its lower half beneath the sled, the crashed remnants of its chest still heaving as some sort of life struggled on within it. Where the face had been was now only a patchwork of blood and skin and black, gaping holes. Empty eye sockets, and a cavity for a nose; mouth and chin both blown away; tongue torn out, one eye hanging from a strip of loose flesh ...
To turn one's head away and vomit seemed an act of disloyalty to a fallen comrade. To walk away and forget seemed a desertion. So I remained staring at my post, willing the man's heart to stop its senseless beating and thus relieve me from my self-imposed task of watching over another's agony.
I became slowly aware that Gregor had pulled out his revolver. I wished I had pulled mine first and that we had finished the job.
"Don't," said the Old Man. "Don't do it." He shook his head and gently removed the gun from Gregor's hand.
"But we can't let him go on in that state--he'll die anyway--and even if he lives," babbled Gregor, clutching at the Old Man's arm, "he won't look like a human being again."
"Never say that," said the orderly, bending down by the man's side and beginning patiently on the task of reassembling all the scattered components. "Everyone has a right to live. He'll pull through, if he's got the will."
"But his face--" whispered Gregor.
The orderly took out his syringe. "They'll patch it up. There's a special hospital near Baden-Baden--just outside the town. Plastic surgery, they call it. They can put him together again."
Gregor looked disbelievingly at the pitiful mess that had been a human face.
The orderly bit his lip as he gave the injection. "Well-- perhaps not quite the same as before," he admitted. "But at least they're alive--and they keep them all together, see? Don't let them go out of the grounds or anything like that. It's better for morale."
There was a silence.
"Whose morale?" I said. I jerked my head at the mutilated man. "His? Or everyone else's?"
"Don't ask me," muttered the orderly. "It's a top secret establishment, that's all I know."
The Old Man glanced across at some of the recruits, who were huddled in a terrified bunch, watching.
"Go on, take a good look," he told them bitterly. "That was a man, lying down there. Did they ever tell you that was how it was going to be? Did they ever tell you that was the sort of sacrifice they expected of you? Not a good quick death but something you have to suffer for the rest of your life So if any of you survive the slaughter, you just make damn sure you tell your sons, when you have any, that that's what war is all about--human beings like lumps of raw flesh on the butcher's shelf."
We piled the wounded onto the remaining sleds and set off once more toward the front line. Barcelona had regained consciousness and was muttering feverishly and occasionally crying out as he lay at the bottom of the sled. We did our best for him but the blood had already soaked through the bandages.
We had only just pulled out of the village when the Russian artillery started up. The Legionnaire glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock. Just like always. What should we do without them?"
As soon as we arrived, we carried Barcelona to the field hospital and bribed one of the doctors to take particular care of him. We visited him the next day. He was lying in bed with a face grayer than the coarse gray sheets, he had a drain in his chest and he was feeling pretty sorry for himself. By his bed lay his food rations, which he had not the strength to eat: an egg, some sausage, and an orange. Tiny's eyes went back time and again to the plate, until finally he could contain himself no longer.
"Aren't you hungry?" he asked.
Barcelona shook his head weakly from side to side.
"Well, in that case--" Tiny stretched out a great greedy claw and snatched up the food. "It's silly to leave it for some other bastard to pinch."
"That's all right," whispered Barcelona, as the sausage disappeared into Tiny's mouth. "You can have
To turn one's head away and vomit seemed an act of disloyalty to a fallen comrade. To walk away and forget seemed a desertion. So I remained staring at my post, willing the man's heart to stop its senseless beating and thus relieve me from my self-imposed task of watching over another's agony.
I became slowly aware that Gregor had pulled out his revolver. I wished I had pulled mine first and that we had finished the job.
"Don't," said the Old Man. "Don't do it." He shook his head and gently removed the gun from Gregor's hand.
"But we can't let him go on in that state--he'll die anyway--and even if he lives," babbled Gregor, clutching at the Old Man's arm, "he won't look like a human being again."
"Never say that," said the orderly, bending down by the man's side and beginning patiently on the task of reassembling all the scattered components. "Everyone has a right to live. He'll pull through, if he's got the will."
"But his face--" whispered Gregor.
The orderly took out his syringe. "They'll patch it up. There's a special hospital near Baden-Baden--just outside the town. Plastic surgery, they call it. They can put him together again."
Gregor looked disbelievingly at the pitiful mess that had been a human face.
The orderly bit his lip as he gave the injection. "Well-- perhaps not quite the same as before," he admitted. "But at least they're alive--and they keep them all together, see? Don't let them go out of the grounds or anything like that. It's better for morale."
There was a silence.
"Whose morale?" I said. I jerked my head at the mutilated man. "His? Or everyone else's?"
"Don't ask me," muttered the orderly. "It's a top secret establishment, that's all I know."
The Old Man glanced across at some of the recruits, who were huddled in a terrified bunch, watching.
"Go on, take a good look," he told them bitterly. "That was a man, lying down there. Did they ever tell you that was how it was going to be? Did they ever tell you that was the sort of sacrifice they expected of you? Not a good quick death but something you have to suffer for the rest of your life So if any of you survive the slaughter, you just make damn sure you tell your sons, when you have any, that that's what war is all about--human beings like lumps of raw flesh on the butcher's shelf."
We piled the wounded onto the remaining sleds and set off once more toward the front line. Barcelona had regained consciousness and was muttering feverishly and occasionally crying out as he lay at the bottom of the sled. We did our best for him but the blood had already soaked through the bandages.
We had only just pulled out of the village when the Russian artillery started up. The Legionnaire glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock. Just like always. What should we do without them?"
As soon as we arrived, we carried Barcelona to the field hospital and bribed one of the doctors to take particular care of him. We visited him the next day. He was lying in bed with a face grayer than the coarse gray sheets, he had a drain in his chest and he was feeling pretty sorry for himself. By his bed lay his food rations, which he had not the strength to eat: an egg, some sausage, and an orange. Tiny's eyes went back time and again to the plate, until finally he could contain himself no longer.
"Aren't you hungry?" he asked.
Barcelona shook his head weakly from side to side.
"Well, in that case--" Tiny stretched out a great greedy claw and snatched up the food. "It's silly to leave it for some other bastard to pinch."
"That's all right," whispered Barcelona, as the sausage disappeared into Tiny's mouth. "You can have
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