Monte Cassino by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online

few are chosen. Those who don't know how to secure themselves on all sides, soon end in the gutter. There are competitors everywhere just waiting to strip you of your last rags, but if you know how to play the game, the money will flow into your pocket, and, even if no one can stand you, they will all vie for your company and kiss your arse if you ask them. The bigger and more hated you are, the more bowing and scraping you'll get. Spit on the parquet in your enemy's house, and he'll think it a great joke. You can ring up a judge in the middle of the night and he won't mind. Everything you do is right. Wave a sheaf of ducats and they all come running, from kings to pimps. You mustn't be particular about your methods. You must know a few thugs, who can arrange the occasional street accident. And a sawn-through front axle on your competitor's Jaguar can be a great help at times."
    "But that's being a gangster," Tiny objected.
    "Which is what every big business man is. Otherwise he would have gone under. You have to have lots of cunt out spying for you. Put 'em in your competitor's beds and they'll have lots of interesting things to tell you in the morning; dolls're the army scouts of the business world."
    Tiny's face lit up. "You've just to build it all on a military basis?"
    "Correct, and that's why I always pay attention when we are lectured on tactics. Your sales managers are the armoured troops; your thugs the paratroops."
    "What about the infantry?" Tiny asked, athirst for knowledge.
    "That's all the poor fools who labour away for tiny wages. The pen-pushers and typewriter-hammerers in the offices. When a skirt's done you a really big service, you wrap her in Persian lamb."
    "Never seen that," Tiny exclaimed. "What's it look like?"
    "Black and curly."
    "Like One-Eye has on his hat?"
    "Not on your life," Porta snorted contemptuously. "What One-Eye has is the remains of a moth-eaten poodle some Jew palmed off on him as Persian lamb."
    The radio whistled.
    "Enemy tanks in sight. Action stations. Break off radio contact."
    I edged in behind the periscope; Porta started up the dynamo; Tiny checked the fuses and shoved an armour-piercing shell into the chamber. The heavy breach block closed with a smack.
    "Loaded, safety catch released," he reported automatically, already with a new armour-piercer in his arms. The long shells stood there in rows, glinting at each other, looking so innocent; but in a few minutes they would spread death and horror, start blazing bonfires, make men scream in torment and terror. Through our open hatches we stared intently at the enemy tanks rolling along in close column down the sunlit asphalt road.
    I depressed the pedal slightly. The electric motor hummed. The turret revolved quietly. My target was to be exactly between two trees.
    Major Mike was peering over the edge of the turret. His glasses were lying in front of him, camouflaged under a turf. We were to fire, when he tore his beret off.
    There was a whole regiment of them. The sort of sight a tank commander dreams of.
    "You could hardly believe it," whispered the Old Man. "If they don't discover us, it'll be all over in ten minutes."
    A lark was pouring out its trills in the blue sky, a herd of heifers stood on the fringe of the trees staring inquisitively at the tanks, and two farmhands were sitting on a muck cart drinking chianti, taking a rest with no idea of what was lurking the other side of the dyke. In a few seconds, they would be right in the middle of it. They waved gaily to the Americans, who called back witticisms. We were so tense that we did not even dare speak aloud. My eyes were glued to the rubber surround of the periscope.
    A dog came gambolling up to the farm cart. One of the men threw a stick for it. A couple of bees buzzed about the flowers that camouflaged the guns. A lizard darted across the turret. A magpie was belabouring a big snail. The Americans were singing.
    Then the first tank came in to view in my rangefinder.