The wind blows in from the North East – tacky with fumes, thick with smoke. The stink of raw fuel burns the hairs in Sepp’s nostrils. The grass in front of the culvert he and Max are lying side by side in is all ablaze, fed by the leaking tank of their own car scuppered on the bridge overhead. They’ve mucked about like pigs to cover themselves from head to toe in mud, a little help against the heat. It’s dried to a hard dark mask on Max’s face, only his eyes are bright and wide and flashing from the flames. They’re trapped, fifty meters in front of the enemy with the din of artillery and heavy machine gun fire thundering above, cut off from their division with nothing to do but wait and pray. Max is shaking badly, his whole body rattling against Sepp’s shoulder and when Sepp says his name and Max’s eyes roll toward him, glassy and unfocused like staring at the flames has struck him blind, what else can he do put his hand on the scruff of his boy’s neck and squeeze and pull the lad into a rough embrace. Max turns into him readily, his breath panting in a strung-out anti-rhythm against the mud caked crease of Sepp’s neck and Sepp tightens his arms, holding him close as he shivers. Papa has you, Maxi.

–

Meyer watches as Wünsche plants his heel square on the Russian’s skull and pushes his face down into the mud. There’s an unimportant sound of brackish water popping up a scant few bubbles, a fatty sort of gurgle like phlegm caught in the throat. Wünsche’s smile is loosely drawn upon his face. Behind him there’s a perfect shepherd’s sunset in the flickering backdrop of the rest of the town going up in flames but they only have eyes for each other and certainly neither of them look down to see the dying man’s hand as it flails and twitches knocking out a last tap tap tap against Wünsche’s boot. Meyer smiles back at Wünsche; he’d have to step on the corpse to get any closer, to put his nose an inch, a fraction away from Wünsche’s skin. All he can smell now is greasy barbecue and char but under Wünsche’s uniform he knows it’s ripe and damp and filthy again from too many days restless campaign. Fresh sweat is glistening on Wünsche’s brow and above his mouth and Meyer thinks of the beads now rolling down his back and into the private creases of his body. He touches his tongue to his top lip and Wunsche’s gaze, with his pupils blown and blazing-black, follows it as he licks a wet stripe across his mouth. “You got here just in time,” Meyer says and Wünsche blinks at him slow and lazy as a cat, then rips his smile into a grin. “Yes, sir.”