Liquidate Paris (19 page)

'Are you or are you not going to take my wounded along with you?' he demanded, in the sort of voice that not even one major-general would use to another major-general.

There was a pause, I saw the two Feldwebels exchange glances, and instinctively I tensed myself for a showdown. Before a shot was fired, however, a new vehicle had appeared on the scene, a light troop carrier. It pulled up near by and we saw, sitting next to the driver, a brigadier-general of the S.S. He climbed lazily from the cab and Walked towards Lowe. He was very tall and very lean, with broad shoulders and a thin, arresting face. His uniform was old and faded, covered in the dust of the road, with no distinctive marks on the collar. Nevertheless we all recognized him as the commanding officer of the 12th Tank Division, 'Panzer Meyer', the youngest general in the German Army.

'What's happening here, Lieutenant?'

Rapidly, Lowe put him in the picture. His grey eyes narrowed, his firm jaw set itself aggressively.

'Refuses to take your wounded?' he said.

'Refuses to take our wounded,' confirmed Lowe, still very pale. 'In his own words, the Major-General cannot afford to have his vehicle cluttered up with blood-stained bodies.'

Panzer Meyer turned his cold, clear gaze upon the Major-General, now uncomfortably twitching.

'I am on my way to join my division,' he said, hurriedly; 'This fool of a lieutenant has not only damaged my car with machine-gun fire, he's also held me up with insolent talk for the past fifteen minutes.'

'Which division are you joining, General?'

'The 1st P.D.'

'Really?' Panzer Meyer pursed his lips and raised a thoughtful eyebrow. 'Strange you should say that. I have just this moment parted company with General Bayerling, who, as you should presumably know, is the commanding officer of the a 1st Panzers. All I can say, General, is that you're heading in quite the wrong direction if it's your intention to rejoin the division.'

The Major-General clawed anxiously at his monocle.

'Are you accusing me of desertion, sir?'

'Yes,"I suppose I am,' murmured Meyer, as if the idea had only just struck him. He nodded towards Lowe. 'Take care of him. You know what to do.'

Lowe in turn jerked his head at Little John, who needed no second invitation. Under the startled gaze of his two Feldwebels the Major-General was manhandled towards a telegraph pole at the side of the road and there secured with his own shining leather belt. Lowe glanced towards Panzer Meyer, but he merely gave a slight shrug of the shoulders and turned away.

The Major-General died badly. All arrogance gone, he was screaming for mercy even as the shots from Little John's naga entered his heart and brought his life to an end. His two Feldwebels had deserted him at the first propitious moment, and we let them go and concentrated instead on installing the rest of the wounded into the comfortable Mercedes. The convoy moved off, and Panzer Meyer stayed only to shake hands with Lowe and then he, too, was gone, disappearing up the road in a cloud of dust.

We followed behind on foot, reeling suddenly despondent after our initial glow of exaltation. We were not left long alone. A motor-cycle came belching up the road and pulled in beside us. It was Werner Krum, one of the dispatch riders. He brought us the news that enemy tanks had been sighted and that our orders were to hold the road to the last man and the last round of ammunition, lieutenant Lowe readjusted the bandage round his forehead and muttered something beneath his breath.

'Second section, form up single file behind me,' commanded the Old Man, shouldering his machine-gun.

We arrived at a small hamlet, consisting of no more than a few scattered houses. The first sight that met our eyes was the decomposing corpse of a young boy. His uniform was still new and relatively unspoiled but the flesh was turning putrid on the bones.

'Let's get him buried,' suggested the Old Man. 'I can't live here with that lying about looking at me.'

It was easy work digging a grave in that rich, soft soil. In a nearby field we could see beetroots and cauliflowers growing, and the sight so entranced me that I stood staring long after the others have shovelled the dirt over the young corpse and disappeared. When at last I wandered back I found them in a state of mingled consternation and excitement over the activities of two S.S. men who had been seconded to us. They seemed to be brewing something in a vast stewpot, but what it was I could not make out. They had fixed the lid so it was hermetically sealed, and as I approached I caught sight of Heide crouched behind a wagon with his head peering cautiously over the top.

'What's up with you?' I said.

'Nothing. I've just got a bit more sense than some people!' he told me, irritably.

'Why? What's cooking over there? Dynamite?'

Heide curled his lip at me.

'When that lot goes up you won't find it so damned funny!'

I went up to Barcelona, who was hovering on the perimeter.

'What's in there?' I said.

'Liquor! ' he replied, briefly.

'Liquor?' I said. 'What's it in a stewpot for?'

'It's simmering. Elderberries and sugar, in a state of ferment... We're waiting for it to explode.'

'Hey!' yelled Little John, suddenly. 'What's that thermometer rigged up for?'

The S.S. men glanced at it indifferently.

'If the temperature goes above the red mark,' explained one of them, 'the thing's liable to blow up.'

'You're bloody mad! ' screamed Little John, diving for cover with the rest of us. 'It's been past the red mark for the last ten minutes!'

The man shrugged his shoulders.

'Very likely, but we haven't got much time. Don't you want a drink before the Yanks arrive?'

We did, but not at the expense, of having our heads blown off our shoulders. We prudently remained under cover until the danger was over and the mixture was pronounced fit for consumption. Considering our behaviour, I thought it pretty generous of the two cooks to let us even taste it, let alone help them finish it off. By the time it had gone we were all perfectly willing to risk our necks to brew up a second lot, but we were interrupted in the task. Little John suddenly pointed across to the field of beetroots.

'Here come the liberators! The Yanks certainly have a good nose for booze!'

We sprang up in a panic but there were only two of them, unconcernedly tramping their way through the mud, quite unaware of our presence.

'We'll have to take them,' said the Old Man.

'You're joking! ' protested Porta. 'Who wants to start working after that little lot?'

Nobody wanted to, but as some fool was always sure to remind us, there was a war on. Full of drink and rather uncertain on our legs, we hid ourselves in a spinney and watched the unsuspecting Americans draw near. One was a corporal, the other a private. They came up laughing and talking together and jumped into the trench that we had earlier on dug for ourselves. Nonchalantly, we strolled out of our hiding-place and confronted them.

'You're under arrest!' shouted Heide.

They jumped out of the trench as if a live grenade had gone in after them.

'What in hell are you doing here?' demanded the corporal.

'Breathing the air,' said Porta. 'Any objections?'

'I sure as hell
have
. They told us there weren't any damned Krauts in the area!'

'They'll tell you anything if it makes 'em happy.'

'Sit down and make yourselves at home,' suggested Barcelona.' We've got some liquor on the stove.'

The two S.S. men, having completely lost interest in the proceedings, had already set up another elderberry brew. We watched the thermometer eagerly enough this time, urging it on with loud shouts every time it moved up a degree.

'Your friends,' suggested Heide, hopefully, 'must be some way off from here?'

'Friends!' shouted the corporal, in a sudden rage. 'Don't ever mention that load of shits to me!'

We never did discover where they were, nor what they had done to offend. It seemed to be bound up, in some intricate and unfathomable, way, with points of origin. We gathered that the corporal and the private came from Georgia, while their erstwhile friends were New Yorkers.

'And I love a lousy Kraut better than a damned New Yorker!' cried the private.

We thanked him warmly and felt quite pleasantly disposed towards him.

'Damned New Yorkers are damned cretins!' he shouted.

By the time the elderberry mish-mash was ready once more we were all on the best of terms. Two hours later we were sitting in one another's laps and fawning on each other.

'Where--were you going--when we--jumped on you?' asked Porta, his eyes round and owlish with the effort he was putting in to the enunciation of each word.

The corporal looked at the private for support.

'Where wuz we going?'

The private shrugged.

'I dunno. I didn't know we wuz goin' any place.'

'You're right. We wasn't goin' no place.' He turned back to Porta. 'We wasn't goin' no place. We wuz lost'

Porta belched sympathetically.

'You can't help getting lost in this damn country. Every damn road looks alike.'

'It's the goddamn hedges an' all that get me. How's in hell you supposed to tell one goddamn hedge from another goddam hedge?'

'Hey!' said the private, suddenly. 'How come you and me's not dead yet?'

The corporal scratched his cropped head.

'I dunno. They always told us the goddamn Krauts, didn't take no prisoners.'

'They always told us that the bastard Yanks didn't, either,' retorted Barcelona.

'That's a lousy, goddam lie!'

'You know what we came across one day?' demanded Barcelona, challengingly. 'One of your Churchills with a German soldier tied to the turret with barbed wire. I'm buggered if I'd call that taking prisoners!'

'I'll just tell you something,' said the corporal, with feeling. 'I'm willin' to bet you any sum you care to name that that tank crew was a bunch of lousy New York perverts!' .

I suddenly heard footsteps approaching: Lt. Lowe. I made a hasty signal to Porta, who unceremoniously pushed the two Americans out of the way at the foot of the trench. The Old Man staggered to his feet, swayed slightly and remained in an upright position with a very obvious effort.

'Nothing to report, sir.'

His voice rang with sincerity; his face was bland and open.

'Get your section installed in the village,' commanded Lowe. 'One man posted outside with a machine-gun should be sufficient guard for the night. i advise the rest of you to catch up on lost sleep and----' Lowe stopped short, his nostrils twitching. 'Feldwebel Beier, I smell alcohol!'

One of the S.S. men, doubtless intending it for the best, appeared at Lowe's elbow with a mess tin full of liquor.

'Care to try some, sir? It's elderberry wine.'

'Elderberry wine?' said Lowe, peering at the sticky black mess in the tin: 'It looks more like machine oil to me.'

'Well, it tastes all right, sir.'

Lowe glanced at the man suspiciously.

'You're drunk!' he looked round at the rest of us. You're all drunk! Get to your feet this instant... Second Company, present arms!'

Needless to say, the task was beyond us. We crawled miserably to our feet, all supporting each other and frail as a house of cards. Gregor was in a drunken coma and couldn't even open his eyes.

Lieutenant Lowe was in another of his rages. I suppose, on the whole, it was justified.

'You load of drunken imbeciles! Look at you--so pissed you can't even stand! Surely to God you can be left alone for a couple of hours without making brutes of yourselves? Jesus Christ, you ought to be locked up in a home for the criminally insane, the whole drunken pack of you!'

He walked up to Gregor and flipped him lightly in the chest. Gregor instantly fell to the ground and lay there like a corpse, with his legs stretched stiff before him.

'Look at that!' roared Lowe, growing over-excited now that he had proved his point. 'What the hell would you have done if the enemy had suddenly appeared?'

'Shot 'em,' said Little John, hopefully.

'Hold your tongue, Creutzfeld! What's more to the point is, what would you have to say for yourselves if Major Hinka suddenly decided to come round on inspection!?'

'Skol,' said Little John.

I don't believe he intended to be funny. He was so drunk that to him it doubtless seemed a perfectly apt remark with which to greet a superior officer on a tour of inspection. Lowe, however, interpreted it as a piece of sheer impertinence. He advanced upon Little John in a fury, and Little John, by now thoroughly confused, dropped his rifle to the ground.

'God in heaven!' screamed Lowe, who was shaking with rage. He turned furiously upon the Old Man. 'Feldwebel Beier, this is the most ill-disciplined section in the whole company and I hold you entirely responsible! Get these men sobered up immediately. I don't give a damn how you do it, I don't care if you have to run up and down through the bloody beetroots all night, but if I find single man from this section suffering from drink in half an hour's time I'll put the whole damn lot of you on a charge!'

He stalked away with his back held rigid and his head high in the air. Little John sighed lustily.

'I don't get the feeling he loves us any more,' he said.

'Who can blame him? retorted the Old Man, sourly.

He bent over the unconscious Gregor and began slapping his cheeks and flipping his head from side to side. Porta, who had quietly made himself scarce during the Lieutenant's tirade,
now appeared horn the shadows of a
nearby house triumphantly waving a banjo and an accordion.

'I've found an orchestra!' he shouted.

'Well bloody put it away again!' snapped the Old Man. 'You start playing that lot, they'll hear us fifty kilometres off. And I'm warning you, any more trouble from this section and we'll all be facing three days in the cooler when we get back.'

'If we get back,' said Porta, unmoved.

The Americans had crawled cautiously out of the trench and were staring wonderingly after the departing figure of Lt. Lowe.