Wheels of Terror (25 page)

Without a word we bunch our hand-grenades together. If we are going to die let it be as costly as possible.

It is lunacy to fight on and equally insane to stop. The sum total is the same. Death under the tracks or by machine-gun bullets.

'Here we come to the end of our war,' snarls Porta. 'Just two thousand miles from Berlin. Well, nothing can be done about that. Porta is waiting for you in hell. I'm fed up with this running about.'

'You shan't wait long,' Tiny says hoarsely. 'I'm coming soon, too, but first I'll fetch one of the Red bastards along with me.'

'Allah is great, but these are greater,' pronounces the Little Legionnaire and points at the great pack of white-painted tanks which rolls towards us.

'Take care,' shouts von Barring. 'Here they come!'

Stege is about to stand up and run away, but The Old Un and I grab him.

The machine-guns open up. The men begin to die. A corporal from the 104th sits up and puts his hands to his head, then he folds like a pen-knife.

The small ordnance officer runs forward and slings a whole bunch of hand-grenades at the nearest tank; he falls and is crushed beneath the tracks. His grenades landed just short.

Several start to run. Von Barring shouts desperately:

'Lie still, let them roll over. We'll take 'em from the back. They've got no infantry protection!'

But more and more of our troops are stricken by the tank panic. They run clumsily about until they are mown down by the Russian machine guns.

Porta prepares his special, home-made bomb, gives it a kiss and throws it. It lands underneath the tracks of the nearest tank. The tank jerks and then stops.

At the same time Tiny throws his own bomb which also hits its target. He pats Porta's shoulder in his delight.

'Let's be quietly crushed now. We must have earned the devil's warmest greetings!'

The Old Un shouts:

'Stop, stop, they're German tanks! Look, there's the swastika!'

We stare open-mouthed at them. The Old Un is right. Wild delight. We wave our snow-shirts and steel helmets. The tanks swing round. The hatches in the turrets open. Our tank-comrades wave to us.

Weeping, we fall into each other's arms.

Of the whole fighting-group, thirty-four 'other ranks' and only one officer, Captain von Barring, have survived.

Major-General Bake jumps out and comes across to us, small and sturdy. He squeezes the hand of everyone of us, then waves his arms and the Ist Panzer Division is on its way to Cherkassy to widen the hole we have made in the net. Inside that net nine divisions are still fighting desperately.

Oberleutnant Weber has fallen. A German Tiger tank has crushed his body. Never again will he threaten anybody with court-martial.

Now, like clockwork dolls, we trudge along the road to a village where we will be reinforced - we hope.

16

'I'll give you the recipe you down-trodden peasants,' Porta said loftily. 'This is the ambrosia of Olympus.'

And then, of course, our Russian colleagues had to interrupt our lovely gastronomic fantasy.

Mashed Potatoes with Diced Pork

On the fringes of a forest some miles north of Popeljna the 27th Regiment was put into peaceful positions with only a little local artillery-fire not worth mentioning.

Our party was sent on a reconnaissance trip into the forest. With our guns slung carelessly over our shoulders and cigarettes dangling from our mouths we set off.

Porta ordered a little rest.

'The bloody war won't run away if we stop a little here.'

He was gleefully supported by Tiny and the Little Legionnaire.

The Old Un shrugged his shoulders.

'It's all the same to me. There can't be any Russians or we'd have seen them ages ago.'

We sat, twelve men, on a fallen tree-trunk like swallows on a telephone-wire.

Porta started to explain how his favourite dish of mashed potatoes and diced pork ought to be prepared.

'The most important thing is that this dish, which is fit for the gods, should be prepared with feeling.' He gesticulated. 'Without feeling it is no use.'

Tiny interrupted him:

'Half a tick, Porta, I want to write down the recipe.'

He asked Stege to give him pencil and paper, and Stege obliged grinning.

Tiny rolled over on his stomach, wetted the pencil and told Porta that he might go on.

'First you pick out some beautiful potatoes. You might steal them in the field or find them in a cellar. Anyway, when you've got them you sit on a good chair. If your backside is sore get a cushion. Then you peel 'em. The bad parts, if any, are neatly and lovingly cut off.'

'What badness can you find on a potato?' Tiny asked.

'Haven't you ever seen a potato with syphillis?'

'No, I didn't know potatoes whored.'

'Well, there are many things you don't know,' replied Porta with irritated condescension. 'But do as I tell you. Cut the syphillis out. Drop the peeled potato in a bucket with lovely cold spring water with a saucy little splash like a virgin weeing in a stream on a spring evening while the mosquitoes play in the bushes.'

'My God, Porta, you're quite a poet,' laughed The Old Un.

Porta squeezed up his eyes.

'What's poet? Anything to do with whoring-boys?'

'It is possible that among them you'll find a poet,' grinned The Old Un. 'But never mind, go on with your cook's course.'

'When all the spuds are peeled, boil 'em. Then mash them nicely and according to the rules into a porridge. Now take care and listen carefully. It's most important. Go into a field or a village where the fragrance tells you there's cattle. Find a female cow. I take it you know the difference between a he and a she. If not just lift the rudder at the back end, but keep your nose away. You see, the exhaust sits just beneath it.

'When you've found the proper animal, draw off a pint of juice from the milk-container. It is an apparatus under the stomach and looks like an electrical fitting. Pour the milk into the mashed potatoes but, for the sake of the holy Elizabeth, be careful you've not found a goat or a donkey. It would be a tragedy to pour the milk of a she-donkey on the lovely spuds because donkey's milk is used for bathing in.'

'Oh, hell,' Tiny burst out, 'it's bad enough bathing in ordinary water, but in milk it must be horrible. I'd rather carry my dirt around until the funeral-fellow scrapes it off. It's a lie. Porta. Where did you get that from?'

'Read it, my lad. Once upon a time there was a tart named Poppaea Sabina. A beauty from Italy. She snitched that emperor-fellow Nero away from an old witch called Octavia. This Poppaea was fished out of a brothel by the emperor. Of course she got an aggrandisement complex and started washing in donkey's milk. So, you see: no donkey's milk in the spuds. They are not a sewer-cleaning station.

'When the pure cow-milk has been poured on the spuds, stir round elegantly and well. Then take a pinch of salt and gently drop it in the spuds, but for heaven's sake with feeling and for the sake of Saint Gertrude stir with a wooden spoon all the time. If you haven't got one, use your bayonet. Remember to wipe off any blood or oil.

'Then, break ten eggs and in your most charming manner stir them up with sugar. Pinch the sugar from the quartermaster, but for the sake of Holy Moses' blue eyes, stir slowly, dear friends, slowly!'

'Why slowly?' Tiny wanted to know.

'What the hell's it got to do with you, you stupid flat-footed vulture? Just pour it slowly as I told you and stop interrupting. You're always such a nosy parker. Boil the whole thing on a slow fire. Never use manure for fuel. It stinks!'

Porta stopped and glared at Tiny who had put up his hand like a schoolboy.

'What do you want now!' Porta asked angrily.

'I only humbly ask, Herr Super-Cook Porta, if I may use birch-wood soaked in petrol stolen from Hitler's vehicle park?'

'By God, you may! Any more questions? If so, ask now.'

Tiny shook his head.

We who lay near him saw that he wrote in large childish letters: 'Birch-wood and stolen petrol may be used.'

'The pork is browned over a glowing fire made of birch-wood,' Porta added quickly and looked at Tiny whose tongue-tip was sticking out of the corner of his mouth in an effort of concentration over this difficult office work.

'You cut the pork conscientiously into cubes and let the pieces slide into the mash. It must be done with loving care and feeling. The most important thing is to put one's whole Catholic soul into the job.'

Tiny roared:

'Have you got to be a Catholic to make potatomash?'

'Of course,' answered Porta, 'ever since the Thirty Years War it's been an established fact.'

'All right,' said Tiny, 'I'll find a Catholic to make my mash under my direction.'

'While singing a Russian autumn-song,' went on Porta, 'you cut up a few chives and with a winning smile you spread it over the mash. A pinch of paprika is also very good. And not to be despised is a half-full cartridge-case of pepper. But for the sake of the Holy Jordan don't leave it on the fire too long. You see, lads, this is called "Burning Love".' He looked warningly at Tiny: 'Don't you dare say anything obscene about this holiness!

'Before you sit down to eat this manna, rinse your spoon well in boiling water. It would be a truly deadly sin to eat the mash with a dirty spoon.

'Remember to use the meat of a white pig for the cubes; at a pinch use a black one, but never a red one. That would be blasphemy.'

He lifted his behind and put an effective full stop to the lecture. The quietness of the wood heightened the effect.

A little later The Old Un throws away his cigarette-end and we trudge on.

The lane has become a narrow path, winding between huge dense firs and spruces.

We reach a sharp bend in the path. Suddenly we are faced with a Russian patrol. Like ourselves they are evidently surprised.

For a few seconds we stand and stare, our cigarettes hanging from our mouths and our weapons over our shoulders.

Not one of us thinks of firing. The surprise is too complete. Both parties turn and run, the Russians one way, we the other.

Porta is far in front of us.

Tiny shrieks with fright, his legs moving like a cyclist's in the 'Tour de France'. In his terror he has lost his machine-pistol.

We would have run ourselves to death if Porta had not stumbled over a root and fallen down a fifteen yards steep incline. He screamed like a horse with wolves at his heels.

After much trouble we got him up. A wild discussion started about how many Russians we had met.

The Old Un and Stege maintained it was a company.

'A company,' screamed Porta. 'You must have been hit in the eye by a wood pigeon. It was a battalion at least.'

'At least,' Tiny said. 'It swarmed with Russians.'

'
Ma Foi
, they stood there in hundreds between the trees rolling their eyes,' said the Little Legionnaire. 'You may stay on here, but for my part I'm off.'

At company headquarters we cheekily reported we had met an enemy battalion. At once the report was relayed to the regimental HQ.

Field-telephones were blocked. The division was alerted. Three storm-battalions were sent to the frontline. Firing orders went out to the 76th Artillery Regiment and the 109th Mortar Regiment. Two storm battalions of light artillery advanced.

Shells and rockets rained down on the spot where we had reported meeting the enemy 'battalion'.

The Russians too were busily shooting. Our colleagues must also have reported a similar exaggerated number of their foes. Meanwhile they sat in their trenches as we sat in ours and admired the energetic work of the artillery.

Porta said dreamily, while his eyes followed the screaming track of a large shell in the black night:

'It makes me quite proud to think this festive firework display is all our own work.'

17

She was slim and lovely. Dark and passionate. The most experienced lover a woman-hungry man could desire.

What I did not know about women she taught me.

We loved, clung as if for the very last time. When it dawned on me that I might be punished for race-outrage, I laughed as I had not for a long time, and my friends laughed with me.

Leave in Berlin

I had to wait seven hours in Lemberg. The waiting room was cold. Invisible frost sneaked in under my great-coat. It rained and blew from the east.

Russia gave me a cool welcome after four day's leave - four lovely, unforgettable days. All leave has only one drawback. Half of it is ruined by the thought of the return to the front.

You must remember what you did. Not forget anything. They are expecting to hear everything, those out there who drew blanks when the only leave-pass in the company was distributed. Von Barring had placed two hundred paper-slips in a steel-helment, but one hundred and ninety-nine were blanks. Number 38 was a pass and I drew thirty-eight. They congratulated me with a lump in their throats. The disappointment and envy were hard to hide. I was about to give The Old Un my pass, when he said as if he had read my thoughts:

'Good thing it wasn't me. Then I'd have had to forget all over again how nice it is at home.'

He did not mean it and he knew I knew. He wanted the pass very much.

Tiny was honest and unostentatious. He threatened me first with a beating if I did not give him my pass. When the others took my part he offered to pay for it. Porta overbid him; but I would not sell. They knew I wouldn't. But it was worth trying if the man with the pass had gone mad with joy about winning the jack-pot.

Porta, Pluto and Tiny tried to make me drunk, still hoping to buy the pass, and, just before I stepped into the truck to take me to the station, Tiny tried again. He offered me his next ten leave-passes if he could have mine now.

I shook my head and drove off as they sang:

'
In der Heimat, in der Heimat,
da gibt's ein Wiedersehen!
'

The journey to Berlin went quickly. I stepped into a hospital-train at Jitomir and at Brest-Litovsk got a straight-through leave-train. In this way I gained an extra day.