Authors: Leo Kessler
Thus
preoccupied, Colonel Geier, undressed save for his riding boots, stowed his monocle carefully in the pocket of his cavalry breeches and stepped gingerly into the little mountain stream. The water was icy-cold as he scooped up a handful to splash on his naked body, but it was good. He shivered with both pleasure and the cold, and began to wash the stink and grime of battle off his body. There was no sound save the persistent dry cough of a machine-gun far away.
Suddenly
he froze. Something or someone was splashing down the stream toward the huge rock which blocked his vision. The splashing sounds came nearer. Then stopped. The Vulture tensed himself. Should he attempt to rush to the bank for his pistol? The other man, if he were armed, would be round the rock, shooting before he could make it. So that was out.
He
could hear someone scooping up water, then a faint gasp of shock. It was a man all right and not some stray animal. Could it be one of his own men? Why didn't the damn fellow say something so that he could identify him? In the next instant the other person came round the bend, splashing the water with his bare feet. For a moment the Vulture thought he was facing some Italian woman. The hair was jet-black to the shoulders and the skin was a warm brown. But the absence of breasts and the prominent sexual organ told him that this was no woman. This was a man: a handsome young Sikh.
For
what seemed an eternity, the two men stared at each other, bodies slightly hunched, breath coming in shallow gasps. The Vulture could see that the other man's mind was working like his own. If he yelled for help, he might alert his own sentries, but there was the danger that the Sikh had not ventured into this no-man's land alone; there could well be more of them somewhere in the rocks.
Suddenly
the Sikh lunged forward, the water dripping from his naked body. The Vulture side-stepped and grabbed at his body. He missed, hands slipping off the wet skin. But the Sikh didn't. His strong arms encircled the German. With a grunt he pressed his own body against the Vulture's. Despite his fear, the Vulture felt a shiver of pleasure run through him.
The
young Sikh was trying to force him into the deeper water. The Vulture guessed his intention at once. But the other man was as slippery as an eel. Every time Geier tried to knee him, he avoided the blow. Now he pressed his abdomen lightly to the Vulture's so that the latter could use his knee no longer.
In
slow motion, they struggled back and forth in the waist-deep water, silent except for an occasional grunt. The Vulture hooked two fingers inside the Sikh's broad nostrils trying in vain to tear the flesh upwards and break the wrestler's hold. The Sikh wriggled his head loose and pressed his face close to the Vulture's cheek so that he could not attempt the same move again.
Viciously
the Sikh reached up one hand, still retaining his hold on the Vulture with the other, and tried to jam his fingers into the German's eyes. With difficulty, because of the hold the Sikh had on him, the Vulture dodged the blow. Gasping frantically, he twisted to one side and grabbed at the Sikh's genitals. His fingers contacted the hot flesh. He squeezed hard. The Sikh screamed in agony. He broke his hold almost immediately. The Vulture swiftly caught his right arm. With a deft gesture, he forced it behind the Sikh's back and propelled him forward.
Geier
drew a swift gasp of air. Before him the moonlight gleamed along the length of the boy's brown, muscular back. The next instant he forced the Sikh's face under the water. The Sikh's scream ended in a series of violent bubbles. Frantically he attempted to lash out with the heel of his right foot. The Vulture avoided the blow easily. His arms threshed the surface of the stream into a white fury and the Vulture forced his head deeper and deeper below the water. Still he held on. His boots gave him a firm grip on the pebbled bottom which the boy's wild struggles could not shake. Geier closed his eyes, the buttocks brushing his naked loins time and time again. The Sikh's struggles grew weaker. He gave a last, desperate twist just before he began to drown. Then he went limp.
Finally
the Vulture opened his eyes, and released his grip. For a couple of seconds he could see nothing, save the white eddies of water caused by the Sikh's desperate struggles to break free. Then the body emerged on the surface a metre away. For a brief instant Geier gazed down at the Sikh's handsome young face; then slowly he bent and pressed his lips on the dead boy's.
It
was much later that same night that the Vulture, still trembling with both fear and memory of that naked brown body, began the encoding of the message he would radio to Kesselring's Operations Officer to pass on to Schellenberg. As he did so, he tried to control the turmoil of his mind. The brief deadly contact with that unknown enemy had awakened the old desires in him. His imagination was flooded with half-forgotten memories of the beautiful young boys with powdered faces and pencilled, plucked eyebrows he used to meet furtively behind the Lehrter Station before the war; the warm olive skin of the young Italian officer who had been his so briefly last summer before the partisans had captured him and put him to death. Now all he wanted was to bury himself in the arms of some young man, forget the horror of the peak and everything that went with it. He had had enough of a war where he had to kill a man, who under other circumstances would have been able to give him so much pleasure. Forcing himself to concentrate, he spelled out the decisive message:
`WOTAN STILL HOLDING. NEXT OFFENSIVE WILL MEAN END. SUGGEST URGENTLY ARRANGE EVACUATION OF SELF AND KEY CADRE AT OPPORTUNE MOMENT
SOONEST
. WOTAN TO BE REFORMED IN GERMANY IN OUR SENSE BY CADRE. CADRE TO BE PICKED BY ME. EXPEDITE.
GEIER'.
But
even as he wrote the Vulture could not stop his hand trembling. After four years of war, the Commander of Wotan, Nazi Germany's elite formation, the nerveless Colonel Geier had reached breaking point.
The New Zealanders attacked for the last time on the day that Schulze stole the Vulture's sole remaining pig. At least that was how von Dodenburg remembered the final offensive in the years to come.
It
had been sunny for many days. Even the grim desolation of war could not destroy the beauty of the Italian countryside. Admittedly the slopes of Peak 555 bristled with the lacerated stumps of acacia and olive trees. But the Liri Valley below was soft and green again. No artillery bombardment on earth could have stopped the wild corn from growing, or the red poppies. And behind them on Monte Cassino, the honey-coloured ruin of the Monastery glowed pink and gold in the morning sunshine.
But
on that particular morning, Schulze had no eyes for the beauty of the scene. His sights were set on food. As he had told the little group of Panzer Grenadiers under his command:
`I've
had enough of that shitty 'Old Man' and giddiup soup! This morning when I got up, the first thing I did was to neigh and the second - to cock up my leg and piss!'
Now
Schulze wandered morosely about the plateau, wondering where he might get some fresh meat on such a fine spring day. Everywhere the hard-pressed defenders were stripping off their tattered grey shirts, looking for lice, allowing the first warm rays of the sun to brown their emaciated bodies, or crouching over their home-made stoves (ration cans, half-filled with dirt, soaked with petrol and ignited) cooking their morning rations. He had just passed the HQ's latrine - a long pole stretched between two ration boxes over a lime-and-faeces filled pit - when he first smelled
real
meat cooking.
The
Creeper and Captain Schwarz were perched on the latrine, discussing whether their Japanese allies could really be classed as 'honorary Aryans'. Schulze flung them a magnificent salute as he passed, his nose twitching as he tried to ascertain the direction from which the delectable odour was coming. Then he spotted it. The ex-butcher, Sergeant Metzger, was crouched to the right of the Twin Tits, cleaning his nails with a bayonet, the stump of an unlit cigar clamped between his gold front teeth. Trying to restrain his mounting excitement Schulze sauntered up to the big NCO, gave him a casual salute (1) and asked:
‘
What's on the menu for the Old Man, Metzger?'
`Stewed
socks and toerag dumplings,' Metzger replied tight-lipped.
`Same
as us,' Schulze said carefully. He made a show of sniffing the air. 'Though I did think that I could smell pork cooking somewhere or other.'
Metzger
looked at him coolly.
`So-so.'
He finished cleaning his fingernails and used the bayonet to poke at the gaps between his teeth. 'Your nose must be too close to your own arsehole - that's what you can smell.'
`Perhaps
so, Metzger,' Schulze answered gloomily. 'Must be getting light-headed from the lack of fodder, eh? Though,' he hesitated, 'I could swear I smell meat roasting somewhere.'
He
flashed a look around the area and spotted it: a thin blue haze rising from a pile of rocks some twenty metres away! The bastard of a butcher had hidden his stove over there. There was no denying the heat haze rippling in the thin rays of the morning sun.
`Notice
you haven't got your last pig anymore,' he said casually.
`Got
his in the last shelling,' Metzger replied carelessly. `Poor bastard - disappeared completely. Direct hit.'
`Oh,
I see.' Schulze made a play of absorbing the information for a few moments. 'Well, I suppose I'd better go and take a crap while it's still quiet. Yesterday one of my heroes fell in the pit as soon as the Ami shelling started. Don't want that to happen to Mrs Schulze's little boy.'
`Couldn't
happen to a nicer bloke,' Metzger commented, his eyes fixed on the rocks which hid the stove.
`Thanks,
Metzger,' Schulze said as he strolled away aimlessly. 'I'll do the same for you some time.'
Moments
later he was doubling up the slope beyond the stove and out of Metzger's sight. Silhouetted against the slanting rays of the morning sun from the east, he made a perfect target for any Tommy sniper. But his mind was set on cutlets. His plan was simple and it worked perfectly. Pulling out his last phosphorous grenade, he ripped the pin out with his teeth, balancing his machine-pistol with the other hand. The next minute he had lobbed it high over the rocks in Metzger's direction, white smoke already trailing from it. As it exploded with a cramp on the other side and the thick fog started to shoot up, he fired a wild burst with his Schmeisser and yelled:
`
Alarm
...
alarm
...
stand
to
,
here
come
the
Tommies
!
'
Clasping
his hand over his nose and keeping his mouth tightly shut, he slid down the rock into the smoke. For a moment or two he blundered blindly around in the fog while Metzger bolted for the safety of the Twin Tits. Then Schulze spotted the stove. Ignoring the leaping flames, he grabbed the big pot in which the cutlets were roasting. A second later he was running towards his own position, laughing till the tears ran down his face. The cutlets were his.
`My
God, Schulze,' von Dodenburg said happily, munching the rather undercooked meat, grease dribbling down the blond stubble on his chin, 'you're a genius - an absolute genius.'
`Thank
you, sir.'
`Yes,'
von Dodenburg went on. 'You're the kind of chap, Schulze, who would very probably stumble over a case of champus -
French
champus - in the middle of the Sahara Desert.'
`I'd
rather stumble over a piece of ass up here at the moment, sir, if you don't mind.' Schulze belched and threw his bone away. 'All that meat does something for the inner pigdog.' He wiped the grease off his lips. 'Puts lead in your pencil. Makes your mind start wandering to higher things - dames, dames with big lungs on them and minus their drawers.'
Von
Dodenburg laughed. He wiped his greasy hands on the piece of rag he used to clean his Schmeisser.
`Wonder
what they'll be eating at the Twin Tits this day?' he said reflectively, picking at a piece of meat which had lodged between his teeth.
`Giddiup
soup, I shouldn't be surprised. One of the mules got hit yesterday night bringing up the ammo.'
Von
Dodenburg leaned back and allowed the warming rays of the sun to play on his face.
`I'm
afraid Lieutenant Kriecher will be in trouble again. The Colonel made him responsible for the mules' safety.' He grinned. 'Between you and me, he said that was all Kriecher was good for – one horse's arse to look after other horses' arses, were his words.'
Schulze
shook his head.
`Don't
think so, sir. The Creeper will be the last man to get into trouble, if you ask me.'
`What
do you mean?'