rain down on me.
The tank slides sideways down into a ditch. I am about to throw the grenades, when it turns half round again on its own axis, and rattles toward the Fahnenjunker. He presses himself down, desperately, behind a large round stone, then gets halfway to his feet. The tank knocks him back down and crushes him under its tracks. A bloody pool is all that is left of him.
The T-34 makes off with a thunder of engines. It smashes over a wooden bridge, which collapses under its weight in arain of splintered planks and beams. Two infantry men, who were hiding under the bridge, are crushed into an unrecognizable mass.
How long I run before I come to a halt I never know. I have lost all idea of the passage of time. My knees tremble under me; my thigh muscles are hard and knotted. My mouth feels as if it were full of sand. In a panic I spring across the ditch, and push my way through the bushes lining it.
Porta catches me by the ankle, and I fall forward.
‘Calm down,’ he says, easily. ‘It’s not
that
bad. The neighbours are just pointin’ out to us that they’re still around. They don’t want us to go thinking we’ve won the war just yet!’
‘Where’s the Old Man?’ I ask, breathlessly.
‘Lying over there, enjoying the cool of the evening together with the rest of the boys. We didn’t get off too badly, but there’s not a button left of 3 Section, and they say the division’s got its balls shot off. Arse-an’-Pockets has made a real mess of this one!’
The Old Man comes sliding down between the rose beds, with Gregor at his heels.
‘We’ve got to get through now,’ says the Old Man, breathlessly. ‘Ivan’s over on this side with all his pots an’ pans. Half the division’s got the shit shot out of it. Let’s move. Go down behind that furniture factory. There’s a bit more room there.’
‘There’s tanks behind us,’ I put in. ‘Both T-34s and KW-2s, and they’re banging away like mad.’
‘Sod
them
,’ snarls the Old Man. ‘Don’t look at ’em. We’ve
got
to get through.’
‘Tiny,’ he calls, softly.
‘’Ere I am!’ answers Tiny, avalanching down past the rosebeds.
‘Got the stovepipe * still?’ asks the Old Man.
‘Too right,’ grins Tiny, ‘
an
’ a packet o’ acid drops for it. Its Dad’s Day in Russia y’know!’
Barcelona looks over the top of the roses. ‘Adjutant’s just been here. Wants us to work our bloody way up to the sunk road.’
‘That clever sod could make a pancake without breakin’ eggs,’ snarls Porta, furiously. ‘
This
feller’s not goin’ anywhere near any sunken, rotten road. All the bloody Red Army’ll be goin’ that way an’ll shoot us full of holes. Those people from the officer factory’ll kill the lot of us before they’ve done!’
‘We’re going back,’ says the Old Man, getting to his feet with his mpi at the ready.
‘Follow me!’ he orders, jumping over the roses.
Suddenly I begin to feel the cold, and the water which has seeped into my boots.
‘Heavens above, but I’m
cold
,’ I mumble, pulling my collar up around my ears.
‘You’ll soon get warmed up,’ grins Porta.
‘Spread out, blast your eyes,’ commands the Old Man. ‘How often do I have to
tell
you. Don’t crowd together!’
Behind us we can hear the rumble of the field-guns, and, in between the sharp crack of tank-guns.
Two tanks are on fire. Tall flames shoot up from them. One of them explodes in a rain of red-hot steel splinters.
A Russian in a flapping brown cloak rushes past us with his long queerly-shaped bayonet fixed.
I raise my machine-pistol and send a short burst into his back. He gives out a long, ululating scream, and his rifle and bayonet fly from his hands.
I follow the others down a partly overgrown path, jump over a wrecked anti-tank gun and go head over heels down a steep flight of steps.
‘Keep your distance,’ shouts the Old Man. ‘You want to all get killed at the same time? Spread out, you rotten sacks,
The tank slides sideways down into a ditch. I am about to throw the grenades, when it turns half round again on its own axis, and rattles toward the Fahnenjunker. He presses himself down, desperately, behind a large round stone, then gets halfway to his feet. The tank knocks him back down and crushes him under its tracks. A bloody pool is all that is left of him.
The T-34 makes off with a thunder of engines. It smashes over a wooden bridge, which collapses under its weight in arain of splintered planks and beams. Two infantry men, who were hiding under the bridge, are crushed into an unrecognizable mass.
How long I run before I come to a halt I never know. I have lost all idea of the passage of time. My knees tremble under me; my thigh muscles are hard and knotted. My mouth feels as if it were full of sand. In a panic I spring across the ditch, and push my way through the bushes lining it.
Porta catches me by the ankle, and I fall forward.
‘Calm down,’ he says, easily. ‘It’s not
that
bad. The neighbours are just pointin’ out to us that they’re still around. They don’t want us to go thinking we’ve won the war just yet!’
‘Where’s the Old Man?’ I ask, breathlessly.
‘Lying over there, enjoying the cool of the evening together with the rest of the boys. We didn’t get off too badly, but there’s not a button left of 3 Section, and they say the division’s got its balls shot off. Arse-an’-Pockets has made a real mess of this one!’
The Old Man comes sliding down between the rose beds, with Gregor at his heels.
‘We’ve got to get through now,’ says the Old Man, breathlessly. ‘Ivan’s over on this side with all his pots an’ pans. Half the division’s got the shit shot out of it. Let’s move. Go down behind that furniture factory. There’s a bit more room there.’
‘There’s tanks behind us,’ I put in. ‘Both T-34s and KW-2s, and they’re banging away like mad.’
‘Sod
them
,’ snarls the Old Man. ‘Don’t look at ’em. We’ve
got
to get through.’
‘Tiny,’ he calls, softly.
‘’Ere I am!’ answers Tiny, avalanching down past the rosebeds.
‘Got the stovepipe * still?’ asks the Old Man.
‘Too right,’ grins Tiny, ‘
an
’ a packet o’ acid drops for it. Its Dad’s Day in Russia y’know!’
Barcelona looks over the top of the roses. ‘Adjutant’s just been here. Wants us to work our bloody way up to the sunk road.’
‘That clever sod could make a pancake without breakin’ eggs,’ snarls Porta, furiously. ‘
This
feller’s not goin’ anywhere near any sunken, rotten road. All the bloody Red Army’ll be goin’ that way an’ll shoot us full of holes. Those people from the officer factory’ll kill the lot of us before they’ve done!’
‘We’re going back,’ says the Old Man, getting to his feet with his mpi at the ready.
‘Follow me!’ he orders, jumping over the roses.
Suddenly I begin to feel the cold, and the water which has seeped into my boots.
‘Heavens above, but I’m
cold
,’ I mumble, pulling my collar up around my ears.
‘You’ll soon get warmed up,’ grins Porta.
‘Spread out, blast your eyes,’ commands the Old Man. ‘How often do I have to
tell
you. Don’t crowd together!’
Behind us we can hear the rumble of the field-guns, and, in between the sharp crack of tank-guns.
Two tanks are on fire. Tall flames shoot up from them. One of them explodes in a rain of red-hot steel splinters.
A Russian in a flapping brown cloak rushes past us with his long queerly-shaped bayonet fixed.
I raise my machine-pistol and send a short burst into his back. He gives out a long, ululating scream, and his rifle and bayonet fly from his hands.
I follow the others down a partly overgrown path, jump over a wrecked anti-tank gun and go head over heels down a steep flight of steps.
‘Keep your distance,’ shouts the Old Man. ‘You want to all get killed at the same time? Spread out, you rotten sacks,
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