and then . . ."
Hinka held up a hand. "Don't push your luck, Obergefreiter! Do you never listen to a word I say?" "Yes, sir, but . . ."
"Between point X and Yersovka. No more than three miles at the most. No one's talking of going all the way to the Black Sea. Don't be more stupid than you can help."
The night was black and moonless and it was beginning to snow. We were all three agreed that a rest was required before we set out, and we accordingly crept into the shelter of a thick clump of bushes and passed around a bottle of French brandy I had recently picked up.
"Where'd you get it?" demanded Porta jealously. I shrugged. "General HQ. You'd be amazed the stuff old Paulus has stashed away there."
"Not really," said Porta, who never allowed himself to be amazed by anything. "That's the way it goes--the higher you are, the more you get away with. I guess it's always been like that. You know that war they had in China?" "What war?" demanded Tiny suspiciously. "What's it matter?" Porta wrinkled his forehead. "Some lousy war. Some lousy rebellion. Half the fucking world had to go and stick their noses in and send their troops over there."
"The Boxer Rebellion," I suggested. "That's it," agreed Porta. "That's what I said. Well, anyway, there they were, fighting all over this goddamn desert. And it seems like the Chinese desert ain't too well provided with luxuries--know what I mean? No booze, no grub, no dames--damn all. So one day they come across this great slob of a colonel feeding his face off the fat of the land--huge great chunks of roast meat, lashings of the stuff, and the best cuts and all. Know what it was? When they took it off him and looked at it, you know what it was?" "No," said Tiny. "What was it?"
"Camel?" I said vaguely.
"Camel!" Porta gave a scornful laugh. "Bird, that was what it was--roast bird. Human bird--Chinese human bird. Seems he'd taken her along for the ride, lost one sort of appetite and found another. So he cuts her up and pops her in the stewpot. Easy!"
"I'd like to see you faced with it," I said. "You'd go bats, wouldn't you? Trying to eat it and stuff it at the same time."
Porta grinned evilly.
Tiny snatched the brandy away from me. "All this yakking--I haven't had my eight hours' sleep. I don't work so good without I get my eight hours." He downed a few mouthfuls of brandy and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Why couldn't the stupid bastard ask for volunteers, eh? There's always a gang of 'em lusting after their Iron Cross. Why pick on us? What have we done to get in his hair?"
"Oh, stop bellyaching!" said Porta. "It's an honor, that's what it is. You ought to be proud of it."
"Yeah, big talk!" jeered Tiny. "Only right at this moment I got gooseflesh, and it ain't just because I'm cold. You know they got the lousy Siberians out there somewhere? You fancy being nailed to a tree and used for target practice like they done to that patrol from the Second Tank Regiment?"
"Shove it," said Porta curtly. "What's the time?"
I looked at my watch. "Quarter past one."
"OK, come on. Let's get cracking."
Tiny moaned and clutched protectively at the empty brandy bottle. "Why can't we spend the night here and cook up some hogwash to satisfy him?"
Porta turned and hissed in his ear, "Because when the bastards found out we'd been lying, we'd be for the high jump, that's why! Now get off your great fat ass and get a move on!"
Yawning and muttering, Tiny staggered to his feet. We left our own lines and crept forward into no-man's-land. It was fortunate the night was so dark. Even Tiny's vast bulk merged into the background, while Porta, snaking a few paces ahead of us, might not have been there at all. Nevertheless, we used what cover there was, slinking along by the side of bushes, taking care to make no sound.
As we approached the Russian lines, I became aware of a faint, unidentifiable clicking somewhere to our right. I stood still, straining my ears. The sound came again. It was rather like a
Hinka held up a hand. "Don't push your luck, Obergefreiter! Do you never listen to a word I say?" "Yes, sir, but . . ."
"Between point X and Yersovka. No more than three miles at the most. No one's talking of going all the way to the Black Sea. Don't be more stupid than you can help."
The night was black and moonless and it was beginning to snow. We were all three agreed that a rest was required before we set out, and we accordingly crept into the shelter of a thick clump of bushes and passed around a bottle of French brandy I had recently picked up.
"Where'd you get it?" demanded Porta jealously. I shrugged. "General HQ. You'd be amazed the stuff old Paulus has stashed away there."
"Not really," said Porta, who never allowed himself to be amazed by anything. "That's the way it goes--the higher you are, the more you get away with. I guess it's always been like that. You know that war they had in China?" "What war?" demanded Tiny suspiciously. "What's it matter?" Porta wrinkled his forehead. "Some lousy war. Some lousy rebellion. Half the fucking world had to go and stick their noses in and send their troops over there."
"The Boxer Rebellion," I suggested. "That's it," agreed Porta. "That's what I said. Well, anyway, there they were, fighting all over this goddamn desert. And it seems like the Chinese desert ain't too well provided with luxuries--know what I mean? No booze, no grub, no dames--damn all. So one day they come across this great slob of a colonel feeding his face off the fat of the land--huge great chunks of roast meat, lashings of the stuff, and the best cuts and all. Know what it was? When they took it off him and looked at it, you know what it was?" "No," said Tiny. "What was it?"
"Camel?" I said vaguely.
"Camel!" Porta gave a scornful laugh. "Bird, that was what it was--roast bird. Human bird--Chinese human bird. Seems he'd taken her along for the ride, lost one sort of appetite and found another. So he cuts her up and pops her in the stewpot. Easy!"
"I'd like to see you faced with it," I said. "You'd go bats, wouldn't you? Trying to eat it and stuff it at the same time."
Porta grinned evilly.
Tiny snatched the brandy away from me. "All this yakking--I haven't had my eight hours' sleep. I don't work so good without I get my eight hours." He downed a few mouthfuls of brandy and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Why couldn't the stupid bastard ask for volunteers, eh? There's always a gang of 'em lusting after their Iron Cross. Why pick on us? What have we done to get in his hair?"
"Oh, stop bellyaching!" said Porta. "It's an honor, that's what it is. You ought to be proud of it."
"Yeah, big talk!" jeered Tiny. "Only right at this moment I got gooseflesh, and it ain't just because I'm cold. You know they got the lousy Siberians out there somewhere? You fancy being nailed to a tree and used for target practice like they done to that patrol from the Second Tank Regiment?"
"Shove it," said Porta curtly. "What's the time?"
I looked at my watch. "Quarter past one."
"OK, come on. Let's get cracking."
Tiny moaned and clutched protectively at the empty brandy bottle. "Why can't we spend the night here and cook up some hogwash to satisfy him?"
Porta turned and hissed in his ear, "Because when the bastards found out we'd been lying, we'd be for the high jump, that's why! Now get off your great fat ass and get a move on!"
Yawning and muttering, Tiny staggered to his feet. We left our own lines and crept forward into no-man's-land. It was fortunate the night was so dark. Even Tiny's vast bulk merged into the background, while Porta, snaking a few paces ahead of us, might not have been there at all. Nevertheless, we used what cover there was, slinking along by the side of bushes, taking care to make no sound.
As we approached the Russian lines, I became aware of a faint, unidentifiable clicking somewhere to our right. I stood still, straining my ears. The sound came again. It was rather like a
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