Legionnaire remembered that he had a friend in Ankara, and together we speculated on ways and means of crossing the frontier.
'Just how far away is it?' Alte wanted to know.
'About fifty kilometres,' said Paul. 'But then there's a sort of no man's land that's heavily mined and swarming with the N.K.V.D. No one's ever yet managed to get through and live to tell the tale. Leastways, that's what Fjodor told me.'
His words fell on deaf ears. The thought of a neutral country so very nearly within our grasp had temporarily unbalanced even the most placid amongst us.
It was some days before the undoubted truth of Paul's words really sank in; it simply was not possible to cross the Russian frontier into Turkey. Fortunately, it was at the peak of our disillusionment that Little John discovered the hidden store of alcohol. Several crates of it, all marked with the red star of the Soviet Army. The fact that it was enemy property merely served to whet our appetites. We drank long and gloriously, and one, by one the villagers crept from their huts and hovels and joined in the fun. Someone discovered an old barrel organ and we danced ecstatically in the snowy streets. Very soon there was not a man or a woman, or probably even a child, who remained sober. The entire village was en fete . Nevertheless, when Alte suddenly held up a warning hand the whole crowd became hushed and silent, instinctively apprehensive and on the alert for danger.
From the far end of the street 'came the sound of a man singing. The sound came nearer, and then the man himself came into view. He was a stranger, not one of the villagers. He carried a light machine gun slung over his shoulder, and the song he was singing, in a deep, bass voice, was sad and sombre.
We stood transfixed as he approached us. He paused a few yards away from the edge of the crowd. His gaze swept over us and finally came to rest on one of the barrels of alcohol. He picked it up, suspiciously sniffed at it, then gave a satisfied grin, tipped back his head and drank deeply. He belched, spat, and drank again.
'Tovaritch,' he said to Porta, who happened to be the nearest to him, 'you are a drunken pig. I salute you.'
With these words he flung the empty barrel over his shoulder, pulled off his fur cap and tossed it into the air with a raucous cry. For the first time, we saw the green cross of the N.K.V.D. You could almost feel the individual hearts of the crowd falter and miss a beat. Suddenly, to everyone's stupefaction, the man dropped his gun into a heap of snow, folded his arms across his chest, squatted down on his heels and began to dance, flinging his legs out in all directions and exultantly banging his heels together.
Quick as a flash, Little John had his revolver in his hand. He levelled it, took aim - and then burst into drunken peals of laughter. His finger inadvertently pressed the trigger and bullets began to spray the air. Those within range fell flat on their faces in the snow, but the Russian continued imperturbably with his mad cavorting. Fortunately for us, he had evidently drunk his fill long before his arrival in the village. Little John stopped laughing. He reloaded the revolver and began to fire into the ground on either side of the man.
At last the dance came to an end. The Russian leapt up, grinning. He seized another barrel of drink and laughed in Little John's face.
'You think that's clever? Well, it doesn't impress me! Here, have a swig.'
While Little John was thus engaged, being congenitally incapable of ever refusing the offer of alcohol, the Russian picked up his machine gun and deliberately sent a stream of bullets thudding round his feet. Little John roared and jumped backwards.
'What the hell are you playing at? You know who I am, Russki? Germanski soldier, that's me! Tankist! Boum boum! And I don't give a shit for you or for Stalin or for any other of your damned countrymen!'
'And now you know that,' said Porta, going up to the Russian and gripping
'Just how far away is it?' Alte wanted to know.
'About fifty kilometres,' said Paul. 'But then there's a sort of no man's land that's heavily mined and swarming with the N.K.V.D. No one's ever yet managed to get through and live to tell the tale. Leastways, that's what Fjodor told me.'
His words fell on deaf ears. The thought of a neutral country so very nearly within our grasp had temporarily unbalanced even the most placid amongst us.
It was some days before the undoubted truth of Paul's words really sank in; it simply was not possible to cross the Russian frontier into Turkey. Fortunately, it was at the peak of our disillusionment that Little John discovered the hidden store of alcohol. Several crates of it, all marked with the red star of the Soviet Army. The fact that it was enemy property merely served to whet our appetites. We drank long and gloriously, and one, by one the villagers crept from their huts and hovels and joined in the fun. Someone discovered an old barrel organ and we danced ecstatically in the snowy streets. Very soon there was not a man or a woman, or probably even a child, who remained sober. The entire village was en fete . Nevertheless, when Alte suddenly held up a warning hand the whole crowd became hushed and silent, instinctively apprehensive and on the alert for danger.
From the far end of the street 'came the sound of a man singing. The sound came nearer, and then the man himself came into view. He was a stranger, not one of the villagers. He carried a light machine gun slung over his shoulder, and the song he was singing, in a deep, bass voice, was sad and sombre.
We stood transfixed as he approached us. He paused a few yards away from the edge of the crowd. His gaze swept over us and finally came to rest on one of the barrels of alcohol. He picked it up, suspiciously sniffed at it, then gave a satisfied grin, tipped back his head and drank deeply. He belched, spat, and drank again.
'Tovaritch,' he said to Porta, who happened to be the nearest to him, 'you are a drunken pig. I salute you.'
With these words he flung the empty barrel over his shoulder, pulled off his fur cap and tossed it into the air with a raucous cry. For the first time, we saw the green cross of the N.K.V.D. You could almost feel the individual hearts of the crowd falter and miss a beat. Suddenly, to everyone's stupefaction, the man dropped his gun into a heap of snow, folded his arms across his chest, squatted down on his heels and began to dance, flinging his legs out in all directions and exultantly banging his heels together.
Quick as a flash, Little John had his revolver in his hand. He levelled it, took aim - and then burst into drunken peals of laughter. His finger inadvertently pressed the trigger and bullets began to spray the air. Those within range fell flat on their faces in the snow, but the Russian continued imperturbably with his mad cavorting. Fortunately for us, he had evidently drunk his fill long before his arrival in the village. Little John stopped laughing. He reloaded the revolver and began to fire into the ground on either side of the man.
At last the dance came to an end. The Russian leapt up, grinning. He seized another barrel of drink and laughed in Little John's face.
'You think that's clever? Well, it doesn't impress me! Here, have a swig.'
While Little John was thus engaged, being congenitally incapable of ever refusing the offer of alcohol, the Russian picked up his machine gun and deliberately sent a stream of bullets thudding round his feet. Little John roared and jumped backwards.
'What the hell are you playing at? You know who I am, Russki? Germanski soldier, that's me! Tankist! Boum boum! And I don't give a shit for you or for Stalin or for any other of your damned countrymen!'
'And now you know that,' said Porta, going up to the Russian and gripping
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