Liquidate Paris by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online

each time with renewed vigour, and somehow it never lost its appeal, although of us all Heide was the only one who knew definitely what he wanted to do with his life. He was already an N.C.O., and he had long since decided to put in for officer training. To this end he consecrated a part of each day, no matter where we were or what we were doing, to learning ten pages from "the Manual of Military Campaigns. We teased him unmercifully, yet we were, perhaps, just a little jealous of his dogged determination to succeed. We all knew, though none of us would admit it, that we had been soldiers for too long to return to ordinary civilian life. The Old Man declared that only farmers could happily resume their prewar activities, and probably he was right. To me, farmers were a race apart in any case. Only show them a field of potatoes or a row of apple trees and the chances were they would go completely berserk. Many a farmer had turned deserter on account of an apple tree in full blossom. They were nearly all picked up two or three days later and were hauled off to the court-martial muttering feverishly about pigs or plum trees. Unfortunately, no court-martial that I ever knew could understand the sudden compulsion that came over these men upon being brought face to face with a chunk of your actual raw nature, and the outcome was, inevitably, the firing squad.
    It was ten hours, now, since we had set out to clear a way through the minefield. Ten hours of tension; ten hours of walking, quite literally, in the path of death; ten hours with virtually no respite, because what's a twenty-minute break here and there when you know the job's not yet even half completed?
    But at last it was nearing its end. We had just placed the final white marker indicating a safe passage for tanks, and we should soon be able to relax. I was on the point of driving in the last stake when from the corner of my eye I caught sight of something. I paused and looked up. The others were standing still as statues, their mouths dropping open, their eyes wide and staring. They were all looking in the direction of Lt. Brandt. He was standing rather apart from the main body of men, his legs straddled, his arms held slightly out from his body... I felt the goose pimples of fear break out over my limbs. I knew only too well what that awkward stance indicated: Claus was standing directly over a mine. The slightest move, and it would go off. I could see the wires running from it. Claus must know as surely as the rest of us that his hour had come.
    Those nearest to him began slowly to retrace their steps, backing away one foot behind another. They, too, were in grave danger. It was evident from the presence of wires that the mine was linked to others. Only one person showed any desire to rush forward, in a heroic but undoubtedly suicidal attempt to come to the Lieutenant's aid, and that was Little John. We restrained him by brute force, and it took three of us to do it. No sooner had we succeeded in calming Little John than Barcelona was overcome by a fit of madness and began slowly to crawl towards Claus, still straddled over his death-trap,
    'Catch the silly bastard! ' yelled Porta.
    The Lieutenant's face was a horrible leaden colour. He was one of the bravest men I knew, but even brave men are allowed a certain licence when standing on a live mine. Already we were preparing a syringe full of morphine, laying out the bandages and dressings. If by some miracle he survived, he would need all the dressings available. The Legionnaire had pulled out his revolver. His intention was dear: whatever happened, Claus should not suffer longer than was necessary. Call it murder if you will, but he had been with us for six years, fighting side by side with the men under him in some of the worst encounters of the war. When you know and love and respect someone as we did Claus, you don't bother too much about how the rest of the world is going to feel, you just go ahead and do what has