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and tracer tracks bite their way through the wilderness of cactus. I throw grenades. An Mpi blazes from behind a cactus stem. Screams are heard cutting through the noise, then a deathly silence comes down on the sun-blistered brush. Crickets continue their long drawn-out music.
    We stay down and wait.
    Heide rests the flame-thrower on a stone and sends a jet of flame hissing between the cactus trunks. A stench of burning oil hangs sickeningly on the sunwarmed air. Two living torches stumble out of the cactus forest, and roll about in agony on the path. They char slowly.
    ‘What in the name of the livin’God, was that?’asks Buffalo in astonishment.
    ‘Partisans,’ smiles Porta. ‘Something metal glinted or we’d ’ve had it, son.’There’s still some of the devil’s luck sticking to us. There are three Bulgarian soldiers amongst the dead partisans.
    ‘Seems as if our Balkan friends are dropping us,’ says the Old Man, pushing the barrel of his Mpi at the bodies.
    ‘I’ll slash your bleedin’throat open soon. I will, you black bleedin’Bible-thumper,’ roars Tiny, who has got into a row with the padre. He pushes him hard enough to make him fall over backwards and hit his head on a stump.:
    ‘Do you
have
to rough up a defenceless man?’the Old Man upbraids him.
    ‘An’why not?’answers Tiny, spitting on the padre. ‘Who taught me it! I
ask
you! The bleedin’army did, didn’they? You ever see a bleedin’private let ’is anger get the better of ’im with a bleedin’officer?
Did
you now?’
    ‘That’s too cheap an excuse,’ says Heide, didactically, suddenly taking the padre’s side. ‘Wolfgang Creutzfeldt, you are a nasty type. Always brutal, always coarse. You are not aligned with the spirit of our new Germany.’
    ‘Look after number bleedin’one,’ growls Tiny, kicking out after the padre. ‘Think I want to end up a captain in the Salvation bleedin’ Army?’
    ‘What’s the compass say?’the Old Man asks Stojko.
    ‘Forty-six, like you say, feldwebel. You not be mad I say you pick up arsepart, run fast!’
    ‘Let’s get on,’ decides the Old Man nervously. ‘Stojko at point.’
    ‘Jesus Christ,
turn your arse to the front, boy!
shouts Tiny, who is following immediately behind Stojko.
    They descend a long slope. Even the
500’s
do betterf now with their machetes. The slope is so steep that we have to dig in our heels hard.
    We reach a stretch of shale and have to use Gregor’s mountaineering rope. The Old Man gives us no rest until nightfall. Roll-call shows two men missing.
    The Old Man rages, asks for volunteers to go back and search for them. Nobody steps forward. Far behind us we can see rocket flares, and between us and the flares there are certainly partisans.
    The padre gets up and offers to go back alone after them.
    ‘No!’the Old Man turns his offer down, brusquely. ‘The partisans’d have got you before you’d gone far, and I don’t have to tell you what they do to parsons.’
    ‘God will help me. I am not afraid,’ answers the padre quietly.
    ‘God, God, God,’ sneers Tiny. ‘Better put your bleedin’trust in this little ol’ lullaby girl ’ere.’He pats his weapon. ‘Thempartisans don’t like
’er
a bit. A 42 in the ’and’s betterti God in ’is ‘eaven!’
    ‘Shall I go and look for them?’asks the padre, ignoring Tiny.
    ‘I said,
no
!’ decides the Old Man. ‘I don’t wish to be responsible for
you
getting yourself chopped to pieces.’He points to Unteroffizier Krüger from the DR’s. ‘Take two
500’s
with you. Make a search. Get back inside two hours with or without ’em.’
    ‘What the hell do
we
care about those jailbirds?’shouts Krüger, fear spreading across his face. ‘Why should we risk our lives for
them}
They might ’ve deserted to the partisans. Shits without shoulder-straps’d do anythin’.’
    ‘Shut up,’ the Old Man interrupts him, ’and get moving.’
    Krüger selects two
500’s
. He is snuffling with