Sal clambered over the hedgerow through an opening in the thick growth and slid down the other side. Quickly he dropped into the drainage ditch along the side hedgerow. Crouching, he went forward, his rifle at the ready. He could hear the other men drop down behind him. As he advanced step by step he scanned the hedgerow across the end of the field. Alternately he held one corner, then the other with his eyes, for minutes at a time, searching for any slight movement that might reveal hidden machine guns. His heart pounded. His face grew hot. Sweat poured down his back and legs. As he drew closer to the hedgerow he could scarcely breathe. He had to force his legs to move. He glanced back past Gaston. The getaway man was beyond the half-way mark. If the Jerries were behind this hedgerow they'd open up now. Hurling himself forward, he raced the remaining short distance to the hedgerow. Breathless, he threw himself flat against it, his head below the level of the top. While the rest of the patrol came up Sal listened. No sounds from the enemy side. Gaston, panting, pulled the pin out of a hand grenade and flipped it over the hedgerow through an opening. Sal pressed his mouth into the earth of the hedgerow as the explosion clawed through his brain and then died away. Still no sounds. They might still be there, having stayed clear of the opening.

Gaston nudged Sal and pointed to the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant motioned to him to go over the hedgerow.

Sal grunted, "Mother guffer."

Then he dragged himself slowly over the hedgerow. Twigs and branches crackled under him. He looked and let out his breath. No one was there. He slid heavily into another side ditch and called softly to the patrol.

With the patrol following he began going down the second ditch. Great outbursts of sweat welled up on his body, soaking his clothes. Sweat dripped into his eyes and down his nose. His throat was parched. Weights were bearing him down. He wanted to go back, back. They were somewhere here now. They must be. Then an odd sense of calm rose in him. Maybe they've pulled out—altogether, all the way back. Maybe there was nobody.

He was half-way down the field when he heard the click. He hurled himself to the ground as a machine-gun crashed. Then another. There were screams behind him. Then running. Numbly he hugged the earth. Lena! Lena! The stabbing chattering of the guns suddenly ceased. It was silent, as if nothing had happened. Insects buzzed around his head and steeped themselves in the sweat on his neck. Get out, get back. He knew the artillery and mortars would begin blasting as soon as they got the range. Cautiously, he swiveled around on his belly and began to crawl hand over hand, listening through the buzz of the insects. Nothing. He crawled. Our artillery. Then theirs. Get out, out.

Copyright © 2004 Peter Rutkoff. All rights reserved.