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in trouble, in more than one way. His hands were full of the bacon sandwiches that were to be the breakfast of his officer and Sergeant, but they were now needed to prise his greatcoat away from the snagging barbed wire.
    His efforts were accompanied by the constant rattle of the old tins, all filled with pebbles, noisemakers that danced and announced his every movement.
    ‘ Sod it!’
    He moved backwards, reasoning that the barbs would give up their hold more easily.
    They held the greatcoat fast until, in an instant, they relinquished their hold and the wire twanged back into place.
    The nearest tin taunted him with its audible warning.
    A voice boomed out
    “Who goes there?”
    “The OP’s soddin’ bacon butties... now shut the fuck up!”
    Hardly text book but it had the desired effect. No Russian could have managed it and the owner of the voice knew the early routine. He already had his sandwich in  his belly.
    White resumed the crouching advance and found the foxhole.
    That was pretty much all he found.
    No radio, no maps, no Ames.
    Just Gray.
    Gray was already cold and stiff, his throat cut from ear to ear.
    “ Stand to! Stand to!”
     

    Courage is doing what you are afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you are scared.
    Eddie Rickenbacker

Chapter 104 - THE FEAR
     
0435 hrs, Sunday, 4th November 1945, Frontline position, 400 metres north of Hinteregg, Austria.
 
    Up and down the Allied lines, soldiers were woken from their slumbers by cries of alarm, as Soviet raiders visited trenches and bunkers in search of intelligence and prisoners.
    Many men simply disappeared into the freezing night, others died at their posts. Yet others were fortunate enough to see or hear the threat before they were overcome, turning the tables on their would-be kidnappers.
    Nervous sentries called their units to arms and equally nervous officers filled the sky with magnesium light, or called down artillery to deal with a supposed enemy attack.
    Artillery and mortars exchanged their shells and bombs, as ranging shots, then battery, then counter-battery fire escalated the long-range exchange. And then it stopped, as quickly as it had erupted.
    Whatever happened, few men on either side of the divide slept that rest of that night.
     
     
    Private First Class Frederick Lincoln Leander, the worst soldier in his platoon , bar none, reluctantly rose up from the bottom of his position, unable to ignore the urgent whispers of the other occupant.
    He looked around with an inexperienced eye.
    Nothing.
    “Oh Lordy, it’s cold.”
    “ Can it.”
    “ Sorry, Sarge.”
    “ I said fucking can it, Contraband!”
    S ilence had descended again, except for the gentle patter of fresh snow falling... and the heavy breathing of the terrified.
    The sound of artillery was gone, its intrusion brief, but intense. Its flashes and bangs had added to the decidedly threatening atmosphere, illustrating trees long stripped of their shape, creating almost a gothic horror movie feeling to the frontline positions of the 92nd Colored Infantry Division.
    The occupants of th e shallow hole were not friends; far from it. Circumstances had brought together Sergeant Clay and Private First Class Leander and placed them in the foremost position of King Company, 3rd Battalion, 370th Infantry Regiment.
    Everywhere was white, something that had become a joke to the Buffalo soldiers of the 92nd Colored Infantry Division.
    A number of humorous discussions had taken place about the wiseness of using black soldiers in a white environment. The humour of it was soon lost after a few men were lost to sniper fire and a number of soldiers started to cover their faces with anything suitable, from flour pastes to white paint, which brought forth more humour.
    In the main, the men accepted their lot and coped with the increasingly bitter temperatures, but some found their prejudi ces either resurfacing or reinforced, as they perceived some intent on the part of their white