can go back to Germany in empty ammo-baskets.’
‘We’ve got something else, too,’ grins Tango, cunningly, executing a few dance steps. ‘And we can send it to Bielefeld marked GEKADOS in sealed zinc cases. Even the SS-Heini’s wouldn’t dare touch them!’
‘Meet me at the parson’s at eleven o’clock tonight!’ says Porta, swallowing another glass, ’and beat it, my sons, and leave me in peace. I’ve got some thinking to do.’
‘There’s more’n
you’ll
buy it,’ snarls Tango, looking meaningly at Chief Mechanic Wolf who at this very moment bangs in through the door.
Porta blows cigar-smoke gently into Tango’s face.
‘Look now, Tango my young son, you exist only because I am a good kind man. Your time in the Greater German Wehr-macht ends just as soon as I feel I do not want you to breathe the same air as I do any longer. Sons like you, who can’t count to twenty without taking their boots off’d better be glad for every minute we let you walk about upright on the face of the earth.’
Wolf laughs loudly with satisfaction. He appreciates a joke, always excepting when it is against himself.
‘Did you know you look silly when you laugh?’ asks Porta, contemptuously.
Wolf swallows hard, and is about to say something coarse, when he remembers the attractive furs. He slaps Porta on the shoulder with affected comradeliness.
‘When there’s a war on then’s the time for far-sighted people to do business. I know them zinc cases well. They’re almost mine, but I will naturally withdraw and leave them to you,
if
you will sell me the furs.’
‘You’d be a hit in the comics,’ grins Porta, calling to a pretty, long-haired girl who is sitting on the lap of a wachtmeister of artillery.
‘What do you want?’ asks the girl with a cold look on her pretty Slav features.
Porta lifts up her dress.
‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours!’
’Pig!’ snarls the girl.
‘Obergefreiter,’ replies Porta, bowing from the waist.
‘Cultivated lot, these Grecos,’ grins Wolf. ‘State their name, soon as you meet ’em. Jokin’ apart, Porta my lad, what’d you say to six pounds of caviare, five cartons of Camels and a whole case of
Slivovitz
for your worn-out furs, and that’s top price.’
‘Six pounds of caviare! I’d have fins back of my ears and gills up my arsehole before I’d finished eating that lot,’ grins Porta, sarcastically. ‘Start talking about Scotch whisky and coffee and we might have at least a starting point.’
They start with a bottle of schnapps and after three hours of heated discussion, liberally sprinkled with threats, the deal is on. They have a drink on it and with uncertain steps go about their individual affairs, Wolf with the furs under his arm. He decides to go to bed early with a
Blitzmädel
to celebrate them.
‘It’ll be the most lively bang those two’ve ever had in their lives,’ grins Porta expectantly.
‘He’ll let your guts out for you,’ prophesies the Old Man, darkly.
Porta nearly strangles on his food at the thought of Wolf and the Blitzmädel’s night with the fleas.
‘Wish ’e’d lend them Chinese bleeders one of ’em,’ says Tiny. ‘What I wouldn’t give for that pair to get to know them bleedin’ fleas!’
Next day Wolf is back with his whole gang. The Blitzmädel is sitting between him and one of the Chinese in the armoured Kübel. The fleas have left her looking like a boiled lobster.
‘What the devil’s the matter with your face?’ shouts Porta, with pretended surprise, viewing Wolf’s swollen features with interest.
‘You don’t think, do you, you twistin’ Yid bastard, that you’re going to get away with doing
me?
screams Wolf, grinding his teeth and hurling the furs at Porta’s head.
‘Shut your ugly great trap, Wolf. You make more noise’n apig with his bollocks caught in a meatgrinder,’ answers Porta, with a condescending air. ‘Didn’t you go on your knees to me to let you buy those
‘We’ve got something else, too,’ grins Tango, cunningly, executing a few dance steps. ‘And we can send it to Bielefeld marked GEKADOS in sealed zinc cases. Even the SS-Heini’s wouldn’t dare touch them!’
‘Meet me at the parson’s at eleven o’clock tonight!’ says Porta, swallowing another glass, ’and beat it, my sons, and leave me in peace. I’ve got some thinking to do.’
‘There’s more’n
you’ll
buy it,’ snarls Tango, looking meaningly at Chief Mechanic Wolf who at this very moment bangs in through the door.
Porta blows cigar-smoke gently into Tango’s face.
‘Look now, Tango my young son, you exist only because I am a good kind man. Your time in the Greater German Wehr-macht ends just as soon as I feel I do not want you to breathe the same air as I do any longer. Sons like you, who can’t count to twenty without taking their boots off’d better be glad for every minute we let you walk about upright on the face of the earth.’
Wolf laughs loudly with satisfaction. He appreciates a joke, always excepting when it is against himself.
‘Did you know you look silly when you laugh?’ asks Porta, contemptuously.
Wolf swallows hard, and is about to say something coarse, when he remembers the attractive furs. He slaps Porta on the shoulder with affected comradeliness.
‘When there’s a war on then’s the time for far-sighted people to do business. I know them zinc cases well. They’re almost mine, but I will naturally withdraw and leave them to you,
if
you will sell me the furs.’
‘You’d be a hit in the comics,’ grins Porta, calling to a pretty, long-haired girl who is sitting on the lap of a wachtmeister of artillery.
‘What do you want?’ asks the girl with a cold look on her pretty Slav features.
Porta lifts up her dress.
‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours!’
’Pig!’ snarls the girl.
‘Obergefreiter,’ replies Porta, bowing from the waist.
‘Cultivated lot, these Grecos,’ grins Wolf. ‘State their name, soon as you meet ’em. Jokin’ apart, Porta my lad, what’d you say to six pounds of caviare, five cartons of Camels and a whole case of
Slivovitz
for your worn-out furs, and that’s top price.’
‘Six pounds of caviare! I’d have fins back of my ears and gills up my arsehole before I’d finished eating that lot,’ grins Porta, sarcastically. ‘Start talking about Scotch whisky and coffee and we might have at least a starting point.’
They start with a bottle of schnapps and after three hours of heated discussion, liberally sprinkled with threats, the deal is on. They have a drink on it and with uncertain steps go about their individual affairs, Wolf with the furs under his arm. He decides to go to bed early with a
Blitzmädel
to celebrate them.
‘It’ll be the most lively bang those two’ve ever had in their lives,’ grins Porta expectantly.
‘He’ll let your guts out for you,’ prophesies the Old Man, darkly.
Porta nearly strangles on his food at the thought of Wolf and the Blitzmädel’s night with the fleas.
‘Wish ’e’d lend them Chinese bleeders one of ’em,’ says Tiny. ‘What I wouldn’t give for that pair to get to know them bleedin’ fleas!’
Next day Wolf is back with his whole gang. The Blitzmädel is sitting between him and one of the Chinese in the armoured Kübel. The fleas have left her looking like a boiled lobster.
‘What the devil’s the matter with your face?’ shouts Porta, with pretended surprise, viewing Wolf’s swollen features with interest.
‘You don’t think, do you, you twistin’ Yid bastard, that you’re going to get away with doing
me?
screams Wolf, grinding his teeth and hurling the furs at Porta’s head.
‘Shut your ugly great trap, Wolf. You make more noise’n apig with his bollocks caught in a meatgrinder,’ answers Porta, with a condescending air. ‘Didn’t you go on your knees to me to let you buy those
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