Teano. There we lay all day behind the station, waiting. Half of a soldier's time is spent waiting.
We played pontoon. When dinner time came we broke into a supply wagon standing on a siding. Two cases of cognac made us take a somewhat brighter view of life. Porta found four sucking pigs which we roasted on a spit.
"That's plundering," the Old Man muttered. "You could be hanged for that."
Porta said: "At least I'd go out with a full belly."
It was midnight when they woke us and marched us to a thick wood, where fifteen SS trucks stood waiting. That was a surprise. The trucks all belonged to the 20th SS Grenadiers, a division that consisted largely of men from the border states. We had met the division once, in White Russia. In the trucks, at the back, were SS greatcoats and helmets.
"What the hell's this?" the Old Man growled, amazed. "Are they going to try and shove us into the SS?"
Barcelona and Tiny were already delightedly trying on greatcoats. Tiny had put on an unterscharfuhrer's and was walking around in it, showing off. He pointed contemptuously at the Old Man, who gaped at him.
"Pull your old bones together, you antique, when an Unterscharfuhrer passes! Or would you like a spell in a concentration camp to learn manners? I'm a big wig. I once kissed the Fuhrer's arse. Remember that!"
Leutnant Frick appeared from behind one of the trucks.
"Take that greatcoat off, Creutzfeldt, and keep your mouth shut!"
"Jawohl, Untersturmfuhrer, SS Unterscharfuhrer Creutzfeldt begs to report his departure." He chucked the greatcoat and helmet into the depths of the truck, walked up to Leutnant Frick again, banged his heels together. "Herr Leutnant, Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt, reporting back."
Leutnant Frick waved him away with a gesture of irritation.
"Get into the back of that truck and do me the favour of going to sleep there."
Shortly before daybreak we swung into the open space in front of the monastery of Monte Cassino, where a number of heavy Luftwaffe trucks were already standing. Some young officers from the Hermann Goring Panzerdivision were bustling about. They ordered us to camouflage our trucks and take cover. Some men were already obliterating our trucks' tracks.
Tiny could not contain himself. He again put on a SS greatcoat and helmet. A Luftwaffe major ticked him off roundly and threatened all sorts of disasters, if he let himself be seen in that uniform again.
We waited all morning without anything else happening, but Allied bombers flying overhead leaving vapour trails in the sky. We had had the foresight to supply ourselves from the railway truck and Porta had a quarter of a sucking pig in the pocket of his greatcoat.
"We've to blow the whole shitting place up," Tiny told us, his face beaming.
"Blast them," Porta exclaimed angrily. "They could let the engineers do that. This is gala night at Palid Ida's. She's got a lot of fine tarts coming from Rome, all fragrant with rose water."
Tiny let his prurient imagination have full rein. He dribbled at the mouth.
"There are nuns in this holy building."
Heide's eyes narrowed.
"Freedom to loot would suit you nicely, wouldn't it?"
Tiny swallowed, then licked his lips.
"Don't talk about it. I'm almost bursting out of my trousers."
Porta took a mouthful of sucking pig. His face glistened with fat.
"Have I ever told you about the time I was gardener to a nunnery?"
We laughed and edged closer together under the lorry, settled our gasmasks comfortably under our heads.
"Was that down on the river Dubovila?" the Old Man asked.
"No, no! It was when I was on loan to the 2nd Panzer Regiment."
"I certainly don't remember you being that," laughed the Old Man with a sideways glance at us.
"Your memory has never been anything to boast of," retorted Porta. "But we, No. 2 Regiment and I, that is, were somewhere down among the Black Sea farmers. I was wandering about on my own looking for something important."
"Cunt?" Tiny asked, suddenly interested.
"That's the
We played pontoon. When dinner time came we broke into a supply wagon standing on a siding. Two cases of cognac made us take a somewhat brighter view of life. Porta found four sucking pigs which we roasted on a spit.
"That's plundering," the Old Man muttered. "You could be hanged for that."
Porta said: "At least I'd go out with a full belly."
It was midnight when they woke us and marched us to a thick wood, where fifteen SS trucks stood waiting. That was a surprise. The trucks all belonged to the 20th SS Grenadiers, a division that consisted largely of men from the border states. We had met the division once, in White Russia. In the trucks, at the back, were SS greatcoats and helmets.
"What the hell's this?" the Old Man growled, amazed. "Are they going to try and shove us into the SS?"
Barcelona and Tiny were already delightedly trying on greatcoats. Tiny had put on an unterscharfuhrer's and was walking around in it, showing off. He pointed contemptuously at the Old Man, who gaped at him.
"Pull your old bones together, you antique, when an Unterscharfuhrer passes! Or would you like a spell in a concentration camp to learn manners? I'm a big wig. I once kissed the Fuhrer's arse. Remember that!"
Leutnant Frick appeared from behind one of the trucks.
"Take that greatcoat off, Creutzfeldt, and keep your mouth shut!"
"Jawohl, Untersturmfuhrer, SS Unterscharfuhrer Creutzfeldt begs to report his departure." He chucked the greatcoat and helmet into the depths of the truck, walked up to Leutnant Frick again, banged his heels together. "Herr Leutnant, Obergefreiter Creutzfeldt, reporting back."
Leutnant Frick waved him away with a gesture of irritation.
"Get into the back of that truck and do me the favour of going to sleep there."
Shortly before daybreak we swung into the open space in front of the monastery of Monte Cassino, where a number of heavy Luftwaffe trucks were already standing. Some young officers from the Hermann Goring Panzerdivision were bustling about. They ordered us to camouflage our trucks and take cover. Some men were already obliterating our trucks' tracks.
Tiny could not contain himself. He again put on a SS greatcoat and helmet. A Luftwaffe major ticked him off roundly and threatened all sorts of disasters, if he let himself be seen in that uniform again.
We waited all morning without anything else happening, but Allied bombers flying overhead leaving vapour trails in the sky. We had had the foresight to supply ourselves from the railway truck and Porta had a quarter of a sucking pig in the pocket of his greatcoat.
"We've to blow the whole shitting place up," Tiny told us, his face beaming.
"Blast them," Porta exclaimed angrily. "They could let the engineers do that. This is gala night at Palid Ida's. She's got a lot of fine tarts coming from Rome, all fragrant with rose water."
Tiny let his prurient imagination have full rein. He dribbled at the mouth.
"There are nuns in this holy building."
Heide's eyes narrowed.
"Freedom to loot would suit you nicely, wouldn't it?"
Tiny swallowed, then licked his lips.
"Don't talk about it. I'm almost bursting out of my trousers."
Porta took a mouthful of sucking pig. His face glistened with fat.
"Have I ever told you about the time I was gardener to a nunnery?"
We laughed and edged closer together under the lorry, settled our gasmasks comfortably under our heads.
"Was that down on the river Dubovila?" the Old Man asked.
"No, no! It was when I was on loan to the 2nd Panzer Regiment."
"I certainly don't remember you being that," laughed the Old Man with a sideways glance at us.
"Your memory has never been anything to boast of," retorted Porta. "But we, No. 2 Regiment and I, that is, were somewhere down among the Black Sea farmers. I was wandering about on my own looking for something important."
"Cunt?" Tiny asked, suddenly interested.
"That's the
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