Free Court Martial by Sven Hassel Page B

shortly before had been a tank. Round about lie the tank crew frying like rissoles.
    'Fuckin' "Tea saloons" ain't much when you know what you're at,' boasts Tiny, forcing his way up out of the snow.
    'You ought to have your arse reamed out by a gorilla, you mad sod,' rages Porta, passing his hands gingerly over his aching body. 'You nearly killed the lot of us.'
    'Can't make omelets without breakin' eggs, can you?' says Tiny, philosophically.
    Slowly we fight our way onwards. A snow-storm is beginning to blow up.
    The Oberst is almost done. He leans on Oberleutnant Wisling. Leutnant Schultz is almost finished too. He stumbles continuously and can only get up again with difficulty. Nobody helps him.
    Tiny tries to whistle a Reeperbahn song, but fails. The Legionnaire raves of the Sahara and the hot sand. The Old Man rolls along in his own bow-legged style. He finds difficulty in keeping his silver-lidded pipe going. His hands are buried deeply in the pockets of his greatcoat. His Russian Mpi hangs at the ready on his chest.
    'Gawd'struth, I wish we was home again with them Finnish spuds and pork gravy,' sighs Tiny, hungrily.
    'I hope we're somewhere near Lange Lake when the herring-roe season is on,' says Porta, smiling with frost-chapped lips.
    The Legionnaire lifts his hands towards the heavens and says 'Allah commend us!' in Arabic.

COURT MARTIAL
    Leutnant Schultz loses no time after we get back. Inside an hour he is reporting to the NSFO 20 . In every corner there is muttering against the malicious Nazi-Leutnant. A couple of Finnish Jagers suggest we kick his balls in and toss him over to the neighbours.
    'I'll blow his candle out,' threatens Porta, pulling his Nagan from its yellow holster.
    'You stay where you are,' decides the Old Man, brusquely. 'Let's keep out of the officers' private quarrels.'
    'It could've been one of us,' protests Porta, tensely. 'That Schultz is a real bastard.'
    'Maybe he is,' says the Old Man, unsympathetically, 'but it's not one of us he's informing on! If an officer needs to be revenged then let the other officers see to it themselves!'
    'Piss,' Porta gives in, 'but if that arsehole ever gets in front of my gun-muzzle, you'll see a pair of balls wither away sharply!'
    'That's murder,' shouts Heide, indignantly.
    'No it bloody isn't!' answers Porta, furiously. 'A bastard who runs off at the mouth don't count!'
    We discuss Leutnant Schultz for a long time. One thing is certain when the discussion in the Finnish Jagers sauna is over. Leutnant Schultz won't need to worry about his old age.
    Tiny has been filing away at three bullets while we've been talking. Dum-dum bullets make an enormous hole in a man.
    The following day a Major from the Secret Security Police comes for Oberst Frick, and Oberleutnant Wisling is picked up in the middle of technical service.
    They are put immediately into a JU-52 and flown to 6th Army at Munster to go in front of a court martial.
    The final verdict is deferred until evidence can be taken from others belonging to the battle group. In the meantime the two arrestees are sent to the military prison Torgau where they are placed in the boot squad, together with countless others taken into custody. Prisoners who have been sentenced are given much harsher treatment.
    Every man in the boot squad is issued each morning with ten pairs of new, iron-hard army boots of smelly yellow leather. The squad marches for one hour in each pair of boots. To attention and at the double. Round and round the great parade ground. When the hour is over a whistle shrills, and everyone changes like lightning to a new pair of boots. Then 'Qui-ick march!'
    This goes on without a break from 05.00 hrs to 21.00 hrs. Some faint. Feet swell up and become lumps of bleeding meat. Blisters burst and new blisters form. No attention is paid to this. In Torgau pity is an unknown term. It is a military prison, notorious for its strictness, and the permanent staff are proud of their reputation.
    'March,