Court Martial (18 page)

'"No, I don't want to meet him," "Pots an' pans"
gave
in, nervously. "It was only a bit of fun!"

'"Oh you're a
real
funny man,
you
are, you lecherous bastard you," she shrilled, resentfully. "My breasts are my bank-book, boy!"

'"Pots an' pans" swallowed
a
couple of times, and even though his think-tank's a bit leaky he doesn't have to knock his head on the wall to get it working. And the thought of "Big Willy" resting and building up his strength somewhere under the roof of the "Tomcat" made him think faster. He pulled 500 marks from his pocket and asked if they couldn't help the tooth-marks to go away quicker.

'"You a Yid or somethin'?" asks the "Cock-Swallower". "Circumcised, are you? I don't want no trouble with the bloody race coppers!"

'"Pots an' pans" looked insulted and whipped out his John Thomas. It was an ordinary sort of German prick. Then the "Cock-Swallower" started moving towards the door and he got the message. A new 500 mark note appeared in his hand.

'"Took you a while," she smiled, pushing the note under the washbasin. The thought of it being slush money never crossed her mind. She crept willingly into bed with "Pots an' Pans".

'"
Bon appetit
, little cannibal," she trilled. "Chew all you want an' for another 200 you can smack too. I give my customers what they want. But everything's got its price tag!"

'She screamed with pleasure as he belaboured her buttocks with his belt, and when he bit her on the inside of her thigh she meowed like a she-cat being gone over by two experienced toms.

'"I'll be back soon," he promised as he left, but she soon realised that had been a lie when the cops picked her up in the savings bank for trying to pass the two forged 500 mark notes. She, of course, denied any knowledge of it being slush but it made matters worse when they found a dud 200 mark note in her room. She went inside for quite a while and "Pots an' pans" was never heard of again.'

'It's hardly worth while living in Germany any more since we got this special kind of Socialism,' says Gregor. 'It used to be you could tell a rozzer to stand on one side and play cops an' robbers by himself. Nowadays they turn up in the middle of the night an'll tear you right off the top of a throbbin' quim. And if you don't confess immediately they flatten your face till you look like a bulldog, and you're nearly ready to start barking!'

'Outside Germany they call that a police state,' Porta grins, broadly. 'Constitutional and civil rights you can stick straight up a pensioned-off Reeperbalhn whore's arsehole!'

Tiny, who is eating bread and sugar, swallows a huge bite with some difficulty, and washes it down with a schnapps and a draught of beer. He lets out a long, rolling belch.

'Whatever 'appens,' he says, apathetically, 'you end up in David's Station, where they set you on a stool that's been polished to a 'igh gloss by 'undreds of tremblin' arseholes. Then they tell you what you can refuse to answer accordin' to paragraph piss an' shit. Also you can 'ave a defendin' lawyer, they say, but before you've got a soddin' line on what it is you've got a right to, they start up interrogatin' you enough to make God an' Mary's son Jesus confess 'e'd planned the latest bank robbery on Adolf 'Itler's Platz and shot the bonce off of the cashier because 'e was wearin' a red tie. Citizen's rights,' he hisses, contemptuously, 'much truth in 'em as in the bleedin' Bible! If your address is Sanct Pauli both the police and the citizens count
you
as bein' a dirty crook an' if they beat you up enough they might get a confession as to who it was committed the latest unsolved crime they're still playin' about with.
And
if you're really up shit creek in one of them sidestreets to Bernhard Nocht Strasse, there where the pros can only get theirselves fucked in total darkness, they don't even read the book to you but just set their fuckin' dogs after you to give 'em a bit of a lesson in rippin' out arseholes. Did you 'ear the latest? Wolf's 'ounds've chewed up another poor sod as couldn't pay up to that Mafia bastard!'

'They're wicked, those dogs. Chew on your arse without a second thought,' says Porta, disgustedly. 'I wouldn't
own
curs like that! Even if they spoke twelve languages and could write Sanscrit and knew the British and the Prussian drill-book for mounted troops forwards and backwards.'

'Them dogs are
devils
,' says Gregor, with hate in his voice. '
All
dogs are stupid. Just look at 'em. One of 'em starts to bark because some Jew-boy fly has pissed on his nose. Straight away some other four-legged dope answers him and then a third starts up. And they go
on
. All night if need be. And there's nothing
to
bark at. Just keeping everybody awake. God how I
hate
dogs! Every one of 'em ought to be poisoned, stuffed an' mounted on wheels so's the bloody dog-lovers could pull 'em round after 'em without them shittin' all over the streets.'

'Tell me,' Porta turns to Tiny, 'did Sieg pay up?'

''E laughed in me face and give me the message that you were on your way to the glass 'ouse and would only come out again in a 'orizontal position with twelve bullet 'oles in you,' answers Tiny, with a melancholy look on his face. 'If there'd not been four crooks alongside 'im at the time I'd 'ave smeared 'im all over the wall.'

'I'll smash that bastard's kneecaps,' rages Porta, savagely, 'and then his elbows just to make a job of it. I'll stuff him back up into his mother's German cunt before I've finished with him!'

'Let's knife the sod, an' shoot 'im afterwards,' suggests Tiny, wickedly. 'I
can't stand
untrustworthy people!'

Porta lifts one leg and lets a huge fart, which makes all the gentlemen over by the hut look at us reproachfully.

'Make sure you secure them properly,' the Old Man warns us, conscientiously.

'We had an execution in Grafenwohr where the ropes hadn't been secured properly and the condemned man ran round the execution ground like a chicken with his head cut off. What a scandal that was! Everybody panicked. The chaplain got the shock of his life when he saw the firing squad chasing the condemned man all over the execution square.'

'Good God,' cries Barcelona, aghast. 'Did he escape?'

'As I said, like a headless chicken flapping on the ground when you let go of it,' says the Old Man, impassively.

'Old man Attila would've rolled around in his saddle,' grins Porta.

'Ordinary people'd never ever understand it,' admits Tiny, shaking his head. 'It's unbelievable what can go on in the bleedin' Army. When I was post Gefreiter at Torgau, one Thursday mornin' we got the job of blowin' out some kind of a sailor. A queer sod 'e was who'd done a lot of
very
peculiar things in 'is lifetime. 'E'd started school at the age of seven an' managed to spend three years in the first class an' another three in the third. 'E went out in the fourth. 'E broke the German law as if 'e was workin' to a plan, 'is crime sheet was that long it'd've took a person six months to get through it. The court martial said to 'ave 'im shot but bein' a unusual sort of bloke they changed it to 'angin'. There was a staff Feldwebel from Torgau who was an expert at strangling people with a bit o' rope an' they give 'im the job.
Then
they found 'e'd got no neck to speak of. Shoulders and 'is neck was all one an' 'ow
can
you 'ang a man with no neck? Why else'd God
give
people necks, I ask you? Well the executioner an' the condemned man talked it over an' agreed to get the Navy to make a special rope for the job. An' the Feldwebel promised 'im 'e'd make a good quick job of it, without 'urtin" im.

'But that's where 'e made 'is mistake. The first try went wrong 'cause the rope wasn't tightened properly. Least that's what they
said
. The sailor slides out of the noose an' straight down through the trap when it opened. Not a scratch did 'e get. Bang 'e goes down to the bottom of the pit an' sits there cursin' an' swearin'.'

'He didn't hurt himself, I hope?' says Porta, solicitously.

No, no more'n 'e could climb up on to the scaffold again on 'is own. 'E was the least disturbed of the lot of us. Bawled out the staff Feldwebel for a clumsy fool who'd no idea 'ow to 'ang people. Next time the noose is pulled real tight an' even the condemned man 'imself says 'e's satisfied. But it didn't do no good. 'E slips out of it again like a fuckin' eel.

'"This lot's enough to kill off the strongest nigger as ever lived," shouts the sailor, as 'e climbs up on to the scaffold for the second time.

'The staff Feldwebel is full of excuses, an' the JAG man promises the sailor if it goes wrong a third time 'e gets a pardon. And believe it or not, 'e slips out again on the third go. The Feldwebel goes barmy an' runs around on the scaffold as if 'e was tryin' to bite 'imself in the arsehole. And before we could stop 'im 'e puts the noose round 'is own neck an' jumps gracefully down the 'ole. 'E was dead as a nit when we got to 'im. A beautiful, a perfect 'angin', carried out on 'imself.

'The chaplain talked in Latin to Gawd Almighty an' the JAG, the prosecutin' officer an' the defence officer went into a legal 'uddle, that nearly ended in fisticuffs. The sailor 'ad only been condemned to death once an' they'd already executed 'im three times in a row. It was contrary to regulations, said the defending officer. They agreed to send it to the JAG's office for decision. Carefully forgettin' they'd promised the sailor a pardon if it didn't work third time.

'All the witnesses left. They couldn't take it any more. 'Angin' the same man three times in one day was too much for the strongest stomach.

'When they'd gone all us guards went over to the 'ole to get 'im out, but 'e wouldn't come up. 'E'd lost all patience.

'The duty NCO told us to go down after 'im but nobody felt much like it.

'So we got 'old of a Navy AB from out of one of the cells. 'E'd sold a cutter to the locals while on service in Norway, and was a nice, friendly sort of bloke, as understood 'ow to talk convincing-like to people. 'E got that sailor up out of the 'ole with no trouble at all.

'Well, there was a dreadful lot of discussion went on in a dreadful lot of different kinds of courts, but in the end they made up their minds to let 'im go back to the Navy so they could shoot 'im, though there was some as thought the bullets'd just glance off of him 'e was that bony.

'Some clever bleeder in Kiel found out the only certain way o' gettin' rid of 'im was to drown 'im, so they decided to give 'im a trip under a warship, the way they used to do in the good old days. As you know people condemned to death ain't allowed to travel by train so off they takes 'im to Kiel in a Kubel. That saved 'is bleedin' life for 'im. The Kubel never got to Kiel where they 'ad a old-fashioned keel-'aulin' all ready for 'im.

'A bit outside Celle a British fighter-bomber is stragglin' along and sees this Kubel an' 'as a go at it, so the three 'ead-'unters get sent upstairs. There was only their tin 'elmets and their badges left, but the sailor never gets a scratch. Death wouldn't 'ave anythin' to do with a bag o' bones like 'im. 'E disappeared and 'as never been 'eard of since.'

'
Sacre nom de Dieu, ca commence
a
bouillir
. How I wish I was on my way to France with everything I own on my back,' sighs the little Legionnaire, lighting a
Caporal
. 'France, a glass of good wine and a big bowl of
bouillabaisse! Mon Dieu
, home-sickness is tearing me to pieces!'

'You wouldn't be thinking of taking off, now, would you?' asks Porta, worriedly. 'The headhunters'd pick you up quick as a monkey picking a flea off his bollocks.'

'If you
do
do it,' says Tiny, 'go that way,' and he points to the west.

The witnesses over by the hut walk about impatiently. The rain has turned to a slush which cakes on their clothes. The telephone inside the hut jangles irritably. Everyone looks towards it.

'Departure has been put off for another two hours,' shouts a JAG aide to us, as if he were announcing a change in a train time.

'Damn it all to hell,' the Old Man curses, 'artificial light.'

'Maybe they've been pardoned,' says the Westphalian, optimistically. 'It'd be the first time I'd be really happy at having wasted so much time waiting around.'

'Nobody gets pardoned any more,' answers the Old Man gloomily. 'They're that far gone they can't afford to.'

'They cut the heads off two girls in Halle the other day just for buying butter coupons on the black,' Gregor tells them, feeling his neck tenderly.

'Rather eat mange, at that rate,' says Tiny, shuddering.

'What about fetching up dinner?' shouts Porta from a bush, behind which he is squatting with his trousers round his ankles.

'The Major didn't say anything,' says the Old Man, thoughtfully, 'but to hell with it. Off you go!'

Tiny and Gregor are off towards the truck like well-oiled streaks of lightning.

'You touch any of that pork and beans before you get back and I'll mow you down,' shouts Porta from the bush, wiping away with a large chestnut leaf.

The food container smells beautiful. The bean soup is thick as gruel. There is half a crate of beer too, and we get into quite a party humour.

'The departing guests can't be getting better than this,' thinks Porta, joyously, shovelling food into his mouth.

They have forgotten to give us a knife, so we have to pass the pork from hand to hand and bite it off in chunks. It doesn't taste any the worse for that.

'They ought to have rubbed
a
bit of garlic on it,' continues Porta, taking a large bite.

'I'll be glad when this war's over,' says Heide, 'so we can go out on proper manoeuvres again.'

'You must have shit where your brains ought to be,' shouts Porta, shaking his head. 'Soon as one war's over you bastards want to get out on manoeuvres and before we know where we are you've started a new war to see if what you've been manoeuvring about is right or not?'

'There will be no more war,' says Heide, decisively. '
Our
world war will be the last!'