coldly. It's a pinning shot, and then there is the femoral artery - Carefully he began to work the glove off his right hand.
He must roll on his side, and swing the long barrel of the P-4 through an arc of over ninety degrees, without making the least sound. Please, God, Mark asked silently, and began to make the move. Achingly slowly, the barrel of his rifle swung and, at the same time, he began to transfer his weight on to his other side It seemed to be a complete round of eternity before the P. I 4 pointed into the narrow gap below the oak trunk, and Mark was doubled up, straining to keep the barrel bearing from this unnatural position. He could not slip the safetycatch from the rifle before firing; even that tiny metallic snick would alert the German.
He curled his finger on the trigger, and took up the pull, feeling the dead lock of the safety mechanism. He aimed carefully, his head twisted awkwardly, and he began to push the safety-catch acrosswithhis thumb, while holding pressure on the hair trigger. it had to be done smoothly, so as not to pull his aim off the sliver of grey uniform cloth.
The thunder of the shot seemed to bounce against the low grey sky, and the bullet crashed through the tiny gap.
Mark saw the impact of it, the rubbery shock of metal into flesh.
He heard the German cry out, a wild sound without form or meaning, and Mark swept back the bolt of the P-4, and reloaded with instinctive dexterity. The next shot blended with the echo of the first, coming so close together that they seemed as one. The jacketed bullet crashed through the gap, and this time Mark saw blood spurt, a bright scarlet spray of it that splattered the snow, turning swiftly to pale pink as it was diluted by the melt of its own heat.
Then there was nothing in the gap, the Germ an had been thrown back by the impact, or had rolled aside. Only the smear of pink stained snow.
Mark waited, a fresh cartridge in the breach of the P. I 4, turned now to face the oak trunk, tensed for the next shot.
If it had not been a decisive wound, the German would be coming after him, and he was ready for the snap shot.
He felt coldly unemotional, but vitally aware, his every fibre and nerve pitched to its utmost, his vision sharp and bright and his hearing enhanced.
The silence drew out for a while longer, and then there was a sound. For a moment Mark did not recognize it, then it came again. The sound of a man sobbing.
It came stronger now, more hysterical, gut-racking. Ach, mein Gatt, mein Heber Gatt -'the man's voice, pitiful, broken. Dos Blut, ach Gatt, dos Blut. Suddenly the sound was tearing at Mark's soul, cutting deeply into his being. His hand began to shake, and he felt the tremor of his lips once again. He tried to clench his jaw, but now his teeth were chattering wildly. Stop it, oh God, stop it, he whispered, and the rifle fell from his hands. He pressed his mittened hands to his ears, trying to shut out the terrible sounds of the dying German. Please, please, Mark pleaded aloud. Stop it, please.
And the German seemed to hear him. Hill mir, Heber Gatt, dos Blut! His voice was broken by the wet helpless sounds of his despair.
Suddenly Mark was crawling forward, through the snow, blindly up the slope. I'm coming. It's all right, he muttered. Only stop it.
He felt his senses swaying.
Ach mein Heber Gatt, ach, meine Mutti. . . Oh Jesus, stop it. Stop it.
Mark dragged himself around the end of the oak log.
The German was half propped against the log. With both hands he was trying vainly to stem the fountain of bright pulsing arterial blood that flowed through his fumbling fingers, The two bullets had shattered both his hips, and the snow was a sodden mushy porridge of blood.
He turned his face to Mark, and already it was drained of all colour, a shiny greyish white, slick with a fine sheen of perspiration. The German was young, as young as Mark, but swiftly approaching death had smoothed out his features so he seemed younger still. It was the face of a marble angel, smooth and white, and strangely beautiful, with blue eyes in pale blue sockets, a burst of pale golden curls escaping from under the helmet on the smooth pale forehead.
He opened his mouth and said something that Mark did not understand, and the teeth were white and even, beyond the full pale lips.
Then, slowly, the German sagged back against the log still staring at Mark. His hands fell away from his groin and the regular pulsing spurt of blood from the shattered flesh slowed and shrivelled away. The pale blue eyes lost their feverish lustre, and dulled, no longer focused.
Mark felt a thread pull in the fabric of his mind, like silk beginning to tear. it was almost a physical thing, he could hear it beginning to give way inside him.
His vision wavered, the dead German's features seemed to run like melting wax, and then slowly reformed again.
Mark felt the tear widening, the silken veil of his reason ripping through; beyond it was a dark and echoing chasm.
The dead German's features went on reforming, until they hardened and Mark was looking into his own face as through a wavering distorted mirror. His own haunted face, the eyes golden brown and terrified, the mouth that was his mouth opened, and a cry came from it that was the despair and the agony of all the world.
The last shreds of Mark's reason whipped away on the tempest of horror, and he heard himself screaming, and felt his feet running under him, but there was only blackness in his head, and his body was light and without weight, like the body of a bird in flight.
The German machine-gunner cocked the Maxim with a single savage wrench on the crank handle, and traversed sharply left, at the same time depressing the thick waterjacketed barrel of the weapon until it pointed directly down the slope below the sand-bagged emplacement towards the British lines.
The single wildly running figure was angling away towards the left, and the gunner pulled the wooden butt of
