March Battalion (5 page)

'Why?' demanded Little John, again. 'Why's it supposed to be a secret if the nuts die, when it's not secret if you or me die?'

'It's different,' said Heide, irritably. 'In the bin, they inject them with things and call it euthanasia.'

' 'What for?'

'How the hell do I know what for? Because they aren't any use to anyone, I suppose. It's the doctors that do it, it's all quite legal, it's just top secret.'

There was a pause, while we considered the question of the nuts being put out of the way because they weren't any use to anyone. You could see the logic of it, but somehow it still left a bad taste in your mouth.

'What about this Schmidt fellow?' asked Porta. 'This pal of your old man. You haven't told us what he was supposed to have done.'

'What he did do,' corrected Heide. 'What he did and what he said ... When they came in, the pair of them, roaring and cursing and yelling at the old lady to get up and get their food for them ... I told them she was dead, but they wouldn't believe me. Schmidt just laughed and said she was putting it on. He said the mad old bags in the bin did that sort of thing. He knew how to deal with them. He said, why don't you try beating a bit of life into her? I reckon that'll make her drop her drawers and give us a little bit of something... Those were the words he used.''

Heide looked round at us.

'I swore then I was going to get him one of these days.'

'How?' asked the Legionnaire, practically.

There followed a lurid discussion on the best way of dealing with a person like Schmidt. Heide listened, but did not join in.

'I'll get the bastard,' he told us. 'I'll get him, don't you worry.'

He gave us one of his diabolical smiles.

'They beat the old lady practically to a pulp before they admitted she, was dead. Then they broke my arm and kicked me round the floor and went back to their drinking. I went and got the police. I said I didn't remember anything, and they arrested the pair of them on a charge of murder. They kept them in jug for six weeks before I decided to talk. When they came out the old man was so furious he half killed me ... So after I left hospital, I just packed my bags and went off on my own. And it's been that way ever since.'

There was another silence. Many of us in the disciplinary regiments had pretty hard stories to tell, but I think Heide's was one of the hardest I'd heard. You couldn't like the man, but at least, now, you could understand him. If there'd been room in our hearts for sentiment, we might even have pitied him.

'This Schmidt,' said Porta, eventually. 'You've left it a bit late, haven't you? I mean, you were just a kid--'

'Seventeen years ago,' said Heide. He cuffed the dog away from him and stood up. 'Don't you worry, I haven't forgotten. I know where he is, and I'm going to get that bastard one of these fine days.'

We believed him. It was one of those subjects, like the Legionnaire and mon General, that you just didn't joke about. Most of us had our weak point, some obsession dear to our hearts, and men learnt not to talk lightly of these things.

'I tell you,' repeated Heide, 'that bastard's got it coming to him.'

'You bet!' said Porta, clapping him on the shoulder. You'll . get him all right, don't you worry.'

Turkey! We could hardly believe our luck when we learntthat we were within easy reach of the border. It seemed toogood to be true. Within seconds of hearing the news we wereindulging in our usual wild flights of sexual fancy. We dreamt
of
brothels and harems, of belly-dancing and of exoticwomen.

Within easy reach of the border! So near, and yet so very far.
...
It seemed too good to be true: it was good to be true. Our fantasies were short-lived. There was no way of crossing the frontier
...

We left the village as we had entered it, Alte driving the dog team, the rest of us on skis, Heide cursing the mangy yellow cur. The only difference was that now we had a prisoner to accompany us on our long trek.

T
HE
dogs were exhausted. They stretched out, panting, in the snow, their flanks heaving, their tongues lolling. It was plain for all to see that we were an inexperienced crew when it came to handling dog teams. Even Alte, the all-wise, was by no means an expert. He was a miller by profession, and doubtless a most excellent one. He was a soldier by necessity. A first-class soldier. He loved the former and he loathed the latter. As for the dog team, he did his best and certainly he handled them better than the rest of us could have done, but the fact remained, the dogs were exhausted.

We ourselves were in no better state. The country was hostile. It breathed hostility in every fresh gust of wind. We felt it every minute of the day, and we felt that it was slowly destroying us. We fought and bickered amongst ourselves, we moaned ceaselessly, spirits were low and tempers generally were at breaking point. That very morning Little John and Heide had fought each other with bare fists and in bitter silence for more than twenty minutes. Heide's nose was battered to a raw bleeding pulp. It had been left to Alte to end the fight by threatening the two combatants with his revolver. There was never any question of his using it, and both Little John and Heide were well aware of the fact, but there was more authority in Alte's quiet voice than in a whole regiment of sergeant majors. The fighting ceased, although the abuse continued. They threatened each other with death, and they seemed to mean it.

One of the dogs was limping badly and in obvious pain. It was decided to put an end to its misery, and Little John offered to do the job. He slit the creature's throat from ear to ear, grinning all the while like a maniac. When we protested, he rounded furiously upon us.

'Why shouldn't I enjoy it? It wasn't the dog I was killing, it was Julius Heide and his insane prejudices!'

We pushed on with the rest of the team. Quite suddenly, for no apparent reason, Alte pulled to a halt at the top of a small slope. We hurried up to him and stared ahead in amazement. 'Allah!' said the Legionnaire, wonderingly. 'It looks like the sea.'

"That's impossible.'

'What is it, then?'

We checked the map, we checked the compass, and when we looked again the sea was still there, in all its miraculous impossibility. Alte shook his head. He had not mistaken the route we were taking, and the sea was hundreds of miles away. Or should have been.

'Strange,' said Porta. 'I'd have sworn it was only about thirty metres ahead of us.'

'It is.'

'What the hell is it, then?'

'A lake?'

'Which lake?' said the Legionnaire.

We turned back to the map. No lake was indicated.

'I don't understand it,' confessed Alte.

We stood in a line, silently contemplating the vast expanse of frozen water.

'A marsh?' suggested the Professor, squinting through the one remaining lens of his spectacles: the other had been broken days before hi one of his frequent falls. 'It obviously can't be the sea. The sea doesn't freeze.'

'Well, it's not a marsh. I never saw a marsh look like that.'

'All right, what is it, then?'

The moon was rising, and by its light we thought we could dimly make out a far shore, perhaps two or three kilometres distant.

'That settles it,' said Steiner. 'It's a river.'

Again we studied the map. Fervently the Legionnaire regarded the night sky, measured distances with the compasses, looked again at the sky - then shrugged his shoulders and gave up the riddle. No sea, no lake, no river were to be found.

The compass can't be at fault. We've got to keep going west. There's nothing for it but to cross the ice.'

'I suppose so.' Alte leaned against the sledge, looking worried. 'I just hope to God it is the right direction. We're running short of food as it is, we can't afford any mistakes.'

The first to venture out on the ice was Porta. He wriggled across on his stomach, and the rest of us followed, full of apprehension. The vast sheet of ice turned us all into quivering cowards. God knew how deep was the frozen water beneath, but a ducking at that temperature would mean almost certain death. The Legionnaire, more practical than the rest of us, finally attempted to bore through the top layer with his knife. He succeeded at last, and withdrew the knife with a nod of satisfaction. The ice was sufficiently thick to carry us. This discovery threw us all into a state of childlike joy. Little John and Porta rushed about in ecstasy, slipping and sliding, with wild whoops of delight.

'You never cease to amaze me,' remarked Alte. 'Have you by any chance forgotten that we're about 1,500 kilometres behind the Russian lines?'

'The Russians can go and get stuffed!' yelled Little John, jubilantly.

He spun in a circle. There was a loud ominous cracking from the ice and we all stiffened in our tracks and stared round with eyes that bulged with terror.

'Let's get on,' said Alte, tersely.

Once again, we began to treat the ice with respect, creeping slowly forward, trying to make ourselves as light as possible. Every creak, every groan from the frozen mass brought its equivalent creak and groan from us. Every minute brought fresh fears, and it took us several hours to cross to the far shore.

Once there, we found ourselves amongst birch trees, and our tension disappeared as quickly as it had come. It was the work of a moment to hack off enough branches to start a fire, and we threw ourselves wholeheartedly into the task.

'This is madness,' said Alte, as the flames began licking up into the frosty air. 'I must be losing my grip. This lot can be seen for miles around.'

'So what?' Little John defiantly threw on another branch. 'If any Russian dares to show his face here he'll be clubbed on the head and dumped straight into the nearest stew pot - who knows? Even a lousy Russian might taste good if you're starving. What about the cats of the Dibuvilla barracks? A nice fat Rusky would be more tasty than a mangy cat.'

'So we're cannibals, now?' sneered Heide. 'I wouldn't put it past you. I wouldn't put anything past you.'

Little John leaned forward.

'I'll tell you what I'll do, Julius: I'll reserve the rump specially for you, even though it is the best cut.'

'Douse this fire!' snapped Alte.

We did our best with handfuls of snow, but in some strange way it seemed almost to add encouragement to the flames. The embers were still glowing red in the night when we finally turned in.

A piercing cry awoke us. Instantly we were on our feet, snatching up our firearms, straining our eyes in an effort to see through the darkness. The cry came again, long and plaintive and blood-curdling.

'God in heaven, what is it?' demanded Barcelona.

By now the fire was almost out. A few cinders gleamed fitfully here and there, but it gave very little light. But as our eyes grew accustomed to the dark, we made out the vast shape of a monster lurking in the trees. Porta gave a scream of terror and flung himself behind Little John. The Professor sank whimpering to the ground. Another wailing cry split the night in two. And then the Legionnaire began to laugh. A laugh of pure joy. I thought personally that his mind had suddenly gone.

'By Allah!' He controlled himself at last and turned to the rest of us, trembling in our boots. 'It's a camel, you fools! A wild camel. His mates are probably somewhere round about as well.'

Cautiously, still very much inclined to doubt his sanity, I stole forward with the others, gun at the ready. And there it was, before us. Unmistakably, and very disdainfully, a camel. As we watched, it was joined by two others and they stood shoulder to shoulder in the icy wind, regarding us with expressions of dislike.

'My God!' exclaimed Steiner, taking a few brave steps forward. 'There are hundreds of the brutes out there.'

'A herd of bleeding camels,' muttered Porta.

'Dromedaries,' said Heide, in his usual self-opinionated way. 'They've got two humps.'

That's what camels have,' said Porta.

'Dromedaries.'

'Camels.'

'Dromedaries, I tell you.'

'Oh, shut up!' yelled Porta, exasperated. 'Who the hell cares what the things are, anyway? What I want to know is, can you ride them?'

'Of course,' said the Legionnaire, casually stroking the muzzle of the nearest creature. 'Didn't you ever ride on camels at the zoo?'

'Dromedaries,' murmured Heide.

'Camels,' said the Legionnaire. 'They come in both varieties. One-humped and two.'

'And they live in Africa,' added Little John, wisely. Take a good look fellers - that out there, all froze over, is the Mediterranean!'

The Legionnaire shook his head.

'No such luck! You can find camels in other places besides Africa. You get them as far afield as China. This must be one area of the Caucasus where they breed. You know the Russians have whole divisions mounted on camels--'

He broke off as a new and more alarming sight caught our eyes: three men, curiously dressed in a shabby assortment of kaftans and animal skins, were coming through the trees towards us. They stopped and smiled, then pointed to the west and began speaking in a language that appeared to have little in common with Russian. Heide reached automatically for his revolver, but the Legionnaire jerked it away from him.

'Don't be a damned idiot! They're probably friendly; They might be able to help us.'

Alte turned to the oldest of the three men.

'Nzementz?' he asked,

The reply was totally incomprehensible. Alte shook his shoulders and pulled a face.

'Nix panjemajo.'

'Germanski?'

We hesitated, unnerved by the realization that they had somehow recognized us for what we were. Was it in their minds to hand us over to the Russians? Dressed as we were, we faced certain death if captured. The strangers laughed amongst themselves. They seemed quite disposed to be pleasant, although it was plain that Little John, twice as tall as any of them, with his battered face and broken nose, put the fear of God into them.

They offered us some bread and goat's milk, and we in exchange handed over a packet of machorkas. They continued laughing happily. We laughed, too, for no reason at all save that such continuing merriment was catching. After a bit their leader made the discreet sign-language suggestion that we might have some spare vodka, and Alte obligingly handed over his own flask. The contents disappeared with the usual rapidity, and, obviously warming to us, the three men took Alte to one side and began gesturing energetically and speaking what seemed to be a pidgin version of their own language. They drew something indecipherable in the snow, pointing all the while to the west. Alte stared dubiously. Then one of them began running in circles, shouting 'Boum boum!' as he did so, and suddenly dropped down as if dead. Alte watched this performance two or three times, then obligingly nodded his head. The three men began laughing again. They certainly seemed to have a ready sense of humour, though what it was they found so perpetually amusing was and always remained a mystery to me.