March Battalion (25 page)

He propped himself up against Little John and himself played a few uncertain chords on the piano, then commenced to sing his song in a wailing tenor.

'The cannons are chanting their very last psalm,

Come, sweet death,

Take me in thy palm..'

He then threw back his head and gave a long, rattling, raucous laugh. For a moment he rolled an eye at the silvered sea, shot through with the ray of the sinking sun. A frown creased his forehead.

'Did you hear that?'

There was a brief silence in the room. In the distance, we heard the echoing rumbles of heavy gun fire.

'They're knocking at the door,' said Barcelona, solemnly. 'Boom-boom, let me in... And what do we care? I'll tell you: we don't give a tuppeny damn for any of 'em! Tomorrow we die! And in the meantime, I say fornicate and be merry!'

Barcelona collapsed in a heap on the floor. Little John calmly stepped across him, dunked his head in a large flower bowl full of beer and vodka and drank deeply like a horse. He turned and spat in the direction of
Mme.
Olga, and when she had the effrontery to protest he grabbed a portrait of Adolf Hitler from the wall and brought it down over her head. It sat like a ruff round her shoulders.

'That,' declared Little John, 'is the right place for obscene paintings. Didn't you know there's a law against keeping pornography in the house?'

'She'll go to hell with the Fuhrer and all the rest of the trash,' said Porta, dispassionately pouring half a bottle of cognac over the miserable woman's head.

'Wouldn't you like to come upstairs with me?' asked
Mme.
Olga, in honeyed tones. 'We could be private up there--'

'Who wants to be private with you, you fat old bag? You watch your tongue when you're talking to me.' Porta drew himself up straight. 'I, madam, am the backbone of this army, I'll have you know.'

He stalked away, leaving
Mme.
Olga sitting on the floor with Hitler round her neck.

'I can't stand the sight of you any more,' said Little John. 'There's too much light in this damn room.'

He reached up easily and yanked the bulb from its socket. With a howl of triumph he hurled it through the windows and on to the terrace. For a moment there was panic. Someone shouted that the Russians had come. The girls began screaming and running about in circles, one of the Rumanians pulled out his revolver and for no very good reason fired eight rounds into the floorboards. Little John roared with insane laughter. The Lieutenant played the piano, Barcelona lay on the floor singing about death. In the middle of the uproar,
Mme.
Olga discovered that her bearskin was missing. She wrenched Hitler from her neck, stumbled to her feet and began beating Little John on the chest with both fists.

'Where's my rug? My bearskin rug? What have you done with it, you thief? That rug was given to me by a Chinese soldier!'

'AND now it's being used for wiping the arse of a German soldier!' yelled Little John, hitting her hard on her fat backside. 'Shut up, you old cow, before I lock you away in a cupboard.'

Mme.
Olga fell back, gnawing at her lips. She was indeed an old cow, but doubtless her predicament deserved some sympathy. She lived in fear of the girls becoming intoxicated and opening their mouths too wide.
Mme.
Olga had her guilty secrets, the same as any of us. And she can scarcely have failed to notice the black ribbon we wore on our left sleeves - the black ribbon with the two death's heads and the inscription 'Sonderabteilung'; the regiment of death. A regiment made up of ex-prisoners, thieves, assassins, revolutionaries, offenders against the state; desperate men, who had been offered the front line or the firing squad and had chosen the front line as being their only chance, albeit a slender one. We none of us cared overmuch for the conventions. Why should we, after the events we had lived through and the sights we had seen? We were amongst the best soldiers anywhere in the world, but we were an undisciplined mob: a band of ruffians who struck fear into the heart of the enemy and anyone else we came across.

Olga stood trembling, staring up at Little John. Was it possible that Little John was only a man as other men? Could one believe that the ugly grinning monster had ever had a family, a mother and a father? That he felt the same emotions as other human beings? Four times already' this evening he had threatened to strangle her: if he ever found out her secret he would almost certainly carry out his threat. He could strangle an elephant with those vast hairy hands. Olga decided upon a policy of conciliation. She smiled sweetly, and Heide, passing by, stopped and looked again.

'Oh, how very charming!' he said.

Mme.
Olga at once turned the smile upon him. Heide jerked at Little John's elbow.

'Wonder what the old bag would look like stark bollock naked? Let's get her clothes off and have a gander.'

A small, dark girl, sitting on top of a cupboard where Little John had parked her earlier on, overheard Heide's words.

'Wrap her in the bearskin, I should,' she advised. 'She's a hideous sight without her clothes on.'

Olga looked up at the girl and her lips twisted. Dear Nelly. Dear little Nelly from Belgium. She had been a fool to keep that one on. She should have been disposed of months ago. Olga flashed the girl a sickly smile.

'Don't shout like that, dear. No one's very interested in what you have to say.'

'You think not?' shrieked the girl. 'I wouldn't count on that!'

She sprang off the cupboard, ran up to Little John and whispered in his ear. Little John roared with delighted laughter.

'Is that so? Come on, old woman, get your knickers off! I've often wanted to see a bum like yours ... Roll up, roll up! The fattest bum in the world is about to be put on display!'

The cry was taken up generally. People flocked from all four corners of the room to see the wonderful sight of
Mme.
Olga's naked bottom.
Mme.
Olga, forgetting her policy of conciliation, fought like a wild cat. You wouldn't have thought a fat old bag like that would have had so much spirit. She made a fair match for Little John. The Lieutenant played a series of excited chords on the piano and the crowd stood round alternately cheering and jeering. Quite suddenly,
Mme.
Olga flew into the air and came down on our heads. Someone gave a roar of rage, seized hold of her and threw her bodily through the crowd. She went across the room like a rocket, knocking over Julius Heide, two of the girls and three chairs as she went. She finally fetched up against the piano, next to Barcelona, who smiled drunkenly at her. The Lieutenant, without a moment's hesitation, swung into a waltz.

The crowd gradually dispersed about its individual business. Little John and Annie of Hanover squatted on their haunches playing dice with a couple of the Rumanians. Annie was wearing a sailor's collar round her neck in place of a bra. For some time the Professor had been eyeing her rather nervously from the far side of the room. At last he plucked up courage and formally approached her, his pale face turning purple with the effort.

'Excuse me, I know I'm being rather forward, but would you care - would you like - that is, would you - I wondered if you--'

Little John glanced up at him.

'If you want her, take her. If you don't, fuck off.'

Annie swallowed half a glass of vodka and laughed in the Professor's face.

'Well?' she said.

The Professor turned and ran. We didn't see him again for several hours.

I sat in an armchair, a drunken and quiescent girl on my lap, surveying the scene and feeling pleasantly pissed. I watched Barcelona stagger across to the windows and vomit on to the terrace. I watched Porta touching up his Jugoslav. I noticed the little Belgian girl, Nelly, install herself on the couch between Alte and the Legionnaire. She seemed to have gone there not for sex but for conversation. Both men were listening intently to what she was saying, and the Legionnaire in particular showed a great interest. His eyes had narrowed and they were glittering in a manner that always bade ill for someone. Alte had lit up his pipe and was puffing furiously at it. I glanced across the room and saw
Mme.
Olga watching the trio with an air of disquiet. Evidently Nelly was being indiscreet - with the Legionnaire, of all people. He was a dangerous man to cross, and if she had succeeded in gaining his attention she must indeed have an interesting tale to tell, for the Legionnaire didn't care for women and he tended, as a rule, to ignore them.

Mme.
Olga moved silently towards the door, but before she could reach it Porta had placed himself in front of her, blocking the way.

'Dear Madam Olga, you're surely not leaving us?'

He seized her by the arm and dragged her with him into the centre of the room. Little John gave a great cheer and a round of applause burst out from somewhere nearby.

'Ladies and gentlemen, gather round and see the greatest show on earth! Watch the fattest old sow in the world take off all her clothes! Keep your eyes skinned while she shows you the colour of her knickers!'

'Hooray!' shrieked Heide, standing very drunk behind him.

Mme.
Olga cowered away, but her hour had come. The crowd was closing in again, laughing and clapping.

'Skirt!' cried Little John.

He tore it off her and sent it flying through the window to join Heide's pants on the flagpost.

'Titty holders!'

An enormous brassiere flapped after the skirt.

'Gut squeezer!' yelled Heide, joyfully wrenching off the woman's corset and playing upon it as if it were a concertina. 'Genuine iron and steel gut squeezer!'

'Go on, take the whole lot off her and give the old devil what for!' shouted Nelly, from the sofa.

'Have patience,' murmured the Legionnaire, who was watching the scene with cold, unmoved eyes. 'Let them have their fun first. She'll get what's coming to her, don't you worry.'

At last the quivering bulk of
Mme.
Olga was revealed in its entirety, naked as a worm, fat as a maggot. The crowd drew in its breath, whether in horror or in admiration it was difficult to say. For myself, I was both impressed and repelled at the same time.

'Holy cow,' breathed Little John, clasping his hands together and holding his head at an angle. 'What a sight!'

'Where's the bearskin?' cried Porta, from his ringside seat.

The cry was taken up.

'Where's the bearskin? Get the bearskin!' ,

Within seconds we were surging about the room in search of it. Tables and chairs were overturned. What remained of the glassware was joyfully smashed. Cushions were ripped open, curtains were pulled down. One of the Rumanians came staggering in with a dustbin, which was promptly tipped upside down in the middle of the carpet.

'Where's the bearskin?' 'Find the bearskin!'

'Find the bearskin!' echoed Barcelona, crawling on hands and knees about the floor.

Suddenly, three shots rang out. Everyone jumped round in the direction from which they had come. It was Porta. Crouched behind an overturned armchair, firing his rifle at the top of a cupboard.

'It's up there!' he told us.

Little John dragged Barcelona across the room by the scruff of his neck, climbed on to his back and peered over the top of the cupboard.

'It's that damned bear! I'll make sure of it this time!'

He pulled out his knife and made several wild slashes in the air.
Mme.
Olga screamed. The bearskin suddenly slid over the edge of the cupboard and fell over Barcelona's head, blinding him completely. He began to crawl in circles, yelling for someone to save him from the bear.

When at last a semblance of order had been re-established, when
Mme.
Olga was wrapped sullenly inside her ruined bearskin and Barcelona had been propped against the mantelpiece, the Legionnaire went into action. With his cap pushed to the back of his head, a cigarette stuck to his lower lip, he slouched arrogantly across the room to
Mme.
Olga.

'Something we ought to talk about, you and me.'

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and terrified. Behind the Legionnaire stood Alte and the girl Nelly.
Mme.
Olga would evidently have served herself a better turn had she fled the town with the rest of the inhabitants and left the girls behind to fend for themselves. Greed had kept her on. First there was the Rumanian Army, then the German Army; almost certainly there would very soon be the Russian Army. Business had promised to be good. Unfortunately for her, it had proved a little too good.

'Olga,' said the Legionnaire, softly, 'how do you get on with the Gestapo?'

'Gestapo?' babbled Olga. 'What do I know about the Gestapo? I don't know anything about them. I've never had anything to do with them.'

'Really?' murmured the Legionnaire. He fingered his knife, thoughtfully. 'You see this, Olga? You see this knife? I had it with me all the time I was with the Legion.' He laughed, as if at some private remembrance. 'I've lost count of the number of people I've had cause to use it on.'

Olga made one last, defiant stand. She stood up straight, lost her bearskin but attempted a show of dignity.

'Why tell me?' she said. 'It's no concern of mine how many people you've killed.'

'It might be, soon,' suggested the Legionnaire. 'When you're the next one on the list.'

'Stop talking and get on with it!' urged Nelly. 'She deserves all that's coming to her.'

'And more!' cried another girl.

She pushed her way through the gathering crowd and turned to face us.

'You know how she got to be the owner of this place? The Gestapo put her in here! And this isn't the only one, either. She's got places in Bucharest and Sarajevo, as well.'

'And how do you think we got here?' demanded Nelly. 'You think we're just whores, born and bred? Well, we're not. We were dragged here by the Gestapo. We weren't give any choice in the matter.'

'Not unless we were Jews,' added the other girl, bitterly. 'If we were Jews we were allowed to choose between a brothel or the gas chamber.'

'And that fat cow standing there was put here to keep an eye on us. Make sure we didn't talk.'