Another Soviet soldier sat with his legs crossed, every part of him shaking violently, as his system rebelled against his experiences.
In front of him lay his dead friend, both hands blown off, his stomach opened up by the explosive force of the grenade he had pulled to himself, in an attempt to save his comrades.
The sight and smell were both equally revolting.
They moved on again, through a field of corpses and body parts, comrades and enemy, smashed and broken by both the technology of the modern battlefield and other weapons of a more primitive nature.
On the top of the mound, the fighting had clearly been medieval in nature, close and bloody.
Both men recoiled from the sight of an enemy soldier, his throat ripped open by the teeth of his opponent, the Guardsman’s bloody mouth still clinging to the torn flash, even in death.
A movement caught their eye.
Two Scottish soldiers sat on the floor, either side of their guard, a white-faced Corporal. All three were smoking British Player’s cigarettes in silence, heads down, their eyes a thousand miles away.
One of the prisoners, an RSM, spared the Soviet officers a look, returning his gaze to the floor without comment.
A young Lieutenant, his lust for the glory of battle satisfied in spades by his first combat, walked shakily forward to report, holding a silver-topped cane.
Finishing his brief report, in which he detailed the loss of most of his company, the officer proffered the cane to Yarishlov.
“They fought around this, Comrade Polkovnik. It must be important for them.”
The captured RSM looked up, this time, eyes keenly focussed on the object, the longing and desire evident in his eyes, something not wasted on Deniken.
He nudged the tank officer’s arm, pointing at the man.
“So it seems, Comrade Leytenant.”
All three looked at the battered Scotsman, recognising his hurt.
Taking leave of the stunned infantry officer, the two men moved slowly on.
Coming round full circle, Yarishlov saw a rifle poised, its bayonet held at the throat of a dazed Scottish soldier.
“Stoi!”
The rifle remained steady, the man ignoring the imperative.
“Serzhant, put down your weapon. Now! That is an order!”
Yarishlov got through the fog of hatred this time, the weapon relaxed, and the NCO acknowledged his presence with the briefest of nods.
“Are you alright, Comrade Serzhant?”
The NCO looked at Yarishlov as if he was a being from another planet.
“Do I fucking look alright, you stupid bastard?”
‘That wasn’t the brightest thing to say to a man who had been through hell, Arkady!’
“Comrade Serzhant Durestov, attention!”
The man stiffened automatically, and Deniken interposed himself.
“You will apologise to the Polkovnik immediately.”
Durestov’s mind cleared and he realised he was in a very precarious position.
“Comrade Polkovnik, my apologies. I have no excuse.”
Deniken turned to the senior man, seeking his assurance that the matter had been attended to.
Yarishlov stepped forward, and took the Serzhant by the shoulders.
“Comrade Serzhant, your apology is accepted. Accept mine for asking such a stupid question.”
Durestov looked confused. Yarishlov gripped him harder, and smiled.
“But don’t make a habit of it with us Polkovniks. We’re unforgiving bastards by nature.”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Yarishlov stepped back, and Durestov sprang to attention, saluting both officers.
As they moved on, Deniken spoke softly.
“Thank you for making allowances, Comrade Polkovnik. He is a good man; a wonderful soldier.”
Casting an eye around the mound reinforced his view.
“Anyone who has survived this bloodbath has been through hell, Comrade Yarishlov.”
The tank colonel had stopped abruptly.
A Soviet rifleman stood guard over two enemy soldiers who were busy working on the prone body of a third.
“Ramsey?”
The two Scots looked up, confused that the enemy officer knew the name of their commander.
They turned back quickly, doing their best to save the Major’s life.
When the charges had exploded, Ramsey had been thrown fifty yards back towards the river.
His head had struck a tree as he flew through the air, the bloody flap hanging down the side of his skull, contaminated with green lichen, evidence of the unforgiving solid object that had caused his wound.
The left forearm was clearly snapped in two, his hand almost touching the elbow.
Both legs were missing below the knees, the tibias and fibulas, stripped of flesh, protruding for a few inches below the awful wounds.
Squatting beside the man he had met just once before, a lifetime ago, Yarishlov spoke softly to the Corporal who was about to bandage the bloody right stump.
“Will he live?”
McEwan did not look up.
“If ah can get the man tae the infirmary, then mebbe…Sah”, he added after a moment’s reflection.
His eyes took in the cane balanced in Yarishlov’s hand, again, something not missed by Deniken, stood back from the vignette.
“What is inn-fer-mary?’
“A hospital, man! Doctors? Nurses?”
Yarishlov understood.
He took in the desperate sight of the battered man, part of his mind recalling their previous meeting, part of his mind wrestling with a problem.
The tank colonel stood, his sense of purpose affecting the group, Deniken suddenly aware that there was to be action taken.
“Comrade Deniken, I have need of your personal transport.”
A silent question passed between the two, but Deniken knew enough of the Colonel to know he would not be about to do what he was about to do, if it wasn’t the right course of action.
“I can get it no closer than the end of the bridge, Comrade Polkovnik.”
A simple nod sent Deniken on his way.
Yarishlov switched to English.
“Come, soldier. Let us moving Mayor Ramsey to car.”
The three men lifted Ramsey up, the unconscious man unaware of the journey he was undertaking. On reaching the bridge, the sound of the approaching jeep was welcome indeed.
The engineer officer considered reporting his closeness to completion, but decided against it. Sparing half an eye to the bloody sight that quickly moved past him.
Deniken moved forward with one of his men, relieving the Colonel of his burden.
Watching the wounded man being carefully loaded into the rear of the jeep, Yarishlov pulled out his notepad and penned a brief note, carefully ripping the end product from the book.
Pausing for a moment, he reopened the notebook and spent slightly longer writing another note.
Deniken attached a piece of white cloth to the shattered windscreen, one of the prisoners following his lead and doing the same the other side.
Yarishlov offered McEwan one of the pieces of paper.
“Show this to any Soviet mens. It is safe passage note.”
“Thank ye, Sah. Thank ye from ma Major, too.”
Yarishlov nodded as he wrapped something in the second note and it inside Ramsey’s battledress pocket.
“And this is not for my friend eye.”
‘Friend? The commie bas is ma man’s friend, is he?’
“Give this to your top officer.”
“Aye, I’ll attend to it, Sah.”
McEwan’s eyes strayed again to the cane, its closeness almost taunting him.
He was surprised when it grew larger, not realising that Yarishlov had held it out to him.
“This are Ramsey’s, yes?
“Yes, Sah, that it is.”
“Take it.”
No second invitation was needed.