The road clouded with smoke and dust. K. ducked, ran down the street and counted: when there’s a shot, you have ten seconds to run as fast as you can, then drop down against a kerb or a wall. Explosion. Another shot, and you can run again.

A first aid kit dangled at his hip. Reaching the position, he jumped into the trench.

“Where did it hit?” he blurted to the soldier, trying to catch his breath.

The soldier shouted into the radio: “Sparta, this is Colosseum, we’re getting heavy fire.”

“Where did it hit?” K. asked again, tugging at the soldier’s sleeve.

“The first aid station, or the mortarmen”

K. swore, stuck his head out, looked around and crawled out of the trench.

“Where are you off to? Those were outgoing shots.” A hand grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back.

“Get off me.” K. pushed the hand away.

He jumped out of the trench, turned a corner and ran down the street.

Artillery salvos were flying in both directions now. Working out when to run and when to hide was impossible. A shell landed in the next street, K. was knocked down by the blast wave, shrapnel splashed onto the roofs, somewhere glass shattered. Lime dust and smoke hung in the air.

The mortarmen’s building stood intact and they feverishly fired shell after shell like men possessed. It reeked of burning. K. ran. The first-aid post was in flames. A shell had struck the corner of the building. The facade and roof had caved in. Heat and light blazed from the building. Dima sat breathing heavily with his back to the brick wall at the entrance to the cellar. Stout, sweaty and scared. His broad chest rose and fell, his body shivered. K. tried to shout over the noise of explosions and the crackle of fire.

“Where’s Kostya?”

K. checked Dima’s airways and his head for bleeding. He was severely shell-shocked. Blood rushed from his ears and nose. He touched the ground around himself.

“Kostya’s gone. Where’s my rifle? Give me my rifle.”

K. sat beside him and closed his eyes.

“Just a little bit more,” he told himself. “A little bit. And I’ll wake up.”

Chapter 14

He ate nothing on the day he died. He feebly but insistently pushed away the water-soaked bread. When I brought him the teapot full of water, he pursed his lips. I sipped the water and passed it to him mouth to mouth with a straw.

“Where are we going?” he whispered, weakly brushing me away, as though I were an annoying fly. “Why aren’t you coming with me? Why?”

“I’m going Dad. We’ll leave the city together.” I leaned in right next to his ear.

He didn’t answer.

A short break in the fighting ended as abruptly as it had begun. It had resumed with fresh urgency. Shelling started early, around six, stopping a couple of hours for lunch and resumed until the evening.

You didn’t come back.