Court Martial by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online

bailiff an' the bleedin' coppers since they was nippers!'
    'When we dropped in on the butchers' store,' continued Porta, 'Tiny came near to killing us. He dropped a hand-grenade into a box of flares. They fizzed about all over the place and a couple of Ivans got hit and were rendered down in two shakes. But our visit was remunerative. There was coffee, pure coffee all the way from Brazil. I don't think Adolf, even, can get it any more. It was as easy as walking into the grocer's and asking for a pound!'
    'Easier,' grins Tiny, euphorically. 'You didn't even 'ave to queue up and slip your coppers to some bint behind a cash-box.'
    For the next couple of hours we eat as if we were preparing ourselves for three years of famine.
    'Shouldn't we give some to the wounded,' feels Heide, the humanitarian.
    Tiny almost chokes on a huge mouthful of pickled herring.
    'What sick soddin' monkey's been bitin' on your arse? They're goin' to kick the bucket any bloody road.'
    'They are our comrades,' Heide instructs him, angrily.
    'Maybe they're yours, I don't know any of 'em,' replies Tiny, carelessly, pushing another pickled herring into his mouth.
    Tiny's right, you know,' says Porta. 'If we give the wounded anything we'll have old Monocle-Charlie, the Oberst, on our backs. He'll want it shared out to the whole of the company. It's better, in my opinion, that a few of us get enough, than that everybody shares and still gets too little to do him any good.'
    Suddenly the Old Man goes red in the face. He tries to hit himself on the back. His face goes slowly purple. Gurgling, he rolls over on his side. He is choking. We roll him on to his face and hammer with our fists on his back.
    'He's dying,' says Porta, with conviction. ' People! Why can't they chew their food properly?'
    ''E ain't gonna die,' says Tiny and gripping the Old Man by the ankles he bangs his head against the ground repeatedly whilst the Legionnaire hammers him on the back.
    Half a block of liver paste flies out of his mouth.
    'God save us,' stammers the Old Man, straining to get back his breath. 'Think, to die in action choked by enemy liver paste!'
    'It's all one,' says Gregor, with a lop-sided smile, 'whether you get choked by liver paste, or get your guts blown apart by explosives!'
    We take a break from eating, but after ten minutes we start in again.
    We are no longer eating to still our hunger, but from mere gluttony.
    ' Santa Maria del Mar ,' groans Barcelona, with a long drawn out belch. 'I'm dreaming. Pinch me, somebody, am I still here?'
    'You're still here,' I answer, cutting myself a large slice from a haunch of reindeer.
    'Hell's bells,' he cries, toppling a shivering goatsmilk cheese into his widely gaping mouth.
    'What the devil's that?' cries Porta, in terror, throwing himself head-over-heels into covers behind a snowdrift.
    We scatter like chaff before the wind. In a moment we are lying in wait for the unknown who has given us warning of his coming. The automatic weapons are at the ready. Fingers curl round triggers.
    We lie like this for some time, waiting, tense.
    'Gas shells,' says Porta, fearfully, fumbling for the gasmask he has long since jettisoned.
    Then the Legionnaire laughs hysterically and points up into the sky.
    ' Sacre nom e Dieu , there are your gas shells!'
    We gape at the heavens and cannot believe our own eyes. V after V of wild ducks flap noisily past above our heads.
    'Holy Mother of Kazan!' cries Porta, getting up on one knee.
    'There goes a whole supply depot and we're doing nothing about it!'
    'What in the world are they doing here?' asks the Westphalian, thoughtfully. 'Ducks fly to the warm regions in wintertime.'
    'Maybe then they're Eskimo ducks, on their way to cool off their arses on the damned icebergs,' says Tiny, licking his lips, hungrily. The sight has made him forget completely the fact that he is no longer hungry.
    'I can't imagine what they can live off up here,' continues the Westphalian, stubbornly. 'There's nothing here