Read Online The Sand Panthers by Leo Kessler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leo Kessler
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men crouched where they were, all spirit knocked out of them by the hellish terrain.
Von Dodenburg dropped stiff-kneed to the sand and inspected his men. Their sweat-stained shirts were already bleached a faded yellow and their desert boots had turned near-white in the rays of the sun. Their faces were hollow and bronzed. Already they looked like veterans, as if they had been in the desert for years like the men of the Afrikakorps . But von Dodenburg knew that their appearance was deceptive. The men were not desert veterans; they were simply exhausted.
Behind him, the ever-present Schulze, who himself must have lost five kilos so that even his massive frame seemed shrunken, put the CO’s thoughts into words. ‘The wet-tails are knackered, sir. What they need is plenty of drink and to be out of this hellhole to wherever we’re supposed to be going.’ He looked curiously at the Major.
Von Dodenburg did not rise to the bait. Instead he grunted: ‘Break out an extra half a litre this midday. And with that he stalked off, leaving Schulze staring after him in angry bewilderment. Finally, the big NCO spun round and cupping his hands round his mouth shouted: ‘All right, you bunch of lovely lads, Sergeant Major Schulze has got a treat for you! By special permission you can all have an extra half litre of camel-piss, known to you as water this afternoon!’
Later, concealed by a convenient dune and sharing his last bottle of champagne (Cooled expensively in a five litre can of gasoline) with Matz, he grunted moodily; ‘I’d just like to know where we’re going, Matzi? I really would!’
Matz pumped another squirt of the precious gas over the bottle propped in the sand to keep it cool and answered lazily, ‘Wherever it is, Schulze, it can’t be worse than this. Nothing can.’
‘Ay,’ Schulze said dourly, ‘that’s what you say. But I don’t know so much.’ He stared at the silent, shifting dunes all around and shivered, in spite of the tremendous heat. ‘This shitting sandpit puts years on me Matzi…. Give me shitting old Timmerndorf 1 any day.’
* * *
That evening in their laager, revived a little by the cooler breeze of the night, the ‘Prof’ chided von Dodenburg in his stiff, professorial way, saying he felt that the young Major was too hard on his men.
Von Dodenburg stared at the elderly academic across the blue flickering flames of the gas fire and said harshly: ‘You might be one of Germany’s leading Egyptologists, Prof, but I’m afraid you know little of soldiering, especially the kind of soldiering we of the Armed SS are used to. We cannot sustain ourselves with hope, for there is no hope for the SS. We cannot sustain ourselves with thought – belief in a cause,’ he uttered the words with a sneer – ‘faith that there is ultimately something of worth in what we are doing. There isn’t!
‘Our sole purpose is to kill and to avoid being killed ourselves . The function of German industry is to put the weapons into our hands so that we can blow a hole in some unfortunate Russian or Tommy head. We exist as rock-bottom, guilty animals, who must be taught to survive, kill the other animal before he kills you.’ His voice softened as he saw the horrified look on the other man’s face and he concluded almost gently. ‘The men must be hard as a favour to themselves, for the weak ones don’t survive…’ He emptied his coffee. ‘Now let me change the subject.’ He leaned forward so that none of the men could hear him. ‘When will we reach the Ascent?’ he asked.
‘Is that where we are heading?’
Von Dodenburg nodded.
Professor Reichert’s faded elderly eyes flickered, as if he were going to say something hastily, but evidently he thought better of it, for when he spoke he said simply:
‘If my calculations are correct – early tomorrow evening.’
For a few moments von Dodenhurg absorbed the information, listening to the soft sounds of the camp settling down for the
Von Dodenburg dropped stiff-kneed to the sand and inspected his men. Their sweat-stained shirts were already bleached a faded yellow and their desert boots had turned near-white in the rays of the sun. Their faces were hollow and bronzed. Already they looked like veterans, as if they had been in the desert for years like the men of the Afrikakorps . But von Dodenburg knew that their appearance was deceptive. The men were not desert veterans; they were simply exhausted.
Behind him, the ever-present Schulze, who himself must have lost five kilos so that even his massive frame seemed shrunken, put the CO’s thoughts into words. ‘The wet-tails are knackered, sir. What they need is plenty of drink and to be out of this hellhole to wherever we’re supposed to be going.’ He looked curiously at the Major.
Von Dodenburg did not rise to the bait. Instead he grunted: ‘Break out an extra half a litre this midday. And with that he stalked off, leaving Schulze staring after him in angry bewilderment. Finally, the big NCO spun round and cupping his hands round his mouth shouted: ‘All right, you bunch of lovely lads, Sergeant Major Schulze has got a treat for you! By special permission you can all have an extra half litre of camel-piss, known to you as water this afternoon!’
Later, concealed by a convenient dune and sharing his last bottle of champagne (Cooled expensively in a five litre can of gasoline) with Matz, he grunted moodily; ‘I’d just like to know where we’re going, Matzi? I really would!’
Matz pumped another squirt of the precious gas over the bottle propped in the sand to keep it cool and answered lazily, ‘Wherever it is, Schulze, it can’t be worse than this. Nothing can.’
‘Ay,’ Schulze said dourly, ‘that’s what you say. But I don’t know so much.’ He stared at the silent, shifting dunes all around and shivered, in spite of the tremendous heat. ‘This shitting sandpit puts years on me Matzi…. Give me shitting old Timmerndorf 1 any day.’
* * *
That evening in their laager, revived a little by the cooler breeze of the night, the ‘Prof’ chided von Dodenburg in his stiff, professorial way, saying he felt that the young Major was too hard on his men.
Von Dodenburg stared at the elderly academic across the blue flickering flames of the gas fire and said harshly: ‘You might be one of Germany’s leading Egyptologists, Prof, but I’m afraid you know little of soldiering, especially the kind of soldiering we of the Armed SS are used to. We cannot sustain ourselves with hope, for there is no hope for the SS. We cannot sustain ourselves with thought – belief in a cause,’ he uttered the words with a sneer – ‘faith that there is ultimately something of worth in what we are doing. There isn’t!
‘Our sole purpose is to kill and to avoid being killed ourselves . The function of German industry is to put the weapons into our hands so that we can blow a hole in some unfortunate Russian or Tommy head. We exist as rock-bottom, guilty animals, who must be taught to survive, kill the other animal before he kills you.’ His voice softened as he saw the horrified look on the other man’s face and he concluded almost gently. ‘The men must be hard as a favour to themselves, for the weak ones don’t survive…’ He emptied his coffee. ‘Now let me change the subject.’ He leaned forward so that none of the men could hear him. ‘When will we reach the Ascent?’ he asked.
‘Is that where we are heading?’
Von Dodenburg nodded.
Professor Reichert’s faded elderly eyes flickered, as if he were going to say something hastily, but evidently he thought better of it, for when he spoke he said simply:
‘If my calculations are correct – early tomorrow evening.’
For a few moments von Dodenhurg absorbed the information, listening to the soft sounds of the camp settling down for the
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