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would get away with it.
    The Maybachs howl in top output, and the wire is drawn tight as a violin-string. After several attempts the logs begin to roll. We jump like madmen to avoid being crushed by them.
    A Russian MG sweeps the road with a short burst. Bullets ricochet, howling, from the steel sides of the tank. It sounds as if a group of drummers have suddenly run amuck on their instruments.
    We have almost finished clearing the road-block, and look forward to getting back to the safety of the tank when Heide gives a yell, and goes down into the ditch in one long spring. He slides like a bulldozer through the gruel of ice and water in its bottom.
    ‘Mines!’ he screams.
    I stand gaping, out on the road between two enormous logs, without understanding a word. I see a large grey-red box with Cyrillic lettering on it. A lever sticks up verticallyinto the air. The mine is armed and ready to explode. For a moment I am completely paralysed.
    Our tank is rolling backwards at full speed. Porta has obviously also seen the wicked piece of machinery which is waiting to spread death and destruction on all sides.
    Suddenly I am on my own in the middle of a tangle of great tree-trunks and wrecked trucks. I stare, as if hypnotized, at the flat grey-red instrument of death. Then I come alive again.
    ‘Mines!’ I yell, ‘mines!’ As if they didn’t know it. When the lead vehicle runs into mines, the news travels back fast.
    I throw myself face-down into a large, half-frozen puddle, and hardly notice the water running down into my felt boots. Soon it will turn to ice and my feet will begin to burn like fire.
    ‘God help me,’ I pray. ‘Help me! Don’t leave me to die here!’
    There is complete silence. Even the heavy Maxims have ceased firing. It seems as if the whole world has stopped dead. As if the war is holding its breath and waiting for the mine to go off.
    An eternity goes by, and still nothing happens. It should have exploded long ago. A count of five is usually enough. I have already counted to thirty-five.
    The turret hatch opens slowly, and the Old Man’s head appears.
    ‘Get off your arses, you weary warriors. Get rid of that mine.’
    ‘You must be off your rocker,’ Heide shouts back furiously. ‘You can see the bastard’s got delayed-action fuses.’
    ‘Shut up, and obey my order,’ shouts the Old Man, impatiently. ‘Get that thing out of our way, and I mean
now
. I don’t care if it’s got
ten
delayed-action fuses. I want it out of the way! D’you think they’ll stop the war just because you lot trip over a mine?’
    Porta peers cautiously through the driver’s observation slit.
    ‘What’re you playin’ at? Don’t you
want
to get your heroic names on the big porous stone in front of the barracks at Paderborn? Very big honour that is, let me tell you. A great, national reward!’
    I lift my head and take a look at the strange menacing thing. The lever points up in the air like a warning finger. I take a grip on the insulated pliers in my pocket, and ready myself to crawl over to the mine and dismantle it. It is at times like this that a man feels he never should have taken that bomb-disposal course.
    The next moment everything disappears in a roaring jet of flame. Pieces of logs whirl through the air and rain down everywhere. I am totally deaf for several minutes, and feel as if my insides have been squeezed by a giant hand. Two minutes later and there would not have been a shred of me left. But the road-block has gone.
    We jump up onto the tank as it comes rattling past.
    ‘Nice job you did, there,’ the Old Man praises us, with an approving smile. ‘Speed up, Porta, give it more gas. We’ve a long way to go yet!’
    ‘Yes, if it’s China we’re headed for that
is
a bit of a way off,’ grins-Porta, exuberantly.
    ‘China?’ mumbles Tiny, racking shells in the ammunition locker. ‘Ain’t that the place where they eat with sticks an’ fatten up on rice? Let’s get movin’. I can’t