Читать книгу Days of Lead - Moshe Rashkes - Страница 5

Wearily I lifted the field glasses to my eyes. They had once been Ilan’s. In front of me stretched emaciated slopes that quivered hazily when I first looked at them, and then settled down and stopped moving. My eyes wandered over the few scraggy clumps of trees scattered over the area, whose shadows made pits of blackness on the rocky ground.

For a moment I blinked my eyes. Between the faded green trees I made out little figures moving back and forth. I took a long, hard look. There was no doubt: enemy soldiers. Groups of them rushing around busily, as if time was short and they were hurrying to carry out their orders. Now I could make out a few lorries standing near them. The soldiers gathered around the lorries and began working frantically. I could even make out the cannons hidden behind the fences. But I was already tired, dead tired.

The words of the company commander hammered against my temples: “Hold the hill—at all costs.” That’s what he had said before we set out. That’s the order we were given. But we didn’t have much more left to pay. We were nine when it all started, and now there were only five of us left. Two of them lay dead next to me, their heads smashed into messy pulps of flesh and bones by a machine gun. The commander said something else: “Until reinforcements arrive.” But I wasn’t sure they’d make it, and was beginning to doubt they were even on their way. When the order had been given, I hadn’t realized all its implications. Now I completely understood it. But I was so bone-tired I couldn’t even complain. Perhaps reinforcements were really on the way. That’s what the company commander told us would happen, after all . . .

The enemy soldiers had stopped rushing about. Soon the shelling would start. I felt it wouldn’t be long. A bright tongue of flame glittered through the trees. That was it. I knew the time had come. White smoke hung there like a light cloud, and a shrill whistle cut through the air. A heavy explosion shook its anger loose somewhere on the slope of the hill. Heavy smoke climbed into the sky. It was a marking bomb. The real shelling began after a few trial shots. The explosions began to follow one another. Their thunder rocked and shook the layer of stones on the hill, like an earthquake that wanted to pound every bit of stone into gravel.

At first I could still make out the exploding shells. A dirty gray whirlpool of dust and rocks rose into the air, and fell back to the ground like a hail of debris from a detonation. The more frequent the explosions became, the less I was able to see. The smoke and dust rolling over the rocks mingled into a heavy cloud that hung over the entrenchment and covered the face of the sun. But by this time I wasn’t paying any attention to what was happening outside my own limited sphere of interest. I lay on the ground, curled up like a hedgehog, pressing desperately as close to the earth as I could. I would have liked to have been swallowed up in it, to be swallowed by it. I clasped the palms of my hands over the nape of my neck and pressed my arms over my ears in a vain attempt to shut out the thunder of the shells.

The guns continued to slam away at a crazy pace. Cold sweat started trickling over my face. At first it was only my forehead that glistened with sweat, but soon my whole body was washed by the sticky wetness. Streams of it, mixed with dust and smoke, trickled into my eyes, stinging them mercilessly. Every time the thunder of the shots rolled over the shuddering rocks, I shut my eyes. My body shrank into a tight, twisted knot, and my head banged against the ground. When I opened my eyes again, it was like waking up from a nightmare. Everything spun around me, around and around until my head reeled.

This had been going on for hours already. My whole body ached from the sudden contortions. Weakness took hold of me. My stomach lurched and the gorge rose. I felt like vomiting . . . I must have been stunned by the cannon fire and couldn’t feel my face. My lips were paralyzed; I bit them but felt nothing, and couldn’t feel my throat either. I put out my hand hesitantly and patted my neck. It was smooth and wet. My fingers dabbled in a warm, soft liquid. I passed my hands in front of my eyes, agitated. My fingers were smeared with a mixture of blood and soot. A piece of shrapnel from a shell must have hit me in the neck. But I felt no pain. I just kept on getting weaker and weaker, my strength flowing away.

I heard a muffled sound, a cry, like that of a frightened baby. It was so choked, so far off, so faint. The cries grew louder, came closer, until I could hear them quite clearly. Only a desperately wounded man screams like that, and this hopeless howling roused me from my dazed state. Slowly I turned my head toward the voice. But I could hardly see anything. Everything was covered by thick mist and acrid smoke. I screwed up my eyes and peered into the mist, putting my whole body into the effort of seeing. The dense mist lifted a little, and through its veil, which opened slightly before closing again, curled a heavy cloud of smoke that climbed over the stone outpost on my left. The wounded man’s cries grew louder. Who could it be? I wondered with growing terror. A chill of fear passed through my body, a chill that deadened the senses.

A black shadow passed in front of the mist. I strained my eyes. Through the rising smoke the figure of a man lurched, running and rocking from side to side, as if he were drunk. At first all I saw was a black shadow. But when the shape came closer I could see someone waving his hands as if he wanted to tell me something, to give me a signal. I couldn’t see the ends of his legs. They were covered by the mist that spread over the ground. He seemed to be floating and hovering on the waves of a sooty smoke. His cries didn’t grow fainter, but became louder, and his movements became more frantic. Now I could see that he was banging himself on the head, hitting himself and shouting. Another minute and he’d reach me. Only ten strides between us. The sound of the explosions deafened me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Suddenly he changed the direction of his walk. He stumbled, swayed in the opposite direction—toward enemy lines.

“Stop!” a hoarse cry burst from my throat. “Stop!” He went on. My voice was lost in the thunder of the guns. I struggled to my feet and ran after him. “Stop!” I went on shouting. “Stop!”

I caught up with him. Now I could put my hand out and catch him. A mighty burst rocked me. I threw myself on him and pulled him down to the ground with me. I bent over his head. His face was wreathed in smoke. It was Gershon! But he looked different. His face was twisted, distorted. His eyes bulged out of their hollows as if they wanted to leap out of the sagging sockets of flesh that held them. His gaze was expressionless, empty, hollow. He didn’t seem to see me at all, didn’t know me. I felt the shivering of his body against my skin. White foam covered his lips.

“Gershon, what’s the matter?” I yelled. His eyes moved over my face indifferently. The whites of his eyes were turned red, shot through by a thick network of veins. His mouth was wide open, and a choked, bitter cry burst from his chest.

“They’re dying,” he cried. “All of them dying . . .” His eyes were shut tight.

“Who’s dying?” I shouted desperately, holding his shoulders with both hands and shaking his body with all my strength. “Answer me! Who’s dying?” He didn’t reply. But his weeping grew fainter, and his vacant eyes opened again. “What happened?” I asked again. He shook his head weakly.

“I’m going to die,” he wailed. “I’m going to die.” His face quivered, and his howl turned into a sob.

“Shut up!” I yelled at him, feeling his madness taking hold of me. “Shut up . . . shut up . . .” If only I could have shouted like him, cried, released all the weight of fear that pressed on me. But I couldn’t. Something inside me, stronger than I was, prevented me from doing this. Was it sanity that was stopping me? Or madness? I screamed at him in helpless anger: “Shut up! Shut up!”

But he didn’t stop crying. His sobs grew louder: “I’m going to die,” he wept, “to die . . .”

“You’ll die alright, if you don’t shut up,” I shrieked, at the end of my tether. Seen through my burning eyes, his head became a ball of human flesh that wouldn’t stop screaming.

“I’m going to die,” the red ball screamed. I put the barrel of my gun to his neck, in a murderous rage, and began pressing. His yells turned into a hoarse, broken rattle, which in turn became a strangled gargle. Spit and foam came from his mouth, and his voice died down.

What was I doing? I stopped pushing the barrel, in alarm. Gershon drew a little air into his lungs. A rasping groan and suppressed fit of coughing shook his chest. His eyes remained fixed on me. Then he turned over so that he was lying on his stomach, sobbing quietly to himself.

The shelling stopped. The thunder of the explosions grew fainter, but went on echoing across the hills. That was a bad omen. Soon the enemy infantry would start to attack. This interval was curiously relaxing: a sort of calm accompanied by a feeling that retribution was on the way. It hung in the air, like a cloud over my head. Soon it would burst on top of me.

The machine guns from the nearby hill began barking in measured anger, like a pack of mad dogs. A hail of whistling bullets slammed into the rocks. Their furious, monotonous whine cracked against my ears. I wriggled my body into as small a shape as possible and lay on the earth, clutching pieces of it in my hands. A terrible, dull, abysmal fear of losing my grip on the soil seized me. Because my face was squashed against the ground, I stared right at the slivers of stone scattered in front of me. They seemed to be getting bigger, longer, until they were as high as lofty mountains whose peaks were out of sight. I was tiny compared to them. I couldn’t climb them. My hands and feet turned to stone. Heavy lead had engulfed them.

The machine guns were silent now. My senses started coming back, and my staccato breathing grew a little steadier. Weak, crowded voices flowed in from afar, as if they came from the bowels of the earth. They grew louder and became an angry uproar: the enemy’s battle sounds. Whistles blew, and voices shouted guttural cries of encouragement. The voices came closer. They were climbing the slope. Through the mist it was hard to see what was happening. All I could make out was the blurred shape of the sun, enveloped in clouds of smoke. The commotion grew louder, and the sound of a new kind of shot joined in: the chatter of machine guns firing single volleys. The sense of approaching danger wouldn’t let me stay there. I had to see what was happening. I glanced at Gershon. He was breathing heavily. I shook him firmly.

“Try to get to the first-aid station,” I shouted in his ear. His face still showed no expression. I pushed him with my foot to get him moving, and then I started crawling forward. I turned my head toward him for a last look. He began crawling on all fours, like a robot set in motion, toward the rock outside the smoke.

I straightened up and peered over the rock carefully. I could see down the slope. Figures . . . shapes . . . movement . . . Two lines of soldiers pushed upward relentlessly, checkered keffiyehs flapping around their heads in the wind. My heart beat faster as I watched the crouching figures and the way their bent knees rose and fell. The hundred meters that separated us didn’t prevent me from sensing the heavy rhythm of their breathing. They panted through their gaping mouths and screamed with all the strength of their lungs as they fired off shots from the machine guns and rifles held next to their hips. A cloud of dust, the dust from the rocks chipped by the hail of bullets, moved in front of them.

They were coming closer, a broad chain of soldiers surrounding the hill on three sides. I could see the expressions on their faces quite clearly; fatigue, anger, and hatred etched in them. Or was it only a mirage? For a moment I was tempted to think so. I closed my eyes . . . a babel of cries, the roar of shots . . . my eyes opened again. I couldn’t take my eyes off the black muzzles of the guns held in their hands. They frightened me. So black and deep . . . One of the dark circles came up to me rapidly, growing and expanding until it looked like the angry mouth of a volcano, which omitted fire and smoke. The thunder of the machine guns made my whole body shudder and transfixed me to the spot. My heart beat crazily until I felt my arteries were going to burst. What was the matter with me? Fear? I didn’t know. Nausea seized me. My stomach turned over, my head was thudding, my temples were about to burst.

I gripped my machine gun weakly. I had to do something . . . I had to act . . . to do something . . . to move . . . To rid myself of the paralysis that was seeping through me . . . To shoot! I had to shoot at the enemy, although I didn’t have much of a chance of getting away with it. But I had to try!

But why weren’t our guns firing? I glanced to my right, at the low stone outpost next to the poplar tree. The stones at the lip were chipped. Nothing left of the place. I could only see part of a machine gun. It lay upside down between the slivers of stone that nearly covered it. What about the men in the outpost? I screwed up my eyes and straightened up to get a better look. Bullets whistled above me, but I hardly heard them. What about the men in the post—Yosef, Hayim, and Sasson? Were they alright? The case of ammunition lay on its side. Sasson’s powerful body leaned against it, motionless. I couldn’t see his face. His head lay inside the box. He was dead alright. Like the rest of them. Next to him lay Hayim, flat on his back, his hands held out to the sides as if he was trying to say, “What more could I do?”

Movement. Something was moving on the heap of stones. A figure emerged from behind the fallen heap. Yosef moved about, his one hand groping in the air, trying to find a way out. His other hand was clasped over his eyes. “Orderly! Orderly!” he cried out as he crept up the slope of the hill. He might be able to reach the first-aid station near the road. Might make it . . .

They were coming closer. Their shoes clattered over the stones. This is how the hangman’s steps sound to the condemned. A giant foot in a hobnailed boot with long, shining iron spikes moved toward me. The boot was coming down, coming down on my writhing body, crushing me. The iron spikes sank deep into my flesh. A cold chill passed through me, the chill of living flesh crushed by cold, sharp steel. What a horrible feeling.

I leaped wildly in the direction of the post, with its abandoned machine gun. The ground around me shook with bullets, which buzzed like a swarm of troublesome wasps. I went on running. That was the only chance of escaping from the ring of soldiers closing in on me: to move on. I couldn’t stop. I rushed toward the post and banged into it, falling so hard that I pushed aside Hayim’s still body. I pulled the machine gun madly out of the pile of shattered stones that almost covered it. I pulled it out and cradled it in my arms. The chill of the wooden barrel, which I put next to my cheek, encouraged me: its pleasant touch gave me strength and hope. I hugged the machine gun, feeling my pulse beat against its iron body. I held it longingly, clinging tightly and trying to merge with it, to make it part of me.

The machine gun’s barrel rose. My hands had lifted it. It was almost as if they had gained independent life and will and were acting separately from the other parts of my body, which were drawn to the ground and clung to it. My right hand held the handle of the gun, and my finger squeezed the steel trigger. It made me feel better. The machine gun barked. Its butt made my shoulder shudder. Tongues of flame and smoke flickered from the jerking mouth. On the other side of the gun sights, I could see the astonished faces of the enemy soldiers spread out in front of me. They dropped to the ground quickly and took shelter. The machine gun rattled on. I fired at every hillock and bush, my senses reeling. Fired for all I was worth. The field was empty. Nobody there. They’d all gone into hiding. Only the officers’ voices went on echoing.

The machine gun stopped firing: the magazine was used up. I reached my hand to the case of ammunition lying on its side. My palm snaked into it and froze on the spot. The case was empty. No ammunition. That was the end. The stones in front of me suddenly became as tall as the soldiers who pushed forward with cries of triumph, which turned into a deep wail. My eyes were fixed on the enemy soldiers. Their strained faces hunted my gaze. Swarthy and bathed in gleaming sweat. Their mouths opened in a yell, which bared their white teeth.

The awareness of my coming end made every movement of theirs seem slower, as if they were crawling. It might only have been the effect of the burning sun shining in my eyes. The heat . . . the heat . . . The burning machine gun, which I still held, was radiating some of its heat. The stones I lay on burned like coals. Fatigue seized me, dulling my senses like a drug, dulling the pain and sorrow of leaving life. In reconciling myself to this, I felt no regret or despair, just acceptance of my fate. At this moment a sudden inner urge dominated me. Hurriedly I collected the hand grenades from the belts of the dead men next to me. I pulled out their pins frantically and threw the grenades at the enemy.

The grenades I threw exploded. The attacking enemy soldiers were swallowed up behind the stones once more. But they kept up their guttural cries: whispering voices, the groans of wounded men, and loud shouts of command. They were fixed to the ground, not moving. I felt a sudden twinge of contempt for them. What were they waiting for? Why were they delaying the end? But as long as I had a breath of life left in my body, there was only one thing I wanted. I had always cowered at the touch of iron. Even as a boy I hated the touch of metal against my skin. It made me shudder. When two pieces of iron were scraped against one another, it annoyed me and gave me gooseflesh. That’s all I asked for: could I die now, without feeling the iron touch me, without the hated metal tearing my flesh?

Of the four grenades I had collected, there was only one left. I looked at it affectionately. My whole world was concentrated in this small round lump of iron. My fingers closed on it, held it tightly. I brought it up close to my eyes, next to my burning face. The iron squares on the outer casing looked like a crossword puzzle. A puzzle whose answer was life or death. At that moment an idea flashed into my head: killing myself. The grenade, my last friend in the outpost, would help me carry out this last wish. Suddenly its touch became soft and relaxing. No, it wasn’t made of metal. It was gentle and soft. This idea appealed to me so much that I felt I was going to break into a shout of joy, like a mischievous child. They wouldn’t have the pleasure of killing me. No, I’d spoil that for them. I began pulling the pin out, and relaxed my tense grip.

Suddenly, a shock aroused my whole body, a hidden memory came to light in me, flowed inside me, made me tense and alert. My hand clenched the grenade once more, and my fingers stroked its bulging shape. A spark of life. Why should I die? There was a bag full of hand grenades in the little stone post on top of the hill, about twenty paces away. I sprinted there, jumping over the rocks and thorn bushes. The bullets whizzed around me. The stubborn chatter of the machine guns had a dry, cruel twang. I rushed forward, throwing myself with all my strength onto the stones in front of me.

I slid forward on the jagged stones, until stopped by a large rock that blocked my path. I went on crawling. My hand was cut and my face scratched and bruised. The rough ground cut my nose and lips. My hands and knees were sticky with blood. My palm was still clenched around the grenade, but I went on dragging myself toward my goal. Every movement of my body seemed to last for hours. How much longer would I have to drag myself? The ten strides that still lay ahead seemed like a long trek, endless . . .

My ears were blocked, and I couldn’t hear the sounds of the explosions. All I could hear was my labored breathing. In front of me was a winding passage surrounded by stones piled high. I crawled inside it. It was so narrow that I felt my breath coming back at me from the walls. A rush of hot, damp air struck me in the face, like a summer wind. I lifted my head quickly. Two frightened black eyes were fixed on me. An enemy soldier!

The contact of our eyes was enough for me to take in every tremor of his face. The wide-open eyes that stared at me were afraid and taken by surprise. It’s strange how quickly one’s thoughts work. He aroused a feeling of pity in me. Was it because I had already reconciled myself to my fate, that I could allow myself so much compassion toward him? Had despair driven the fear out of me? He was young, about my age. Perhaps a few years older. I was sorry for him. Was he a fellah, a villager? It looked like it. His skin was swarthy, his white teeth gleamed healthily. No, they were not as healthy as I had at first thought. Spots of black rot showed in his two front teeth. I could also make out a crown of shining gold in the back of his mouth. Perhaps he wasn’t a fellah after all?

Our glances broke away from one another. I had to carry on! Each of us would fight for his life. That is the rule of war. I felt no hatred for him and would have preferred him to just disappear, to run away. But he was in my way, and I had to destroy him. Suddenly he vanished from my sight—but not from my senses. I knew exactly where he was. He had retreated to the other side of the rock. I had no doubt that he was aiming his gun at the passage at this very moment. He was waiting for me to walk into his trap.

I clambered lightly over the rock, and from there, I sprang to the other side with a sudden leap. I threw myself with all my might onto the place where he was probably hiding. While I was still falling through the air, I saw him pressed against the side of the rock. He was squatting on his knees and elbows, his gun aimed at the passage as I had guessed. I fell onto his back. One of my hands was stretched out to push away the submachine gun that he turned toward me. The other hand, which still held the grenade, came down on the back of his neck with terrific force. The grenade acted like a club. A heavy, dull crunch, like a nut being cracked open, mingled with a choked groan of pain: “Aaahhh.” The gun fell out of the soldier’s hands, and he fell, face downward. A violent twitch pulled his head down between his shoulders. I went on beating his head with the grenade, as hard as I could. After every blow, he gave a choked rattle. Jets of warm blood spurted over my face and hands. I continued smashing the grenade down on his skull with uncontrollable anger. I was half-mad by that time. My clothes were red with his blood. They soaked through with it. He tried to move, with the last drop of his strength, to stretch his hand out toward the gun that lay in front of him. But a crushing blow to his skull put an end to that.

The grenade in my hand was red. Blood dripped from it. The warm touch of the blood made me even more insane. Without knowing why, I pulled the pin of the grenade. A click. The wick lit up with a hiss. Four seconds left until the explosion, but it seemed as if hours went by without the grenade going off. I lost all sense of time. His blood-spattered head hung in front of my eyes. He was my enemy and had wanted to kill me. Here was his gun, which he had aimed at me. But I had gotten him first. His friends weren’t very far away. They were out for my blood. I heard the rustle of their approaching steps, steps coming closer.

The grenade . . . I threw it at the soldiers creeping toward me, threw as hard as I could. It exploded in the air with a sharp, strident blast, like a giant whip cracked over the hills, followed by an angry clap of thunder that echoed around the valley. Cries of pain from behind the rocks. The splinters of the grenade must have hit them. I had to get to the bag of grenades. On a sudden impulse, I picked up the machine gun that was lying on the ground, and rose to my feet, firing in all directions, firing and yelling with all the strength of my lungs. I ran along like this, shooting and shouting furiously, until I ran into the stone fence. I stumbled over it and rolled over into the outpost beyond it. The gun fell out of my hands and struck me on the head.

Dizziness. Black and red circles whirled and galloped before my eyes. Their orbits grew smaller, until they stopped spinning altogether, and the great metallic dome of the sky showed again above my stinging eyes. It wasn't over yet. I looked around me. The post. The bag of grenades lay on its side, propped against the fallen wall of stone. I stretched out my hand to the bag, and the grenades spilled out, striking the ground with a heavy, muffled sound.

Automatically, I took hold of the first grenade my hand touched. I pulled the pin out and threw it over the wall. I went on throwing the grenades, picking them up from the ground and tossing them feverishly, one after the other. Through the boom of the detonations, I heard broken cries. I didn’t know what they were. Were they human voices? A sudden movement near a thorn bush a few yards away brought me to my knees. I kept my eyes on the bush. It moved, and I threw a grenade at it. As the grenade spun toward it and my arm came down again, two soldiers peered out from between the thorns. I could see them crouching there, like taut springs. But I could also see the black muzzles of the guns in their hands, pointed straight at me. I threw myself backward and pulled my head down.

A white, clear light flashed in the muzzle, a quick, light flash, like the flame of a candle flickering in the wind. Then sharp and terrible lightning struck me, struck me like a raging storm, and a crushing, howling wind burst over me. A mighty blow shook my whole body. I was thrown backward, blinded. Darkness, a deep blackness in whose vast space flickers of flame spat, showering sparks over me. They fell on me, exploding on my head.

I couldn’t breathe. My lungs were clenched in a painful vise. I struggled to take in a little air, but couldn’t shake free. A gust of heat began spreading through my chest and blowing through my body, my arteries, spreading like a licking flame. I felt hot spouts of blood filling the hollows of my chest and belly, rising up to my gasping throat, my blocked nose. I kept trying to breathe, to suck in some air, to wriggle out of the ring of suffocation pressing on my throat and lungs. But I couldn’t get any. Blood and spit spurted from my mouth.

My head hung to one side, humming and buzzing spasmodically. A grating noise pounded in my ears like a rusty saw, and drops fell softly somewhere in my bursting skull. Drums roared against my temples—loud drums. They swelled up into a crescendo. I pressed my burning cheeks against the sunbaked stones. I felt their cool, smooth surface. My lips quivered in longing for a little moisture. I held them against the stones, which still held some of the spit and blood I had vomited up. I sucked the wet stones thirstily. They gave me a few minutes of chill relief. But soon their cool touch became a feeling of burning fire. The fire of thirst.

Thirst . . . I was boiling all over. A bellows blew in my veins, blowing heat and flame. My tongue burned, my parched palate was on fire. My throat was choked by the mixture of spit and salty blood. The darkness that covered my eyes gradually lifted. Its place was taken by the dim image of the sun. I could feel its warmth through my closed eyes. It came closer and closer to me, a ball of fire—turning and boiling, swirling and blazing—until it became a huge purple spider, which put its white-hot hands on me, clasped my shrinking body, and vomited a sea of molten lava into me. I was burning, scorching! All the moisture in my body had gone. In another minute my flesh would burst, like land tormented by drought. “Water! Water!” But my voice choked and faded away. My dry lips moved up and down, but I couldn’t make a sound.

Agonizing pains squeezed my chest. A bayonet of white-hot steel pierced my lungs, twisting cruelly in the wound. And then dozens of sharp knives stuck into me, cutting my living, quivering flesh—cutting, twisting, and tearing. With the last of my strength, I tried to escape the sharp points. But I couldn’t. They cut me angrily, devoured my flesh. Devoured me limb by limb . . .

Tired. No strength left. My chest and lungs swelled up with the blood that flooded them. My hands were weak and soft. My heart beat slowly. The arteries were empty: the streams of burning blood had flowed out. A drowsy fatigue enveloped me, and I felt myself falling asleep, sinking into a redeeming slumber. I knew that I was going to die. Soon I wouldn’t feel anything. I sank quietly into a dark, cool cave. Fell down and down. My head felt dizzy. Everything was dark and black. Only one small spot of light glistened above my head. There was the mouth of the cave. But I was going far away . . . far away . . .

I was only eighteen, and already departing from life. Going . . . I saw the misty shapes of my mother and father. They approached me with hesitant steps. Their trembling hands were held out toward me. Their faces were lined with sorrow, and their backs bent with mourning. They pleaded: “Come back, son, come back!” They begged me. They were crying.

I continued falling and receding from them. I waved to them wearily, trying to say something to wipe away their tears. But I couldn’t. My voice had gone. I loved them, and wanted to comfort them. I was sorry for them. I was tired. I drew away from them and sank still further. Sank down . . . sank . . .

The single spot of light over my head had also gone. Complete darkness surrounded me. I could hear a weak, soft wail somewhere. A long wail, the sound of a trumpet. A wailing trumpet.

Everything was blurred. All falling to pieces. The darkness lost its black color and became hollow. It wiped everything out, this darkness. But the shadows were stronger than it. Figures came out of the dark mist, blurred figures. Quivering clouds reminded me of something. But what? Who?

Who was I?

The events of my life flashed in front of me with giddy speed: faces, like the reflection of a small, laughing boy. His black hair waved in the strong, wailing wind. The trumpet moaned. His blue eyes laughed.

The images changed. Came and hurried on. A boy in his teens. A smile of compassion playing at the corners of his mouth. Everything was going around and around. Faces of people in the whirlpool . . . people . . . human beings . . . my own face.

What was I doing here? . . . The war . . . the war . . .

The visions chased one another. Everything was happening so quickly. The war . . .