Authors: Sven Hassel
‘“Bow-wow!” went the dog, an’ brought its well-furnished jaws together on the general’s fat rump.
‘The general gave out a shrill scream, which did not quite fit in with all the medals for bravery which decorated his broad chest. He lost his grip on the gate and sprang into cover in the garden faster than any recruit. The cast-iron gate banged to behind him with a crash which almost made the Prussian eagles’ beaks fall off.
‘He looked cautiously out into the road to see who it was
that had taken out half the seat of his trousers, but there was nobody in sight. As you probably know, these Rottweilers’re dreadfully cunning devils, and this one was not a backward member of its race. It’d nipped smartly in by the back door to continue its attack from a more strategically advantageous point.
‘This time the battle was rougher. Not only the rest of the arsepart of the general’s trousers went, but also a nice chunk o’ the general’s rump. Everything stopped though, as suddenly as it had begun, when the dog’s owner turned up and called it to him with a whistle.
‘“
Good
dog!” he said, patting the black devil. The general got slowly up on to his riding boots. “This is going to be an expensive matter for you, sir,” he fumed. He rubbed his wounded rump: “That wild beast there is going to be
shot
!”
‘“You don’t seem to know who I am,” roared the dog-owner, straightening himself up, “but you soon will do! I hope you’re not off to the front line right away, general?”
‘The general began to shout an’ scream then, and asked what business it was of a civilian’s what the German Army’s generals did.
‘“Who knows? Perhaps you are also an enemy spy?” he said, threateningly. Whole regiments of execution squads started glitterin’ in his eyes, and a smile curled his lips: “I can tell you, sir, that that kind of question is one which often gives away the enemy espionage system. Let us take an example. If I was careless enough to tell you that I was going to the front on Tuesday the enemy would know immediately that 191 Jaeger Division was going into the line. One or two more of such innocent questions, and the enemy General Staff would know exactly where that division would be employed.” The general pointed accusingly at the dog’s owner: “And because of your regular activities, Herr Mole, the enemy already knows all about the 191st. That the men are from Sibengebirge, from which district come useful soldiers, faithful and dutiful, born infantrymen,
who could be called to the flag as fifteen or sixteen-year-olds if need be. They do not have a lot of brains, but for that very reason they make extremely good infantrymen. To be sure there are not many of them left alive after a war, but that proves that that part of the country produces good soldiers. When the enemy General Staff gains possession of information of that nature, they immediately strengthen their lines, not with
one
division but with
three
elite divisions. If it had been a Berlin division, or a beerbarrel crowd from Munich, then firing off their mortars a little would have been enough to send such asphalt cowboys back to their beer-halls.
‘“I saw through you straightaway, Herr Spy,” he continued. “I am the Chief of the Military Counterespionage Service here in VI Military District, and I have sent a great many of your kind in front of the military courts. One careless question, and you villains stand tied to the execution post.
You
are under
arrest
!”
‘“Now you’ve gone too far, general! You’re not going to get away with that,” shouted the dog’s owner. “I’m a party member in good standing, and with a low number! I was in Munich.” He banged himself on the chest. “I have sat alongside the Führer
twice
in
Bürgerbrau
. What d’you say to
that
?” He gave the Nazi salute, with fingertips exactly aligned with his right eye. “In 1923 I marched in the third row behind His Excellency General Ludendorff! I am a holder of the Blood Order! I’m not that easy to muck about with! I’d also like to know since when Army generals have started stealing bicycles? Do you know what it costs to steal a bike?”
‘“Are you stark, staring mad?” roared the general, rattling his sabre and spurs.
‘“No, but you are,” said the dog-owner, with a sardonic smile.
‘By this time a crowd had collected outside the general’s eagle-decorated garden gate. The inquisitive stretched their necks to see what was going on, and laughed with pleasure.
‘This disturbed the combatants, of course, so the general invited the Rottweiler and its owner inside, to continue the discussion without outside advice and interference.
‘The dog’s owner wasn’t a normal, stupid person, and could talk nicely about most anythin’. He dealt on the Stock Market, too, and knew a good deal about foreign currency. He thought it would be only polite to introduce himself.
‘“Strange,” he bowed, clicked his heels and lifted his right arm. “Potato wholesaler, and barley exporter: party member; holder of the Blood Order. Heil Hitler!”
‘The general growled a bit, but didn’t consider it was necessary to introduce himself. He thought that any bloody fool, including a potato wholesaler living in that Westphalian hole in the ground Paderborn, ought to know who he was. It was people’s duty, he believed, to know him!
‘“Be so good as to take a seat, Herr Strange,” he barked, with false friendliness, offering a gold cigarette-case with the German eagle engraved on it.
‘Party member and potato wholesaler Strange scrabbled a cigarette out of the case, but had to light it himself.
‘Anybody can understand that,’ smiles Porta. ‘Where’d we all be if this dog-lovin’ spud-basher was only a demobbed Leutnant of the reserve who’d been sent home because he had his party-book in order. Or, maybe, an Unteroffizier, or even a lousy rifle-carrier? That low, a German Army general couldn’t ever sink. Better make it look like forget-fulness on his part.
‘For a bit everything was quiet. Like the lull they talk about before the storm. They just sat there watching the smoke spirallin’ up from the general’s cigar and the party member’s cigarette.
‘“Have you thought, general,” the potato feller started off at last, “that it’s about time we got moving and
won
this war? We can’t goon overlooking slackness. Pota to exports’ve practically stopped.” He looked challengingly from the
general to the Rottweiler. The dog had stretched itself out comfortably on a lionskin in front of the fire. It was all that was left of a poor rheumatic lion the general’d shot in Africa while he was hangin’ around waiting for World War II to start up. “Things look black to me, general,
very
black. Out of the few loads of potatoes one can get hold of, from good connections, 50 per cent have to be handed over to the damned Army, who pay bottom prices. Prices set by a group of sour-gutted civil servants in the Ministry of Food. People who can’t even write proper German, but use a kind of idiotic civil servant language of their own. They should leave everything to the SS Reichführer and throw the remains of the rotten monarchy on to the muckheap! It makes a man despair of life, general! I have written to the Führer, but received no reply. We win and win, but none of our victories
get
us anywhere! Barley I never see any more and potatoes are fewer and fewer. Give us a great, blood-soaked victory, and get it over with so’s a man can begin to do business again. Like we were forced to do by Jewish high finance before the war. Look at the great victory we’re winning just at present! The whole of 4 Panzer Army’s sitting down in the woods along the Oka, where they’re letting themselves get shot up by the Bolshie guns, and regiments, battalions and companies are being smashed to bits and spread out all over the delta marshes. And d’you know what people say? They say that no rnatter which way you look the whole sky is on fire. In every direction. Villages and towns are being laid waste too, so as there’s nothing left of them but piles of ashes. But that’s not what I’m really bothered about. War’s
like
that. Tough and manly. Not for namby-pamby people! I learnt all about that in my twelve months at the volunteer school!” As he said this the party member an’ spud dealer jumped to his feet and bowed politely to the general.
‘“Beg humbly to report, Herr General, sir, one-year volunteer Strange, Leonhard, 33, Prussian Infantry Regiment,
6th Brandenburgers, discharged from active service by reason of potatoes and barley!” He fell back into the leather chair, a gruesome, antique monster with a back so uncomfortable that it was something only a masochist could love.
‘“I don’t complain at guns being fired off, towns being burned and people being killed. That’s what war’s
about
!” “Spuds an’ barley,” he went on, waving a fresh cigarette around in the air, “but the worst thing is those accursed artillerymen, that go shooting one distillery after another into ruins. What have the distilleries done to
them
to make them turn their rotten cannons on the
distilleries
?” He lugged a thick note-book from his pocket, shaking with anger. “Listen to this, general. I’m beginning to feel this whole world war is aimed specially at ruining me!” He wets his fingers and turns the pages. “‘Red Star’ at Kiev – took 185 tons of potatoes – razed to the ground;’Fatherland’s Oasis’, Minsk – 200 tons potatotes
and
100 tons barley – shot to bits. These
untermensch
owe me for the last two deliveries! What about the insurance?
Force Majeure
! Not a sausage back for all those high premiums!
‘“Will the mighty German Army cover my losses? Excuse me, general, it was just a passing thought. Here’s the ‘Golden Eagle’, Kharkov – good solid business – runs night and day the year round – the manager was a lovely chap. His wife’s name was Wilma – always off to some spa she was. Nerves, general. Easy for
them
to get shot – nerves I mean – when you live in the Soviet Union, where the state can decide what colour your bedroom wallpaper’s got to be, and can clip its greedy fingers into your pockets whenever it gets the fancy. Almost as bad as it is here!” Herr Strange put his hands to his mouth in fear, as he realized what he had said. He jumped from the masochist chair in confusion, stuck out his right arm and roared: “Heil Hitler!”
‘The general gave a forced smile, and looked out of the corners of his eyes at the Rottweiler on the lionskin. It
seemed to be amused at its master’s disloyal remark. All its teeth were showing.
‘“The day before yesterday I found, to my dismay, that eight distilleries had been burned to the ground. Honestly, general, if it goes on like this much longer, we’ll
all
go bankrupt, and
I’ll
be totally ruined. Who in the devil’s name’ll buy potatoes and barley when there’s no distilleries left?”
‘“Aren’t you looking a little too much on the dark side of things?” asked the general, and suggested their taking a glass of something. “Our position is quite good just now. The German divisions are rolling victoriously over the Russian steppe. I will admit that a distillery goes up now and then, but we must all make some sacrifices to achieve the final victory.”
‘“It’s time it arrived; preferably before those Red dummies shoot the last distillery to pieces!” sighed the potato-dealer sorrowfully.
‘With a commanding wave of his hand the general ordered his visitor over to the war-map which decorated the wall alongside the fireplace.
‘“See here, Herr Strange. Here we have the Dniepr and a little further back the Volga, the lifeline of Russia. We have only to get a short way over on the other side of
that
and our punishment expedition to the east is over. And here we have Africa. As you can see, it is no great distance to Cairo!”
‘“How many kilometres?” asked Strange, practically. He picked up a match-stick, which represented about a thousand kilometres on the map.
‘“
That
is of no importance,” shouted the general, furiously, knocking the match from his visitor’s hand. “As I say, it is not far, and now at this very moment Field-Marshal Rommel is preparing to make a decisive strike through the weak British lines. The German war banner will soon wave over the minarets of Cairo. The rest is merely a question of local mopping-up operations. The
Egyptians and the Arabs have always sympathized with us Germans. It can be only a matter of hours before they turn openly against the British terror regime and place themselves under the protection of our just, German leadership. Throughout Africa you hear the call ‘
Heim ins Reich
!’
*
”He sweeps his pointer from Cairo to the mountain ranges of the Caucasus and describes a graceful loop around the whole of Georgia. “Here the German war-machine rolls forward, crushing all that stands in its path.” The pointer hops over to Burma. “And here the Imperial Japanese Army is smashing the British and American forces. The day is fast approaching when the victorious German and Japanese forces will join hands across the northern border of India. A masterstroke of strategy. What do you say to that, Herr Strange? Can you now see the Final Victory?”
‘The potato-dealer cleared his throat, passed his hand across his face and ran his eyes over the large war-map. At the same time he couldn’t help remembering all the wrecked distilleries.
‘“Yes it looks all very nice, general,” he admitted. “We’re going forward a lot!” He seemed to consider a little, judging the distance between Burma and the Caucasus. “But we’ve retreated in a lot of places, too,” he remarked, weakly. He put out a stiff, cautious finger and touched the chart. He ran his finger backwards and forwards at the western end of Georgia. “The Georgian Army road is unfortunately no longer in our hands,” he said, speaking as if he himself had personally pulled the road out from under the feet of the German Army. He was getting close to high treason. “And what about Moscow, general? Even with the best of German eyes I don’t think anybody could see a lot of Moscow from where our boys are at!”