A stray explosive round fell short and pounded the riverbank behind them, sending a large piece of the nose and fuse through the parapet ahead of them in a shower of stone and cement dust.
They stepped up their pace to get clear of the exposed position as quickly as possible, breaking into a run when two more shells followed, impacting on the wreck of a railway bridge alongside, cutting the last ribbons of rail with which it connected both banks.
Too late Revell saw the wire and grabbed for Andrea to stop her. There was no time to dive for cover, all he could do was lunge forward to try to shield her with his body.
A brilliant flash blotted out their vision as a vividly bright fireball blossomed on top of the parapet. Revell felt himself being lifted and the thought flew through his mind that he was being blown over the side of the bridge, into the poisonous depths of the Elbe, then he struck the other parapet, and everything went black.
He didn’t hurt, not badly. There was a violent buzzing inside his head and his body felt like it had spent a whole day being tossed about inside a cement mixer, but there didn’t seem to be anything broken.
Opening his eyes, or trying to, transformed the buzzing to an agonising ringing. All he could see was a white mist, and he risked the pain he knew it would bring to shake his head to try to clear it.
Gradually the pain subsided to a pounding ache, and he tried again. Through a milky haze, blurred vision began to return. As it did, the first thing he made out was the group of men standing close by. Visible only in outline he could see the silhouettes of Russian helmets, and at the same moment he saw that Andrea was hemmed in by the group, and had been disarmed. One of the men was reaching towards her…
SEVEN
Through the lenses of spectacles that appeared to be half an inch thick, the old man scrutinised their identity cards. Although he held them up close to his face, he still kept a tight grip on the sub-machine gun.
‘I can see why they gave him a short-range weapon. He can’t see far enough to use a rifle.’
If the old man’s sight wasn’t perfect, his hearing was in no way impaired, and he glanced from the pieces of card to scrunch his wrinkled features and glare at the major.
‘We may not be young,’ he indicated the other oldsters who made up the bridge defence group, ‘but we can still teach you something about war.’ He pointed to a mound of artificially arranged rubble. ‘There are six Communist assault engineers in there. We taught them about war; and you, how did you like your flying lesson?’
The memory of the booby-trap blast grenade was too recent, and its aftermath too much still with him for Revell to say anything. He caught the card flicked back at him, and as he fumbled to catch it, noticed the old man carefully hand Andrea hers, and give her hand a squeeze as he did. ‘How do we rejoin our unit?’ Holding on to Andrea’s hand, the old man very deliberately took a long time before answering Revell. ‘You do not. We have no time for such niceties. You report to the Office of Reserve Manpower. It is on Adolphsplatz, near the stock exchange. Go by the shortest route. If you bump into your unit on the way then it is your lucky day, if not…’ He shrugged. ‘Have you eaten?’ ‘No.’ Revell was surprised by the sudden concern. ‘Then you had best get a move on. They only serve one meal a day there, in thirty minutes.’
‘Thanks.’ Revell’s assault shotgun had been retrieved by a member of the senior citizen’s equally ancient squad, now the old man who held it reluctantly handed it over.
As they made to leave, the major felt a hand on his arm. It was the oldster with the sub-machine gun. ‘You are one of those who came up the river?’ ‘Yes.’
‘I hear there were not many of you, only a handful of tanks and a few supplies.’
Revell thought of all the casualties they’d taken on the way, but he said nothing about that. ‘We’re just an advance guard, there’ll be a lot more coming.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I do not think so. Until now the Russians were expecting an attempt by land, or even by air. Now they know better and will not let it happen again. We have been fighting them a long time, we know what they are like. They live in fear, for your success some of them will die, others will not let you jeopardise their lives. No more convoys will get through. The Communists will die fighting rather than be tortured and executed by the KGB for not having tried hard enough.’
Gnarled hands enclosed his, and Revell saw tears in the oldster’s eyes.
‘We have done all we can, we thought others would now take the burden but we see that we must finish the task ourselves. But thank you for trying. Thank you.’
He went back to help his squad rig a fresh trip wire and replace the blast bomb. His step was unsteady and the weapon and spare magazines seemed to weigh him down.
Like the Englishman down the sewer, Revell recognised a man who was near the limit of his endurance. It was a miracle the old boy had survived this long. Many half his age must have succumbed to disease, or cracked under the nervous strain. Revell was learning a lot about Hamburg, but he was learning a lot more about its people.
‘I’ve no idea where they are.’
The clerk spoke very loudly when he answered Revell’s question about where his unit might be. He was about to leave the table when the clerk leant forward and whispered.
‘Couldn’t say anything while others were listening, it’s bad for morale. I did hear something. The colonel’s fire-brigade took a lot of casualties in a scrap with some Commie tanks. Seems the Reds sent a weak force forward to draw the fire, then sent in a full squadron. Must have been a real rough-house. The count was four T72s brewed up and a couple more disabled. Sorry though, no idea where the colonel is now. You’ll just have to go wherever you’re wanted now.’
Revell rejoined Andrea sitting against the wall halfway along the platform. The underground station was packed. Every inch of space, even between the tracks, was occupied by people sleeping or queuing or gathered in small groups to talk or play cards. A few, those lucky enough to be near one of the few low power bulbs, were reading.
A cross section of humanity was there. All types, all classes were represented. In one corner a passionate young man was earnestly talking to anyone he could get to listen. He was being watched by a pair of middle-aged civilian police officers, who began to sidle closer as the youth tried to press leaflets upon unwilling people who had not been as oblivious to the presence of the officers.
In the queue waiting for new passes stood an elderly couple who had known better times. They tried, unsuccessfully, to distance themselves from those about them, holding their Antler luggage tight and making withering looks at anybody who brushed past or knocked against them.
From an alcove at the extreme end of the platform came a bellow of raucous laughter. A group of Turks were trying unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous. They were a small remnant of the mass of immigrant workers who had mostly returned home at the outbreak of war. Those who remained were the ones too poor to make the journey back to their homeland, or those wanted there by the police or draft boards, or who were engaged in some illegal racket so lucrative, like drugs, that they had been unwilling to pull out until the last moment, and then had left it too late.
Now they huddled close together in the recess, shushing each other to silence as they forgot their purpose for a moment and laughed too loud at a joke, or celebrated a winning hand too noisily.
The people they were avoiding were the armed men and women wearing blue armbands, who roamed through the crowds selecting those they needed for various tasks.
Somewhere among the throng a baby began to cry. There were few children on the platform and everyone stiffened at the sound and all conversation ceased immediately. It was as if the people’s nerves were so finely tuned, stretched so far, that if the jarring noise went on a moment too long they would snap.