that killing to no purpose whatsoever . . .’
Later that evening, we received an order to send out a reconnaisance patrol behind the Russian lines, with the object of seeing the strength of their artillery and whether they had any tanks.
Of course, it was our section that was sent. It had to be. None of the new recruits would ever have lived to tell the tale.
One after another we left the trenches and stole across towards the Russian lines. Tiny was actually running, gripping his steel wire in one hand.
‘Half and half!’ he hissed as he shot past Porta.
We knew what he meant, of course: in theory, if not in practice, he and Porta always went halves in any gold teeth they discovered.
‘Don’t blame me,’ grumbled the Old Man. ‘Don’t blame me when they have you up before the firing squad . . . God almighty, the times I’ve warned you about it! It’s not only the moral issue, it’s the fact that you’re breaking regulations. Two regulations, actually.’
‘Go on!’ said Porta, wonderingly. ‘You don’t say!’
‘I do say, and I’ll tell you what they are and then you’ll know what you’re in for. First of all, you’re nicking things off corpses – and that’s against the law the whole world over. Second, you’re not passing on the stuff you pinch. Gold teeth, gold rings, gold watches, anything like that, as you very well know, belongs to the State and should be handed over to the nearest SS bureau. And that’s law in Germany, if it isn’t anywhere else. And the penalty for breaking it is death, so don’t say I haven’t warned you.’
‘Old Man, you’re nothing but a bleeding pessimist!’ declared Porta.
‘I’m not handing mine over,’ said Tiny, who had slowed down to a walk and had been listening to the conversation. ‘I’m keeping mine till the end of the war . . . Know what I’m going to do, then? I’m going to buy me a pork butcher’s shop and a brothel.’
‘With other people’s gold teeth,’ muttered the Old Man, who never would be reconciled to the idea.
‘Well, and why not?’ demanded Tiny, hotly. ‘I’ve heard that in the concentration camps they yank ’em out while people are still alive and kicking and might need ’em . . . we at least have the decency to wait until they’re dead.’
‘Decency!’ said Stege. ‘You must be joking!’
Porta at once rounded on him.
‘You keep out of it, pansy face! Get back to your books and mind your own bleeding business!’
Stege merely shrugged an indifferent shoulder and turned away. He was accustomed to a constant stream of abuse from people such as Porta.
We were some considerable way behind the Russian lines when the Old Man suddenly brought us to a halt and stood pointing into a ravine at the side of the road.
‘Something down there,’ he said, tersely.
Tiny and the Legionnaire pushed their way through the bushes and lay flat on their bellies, staring down over the edge of the ravine. The Legionnaire turned and waved.
‘It’s O.K. . . . they’re pals of ours! Come and take a look!’
We all moved forward through the bushes, staring over in our turn.
‘Pals?’ queried the Old Man, gravely looking down at the five corpses.
‘Yeah, and they didn’t fall and they weren’t pushed,’ said Porta. ‘Shot in the back of the neck, that’s what they were, poor sods.’
‘What’s that pinned on ’em?’ demanded Tiny. ‘There’s a bit of paper stuck on their chests.’
Porta scrambled down the side of the ravine and came back clutching one of the pieces of paper. On it was written in Russian: ‘Traitor to his Country’.
‘All that hard work for nothing,’ muttered Barcelona, regretfully. ‘Makes you wonder if it was worth it, doesn’t it?’
The lieutenant’s not there,’ said the Old Man. ‘I suppose he might have got away—’
‘They’re more likely reserving V.I.P. treatment for him, seeing he’s an officer.’
‘Poor bastard . . .’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Heide. ‘Why
Later that evening, we received an order to send out a reconnaisance patrol behind the Russian lines, with the object of seeing the strength of their artillery and whether they had any tanks.
Of course, it was our section that was sent. It had to be. None of the new recruits would ever have lived to tell the tale.
One after another we left the trenches and stole across towards the Russian lines. Tiny was actually running, gripping his steel wire in one hand.
‘Half and half!’ he hissed as he shot past Porta.
We knew what he meant, of course: in theory, if not in practice, he and Porta always went halves in any gold teeth they discovered.
‘Don’t blame me,’ grumbled the Old Man. ‘Don’t blame me when they have you up before the firing squad . . . God almighty, the times I’ve warned you about it! It’s not only the moral issue, it’s the fact that you’re breaking regulations. Two regulations, actually.’
‘Go on!’ said Porta, wonderingly. ‘You don’t say!’
‘I do say, and I’ll tell you what they are and then you’ll know what you’re in for. First of all, you’re nicking things off corpses – and that’s against the law the whole world over. Second, you’re not passing on the stuff you pinch. Gold teeth, gold rings, gold watches, anything like that, as you very well know, belongs to the State and should be handed over to the nearest SS bureau. And that’s law in Germany, if it isn’t anywhere else. And the penalty for breaking it is death, so don’t say I haven’t warned you.’
‘Old Man, you’re nothing but a bleeding pessimist!’ declared Porta.
‘I’m not handing mine over,’ said Tiny, who had slowed down to a walk and had been listening to the conversation. ‘I’m keeping mine till the end of the war . . . Know what I’m going to do, then? I’m going to buy me a pork butcher’s shop and a brothel.’
‘With other people’s gold teeth,’ muttered the Old Man, who never would be reconciled to the idea.
‘Well, and why not?’ demanded Tiny, hotly. ‘I’ve heard that in the concentration camps they yank ’em out while people are still alive and kicking and might need ’em . . . we at least have the decency to wait until they’re dead.’
‘Decency!’ said Stege. ‘You must be joking!’
Porta at once rounded on him.
‘You keep out of it, pansy face! Get back to your books and mind your own bleeding business!’
Stege merely shrugged an indifferent shoulder and turned away. He was accustomed to a constant stream of abuse from people such as Porta.
We were some considerable way behind the Russian lines when the Old Man suddenly brought us to a halt and stood pointing into a ravine at the side of the road.
‘Something down there,’ he said, tersely.
Tiny and the Legionnaire pushed their way through the bushes and lay flat on their bellies, staring down over the edge of the ravine. The Legionnaire turned and waved.
‘It’s O.K. . . . they’re pals of ours! Come and take a look!’
We all moved forward through the bushes, staring over in our turn.
‘Pals?’ queried the Old Man, gravely looking down at the five corpses.
‘Yeah, and they didn’t fall and they weren’t pushed,’ said Porta. ‘Shot in the back of the neck, that’s what they were, poor sods.’
‘What’s that pinned on ’em?’ demanded Tiny. ‘There’s a bit of paper stuck on their chests.’
Porta scrambled down the side of the ravine and came back clutching one of the pieces of paper. On it was written in Russian: ‘Traitor to his Country’.
‘All that hard work for nothing,’ muttered Barcelona, regretfully. ‘Makes you wonder if it was worth it, doesn’t it?’
The lieutenant’s not there,’ said the Old Man. ‘I suppose he might have got away—’
‘They’re more likely reserving V.I.P. treatment for him, seeing he’s an officer.’
‘Poor bastard . . .’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Heide. ‘Why
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