him firmly by the lapels, 'you might as well know the rest... You Russki, me Germanski, us enemies... Savvy? Me, corporal, backbone of the German Army. Him--' He waved a hand towards the Legionnaire - 'him not Russki, him not Germanski. Him Franzouski.'
The Russian smiled amiably at Porta, nodded towards the Legionnaire, shook his fist at Little John. Evidently he had not quite grasped the essentials of what had been said to him.
'Look,' said Porta, exasperated. He pulled out his knife and held it to the man's throat. 'I'm warning you, Russki, this blade is sharp. Any trouble, and you're for the chopping block, mate!'
At this moment, in a sudden burst of drunken zeal, Heide sprang into action. He came running from the opposite end of the street, bursting through the crowd with a hand grenade clutched in either fist. I saw Alte try to bar his way, but Heide merely brushed him to one side and continued on his charge. And now the Russian was no longer a drunk and genial soldier but a member of perhaps the most dreaded police force in the whole world. He stiffened, his eyes narrowed, he raised his machine gun. Bullets splattered into the snow on either side of Heide. The warning was ignored.
By now. the situation was not even faintly amusing but deadly serious. The Russian levelled his gun and took aim. Alte raised his revolver and also took aim. At the Russian. The Russian saw it out of the corner of his eye.' For a second he wavered, and in that second Heide tripped and fell, his bead butting hard into the Russian's abdomen. The hand grenades rolled away into the snow and were rescued by the Professor. The machine gun jerked upwards and the Legionnaire lost no time in grabbing at it. Meanwhile, Heide and the Russian had merged into a whirling mass of arms and legs, and Alte lowered his revolver with a shake of the head. With a supreme effort, the Russian managed to free himself from Heide's frenzied grasp. He stepped back a pace, grunting, shook his fist at the whole lot of us, and then informed us in loud and arrogant tones that he, Piotr Yanow, would personally see to it that Heide received the ultimate penalty for daring to lift a finger against a member of the N.K.V.D. He, Piotr Yanow, did not take insults of that nature lying down. At this, Heide gave a maniacal screech of laughter and informed the Russian that he, Julius Heide, had a mind to slit his throat for him.
A stunned silence on the part of the crowd. And on the part of the Russian, who finally fell back on the usual irascible demand for papers.
'Get stuffed!' shouted Heide. 'You can keep that sort of rubbish for p.o.w.'s. It won't wash with us. The German Army doesn't take shit from anyone!'
Slowly, the Russian surveyed each one of us, taking in the details of our uniforms. When he spoke, there was a note almost of supplication in his voice. 'Njet Russki?' he whispered.
Alte took a step forward, his revolver at the ready. The crowd closed in all round us, suddenly given new courage by the sight of their dreaded enemy humbled and at a loss for words. Somewhere a woman cackled with malicious mirth. Little John picked up one of the barrels of alcohol and held it out to the Russian.
'Drink a toast,' he commanded. 'Here's to us and the downfall of our enemies! Confusion to the Russians! Heil Hitler!'
The man drank. He seemed dazed to the point of total non-comprehension. We could understand how he was feeling. The presence of German soldiers so far behind the Russian lines - German soldiers,' moreover, wearing the uniforms of a Russian tank regiment - must have seemed a nightmare impossibility. And yet there we were, standing foursquare and insolent before him.
At that moment we felt no particular animosity towards the man. Somewhere in the village they had found and roasted a whole side of pork, and we now invited our tame Russian to join us in a victory meal. He protested faintly that the pork was Soviet property and we had no right to be eating it, but I
The Russian smiled amiably at Porta, nodded towards the Legionnaire, shook his fist at Little John. Evidently he had not quite grasped the essentials of what had been said to him.
'Look,' said Porta, exasperated. He pulled out his knife and held it to the man's throat. 'I'm warning you, Russki, this blade is sharp. Any trouble, and you're for the chopping block, mate!'
At this moment, in a sudden burst of drunken zeal, Heide sprang into action. He came running from the opposite end of the street, bursting through the crowd with a hand grenade clutched in either fist. I saw Alte try to bar his way, but Heide merely brushed him to one side and continued on his charge. And now the Russian was no longer a drunk and genial soldier but a member of perhaps the most dreaded police force in the whole world. He stiffened, his eyes narrowed, he raised his machine gun. Bullets splattered into the snow on either side of Heide. The warning was ignored.
By now. the situation was not even faintly amusing but deadly serious. The Russian levelled his gun and took aim. Alte raised his revolver and also took aim. At the Russian. The Russian saw it out of the corner of his eye.' For a second he wavered, and in that second Heide tripped and fell, his bead butting hard into the Russian's abdomen. The hand grenades rolled away into the snow and were rescued by the Professor. The machine gun jerked upwards and the Legionnaire lost no time in grabbing at it. Meanwhile, Heide and the Russian had merged into a whirling mass of arms and legs, and Alte lowered his revolver with a shake of the head. With a supreme effort, the Russian managed to free himself from Heide's frenzied grasp. He stepped back a pace, grunting, shook his fist at the whole lot of us, and then informed us in loud and arrogant tones that he, Piotr Yanow, would personally see to it that Heide received the ultimate penalty for daring to lift a finger against a member of the N.K.V.D. He, Piotr Yanow, did not take insults of that nature lying down. At this, Heide gave a maniacal screech of laughter and informed the Russian that he, Julius Heide, had a mind to slit his throat for him.
A stunned silence on the part of the crowd. And on the part of the Russian, who finally fell back on the usual irascible demand for papers.
'Get stuffed!' shouted Heide. 'You can keep that sort of rubbish for p.o.w.'s. It won't wash with us. The German Army doesn't take shit from anyone!'
Slowly, the Russian surveyed each one of us, taking in the details of our uniforms. When he spoke, there was a note almost of supplication in his voice. 'Njet Russki?' he whispered.
Alte took a step forward, his revolver at the ready. The crowd closed in all round us, suddenly given new courage by the sight of their dreaded enemy humbled and at a loss for words. Somewhere a woman cackled with malicious mirth. Little John picked up one of the barrels of alcohol and held it out to the Russian.
'Drink a toast,' he commanded. 'Here's to us and the downfall of our enemies! Confusion to the Russians! Heil Hitler!'
The man drank. He seemed dazed to the point of total non-comprehension. We could understand how he was feeling. The presence of German soldiers so far behind the Russian lines - German soldiers,' moreover, wearing the uniforms of a Russian tank regiment - must have seemed a nightmare impossibility. And yet there we were, standing foursquare and insolent before him.
At that moment we felt no particular animosity towards the man. Somewhere in the village they had found and roasted a whole side of pork, and we now invited our tame Russian to join us in a victory meal. He protested faintly that the pork was Soviet property and we had no right to be eating it, but I
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