Liquidate Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

at the approach of the smallest and most insignificant piece of metal. We therefore abandoned every metallic object that we had about us, even stripping off our buttons and replacing them with odd bits of wood. We were not supplied with rubber-soled boots and for the most part had to make do with rags wrapped round our feet, but Porta, our tame scavenger, had had the good fortune to lay hands on a pair of genuine American boots of yellow Rubber.
    It was impossible to rely upon the mine-detecting device: it reacted not only for mines but also for the minutest particle of metal, so that in the end, according to individual dispositions, we either grew mad with perpetual fear or apathetic through over-familiarity. Either way, it was asking for trouble. To stand even a small chance of survival when working with mines a man needs to be continually alert, to have nerves of steel, and to act always with the greatest caution and the steadiest of hands. There where it looks safest might lurk the greatest danger.
    Of course, it was Rommel who pioneered the innocent-seeming death-trap and brought it to such a high degree of perfection. The door that opens and blows up in your face; the wheelbarrow that bars your way, so that step to one side and the earth opens up beneath you; the cupboard door that remains ajar, and produces such a fury when closed that a whole row of houses goes sky high. Then there's the almost invisible wire, cunningly hidden beneath a carpet of leaves: the leading men tread on it and there's half a company wiped out in a split second.
    We had learned a great deal about mines, and the more we learnt the less we liked. We'd met the P.2s, wired in relay, which set off a whole chain reaction of explosions. And that mines that had to be destroyed by detonating. And those--perhaps worst of all---that must be taken carefully to pieces, bit by bit until you come to the detonator, made of the thinnest possible glass... If you had a death wish and that sort of mind that could happily spend a whole hour looking for a single piece in a jigsaw-puzzle, then you were O.K., you could enjoy your work. But if you were anything like me, sweating with fright and hamfisted into the bargain, then without doubt were a very square peg in a very round hole.
    We advanced slowly in line, testing out the ground step after step, never too happy even when you were at the tail end and could expect to be reasonably safe. Every ten minutes we changed the leader (and the rubber boots). In this way, only one man's life was risked at a time and each man knew that his period of endurance at least had set limits. We kept a safe distance between each one, and each one trod carefully in the steps of the man before him. For a few seconds all would be well, your heart would begin to slow down its mad canter, your sweat glands would start taking things a bit easier--and then, with a blood-chilling shriek, the man at the head of the column would wave his hands in a frenzy and halt us in our tracks. The mine detector was reacting again...
    We all come to a stop. The man unfortunate enough to be in temporary possession of the boots holds out the detector to the front, to the side, to the rear. He pinpoints the spot which is causing all the trouble, reluctantly crouches down beside it, begins timidly to scrape away the topsoil. Five minutes pass. Five minutes of sweat and terror. And all he unearths is a piece of shrapnel, a shell fragment or part of a grenade. Always the same story. Or nearly always.
    We relieve our various tensions in bursts of ill temper and foul language directed towards the prisoner who declared the area to be heavily mined, towards the Information Service who passed on the news and were therefore responsible for our being here. Quite obviously the prisoner was lying, the Information Service were a bunch of gullible fools.
    We press on at a slightly faster pace, angry and muttering. A sudden explosion cuts us all short. The miserable man who