March Battalion by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online Page B

it was they found so perpetually amusing was and always remained a mystery to me.
    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