The Commissar

  After a while the rest of the section begins to collect around the remains of a shattered fountain. The granite Cossack on it has now not only lost his head, but also the rest of his torso. Only his stone trousers and boots are left standing in the basin.

  ‘What the devil was all that?’ I ask, dabbing burn ointment on the blisters which seem to be eating into my flesh.

  ‘It was that madman Porta who pulled the chain on us,’ snarls the Old Man, sending Porta an angry look.

  ‘But who the hell could’ve guessed it was a bloody great petrol dump,’ pants Gregor, pouring water over his red, blistered face.

  ‘I thought it was the handle of a safe I was turning,’ Porta excused himself. ‘It looked like one. You know, a bit of a turn to the left an’ a bit of a turn to the right and you’re a rich man. In this case, however, the result was a little different. I got a bit of a shock there, when I found myself in the middle of the world’s biggest bonfire, together with a coupla Ivans!’

  ‘What a lot of lying, rotten sods they all are,’ whines Gregor despondently, creeping down into his coat-collar against the icy cold. ‘They said we were coming here for a rest, and we fall into nothing more or less’n the worst kind of a shit-heap. They keep on tellin’ us the enemy’s crushed, and then what happens? Half the rotten Red Army’s pissin’ around back of the German lines. Oh god, what a rotten war! They’ve all got nothin’ but crap where their brains ought to be!’

  Albert comes sauntering along, with his machine-pistol dangling from its sling round his neck. He is wearing a lady’s fur coat, a crazy-looking, gingery object, with fox-tails hanging down from its lapels. He has lipsticked his heavy mouth, and drawn big red circles around his eyes. He looks like a painting from the brush of a mad, surrealist artist.

  ‘What do you look like?’ asks the Old Man, open-mouthed.

  ‘I look like what I look like, man,’ he answers. He snatches a piece of bread from the fingers of a corpse and takes a bite of it, but spits it out again immediately.

  ‘Why can’t those mad geniuses back there send some Stukas over, an’ put those blasted guns out of action?’ asks Barcelona. He begins to kick a punctured football about.

  The battle noises of tank-guns and field artillery can still be heard from the outskirts of the town.

  It is easy to tell the sharp crack of tank-guns from the heavy boom of the field artillery. In between comes the characteristic sound of a bazooka, and when the heavy guns pause for a moment, the hysterical hammering of machine-gun fire.

  ‘Two men! Over to the park!’ the Old Man orders, pointing with his silver-lidded pipe.

  Albert and I plod away. We have not gone far when we catch sight of a coal-black cat, crossing the road slowly and self-importantly with its tail erect.

  ‘We stay here,’ says Albert, decisively. ‘That’s bad luck, that is, a black cat crossin’ your path. Death and destruction’ll hit us, an’ hard, if we go on!’

  ‘You’re right. We’ll wait here a bit,’ I say, shivering in my wet clothes. ‘Then we’ll go back and tell the Old Man we’ve been all through the town and haven’t observed anything.’

  ‘He’ll just about kill us, man, if he ever finds out we’ve took the piss out of him because of seein’ a black cat,’ chatters Albert, trying to think of a way out.

  A house crashes down, tall fingers of flame shooting up from it. Not far away we hear the confused noise of hand-grenades exploding.

  As we turn a corner we see Porta, tiptoeing down a narrow alley, bent over strangely and grunting all the time: ‘Oink! Oink!’

  We halt in amazement and stare inquisitively after him, as he clambers up over a huge pile of rubble, and bends down to look through a hole in a wall.

  ‘Oink! Oink!’ he grunts, just like a real pig.

  ‘Gone mad!’ whispers Albert, his eyes round and shining whitely in the darkness. ‘I knew it’d happen. He’s been queer in his ways lately. Believe you me, man, it’s that cat that’s done it. The devil’s in every black cat.’

  ‘Must be a lot of devils then,’ I answer him. ‘Because there’s certainly a lot of black cats!’

  ‘Don’t you know that ol’ devil can turn himself into thousands of little devils if he wants to? Gotta be able to. Else how could there be a German devil an’ an American devil, an’ one in this place too?’

  I shrug my shoulders, and watch Porta disappear, still grunting, behind the rubble-heap.

  ‘He thinks he’s a pig that’s been issued with an mpi,’ mumbles Albert, shaking his head despondently. ‘I see darkness, when I think what this war is on the way to turning us all into.’

  When we get back the Old Man has no time to listen to our report. He is too busy giving one of the new men a talking-to.

  ‘I’m goin’ to look after you,’ he shouts, angrily. ‘Why’d you shoot those three prisoners?’

  ‘Isn’t that what we’re here for?’ asks one of the new boys, a Fahnenjunker-Gefreiter.

  ‘Get them heels together,’ rages the Old Man. ‘Stand up straight when you talk to me, you lazy man. And remember it’s Herr Feldwebel!’

  The Fahnenjunker-Gefreiter clicks his heels together, and places his hands rigidly down along the seams of his trousers.

  ‘Very good. Herr Feldwebel,’ he replies, with a look of hate.

  ‘Why’d you shoot those prisoners?’ repeats the Old Man, in a penetrating voice. ‘They’d got their hands up, and they were unarmed, and you shot ’em like lousy rats. That’s murder!

  ‘I never saw their hands were up, Herr Feldwebel, and I believed they were armed.’

  ‘Liar!’ hisses the Old Man. ‘I was further off from them than you were, and I saw them clearly coming out of the house with their hands up!’

  ‘I saw ’em an’ all,’ shouts Tiny, from a corner.

  ‘You shut up!’ the Old Man snaps. ‘I can do without your help. Hand over that machine-gun,’ he turns to the Fahnenjunker-Gefreiter. ‘You’re no longer number one machine-gunner, you’re a runner for Command Group. I’ll make your backside so red-hot it’ll burn that killer streak out of you. If I did what was right I’d turn you straight over to a firin’ squad, you filthy murderin’ little swine. Now get out of my sight! The very sight of you makes me want to spew!’

  Albert sits by the window, wrapped in his crazy ginger fur coat. He looks tired.

  ‘Lay down and get some sleep,’ I say, giving him a push.

  ‘Sleep?’ he cries, staring cautiously out through the window. ‘You must be crazy, man! That black cat was a warning to us. The neighbours are comin’ over tonight. Count on it. I don’t want to get my throat cut the way that Section 4 lot did.’

  ‘Cool down. Get that black blood of yours off the boil,’ I comfort him. ‘Nothing’s going to happen. The neighbours are just as tired as we are.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answers, ‘but I got a funny, creepy feelin’. Those wicked sods’ve got somethin’ brewin’ for us. Take a look down that rotten long street over there. Before we can blow a fart they can be coming at us from hundreds of holes an’ corners.’

  ‘You’re soft in the head,’ I answer him. ‘Come on, now! Let’s get some shuteye!’

  We roll up close together, like two dogs, for warmth. It takes only a few minutes for us to fall into a deep, troubled sleep, plagued with nightmares.

  A long, scratchy, nervewracking howl brings us to our feet, clutching at machine-pistols and hand-grenades. The whole of one wall disappears in a thick cloud of dust, and a blast wave throws us across the room. An upright piano comes flying through the air and breaks up with a confused jangle of notes out on the landing.

  I am rushing for the door, when Julius Heide grabs me and pulls me flat on my back to the floor.

  A giant orange-yellow tongue of flame shoots up. The double door to the street flies off its hinges, and goes twisting away over the housetops like a piece of paper in the wind.

  ‘The fuckin’ neighbours are lettin’ us know they’re still alive,?
?? gasps Barcelona, spitting out mortar.

  Albert goes down on his belly by the window, and sends wild bursts down the street.

  ‘Who the devil’s that black idiot belting away at now?’ rages the Old Man. In two long strides he is over to Albert and pulls him away from the window. The LMG clatters to the floor.

  ‘It was a Russian,’ Albert defends himself, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘A mad sod in a topper just like Porta’s!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ says the Old Man, angrily. ‘You shoot that thing off one more time just because you’re shit-scared, and I’ll blow the black head off you, you shakin’ sack o’ bones! Understand me?’

  Slowly we begin to relax again. Cigarette ends glow in the dark. We try to get back to sleep, but none of us can.

  ‘Where is Porta, anyway?’ asks the Old Man, looking searchingly around.

  ‘He thinks he’s turned into a pig,’ answers Albert, pulling the ginger furs closer about him. ‘He’s goin’ round grunting!’

  ‘Grunting?’ asks the Old Man, unbelievingly. ‘Has he gone off his rocker? What’s he grunting for?’

  A salvo of 155 mms falls close to us, and the noise drowns Albert’s reply.

  ‘God help us, aren’t they ever gonna stop that racket?’ asks Gregor, pulling his cloak up over his head. ‘Any of you ever thought what a shell like that costs? It’s bloody expensive I can tell you, and most of the ones they shoot don’t do any good. Christ in Heaven, they must all be mad!’

  ‘You believe in God?’ asks Albert suddenly, from over by the SMG, popping up his head from the depths of the ginger furs.

  ‘You gone mad too, ’ave you?’ asks Tiny in a hollow voice. He is down inside a large chest which he has taken over for a bed. He has pulled the lid down after him and left only a narrow crack through which we can just see his eyes.

  ‘Believe in God yourself?’ asks Gregor, looking at Albert with a crooked smile.

  ‘If he does it’s gotta be a darky God,’ says Barcelona, with a short laugh. ‘I once saw a picture of a black God in an American magazine. He was an old feller with a big white beard, and went round with a stick and a top-hat.’

  ‘God’s always old, whether He’s black, white or yellow,’ says Gregor, gesturing with his machine-pistol. ‘He’s simply gotta be old. Think of all the things He’s been through to get all that experience.’

  ‘If God’s the way they say He is, then He must be very tiresome an’ not very tolerant,’ philosophizes Albert thoughtfully, polishing away at the machine-gun as he talks. ‘He must be an officer or he wouldn’t expect us all to bow down before Him, and always be prayin’ to Him for somethin’ or other!’

  ‘What God does is not a subject for discussion,’ says the Legionnaire who is sitting reading his Koran, as usual. ‘What Allah does is right and must be accepted!’

  ‘“Gott mit uns”, it says on our belt-buckles, ‘Albert goes on stubbornly, after a short silence. He seems quite fascinated by his thoughts on the subject of religion. ‘Why ever should God be with us? The English an’ the Yanks go to church a lot more’n we do, an’ what about all the atheists? God’s helping them, seems like, just for the minute! It’s enough to make a man laugh his head off!’

  ‘Why in the name of all hell’re you bothering us with all that God rubbish? Change the subject or shut up!’ explodes the Old Man, puffing furiously at his silver-lidded pipe, and sending up billows of smoke.

  ‘Religion is a kind of opium,’ Gregor trumpets, importantly. ‘Me an’ my general were always agreed on that. It makes people soft. Parsons should be refused admission to Heaven, my general always said. They ruin all the hard-headed people with their preaching, and all that’s left are the soft-headed ones.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ says Albert, thoughtfully. He pulls his head back down inside the ginger-coloured furs, like a snail going back into its shell.

  ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’ asks Heide, looking up from the LMG which, as usual, he has dismantled and is cleaning.

  ‘I mean I don’t know whether there’s a God, or there isn’t,’ answers Albert. ‘An’ I mean too that I don’t understand a word of any of it, man!’

  ‘Now I’m ordering you to decide on what you really believe in, you black monkey,’ the Old Man foams, removing his pipe from his mouth. ‘Either you believe in God, or else you don’t believe in God. Make up your mind now, an’ then shut up!’

  ‘I have done,’ says Albert, stubbornly, pulling his head in again. ‘I made up my mind a long time ago that I was gonna believe I didn’t know whether there was a God or there wasn’t a God, an’ that’s what I believe in. And now you get mad at me because of me admitting “I don’t know” is what I believe in.’

  ‘You will have some explaining to do at any rate, mon ami, when you one day stand face to face with Allah,’ laughs the Legionnaire, heartily.

  ‘I don’t think I will, you know,’ says Albert assuredly. ‘I’m a nice, decent sort o’ feller, who’s only killed people he’s been ordered to kill, and not pinched anything if he didn’t really have a need for it!’

  ‘Shut it, shut it, shut it!’ shouts the Old Man. ‘A bit more of this and they’ll shoot you without needing an order to do it!’

  ‘Oink! Oink!’ comes from out in the street.

  ‘It’s Porta,’ laughs Gregor, looking out of the gaping window opening.

  ‘Seen a pig go by?’ asks Porta, from the opposite side of the street. ‘One with black patches on it, and light blue eyes just like mine?’

  ‘Now I’ve heard that, too,’ the Old Man breaks out, fiercely. ‘God help us, he’s running about the place looking for a pig with black patches on it, while the neighbours’re knocking the whole damn place down round our ears! Come back. Come bloody back!’ he roars through the broken window. ‘That’s an order!’

  But Porta is lost in the darkness, still hunting for his black and pink pig with the pale blue eyes.

  More and more soldiers from other units arrive, and sit down round the fire Tiny has started in the middle of the floor.

  Tiny shakes a tin of signal powder into the blaze, and the flames tum bright red.

  We chuckle with pleasure at the brilliant sight.

  Porta comes barging noisily through the door.

  ‘That rotten pig must’ve been at the commando school,’ he yells. ‘I’ve been on his tail all night, and every time I called to him he answered me. Then, just when I thought I’d got him, down by the suspension bridge, he goes over to the attack an’ dashes off across the river to the neighbours. They’re sitting there chewin’ on him now, I shouldn’t wonder!’

  ‘That fat Leutnant with the monocle. He’s the cause of all this,’ says Barcelona, staring into the red flames.

  ‘I thought he was in jail,’ says Gregor. ‘That was the cook-waggon gossip.’

  ‘Latrine rumours,’ Barcelona shakes his head. ‘That shit’s got his feet under the table with the red-tabs. Two hours after they’d turned the key on him they had to bow him out again with an apology.’

  ‘Better shoot his blubbery chops off him, then,’ says Porta, drawing the heavy Nagan demonstratively from his holster, and aiming it at Heide, who ducks instinctively. ‘Well, I’m off,’ he goes on, returning the Nagan to its holster with a flourish.

  ‘Where the hell d’you think you’re goin’?’ growls the Old Man, pushing tobacco down into the bowl of his silver-lidded pipe. ‘I won’t have it. I won’t have you running around over the whole of Russia. I want you here where I can keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Be back in two shakes,’ promises Porta, elevating three fingers vertically. ‘Just off to have a look-see if the war hasn’t come to a stop all of a sudden. It’s that still.’

  Gregor flips the cards round with practised fingers. We play quietly for a while.

  Suddenly Tiny crashes a petrol-can down on Albert’s head. Albert is sitting opposite him in his ginger fur coat, looking as if he had stepped straight out of a coloured cartoon
strip.

  ‘That black ape’s more of a twister’n a ’ole Jew colony,’ rages Tiny, swinging the heavy can round his head. ‘’E keeps stickin’ them klepto-bleedin’-maniac fingers of ’is out over the coppers, but ’e don’t drop no soddin’ money into the pool.’ The can lands on Albert’s head, for the second time, with a reverberating clang. He falls out of his chair and knocks over the card-table.

  ‘Stay where you are, so’s I can kill you dead, you stinkin’ Congo German you,’ screams Tiny furiously, lifting the petrol-can for the third time.

  ‘You have killed me,’ bleats Albert, holding both hands protectively over his head. ‘Can’t you see I’m dead already, and I’m bleedin’ man!’

  ‘Get up, you black soddin’ corpse,’ shouts Tiny, kicking out at him.

  Oberleutnant Löwe bangs through the door, followed by the monocled Leutnant.

  ‘Where is Obergefreiter Porta?’ asks Löwe, with a steely glint in his eye. ‘Where is that wicked man?’

  ‘Pluckin’ geese, sir,’ says Tiny, with a sloppy attempt at a salute.

  ‘What is he doing?’ asks Löwe, gaping at Tiny.

  ‘Pluckin’ geese, sir,’ explains Tiny, making feather-plucking movements with his hands.

  ‘I’ve got some geese to pluck with him,’ snarls Löwe, straightening his dirty field-cap. ‘He’s to report to company immediately, and tell him to keep away from Oberst Hinka. The CO doesn’t want to know him any more. He’s for a court-martial and Germersheim!’

  ‘’Ow about division then, sir?’ asks Tiny owlishly. ‘The General an’ Porta’s good friends, sir!’

  ‘I’ll look after you too, Creutzfeldt,’ splutters Löwe. He turns on his heel and disappears, with the monpcled Leutnant close upon his heels.

  ‘What the hell’s Porta doing now?’ asks the Old Man, bitterly. ‘That crazy sod’s enough to drive a man up the wall. He goes on as if he owned the whole blasted army. Now I’m gonna tell you all somethin’. You’re nothing but a shower of shit, the lot of you! I won’t be finished with you till you’ve all seen the inside of Germersheim with lifers on you an’ a death sentence laid on top of ’em!’