The Commissar by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online Page A

more time and I’ll shoot you! It’s dishonouring!’
    ‘Dis’onourin’? Gettin’ shot?’ laughs Tiny, swinging his
Nagan
.
    ‘
Moses
! You look like the feller as falls on ’is arse at the village fair.’
    Heide fumbles furiously for his pistol, but luckily for Tiny it sticks in its holster and he has to use both hands to get it out.
    ‘
Moses
! You’ll never get to be a big cowboy star in the pictures, ’Tiny screams with laughter. ‘The bleedin’ rustlers’d’ve shot you fulla ’oles ’fore you knew what was goin’ on!’
    A salvo of howling rockets from a Stalin organ drops in the next street, and sends a wall crashing down across the roadway.
    ‘Jesus’n Mary,’ cries Tiny, throwing himself down into cover close by the wall. ‘Ain’t them barmy bleedin’ neighbours
ever
goin’ to get tired of shootin’ at us?’
    A German SMG begins to bark in wild, hysterical bursts.
    ‘Hell man, stop that!’ the Old Man’s voice rings through the noise. ‘The tracer’ll tell ’em our position!’
    ‘Julius ’as ’ad it,’ shouts Tiny, pointing with the muzzle of his mpi at Heide’s body stretched out on the floor.
    ‘The Führer lost a faithful soldier there,’ says Porta, sadly.
    ‘Hold his forehead while I take his three gold teeth. I’ve had my eye on ’em for a long time now!’
    ‘You gonna do that?’ E
is
a kind of a mate when all’s said an’ done!’ says Tiny, suddenly turning moralist.
    ‘How’s he to know what’s happening? Dead isn’t he?’ answers Porta, bending over Heide. He is just about to take a grip on one of the teeth with his forceps when Heide comes to with a shout. ‘Damnation!’ cries Porta, in astonishment, ‘I thought you were dead!’
    ‘Corpse robber,’ screams Heide, gazing with open disgust at Porta’s rusty dental forceps.
    ‘Corpse robber?’ says Porta, blankly. ‘Couldn’t
be
! Not dead yet, are you?’
    ‘I’m going to charge you,’ snarls Heide, furiously. He dabs at his neck, where a shell-splinter has dug a deep furrow.
    ‘Outside!’ shouts the Old Man. ‘Get this area cleaned up and quick about it. It’s full of aspiring heroes looking forward to dyin’ for the great Stalin!’
    ‘I’m on my way,’ shouts Porta. He runs off along the houses with the LMG in his hand, supporting grip out.
    A clumsy Russian hand-grenade comes flying through the air and falls, smoking, at Tiny’s feet. With a resolute kick, worthy of a soccer international, he sends it flying back. Not for nothing is he the regiment’s top goal-scorer.
    Porta sends a couple of short bursts up at some gaping window-openings, and jumps to cover behind a burnt-out transport vehicle.
    ‘Either them shits’re down in the cellars,’ yells Tiny, falling full-length in a shower of mud and half-melted snow, ‘or else they’re upstairs.’
    ‘Where?’ howls Porta, crossing in long jumps to the opposite side of the street. He goes down, like lightning, flat in the gutter as he hears the feared mooing of a ‘cow’ on the way. A row of cobblestones flies into the air.
    ‘Get down, damn you,’ shouts the Old Man to the section, signalling with his arms.
    Albert is behind a pushcart lying on its side, firing away with an MG-34 as if he were aiming at breaking the world war record for disposal of most ammunition in the shortest time.
    Barcelona drops down beside him, panting. ‘What the hell are you shootin’ at, you black ape? We got to
account
for that ammunition!’
    ‘Shit on that, man!’ wheezes Albert, grey-faced with terror. ‘No fucking Commie bastard’s gonna pull the carpet out from under
my
fallen, fuckin’ arches!’
    ‘Stop it, you mad sod,’ shouts Barcelona, giving the LMG a kick which sends it flying out of Albert’s hands. Shaking his head from side to side, Albert leans up against the wet wall of a house and stares with a lost look at his LMG, which lies hissing in a drift of filthy snow.
    ‘What’re you sitting here moping for?’ asks