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first. He began bawling a martial song that unknown soldiers had improved.
Wirsind die Panzerjäger ,
die Hungerkünstler der Nation ,
Für Dörrgemüse und für Käse .
    Swinging the pork in one hand, he swelled his voice to a fantastic volume.
Vorwärts, dumme Schweine ,
im Kampfe sind wir stets alleine ,
denn die Scheisshaushingste
fahren mit den Autos hintendrein ,
dann verleihen Euch was die Nazis .
    ‘Beer,’ he said, turning to no one in particular.
    ‘Do you imagine you’re in a saloon?’ Paul Stein asked.
    In one bound Tiny was on his feet; he grabbed Stein and swung him over his head. ‘You miserable lump of snot,’ he cooed endearingly, gradually tightening his grip on his victim. ‘So you imagine you can annoy Tiny? You dare to forbid me quenching my thirst! You may go to get beer now. For every darn penny you’ve got. And right now, you flat-worm!’
    He tossed the terror-stricken Stein to the wall like a discarded bottle cap, spat after him and yelled, ‘Make it snappy. I’m in a hurry, I’m thirsty.’
    Getting up, Stein mumbled something under his breath and scowled at Tiny, once again settled on the bed indifferently chewing his everlasting piece of pork.
    ‘You’re going to break your neck with your boorishness some day,’ said the Legionnaire in a gentle, almost gingerly voice. He occupied the bed by the window, the best bed in the room. With his strategic eye he had confiscated this bed as soon as he entered the ward. By rights it belonged to Mouritz, the Sudeten Czech. Naturally, Mouritz had made a stink about it.
    ‘That’s my bed, buddy. You must’ve made a mistake.’
    By way of answer the Legionnaire had merely given him a lofty look. Mouritz repeated his protest. The Legionnaire put away his paper and slowly raised himself on the bed.
    ‘ Merde, c’est, mon camarade .’
    ‘What are you saying?’ Mouritz looked dumbly at the Legionnaire, who’d returned to his paper. A cigarette hung at the corner of his mouth.
    ‘Nothing, nothing at all, mon camarade .’ He made a gesture of dismissal, as if pushing away something bothersome. All at once he shot up like a tightened steel spring and bellowed: ‘ Allez! ’ Mouritz didn’t understand French. He merely stood there glowering. He just couldn’t believe it was all real. The rest of us said nothing. We knew what was coming. A fight, a glorious nerve-drugging fight!
    Tiny got to his feet. He moved toward Mouritz like a bear smelling honey. Mouritz, whose back was turned, didn’t see the signs of the hurricane that was brewing to crush him. The Legionnaire turned down his thumb and whispered smiling: ‘ C’est bien ça! ’ – the signal for Tiny. It had cost the Legionnaire hours of patient labor to hammer this signal into Tiny’s thick skull.
    Suddenly Mouritz was in the grip of an iron claw. He was swung aloft and carried across the ward to the bed by the door, the poorest bed of all. Its occupant had to turn the lights on and off and was constantly disturbed. Tiny put Mouritz down very softly, as if he were made of fragile glass. Then he took a step back and observed him closely.
    ‘You’re a swine,’ he confided to Mouritz, ‘a common stupid swine who brown-noses the Nazi shit-piles. Now, tell me what you are!’
    Tiny slapped him with the back of his hand. Quite lovingly, he thought. To us it looked like a volcanic eruption.
    ‘Now tell us what you are, you chicken coop.’
    ‘I’m a swine,’ Mouritz stammered.
    Another slap.
    ‘Didn’t you go to school, you fathead? Can’t you learn something by heart? What are you?’
    ‘A stupid swine,’ Mouritz whimpered, ‘who brown-noses the Nazi shit-piles.’
    ‘A pretty good answer,’ Tiny acknowledged. He pointed at the bed where Mouritz was lying. ‘You requested this bed, didn’t you?’
    ‘I did,’ Mouritz answered, surrendering.
    Tiny raised his eyebrow. ‘Hell, what did I hear?’
    Mouritz hastened to add, ‘ Herr Corporal!’
    The gorilla nodded his