superciliously.
Where’d you nick ’em?’ asks Wolf, insultingly.
Think we’re all like you?’ Porta turns the insult away, loftily.
They’re confiscated,’ declares Wolf, categorically. ‘Ac-cordin’ to HDV 4 anything found in the field is to be turned in to the nearest Army Stores. That’s
me
, my lad! Understood, dogsbody?’
‘Get stuffed! Crawl smartly up your own central orifice,’ says Porta, contemptuously. The German armed forces and me’ve got different ideas on the subject of what’s private property and what belongs to the arse-lickin’ German people.’
‘Your tongue’ll get your neck stretched some day,’ shouts Heide warningly from inside the hut, where he sits deep in
Mein Kampf
.
‘What d’you want for ’em?’ Wolf breaks in sharply. He jumps from the BMW sidecar, unbuttoning his holster flap as he comes. Experience has taught him to take no chances when bargaining with Porta. Anything can happen.
‘Not for sale!’ Porta turns the question away coldly and lights a big cigar. He hates cigars really, but thinks it a help to be able to veil himself in a cloud of cigar smoke at a critical moment, and to be able to blow smoke into an opponent’s face. Al Capone, from Chicago, always had a cigar in his mouth when he was out on business. He is the only one out of sixty-two million Italian Porta looks up to and wishes to imitate.
‘
Not for sale?
Wolf cannot believe his own ears. Even his two wolfhounds look bewildered. Porta to own something which was not for sale? Impossible. He’d be ready to sell
himself
to Arabian slave-traders if the price was high enough.
Wolf plays idly with the LMG 5 mounted on the sidecar and, as if accidentally, the muzzle lines up on Porta.
‘Cut that shit, you ginger bloody Yid!’ hisses Wolf, irritably, swinging the machine-gun round as if ready to mow down the whole of No. 2 Section in one long roaring burst.
‘I’m ready to buy them furs and when I’m ready to buy, I buy! Understand me? What I
say goes
! If you won’t sell I’ll take ’em without payin’ see? Am I gettin’ through to the shit between your ears? Throw ’em into the sidecar and you can pick up a pound of apples for ’em next payday. Make yourself an apple pie. Think yourself lucky I don’t report you to GEFEPO 6 for stealin’ ’em.’
‘You ought to join a travellin’ circus, Wolfie boy!’ Porta laughs, jeeringly. ‘You’d do all right falling on your arse between the turns.’
‘I
want
those
furs
,’ snarls Wolf, making his
nagajka
hiss through the air.
‘Wish in one hand and shit in the other,’ grins Porta, cocking his nose in the air. Swinging the furs over his shoulder, as a sign that he regards the subject as closed, he begins to go off up the road
‘Here now, me old joker’, shouts Wolf, running after him, ’don’t piss against the wind, you’ll only get wet. We’re a couple that can fix a deal good as any parson’s daughters.’
Porta ignores him and increases his pace. He has noticed his friend the Greek village priest up by the bell-tower and waves pleasantly to him.
The priest waves smilingly back and begins to pull on the rope. The air fills with the tolling of the church bell. The villagers leave their houses on their way to Mass.
Wolf slaps his forehead in an attempt to start his brain working. He is almost choking with rage over Porta’s stubbornness.
Porta turns into the packed bar, run illicitly by the road-mender, at the moment a dead-drunk infantryman gets thrown out with threats of a quick death if he tries to come back.
‘Tonsil acid,’ orders Porta knocking on the bar with his Mpi. A large tankard of poor man’s champagne sails down the bar tohim and with a well-co-ordinated movement of arm and neck he knocks it back in one go.
Tango pushes his way over to him with Buffalo close at his heels.
‘We know where there’s a load o’ wine,’ whispers Buffalo, secretively. The Greco’s can deliver it tonight, and it
Where’d you nick ’em?’ asks Wolf, insultingly.
Think we’re all like you?’ Porta turns the insult away, loftily.
They’re confiscated,’ declares Wolf, categorically. ‘Ac-cordin’ to HDV 4 anything found in the field is to be turned in to the nearest Army Stores. That’s
me
, my lad! Understood, dogsbody?’
‘Get stuffed! Crawl smartly up your own central orifice,’ says Porta, contemptuously. The German armed forces and me’ve got different ideas on the subject of what’s private property and what belongs to the arse-lickin’ German people.’
‘Your tongue’ll get your neck stretched some day,’ shouts Heide warningly from inside the hut, where he sits deep in
Mein Kampf
.
‘What d’you want for ’em?’ Wolf breaks in sharply. He jumps from the BMW sidecar, unbuttoning his holster flap as he comes. Experience has taught him to take no chances when bargaining with Porta. Anything can happen.
‘Not for sale!’ Porta turns the question away coldly and lights a big cigar. He hates cigars really, but thinks it a help to be able to veil himself in a cloud of cigar smoke at a critical moment, and to be able to blow smoke into an opponent’s face. Al Capone, from Chicago, always had a cigar in his mouth when he was out on business. He is the only one out of sixty-two million Italian Porta looks up to and wishes to imitate.
‘
Not for sale?
Wolf cannot believe his own ears. Even his two wolfhounds look bewildered. Porta to own something which was not for sale? Impossible. He’d be ready to sell
himself
to Arabian slave-traders if the price was high enough.
Wolf plays idly with the LMG 5 mounted on the sidecar and, as if accidentally, the muzzle lines up on Porta.
‘Cut that shit, you ginger bloody Yid!’ hisses Wolf, irritably, swinging the machine-gun round as if ready to mow down the whole of No. 2 Section in one long roaring burst.
‘I’m ready to buy them furs and when I’m ready to buy, I buy! Understand me? What I
say goes
! If you won’t sell I’ll take ’em without payin’ see? Am I gettin’ through to the shit between your ears? Throw ’em into the sidecar and you can pick up a pound of apples for ’em next payday. Make yourself an apple pie. Think yourself lucky I don’t report you to GEFEPO 6 for stealin’ ’em.’
‘You ought to join a travellin’ circus, Wolfie boy!’ Porta laughs, jeeringly. ‘You’d do all right falling on your arse between the turns.’
‘I
want
those
furs
,’ snarls Wolf, making his
nagajka
hiss through the air.
‘Wish in one hand and shit in the other,’ grins Porta, cocking his nose in the air. Swinging the furs over his shoulder, as a sign that he regards the subject as closed, he begins to go off up the road
‘Here now, me old joker’, shouts Wolf, running after him, ’don’t piss against the wind, you’ll only get wet. We’re a couple that can fix a deal good as any parson’s daughters.’
Porta ignores him and increases his pace. He has noticed his friend the Greek village priest up by the bell-tower and waves pleasantly to him.
The priest waves smilingly back and begins to pull on the rope. The air fills with the tolling of the church bell. The villagers leave their houses on their way to Mass.
Wolf slaps his forehead in an attempt to start his brain working. He is almost choking with rage over Porta’s stubbornness.
Porta turns into the packed bar, run illicitly by the road-mender, at the moment a dead-drunk infantryman gets thrown out with threats of a quick death if he tries to come back.
‘Tonsil acid,’ orders Porta knocking on the bar with his Mpi. A large tankard of poor man’s champagne sails down the bar tohim and with a well-co-ordinated movement of arm and neck he knocks it back in one go.
Tango pushes his way over to him with Buffalo close at his heels.
‘We know where there’s a load o’ wine,’ whispers Buffalo, secretively. The Greco’s can deliver it tonight, and it
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