now, when I saw the bodies lying here... I just wanted to see if I could remember the anatomy I learned..."
He gets a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his sweaty face. Something shiny falls on the ground. Gold teeth. Joker’s face again goes red. "I saw this on the dead man ... and he doesn’t need it anymore..."
"Good," said Bambi dryly. "What are you getting excited about? Over there is a dead woman."
"She was with the Egyptians," Joker says. "No one knows what she did there ... I don’t think that she was raped." The woman is lying on her back. Someone has shot her in the chest. She has black eyes and is surrounded by flies.
* * *
The village is the scene of hectic activity. An hour ago the order came from the brigade to move the positions one and a half kilometers to the west, on the next chain of hills. For this purpose I have been relieved of my duties as runner and I am back with my unit. Everyone is packing.
The men are angry. Of all the orders there are, the one to relocate the positions is the most unpopular. It all seems pointless. You dig trenches, move a few hundred meters, and dig new trenches. Whoever plans this at HQ simply moves a finger from one point on the map to another. For the men it means work day and night: dragging equipment, digging trenches, moving and relaying wire.
We look like loaded mules. On my back I am carrying a rucksack with enough equipment for a "two week deployment" and a rifle. In my belt are a hundred rounds of ammunition, three hand grenades, and a folding spade. My head is squeezed into my steel helmet and in each hand I am carrying a box with PIAT armor-piercing rounds. Others are carrying boxes of ammunition, Molotov cocktails, machine guns, mortars, and spare parts.
After the first fifty meters we are exhausted and staggering like drunks. The ranks break up and the superiors rush here and there trying to restore some order to the unit and shake the men out of their lethargy.
"You are supposed to be squad leaders? I wouldn’t even take you on as privates..."