Legion of the Damned (7 page)

"But we must remember that we are going to war," he said in a quavering voice, "and war can be a pretty dangerous thing. You hear of all sorts of things, and people dying of them. Just suppose a bullet suddenly came and killed all five of us at once. Or suppose"--his voice sank to a horrified whisper--"suppose it did not hit any of us, but went through these three bottles while there was still something in them. That would be--that would be the real horror of war!"

Even so, we put the bottles aside for later.

Shortly afterward the train started.

"We're off! We're off!"

God knows why we shouted that, for it was perfectly obvious both to us in the boxcar and to those standing outside. The sliding doors were open on either side and we stood in them, hanging over each other, shouting ourselves hoarse. It did not matter what we saw: a cat, a cow, to say nothing of a woman, we gave it a ringing cheer.

"Tell me, what the devil are we really cheering for?" said The Old Un suddenly. "Are we so happy at going off to be butchered?"

Porta broke off in the midst of a hurrah and thought this over.

"Why we cheer? Well, my dear little piggy-wig, you see, we cheer--but why?"

He looked round at the rest of us.

"I think I know," said Titch.

"Well, why?"

"Because"--he looked at us solemnly--"because, have you ever heard of a war when people don't cheer?" And he added as an afterthought, "And then we're off on a great mission. We are on our way to help the Fuhrer, to help our great Adolf to a real big defeat so that this filthy war can stop and the wonderful collapse at long last become a glorious reality."

Porta lifted Titch up, kissed him on both cheeks and set him down again. Then he stretched his long swan's neck over the rest of us and emitted a jubilant bellow that the Fuhrer must have heard but perhaps would not have understood.

It is not for me to express an opinion, but seen from the angle of the private soldier the famous German talent for organization did not appear up to much, at any rate where troop transports were concerned. The impression of the general staff's brilliant planning and lauded organization that the private gets is that when he has to be transported anywhere he is taken there in a zigzag. To transport a private from A to B along a straight line and without day-long halts at fortuitous places among cornfields or in the sidings of a marshaling yard--in a word, to transport him without waste of time or fuel--would be equivalent to revolutionizing the conduct of war and would have the fateful result that their fine plans would not get in a muddle. And it is a well-known fact, which private soldiers in all countries will be able to confirm, that you cannot wage a war without muddles. The amount of muddle and the tremendous waste of human life, food, material and brainwork that lie behind such expressions as "advance according to plan," to say nothing of "straightening the front" and "elastic retreat," is so immeasurably tragic that you could not conceive it even if you tried.

It seems to me that there is a sort of explanation for the muddle of war. It is perhaps this, or this among other things, that if there were no muddle it would be possible to pin down responsibiity. If you take Muddle = no Responsibility, then my explanation be comes quite plausible:

if War = Muddle

and Muddle = no Responsibility

then War = no Responsibility

and this is an equation to which we shall frequently revert.

Without responsibility we rolled across the Serbian border, where we were told that until further notice we were the 18th Battalion of the 12th Panzer Division and that we were being sent to a training area somewhere in the Balkans, where we were to be trained in the use of a new tank, after which we would be sent to the front. When we were told this Porta grinned, delighted.

"At the present rate that will scarcely be for the next thirty-four years," he said. "Our good fortune is assured. We shall all be wonderfully happy and become fantastically rich, and I'll tell you for why. In the Balkans business flourishes as nowhere else in Europe, because all trade is done by the direct method: you steal from each other and no fuss is made. And what is a soldier if not a good businessman? Be good soldiers now, remember what you have learned and apply it. I shall leave the lovely Balkans a wellsatisfied, rich and well-equipped young man."

From Zagreb to Banja-Luka; from Banja-Luka to Serajevo; from there a sudden dive north to Brod, then eastward again across the Hungarian frontier to Pecs; thus did the 18th Battalion roll to and also from, performing great and long-remembered feats, though not quite of the same kind as those the telegrams from the front proclaimed to Europe, and which held breathless audiences spellbound in the cinemas when the "documentary" newsreels were shown to the accompaniment of very martial music. No, 18th Battalion was never filmed or mentioned in orders. It was just one of the unknown, gray battalions that were wiped out, re-formed, wiped out, re-formed and wiped out--again and again and again, for a cause that we abominated, though we could not express our feelings with such enviable conciseness as Porta, who was never at a loss for a fart with which to put a "full stop" at the end of the improbable "surveys" of the radio commentator.

We almost left Porta behind in the little town of Melykut, north-east of Pecs. He came running up at the last moment and had to be pulled into the boxcar. A couple of minutes later, as we rattled past a hovel on the outskirts of the town, we saw three gypsy women standing waving eagerly. Porta waved back and bellowed:

"Good-bye, little girls. If you have a baby and it's a boy call him Joseph after his father. And for the Holy Virgin's sake don't let him be a soldier; far rather a pimp, that's more respectable."

Then Porta settled himself comfortably in a corner of the truck, produced an incredibly greasy pack of cards from his pocket and soon we were deep in a game of the inevitable vingt-et-un. When we had been playing for four hours, the train stopped at the frontier station of Mako, a little southeast of Szeged.

We were told that there was to be a halt of ten hours before we went on into Romania. We jumped down from the car and strolled to have a look round. As usual, Porta went off on his own and, as usual, he came sauntering up to The Old Un and me a little while later, looking most innocent, and whispered:

"Come!"

The town--it was something between a country town and a village--lay dead in the quivering heat of the afternoon. Our clothes stuck to us as we strolled, slow and sweating, down the main street, where ragged peasants lay asleep in the shade of the trees. Suddenly Porta clambered over some fences and through a hedge and we found ourselves in a little street of small houses with little gardens.

"I can scent things," said Porta, and broke into a trot.

The upshot was that The Old Un and I suddenly found ourselves hiding behind a hedge, each clutching a strangled goose, while Porta ran for his life pursued by a dozen bellowing men and women.

We hurried back to the train, stuffed the geese away out of sight and then set off to rescue Porta.

We met him, striding along with a grand escort consisting of a Hungarian lieutenant, two Honved Scouts with fixed bayonets, two of our own military police and a good fifty shouting, gesticulating civilians, Hungarians, Romanians, Slovaks and gypsies.

Porta took it all with the utmost calm. "As you see," he said to us, "the Hungarian Regent Horthy, our Fuhrer's best friend in this country, has given me a guard of honor."

Luckily it was Major Hinka who received this procession when it reach the staff truck. Hinka was young and decent and Porta's particular protector. Calmly he listened to all the accusations of the Hungarian lieutenant; then, when the lieutenant had finished, be began:

"What the hell is this you have been up to now, man? Robbery and attempted murder. Not only have you been stealing geese and so brought the entire population down upon us but, devil take me, if you haven't also been attacking Hungarian soldiers, our brothers-in-arms. And kicked a valuable dog. Smashed the bailiff's false teeth. Been the cause of two miscarriages. What have you to say to that, you bandy-legged ape?"

All this was roared out so that the excited crowd could see that Porta was catching it.

Porta bawled back: "Herr Major, this lot of maundering idiots are such appalling liars that my pious soul is shaken to the quick. By the sacred knobbly mace of St. Elizabeth I swear that I was walking along quietly and peacefully, in innocent enjoyment of the lovely view and the wonderful weather. I was just in the middle of a silent prayer of thanks to God for allowing me to be among the fortunates who have become our great and beloved Fuhrer's soldiers and thereby had an opportunity of getting out to see the wide world beyond our good city of Berlin when, with an abruptness that was exceedingly bad for my delicate nerves, I was torn from my pious and beautiful thoughts by a band of savage devils suddenly rushing out from some bushes, where they had been lying in wait for me. I have no idea what I have done to them, but is it any wonder that I gave a shout of terror and took to my heels? I could only conclude that they wanted to murder me, for I could not possibly have imagined that they just wanted to borrow a match and, as I had noticed that one of them Wore a watch, I knew it could not be the time they wanted to know. Then, as I turned a corner at the highest permissible speed, there stood one of these operetta warriors with feathers in his imbecile hat and a paintbox on his chest. When he tried to stop me there was nothing I could do but give him a slight push, but I assure you there was no discourtesy intended. I believe he did fall fairly hard, but if he is still not on his feet I will gladly help to get him to a hospital. After that, a whole flock of these feathered fowl came up howling, exactly like the Indians used to do when on the warpath, according to that lovely book--Herr Major will surely know it--
The Deerslayer
, it's called, and if you haven't read it I'll write home to my granny for it, for I know she has it."

"That's enough, Porta," bawled Major Hinka. "Can I have an explanation of the geese?"

"Herr Major," said Porta, and to our great delight tears now began to roll down his dirty face, "I have no idea what geese these people are talking about; but you know yourself how often I am mistaken for someone else. I am the most unfortunate of men, and I am convinced that I have at least two doubles. My granny says so too."

Major Hinka's cheek muscles quivered, but he managed to keep a straight face as, turning to the Hungarian lieutenant, he assured him that Porta would be duly punished for plundering.

That evening Major Hinka also had roast goose.

We crawled over and under an infinity of railroad cars and came to a large covered one, the door of which had been sealed with the Wehrmacht's seal. Both seal and heavy padlock were broken, however, and swiftly The Old Un pushed the door aside.

"Take a look at that and tell me what you think," he said.

We almost fell over backward at the sight that met our goggling eyes. Ye gods!--did such things still exist? Tins of pineapple, pears, fillets of beef, ham, asparagus, lobster, shrimp, olives, Portuguese sardines, jars of ginger, peaches. Real coffee and tea, chocolate, cigarettes and wine--white wine, red wine, brandy, champagne. A grocer's shop on wheels, a poem, an Eastern play.

"Almighty God!" gasped Titch. "Who is this truck meant for?"

"You mean, who was it meant for," said Pluto. "Even a monster like you must be able to see that God has guided your steps. And God did not do that for you to stand up on your hind legs and ask silly questions."

The next day when we reached the big freight yard at Bucharest, where we were meant to detrain, Porta disappeared with a case of wine and shortly afterward a switch engine moved our truck across to a remote siding where it was hidden from inquisitive glances. Porta even got a Stabs Feldwebel to fill out a bill of lading for the truck, so that it really belonged to the 18th Battalion.

We were quartered in the Romanian barracks by the Dombrovitz River, a little way outside the city. One Saturday evening Porta went into Bucharest to play poker with some Romanians of his acquaintance, and he had not returned by the time we had to go on parade on Sunday morning. There was nothing for it but I had to call "Here" in answer to his name.

Pluto's idea was that Porta, having staked and lost everything, including his clothes, was now with some girl waiting for help. The rest of us found that difficult to believe, for Porta was a genius at cheating at cards. The more likely and more disquieting explanation, we felt, was that he had cleaned the others out-- and then been set upon.

As soon as we had eaten we hurried out into the town to try and find him. That was by no means an easy task, since Bucharest is a large city with a million inhabitants. Not only that, but it is spread over a considerable area and is full of large parks, broad boulevards and endless streets of houses standing in their own gardens.

But we had no need to worry. As we were walking down a street in one of the best residential districts we saw a strange procession coming toward us, so strange that everyone stopped and stared. Four men--two Romanian privates, an Italian Bersagliere sergeant and a man in full evening dress--came staggering along with a sedan chair the size of a compartment in a railway carriage between them. As they went, they bawled out "In a Persian Garden" to the accompaniment of a flute. The flutist could not be seen; he sat inside the monster of red lacquer and gilt. Suddenly he shouted:

"Halt, slaves! Prepare to land! Attention--land!"

The two front bearers let down their end with a thud that could be heard for miles, and out tumbled Porta. He, too, was in stiff shirt and tails, wearing a top hat and a monocle. He greeted us with a gesture of the kind that the bad French novelists of the turn of the century called "indescribable," and hailed The Old Un and the rest of us in an affected voice: