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shouting and splashing like a crowd of punch-drunk loons.
    "We've sunk the bridge, we've sunk the bridge!" chanted Gregor.
    At no point did the water rise above our knees!
    "So what the fuck do we do now?" demanded Porta.
    "We pull ourselves together and get the hell out," said the Old Man grimly. "I've got a feeling this place is going to attract a lot of attention any minute now."
    Even as he spoke, we heard the sound of men's voices, and we dived of one accord into the cover of the trees. At least we were going back by forest and not by marsh, which was a comfort--but only a scanty one, because in a matter of hours we were hopelessly lost. We trailed up and down, in and out of the trees, across streams and along little twisting paths that came to dead ends. In all that time we met no one, and when at last we came to a clearing and saw an old fellow chopping wood outside a hut, we were in no mood to bother with evasive action. Instead, we pushed Porta forward as our best interpreter, and he gave the old boy an amiable one-toothed grin of unparalleled villainy and addressed him in Russian.
    "Good day, tovaritch!"
    The little old tovaritch slowly lifted his head. He was so old, it almost hurt to look at him. His skin was parched, the wrinkles scored so deeply that they were like gaping ravines, but his eyes were a bright, clear blue as they looked Porta wonderingly up and down.
    "Ah, it's you, is it?" he said, letting fall his ax. "And where have you been all these months?"
    Porta is fortunately a natural liar. He doesn't have to stop and think about it, he marches right in with both feet.
    "I've been away at the war, remember?" he said, very cocky and sure of himself. "And where've you been hiding, Grandpa? The Jerries are back again, didn't you know that?"
    "Ah, yes?" The blue eyes flickered thoughtfully over the rest of us and back to Porta. "How's your mother getting on?"
    "The old lady's fine," said Porta.
    "Good, good--I like to hear of old friends. Have you killed many Germans?"
    "A fair number," said Porta modestly, and he held out a pack of machorkas.
    The old man shook his head. "Army tobacco," he said deprecatingly.
    He picked up his ax and turned back to his wood without another word. Porta hunched his shoulders and we went on our way, tramping blindly through the pine trees.
    A couple of hours later we found ourselves back at the bridge, which was now a noisy hive of activity.
    "This is futile," declared the Old Man. "To hell with playing follow-my-leader in the woods, I'm going to take a chance and follow the river."
    There was a very real risk of bumping into Russian troops, but by this time we were all past caring. We had half suffocated in the stinking marshes, risked our lives crawling about underneath a bridge that refused to die, walked our legs to stumps among the pine trees, and wanted only to return to the comparative safety and comfort of our own lines.
    Two days later, under the protection of whatever blessed saint it is who looks after those who have come to the end of their tether, we staggered home again and the Old Man made his report--"mission accomplished"--without either batting an eyelid or troubling anyone with tedious explanations. As he said, he didn't want to upset them. And besides, we had blown up the bridge as we had been told, and it certainly wasn't our fault if it had come down again--in one piece.
    The winter was now really closing in, and we experienced the first blizzards of the season. We still had no greatcoats, and we had to pad our uniforms with newspaper and pieces of cardboard and other junk to keep out the worst of the razor-sharp winds. Rations were dropped to us by parachute. No new troops arrived and orders came through that we were on no account to waste ammunition. Food was cut down daily. Men were starving and freezing, and the first cases of frostbite were already being reported--some induced deliberately, in a final, despairing attempt to be relieved from the hell of