Authors: Sven Hassel
‘“Shiverin’ pig”?’ asks ‘Frostlips’, blankly.
‘Jellied pork,’ nods the corporal, solemnly, throwing his arms wide. ‘The crazy bastard
hales
“shiverin’ pig”! They
say he killed his wife for givin’ it him every day.’
A very young soldier with a heavy blood-soaked bandage round his neck, and with eyes which bug out like a frog’s, drops down, out of breath, between Porta and Tiny.
‘I’ve got such a headache,’ he moans. ‘All that
noise
!’ He lifts his
Kalashnikov
and empties its 100-shot magazine at the spot where he thinks the mad captain has taken cover.
‘Come on! We’ll take care of him,’ shouts the Old Man, furiously. ‘I want to get some
peace
, dammit!’
Singly, in short crouching rushes, we move towards the building. In between the chatter of the mpis and MGs we, hear shouts coming from the third floor.
‘Down with the counter-revolutionaries! Death to the Trotskyite traitors!’
‘That mad bleeder’s got shit where’is brains ought to be!’ growls Tiny angrily. He runs across the market-place at top speed, tracer whistling around him.
‘You meet these flag-waggin’ idiots everywhere these days,’ says Porta, hitching his equipment to a more comfortable position. ‘They’ve got the national rag hangin’ out of both their ears and their arseholes, just so’s nobody’ll make the mistake of thinking they don’t love the lousy Fatherland!’
In a shouting, confused mob we land in a deep gutter which gives us some cover.
‘This the first time you been on a job like this?’ asks ‘Frostlips’, with a grin. ‘Ever been with the cops?’
‘Only arrested by ’em,’ answers Porta. ‘I’ve never been out shooting with them!’
‘Then you’ve missed a lot,’ grins ‘Frostlips’, sending a couple of shots from his
Tokarev
up at the third floor. ‘Blokes like him up there I know all about! See here, the end of the show’s nearly always the same! They bang away till they get tired of playing. Then they put the cannon in their mouth and send it off with their big toe!’
‘That one with the big toe ain’t easy,’ says Porta, knowingly. ‘Usually goes wrong and they live on with half their nut blown off.’
‘Right!’ grins ‘Frostlips’, ‘and then they’re on a forced diet for the rest of their lives! No pork! No Minis!’
‘Down with Trotsky.’ comes a roar from the top of the stairs. The captain has opened the battle for control of the house.
He keeps us pinned down on the landing for over an hour.
‘He must have enough ammo for a whole corps,’ mumbles Porta, shaking his head. He presses himself close to the wall as a salvo from above smashes in the door of an apartment.
‘Why the hell did we have to stop here, anyway?’ the Old Man turns to the Commissar. ‘If only we’d gone on! This caper is pure madness!’
Now the situation has got completely out of hand. 131 gun-crazy German and Russian soldiers literally shoot to pieces the building which the mad captain has chosen for the scene of his last battle.
‘He’s switched on the lights,’ screams the young corporal with the bug-eyes. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here! That mad bastard’s put the lights on!’
‘He’s got us now,’ shouts ‘Frostlips’, in terror. He tries to creep down the stairs backwards, but a couple of shots from above pin him down where he is.
‘He can stay there and put holes in the lot of us, easy as pie,’ roars Porta, getting even closer to the wall.
‘Put the bleedin’ light out,’ shouts Tiny, ‘before that dummy shoots our ’eads off!’
21 automatic weapons are aimed at the staircase light. On. the films one shot would have been enough. But it is not like that in real life, and we feel the fear of death creeping up to the very roots of our hair.
Several hundred shots are fired. The ceiling and walls hang in shreds. We cough at the chalky powder filling the air and the acrid smell of cordite.
‘You’re all mad!’ says the Old Man. getting to his feet and stepping across Porta and the Commissar, who are lying with their machine-pistols in firing position.
‘The lights,’ babbles the young corporal. ‘That crazy bastard can
see
us!’
‘God help him when I get hold of him,’ promises a fat sergeant, picking at a jammed cartridge.
‘We’ll ’ave to cool that barmy bleeder to get ’im out of
’ere,’ hisses Tiny, his finger curling itself reflexively on the trigger of his mpi.
The Old Man edges along close to the battered wall, keeping a careful eye on the staircase opening. When he reaches the fuse-box he calmly reaches up and screws the fuses out of their sockets.
‘Wow!’ says Porta, in surprise. ‘Why didn’t we think about that long ago? That’s the army for you! Why do it the easy way when there’s a hard way?’
There is a bang and a flame shoots out of the primitive fuse-box.
The young corporal gives out a high screech, and almost falls down the stairs. He thinks they are throwing grenades.
A hysterical burst sprays the staircase. Bullets chisel away at the handrail.
21 mpi muzzles are directed at the madman. Muzzle-flashes light up the stairs. The noise is terrific.
A heavy object whirls down from the top landing, taking the handrail with it. With a sickening thump it lands at the bottom of the stairwell. Blood splashes up on to us.
‘Looks like a plate of “shiverin’ pig” himself now,’ says Tiny. He stand up and swings his mpi up on his shoulder.
‘Get him out of here!’ orders the Commissar, making a grimace.
There are crowds in the street. All the umbrella people are back, and have brought their children with them. The fathers hold them up over their heads to let them see the body, which is being carried out by four supply soldiers. Some give a cheer.
We go back with the Russians to the wrecked canteen. Porta has found a cauldron filled with
Bortsch-koop
*
. He adds a few things to it, which make it even tastier, and soon the whole canteen smells beautifully of meat soup.
Porta and a sergeant go out after supplies. There is a wild argument over a case of mutton sausages which the sergeant refuses to hand over without a requisition. The Commissar signs one gladly, and gives it all kinds of official stamps.
Now the sergeant is free of responsibility, and Porta can have anything he wants. But when he comes back carrying two large baskets of eggs the Old Man protests. He can see what could happen with eggs inside a tank.
‘You’re out of your bloody head!’ shouts Porta, angrily. ‘Wait till I do you Greek
Musaka
. Then you’ll be glad I brought the eggs along!’
‘Do you not use eggplants –
aubergine sautée
?’ asks the Legionnaire, astonished. ‘I have never heard one uses eggs!’
‘There’s sure to be a lot you haven’t heard, while you were soddin’ about in the desert shooting the arse off the Arabs, ‘Porta jeers. He hands the basket of eggs to Tiny. ‘When I say, I make
Musaka
with eggs then I
mean
I make
Musaka
with eggs! Now all we need is a bit of minced beef, some onions and tomatoes. Butter we’ve got!’
The Old Man gives in, but demands that Porta clean up the waggon if the eggs do get smashed.
Tiny is having a row with a supply sergeant. First the sergeant kicks him on the ankle and then he hits him over the knee with a club. Tiny makes the V-sign. ‘
Pig
!’ he yells and pushes his fingers hard into the sergeant’s eyes. The man runs off screaming, and goes straight into a wall he cannot see.
‘Bleedin’ mad lot, these Russians!’ says Tiny, sitting down to take the cards from Porta. ‘’Oo’s got all the money, then?’ he asks, kissing the cards. ‘It ain’t me, that’s for sure!’
You have to hate to he a good soldier in wartime. If you cannot hate whole-heartedly, you cannot kill. Hate is the strongest energy source in a human being
.
Sven Hassel
‘
It’s all up!’ said the Feldwebel brusquely, pointing at the road-block in front of them
.
‘
Turn right!’ ordered the major. His left uniform sleeve waved emptily in the breeze
.
‘
It’s all over, sir,’ grinned the driver. ‘They’ll mow us down if we try to get away
!’
The major fumbled his pistol from its holster, and prepared to jump from the Kübel. He stopped with a jerk. Machine-gunfire kicked up the dry earth in front of and behind the car. The driver and the Feldwebel jumped out immediately, and raised their hands above their heads
.
Five Russians came out from the trees
.
‘Tovaritsch,’
shouted the Feldwebel, and waved a piece of something white. He fell forward on his face in the dust of the country road
.
The driver ran off to one side, but stopped suddenly and went down
.
Muzzle-flashes spurted from the five
Kalashnikovs.
The major was knocked out of the Kübel. His face broken in, his chest split open in an explosion of shredded cloth and flesh
.
The three wounded soldiers in the back of the car slumped down in a fountain of blood
.
‘Job Tvojemadj,’
laughed the youngest of the Russians, as they poured petrol over the bodies
.
When the petrol-can was empty, the sergeant threw a hand-grenade into the car. It became a flaming bonfire. They stood for a while watching the burning Kübel, then turned and sauntered back into the woods
.
‘Germania
kaputt
,’
grinned the corporal, and lighted a papyrus
.
*
Restaurant
*
Ruki irrrh
!: Hands up!
*
Bortsch-koop
:Russian soup
The captain, who is big, and has a face which resembles what a Neanderthal Man must have looked like, pushes us over towards the guard-room wall.
‘
Propusk
,’ he growls, extending a demanding policeman’s hand towards us. As he does so his tongue suddenly protrudes from his mouth, and the beginning of a scream dies away in a horrible rattle.
‘Come death, come . . .’ hums the Legionnaire, whipping his garrotting wire from around the dead man’s throat,
The Old Man hurries us on.
Silently we go up over the narrow wall, to come in from behind the other guards before they can sound the alarm.
Igor is over at the cable-box, as quick as a cat. Fat sparks shower down as his cutter bites into them. In only a few seconds of action the Vladimir prison is cut off entirely from the outside world.
With machine-pistols at the ready we dash towards the guard quarters. Tiny is in the lead. He swings a
Nagan
above his head in true policeman style.
‘Come on out with your hands in the air!’ he roars, in a Chief of Police voice.
‘Idiot!’ snarls Porta. ‘It’s not in the plan, the gold-robbers savin’ that! That’s what the OGPU says to the robbers!’
Tiny ignores him. He has become paranoiac since we put him into a Russian warrant officer’s uniform.
‘Come out of there!’ he shouts, even louder than before. ‘Or we’ll shoot your heads off!’
‘Have you gone
mad
?’ rages Barcelona, kicking open the door of the guard-room. ‘That’s queer!’ he cries.
‘What’s queer?’ asks the Old Man.
‘There ain’t a soul in here,’ says Barcelona, in amazement.
‘D’you mean we’re in the wrong guard-house?’ cries Porta, shakily.
‘Out of the way,’ says Igor, pushing forward. ‘I threw a gas-grenade in here. Those boys are sleeping like never before.’
‘Here they are, all snoring,’ says Porta, jumping over-the counter. ‘Makes you sleepy, just to look at ’em!’
He yawns audibly, and drops down into a deep armchair.
‘Out, out!’ screams Igor, excitedly. ‘Are you mad? The gas is still working!’ He almost drags us out of the guard-room.
Porta brings up the rear, staggering and blowing like a whale.
‘Where are the gas-cylinders?’ asks the Commissar. He comes down the broad prison gangway like a second Trotsky with a
Nagan
held in his hand.
‘Here!’ grins Tiny quietly, pushing a serving-trolley in front of him loaded with gas-cylinders.
‘Don’t drop those!’ the Commissar warns him. ‘That gas works faster than an iron bar across the head.’
‘Yes, we saw that just now,’ answers Porta. ‘I still feel like Snow White in the glass box!’
‘I don’t bloody like this,’ mumbles Barcelona. ‘Have you thought what they’ll do to us, if they get hold of us?’
‘All the things the censors cut out of the horror films,’ answers Porta, with a short laugh.
A woman soldier waving a
Tokarev
rushes out of the kitchen.
Igor jumps on her and places his.
Nagan
between her eyes. There is a hollow crack and the wall behind her head is covered with blood, brains and bone splinters.
Two jailers come out from the south wing of the prison, and stare blankly at Igor standing there with the
Nagan
in his hand.