Authors: Sven Hassel
That was a scene that took place in Paris, one night in August 1944.
NIGHT'S JOURNEY ACROSS PARIS
The night was black. There was a pale slip of a moon, somewhere above the clouds, but the sky was generally overcast and not a single star was showing.
The parish of Malakoff was dark and silent. The cats, advancing warlike upon each other in the middle of the road, seemed the only living creatures there. They paused to consider us a while, with that look of contempt that seems the natural expression of all cats, then hurled themselves screaming upon each other. We gave them a wide berth.
Two members of the Feldgendarmerie suddenly appeared on bicycles. They turned their heads to look at us as they passed, obviously a trifle suspicious, and Little John raised his fist and shook it at them.
'None of that!' snapped the Old Man. 'Just remember that for once in a while we're out to avoid trouble, not go running after it.'
Little John gazed broodingly after the two cyclists.
'Any nonsense from those shits and I'll punch their teeth in for them.'
'For God's sake!' snapped Barcelona. 'Are you coming or aren't you?'
We caught up with Porta at the corner of the rue Berenger and the rue du Nord.
'You sure you know where the bloody thing is?' demanded Gunther. 'Every damned hovel looks alike in this place. I don't feel in the mood for a circular tour.'
'I know where it is,' said Porta. He turned slowly round, taking his bearings in the darkness. 'It's not far from here. I remember we came in before by that road opposite. Over by the bistro, a man was shot. I remember the bistro. Let's see if there's any trace of the bullets on the wall.'
'Dozens of 'em,' said Gunther, having crossed over and examined the place.
'Really?'
Porta, too, had to cross the road and look. The Old Man made an impatient gesture.
'Can't we get a move on?'
'I'm not stopping you,' said Porta. 'Who invited you on this trip, anyway? Hang on a second.'
He ducked down, disappeared under a low archway arid was gone for several minutes.
'Christ almighty!' Barcelona cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. 'Where's the fool gone now? I wish I hadn't been talked into this thing in the first place. Why can't we behave like everyone else? Why do we always have to be out looking for trouble?'
'Search me,' said the Old Man, glumly.
'Why doesn't someone go and drag him out?' I complained, having no intention of doing it myself.
Porta reappeared, grinning smugly.
'Just been casting my eye over the women of the district.' He gave Little John a lewd wink. 'Tomorrow evening, outside the cinema, place Clichy. You can think of me.
'You bastard!' said Little John, automatically. 'I bet you never even asked her if she had a pal!'
'Look, are we going or aren't we?' I demanded.
'And what's more to the point is
where
are we going?' grumbled the Old Man.
'Right in here,' said Porta, ducking under the low archway. 'Follow me, lads, and keep your mouths sewn up. I've spied out the land, you can trust your Uncle Porta... Come on, Sven, don't lag behind! Belt up and stick close.'
We followed him single file under the low archway, along a narrow muddied path and up to a ramshackle barn.
'In there?' hissed Barcelona.
'In there,' confirmed Porta.
He pulled out his torch and gestured to the rest of us.
'Come and have a gander!'
We pressed our noses against the grimy window. Gregor gave a low whistle of astonishment.
'Strike me, I didn't know they could grow to that size! It's like a bloody barrage balloon!'
Little John dug deep into his pocket and produced a large hammer.
'Right between the eyes,' he said longingly. 'It'll go down like a log. Never know what hit it.'
'Don't start going bloody berserk,' begged the Old Man. 'There are people sleeping all round us. We don't want to wake up the whole neighbourhood.'
'Where's the way into this place?' asked Barcelona.
'Round here.'
Porta led us up to the door, which was old and heavy and couldn't have been oiled for centuries. The sound of its creaking echoed and re-echoed through the night. Somewhere nearby a tom-cat began howling. We stood glued to the spot, ears pinned back, breath held. No one came to investigate. The tom-cat galloped past us in the dark and its howls gradually disappeared down the street. There was silence again.
'Come on!'
Little John led the way in to the barn, his hammer at the ready. The rest of us followed rather cautiously behind him. Quite suddenly, there was the sound of a thousand tin cans plunging down a staircase. Little John gave aloud yell and followed it up with a series of his favourite oaths. He surged into the torchlight and we saw that he was splattered from head to foot by some evil-smelling and repulsive-looking mixture.
'What happened?' I said.
Little John turned and roared.
'Some cunt left a bucket of shit lying around! '
He swung a foot angrily and sent the offending bucket, now empty, clattering across to the far wall. It rebounded and Little John aimed another almighty kick at it. We all yelled at him in chorus to shut up, but it was far too late, the damage had already been done. The Legionnaire whipped out his revolver and ran back towards the street. We could hear the sound of heavy footsteps.
'Wer da? Wer da?' came the cry, in the harsh accents of Saxony.
'Hell's bells!' bawled Little John. 'A bloody Saxon!'
He charged past the rest of us, caught up with the Legionnaire, elbowed him out of the way and crashed headlong into a couple of soldiers, armed with rifles, who were on their way down the narrow passage. Little John in a temper, covered in filth, wet and stinking, was no amiable proposition. The soldiers went down like ninepins before him. The Legionnaire and his revolver were unnecessary. Porta stood cackling as the two men were rolled this way and that in the thick mud and finally fled for their lives, black and unrecognizable, leaving behind them a couple of helmets and one torn collar.
'Now what?' said the Old Man, dryly.
Little John snatched up his hammer and turned back towards the barn. We stood grouped at the entrance as he plunged inside. We saw the flash of the hammer in the darkness. It was followed by a savage scream. Immediately we scattered. I flung myself flat to the ground, my hands over my head, but the sharp cries continued. Barcelona and Heide almost tripped each other up, heading back to the street. The Legionnaire leaped on to a low wall and at once jammed his gun into his shoulder and prepared to shoot down all-comers. The screams began to alternate with the sound of Little John steadily swearing. And now there were heavy footsteps and men running, and peering up from my hiding-place in the angle of the sloping roof and the floor I saw a couple of privates from an engineering corps burst through the door with rifles at the ready. They were closely followed by a corporal flashing a torch and shouting blue murder about saboteurs and thieves.
Renewed curses from Little John. The torch suddenly went out, someone yelled, there were thumps and thuds, the sound of a shot, general panic and confusion. Someone began shouting for help. I switched on my own torch and scrambled carefully to my feet. The barn seemed suddenly to be full of men The corporal had disappeared and one of the privates was making a dive for the door. As I watched, a rifle came flying through the air and caught him on the back of the head. He fell like a stone, to the accompaniment of Porta's delighted cackle.
'What a load of shits!' said Little John. 'Beats me why some people can't mind their own business and keep their big noses out of things that don't concern them. 'He was seated astride a vast fat sow, which appeared to be dead. He tickled the creature tenderly behind one pink ear. 'Brave girl,' he said, approvingly. 'You put up a good fight.'
With no little difficulty and much loss of temper we managed to drag the animal out on to the road.
'You'll find it easier,' advised Porta, 'if you hold her by the hoof.'
'Belt up!' I said, fiercely. After only five minutes of battling with pig I felt a strong inclination to bash some-one' head in. 'Why didn't we bring a knife and carve the flaming thing up here and now?'
'It's a skilled job!' said Porta, indignantly. 'You want to spoil the cut?'
'I wish my old General could see this,' said Gregor. 'He'd have died laughing. Did I ever tell you about the time he----'
'Yes,' said Little John, uncompromisingly.
'Did I? Did I really? Are you sure?'
'Bugger the General!' I snapped. 'Let's just concentrate on getting this pissing pig back home!'
In the end, three of us succeeded in hoisting the creature on to our shoulders. We held it as if it were a coffin and we proceeded single file along the road with measured steps like pall bearers. For some time we had the roads to ourselves, but as we neared the Porte de Vanves there was a fair amount of traffic and it was there that we had our first setback. It was tiring work, carrying that mountainous pig, and I suppose we had grown careless and slackened our hold, but Barcelona stumbled, the carcass slipped, and before we could stop it it had fallen from our grasp and gone rolling out into the centre of the road.
'You fools!' screamed Porta, with visions, no doubt, of his next six weeks' dinner being flattened beneath the wheels of a lorry. 'Get it back! '
He went dancing out into the traffic, waving his arms and yelling, as a Kubel pulled to a halt with its front bumper almost touching the pig. The door opened and a captain jumped out.
'What the devil's this?' he cried, prodding the pig with his foot.
It was Gunther, once again, who came to the rescue. He stepped out smartly and saluted. The Captain, like most people, was visibly taken aback at the sight of him.
'We're on street patrol, sir. It's our job to make sure the roads are kept clear and the traffic keeps moving. This-- this carcass'--he jabbed a deprecating toe art our precious pig--'had been thrown down in the middle of a major road by French partisans. Doubtless hoping to cause a traffic jam and give us extra work.'
The Captain nodded, sagely.
'Doubtless,' he agreed.
He looked down at the pig. A slight furrow appeared in his brow.
'Where--ah--where are you taking the carcass?' he inquired, casually.
'Back to headquarters, sir.'
Gunther stared rather repressively at the Captain. Porta, sensing that he was not the only one who fancied roast pig, hastened to add the information that we had already reported the discovery of a carcass. A carcass, therefore, had to be produced.
'Of course.' The Captain stiffened his back. 'Of course... Very well, get it cleared out of the way! Hurry up, man, you're holding all the traffic up!
The pig was hastily dragged to the kerbside, hoisted back on to our shoulders, and we went on our way. It seemed that the journey would never, end. A large pig is one of the least convenient animals to transport. By the time we reached the Boulevard Saint-Michel we were all tired and irritable, squabbling like kids, running with sweat and stinking of pig. The Old Man remarked every five minutes that you couldn't expect to carry a pig through the streets of Paris without drawing attention to yourself, and Heide kept up a non-stop monologue on the theme of 'we should never have tried to do it in the first place'. Since neither of them had to help carry the pig, their remarks were largely ignored.
'There's a couple of French cops ahead,' announced Barcelona.
I peered ahead, but couldn't see anything on account of the pig, and being the second of the pall-bearers with all Barcelona's bulk in front of me.
'What are they doing?'
'Waiting for us, by the looks of things. They're just standing there, waiting for us...One of 'em's undoing his holster. Not taking his revolver out yet, but he looks as if he's just itching to shoot someone.'
I grunted. If there was going to be any shooting, I decided, we must take shelter behind the pig. But it didn't come to that. The Legionnaire strolled forward towards the first of the policemen, very friendly and casually smoking a cigarette.
'Bonsoir, monsieur l'agent!'
The man raised an eyebrow at the sound of a French voice; then raised another eyebrow at the sight of the Croix de Guerre pinned on the Legionnaire's breast.
'Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?' (What's that?) he demanded, pointing to the pig.
'Marche noir confisque,' (Confiscated black market goods), replied the Legionnaire, smoothly.
The second of the policemen had dropped back a little, but was still fingering his revolver. The Legionnaire pulled out his cigarettes.
'Have a fag?'
The man hesitated, then leaned forward to take one. Quick as a flash, in one swift movement, the Legionnaire had flung him to the ground. His bicycle fell clattering after him. His colleague had immediately turned and ridden off, not stopping to use his revolver, but before he had gone very far his front wheel had skidded on a patch of grease, the man had gone head-first over the handlebars, crashed through a barrier of warning lights and signs saying 'Diversion', and gone straight down a hole in the road. He lay comfortably curled up at the foot of it and we placed a diversion sign across the top of the hole and left it there.
'While we're about it,' I suggested, 'can't we make use of the bicycles?'
After the usual arguments and displays of aggression we settled on a way of carrying the pig that would relieve our aching shoulders. We fixed a couple of carbines crossways between the two bikes, from crossbar to crossbar, and laid the pig over the top of them. It was then comparatively simple for two people to ride the bikes, holding the pig steady with one hand, and those following behind on foot would just have to run if they wanted to keep up.
Rue des Ecoles. A troop carrier, full to overflowing with field police, was slowly approaching. The Old Man groaned.
'I've had just about as much as I can take,' he muttered. 'This is all I needed!'
We merged discreetly into the shadows at the side of the road. The vehicle pulled to a halt some way further off. Why they had stopped there, whether they had caught sight of us, we had no idea. We could only wait and watch.