'Wut?' the radio whispered. 'Can you hear me, Wut?'
And Gortz must have been at his radio, because he said, 'Come on, Wallner, take it easy. Get some sleep, man.'
'Get off your radio,' Wallner snapped. 'Maybe he only talks to me.'
'That I believe,' said Gortz.
'Get off!' Wallner said, and said again, 'Wut?' in a whisper. 'Come in, come in. Damn you, Wut, come in.' And was drowned out by numbers.
Then the unrecognizable authoritative voice came back: 'Commander Wallner, go to sleep. I
must ask you, when you use the radio, to use your numbers, please.' Wallner spewed numbers and got no reply.
Vratno whispered to the giggling Gottlob Wut, 'When he's alone, now, that's when. When you're sure he's got the radio to himself, give it to him then.' And Wut, still leaving the dial at listenin, flipped on the transmit switch.
Later, Wallner whispered numbers. There was no reply. 'Balkan Four,' whispered Wallner then, 'Balkan Four.' And got no reply. Then he said, a little louder. 'You old prick, Wut. Wut, come in.' Gottlob waited for someone else to come in. There was no reply, and Wallner said, 'Wut. You traitor, Wut. Gutless prick, Wut.'
Then Gottlob said softly, 'Goodnight, Commander Wallner.' And flipped the transmit switch off, still keeping the dial at listenin.
'Wut!' Wallner hissed 'Wooooooot!' he screamed, and there was more static - and brushing, thumping sounds. Wallner must have had the radio off the motorcycle mounts and in a tent somewhere; they heard the tent flap, they heard radio parts crackle. Wallner must have lugged the radio out of his tent like a football hugged to his chest, because his shouts seemed farther away now, as if his mouth weren't near the speaker hole: 'He's around, listen in! You pricks, switch on and hear him!'
And Gortz whispered loudly, 'Wallner! For God's sakes, man.'
And the unknown authoritative voice said, 'Commander Wallner, that's quite enough. Use your numbers or lose your radio, Commander.' And almost rhythmically, Wallner came on with his numbers; musically, he crooned his numbers into the night.
Vratno and Gottlob sat and dozed; they woke and hugged each other - laughing down their two-year beards - and dozed again, keeping the radio at listenin. Once they heard Wallner murmur, asleep or still feebly trying, 'Goodnight, Commander Wut, you prick.' But Gottlob just grinned in silence.
Before first light, Wut and Vratno packed the bikes and moved four miles north, above Limbus. Then they camouflaged their gear and bikes, and carried the unmounted radio, walked a quarter of a mile, north along a ridge line - caught the sun coming over the right of the church spire at Limbus, and camped themselves less than a mile from, and in full view of, the Maribor road.
They were there the next day and night without a bite to eat or a glimpse of a motorcycle scout. At night they tuned in on Wallner, but heard only numbers - none of them in Wallner's voice: It was the next morning that they heard louder numbers, coming from Gortz, and once, shortly before noon, Gortz said, 'It's too bad about Wallner.' Bronsky answered that poor Wallner had always been too highly strung.
Then the overhearing, unknown voice said, 'Commander Gortz you'll use your numbers, please.' And Gortz said he would.
It was that afternoon when Gottlob spotted sloppy Heine Gortz on one of the '38 600 models, without sidecar. Bronsky followed him, with soft tires that Wut could see all the way from the ridge.
And that night a large force moved through Limbus, observing blackout conditions. With the tail end of the movement barely out of town, my father made a raid on a Limbus dairy and came back with milk and cheese.
They stayed two more days above Limbus before spotting a second, following, German movement - this one, with unidentified motorcycle scouts. Not Balkan 4, anyway; they were some outfit down from Austria, maybe. They scouted for a ragged force, a straggling crew - no panzers, just some trucks and jeeps. And they were preceded by no number series. Some of the soldiers marched with their helmets off; many sprouted most un-German beards. It was a likely bet, and my father and Gottlob Wut took the odds. They joined the movement on the Maribor side of Limbus, meeting them on the road and saying they'd had motor trouble which dropped them out of Balkan 4. They were fed - the bikes had an oil change - and they wheeled into Maribor, not knowing whether they were on a retreat or headed for a front.
It didn't really matter. When the barracks' assignments were given out, Gottlob said that he and his man were hooking up again with their old outfit.
For a fee, they stashed their motorcycles in an outdoor prostitute's booth in what was called the Old City; then they rolled and robbed a German officer in an uptown district - cleverly done, disguised in Borsfa Durd's well-worn clothes; next they found a saunabad which uncurled their beards and made them glossy. Uniformed now, they turned out on the town - two soldiers out for a night of fun.
But oh, dear. In all of Maribor, you'd have thought Gottlob Wut would have found a night spot that wasn't the topmost choice for the other remnants of Balkan 4.
Perhaps Wut thought his two-year beard made him unrecognizable. Whatever, he was jaunty among the soldiers in the Sv. Benedikt Cellar. There was a Turkish belly dancer with the suspiciously Yugoslav name of Jarenina; her dancing belly was Caesareaned. The beer was thin. Surprising was this: there were no Ustashi troops in Wehrmacht uniforms to be seen. But there was a blown-up photo above the bar, riddled with darts - Ustashi in Wehrmacht uniform, marching with partisans! somewhere in Croatia.
My father was careful to be accurate with his umlaut sounds: he felt their beards brought them under suspicion.
It was very late when Vratno followed Wut's wincing walk to the unheated men's room. The urinal steamed; the tiles were cracked around the terrible hole for the standup crapper. A man weaved on his heels, pants down to his ankles, and leaned back over the crapper's chasm - clutching to the handrail that kept him from falling in. Four men steamed over the urinal; another two came in with Gottlob and my father.
Heads bowed over the trough, breath held against the rising steam and stench, eight men fumbled and peed. One dropped a cigarette down the sluiceway.
Then the man spanning the crapper gave a cry, and must have tried to tug himself upright with a wrench on the handrail.
'Wut!' the man screamed, and Gottlob, turning fast and peeing down my father's leg, saw sloppy Heine Gortz rip the handrail from the rotting, tiled stall's wall and pitch backwards, pants snug at his ankles, fanny-first down into the crapper's chasm. 'Oh dear God!' moaned Heine Gortz, and feet-up, his pocket change falling down on him, he cried again, 'Wut! For God's sakes, Bronsky, it's Wut! Wake up, Metz! You're peeing next to old Wut!'
And before my father could stop his own peeing, Bronsky and Metz had spun poor Gottlob around and bent him backwards over the urinal. Heine Gortz clawed himself up out of the hole. My father fumbled himself back in his pants, but sloppy Heine Gortz said, 'You! Who are you with Wut?' But Gottlob didn't even look at Vratno; they didn't appear to recognize each other.