Kransky was sensible enough to dive for the cover behind the wall once more as the out of control chopper reeled sideways and slid into the ground a few hundred metres away near a small pond, exploding in a massive fireball and spraying debris in every direction.
“Nice shootin’, Tex…!” Thorne complimented nervously, peering over the wall at the flaming wreckage with eyes widened by fear and tension but nevertheless a little calmer now he’d had a moment to think.
“Those armour-piercing slugs sure as hell work,” the American observed, deadpan but inwardly impressed all the same, while Ritter remained utterly speechless and regarded the sniper with a stare that was teetering between awe and abject fear.
“Good as they are, I think we’re gonna need something a bit bigger!” Thorne’s tone suddenly turned sour as he stared beyond the burning wreck and caught sight of four Panther tanks advancing across the fields from the east, followed by more armoured vehicles of various types. “We’ve got some company… come on!”
They rose to their feet once more, vaulting the wall and heading for the town, the nearest buildings less than two hundred metres away. Several of the tanks and Nashorn assault guns spotted the fleeing men still running past around them, and opened up with their main armament, landing 88mm and 150mm high explosive shells nearby and spraying the area with machine gun fire.
Two shells fell close as they ran on, forcing them to duck instinctively and swerve from their original path, and a few precious and important seconds passed before Thorne, almost at the cover of the nearest houses, glanced over his shoulder and realised Ritter was no longer following. He called a warning to Kransky, who was barely in the lead, and both men halted for a few seconds as they caught sight of the pilot rolling around on the ground a hundred metres back, obviously in some difficulty. Thorne realised he needed to make a decision, and he did so instantly.
“Keep going!” He shouted, turning back to Kransky. “Get out of here and find somewhere safe… I’ll take care of Carl!” He could see indecision in the American’s eyes as he hesitated for several seconds, and Thorne screamed “Go…!” The bellowed order finally broke the man from his stasis, and with a single, meaningful nod, Richard Kransky turned and continued running, quickly disappearing from sight as shells kept falling and smoke swept across the fields ahead of a light breeze.
“Not very bad, Max,” Carl Ritter hissed through clenched teeth as the Australian reached him and dropped to his knees in the middle of the field, “but I fear it’s bad enough.” He gasped in outright agony as Thorne examined the wound in his right thigh, the pants leg of the man’s flying suit soaked in blood.
“Looks like rifle calibre… machine gun probably,” the Hindsight CO ventured with a grimace, feeling his stomach lurch at the sight of his friend’s leg. “In one side and out the other at least…” The point of entry was little more than a tiny hole beneath the blood-stained material of Ritter’s pants, however the exit wound was large and ragged, and the man was losing a lot of blood. Thorne reached inside his coat and pulled out the white flag he’d been saving, tearing off a large section of it for use as a tourniquet. “Lucky it wasn’t a fifty-cal I guess… there’d be no bloody leg left then…”
“Very… reassuring… Mein Herr…” Ritter gasped, gripping at Thorne’s arm as the man started to wrap the fabric firmly around his leg above the wound. “This will be of much comfort for me when I’m regaling the new recruits with my exploits as a British spy!”
“I don’t know that things required quite so much sarcasm,” Thorne shot back, the attempt at humour as much to steel his own nerves as to relax Ritter.
“I should be happy to exchange places, if you think me so ‘fortunate’…” The pilot countered, managing a strained laugh despite the severity of the situation. “Scheisse…! I’d clearly forgotten how painful it is to be shot! I think I shan’t forget a second time!”
“You think you can move, mate?” Thorne queried darkly, glancing quickly around and realising they were now almost alone in that open field, and that the enemy was now much closer. The German shelling had swept past them at pace with the general retreat, and they were in a relatively ‘safe’ zone in the middle ground between the two groups, although shells and bullets were constantly howling overhead, almost exclusively in a westerly direction. Ritter made one attempt at rising and collapsed instantly, crying out in agony again.
“It seems the answer is ‘no’,” he managed, finally. “Perhaps not a bad thing in any case… I’m expected to get back to my own lines, after all. Leave me here, and they’ll pick me up as they advance.”
“They way things are right now, there’s a better than average chance they’ll just shoot you and roll on past…” Thorne shook his head emphatically. “There’s no way I’m going to leave you like this… no fucking way!”
“It’s much more important you get to safety!” Ritter argued in return, fumbling with the zip of his combat jacket before shrugging it awkwardly off and letting it fall, exposing his Luftwaffe flying suit and insignia. “Leave me that white flag and get out of here!”
“This isn’t bloody right,” the Australian said lamely, and Ritter could clearly see that stress was beginning to cloud Thorne’s reason and logic. “This is not bloody right!”
“Go… go now!” The pilot snarled angrily, in German this time, with the tone of an enraged commanding officer. “Get your arse out of here!” The strategy worked as he’d hoped: the attempt at ‘pulling rank’ was convincing enough in his native tongue to shake the man from his mental block and bring him back to reality.
“You take bloody care of yourself, Carl,” Thorne stated finally, stuffing the ragged, white material into the man’s left fist before reaching out with his own and grasping Ritter’s right hand firmly. “You be bloody careful! I was never that religious, mate,” he continued, and Ritter thought he almost saw tears in the man’s eyes, “but I hope God goes with you in this… if he is up there, you’ll need his help.”
“You also, Max Thorne… God be with you also!”
And with that the Australian was gone, once more keeping low and heading for the outskirts of the village and something resembling decent cover. Ritter dug his battered flying helmet from the folds of the discarded combat jacket, wincing in agony throughout, and jammed it tightly on his head. He lifted the flap of the holster at his belt, but didn’t draw the Luger… he didn’t wish to give a jumpy tank gunner or grenadier any excuse to shoot him before he’d identified himself. The nearest tanks were just a hundred metres away now, advancing at a steady pace with walking infantry on either side: it appeared the armoured push had slowed somewhat and had perhaps become a little overextended, although firing was still going on further south. He clutched the white rag Thorne had given him and prepared to wave it high and clear, getting his story straight in his head as the panzers rolled toward him.