Attack
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The Germans no longer covered the burning hills around them. The only shooting Martin heard was far away. There were still plenty of screams, though, plenty of moans and breathless prayers. The Germans had not bothered to come down and check on their handiwork, and were too occupied to miss a couple hundred Allied soldiers, a quarter of whom, judging by the noises and the movement, were still alive.
One man, not even five feet from Martin, had suffered the misfortune of having part of his brains blown away. The man lay with arms outstretched and eyes staring blankly at the clouds. His jaw was slack. His breath came in ragged gasps; each exhalation was accompanied by bloody froth foaming from the mouth. Strings of brain matter hung loosely from a deep crease in the top of the soldiers head. The face was vaguely familiar. Martin felt he might have recognized it when it if it was better lit by reason.
Martin tried to stand. He crumpled immediately, swearing foul things by the Lords name while at the same time praying for relief. His leg had an awkward feel to it; it was like holding the limb of some dead animal and watching it swing to and fro lifelessly. He feared that the bone was shattered.
He slowly realized that he was one of the fortunate ones. Most of his companions had been hit at least twice by the lethal M60s the German wielded, some several times. Martin was blessed in that he only took one bullet.
Astonished to hear a human voice form actual words, Martin Anderson turned toward its source. Billy Parkins was crawling slowly toward him. Parkins had lived on a farm half-a-mile from Martins own. He seemed distressed and Martin followed the other youths gaze. The source of Billy Parkins concern was the fire Martin had seen earlier. It was much closer. Some random spark must have lit the dry grass, and the wind was blowing it into a raging inferno.
Billy blinked at the approaching fire. “What are we gonna do, Martin?” he said, in his voice high. “Jesus help us, what are we gonna do?”
Martin hesitated a moment, staring into the flames. Shadows danced within them, twisting and writhing darkly, like souls shriveling up; how cruel, Martin thought. Burning away our souls of the men that lay in its path. If we survive, will we carry nothing inside us now but numb ashes of the fellow comrades that lay before it.
“Listen to me, you fools!” he shouted, and some of the bloody men near Martin looked toward him. “This field is on fire,” he told them. “We have to make it over that field yonder — the river is just beyond it.”
Several red-and-black faces nodded in agreement. Many others just stared numbly at Martin, or at the fire, their minds so contorted by pain that they could not grasp the situation. They started making their way toward the river.
“No, no,” said Billy. “I aint found Jaye yet. I cant go home without Jaye. I cant tell Mum and Dad that I crawled off and left him to burn.”
Martin did not answer his friend; in fact, he did not even look back, he just kept moving on in fear for his own life. “I found him!” Billy cried. Martin still did not look back.
“Thank God I found you, Jaye,” Billys voice intruded into Martins fevered brain. “Dont waste your breath tryin to talk, little brother, we have