The Bloody Road to Death (6 page)

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 HKL
¹³
. 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 outa 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.

The Legionnaire kicks him in the ribs and bangs his face down into the dusty ground.

‘He’s going to die,’ says Gregor.

‘That’s right,’ answers Skull, uninterestedly. ‘His own fault, ain’t it?’

None of us pity him. The Old Man trusted him with the water supply and as a feldwebel he knew what it cost to steal water. The Old Man has no choice in the matter. If he lets Schmidt get away with it, the rest of us will be at one another’s throats over the water before nightfall. It’s not always fun to lead a unit, and it’s not in the Old Man’s line to watch a man run himself into the grave. But if he merely shoots Schmidt we’d hardly notice it. We’ve seen too many men shot. It’s an everyday thing to us. The first time we saw a man neck-shot we were sick to the stomach. Every man of us. Neck-shooting is
probably the nastiest way of liquidating a man. The pistol muzzle is placed in the groove of the neck pointing upwards. There’s a report and the head twists almost entirely round. The brains flow down over the face. The body stiffens and falls like a log. The face often turns completely backwards.

Now we can watch a man neck-shot without a qualm. We can even find it amusing. Not because we are particularly brutal. But because war has changed us. If it hadn’t we’d long since have become inmates of one of the Army asylums. Many
have
ended there.

Schmidt collapses. The grenade-thrower cracks against the back of his neck. Both boxes of shells fall from his hands.

‘
Bête!
Up with you!’shouts the Legionnaire, in a rage. He jabs Schmidt with his bayonet, but there is no reaction.

‘Bastard! Shitty weak bastard!’shouts Tango, contemptuously.

‘Stick a cactus up his arse,’ suggests Buffalo. ‘That ought to give ’im a thrill!’

The Legionnaire gets Schmidt on his feet again.

‘The Legion’s school,’ he laughs triumphantly. Soon after Schmidt is dead. He falls like a piece of paper dropped by a stilled wind.

His body is left on an anthill. It is soon thickly covered with huge red ants.