloody ornaments you are for the new Germany! Kill a poor defenceless prisoner, you cowardly bastards! But I’ll find the shits who did it! There’s not more’n three of you who’d use a wire!’

‘Eh, eh! Ain’t you the bleedin’ tec?’ shouts Tiny, admiringly. ‘If I’d got that much in me ’ead I’d ’ave ’ad a go at gettin’ into the Kripo’s. You’re better’n Pretty Paul
¹⁴
any bleedin’ day. If ‘e drops ’is Party badge on the bleedin’ floor ‘e ’as to get the ‘ole bleedin’ section an’ Customs and Excise to ’elp ’im find it again!’

‘Life is ugly and hard,’ sighs Porta, moodily. ‘That poor little heathen boy is no more.’ He wipes his eyes falsely on a filthy handkerchief.

‘Wicked shower!’ shouts the Old Man, angrily. He pushes a large chew of tobacco into his jaw and spits fiercely.

‘He was a commissar. A tool of international Jewry,’ snarls Heide, coldly. ‘He deserved to be liquidated!’

‘Shut your filthy mouth,’ shouts the Old Man, red as a
turkey-cock in the face. ‘If
your
Führer ordered commissars to be liquidated a thousand times over, I’ll see you in front of a court if it was
you
did it!’