Assignment Gestapo by Sven Hassel Page A

waste your tears on that lousy load of scum? If I’d known what was going on I’d have shot ’em all myself, I’ve said that ever since the start.’
    Barcelona looked at him through narrowed eyes.
    ‘People like you,’ he said, contemptuously, ‘always lose out in the end. You know that? They always do. I’ve known others of your type. When I was in Spain there were several of ’em. Great loud-mouthed cunts that never knew when to stop.’ He shook his head. ‘They’re all under ground now. Where they belong. They asked for it and they got it. And so will you, in the end.’
    ‘Only you won’t be here to see it!’ hissed Heide.
    It was almost daylight when we arrived back at our own lines. Everything was quiet, and we settled down comfortably in the trenches and prepared for a rest. We kept an eye open for surprise attacks by the Russians, who were fond of that sort of thing, but they showed no signs of aggression.
    ‘If you’re all sitting comfortably,’ said Lt. Ohlsen, in a friendly ‘once-upon-a-time’ sort of voice, ‘I’ll tell you a story.’ We looked at him suspiciously. ‘I’ve kept it until now as a nice surprise for you . . . You’ll be pleased to hear that the Colonel has overcome his stagefright and has renewed his invitation to the Company to present itself for inspection tomorrow morning . . .’ Our faces fell. We looked down at our black hands and our filthy uniforms, and Lt. Ohlsen beamed round upon us. ‘There. I knew you’d be over-joyed. I said to Lt. Spät at the time, I can hardly wait to tell them. I can hardly wait to see their little faces light up and the tears of gratitude come into their eyes—’
    ‘Like fuck!’ said Porta. He spat out a mouthful of sunflower seeds that he was chewing. ‘Jesus Christ almighty, where do they dig up these cretins, for God’s sake?’
    Lt. Ohlsen shook his head, looking suddenly weary. He pursed his lips together and there was a hard streak in his eyes and bitter lines round his mouth. Despite the bantering tone he had used to break the news to us, you could tell that the Colonel and his autocratic stupidity had brought him almost to breaking point.
    Porta, meanwhile, went raving on. He was a great talker when once he got started, and although his choice of adjectives tended to be limited he delivered them with such vehemence that we never tired of hearing them. Having told us all very forcibly exactly what he thought of the Colonel, and of the Colonel’s parents and the Colonel’s grandparents, and having gone on to suggest in graphic detail several alternative courses of action open to the Colonel (suggestions which ranged from the mildly indecent to the grossly obscene) he then switched abruptly to a better humour and fell to hectoring Tiny, always the butt of Porta’s heavy-handed wit.
    ‘Look at you!’ he roared. ‘Call yourself a soldier! You’re nothing but a bleeding disgrace! Look at that uniform – that was in good nick when you first had it. Look at it now – knackered! Completely bloody knackered! Half the buttons off of it, covered in shit, all tattered and torn – how the hell have you got it in that state, anyway? You been fighting again, have you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting into that horrible state . . . And what about your tin hat, eh? Where’s that gone? And what about that nice gas mask they give you? You’ve gone and lost it, haven’t you?’ He made a gesture of disgust. ‘What’s the use, eh? I ask you, what IS the use of giving people like him lovely new uniforms, when all they do is go and mess ’em up? Is it any wonder the poor bleeding Colonel has to go and disturb himself giving us the once-over when we got people like you stinking the place out?’
    He leaned forward to the startled Tiny.
    ‘When did you last wash your bum, that’s what I’d like to know . . . it’s bleeding horrible! I bet if you took your knickers down and had a look you’d find it full of bloody