Court Martial (27 page)

'The devil take this company of thieves, swindlers and habitual criminals,' cries Hofmann, furiously, rustling through the pages of a pile of personnel records. 'Here's that bastard of a Yid's sheet,' he shouts, throwing it across the desk. 'I'll wrap his circumcised Jew cock round his neck for him, an' make him understand a German ain't made just by changin' a Yid name to Muller! I've
always
been
against
this fucking falsification business. I warned you! Now the shit's hit the fuckin' fan!'

'So, that's what it's all about,' Wolf grins noisily. 'Don't forget that though it
was
us that changed the papers, it also
was
you that put your silly great sprawling signature under the whole bloody swindle.' He waves the record sheet above his head jeeringly.

'Says here: Above corrections confirmed. Hofmann, Haupt und Stabsfeldwebel. Couldn't mistake that signature. Lovely, clear handwriting.'

Hofmann seems to take up less space in his American-made chair. He looks as if he is being rendered down slowly.

'It's falsification of documents,' he says in a voice which is hardly audible. 'We've turned that Jew, Bierfreund, into Muller, a pure German! My God this is
serious
. You could just as easy turn SS-Hein
48
into a Yid. If this ever gets out ... '

'Who says it
will
get out?' asks Wolf, '
You
weren't thinkin' of puttin' it in the papers were you?'

'No falsification of records has occurred before somebody's proved it. For example by a plain confession,' declares Porta, airily. 'But who'd be nutty enough to confess to a thing like that? Bierfreund, the Yiddischer German, alias Muller, he'll keep
his
trap shut all right. Let's think this through!'

'Yes, let's think, for Christ's sake
think
,' shouts Hofmann, hope awakening in him. 'What d'you say, Wolf? You can make black look white when you want to!'

'Don't know a thing about it,' says Wolf icily, 'Never even heard of it!'

'Me neither,' says Porta, smiling cheerfully.

What do you mean by that?' asks Hofmann, doubtfully, feeling like a man who is walking on thin ice and has to move extremely carefully.

'It's not so difficult,' says Wolf, with a sly look in his fishy green eyes. 'You're the one who's turned a Jew into a German with a stroke of the pen.
And
you've put him in for promotion to Feldwebel. A Jew
Feldwebel
in the Greater German Army! That's
something
! The boys in Prinz Albrecht Strasse'll be movin' that fast when they hear about it you'd think somebody'd put gunpowder up their arseholes!'

Who's gonna tell 'em, then?' asks Hofmann, with fear in his voice.

'The boys who rang you up from Paderborn,' smiles Wolf, sarcastically.

'"Arse and Pockets" can't
stand
the Gestapo! He hates 'em,' says Hofmann, with certainty.

'Anybody say he likes the Yids?' grins Wolf, maliciously. 'Particularly one of 'em who's goin' to become Feldwebel on forged papers?'

'I don't like Jews either,' admits Hofmann. 'So why the hell should I have helped one of 'em to become a German?'

'He's good with figures,' answers Wolf, jeeringly. 'If you hadn't got him here you'd've been court martialled a long time ago for embezzlement. It's no secret you can't count to twenty without takin' your boots off! A figure-wise Yid's like manna from heaven to
you
!'

'Those papers in Paderborn are going to have to disappear,' states Porta, tearing a copy of Army Regulations in two.

'How?' says Hofmann, seeing a straw to clutch at.

'This way,' says Porta, rubbing thumb and forefinger together, the international sign for money changing hands.

'Shit, Porta. You can't buy Oberstleutnant von Weisshagen!'

'Don't need him,' Porta waves the objection away. 'He's only an Oberstleutnant. We've got a pseudo-German here and I know there's more'n one of
that
particular race in Paderborn. If those boys get their scimitar-shaped noses together then they'll move over that poor German Oberstleutnant like a steamroller!'

Hofmann looks at Porta admiringly.

'You'd make a
good
Unteroffizier, Obergefreiter Porta. What do you say to signing on for a twenty-four?'

'Herr Hauptfeldwebel, I only wish I had the time. But they're expecting me in Berlin!'

'Let's get hold of this pseudo-German bastard,' roars Hofmann. 'he ought to be able to sort this out. It's him it's all about, anyway. On your way,' he chases me, pushing me out of the door.

The Moses dragoon is sitting with one of the cooks, Unteroffizier Balt, gnawing on a shank of reindeer which he dips repeatedly into a bowl of garlic sauce.

'Hofmann is sighing with longing to see you,' I say, accepting a piping-hot chunk of reindeer.

'What's
he
want?' he asks, casually, biting off a large mouthful of meat.

'They've been on the blower from Paderborn asking how it comes about you're a German? Hofmann's fallen out of that American chair of his several times already.'

'My papers are gilt-edged,' says Milner, knocking back a large glass of beer. 'Permit me,' he says to Unteroffizier Balt, dipping a piece of bread in the garlic sauce. He champs like a hungry pig. Fat runs down from the corners of his mouth and down over his chin.

Unteroffizier Balt fetches more beer and a pack of cards. It'll do Hofmann good to cool his heels a bit. Anyhow, who's to say how long it's taken me to find the Moses dragoon? An accountant Unteroffizier might be anywhere.

'Took your time, then, did you?' roars Hofmann, in an acid voice, glowering at us suspiciously, when we get back to the company office an hour later.

'What the hell've you been eating, man? You've got fat all over your dirty synagogue face? Don't you know Yids ain't
allowed
to eat German pigs? German pigs are for Germans! What the hell've you been wasting your time at all morning?'

'Been round taking stock,' answers Milner, carelessly.

'
What
stocks?' growls Hofmann, unbelievingly. 'You've counted 'em all long ago! You've been counting stocks now for the last two
years
!'

'Ammunition count's wrong,' answers Muller, as if that were something unheard of. No ammunition count has ever been right since the first German soldier began to use firearms.

'Ammunition count wrong?' roars Hofmann, furiously. 'Are you mad? What the hell do you think I've got you and your Yid snout for?'

'We're short of ten boxes of rifle ammunition,' answers Muller, pleasantly, 'and forty grenades have disappeared without trace!'

'What
kind
of grenades?' snarls Hofmann. 'Express yourself properly! You're not fartin' round in the synagogue with a skull-cap on now!'

'Potato-mashers,' sighs Muller, tiredly. 'Must've been pilfered!'

'Have you checked Chief Mechanic Wolf's stores?' asks Hofmann, accusingly.

'Just let him try,' suggests Wolf, with a threatening under-current in his voice. 'Then it won't be just the skin on his prick he'll be short of but a lot more of it all over his body!'

Hofmann drops back dejectedly in his American-made chair. He has forgotten he has released the catch and almost goes arse over tip again.

'Fucking Jew shit!' he reviles it, as he recovers, with difficulty, his balance. 'Listen to me Muller or Bierfreund or whatever your fucking name is now. You know damn well that if it wasn't for me you'd've been a pile of ashes and three pieces of cheap soap a long time ago! They've been looking at your personal record in Paderborn. At the moment it's got no further than to an Oberstleutnant. Oberstleutnant von Weisshagen, it's true, but still no further. Now
you
are going to ring the Feldwebel i/c personnel up. Bernstein his name is, and with a name like that I'll lay money there's desert sand still sticking between
his
toes! Light a fire under his fat arse. Tell him you're in trouble and he's got to help you. There's not only Jew blood at stake but valuable German blood too! And it's
your
fault! Get that through your calcified brain. Now get on that blower! Don't worry about what it costs. The Army's taking care of that. Just
talk
! What comes of it's what matters and for your sake it'd better be something good!'

It takes Muller a long time to get through to No. 11 Panzer-fsatzabteilung in Paderborn. Finally he manages it.

'Want to talk to Bernstein, eh?' says a squeaky, happy voice on the line. 'You're just one hour too late. He's gone! Try again in three weeks' time!'

'Ask where the hell he's gone to!' snarls Hofmann, who is listening in on an extension.

'Do you have his address?' asks Muller, politely.

'Of course we have. Don't you think we know what we're doing here?' chortles the happy voice. 'What do you want his address for?'

'I want to get in touch with him.'

'You can't! He's not there!' comes a happy shout from Paderborn.

'Well then where is he? You must know where he has gone to? If everything collapses, you'd want to know where to get hold of him, wouldn't you?'

'If everything collapses he won't come back anyway,' laughs the Paderborn voice. 'Think he's an idiot? He's gone on leave. He
may
be taking the cure at Bad Gastein. He mentioned it as a possibility. Ever been to Bad Gastein?'

'No, never,' groans Muller, ready to give up the whole business.

'Supposed to be a wonderful place,' states the jolly Paderborn Unteroffizier. 'You lie in warm mud all day long and get up your strength by eating. Here's the boss coming. Ring again in three weeks' time, mate, and if Bernstein's not been suffocated in the mud he'll probably be here.'

The telephone buzzes. The connection in broken.

Hofmann shoots up out of his American-made swivel chair, and takes a kick at the company cat. As usual he misses it.

'So it's gone that far,' he screeches madly. 'The Jewboys go on leave, wallowin' about in Bad Gastein havin' mud baths and takin' the waters, whilst we Germans are refused leave, because the Fatherland is in peril. That's the worst thing I've ever heard of.
Now
I begin to
really
believe we're not gonna win this war!'

'God knows what the Reichsfuhrer will say to it,' comes wonderingly from Julius Heide.

'Shut your trap, Unteroffizier Heide. This is something your pygmy German brain'll never understand! Muller
you'd
never do that would you? Go to Bad Gastein and make the mud baths dirtier'n they were before? Heavenly Father! This is the
top
! Well, back to work! We'll take care of that scoundrel in Bad Gastein later. How many more pseudo-Germans do you know in Paderborn? Use your loaf! Think! Think hard as if you had to remember the whole of the Talmud and write it down! Get on that blower, man, get the synagogue moving!'

'
Could
perhaps try ringing Wachtmeister Sally at Wehrkreiskommando,' suggests Muller, thoughtfully. 'He's a very nice chap.'

'Shit on how nice he is, or ain't,' shouts Hofmann, beside himself. 'He's got to help us. It's our lives and liberty that's at stake, man. Explain that to him!'

Porta is leaning over the washbasin humming the prisoner's chorus from Nabucco, and examining himself intently in the mirror.

'Stop pissing about there,' roars Hofmann, 'and stop staring into that mirror! It'll only give you bad ideas! I only said stand easy, I didn't say you could look at yourself in the glass!'

It takes almost an hour for Muller to get a connection to Wachtmeister Sally.

'Remove a personnel sheet?' says Sally, when the matter has been explained to him. 'Could be done, but what's in it for me?'

'What times we live in,' groans Hofmann, with the extension pressed to his ear. 'Now that son of the sodding desert wants to make something out of helping people in distress!'

'What can we offer him?' asks Muller, looking at Wolf and Porta.

Ten tins of pork,' suggests Porta, largely.

'No,
no
!' says Hofmann, 'the Yids don't
eat
pig meat!'

'I've got some ugly-looking Russian typewriters,' says Porta. 'Think he'd like to write on Russian machines? They're sure to be all the rage after the war!'

'He's got all he wants of typewriters at HQ,' Hofmann rejects the idea, irritably. 'German ones. Think again, Porta!'

'Polish eggs,' suggests Porta, lifting one eyebrow. 'He might be one of those dopes who loves eating omelets because they think eggs make 'em more virile!'

'That's a thought,' Hofmann brightens up. 'Let the bastard have ten boxes of eggs so's his limp prick can get a hard on a bit more often.'

'Ten boxes of eggs,' offers Muller largely.

Wachtmeister Sally laughs long and heartily.

'Do you realise just how comic you are?' he asks, when he has got his breath back. 'We've got so many eggs here we've begun hatching 'em out ourselves. Just to help your thinking processes along a bit, there's an information sheet in triplicate just come in the door: Two Feldwebels were executed last Saturday for falsifying documents. So what are you offering now? But not those eggs again!'

Muller looks unhappily at Wolf.

'It's blackmail almost,' snarls Wolf, with loathing.

'What do you expect of a Yid?' says Hofmann. 'Adolf's
right
. All they want is to keep us Germans down.'

'Offer him a case of Scotch whisky,' mumbles Wolf, unwillingly. He knows instinctively that Wachtmeister Sally can't be bought cheaply.

'You can have a case of real Scotch,' Muller transmits the offer over the telephone.

'That's okay,' grins Sally, satisfied. 'Wolf or Porta aren't anywhere near are they?'

Hofmann shakes his head in negation, and winks one eye.

Muller understands.

'No, what do you want with 'em?'

'When you see 'em, ask if one of 'em'd like to buy a wildcat. I've got one of the devils here. If either of 'em is interested I can send the monster by the mail plane. The freight charges are paid.'