Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #22 January 2016 | Page 9

a crowbar. The pontoon shifts in the current, the
trucks bang together, rock apart. Crushed, Kosygyn
falls soundlessly between them.

undershirts, two pairs of trousers, my field shirt and
combat jacket and am still cold. Mitchell crouches
behind the MG240, hands wrapped in rags, Elsa
beside him, ready to feed the band, Suzi the spotter.

We pull him out, white-faced, wheezing
in pain. Binding his ribs we put him in one of the
trucks. He refuses morphine, whispering that if he is
awake the pain will keep him alive. Then he coughs
violently, retches up a gob of black blood and passes
out.

“Come on, you buggers,” Mitchell grumbles.
“Show us some action.”
There is a lull. One of the gun crew calls us
over for cocoa, brewed up in an old jerry can over
a kerosene fire. It is thick and sweet, tainted by fuel
fumes and hot, hot, hot. We take it in turns to go
over and gulp it down. It’s my turn and I scorch my
mouth, trying to drink it as hot as possible, wrapping
my fingers round the enamelled metal mug, steam
streaming from my mouth.

Day 200
We can hear the guns. It is dark, and we
huddle shivering in our sleeping bags, listening to
the nightly barrage. North of the river the plain is
dry and rocky. Good tank ground, but night-time
temperatures have been falling every day.

Far to the right an enemy salvo straddles the
line, then shells scream over our heads, impacting a
quarter mile behind us.

Kosygyn is little improved, in constant
pain, exhausted and unable to sleep. We are going
forward, there can be no evacuation, the wounded
must come with us as we race to reinforce the front
line. Earlier today I persuaded him to take a shot of
morphine and he managed a few hours fitful rest.
Now he’s awake, sitting up and drinking some soup.

“Incoming!” I hear Mitchell cry over by
the guns, and he opens up with the MG240, laying
down a standard thousand-yard suppression pattern,
each brief silence between the rapid bark of the gun
filled by the tinkle of empty cases onto the ground.

“You’re better for the sleep.” Elsa says.
She’s been nursing him with dedication, feeding and
even cleaning him.

“They’ve found our range,” the gun captain
cries. “Return fire.”

Kosygyn smiles at her. “I can’t even wipe
my own arse,” he tells me. “This angel should get a
medal.”
soon.”

I drop my cocoa and grab his sleeve. “Who
are they? Where are they from?”
He stares at me, wild-eyed, pointing at the
mountains. Then the barrage opens up and I cannot
hear his reply.

Elsa squeezes his hand. “You’ll be better

Day 201
I think I have gone deaf. We have been
deployed on the flanks of one of the artillery units,
a dozen ten-inch guns, and they have been firing all
night. Their crews have ear-defenders, but we do not
and are simply advised to keep our mouths open.
Gardiner is a mile behind the lines in the command
tent with three generals. We have been told nothing.
It is freezing cold, our clothing is completely
inadequate. I am wearing three pairs of socks, two

Day 250
Another night attack. In the morning we will
see the frozen corpses, blackened hands like claws.
Suzi and Rolf slip out of our warm and deep dugout
to scavenge for heavy boots, woollens and fleece
jackets. The enemy’s clothing is better than ours,
warmer and waterproofed.
Today is a special day for two reasons. First,
we have hot food for the first time in a week, a mash

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