“What the fuck is so funny?” asked the former sergeant.
“Your uniform,” giggled the man, “it’s clean.” He shook his head.
Christ, thought Herzog, I arrive at the Eastern Front and the first man I meet is a raving lunatic. He walked across to the man and glared at him. “So what?”
“It’s unusual to see a clean uniform,” explained the man, “all ours are falling to pieces.” Then something in the back of his mind clicked. “You must be one of the new men.”
Herzog nodded. Three fucking cheers. “I was told to report to Sergeant Foss.”
The man motioned to a dugout which Herzog entered, recoiling at once from the stench of burned flesh. He coughed. Huddled at one corner of the dugout were a group of men, all gathered round something which lay on a groundsheet. One of the men turned, cold eyes staring out from a dirty face.
“Who the fuck are you?” snarled the man, coming towards him. As he did, Herzog saw that he had a long sword hanging from his belt, a Samurai sword, as worn by the Japanese. And, although his mind told him otherwise, Herzog could see that the man was, indeed, a Jap.
“Herzog,” he rasped. “I was told to report to Sergeant Foss.”
“I’m Foss,” announced a tall man with a thick black moustache. Herzog saluted. “You’re our replacement, are you?”
“One of them, sir,” he replied.
“Don’t call me, sir,” said Foss smiling.
“You ain’t no new recruit,” snapped the Jap, pointing to Herzog’s close-combat clasp. “Who the fuck are you?”
“All right, Kahn,” said Foss, stepping between the two men. He asked for Herzog’s papers.
“You come to us from France,” he said.
“By way of Hanover,” said Herzog.
Foss raised an eyebrow. “Court-martial?”
He nodded.
“So how come they not cut your fucking head off, eh?” demanded Kahn.
“What the hell does it matter to you?” said Herzog, irritably.
“I tell you why it matter. It matter ’cos you might be fucking Nazi spy.” The Jap moved forward menacingly.
“That’s enough,” said Foss, handing Herzog his papers, “he’s no Nazi spy.” He shook hands warmly. “Leave your kit over there.” He pointed to a corner of the dugout and Herzog saluted. Kahn watched him through eyes made more narrow by anger, then he returned to the thing on the groundsheet. From where Herzog stood he was now sure that the object had once been a man. No longer though. The skin was charred beyond recognition.
“Flamethrower got him,” announced the sergeant, “a day ago.”
“Can’t the medics do anything?” said Herzog.
Driest spat nervously. “Medics? They’re fucking butchers. He knew he was going to die, he wanted to go here. Amongst friends.” He wiped a shivering hand across his forehead and sucked at his cigarette. “God knows who’s going to be next.”
“I’ll lay even money it isn’t me,” laughed Schiller.
“Fuck off,” growled Synovski, a Pole, with thick red hair, “let the poor bastard die in peace.” He walked away from the pitiful scene, followed a second later by the others. Just one remained, kneeling by the charred body, mouthing silent prayers. Herzog could see his lips moving feverishly.
“What’s he doing?” he asked.
“That’s Gustavus,” said Schiller, “he’s been on the Eastern Front for two years and he still thinks that there’s a God up there.” He jerked a thumb skyward. “Ignore him.” He reached into his pocket and produced a pack of cards. “Fancy a game?”
Herzog nodded. “Why not?”
“Anybody else?” Schiller called, brandishing the cards. Three of the other men shuffled over to the centre of the dugout where a makeshift table stood. The men pulled up boxes for seats and Schiller began dealing.
“So, Private Herzog, what brings you to this fine part of the world?” he japed.
“The General Staff thought I needed a holiday,” said Herzog.
Driest grunted, “People don’t come here for sightseeing. They wanted you dead.”
“So why they not cut his fucking head off?” Kahn wanted to know.
“He’ll get his out here,” said Driest, sucking nervously on his cigarette, “we all will.”
“Want to bet?” said Schiller.
“You used to be sergeant,” Kahn said, “what it feel like to be private again?”
Herzog smiled weakly, “I’ll tell you in a few days.”
Kahn laughed. “You take orders from Kahn now,” he said, pulling at the two corporal’s stripes on his sleeve.
“Don’t worry about him,” said Schiller, “they made him a corporal because they feel sorry for him. Don’t they, Kahn? You yellow bastard. What a fucking army, they say they want a master race and now there’s just about every nationality in it,” He pointed to Kahn. “Like him. His father was a German quartermaster, his mother was a Jap brothel bint.”
“My father whorefucker,” said Kahn, proudly.
“I wish there were some whores around this hole.”
The voice came from Vogel who was lying on his bed with his head buried in a pornographic magazine.
“I’m sick of looking at these bits in here,” he grumbled. “I know every hair on their fannies personally.” He threw it to the floor where it was hastily retrieved by Zorn who immediately disappeared out of the door.
“Where the hell is he off to?” asked Foss, looking up from the pistol he was cleaning.
“Gone to have a wank in the latrines,” offered Vogel, picking his toenails. He swung himself off the bed and shambled across to the card-game. “Deal me in next hand,” he said.
“What are you going to bet with?” Schiller demanded.
“Credit?”
“Piss off, you still owe me a packet of fags from the last game.”
“Rotten bleeder,” grunted Vogel, peering at his cards. Schiller hugged them to his chest. “Stop looking over my shoulder,” he said, “it upsets my train of thought.”
Vogel sneered and crossed to Kahn who looked up at him.
“You smell like pile of pig-shit,” muttered the Jap. “Why you not take bath like us?”
“Got nothing to take a bath for,” grunted Vogel. “Now if I had a woman that would be a different matter.” He sighed wistfully.
“Why don’t you all shut up?” bellowed Gustavus. “A man has just died in here and all you can talk about is women.” He pulled the sheet over the charred body and returned to his prayers. The other men ignored him.
Kahn laid his cards down. “Four aces and a king.”
Schiller looked at the cards, then at his own. “It can’t be.”
“You see the fucking things,” snapped Kahn, reaching for the kitty.
“You’re cheating, you slant-eyed bastard,” growled Schiller.
“Why you say that?”
He laid his cards down. “Because I’ve got four aces too.”
Ganz hurled his cards down. “How can we have a decent game with you two cheating.”
“Ah, stop bellyaching,” said Schiller, “a man’s got to win somehow.”
“Well,” Kahn proclaimed, “you not win this time. Take hands off kitty before I cut them off.” As if to emphasise his words, his hand fell to his side and Herzog heard the hiss as the sword was eased from its scabbard. Schiller let go of the prize as if it had been red-hot. “All right,” he said, “no need to get your oversized razor out. You have the bloody winnings.”
Kahn smiled and sloped off to count the loot.
The field radio crackled and Ganz fiddled with the controls until he had something. He listened for a moment, then turned to Foss.
“The Russians are attacking,” he said quietly.
The men scrabbled for weapons and ran out into the trench.
“Some party,” laughed Moller.