awkwardly down at them. Probably a wise precaution: Porta had been known to cheat before now, and his eyes were veritable X-rays. I saw from the expression on Gregor's face that he was contemplating at least a five-card trick. I turned to look at Little John, but he was far away, leaning back with his stinking feet propped on someone's gas-mask case, picking his teeth with his tongue. God, how his feet stank! It must have been weeks since they had seen water, and heaven alone knows when soap had last come in contact with them.
Barcelona took a quick glance at his hand, declared, 'Hombre! I'm packing!' in tones of disgust and slammed his cards down on the ground. Barcelona was getting more Spanish than ever, these days. He was for ever dreaming of the years he had spent in Spain, fighting in the Civil War. He even carried a dried orange in his pocket as a memento.
'Straight from Valencia,' he used to tell us, fondly.
The Legionnaire picked up his hand and surveyed it without emotion. There was never anything to be gained from studying the Legionnaire's face. Years spent in the French Foreign Legion had left their mark on him and his grey eyes were always steady and cold, his mouth always pursed in a grim line. I found it hard to recall if I had ever seen him laugh. On the whole I thought I probably hadn't, because if so I should surely have remembered the occasion.
The Old Man made a noise in the back of his throat and threw in his cards, turning for solace to his beloved pipe. Somehow, the Old Man always put me in mind of Erich Maria Remarque's 'Kat'. It was the Old Man who'd taught us all to recognize various grenades by the sound they made, just as Kat did for his section. It was the Old Man who had taught some of us almost everything we now knew, and God knows that many of us would not have been alive today had it not been for him. He had pulled the section out of many and many a sticky situation in his time. And there were many new young officers, fresh from the military training school at Potsdam and thrown only half prepared into the thick of the front line, who had cause to thank him. And never should I forget the S.S. Obersturmfuhrer who was sent to us for a spell of punishment duty. It had taken him no more than half an hour to lose an entire company, which the Russians had silently encircled right under his eyes. The Obersturmfuhrer had been one of the few to break out of the net and survive, and had it not been for Major Hinka's forbearance he would undoubtedly have been hauled up before a court-martial. As it was, he became suddenly very humble and turned out to be one of the Old Man's best pupils.
I overheard a conversation once between the Old Man and one of the M.O.s attached to General Staff, who fervently declared that we should win the war because we were better than our enemies.
'Unfortunately,' said the Old Man, rather dryly, 'it's not always the best side that wins, not by a long chalk.'
'Ah. well,' said the doctor, 'perhaps you're right. I wouldn't know about these military matters... But tell me, when do you reckon we shall be getting these splendid new weapons they've been promising us for so long?'
'New weapons?' The Old Man scratched the lobe of his ear with the stem of his pipe and laughed, to himself. 'I don't place too much reliance on these mythical new weapons, you know. I'm willing to go on fighting with the old ones...'
And he turned and gestured towards the rest of us. Towards Porta, with his long scraggy neck and his knock "knees; towards Little John, a man the size of an ox with a large heart and a small brain; Barcelona, pitifully flat-footed, me with my weak eyes that couldn't stand t he light; Gregor, who had lost half his nose, and Major Hinka who had lost his right arm.
'A sorry looking lot, if you like,' admitted the Old Man, when the Major was well out of earshot. 'But believe me, I'd rather have them by my side than any number of new weapons. It's men like them who keep the
Barcelona took a quick glance at his hand, declared, 'Hombre! I'm packing!' in tones of disgust and slammed his cards down on the ground. Barcelona was getting more Spanish than ever, these days. He was for ever dreaming of the years he had spent in Spain, fighting in the Civil War. He even carried a dried orange in his pocket as a memento.
'Straight from Valencia,' he used to tell us, fondly.
The Legionnaire picked up his hand and surveyed it without emotion. There was never anything to be gained from studying the Legionnaire's face. Years spent in the French Foreign Legion had left their mark on him and his grey eyes were always steady and cold, his mouth always pursed in a grim line. I found it hard to recall if I had ever seen him laugh. On the whole I thought I probably hadn't, because if so I should surely have remembered the occasion.
The Old Man made a noise in the back of his throat and threw in his cards, turning for solace to his beloved pipe. Somehow, the Old Man always put me in mind of Erich Maria Remarque's 'Kat'. It was the Old Man who'd taught us all to recognize various grenades by the sound they made, just as Kat did for his section. It was the Old Man who had taught some of us almost everything we now knew, and God knows that many of us would not have been alive today had it not been for him. He had pulled the section out of many and many a sticky situation in his time. And there were many new young officers, fresh from the military training school at Potsdam and thrown only half prepared into the thick of the front line, who had cause to thank him. And never should I forget the S.S. Obersturmfuhrer who was sent to us for a spell of punishment duty. It had taken him no more than half an hour to lose an entire company, which the Russians had silently encircled right under his eyes. The Obersturmfuhrer had been one of the few to break out of the net and survive, and had it not been for Major Hinka's forbearance he would undoubtedly have been hauled up before a court-martial. As it was, he became suddenly very humble and turned out to be one of the Old Man's best pupils.
I overheard a conversation once between the Old Man and one of the M.O.s attached to General Staff, who fervently declared that we should win the war because we were better than our enemies.
'Unfortunately,' said the Old Man, rather dryly, 'it's not always the best side that wins, not by a long chalk.'
'Ah. well,' said the doctor, 'perhaps you're right. I wouldn't know about these military matters... But tell me, when do you reckon we shall be getting these splendid new weapons they've been promising us for so long?'
'New weapons?' The Old Man scratched the lobe of his ear with the stem of his pipe and laughed, to himself. 'I don't place too much reliance on these mythical new weapons, you know. I'm willing to go on fighting with the old ones...'
And he turned and gestured towards the rest of us. Towards Porta, with his long scraggy neck and his knock "knees; towards Little John, a man the size of an ox with a large heart and a small brain; Barcelona, pitifully flat-footed, me with my weak eyes that couldn't stand t he light; Gregor, who had lost half his nose, and Major Hinka who had lost his right arm.
'A sorry looking lot, if you like,' admitted the Old Man, when the Major was well out of earshot. 'But believe me, I'd rather have them by my side than any number of new weapons. It's men like them who keep the
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