The Bloody Road to Death (5 page)

‘Have you ever realized how seldom you ever get what you wish for? Just when you’re having it good, suddenly down the kitchen stairs you go. Look at these hands.’He displays a pair of filthy, torn, calloused hands. ‘Before they were white and soft as a nun’s. Look at my boots. All the shit of the Balkans hanging on ’em. When I was with my general they were polished like mirrors.’He sighs and wipes away a quiet tear as he thinks of past grandeurs.

‘I wasn’t made for all this farting about with the infantry.’ He sighs again. ‘In the temple of my heart a great candle is
burning for my general and our monocle, and I know he thinks of me when he kneels in his night uniform beside his hard cot and entrusts himself to the Supreme War Leader and prays Him to bless our war.’

We have been marching for perhaps an hour when a machine-gun rattles at us from the cactus.

‘Run, run!’screams Skull, hysterically, running back along the narrow path.

‘Shut up you silly bastard!’scolds Porta, irritatedly, throwing a hand-grenade in the direction of the machine-gun fire. A hard, flat explosion and the gun goes silent. Almost immediately another begins to hammer behind us.

Panic breaks out. A hand-grenade explodes in the middle of us, blowing off the legs of a
500
.

Tiny holds on to a cactus. Bullets shred the fleshy leaves around him.

I am down, pressed flat behind an anthill. Buffalo, some three hundred pounds of flesh, a steel-helmet and an Mpi, comes thundering down the path. His Mpi spits fire. There is a hellish row from the cactus. Buffalo’s wild roarings are part of it.

‘He’s gone off it,’ decides Porta, pressing himself closer to the ground.;

A little later Buffalo appears from the cactus, dragging two blood-soaked bodies behind him.

‘What the hell set
you
off?’asks Porta, watching Buffalo in astonishment as he wipes his battle-knife on one of the bodies.

‘I got mad. That mad I could’ve cracked coconuts with me goddam arse,’ he shouts angrily. ‘Those partisan bastards’ve pissed on us long enough. They needed a couple of good German clouts alongside the ear.’

We drink the coolant from one of the guns, a Maxim. It tastes terrible but it
is
water.

The sun appears from behind the mountains, as we continue our march. Everything takes on a beautiful rose-red tint. We shiver. The nights are cold, but we still enjoy them. In an hour’s time it will be hot as an oven. We begin to snarl at one another. By noon we hate one another. The padre we hate most of all with his eternal telling of beads and praying:

‘God is with us! God will help us!’

‘Shut your face!’roars Heide, enraged. ‘God has forgotten us!’

‘God’s with the goddam Reds,’ puffs Buffalo, using a cactus leaf as a fan. He sweats twice as much as anybody else. Twice as much as anybody else. Twice he has tried to leave the grenade-thrower behind but the Old Man notices every time and sends him back for it.

Two
5oo’s
lead the way with machetes. They are relieved every half-hour. It is hard work cutting a path through the cactus.

At midday the Old Man orders a halt. The unit is completely worn out. One of the
500’s
dies in terrible convulsions. They find a tiny green snake in his boot. Porta kills it and throws it at Heide who is so shocked he falls in a faint. They think at first he has died of a heart attack but when he comes to himself there is more life in him than Porta fancies. Two men have to hold him whilst a third ties his hands.

After an hour the Old Man orders us up, but progress is slow now. We cover no more than a few miles before sundown. Without a thought of eating we throw ourselves to the ground and drop into unconsciousness. We stay where we are for the whole of the following day. Darkness has fallen before we awake.

‘Let’s have some coffee and try to sort ourselves out a bit,’ suggests Porta, removing the top from one of his five canteens.

Tiny sits in the middle of the path with his ludicrous bowler on his head. He is rolling a big cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

‘Make the best of everythin’,’ he proclaims. ‘This cactus shit we’re pissin’ around in ain’t near as bad as bein’ frizzled to death, like a piece o’bleedin’ bacon, in some bleedin ’ fox ’ole by one o’ the soddin’ ’eathen’s flame-throwers. You scream at the ’eat
’ere
, but ’ave you lot forgot when we was in Kilyma where if you went outside to ’ave a piss your bleedin ’prick fell orf? An ’what the bleedin’ ’ell’s ants compared to Siberian soddin’wolves what’s favourite food is Germans? When I think o’that lot, this lot’s a bleedin’picnic by the side of it.’

‘You’re too damn stupid to understand how godawful this
place
is
,’ says Buffalo, who is sweating as if he were in a sauna.

Tiny continues smoking, with his nose in the air. He knocks the ash from his cigar with an elegant gesture he has seen American businessmen use on the films.

‘Stupid? Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t! Military service, my friend, ’as taught me that’a ‘ealthy body is needed if you’re gonna live through it. Brains grow on their own, son. If you’ve got too much of the old grey stuff when you go in at the start, you go bleedin’barmy ‘fore you know where you are. The brainy bleeders can’t
take
it.’

A scorpion runs across the path. Skull crushes it with his rifle-butt.

The heavy rumble of artillery continues ceaselessly.

A swarm of Ju 87’s – Stukas – appears over the mountains. Their bombload is clearly visible under the wings of the planes.

‘Wherever they drop that load it’ll cause a bit of dedi-gitation,’ says feldwebel Schmidt, filling up the magazine of his Mpi.

The Old Man bawls out an ex-leutnant who has thrown two spare gun-barrels away.

‘The next man caught abandoning arms’ll get shot,’ shouts the Old Man, in a rage.

‘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 SMG
¹²
.

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.