‘Back!’ hisses the Commissar, white with rage, and pressing the muzzle of his Kalashnikov into Tiny’s throat. ‘Back I say, or I’ll shoot your head off!’
But Tiny is deaf to everything. Foaming at the mouth with rage he goes on beating the unconscious Gregor.
‘Let me,’ says Porta, bringing his machine-pistol down on Tiny’s neck. With a tired grunt he falls down and lies motionless across Gregor.
‘Chuck him over the edge!’ suggests ‘Frostlips’ furiously, giving Tiny a brutal kick. ‘The mad bastard’s dangerous!
‘Take it easy,’ says Porta. ‘Who wouldn’t be annoyed at some idiot lettin’ him take a 300-yard sprint down the side of a mountain, and gettin’ his whole bag o’ bones knocked sideways?’
Shortly afterwards Tiny regains consciousness, shaking his head like a duck which has just been down to have a look at the bottom of its pond.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Gregor excuses himself weakly, wiping blood from his battered features.
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ Tiny promises him with a wicked look, and lumbers off towards the edge of the cliff.
‘Where the devil are you going?’ asks the Old Man, running after him with his machine-pistol at the ready.
‘Ain’t we gonna roll that snowball?’ asks Tiny. ‘Ain’t that what we crawled up on this Commie bleedin’ mountain to do?’
Cursing and swearing furiously he begins to climb the icy granite wall again. He is so angry that he has forgotten to attach his climbing-rope.
‘If he slips now,’ says ‘Frostlips’. ‘he’s had it! Mad as they come, he is!’
‘Don’t for God’s sake tell him it’s dangerous,’ warns Porta,’ then he’ll be sure to fall!’
It seems an eternity before he finally finds the cable. It is still attached to the explosive charge. As carefully as if it were made of glass he pulls it over to him, and winds it around his elbow.
‘God have mercy on us all!’ groans the Commissar. ‘Never in my life have I seen anything so insane!’
Twice, on his way back, he slips on the slope. Only a frozen snowdrift which is accidentally in his path stops him from going over the edge and down into the abyss.
‘What about if it’s a dud?’ asks Barcelona, nervously, when Tiny is back and has gleefully connected the wires to the batteries.
‘We’ll be paddlin’ up shit-creek.’ answers Porta. ‘Nothing left but to go straight at ’em with hand-grenades, balalaikas and guitar music!’
‘The radio.’ says the Commissar. ‘That blasted radio. They always station it at a distance from them undercover! The signaller will be screaming for help as soon as we make a move, and up’ll come the Jabos!’
‘I’m against this battery shit,’ rumbles Tiny. ‘An old-fashioned fuse, what splutters off to where you can see it goin’. That was better’n more fun too! Used to remind me of Christmas Eve, when old Mr Creuzfeldt used to get drunk an’ make us sing:
And when they came to’Erod’s’ouse,
’E was there in the window, an’ lookin’ out. . . .’
‘Come on! orders the Old Man, lowering his field-glasses. ‘Use the batteries! It’s a matter of minutes! Send it off when I give the order!’
‘What you talkin’ to me like that for?’ Tiny flares up, angrily. ‘Think I live in a bucket with a’ole in it, and’ve got me brains where me balls is, do you? I can tell you the psychopaths give me intelligence gradin’ 0.7, which is very’igh!’
‘Depends which end of the table you start at,’ grins Porta. ‘But steady on with those leads and that battery. Would be funny if we got the lot of it down the back of our necks ourselves. Those bloody assassins down there’d kill themselves laughing, and we’d go down in world history as the biggest dopes ever to have taken part in any war!’
‘Job trojemadj,’ mumbles ‘Frostlips’. ‘Here come those devils!’
The moon comes out like an explosion. We can clearly see a line of soldiers moving upwards on skis. They stop several times, and stare up at the peaks as if they knew we were there.
‘Must be time we sprinkled a bit of snow down on ’em.’ says Porta. ‘’Fore it’s goodbye gold an’ the life of Reilly!’
‘Wait!’ warns the Commissar. He examines the terrain through his binoculars. ‘We’ve got to take them all! If one gets away, up goes the alarm!’
‘There’s guests on the way up the cliffs.’ says Tiny, listening tensely. ‘I can’ear their climbin’-irons!’
‘Balls,’ says ‘Frostlips’. ‘I can’t hear a thing!’
‘No, but I can,’ says Tiny, wiggling his nose like a rabbit in a cabbage-patch.
The officer leading the column stops and turns his field-glasses up towards the brow of the cliff behind which we are hiding.
‘Keep still!’ whispers the Commissar, his voice shaking. ‘The slightest movement, those bastards’ll see it!’
‘I’m ready to move this mountain,’ says Tiny, grinning broadly.
‘Hell!’ whispers the Old Man. ‘No shit now, or we’re finished!’
The OGPU soldiers below us have fanned out. They have their skis on their backs and push themselves up by their staves. We can now hear, too, that there are more of them on their way up the face of the cliff.
‘What we bleedin’ waitin’ for?’ asks Tiny, impatiently. ‘Ivan’ll be here in a minute, shakin’’is bleedin’ balalaikas under our noses!’
Nervously, I screw the cover off a stick-grenade, and put my finger through the ring. I am ready to throw it as soon as the first Russian face appears above the edge of the cliff.
Most of the soldiers in the long single column have now disappeared along the side of the mountain, where we can no longer see them. Their voices become more and more audible, however, through the wild howling of the storm. Suddenly the tail of the column – five soldiers – stops. They point field-glasses towards the top of the great mass of granite. Some instinct must be warning them of an unknown danger. They are not recruits. They are manhunters of the most experienced kind.
‘Shall I do it?’ asks Tiny, moving the wires even closer to the battery. So close that we cannot understand why the charge has not gone off.
‘Not yet!’ whispers the Commissar. ‘We’ve got to have those five come closer!’
Porta is down behind the LMG, the butt pressed into his shoulder, and his Finger on the trigger.
I open the covers of the cartridge boxes, and hold the long belts ready for use.
‘Now!’ hisses the Commissar, bringing his fist down in the snow.
Tiny gives out a scream of pleasure, and makes the contact.
For a moment it is as if the world stands still. Then the icy quiet of the night is split open by a series of thunderous explosions. They roll across the mountains and die away in far-distant echoes.
‘Ought to give the headhunters something else to think about,’ grins Porta with satisfaction, bringing the night-glasses up to his eyes. The OGPU soldiers have been gripped by panic, and are scattering to all sides.
It seems as if the huge overcap of snow has remained untouched by the explosions. Several minutes go by in which nothing happens.
The OGPU soldiers have also seen this. They stop, and begin feverishly to buckle on their skis. A little officer waves excitedly with his Kalashnikov and shouts hoarse orders.
‘Roll then, you bleedin’ snow, you!’ mumbles Tiny, shaking his fist up at the snow-cap. ‘I’m going up to see what’s wrong,’ he says, getting up on one knee.
‘Crazy sod!’ snarls the Old Man. ‘You’re staying here!’
There is a sound like that of distant thunder, swiftly coming closer. The first of the colossal snow-masses whirls up in a huge white cloud. For a moment it seems to hang suspended in the air: then movement commences. Hundreds of tons of frozen snow hit the opposite slope and are thrown up again as if from a new explosion. Then the first gout of snow thunders against the rocks further down the mountain.
Faster than thought countless
tons of snow are on their way down the mountain, sweeping away everything in their path.
The nearest of the OGPU soldiers are whirled by the snowy masses into nothingness. A couple of soldiers on skis are raring in front of the tumbling snow, and seem as if they may have a chance of getting away from it.
‘Vive la mort,’ snarls the Legionnaire. He picks up a sniper’s rifle and adjusts the telescopic sights.
‘Not at that range.’ says the Old Man.
‘Bien sûr,’ replies the Legionnaire. He presses his cheek against the butt and fires rapidly three times.
The leading skier falls forward, and continues on down the slope with his head down like a figurehead between his skis. The soldier bringing up the rear turns to see where the shot came from. Then he makes a fatal mistake. He makes a half-turn but is caught by panic. Turns again, and is overtaken by the avalanche, which thunders over, and buries him.
Trees whirl in the air before the advancing masses of snow. A whole forest is torn off the face of the mountain.
‘What a bleedin’ snowball that was!’ shouts Tiny happily, when we are down at the vehicles again. The others have been waiting for us down there, getting more and more nervous.
‘Those headhunters certainly lost their skis,’ says Porta. ‘What a roller-coaster that was!’
‘I’ll take it,’ offers Tiny, crawling into the radio-room, from which we can hear a howling call-tone.
Tiny fiddles with the receiver, and bangs it a couple of times impatiently on the side of the tank before it works.
‘’Ello!’ he says into the microphone. ‘Who am I? I’m me, that’s who I am!’
‘Idiot! What’s your position?’ fumes a sharp, annoyed voice.
‘Down round the arse’ole o’ the universe,’ answers Tiny, with a little laugh. ‘We just threw a snowball at the neighbours’ kids!’
‘Where are you speaking from?’ asks the voice, impatiently.
‘From’ere!’ answers Tiny. ‘Where else?’
‘Are you out of your mind? I want to know where you are?’ snarls the voice.
‘You’re a dumb’un! We’re in bleedin’ Russia, of course!’
‘Now you watch yourself, soldier!’ The strange voice shakes with rage. ‘You don’t seem to know who you’re talking to?’
‘Think I’m a fortune-teller or somethin’, do you?’ answers Tiny, bursting into a roar of laughter.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ The voice becomes dangerously calm. ‘I want to know who I’m talking to?’
‘You’re talkin’ to me, you dope!’ shouts Tiny, beginning slowly to come to the boil. ‘Ain’t you realized that yet? You’re about as useful as a prick that’s been touched up by a circular saw!’
‘You are speaking to the communications officer,’ snarls the voice, angrily. ‘Now I want a straight answer from you: rank, name and unit!’
‘’It your’ead on somethin’ ’ave you?’ explodes Tiny. ‘We’re only allowed to talk secret! The neighbours ain’t got to be able to know what we’re goin’ about, see! You ain’t gonna get a thing out of me! You could be one of these bleedin’ spies they talk such a lot about. Panjemajo?’
‘God help us to have patience! D’you know the code word?’
‘No, why should I?’ Tiny laughs noisily. ‘It ain’t me that’s the sparks. I’m just standin’ in for Julius that’s gone for a walk!’
‘Listen now, soldier.’ hisses the communications officer, his voice shaking with rage. ‘You’re mopping up. Now I want to know what you’ve mopped up!’
‘You could a said that straight off.’ stead of askin’ where we are.’ answers Tiny. ‘We just threw a bleedin’ great snowball at Ivan, as is now on the way to Paradise fast as’is skis can take’im!’
‘Give me your section commander and get off the radio, you madman! I’ll give you bloody snowballs!’
‘Old Un’!’ screams Tiny in a ringing bass baritone. ‘There’s some sod of a psycho on the radio as wants to know what we’ve mopped up! Watch out for ’im though, ’e might be one of them bleedin’ spies as is sneakin’ around all over the place listening in! Says’e’s an officer but I think’e’s probably lyin’!’
‘What the devil have you done now?’ asks the Old Man, looking worried, and edging down in front of the radio.
A long conversation follows, which, for the Old Man’s part, consists of: ‘Yes, sir! Yes, major! Yes, sir!’
‘You know what I fancy, now?’ asks Porta, when we are again on the move. ‘Hard-boiled eggs and shrimps in lobster sauce, then a large helping of pork with sauerkraut and preserved pears.’
‘Shut up,’ hisses the Old Man, crossly. ‘Shut up about food! And I’ll shoot you. Tiny, if you ever go near that radio again!’
A grey dawn has broken through when we reach the Paritip, which we hope, with a good deal of luck, can take us across the ravine. It is an odd-looking construction.
‘Bottoms up, St Peter!’ says Porta, looking down into the depths. ‘Can that thing carry a tank?’
‘So they say,’ answers ‘Frostlips’ with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘And we’ve got to hope they’re right, because we ain’t got a bit of choice in the matter! We’ve got to go over! We’ve blocked the pass ourselves with that avalanche!’
‘Doesn’t look all that solid,’ says the Old Man, eyeing the contraption sceptically. It is a heavy platform, which hangs, swaying, suspended from thick cables.
‘Come along! Let’s get on with it! Who’s going first?’ shouts the Commissar, impatiently.
‘You can go first. Albert.’ says Porta, with a graceful wave of his hand.
‘Not me, man!’ says Albert, after he has been out on the rocking platform. It has to be propelled over the chasm by the turning of a hand-winch.
‘You’d rather go last, perhaps, when the cables are a bit more worn?’ asks Porta, sarcastically. ‘You grab that offer of mine in a hurry, my son, and take off first!’
Albert gives in. and edges his way down through the T-34’s turret hatch.
Cautiously, as if he were driving on glass, he edges the heavy tank out on to the Paritip. The platform rolls like a ship in heavy weather at the overload. Slowly it begins to glide over towards the far side, its cables singing with the strain.
‘Slowly.’ the Commissar warns. ‘Only slowly!’
Silently, and with butterflies in our stomachs, we follow the swaying platform. Despite the weight it is carrying, the violent blasts of wind still move it from side to side.
‘Looks bloody dangerous, that,’ mumbles Gregor. ‘And think, we’ve volunteered for it!’
‘Kind of thing a man only does once in his life,’ grins Porta, carelessly. ‘We’ll have a story to tell when we’re all Swedish Socialists!’
The heavy Panther goes over last. The logs of the platform creak warningly and the cables sing as they take the strain of its weight.
Porta runs his hand through his red hair, spits into the ravine, and he and Tiny take the winch.
‘I daren’t watch,’ mumbles the Commissar, turning his back. ‘It can’t be long before those cables go!’
As he speaks the words there is a sharp crack, and one of the cables breaks. The platform begins to heel over to one side. The Panther slides slowly backwards.
‘Par Allah!’ cries the Legionnaire, nervously. ‘It’s going off. It’s all over with them!’
‘Hell!’ howls Porta, in terror. He throws himself at the winch. ‘The whole shithouse is goin’!’
The platform heels more and more. One gust of wind and they are finished.
‘Grab the cables!’ shouts the Commissar. ‘Move! Bring up the T-34!’
Albert backs the tea-waggon into place. Working against time we get a wire to the platform and haul it on to firm ground before the other cable breaks.
‘God the Father preserve us!’ says Porta. He is up on the edge staring at the Parilip. The platform now hangs at an angle of 45° down towards the bottom of the ravine. ‘That was close! A fel
ler needs a good bit of luck to get through a world war still breathin’!’
Brutality creates respect.
Adolf Hitler
They ran across the playground, jumped the fence and went on down Wundt Strasse, panting heavily. They heard the shouts from behind them:
‘Halt! Stehen bleiben!’
But none of them stopped. The hard staccato bark of a machine-pistol sounded.
The first man to go down, with his face in the chuckling, spring-flushed waters of the stream, was the Section leader, an old Feld-webel. He had already lived through one world war and had been firmly determined to live through this one as well.
The next to fall was the youngest. He was just sixteen. He crawled some distance on his knees, his face down close to the cinders. A long trail of blood marked his path. He was still alive when the military police reached him. They put a bullet through the back of his neck.
The rest of the section reached the race track and disappeared into Scheibenholtz Park. They hardly noticed the Leutnant, dangling by the neck from a tree with his hands tied behind his back.
A little further on an Oberst and a Gefreiter were hanging.
All three had a sign around their necks:
ICH BIN EIN FEIGLING,
DER DEN FÜHRER VERRATEN HAT!*
Two hours later the military police picked them up crossing Johannes Parkweg.
All nineteen were hanged on the nearest trees as a terrible warning to other deserters.
This happened on 3 March 1945 at the Leipzig race track. The bodies of the deserters were not cut down until six weeks later.
* Njet mortira: No mortars
* Propusk: Permit
* Freely translated:
And should the whole earth tremble.
And the world roll off its tracks.
That cannot shake a prospector.