‘Where one can go, I suppose the rest can follow . . .’
In half an hour, we were all safely across. I, in my panic and haste, caught my foot in a rut and fell straight into the path of an oncoming T34. I managed to twist out of the way only seconds before disaster overtook me, and I lay cowering in the ditch while the vehicle lumbered past and showered me with mud from head to foot.
We pressed on, deep into the dark forest, thankful to be on the move again after spending the last few hours hunched up in the bushes. We marched through the night, and towards dawn we began to make out the sounds of the river, lapping against its banks somewhere below us. We were approaching the edge of the wood, moving single file along a narrow path. Tiny and Porta were in the lead. They were laughing and tossing casual remarks over their shoulders as if they were out for a Sunday afternoon hike and thousands of miles away from danger. I was never quite sure whether those two had nerves of steel or simply lacked any imagination. But for all their apparent insouciance, they remained very much on the alert. We suddenly saw Tiny drop to his knees and gesture behind him to Porta to do likewise. The Old Man held up a warning hand. The column came to a halt. Slowly and silently, we edged our way forward on our bellies, inch by painful inch over the rocky ground.
Before us stretched fertile green farmlands, rolling down to the banks of the river. The bridge had been blown, and the twisted remains pointed upwards like warning fingers from the deep water. Nearby were the ruins of a building, charred and still smoking slightly. It had probably been a guardpost for the bridge. Directly beneath us lay a farmhouse. The Old Man studied it a moment through his field-glasses.
‘Russian cavalry,’ he said. ‘Cossacks, by the look of them.’
Almost before he had finished speaking, a man stepped out of the trees a few yards further on and began walking down the path away from us. He never so much as glanced in our direction, and was obviously quite unaware of our presence. Tiny sprang after him, swift and sure and silent. He clamped an arm round the man’s neck and pressed his revolver hard into his ribs.
‘One squeak and you’ve had it!’
The man was far too frightened to make any sort of noise. His mouth fell open and his eyes froze in a glassy state of terror. I thought for a moment he had had a seizure. He was unarmed and was evidently a non-combatant.
‘All right, let him go.’ The Old Man gestured to Tiny, who reluctantly relaxed his grip on his victim’s neck. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘Me comrade,’ said the fellow, very earnestly. ‘Me friend. No Communist. Friend . . . Panjemajo?1’
‘Oh, sure we panjemajo!’ sneered Porta. ‘You no Communist. You friend . . . sure, we know all about that, mate!’ He turned and spat contemptuously on the path. ‘A likely bloody tale!’
‘But please, sir, is true – is true what I say—’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Porta. ‘You know something? It really amazes me the number of Russians you come across these days who swear blind they aren’t Communists. It really does amaze me . . . One minute they’re shouting their heads off in praise of bleeding Stalin, the next they’re telling you, me no Communist, me friend . . .’
The man moved eagerly forward, waving his hands in the air like an excited rabbit.
‘Me no Russian, me no Russian! Polka! Polka! Me Polka! Ladislas Mnasko.’
‘Come again?’ said Tiny.
‘Ladislas Mnasko.’ The man pointed a finger into his chest and beamed at us. He gestured over his shoulder towards the farm. ‘Is my house. Down there. My house.’
‘Your house?’ The Old Man raised an eyebrow. ‘Full of Russian soldiers?’
‘They take it from me, Pan Sergeant. My wife and child, they still down there. My sister also. My father’ – he pointed again, this time across the valley to the smouldering ruins of the guardhouse – ‘my father, they kill. He look after bridge. They shoot him, burn down house.’
There was a pause. We looked from the man to the farm to the ruined bridge. His story seemed plausible enough, on the face of it.
‘And you?’ said the Old Man. ‘What about you?’
‘I home from war. I see Russians. I run. I not know what to do—’
‘Kill the bastard!’ screamed Kuls, suddenly bursting forward. ‘Kill him and be done with it! Never trust a bleeding Polak, you know that as well as I do. It’s all a pack of filthy lies! It’s just a trick to get us down there! Cut his throat and send him back to them!’
‘That will be quite enough of that sort of talk,’ said the Colonel, coldly. ‘Kindly remember that I am in charge round here.’
Kuls looked at him mutinously. Porta held out his flask to the trembling Pole, who accepted it with a nervous twitch of the lips by way of thanks.
‘Tell me,’ said the Old Man, ‘now that the bridge has gone, is there any other way of getting across the river? Could you manage to take us across?’
The man nodded.
‘Tak jest,2 Pan Sergeant. Only—’ He jerked his head in the direction of the farm and extended his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘The Russians, Pan Sergeant—’
‘Don’t worry about the Russians,’ said the Old Man, curtly. ‘They’re our business. We’ll see to the Russians for you. You concentrate on thinking how you’re going to get us over that river.’
As we cautiously approached the occupied farmhouse, we could see the Russians making merry in the yard outside. They had built an enormous fire and were spit-roasting the carcass of a cow, and they were drinking and shouting as they danced round the flames. One man lost his footing and fell headfirst into the burning outer embers of the fire. It was hard to tell whether his companions were too drunk to notice or simply too callous to care, but either way they made no move to pull him back to safety.
‘If only they don’t let it burn!’ muttered Porta.
He was referring to the beef, rather than the man. He had been carefully following the cooking process through a pair of binoculars as we made our way down the path, and he was growing increasingly anxious lest the meat should be overdone by the time we arrived.
‘Sod the meat,’ said Tiny. ‘It’s the booze I’m interested in.’ He turned impatiently to the Old Man. ‘Let’s get a move on, can’t we? That’s your actual genuine Russian vodka they’ve got down there.’
‘All right, don’t panic,’ said the Old Man, amiably. ‘We’re on our way.’ He called us to a halt. ‘Barcelona, you and Gregor stay here and keep us covered. Tiny, you and’ – he hesitated – ‘you and Kuls go ahead with Ladislas. The rest of us will follow. And remember – no grenades. There are three civilians somewhere down there. I want them brought out alive.’ He nodded at the anxious Pole. ‘OK. Off you go.’
Tiny set off towards the farm. Ladislas followed. The Old Man looked expectantly at Kuls.
‘Well? Did you hear what I said?’
Kuls tossed his head.
‘I heard! And if you imagine I’m going to put my neck in a noose just to rescue a couple of lousy stinking Polish whores and one snivelling brat, you’ve got another think coming!’
The Old Man frowned.
‘Are you refusing to obey an order?’
Kuls dropped his defiant stare. He shuffled a toe in the dust.
‘We don’t need that half-witted Polak to show us how to cross a bleeding river . . . Why don’t we put a bullet through his brain and leave him here to rot?’
‘Because the Colonel is in command round here, and the Colonel has decided otherwise!’
We all turned to look at the Colonel, who scraped his throat in a severe, military fashion and squared his shoulders.
‘Precisely so,’ he said. ‘Consider yourself under arrest.’ He beckoned to Gregor. ‘Keep an eye on him.’
‘Yes, sir!’ said Gregor, with a somewhat malevolent relish.
Kuls scowled.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ he said, impartially to both the Old Man and the Colonel. ‘You can’t get away with this sort of thing. I’ve got
a brother in the RSHA.3 They know how to deal with people like you. Risking the lives of German soldiers for the sake of one lying, cheating Pole. You’ll be sorry.’
Gregor prodded him hard in the kidneys with the butt of his rifle.
‘One more bleep out of you, Kuls,’ he said, ‘and your brother in the RSHA has seen the last of you . . .’
On the outskirts of the farm were a couple of sentries. They were very obviously drunk. One was vomiting copiously into a hedge, the other was trying to dance, squatting on his heels and flinging his legs about in a series of unco-ordinated movements. Tiny and the Legionnaire moved stealthily towards them. Their deaths were swift and silent, and drunk as they were they probably didn’t even know they had died.
Tiny picked up a vodka bottle and raised it eagerly to his lips: it was empty. He threw it away in disgust and aimed an angry kick at the nearest corpse.
‘Greedy bastard!’
He consoled himself by plundering for gold, and managed to yank out three teeth before Porta came galloping up and set to work on the second of the dead sentries. Tiny tipped the contents of his wash leather bag into the palm of his hand and gloated a moment over his collection of trophies. The Old Man shook his head.
‘One of these days,’ he said, ‘that little lot’s going to cost you your life. And I, for one, shan’t shed a tear.’
‘What’s eating him?’ demanded Porta, busy with his pliers.
Tiny shrugged.
‘Search me. I reckon he’s just got his knickers in a twist again.’
Porta shook his head philosophically and continued with his grisly task. He was well accustomed by now to the Old Man’s peculiarities of conscience. It was best to ignore him when he had one of his sanctimonious fits. The way he and Tiny saw it, they weren’t getting much else out of the war. Only one Mark a day and the chance of a bullet through the belly, why not help themselves to a few gold teeth when the opportunity arose?
‘A man’s got to have something to fall back on,’ said Porta, wisely. ‘The war ain’t going to go on for ever. You got to look ahead a bit in this life.’
We moved up closer towards the farm. The yard was full of carousing Cossacks. They had formed an enormous circle and were dancing round the fire with their arms round one another’s shoulders. As they danced, they shouted and sang, and every now and again one of their number would break away from the rest and go leaping across the flames to the sound of thunderous applause.
From the stables came the whinnying and stamping of horses. One or two men were sitting quietly in groups, drinking and smoking, but as far as we could see they had posted no more sentries. We set up a machine-gun directly opposite the house, and Porta shook his head, regretfully. These rough, merrymaking Cossacks were men after his own heart, and in any other circumstance than this accursed war, he would have gone running forward to join them. As it was, he had to prepare for butchery in order to please his masters and save his own skin.
‘Seems a shame,’ he said, ‘to break up the party like this . . .’
‘Never mind the party!’ snapped Heide, the fanatical. ‘Let’s get on and do the job we were sent here for! Just remember that these men are Communists and the lackeys of international Jewry!’
‘Lackeys my arse,’ said Porta. ‘Who strung you that load of codswallop?’
We stood in silence, watching the antics of the leaping Cossacks. From somewhere in the woods behind us a dog fox barked and an owl began to hoot. Darkness was closing in, but the flames of the fire lit up the night for half a mile around. Slowly but surely, the Russians drank themselves to a full stop. One by one they began to stagger into the farmhouse. A few remained outside, snoring on the ground where they had fallen. At last the place was silent and still. The Old Man turned towards us.
‘Ready?’ he whispered.
We crept forward, crouching low in the long grass. The farm was in darkness, not a light shone in any of the windows. The horses in the stables had caught wind of us and were rearing and whinnying, stamping on the floor and kicking at the doors in an effort to be free. They were good military beasts, and they sensed instinctively that we represented danger. But their masters lay in a drunken stupor and did not respond to their calls of alarm. The warm, sweet smell of hay and horse mingled with the acrid stench of stale vomit and spilt vodka. The smoke from the dying fire drifted towards us, bringing with it the fragrant delights of roast meat, and Porta ripped off a chunk with his bayonet as we passed. The flesh fell easily from the bones. Porta crammed a piece into his mouth, and the juice dribbled down his chin and on to his collar. His eyes clouded over in sheer ecstasy, and as if in a trance he reached out his hand for more.
‘Oh no, you don’t!’ said the Legionnaire, smartly. He prodded him towards the farmhouse with the nozzle of the flame-thrower he was carrying. ‘You can come back for the rest of it when we’ve cleaned this place up.’
At the foot of the steps leading into the building were half a dozen Cossacks, lying one on top of another in an indiscriminate heap of arms and legs.
‘Pissed as newts,’ said Gregor.
Barcelona prodded one of them, experimentally, as he went past. The man smiled in his sleep. He reached out his hands and clutched amorously at Barcelona’s leg.
‘Nevaesta,4’ he muttered.
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Barcelona, shaking himself free.
‘Kill the bastard,’ urged Kuls.
From the top of the steps, the Old Man waved a hand for silence.
‘Shut up and follow me!’
Cautiously, he pushed open the heavy wooden door. The hinges were in need of oil and squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. But the Russians went on snoring. The Old Man tiptoed into the hallway, with Ladislas scuttling crab-like at his heels. Bodies lay all over the place, sprawled in chairs, stretched out on the floor, hanging over the banisters. There was a litter of empty bottles, and pools of urine and vomit. Ladislas drew his lips together into a thin line. He no longer looked quite so much like a rabbit. He looked like a man who was prepared for the worst and bent on avenging himself. He caught the Old Man by the arm and pointed up towards the bedrooms on the next floor. The Old Man nodded.
We stepped forward over the bodies and made our way down the hall. At the bend in the stairs were two enormous Cossack sergeants. They were seated side by side on the same step, wedged together by the width of their shoulders and sleeping with their heads drooping forward on to their chests. They had machine-guns in their laps. We took no chances. Tiny strangled them both with his bare hands.
We continued on our way. From somewhere down in the hall, Kuls was heard to mutter something about his brother in the RSHA, but a warning clip round the ear from Gregor soon shut him up.
As I carefully skirted the two dead sergeants, there was a sudden noise and a vodka bottle came hurtling towards me, followed at full speed by Tiny, who had trodden on it in the semi-darkness and missed his footing. They both crashed on to the stone floor. One of the sleeping Russians opened his eyes and sat up in a panic, but Heide slit his throat before he had time to take in what was happening. Tiny leaped roaring to his feet. He caught sight of his own vast bulk looming at him from a full-length looking-glass, and in the gloom he mistook it for one of the enemy. With a shout of fury, he raised his rifle and fired a couple of shots. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction as his own image dissolved in a shower of broken glass.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ hissed the Old Man, from the top of the stairs. ‘What the devil’s going on down there?’
‘It’s only Tiny tilting at windmills,’ I said.
Tiny pushed past me and went galloping back up again, his face streaming with blood and embedded with slivers of broken glass.
‘I killed the bastard,’ he said.
Lenzing caught my eye. He gave a bray of nervous laughter and clapped a hand to his mouth.
‘What bastard?’ demanded Porta.
‘Bastard who jumped me,’ said Tiny.
There was a pause.
‘Smashed his face in,’ he said.
Lenzing laughed so much he almost fell over the banister. I was happy to see him enjoying himself for once.
We reached the landing, and Ladislas pushed past the Old Man and made a dive for one of the doors. The Old Man held him back. We stood outside, listening. It sounded like a swarm of bees had been let loose in there.
‘OK. Open it up—’
The Old Man nodded, and gently the Legionnaire turned the handle. A quivering mound of flesh was lying naked on a bed. It was snoring, rhythmically in a long, low drone which echoed about the room. From its discarded clothes, we could see that it was a major. It was completely bald and somewhat resembled Taras Bulba.
At the foot of the bed, crumpled up and unconscious, lay a young girl. Ladislas stood staring at her, white-faced and trembling.
‘Your wife?’ said the Old Man, softly.
He shook his head.
‘Your sister?’
Slowly, Ladislas nodded and turned to face the wall. The Legionnaire pulled out his P38 and held it to the Major’s temple, but Tiny suddenly stepped forward and pushed him out of the way.
‘Let me,’ he said. ‘I like killing Russians.’
He liked killing them best with his bare hands. It was quick and clean and it made no noise. A slight choke, and the major was no more.
‘Here’s another of ’em,’ said Gregor, dispassionately.
He indicated an outflung hand which was projecting from beneath the bed. Tiny at once seized hold of it. A captain appeared, naked apart from his tunic and socks. He was cradling a vodka bottle in one arm, and he was smiling and crooning to himself as he slept. He was still smiling as Tiny snapped his neck.
The girl, meanwhile, was slowly coming back to consciousness. She opened her eyes and stared round in horror at the sight of a room full of soldiers. I daresay we weren’t a very pretty sight; unwashed, unshaven, covered in mud, stinking of sweat, with our uniforms in shreds. I’m not really surprised that she screamed when Tiny approached her with a proprietary leer on his big ugly face and his great basketlike hands stretched out before him. I can’t say I altogether blame her for sinking her teeth into Porta’s arm when he sat down on the bed beside her and smiled suggestively at her. I reckon I would have done exactly the same if Tiny or Porta had come anywhere near me when I was lying half naked on a bed.