Sven Hassel - March Battalion

editors note

The character who in this book is called Little John has appeared inother novels by Sven Hassel under the name Tiny.

It was the Spanish Civil War, said Barcelona Blum, spitting casuallythrough the open side panel of the Russian tank in which we were travellingstarted off fighting for one side and ended up fighting for the other. Tobegin with I was a mili dono in the Servicios Especiales. Then theNationalists got hold of me, and after Id managed to convince them I wasonly an innocent German whod been pressganged into service by General Miaja,they shoved me into the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Company, and made me fight forthem, instead. Though mind you, as far as I was concerned there wasnt anygreat difference between the two sides in any case . In theEspeciales we used to round up everyone suspected of being a Fascist or afifth columnist and take them off to the Calle del Ave Maria, In Madrid. Weused to line em up against the wall of the abattoir. The sand there was sodry the blood used to soak right up in a matter of seconds. No need to botherwith cleaning operationsMostly we preferred to shoot themstanding up, but some of the buggers just curled into a heap and you couldntbudge them for love or money. At the last minute they always used to shout,Long live Spain! Of course, when I got nabbed by the Nationalists it wasjust the same thing in reverse. Only difference was, they made us shoot themsitting down, with their backs turned. But it all came to the same thing inthe end. They still used to shout Long live Spain! before theydied.

Funny thing, that: they all thought they were patriots. But when itcame down to it, there was only one way of showing you were on the rightside. You had to denounce someone. It didnt matter who, so long as youdenounced them. They never got a chance to speak in their own defence,anyway. They were always told to shut up before theyd even opened theirmouths

Come the end of the war, we had a real problem on our hands. Therewas practically a five-year waiting list of people due to be exterminated. Wehad to take over the bull rings, herd them into the arena and mow them downwith heavy machine-guns. We had four squadrons of Moors to give us a hand.Villainous bastards THEY were. After a bit, even the police had a go.Everyone wanted to be in on the actAndwhen it cameto it, they all died the same way. It didnt make an atom of difference whichside you were on.

There was a moments pause for reflection, and then Little John spoke.In his usual forthright fashion,

Im pissed off with the bleeding Civil War. Didnt they have anybirds in Spain, for Gods sake?

Barcelona shrugged his shoulders and wiped the back of his hand acrosshis eyes, as if to suppress the memories of slaughter. He began to speak ofother things. Of orange groves and vineyards and people dancing in thestreet.

Little by little we forgot the burning cold and the icy snows ofRussia, and, for awhile, we felt only the sun and the sand of Barcelonasfar-off Spain.

Across the vast open spacesof. the steppes blew the eternal wind, whipping the snow into eddies andwhirlpools. The tanks stretched out nose to tail in a long line. They werestationary now, with their crews Huddled together on the leeward side of thevehicles, seeking what little shelter they could.

Little John was lying beneath our Panzer 4. Porta had concocted a nest forhimself between the caterpillar tracks, and he sat hunched up like a snowowl, his neck sunk deep into his shoulders. Between his legs crouched theLegionnaire, his teeth chattering and his face mauve.

For the moment, our hectic advance had been called to a halt. None of usknew why, and frankly none of us was very much bothered. War was still warwhether the column advanced or whether it stood still. Much we cared.

Julius Heide, who had dug himself into a hole in the snow, suggested agame of pontoon, but our hands were too numb to hold the cards. TheLegionnaire, indeed, had serious frostbite on both fingers and ears, and theointment used for treatment seemed only to aggravate the condition. Porta hadjettisoned his supply on the very first day, complaining that it stank of catshit.

After a bit, Alte appeared, fighting his way towards us against the wind.We looked up at him, questioningly, knowing that hed come straight from theC.O.

Well? said Porta.

The Old Man didnt reply immediately. He tossed his gun to the ground andmore cautiously lowered himself on to the snow beside it. The next step wasthe ritual lighting of the pipe, the famous old pipe with a cover over thebowl, which he had made himself. The Legionnaire handed over his lighter. Itwas the very best lighter in all the world and had never yet been known tofail. It, too, was home-made, manufactured from an old lead box, a razorblade, a few scraps of rag and a piece of flint.

Well? insisted Porta, growing impatient. Whatd he say?

Little John, beneath the tank, began beating at his thighs in an effort torestore circulation.

Christ Jesus, its perishing! Gingerly, he rubbed the parchment cheeksof his face. Did someone say spring was just around the corner?

Like hell, its bloody Christmas in three weeks! came the cheerlessretort from Porta. And I can tell you here and now the only present yourelikely to get is one in the head from Ivan.

The Old Man, with deadened fingers, had pulled a map from his tunic pocketand was carefully spreading it out on the snow.

Here you are. This is where were going.

He pointed to a spot marked on the map. Little John crawled out from hisresting place to take a look.

Kotilnikovo, said Alte, jabbing a finger on the map. Thirty kilometresbehind our front line. From Kotilnikovo we take off in the direction of someplace called Obilnoje to have a look at the Russian troops. See what theyredoing, how many of em are doing it In other words, its a reconnaissancetrip. And if by any chance we find ourselves cut off with no means of gettingback The Old Man smiled, pleasantly - our orders are to tryand make contact with the 4th Rumanian Army, which is believed to besomewhere south-west of the Volga At the moment, that is. God knows whereitll be when we want to get hold of it. Blown out of existence,probably.

A moment of silence. A reverberating fart from Porta spoke more or lessadequately for the entire group.

Whos got bats in the brain box, you or the C.O.? Ivans not bloodyblind, you know. Hell spot these tanks a bleeding mile off.

The Old Man smiled again his pleasant smile.

Theres more to it than that. The best is yet to come. Just wait tillyouve heard it.

He removed his pipe from his mouth and thoughtfully scratched his earlobe with the stem.

The idea is to dress up in Russian uniforms and move about behind theRussian lines in the two T.34s we captured off them.

The Legionnaire sat suddenly bolt upright.

Thats the next best thing to suicide. His tone was accusing. Theyve noright to do it. If Ivan catches us dressed up in his clothes like that, weredone for.

It might be a quicker death than slowly freezing at Kolyma, murmuredAlte. On the whole, I think I should probably prefer it.

Without giving us the chance of further comment, he brought us to our feetand we slouched unsoldierly through the snow towards the C.O.s vehicle.

Captain Lander had not been long with the battalion. He came from Lesvigand he was known to be a fanatical Nazi. Dubious rumours, linking his namewith various cases of ill-treatment of children, had reached theever-receptive ears of the men at the front. Porta, as always, was the onewho dug out the truth, via his friend Feders. A story emerged of icy baths ina certain place of education with which it appeared Captain Lander had beenconnected. We were not particularly surprised. Many of those who joined thebattalion had past lives that hardly bore investigation. Men who clapped youon the shoulder and called you friend, men who freely passed round theircigarettes, who received parcels of bacon and ham from Denmark, who boastedof the way they got on with the people of the occupied countries -sooner or later, their past caught up with them, and then it was either Portaor the Legionnaire who was responsible for their future.