60.
At the canteen the QM’s going crazy with only 60 men to consume all those rations.
‘What the hell can I do?’ he cries in despair. ‘I’ve
signed
for 220
men
! And those bastards who ain’t here ‘ve let themselvesget killed by the bloody
untermensch
and who’s it to
go
to? Somebody ought to get the wall for this!’
‘Give us the bloody lot,’ shouts Porta happily from the queue. ‘You’ll be surprised how fast
we’ll
get rid of it!’
A hot discussion commences. The QM can’t make up his mind what to do. Not even when Tiny offers to beat his brains out if he doesn’t pass the rations on.
Anything might have happened if Oberst Hinka hadn’t come past and ordered the QM to distribute the lot to the men.
The QM goes amok! The Old Man gets an extra stick of chewing tobacco, and the rest of us two cigars over the ration.
Porta
, of course, gets a whole carton of cognac.
And now we’re lying stretched out under the apple trees. We’ve put on half a stone in weight in under a couple of hours.
Porta looks as if he’s on the verge of giving birth. Twins at least. He’s not only eaten his own rations, but has also been over to No. 4 Company and finished up all their leavings.
He is sitting on an oil-drum which he uses as a latrine. We’re doing things the high society way. Puffing at big cigars. Using our military ranks when we address one another; and drinking cognac from real glasses. But when Porta begins to use a knife and fork we give up and send for the medical orderly and a strait-jacket.
Porta is wearing his monocle in honour of the day and Tiny has fixed a hen’s wing to each side of his bowler. He feels it gives him a distinguished appearance. Our boots are off for the first time in six weeks and it feels good.
‘Our padre’s a bleedin’ drunk,’ remarks Tiny suddenly between two slugs of cognac which he chases down with a beer.
‘Which one?’ asks Porta interestedly. ‘The one with the yellow badges or the white one?’ 1
‘’Is riverence with the white pipin,’ answers Tiny, rollinghis eyes skywards in the manner appropriate when referring to holy things or to persons belonging to the holy hierarchy.
‘I hope for your own sake that you can prove your accusation against this virtuous officer, Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt,’ threateningly from Porta.
‘Goddamn it, I
can
!’ shouts Tiny. ‘That bleedin’ bible-puncher was pissed as a coot yesterday, an’ ’ad ’is ’and up the clouts of that ‘umpty-backed old ‘ore of a
babuschka
2 down at the bleedin’ ferry.
An
’ ’e’d got a look on ’is face like a Jew with ‘is ’and fulla bleedin’ gold ducats. ’Ard luck it was gettin’ dark so I ’eard more’n I seen, but ’e was soakin’ the piss up like a sponge.’
‘How d’you know that, if it was dark?’ asks Barcelona suspiciously.
‘I got all ’is empties over where I was lyin’ listenin’,’ answers Tiny injuredly. ‘They went orf singin’. ’Im tellin’ ol’ ’umpty as ’ow she was ’is only true love an’ ’ad bin sent from Garwd. It’s true, by Christ, as ’e was sent to the front for ’ittin’ the piss. Nobody’d ’ave nothin’ to do with ’im in Leipzig because of it. When ’e was preachin’ ’is last sermon in the garrison church there, ’e fell outa the bleedin’ pulpit into the Commandin’ General’s bleedin’ lap as ’e was explainin’ the parable o’ the man sick o’ the bleedin’ palsy. ’E’d just got to the well-known words: “Pluck up thy pailliase and piss orf promptly!” when over the railin’ ’egoes an’ picks up ’is ticket to points east!’
‘It reminds me,’ Porta takes up the thread, ‘of the time I was chief clerk to Padre Kurt Winfuss of the 7th ID at München. He was what you’d call a happy maniac with his nose into everything he should’ve kept it out of. One evening he decided to make a check on the prevailing rumours of drunkenness and immorality in München and we
At the canteen the QM’s going crazy with only 60 men to consume all those rations.
‘What the hell can I do?’ he cries in despair. ‘I’ve
signed
for 220
men
! And those bastards who ain’t here ‘ve let themselvesget killed by the bloody
untermensch
and who’s it to
go
to? Somebody ought to get the wall for this!’
‘Give us the bloody lot,’ shouts Porta happily from the queue. ‘You’ll be surprised how fast
we’ll
get rid of it!’
A hot discussion commences. The QM can’t make up his mind what to do. Not even when Tiny offers to beat his brains out if he doesn’t pass the rations on.
Anything might have happened if Oberst Hinka hadn’t come past and ordered the QM to distribute the lot to the men.
The QM goes amok! The Old Man gets an extra stick of chewing tobacco, and the rest of us two cigars over the ration.
Porta
, of course, gets a whole carton of cognac.
And now we’re lying stretched out under the apple trees. We’ve put on half a stone in weight in under a couple of hours.
Porta looks as if he’s on the verge of giving birth. Twins at least. He’s not only eaten his own rations, but has also been over to No. 4 Company and finished up all their leavings.
He is sitting on an oil-drum which he uses as a latrine. We’re doing things the high society way. Puffing at big cigars. Using our military ranks when we address one another; and drinking cognac from real glasses. But when Porta begins to use a knife and fork we give up and send for the medical orderly and a strait-jacket.
Porta is wearing his monocle in honour of the day and Tiny has fixed a hen’s wing to each side of his bowler. He feels it gives him a distinguished appearance. Our boots are off for the first time in six weeks and it feels good.
‘Our padre’s a bleedin’ drunk,’ remarks Tiny suddenly between two slugs of cognac which he chases down with a beer.
‘Which one?’ asks Porta interestedly. ‘The one with the yellow badges or the white one?’ 1
‘’Is riverence with the white pipin,’ answers Tiny, rollinghis eyes skywards in the manner appropriate when referring to holy things or to persons belonging to the holy hierarchy.
‘I hope for your own sake that you can prove your accusation against this virtuous officer, Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt,’ threateningly from Porta.
‘Goddamn it, I
can
!’ shouts Tiny. ‘That bleedin’ bible-puncher was pissed as a coot yesterday, an’ ’ad ’is ’and up the clouts of that ‘umpty-backed old ‘ore of a
babuschka
2 down at the bleedin’ ferry.
An
’ ’e’d got a look on ’is face like a Jew with ‘is ’and fulla bleedin’ gold ducats. ’Ard luck it was gettin’ dark so I ’eard more’n I seen, but ’e was soakin’ the piss up like a sponge.’
‘How d’you know that, if it was dark?’ asks Barcelona suspiciously.
‘I got all ’is empties over where I was lyin’ listenin’,’ answers Tiny injuredly. ‘They went orf singin’. ’Im tellin’ ol’ ’umpty as ’ow she was ’is only true love an’ ’ad bin sent from Garwd. It’s true, by Christ, as ’e was sent to the front for ’ittin’ the piss. Nobody’d ’ave nothin’ to do with ’im in Leipzig because of it. When ’e was preachin’ ’is last sermon in the garrison church there, ’e fell outa the bleedin’ pulpit into the Commandin’ General’s bleedin’ lap as ’e was explainin’ the parable o’ the man sick o’ the bleedin’ palsy. ’E’d just got to the well-known words: “Pluck up thy pailliase and piss orf promptly!” when over the railin’ ’egoes an’ picks up ’is ticket to points east!’
‘It reminds me,’ Porta takes up the thread, ‘of the time I was chief clerk to Padre Kurt Winfuss of the 7th ID at München. He was what you’d call a happy maniac with his nose into everything he should’ve kept it out of. One evening he decided to make a check on the prevailing rumours of drunkenness and immorality in München and we
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