The Long Walk: The True Story of a Trek to Freedom
Slavomir Rawicz
Language: English
Pages: 152
ISBN: B00DWWSSWK
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The harrowing true tale of escaped Soviet prisoners¿ desperate march out of Siberia, through China, the Gobi Desert, Tibet, and over the Himalayas to British India.
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puffed up and sore. There were ex-soldiers with much more serious untreated wounds than mine. I could only admire their courage. We could do nothing for them and the Russian first-aiders contributed not even an aspirin for their relief. A knifing east wind whistled around the train. The snow had stopped falling and the wind seemed all the colder as a result. Russian soldiers were strategically placed in a flat arc around the open side of the train and there were patrolling guards on the blind
could go wrong. We sat ourselves at the back and the Politruk beamed a faintly surprised welcome at us. We smiled right back at him and tried not to fidget. It was the most exciting political meeting I have ever attended, although the element of excitement owed little to the speaker. The Politruk, now the camp’s senior officer in the absence of Ushakov, was in good form. We heard again about the miracle of the Soviet State, about the value of toil, of self-discipline within the framework of
commotion stopped. We waited a full minute, straining our ears. Faintly came the sound of choked, laboured breathing. Another minute went by. The uproar exploded again and we felt the vibrations as the earth was pounded. Kolemenos came up beside me. ‘What is it?’ he whispered. ‘Must be an animal,’ I said. ‘Well, it’s not coming any nearer,’ said the big man. ‘Let’s go and look.’ We spread out and went forward. Through the mist a few yards away I saw an animal bulk thrashing convulsively from
from a silver chain. The patriarch, as befitted his venerable position, carried stuck in his leather belt a knife which was about eighteen inches long overall. It was broad-bladed and slightly curved and the sheath was banded with brass into which some design had been etched or beaten. When the bowing on both sides had been completed in silence, the greybeard got down from his camel. We bowed again and he returned the greeting. He spoke in his own language and we shook our heads. Mister Smith
of its tether were spread out in a circle sheaves of ripe rye with the ears outermost. As the bullock trampled the sheaves the grain dropped to the ground where it was gathered by the womenfolk. I turned to Kolemenos. ‘That’s a slow way of threshing. Let’s give the old boy some help.’ Kolemenos nodded. ‘Show me how.’ We went over and gave the sheaves a few tentative clouts with our sticks. The grain, bone-dry, showered down. I looked over to the farmer. He was grinning broadly and watching
