‘That layer of dirt on the bottom of your feet ought to be good for at least twice that distance.’ Bombardier Cline couldn’t resist the opportunity offered.
A bullet whined past Revell, cutting the netting on his helmet. He ducked lower. ‘First thing is to get away from here while there’s still a chance of finding gaps to slip through. After that, we’ll have to keep moving, think on our feet. It won’t take the Commies long to figure out a few of us have got away, and then they’ll start a hue and cry that’ll have every member of the GDR Politzie, every militia man at a bridge or checkpoint and every Red in and out of uniform keeping a watch for us.’
‘Be better if we scouted for the openings, rather than all charging about, making ourselves conspicuous.’ Hyde attempted to inject at least a degree of planning.
‘OK, take Burke with you. He’s good at wriggling out of work, let’s see if we can apply his talents elsewhere.’
As the NCO and driver departed, Libby detected a movement under a railway wagon a hundred yards off. The third burst he put into the Russian machine gun team wasn’t needed. He felt a hand on his arm.
‘Take it easy.’ Revell withdrew his hand. ‘There’ll be lots more targets yet, save some for them.’
Deep inside him Libby felt his emotions whirling in confusion. The ordinary ones of battle were there, the ones he always experienced in combat; fear and excitement among them, but there was another, a new one that kept rising to the fore, swamping all else.
It was a strange burning hatred that was making him kill and want to kill in a way he never had before. Gone was the control, the calm reason that had brought him safely through two years of fighting in the Zone. Replacing it was. a growing anger and, mixed in with it, an intense loathing that was aimed not at the enemy, but at himself.
He’d tried, oh God how he’d tried, but he couldn’t wipe from his memory that last night of his leave. At most he’d only had a couple of beers, well maybe three, but he hadn’t been drunk. No, on that night he had been as cold, as calculating as ever he had been in the heat of battle. All of the old skills had been employed to pick-up the woman, and from the moment he’d begun the familiar process of talking and joking and flirting he’d known what it was he was planning to do.
The marshalling yard wasn’t around him any more, he was back in the car, crushing her body with the urgency of his need to come. Every detail was there. It was as far as he could go in satisfying the urges that had grown inside him since Helga had been swept from his reach by the war.
In focusing on her he’d come to detest, to hate other women, because of the temptation they presented. The girlie magazines had fed that hate, and in the car as much as anything else he’d wanted to defile the woman, pumping the product of his massive orgasm on to her clothes to stain and soil them, and doing it there as if to tell her she wasn’t worth doing it inside.
There were times, he hardly dared admit it to himself, when the thought had been in his mind, though he’d always suppressed it, that it would have been such a relief to end it all. Forget the search, forget the war and all its horrors and discomforts. He had the means, a choice of methods was all around him. A grenade, or that souvenir Hungarian pistol, either would have done the job… but he couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of death, provided it came quickly and cleanly; he’d seen many others willingly accept, almost embrace it, and he could understand why. There was a limit to what the human spirit could take, and the pressures he’d been under, both external and of his own making, had been gargantuan, more than anyone should ever have had to bear.
But he hadn’t done it, he’d kept going. And he would continue to do so as long as there was a chance, however slight, that Helga still lived. The day, the second, he had irrefutable proof that she was no longer alive he would pull the pin or the trigger, and for a moment experience happiness again before it was all over and he went to join her.
The jump back to reality was abrupt, as a fragment of grenade casing crashed against his helmet. He joined the others in firing on an attempt by a platoon of mixed Russian artillerymen and East German militia to rush them. The last of them to go down were close enough for him to see their faces, and he watched their changes of expression as he went for belly shots.
‘Tight as a noose, Major.’ Hyde dabbed at his cheek. A bullet had slit open the flesh to a depth of a quarter of an inch, but only speckles of blood showed. The exposed tissue had the same pink rubbery appearance as the graft-patched surface of his face, ‘We did spot another group of our blokes, passed the every-man-for-himself message and invited them to join us, but they weren’t interested. They had the same idea as us, to get out and get out fast, figuring a small group stands the best chance. They should have come with us though, the Commies put down a mortar stonk on their position just after we left.’
‘Have you told him my idea about the transport?’
‘Shut it, Burke, I’m making the report’ Burke shut it.
‘What transport?’
Sergeant Hyde hesitated. ‘Well, it’s a bit of a long shot. We found an old shunting loco’. It’s had a couple of lumps knocked off it, but it’s ticking over and seems to be OK.’
‘You got to be joking.’ Dooley heaped scorn on the idea. They ain’t like tanks you know. You have to go where the tracks take you. Good chance that’d be straight on to the muzzles of Russian cannon.’
‘Eh, Major.’ Ripper had been listening with growing interest. ‘I got this uncle, he’s a switcher with AmTrac, and I used to tag along sometimes. I reckon I know how it’s done, if that baby don’t go the right way I’ll just spike a few blades and make sure it do.’
‘It’s all we’ve got, let’s give it a try.’ A nagging doubt had occurred to Revell. ‘Can you drive a locomotive, Burke?’
‘Don’t know, never tried.’ He thought he’d better inject a more optimistic note. ‘But I’ve never found a vehicle I can’t manage somehow. If it works, I’ll shift it.’
‘This war is crazy, fucking crazy.’ Dooley sent an antitank rocket at a Russian scout car nosing out from behind the shell of the signal cabin. It stopped and began to burn. ‘We spend half the morning blowing apart the GDR railway system, and now we’ve got to pray a good chunk of the fucking thing is still working. I tell you, fucking crazy.’
‘No, leave the wagons coupled. The average Ruskie infantryman is as dumb as they come, but if all he sees is a loco’, that’s what he’ll aim at. If he has a whole train trundling past he may waste shots all along its length.’ Hyde pushed Cline up into the already crowded cab when the bombardier tried to be the last to board.
Burke flexed his fingers over the controls, like a concert pianist warming up for a recital. ‘This must be the brake.’ A loud hiss of escaping air confirmed his guess. ‘Let’s see if I’m as brilliant with the rest. This’ll be the first time this crate has been out on the main line, quite an adventure for it. Reminds me of a story I read as a kid, about this…’
‘We’re not on the main line yet, and I don’t want to hear about Ivor the Engine, just drive.’
If Burke hadn’t been enjoying himself he would have taken exception to the sergeant’s remarks, but he ignored them, and increased the engine revs as he released the brake. ‘Here we go…’
‘Backwards…’
The loco’ stopped dead, and from behind it, audible above the crackle of small-arms fire and the crash of grenades, came the sequential clanging of the wagon buffers making repeated contact.
‘I know, I was just testing… trying it out.’
‘You’re trying me.’ From the cab window Revell blasted three puzzled Russian infantrymen who were openly but cautiously approaching the train. Caught by the merging storm of pellets they were mown down. ‘Now let’s get going.’