out a roar, and tackles Albert just as he is about to go through the door.
‘You stinking black rat,’ he rages. ‘Nobody gets away with that with me!’
A new, giant shell comes roaring over, and we all go down on the floor. The night becomes one long, shuddering, thunderous explosion.
‘What the hell’s happening?’ shouts Barcelona hysterically, as the great concrete building begins to shake like a sapling in a storm. Shrapnel splinters come from all directions. They hammer against the walls, showering us with mortar dust.
The grey office windows at the far end of the long storehouse tinkle to pieces in a rain of glass shards.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’ roars the Legionnaire, releasing the safety catch on his machine-pistol.
‘The Beast of the Apocalypse,’ answers Obergefreiter Brinck, happily, coming crawling in through a shattered window. ‘You hide yourselves real good. Took me two hours to find you.’
‘You must be mad,’ the Old Man scolds him. ‘You could’ve got yourself shot!’
‘War is a risky business,’ grins Brinck carelessly, starting to rig up a field telephone on the floor.
‘What’s this, then?’ asks Porta, wonderingly.
‘Army field telephone model 1932,’ declares Brinck happily. ‘The Signals coolies’ve put down a cable. I’ve suggested code name “
Sauerkraut
” for you. Command’s got code name “
Eisbein
”. If Ivan gets on to it he’ll think we’ve opened up a chop-house. Try to ringan’ order a table he will, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t get too worried, though. The neighbours’re shooting off like mad, and the cables are gettin’ shot up quicker’n Signals can repair ’em!’
A little later Gregor goes amuck again. He is halfway through the shattered window before the Old Man and Barcelona get hold of him. They give him a going-over with their fists. It is the only effective treatment for frontline madness.
They have hardly finished with him before Albert starts up again, howling like a wolf. He runs his head into the wall. Then he draws his combat-knife, and begins to stab and slash madly at a sofa. Screaming wildly, he cuts it to pieces. Springs fly up and hit him in the face, driving him even crazier. In the end he becomes so entangled in wires and furniture webbing that we have the greatest difficulty in freeing him.
‘That black monkey’s gone out of his mind,’ rages the Old Man. ‘Take away his weapons, before he kills some of us!’
The scream of a shell makes itself heard from out in the darkness. The flash of the explosion lights up the night. It is followed by another explosion, and then another. Shells continue to hammer down, seemingly endlessly. Beams and tiles crash around us. A large door comes flying across the room and cuts off the head of an infantryman who is on his way up the stairs.
‘And they tell us this shit of a town’s been cleared,’ yellsPorta, wriggling further down in the four-poster bed alongside Tiny.
‘I think they’re gonna attack,’ says Barcelona, listening carefully. ‘Listen, that’s 75 mm!’
‘Jesus’n Mary,’ mumbles Tiny, burying his head under a pillow. ‘Those bleedin’ shells drive a feller barmy!’
From the street comes the clatter of rushing boots.
The Legionnaire peers cautiously out of the broken window.
‘
Par Allah
!’ he cries, fearfully, ‘it is Ivan! He is all over the street, out there!’
‘Ivan?’ asks the Old Man. ‘Impossible! That means the whole division’s been turned back!’
Porta’s constantly surprised, birdlike face peers carefully from the window niche in the end wall. The hair seems to stand up on his head. He closes his eyes and emits a grunt of fear.
‘The devil, it’s the whole neighbour’s army,’ he shouts, gripping his LMG, and dashing straight across the storeroom towards the street door.
We take the plank fence almost together. Hand-grenades explode, hollowly, behind us. From the darkness comes the muzzle-flash of an mpi.
I
‘You stinking black rat,’ he rages. ‘Nobody gets away with that with me!’
A new, giant shell comes roaring over, and we all go down on the floor. The night becomes one long, shuddering, thunderous explosion.
‘What the hell’s happening?’ shouts Barcelona hysterically, as the great concrete building begins to shake like a sapling in a storm. Shrapnel splinters come from all directions. They hammer against the walls, showering us with mortar dust.
The grey office windows at the far end of the long storehouse tinkle to pieces in a rain of glass shards.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’ roars the Legionnaire, releasing the safety catch on his machine-pistol.
‘The Beast of the Apocalypse,’ answers Obergefreiter Brinck, happily, coming crawling in through a shattered window. ‘You hide yourselves real good. Took me two hours to find you.’
‘You must be mad,’ the Old Man scolds him. ‘You could’ve got yourself shot!’
‘War is a risky business,’ grins Brinck carelessly, starting to rig up a field telephone on the floor.
‘What’s this, then?’ asks Porta, wonderingly.
‘Army field telephone model 1932,’ declares Brinck happily. ‘The Signals coolies’ve put down a cable. I’ve suggested code name “
Sauerkraut
” for you. Command’s got code name “
Eisbein
”. If Ivan gets on to it he’ll think we’ve opened up a chop-house. Try to ringan’ order a table he will, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t get too worried, though. The neighbours’re shooting off like mad, and the cables are gettin’ shot up quicker’n Signals can repair ’em!’
A little later Gregor goes amuck again. He is halfway through the shattered window before the Old Man and Barcelona get hold of him. They give him a going-over with their fists. It is the only effective treatment for frontline madness.
They have hardly finished with him before Albert starts up again, howling like a wolf. He runs his head into the wall. Then he draws his combat-knife, and begins to stab and slash madly at a sofa. Screaming wildly, he cuts it to pieces. Springs fly up and hit him in the face, driving him even crazier. In the end he becomes so entangled in wires and furniture webbing that we have the greatest difficulty in freeing him.
‘That black monkey’s gone out of his mind,’ rages the Old Man. ‘Take away his weapons, before he kills some of us!’
The scream of a shell makes itself heard from out in the darkness. The flash of the explosion lights up the night. It is followed by another explosion, and then another. Shells continue to hammer down, seemingly endlessly. Beams and tiles crash around us. A large door comes flying across the room and cuts off the head of an infantryman who is on his way up the stairs.
‘And they tell us this shit of a town’s been cleared,’ yellsPorta, wriggling further down in the four-poster bed alongside Tiny.
‘I think they’re gonna attack,’ says Barcelona, listening carefully. ‘Listen, that’s 75 mm!’
‘Jesus’n Mary,’ mumbles Tiny, burying his head under a pillow. ‘Those bleedin’ shells drive a feller barmy!’
From the street comes the clatter of rushing boots.
The Legionnaire peers cautiously out of the broken window.
‘
Par Allah
!’ he cries, fearfully, ‘it is Ivan! He is all over the street, out there!’
‘Ivan?’ asks the Old Man. ‘Impossible! That means the whole division’s been turned back!’
Porta’s constantly surprised, birdlike face peers carefully from the window niche in the end wall. The hair seems to stand up on his head. He closes his eyes and emits a grunt of fear.
‘The devil, it’s the whole neighbour’s army,’ he shouts, gripping his LMG, and dashing straight across the storeroom towards the street door.
We take the plank fence almost together. Hand-grenades explode, hollowly, behind us. From the darkness comes the muzzle-flash of an mpi.
I
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