The tanks pulled out of the petrol station, formed into a column and headed towards Saur-Mogila. Grumpy lit a cigarette and suddenly let loose a cry of rage.

“You know she’s right,” said K.

“Sure! But so what? You know, I totted it up the other day. I’ve had fifty women. Even now, in the middle of a war, I could find another five of an evening without breaking a sweat. Especially in the middle of a war. I could fuck as much as I want, but instead I’ve latched onto this slag. I can’t even cheat on her, not properly. I only have to close my eyes, and it feels like she’s the one next to me in bed. Why is life so unfair? Those we love don’t love us back.”

“Comrade philosopher, please don’t smoke in the petrol station.”

Grumpy gave K. a look of exasperation and put out his cigarette in a sand-filled fire bucket.

“Happy?”

K. was no longer paying him notice. He looked up to the sky. Somewhere to the north, a black point was in freefall, tumbling through a scarf swag of clouds. It flew downward in a spiral, scattering fire and huge chunks of debris along its path.

K. looked at his watch. It read 1716 hours.

“Check it out,” said Grumpy, nudging him. “Looks like they got another Ukrainian jet.”

“Strange though. A lot of debris for a Sukhoi, no? Maybe a transport plane, like the one they got in Luhansk?”

They watched transfixed as the burning metal fell and disappeared over the horizon. A couple of minutes later, the radio crackled.

“Greek, this is Number Two. Greek, this is Number Two.”

“Copy.”

“Greek, one more bird shot down in the area of Torez. It’s fallen somewhere around the Petropavlovsky mine. Take a group out there. Capture the pilot if he bailed.”

“Copy, Number Two. Loud and clear.”

Silence for a minute, and the radio snapped into life again.

“Grumpy, this is Number Two.”

Grumpy unpinned the radio and pressed a button.

“Copy, Number Two.”

“Grumpy, you with Doc?”

“Yes sir.”

“Head over there with your kit.”

“Copy.” Grumpy lowered his radio. “Kolya!!”

“I heard,” groaned Nikolai. “So much for a quiet day.”

The trouble started right away at Torez. They had to weave through fields and around mine pits, through the occasional village and along sodden, bumpy roads. They saw smoke, but couldn’t work out their way there until Greek relayed the name of the village—“Hrabove. You’ll find it.”

“This is weird,” K. said as he watched the vast column of black smoke rising from the field behind the village. “Where is all this smoke coming from?”

“Maybe the grass caught fire?”

“No, look, the smoke is black. Maybe it fell on a house or farm?”

The radio crackled.

“Number Two to Greek. We’ve found our first two-hundred. Female. Civilian.”

Silence.

“What fucking civilian? Where’s the pilot?”