Free SS General by Sven Hassel Page B

trouble. And . . ."
    "So what?" said Porta. "All I'm interested in is getting my hands on that truck."
    "Take the truck?"
    "Why not? Take the truck and scram with it."
    "Which way?"
    "Way we come. We got transport and we got all the time in the world."
    "And how about that battery we had to pass? We fooled 'em once, it's not going to work a second time."
    "Why not? Who's to know? You see one of your own trucks going by, you don't stop and wonder if the enemy's inside it."
    That, at least, was true. We separated once again and went off on another reconnaissance trip. Twenty minutes later we reassembled to exchange reports.
    "Nothing," said Tiny. "I've combed the whole eastern sector. Nothing there."
    Porta looked at him suspiciously. "You sure?"
    "Course I'm sure! What do you take me for?"
    "The biggest con in the whole stinking company!" snapped Porta. He turned to me. "How about you?"
    "Well, apart from nearly tripping over four guys having a snooze by the side of the truck, I didn't see a thing."
    "That's not so bad," said Porta. "I found a couple snoring their heads off inside a tent* and four more in a pillbox tucking into some grub."
    "That makes ten of 'em altogether," I said. "And what's the betting the rest of the battalion's not far away?"
    "All right, no need for the jitters," said Porta equably. "We've been in worse holes than this before now. And I'm not letting that truck slip through my fingers. Slog home on foot when we could ride back in style? Not on your life!"
    "Come on, let's get started," agitated Tiny. "I'll clobber the pair in the tent."
    We split up yet again and crept back into the trees. As I crawled toward the half-track radio car, one of the men in the pillbox stuck his head out and shouted across to the four who were asleep on the ground, at which all hell broke loose. The four men picked themselves up and made a dive for the radio. Before they could reach it, Porta had hurled a clutch of grenades across the clearing and the ground exploded beneath their feet. Seconds later, and I heard the angry chattering of a machine gun somewhere among the trees behind us. A few grenades lobbed in that direction and the gun was silenced. I saw Tiny advance on the tent. From the pillbox came the crackling of an MPI. I tore the pin out of a grenade and hurled it across the clearing. The tent went up in flames. Porta advanced on the pillbox. The grenade exploded and two of the occupants were killed outright. The other two survived uninjured and came stumbling out with their arms held high above their heads. Tiny and I had them trussed up in no time, while Porta shouted triumphantly at us from the truck.
    "What did I tell you? A piece of pie! One private car and two prisoners--what more could you want?"
    It suddenly occurred to him what more in fact was to be had. He left the truck and dived down into the pillbox, yelling at us to follow. We pushed the prisoners ahead of us and found Porta already tucking in to the remains of a hearty meal. Tiny and I eagerly helped him clear the plates and finish off a bottle of vodka, while the prisoners looked on sullenly.
    "Here, what's all this garbage?" asked Tiny, picking up a briefcase. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and studied them upside down with illiterate interest. "What's it all about, d'you suppose?"
    Porta took the papers from him and glanced through them. "Letters," he announced importantly. "Dispatches-secret documents. This here's a note from a general. Sent to another general." He frowned. "The one that sent it must be quite a big noise. I guess the other's just a little fellow."
    "How do you make that out?" I demanded.
    "Easy. Read what it says:
    MY DEAR STEICKER,
    I SUGGEST THAT AS A MATTER OF URGENCY YOU SELECT ONE OF YOUR MOST CAPABLE STAFF OFFICERS AND HAVE HIM TRANSPORTED TO BERLIN TO LET THE FUHRER KNOW FIRSTHAND THE IMPOSSIBLE POSITION IN WHICH WE FIND OURSELVES AFTER THE RUSSIAN BREAKTHROUGH AT KALTSCH.
    YOURS VERY SINCERELY,
    SCHMIDT.
    Porta looked