by Sven Hassel
‘Wonder if they’ll ever invent a Germany that’s a pleasant place to live in?’says Buffalo, thoughtfully, crushing a long green insect under the heel of his boot.
‘Everywhere’s fun,’ says Porta to nobody in particular – and most of those around him don’t catch it. ‘I remember the time I was under arrest in garrison at Munich – just because I wanted to get confirmed in church. They thought they were punishing me when they locked me up, but they were quite wrong. Those were some of the most wonderful moments of my life. Moments I’ll always remember with pleasure. A spell of jail’s a necessity if you want to get something out of life.’
‘You’ve said it? says Tiny, revolving his cigar in his mouth. ‘Even in this bleedin’war we’ve got into, a man ain’t bored.’
‘You ain’t telling us you like it?’shouts Skull, scandalized.
‘Why not?’asks Tiny, with a happy expression on his face. ‘I haven’t time to waste feeling sorry for myself. I enjoy the war. ‘Ow do I know what the bleedin’ peace’ll be like? There’s some as’ll tell you it’ll be a bleedin’sight worse’n the war. My old gran’dad, as did an eight-year stretch in Moabitt, for ’avin’ threatened to cut the cheeks of the Kaiser’s bleedin’arse off, told me that even in Moabitt you could ’ave a pleasant time of it.’
Think ants enjoy themselves?’asks Barcelona, stirring an ant-heap with the barrel of his Mpi.
‘No living creature can exist without having fun,’ answers Porta. ‘Even hummingbirds break out laughing sometimes.’
‘I see Detective-Inspector bleedin’Nass smile once,’ shouts Tiny, ’and that ought to’ve been next thing to impossible. Vinegar’s sherbet compared to that sour bleeder.’
‘Down!’howls Porta ducking like lightning behind the SMG12.
There is a sound like thunder and tracer tracks bite their way through the wilderness of cactus. I throw grenades. An Mpi blazes from behind a cactus stem. Screams are heard cutting through the noise, then a deathly silence comes down on the sun-blistered brush. Crickets continue their long drawn-out music.
We stay down and wait.
Heide rests the flame-thrower on a stone and sends a jet of flame hissing between the cactus trunks. A stench of burning oil hangs sickeningly on the sunwarmed air. Two living torches stumble out of the cactus forest, and roll about in agony on the path. They char slowly.
‘What in the name of the livin’God, was that?’asks Buffalo in astonishment.
‘Partisans,’ smiles Porta. ‘Something metal glinted or we’d ’ve had it, son.’There’s still some of the devil’s luck sticking to us. There are three Bulgarian soldiers amongst the dead partisans.
‘Seems as if our Balkan friends are dropping us,’ says the Old Man, pushing the barrel of his Mpi at the bodies.
‘I’ll slash your bleedin’throat open soon. I will, you black bleedin’Bible-thumper,’ roars Tiny, who has got into a row with the padre. He pushes him hard enough to make him fall over backwards and hit his head on a stump.:
‘Do you have to rough up a defenceless man?’the Old Man upbraids him.
‘An’why not?’answers Tiny, spitting on the padre. ‘Who taught me it! I ask you! The bleedin’army did, didn’they? You ever see a bleedin’private let ’is anger get the better of ’im with a bleedin’officer? Did you now?’
‘That’s too cheap an excuse,’ says Heide, didactically, suddenly taking the padre’s side. ‘Wolfgang Creutzfeldt, you are a nasty type. Always brutal, always coarse. You are not aligned with the spirit of our new Germany.’
‘Look after number bleedin’one,’ growls Tiny, kicking out after the padre. ‘Think I want to end up a captain in the Salvation bleedin’ Army?’
‘What’s the compass say?’the Old Man asks Stojko.
‘Forty-six, like you say, feldwebel. You not be mad I say you pick up arsepart, run fast!’
‘Let’s get on,’ decides the Old Man nervously. ‘Stojko at point.’
‘Jesus Christ, turn your arse to the front, boy! shouts Tiny, who is following immediately behind Stojko.
They descend a long slope. Even the 500’s do betterf now with their machetes. The slope is so steep that we have to dig in our heels hard.
We reach a stretch of shale and have to use Gregor’s mountaineering rope. The Old Man gives us no rest until nightfall. Roll-call shows two men missing.
The Old Man rages, asks for volunteers to go back and search for them. Nobody steps forward. Far behind us we can see rocket flares, and between us and the flares there are certainly partisans.
The padre gets up and offers to go back alone after them.
‘No!’the Old Man turns his offer down, brusquely. ‘The partisans’d have got you before you’d gone far, and I don’t have to tell you what they do to parsons.’
‘God will help me. I am not afraid,’ answers the padre quietly.
‘God, God, God,’ sneers Tiny. ‘Better put your bleedin’trust in this little ol’ lullaby girl ’ere.’He pats his weapon. ‘Them partisans don’t like ’er a bit. A 42 in the ’and’s betterti God in ’is ‘eaven!’
‘Shall I go and look for them?’asks the padre, ignoring Tiny.
‘I said, no!’ decides the Old Man. ‘I don’t wish to be responsible for you getting yourself chopped to pieces.’He points to Unteroffizier Krüger from the DR’s. ‘Take two 500’s with you. Make a search. Get back inside two hours with or without ’em.’
‘What the hell do we care about those jailbirds?’shouts Krüger, fear spreading across his face. ‘Why should we risk our lives for them} They might ’ve deserted to the partisans. Shits without shoulder-straps’d do anythin’.’
‘Shut up,’ the Old Man interrupts him, ’and get moving.’
Krüger selects two 500’s. He is snuffling with rage.
‘Take the lead,’ he orders wickedly. ‘As former officers you’re used to it. Now watch yourselves. I’ve got an itchy trigger finger, boys.’
‘What’d we ever do to you?’protests one of them weakly.;
‘Just try to do somethin’,’ roars Krüger, in a rage.
Long after they are out of sight we can hear his blustering voice.
Tiny has taken a trip into the cactus and returns with three Bulgarian gaiters and a Russian kalashnikov.
‘Where’d you find that lot?’asks the Old Man, wonderingly.
‘Won it playin’bingo,’ grins Tiny, throwing himself down on his stomach. He keeps on laughing, seemingly unable to stop himself. He seems to feel that he has been amazingly witty.
They light a fire. The wood is completely dried out so that there is no betraying smoke.
Porta wants to brew up coffee, but it is only after a long drawn-out argument that the Old Man gives him permission to use any of the precious water. The coffee smells wonderful. We sit listening to the noise of the crickets and the distant voice of the war.
‘When you are thirsty, it helps to suck on a stone,’ the Legionnaire tells us.
‘It’s bleedin’lovely sittin’ ’ere lookin’out into the night,’ says Tiny dreamily. ‘Like bein’a bleedin’boy scout. I always wanted to join that lot.’
‘It’s gonna get rough!’says Tango, prophetically, polishing away at his gun.
The black bird of death is coming to get us,’ whispers Gregor, ominously, as we listen to a long drum-roll of explosions, which make the mountains shake.
Porta plays a tune softly on his piccolo. Tiny knocks out his mouth-organ. Tango dances, using his carbine as a partner.
‘Sleep with me tonight?’he whispers a smooth question to the weapon.
A swarm of strange insects attacks us. Our hands and arms swell up violently at every bite. Porta and Tiny cover head and neck with their flame-thrower helmets, but the rest of us have no protection. Our faces are soon unrecognizable.
The thirst grows worse.
‘Bon, mes amis! As long as you can sweat you will not die of thirst,’ says the Legionnaire, tonelessly. ‘When you sweat no longer then you are in
danger.’
There is only water enough for four days, even at the low ration level the Old Man has set. Tango thinks it will take us at least two weeks to get through. We move only slowly. Some try to suck water from the cactus plants, and become terribly ill. Their stomachs literally turn inside out in bursts of convulsive retching.
Krüger returns without having found the missing men.-
‘Have you looked for them?’questions the Old Man suspiciously.
‘We have looked everywhere, Herr feldwebel,’ answers the ex-leutnant angrily.
‘You, Unteroffizier Krüger?’asks the Old Man sharply.
‘We have left no stone unturned. Should we have interrogated the ants as to whether they had eaten the men!’shouts Krüger, flaring up.
‘They’ve gone over to the enemy,’ says the ex-leutnant of infantry.
‘Button your lip till you’re asked!’shouts the Old Man, fuming.
‘Is it them cunt ‘unters as ’ave fucked off?’asks Tiny, with a broad grin.
‘If you mean me,’ shouts a voice from the 500’s over in the shadows, ‘I’m still here!’
We have only slept a few hours, when the sentries awaken us. A column of partisans has passed in the dark without seeing us.
We strain our ears fearfully at the darkness. Two shots smash out not very far away.
‘Make ready to move off,’ whispers the Old Man, swinging his equipment over his shoulders.
I watch the rear. It is so dark I can hardly see my hand in front of my face.
Suddenly I find myself alone. I use my field lamp cautiously. Only cactus and insects. I listen hard. Not a sound. The unit seems to have sunk into the ground.
They’re playing a trick, I think. They’re mad enough to, even in a situation like this.
I listen again. All is silence. Not even the noise of the crickets. I take a few cautious steps forward. They’ve hidden themselves. Purely to enjoy seeing me frightened.
‘Hell, show yourselves!’I call in a half-shout. ‘This isn’t funny!’ Nothing moves. Have I lost them?
‘Old ’un!’I call softly. The sweat of fear runs down my face. Alone in partisan country in the middle of this horrible cactus forest.
‘Porta! Come out damn you!’
No answer. And yet? Wasn’t that a voice? I call out again and listen. Nothing. The wind? Now and then I feel a puff of air touch my cheek. I realize, suddenly with horror, that I am alone. All alone! I’ve lost the unit and they me. They haven’t noticed me falling behind. Don’t even know yet, maybe, that I’ve disappeared. They’ll be back, though, when they find out. The Old Man won’t leave stragglers. They’d even go back for Krüger.
I stand quite still, listening to the night. Only the odd breaths of wind, the rustling of the ants and the buzz of insects. I have often been alone before during this war but never like this. I always knew where the enemy was, and the direction of our own lines. In this dreadful cactus forest the enemy could be anywhere. A merciless enemy. Our own lines are far away. I don’t even know where. They might even have been broken for all I know and the Southern Army be fleeing back to Germany. I must try to find the unit. At the worst to get through on my own. I ready my Mpi and arm a hand-grenade. Keep your head, I tell myself. Dorít bomb your own lot!
They can’t have disappeared. I’ve been with the Old Man’s unit four years now, and what haven’t we been through together? Four years, day out and day in, on all kinds of fronts. All right we’ve been separated in field hospitals sometimes, but not for long. The unit’s my home! I feel safe there. Even when you’re lying comfortably in a hospital bed, you can feel homesick. Homesick for the unit out there in HKL13. When you got out and were sent back with three red lines across your papers – light duties and change of dressings every day that means – all your aches and pains disappeared at the sight of the well-known faces. And out you’d march to HKL with your unit. Even the lung-wound, which often came close to choking you in hospital, didn’t worry you any more. You were home again. Nothing else mattered. Your mates looked after you. Put you on the SMG or gave you the radio to look after. You could manage that with a lung-wound not quite healed yet.
I won’t let these ties be broken just by getting lost in a blasted cactus forest! They’ll look for me as soon as they see I’m missing. Tango’ll turn round and see I’m gone and give the alarm. Tango was right in front of me.
It’d be mad to continue on the line of march. We could easily miss one another. I’d better sit down and wait for daybreak. In the sunlight things always look different.
I’ve not been sitting long when panic fear suddenly grips me. I get up and begin to walk forward slowly. All the time, it seems, I can hear voices. But it is only the wind. Battle instincts whisper warnings. I am not alone any more.: Silently I take up position alongside a cactus. My Mpi is at the ready. Silence. Nothing but silence. And a crushing darkness which seems as if it is choking me.
How long I stand there ready for action I’ll never know. I decide to move on. From the darkness comes a rattle of steel on steel. It grates on my tattered nerves like a gunshot. Silently I sink down and pull a grenade from my jackboot!
‘Hush, you great shit-house!’whispers Porta’s beautiful voice from the darkness.
‘Didn’t do it on purpose, bollock’ead!’Tiny’s bass rumbles, echoing, through the forest.
Somebody laughs. Must be Barcelona.
I’m shouting with relief inside, but the lump in my throat stops any sound coming out.
I move forward carefully.
‘Halt or I fire,’ howls Porta from the darkness.
‘It’s me!’I scream.
I’m home again. The Old Man is with them.
‘Where the hell you been?’asks Porta, with a reproachful air. ‘Next time we won’t come back for you.’
‘Been chasin’cunt, ’ave you?’asks Tiny, chuckling. ‘It’s in short supply round ’ere. Might get a fuck at an ant’ill, p’r’aps! Tickle your old knob up a bit though!’
I explain to them what has happened.
‘You’ll live through it,’ says Porta, ‘I did think we’d finally got shut of you this time.’
‘He’ll be there when we get our papers,’ grins Gregor.
Just before dawn we continue the march. One of the wounded dies. He goes quietly, as we are carrying him. The Old Man requests us to bury him.
‘Lay ’im out on that, an’ ’e’ll be gone before you know it,’ says Tiny, practically, pointing to a giant anthill. ‘Them red bleeders could get rid of an elephant while I’m eatin’an ‘ard-boiled egg.’
But the Old Man is stubborn. He wants the dead soldier buried.
The padre fashions a cross from two stems of cactus.
Wickedly angry we dig a hole and roll the body into it. The grave is not big enough and we have to bend him and tread on him to make him fit into it.
The padre makes a small speech and recijtes the burial service over him. Finally we tramp the earth flat over his grave.
Buffalo throws a helmet onto the grave. A battered, dented tin hat which has seen service right from the beginning.
‘La merde aux yeux,’ sneers the Legionnaire. ‘It’s not every poilu who is seen off so nicely, with prayers and the casting of earth over him.’
Thanks is not a thing Barras excels in,’ says Porta acidly.
‘Keep the Army out of it!’shouts Heide, bitterly.
‘I don’t give a shit for your Army,’ answers Porta, angered. It’s done nothing but twist me since the first day we met!’
‘My Army, as you call it, will get you yet,’ promises Heide. He lifts his hand threateningly. ‘Bigger pricks than you have thought they could piss on her and get away with it.’
A whole row of bodies – Bulgarian Army men – lie alongside the path. Skeletons and tattered uniforms. The ants have hauled away the rest.
Porta leans one of the skeletons up against a cactus with one arm pointing south.
‘Frighten the shit out
a the next lone ’ero as comes past ’ere, ‘e will,’ laughs Tiny. He places a cigar-butt between the grinning teeth.
We have only a few drops of water left. We struggle heavily on through this blistering hell.
The padre’s mind begins to wander. He thinks he is a bishop and the cactus plants are his congregation. He shuffles along beside the column, singing psalms in a hoarse, cracked voice, frightening the black carrion birds.
The Old Man can’t stand it any longer. He slaps him stingingly several times across the face.
The padre sits down and cries like a child.
‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’he cries to the staring sky.
‘Liquidate him,’ suggests Julius Heide, coldly. ‘These black swine bring bad luck. The Fuhrer has told us these holy servants on earth are unnecessary. God can look after us without them.’
‘’As Adolf said that, too?’asks Tiny, wonderingly. ‘What airit that pissy-arsed little bleeder said in ’is time?’
We drag the padre along with us. He blesses us and guarantees us eternal life.
‘Balls to that, parson,’ shouts Porta, swinging his Mpi above his head. ‘Help us hang on to the life we’ve got now as long as possible, instead.’
‘’Ow about a couple o’the Lord’s lightning bolts dropped on the ’eads of these partisan bleeders, as are behind us?’asks Tiny, ever the practical man.
We are all sucking on pebbles now. They rattle about against our teeth as we do our best to draw the last drop of saliva out of our dried-out glands. We are close to madness from thirst.
The Old Man vows to shoot the first man who takes a swig from his waterbottle.
At noon the next day Porta catches feldwebel Schmidt drinking on the sly and drags him to the Old Man. He is ordered to carry the heavy grenade-thrower. He loses his next four rations of water. Only a mouthful for each man, to be sure, but more valuable to us than pearls.
Schmidt manages to steal water yet again. First he is beaten up, and if the Old Man had not intervened they would have killed him. Now he is running in circles in the sun, while the remainder of us take a break.
After thirty minutes of it he starts screaming and throws himself down on the ground. He refuses to rise. The Legionnaire gets him to his feet with blows from a rifle-butt, and he starts off again in the burning sun. Soon Schmidt is creeping round on his hands and knees.
