them. They burst suddenly into view: two long sledges, with three soldiers of the N.K.V.D. on each. They were passing within forty metres of us, going south at a spanking pace, drawn by two teams of three dogs. We heard the crack of a whip and the encouraging shouts, 'Ho aho! Ho aho!' and we lay trembling in our dugouts praying that our own dogs would not respond to the call..
A miracle: nothing happened. We held our breath to bursting point, unable to believe our luck. The two sledges passed us by, were soon out of sight and sound, and still we remained frozen in place.
'Jeesus!' breathed Heide, at last. 'That was a close shave.'
'We could have coped with 'em,' declared Little John, roundly. 'What's six Russians more or less?'
'We should have shot them,' said Barcelona. He appealed to Alte. 'We ought to have shot than. One N.K.V.D. type in the , bag is worth half a dozen of any other sort.'
Alte shrugged his shoulders and squinted up at the sky. The weather seemed to be growing worse, if that were possible. The sky was entirely hidden by the snow and the Russian wind was howling as if in sympathy with its six compatriots who had passed within so short a distance of the enemy without ever seeing them. The whole country seemed to be against us, screaming out its hatred of all invaders.
With a sudden violent burst, the wind excelled itself. We saw our equipment hurled in all directions, flung wildly about by the tempest, and with shouts of rage and despair we hurled ourselves after it, staggering in the face of the gale.
'Sodding awful country!' screamed Heide.
The Professor came stumbling back with his arms full of equipment. Tears were running down his face.
'I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I'm so--'
'Flaming shut up!' shouted Porta. 'If you'd have had any sense you'd have stayed nice and safe at home in Norway. You got yourself into this mess, didn't you? You wanted to be a hero, didn't you? Gallant little Norwegian fighting the good fight against the nasty wicked Bolsheviks? My God, old Quisling must have been proud of you!' He turned and spat into the face of the wind. 'You wait till you get back home again, that's all I say.'
The Professor wiped his nose on his sleeve.
'I shan't ever get back home again.'
'No?' said Porta. 'Well, in that case it's the Ruskies that'll get you. You listened to Moscow radio recently?'
'Of course not. It's forbidden to tune into foreign ' stations.'
Little John smote his fist hard against his forehead.
'Holy cow, just listen to him! You still think the great German Army's going to win this war?'
The Norwegian doubtfully shook his head.
'You think we're going to lose? he asked.
'Let me tell you something.' Little John took the Professor's arm, turned him round and pointed in a vague, northerly direction. 'Over there, they've got enough cannons to blow the whole of the Sixth Army sky high. And all the rest of the bunch, too, right down to the last soldier.' He paused. 'You know who that's going to be?' he demanded.
The Professor blinked myopically.
'None other than yours truly!' declared Little John, puffing his chest out. 'And when the Chancellery of the Reich is nothing but a heap of rubble, it's going to be me that stands amongst the ruins and spits on it all. And on all the bones of our glorious dead heroes.'
'That wouldn't surprise me in the slightest,' murmured Alte.
Little John kicked angrily at the snow, and then gave a shout of surprise and fell on his knees and began digging. Suddenly, a hand appeared, like a plant growing out of the earth. Shortly afterwards Little John uncovered a face, hideous to look upon, blue, shrunken, lips drawn back over the teeth, eyes sunk deep into their sockets. After a moment's shock, we all fell to scraping away the snow like a pack of terriers. There were two bodies in the shallow grave. Two German infantrymen. The arm of one was still held upright, finger crooked, frozen into position, as if beckoning us to join him. Little John
Alana Hart, Lauren Lashley