March Battalion (6 page)

Two days later we entered a village in company with the three of them. None of us was too happy about it. A village meant people, and where there were people there were also, in our experience, N.K.V.D. men. Our three companions seemed to guess how we were feeling, but it merely increased their general hilarity.

'Njet politruk!' cried one of them, gaily.

Our arrival in the village aroused no particular interest in any quarter. Fjodor, the leader of the camel drivers, pointed out a row of huts and beckoned to Alte to follow him. Not unreasonably, Alte hesitated.

'Njet politruk!' insisted Fjodor, laughing merrily.

The Legionnaire shouldered his rifle and offered to accompany the Old Man.

'O.K.' Alte turned to the rest of us. 'If we're not back in half an hour, you'd better come looking for us.'

We were not left kicking our heels for very long. We installed ourselves in the hut that passed for the local bar, and before we had time to grow really anxious Alte and the Legionnaire returned, pushing before them a young boy, not more than eighteen years old, in the uniform of a German artilleryman. .

'Look what Fjodor's given us!'

We looked, and were astonished.

'He's been here three months. He was shot by a Russian firing squad and they've been hiding him in the village ever since.'

The boy regarded us with enormous, frightened eyes, as if we, toe, were likely to put him before a firing squad. Doubtless he found it difficult to believe that we were, in spite of our uniforms, fellow countrymen.

'Paul Thomas,' he said, suddenly, 'Gunner, 209th Artillery Regiment.'

Alte picked up a bottle and held it out to him.

'Have a drink. You're amongst friends here.'

'I can't drink.'

'Can't drink?' Porta leaned forward, very much interested. 'Why not?'

'It makes me feel bad.'

The boy turned his head, and we saw a vivid red gash running from the crown to the nape of the neck.

'I'm not in the least surprised,' muttered Barcelona. The wound was still raw and suppurating. 'It makes me feel bad just looking at it What happened?'

'They took us one evening. The whole section. It was the first time we'd seen any action, most of us.'

He shrugged his shoulders, as if that were all he had the energy to say. Fjodor, who had Seen hovering amicably on edge of the group, held out a bowl of milk. The boy snatched at it avidly and drank it in quick gulps. He smiled at Fjodor.

'Spassibo tovaritch,' he said, fervently.

Fjodor patted him on the cheek, murmuring things in his own language.

'So what happened?' repeated Porta, after a while. The boy licked his lips, nervously.

'Well... Well, Tauber - he was the sergeant in charge of us - he wanted to surrender. Some of the others wanted to go on fighting. Tauber said it was suicide. They outnumbered us by about a hundred to one. Tauber said if we gave ourselves up we'd be treated as prisoners of war. Some of the boys said they'd heard how the Russians treated their prisoners, and anyway we could hold out for another half hour and anything could happen in that time. Well, the Russians kept yelling at us to give ourselves up. They promised we'd be treated O.K. And then Tauber, he said he wasn't going to die just yet and he was a sergeant and we were just privates and we'd got to do what he said. So we gave ourselves up,' concluded the boy, simply.

We stared at him in renewed astonishment.

'Where was the rest of the regiment?' demanded Barcelona, at last.

'They'd already retreated. We were left to guard the rear.'

'And what happened when you threw in the sponge?'

'Well, it was O.K. at first. They gave us schnapps, and some of their fags, see, and one of their N.C.O.s swapped a loaf of bread for Tauber's iron cross Then they started interrogating us, just like we do with our prisoners. They asked us if we was members of the Hitler Youth. Like we always ask them if they're Komsomols.'

'You denied it, of course?'

'Yeah, but they found out we was lying. Well, one idiot, he was carrying round papers that proved it wasn't true, so they started yelling at us then and got really mad. They accused us of torturing people and God knows what... They took us to some village called Daskjove. Something like that. I'm not sure even where it was. They didn't treat us rough or anything.

They just stripped us of all we had - watches, rings, money, the lot.'

The boy hesitated, looking round fearfully at us as if we might still be hostile towards him.

'Go on,'said Alte, gently. 'What then?'

'Well, they shot us, didn't they? One after another. We had to get in a line and step forward one at a time. I was the last one, 'cos I was the youngest and they said as how I had the right to live longer'n the others. When my turn come they pulled me out front and made me kneel down, and the one that was doing all the shooting, he said I was holding my head on one side, and he made me keep it straight. I could feel the muzzle of his gun in the back of my neck. All cold it was ... And then there was this explosion, see, and it felt like the whole of my head was bursting open.' He looked round at us and directed a hopeful smile at Alte. 'I didn't know nothing more till I woke up and found all the Russians had gone and I was the only one left alive. The others were lying on the ground nearby. Tauber and Willy and all the others. They was dead. And I wanted to be dead, too,' he told us, earnestly. 'I was that scared, just lying there all alone.'

'What did you do?'

'I got out as fast as I could, mate! I couldn't stand upright, I was too dizzy. I had to crawl, and I couldn't hardly do that I felt so weak. And then Fjodor found me, only I don't think he knew what I was at first. I was covered in blood, I don't suppose I looked much like a human being. He brought me back here and they've looked after me ever since.'

'What about your head?' demanded Porta. 'What have they done about that?'

'They sent their doctor to me. I suppose he was a doctor, I dunno. He tied me down to a table and fished about inside my head with a pair of scissors until he found the bullet.'

'Scissors?' said the Professor, horrified. 'Do you mean forceps?'

'No, scissors. Ordinary scissors like you use for cutting things.'

'And no anaesthetic?'

'No.' The boy shook his head, as if apologizing for the doctor's primitive methods of surgery. 'I don't think they have things like that here. Anyway, I passed out long before he'd finished the job.'

We granted him a few moments' respectful silence, broken eventually by Heide.

'What's this crazy language they all talk here?' he demanded.

'It's Turkish,' said Paul. 'I've picked up quite a bit of it.'

'Turkish?' We all stared at him. 'Where are we, then?'

'Not far from the Turkish border.'

'Would you believe that?' said Little John, in amazement. 'How we do get about! One minute, we're in the Caucasus, the nest we're on the shores of the Mediterranean, then we come across herds of wild camels in China and now we're only a stone's throw from Turkey!' He turned eagerly on the boy. 'Tell me, sonny, what time's the next train due to leave? Once I'm shot of all this lot, old Uncle Adolf can go and get knotted for all I care!'

'There aren't no trains from here,' said Paul, seriously. 'We're stuck for the duration. There's no means of getting away.'

His words had no effect whatsoever upon our suddenly jubilant spirits. In mind, if not yet in body, we were already safe in Turkey. Porta at once gave himself up to his favourite dream: the brothel de luxe and a mad riot of sexual perversities. He enlarged upon the theme from every titillating angle and carried us along with him. Barcelona drew a map on the dusty floor to show Little John exactly where Turkey lay in relation to our present probable whereabouts, and Little John, in his eagerness to set off straight away, promptly jumped all over the map and trampled it back into obscurity. The Legionnaire remembered that he had a friend in Ankara, and together we speculated on ways and means of crossing the frontier.

'Just how far away is it?' Alte wanted to know.

'About fifty kilometres,' said Paul. 'But then there's a sort of no man's land that's heavily mined and swarming with the N.K.V.D. No one's ever yet managed to get through and live to tell the tale. Leastways, that's what Fjodor told me.'

His words fell on deaf ears. The thought of a neutral country so very nearly within our grasp had temporarily unbalanced even the most placid amongst us.

It was some days before the undoubted truth of Paul's words really sank in; it simply was not possible to cross the Russian frontier into Turkey. Fortunately, it was at the peak of our disillusionment that Little John discovered the hidden store of alcohol. Several crates of it, all marked with the red star of the Soviet Army. The fact that it was enemy property merely served to whet our appetites. We drank long and gloriously, and one, by one the villagers crept from their huts and hovels and joined in the fun. Someone discovered an old barrel organ and we danced ecstatically in the snowy streets. Very soon there was not a man or a woman, or probably even a child, who remained sober. The entire village was
en fete
. Nevertheless, when Alte suddenly held up a warning hand the whole crowd became hushed and silent, instinctively apprehensive and on the alert for danger.

From the far end of the street 'came the sound of a man singing. The sound came nearer, and then the man himself came into view. He was a stranger, not one of the villagers. He carried a light machine gun slung over his shoulder, and the song he was singing, in a deep, bass voice, was sad and sombre.

We stood transfixed as he approached us. He paused a few yards away from the edge of the crowd. His gaze swept over us and finally came to rest on one of the barrels of alcohol. He picked it up, suspiciously sniffed at it, then gave a satisfied grin, tipped back his head and drank deeply. He belched, spat, and drank again.

'Tovaritch,' he said to Porta, who happened to be the nearest to him, 'you are a drunken pig. I salute you.'

With these words he flung the empty barrel over his shoulder, pulled off his fur cap and tossed it into the air with a raucous cry. For the first time, we saw the green cross of the N.K.V.D. You could almost feel the individual hearts of the crowd falter and miss a beat. Suddenly, to everyone's stupefaction, the man dropped his gun into a heap of snow, folded his arms across his chest, squatted down on his heels and began to dance, flinging his legs out in all directions and exultantly banging his heels together.

Quick as a flash, Little John had his revolver in his hand. He levelled it, took aim - and then burst into drunken peals of laughter. His finger inadvertently pressed the trigger and bullets began to spray the air. Those within range fell flat on their faces in the snow, but the Russian continued imperturbably with his mad cavorting. Fortunately for us, he had evidently drunk his fill long before his arrival in the village. Little John stopped laughing. He reloaded the revolver and began to fire into the ground on either side of the man.

At last the dance came to an end. The Russian leapt up, grinning. He seized another barrel of drink and laughed in Little John's face.

'You think that's clever? Well, it doesn't impress me! Here, have a swig.'

While Little John was thus engaged, being congenitally incapable of ever refusing the offer of alcohol, the Russian picked up his machine gun and deliberately sent a stream of bullets thudding round his feet. Little John roared and jumped backwards.

'What the hell are you playing at? You know who I am, Russki? Germanski soldier, that's me! Tankist! Boum boum! And I don't give a shit for you or for Stalin or for any other of your damned countrymen!'

'And now you know that,' said Porta, going up to the Russian and gripping him firmly by the lapels, 'you might as well know the rest... You Russki, me Germanski, us enemies... Savvy? Me, corporal, backbone of the German Army. Him--' He waved a hand towards the Legionnaire - 'him not Russki, him not Germanski. Him Franzouski.'

The Russian smiled amiably at Porta, nodded towards the Legionnaire, shook his fist at Little John. Evidently he had not quite grasped the essentials of what had been said to him.

'Look,' said Porta, exasperated. He pulled out his knife and held it to the man's throat. 'I'm warning you, Russki, this blade is sharp. Any trouble, and you're for the chopping block, mate!'

At this moment, in a sudden burst of drunken zeal, Heide sprang into action. He came running from the opposite end of the street, bursting through the crowd with a hand grenade clutched in either fist. I saw Alte try to bar his way, but Heide merely brushed him to one side and continued on his charge. And now the Russian was no longer a drunk and genial soldier but a member of perhaps the most dreaded police force in the whole world. He stiffened, his eyes narrowed, he raised his machine gun. Bullets splattered into the snow on either side of Heide. The warning was ignored.

By now. the situation was not even faintly amusing but deadly serious. The Russian levelled his gun and took aim. Alte raised his revolver and also took aim. At the Russian. The Russian saw it out of the corner of his eye.' For a second he wavered, and in that second Heide tripped and fell, his bead butting hard into the Russian's abdomen. The hand grenades rolled away into the snow and were rescued by the Professor. The machine gun jerked upwards and the Legionnaire lost no time in grabbing at it. Meanwhile, Heide and the Russian had merged into a whirling mass of arms and legs, and Alte lowered his revolver with a shake of the head. With a supreme effort, the Russian managed to free himself from Heide's frenzied grasp. He stepped back a pace, grunting, shook his fist at the whole lot of us, and then informed us in loud and arrogant tones that he, Piotr Yanow, would personally see to it that Heide received the ultimate penalty for daring to lift a finger against a member of the N.K.V.D. He, Piotr Yanow, did not take insults of that nature lying down. At this, Heide gave a maniacal screech of laughter and informed the Russian that he, Julius Heide, had a mind to slit his throat for him.