The Bloody Road to Death by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online Page A

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 isprobably 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.
    The Old Man gives the order to resume the march immediately.
    The next day we cross a plain of stones and shale. Not even cactus can grow here. Our tongues swell in our mouths like great pieces of dried-up leather. There is no more than a mouthful of water left for each man. Then the jerricans are empty.
    Two
sod’s
die without a sound. Not even the usual convulsive jerk. Death from thirst is a different kind of death.
    ‘Why couldn’t those bastards have kicked it
before
they’d hogged their water ration?’complains Tango.
    ‘Oh God, do you remember the time we fucked those Mongol girls under the waterfall?’shouts Porta.
    ‘T’ll
shoot
the next man who talks about water,’ screams Heide hoarsely.
    Skull discovers that the padre has a goatskin filled with water hidden under his gown.
    ‘Hand over that water, parson!’demands the Old Man, sharply, catching hold of him.
    ‘It is
holy
water,’ the padre smiles foolishly. ‘We must lave our feet in it before we enter the Temple.’
    With a comical hop he is up on a boulder. He holds the goatskin high above his head.
    ‘He ain’t washin’nobody’s feet in that goddam water,’ screams Buffalo madly.
    We make a ring about the padre. A ring which closes in on him threateningly.
    ‘It is
holy
water,’ he howls, ‘holy water from