Legion of the Damned Read Online Free PDF Page A

short trenching tools.
    But of course we never did it quickly enough. Each time the whistles called us back, and we stood gasping for all too few seconds while they cursed us. Then off again. Advance--advance-- advance. We were caked with wet, plowed earth; our legs shook and then the sweat came, running in rivulets down our bodies and burning and stinging our skins where the fretting straps and heavy equipment had rubbed and made sores. The sweat soaked through our clothes, and many had dark patches on the backs of their tunics. We could scarcely see because the sweat blinded us; our foreheads itched and tingled from being wiped with dirty hands and coarse tunic sleeves. If we stood still our soaking clothes became ice cold. The insides of my thighs and my crotch were skinned and bleeding. We sweated with fear.
    Exhausted, we became dully aware that day was breaking. Then it was time to practice being attacked from the air.
    We set off at a heavy run down the rough road. Every stone, every little puddle, to say nothing of the damned deep ruts slipping away from our fearfully staring eyes, meant that we had to concentrate on seeing that our feet reacted correctly, so as not to stumble or trip or put a foot wrong. The mere business of getting our feet to work properly, of just running and walking, things you normally do without thinking about, had become an agonizing physical and mental effort. Our legs felt so heavy, so crushingly heavy. But stubbornly we jog trotted and reeled and staggered along in step, at the double. Our otherwise ashen, hollow-eyed faces were as red as lobsters; our eyes rigid and staring, the veins in our foreheads swollen. We gasped for breath; our mouths were dry and slimed; and every now and again a gasp would spatter flecks of white foam.
    The whistle shrilled. We dashed to either side of the road, flung ourselves blindly into the ditches, no matter whether there were nettles or water at the bottom, or someone quicker already there. Then the frantic race to get mortars and machine guns into position. It all had to be done in a matter of seconds, so better tear your fingers to shreds or get kicked in the back than that it should be too slow.
    On we marched, mile after mile. I believe that I know everything worth knowing about roads: soft roads, hard roads, wide roads, narrow roads, stony, muddy, cemented, boggy, snowy, hilly, graveled, slippery, dusty. My feet have taught me everything worth knowing about roads, callous enemies and tormentors of my feet.
    The rain stopped. Then the sun came out. That meant thirst, heavy heads, headaches, spots before the eyes. Your feet and ankles swell in your burning boots. We dragged ourselves along in a Strange kind of trance.
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    At noon a halt was ordered. Our muscles were so tortured that it hurt even to get them to stop walking; and a few simply did not have the strength to stop, but staggered on after the command was given until they barged into the man in front and stood there swaying with drooping heads, till the others shoved them back into their places.
    We were on the outskirts of a little village. A couple of young boys came running up to stare at us. We were to have half an hour's rest. Without stopping to consider that we were many miles from the barracks, we flung ourselves down where we stood, without even loosening our straps, just flung ourselves down and were asleep before we even reached the ground.
    That same second, or so it seemed, the whistle shrilled again. But thirty minutes had passed, all our precious rest. The next quarter of an hour was a hell of torment: stiff muscles and feet protested; they did not want to get going again. Every step was a series of stabbing pains shooting right up to your brain. The soles of your feet registered each nail in your boots, so that it was like walking on glass splinters.
    But there was no help--no truck to pick up those who fell in the ditch. No, they, poor devils, were given special treatment by a