The Commissar by Sven Hassel Read Free Book Online Page B

Porta, emerging from a house behind two prisoners with hands raised above their heads. ‘You look like Frankenstein playin’ the part of the Mummy.’
    ‘Now I’m not supposed to shoot any more,’ grumbles Albert. ‘This is the shittiest war that ever was, you know that, man!’
    ‘’Course you can shoot,’ answers Porta. ‘Bang away at ’em, son. That’s what the army’s paying you for.’ With a broad grin on his freckled face he disappears round thecorner with his two prisoners. He will sell them to a prisoner collection squad, out looking for medals.
    ‘Mount!’ orders the Old Man. ‘
Panzer Marsch
!’
    ‘The Führer has won the war,’ declares Heide, proudly, as we roll past long rows of Russian soldiers standing with raised hands. They have a lost look about them.
    ‘There’ll only be room for two kinds o’ people, now,’ grunts Tiny, bitterly. ‘Them peacocks as does the orderin’ about, an’ all the other bleedin’ idiots as stands to attention, in the sacks as ’olds their bones in place, an’ screams ’Eil ’Itler!’
    After a short, bloody battle we push forward straight through Poltawski. At the edge of the roads lie corpses clad in grey prison uniforms. All of them have small bullet entry holes at the back of their necks. Cheekbones jut sharply through the thin parchment skin of their faces, and their teeth are bared in ghastly skull-fashion.
    ‘Liquidated,’ confirms the Old Man. He sends a long, brown stream of tobacco-juice over the rim of the hatch. ‘They’re as bad as our rotten lot.’
    ‘Not long since,’ says Barcelona, leaning out of the cleanup waggon’s turret to get a closer look. ‘Blood’s still fresh and drippin’.’
    ‘But why’ve they shot ’em?’ asks Gregor. ‘And right out here on the road, where we’re coming bashin’ along.’
    ‘Couldn’t keep up,’ says Porta, knowledgeably, ‘caused trouble and slowed down the rest.’
    ‘They bloody well can’t do
that
,’ says Gregor, bending over the body of a woman. ‘They bloody, fuckin’
can’t
!’
    ‘You’ll see worse than that,’ answers Porta, laconically. ‘Wait till the pendulum swings back, an’ it’s us who’re on the run with the neighbours snapping at our arses. Then you’ll see what
we
can do!’
    The Old Man lights his silver-lidded pipe in silence, and wishes inside that he could get his fingers on the man who had carried out this massacre.
    The rows of dead seem never-ending, but no more thanan hour later the maelstrom of war has driven the episode out of our heads, like many other things.
    Physical death lies in wait for us round every corner. We cannot choose death, but must live, and carry on as well as we can. War is a disease, and it is best not to think of it too much, but to forget the impressions its symptoms leave on us. If we didn’t we would all very soon go raving mad.
    The section takes up position alongside a small river, which runs, yellow and cold, down to the distant sea.
    Porta has placed the SMG behind a heap of potato-sacks. Potatoes are as good as sandbags for stopping bullets, he says. Barcelona wants the vehicles ready to go, so that we can move off at short notice if necessary, but meets with wild protests when he demands that the drivers remain in their seats.
    ‘There’s not gonna be much time,’ he tries to explain to the angry drivers, who are afraid of remaining alone in their vehicles. ‘I want those bloody waggons ready to move while there’s still
time
!’ he orders, raging.
    ‘Up you and your time,’ shouts Porta, disrespectfully. ‘Sit in your sardine-can yourself if you want to. I’m staying here with the popgun. When the neighbours come knockin’ on the door’ll be time enough to take off. I’m gonna be one of the survivors of this world war. I’m not goin’ to get fried in me own fat, if some Commie sod or other gets the idea of tacking a magnetic onto my backside.’
    In the light of a huge fire, which is raging down