‘You mean these little bitty bullets can stop an-APC?’ Ripper prodded the rounds in the belt like a Pacific Islander being offered his first trade beads. ‘More likely they’ll buzz about inside chopping the crew to pieces, but they’ve got an incendiary filling, so they could ignite fuel, or set off ammo racks.’
‘Well I’ll be, ain’t that something…’
Wilson had at last managed to catch the attention of their driver by taking his rifle and pounding it up and down on the man’s helmet. For whatever reason, the engine revs suddenly fell away and the whole truck stopped rattling in time to the straining power unit.
‘This is the first time I’ve been in action, same goes for Wilson here, don’t it, Wilson?’ Ripper didn’t wait for a confirmation. ‘See we figured, as the war’s gonna end soon anyway…’
‘Now where the hell did you get that?’ Libby was silenced by a knowing wink from Ripper.
‘Ah know.’ He sank his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Ah know because my cousin John, he sells fresh dog meat.’
The relevance of that particular authority was lost on Libby. He tried to think of a polite way to voice the query. ‘What the fuck has that got to do with the end of the war?’ and failed.
Again the long slow wink. ‘One of his very best customers is Old George.’ If he expected light to suddenly dawn on Libby’s face he suffered a letdown. Ripper elaborated. ‘Old George, Old George who used to be a gardener at the State Governor’s mansion. Like he says, he may not be right at the hub of things no more, but he still gets all the low-down, keeps his fingers on the pulse of the nation as he says. That’s how my cousin John…’
‘Who sells the fresh dog meat…’
‘Right, you’re with me now. That’s how he heard from Old George that the Governor had said to one of the maids how the war was gonna end any time. And as he was only half-drunk and getting real horny with her at the time, it must be the truth.’
‘Fascinating. I suppose we might as well pack up and go home now.’ It took an effort for Libby not to laugh out loud, especially as Ripper’s face was a picture of earnestness, and was mirrored by the silent Wilson’s.
‘You’ll have to put off your departure, at least for an hour.’ Lieutenant Hogg stuck his beaming face round the side of the truck. ‘Seems like there’s a Russian column coming who don’t have access to such interesting inside information, and we might just have to restrain them. That OK.’
‘Fine by me, Lieutenant. Like I was telling this fella here, before I got sidetracked, me and Wilson we wanted to get in on the action and get ourselves a medal or two before it was all over. We’d have felt a mite foolish if we’d stepped off the plane, been told it’d ended and that we were going back on the next flight.’
‘I see your point.’ Hogg turned to Libby. ‘Don’t open up until you hear the Dragons go into action. And if you’re forced to shift position, don’t park anywhere near the big building two blocks down. The combat engineers brought a few kilos of explosive with them and we’ve mined the place. Good luck.’
‘Hey, now don’t he seem a nice fella.’ Ripper watched the lieutenant depart. ‘Boot camp would have been a touch more pleasant if a handful of our drill sergeants had been like him.’
Wilson didn’t say anything, but his slow nod signalled agreement. Libby rubbed his brow, he had one hell of a headache coming on. He could only pray that the Russians would oblige him by removing its cause. The two southerners were sharing a bar of chocolate, blissfully unaware of the prayer being aimed at them. Wincing at a sharp and painful twinge in his left temple, Libby added a rider to the supplication; he uttered it out loud, though under his breath, to give it added force and weight. ‘And please, make it soon.’
‘He’s chasing about like a blue-arsed fly out there.’ Burke watched the lieutenant dashing from one building to another, checking his men were in place. ‘He sure is a worker, just the sort we don’t want in this outfit.’
‘Fuck him, what we need is a chef.’ Loud rumblings were coming from Dooley’s large gut. ‘At the moment I’d even settle for the crummiest short order cook in the States, even an army cook, third class.’
‘Christ, you must be bloody hungry to wish that on yourself. I’d hesitate before wishing that on a shitty commissar.’ Nibbling at the corner of a block of K-rations, Burke attempted to figure out precisely what it was, or was supposed to be. He didn’t succeed.
‘What makes it all the fucking worse,’ Dooley paused to listen to a particularly angry burst of sound from beneath his belt. ‘Will you listen to that, it’s fucking tearing itself apart… What’s making it all the worse, is that a couple of hours drive from here is some of the most incredible fucking food you ever tasted. You like German dishes?’
‘Only the ones with skirts on.’
‘No, you shit; the food.’ Checking his food pack for the tenth time, and shaking out and licking the last imagined crumb from his grubby palm, Dooley hurled it away in disgust. ‘What I need is one of the sausages like they do at the Alt Nurnberg, washed down with a gallon of beer, or a Zepplinwurst, or,’ he licked his lips and slurped appreciatively, ‘pickled pork ribs or breaded pork chops…’
‘You’ve eaten so many pigs you’re starting to turn into one.’
‘Shut up, Burke, you old misery. I tell you, I can see why the West German army is so fucking fanatical. Any country that can produce beer, wine and food like this does has got to be worth fighting for. When this lot is over I’m staying. I’ll get a little farm, somewhere round here maybe, and keep pigs. I’ll grow pork, old and fat.’
‘And shack up with some fat-arsed old frau.’
‘And why not? I like my women big, like to feel a good pair of haunches grinding into my lap when I take them from behind, and plenty of udder up front to give good hand holds.’
‘Big is one thing. I saw that piece you picked up on Munchener Strasse. She was twice your age, sixty if she was a day. I wouldn’t have known which bloody wrinkle to part to shove it in; from the front or back.’
Dooley made pitying noises. ‘I had a fucking good session with that one. This is where you go wrong, you pick up the youngest bit you can. Apart from the fact it’s like trying to shove your tool into a mouse’s ear-hole, they’re always so unimaginative, and they’re usually surly or downright disinterested. Oh I’ve had young’uns, but for all the bloody fun it was I might just as well have stuffed it into the neck of a Coke bottle.’
Crossing to the door, Burke looked out, in the direction from which the Russian column would be coming. ‘Should be any time now. I’m bloody glad this is the last ambush. HQ must have scraped together a blocking force by now, they must have, even if they had to swipe tanks from the delivery squadrons.’ He came back into the room. ‘Alright, so tell me what’s so good about wrinkled old hags. I’m listening.’
‘Next time you start looking for a pick-up, just start looking properly. For a start, the older ones have usually taken a bit of care over their appearance, got done up. That makes a change from fucking jeans and T-shirts. OK, so young nipples look good, but there’s a lot to be said for a well-filled corset as well. Another thing, if they’re past their best they’re always grateful, and they show it in a lot of ways. I’ve had good screws and good presents; this watch for one.’ Rolling back his cuff, Dooley showed the big black and white dial of the Brietling Chronograph. ‘What have you ever had from the young’uns except verbal buckets of cold water if they suddenly don’t feel like it, or a dose of the clap?’
‘Maybe you’ve got a point, but…’
‘There’s no fucking buts about it, I’m right. I tell you what, next forty-eight hour leave we get I’ll introduce you to Anna. Beautiful broad, about fifty; tits you wouldn’t believe’, right out here. If you don’t watch out she’ll suck you in and blow you out in bubbles. It’ll be an experience you’ll never forget.’