Belov hears the crack of his gun as Markov grips the trigger. He also hears a hammering blow at the front of their gun pit. He is stunned by the explosion and cannot see anything through the storm of earth, smoke, and fire swirling around him. He is aware of whispering shards of shrapnel flying all about, tugging at the sleeves of his tunic. The pain is minimal compared to his anger. “Have we been killed just when we were making a difference?” he wonders.
As the smoke clears, he sees blood on his arms but nothing more. He is only lightly wounded. He looks up at the grimy face of Popov, with the grin of a village idiot on his face. The man is untouched – “perhaps there is a God who watches over small children and idiots,” he thinks to himself.
“Corporal, look!” shouts Markov. He is pointing in the distance where a plume of smoke is rising.
Instinctively the glasses snap to his eyes as Belov takes in the scene on the ridge. The fascists are leaping from their tank – a clear kill. Smoke is pouring from the hatches of the destroyed vehicle.
“Six hundred or more meters, Corporal,” shouts Markov. He is bleeding from the forehead over his eye but the gun shield has protected him from anything serious. He is already looking for another target.
Belov has no retort to this. He snorts as he tries to think of something clever, but his mind is still reeling from the explosion. He notices the other loader, Grenko, cowering behind a crate of shells.
“Move it, you stupid cow,” he shouts at Grenko as Popov dashes for more shells. “How many near misses will they get?” he wonders, wincing at the aggravating pain coming from his bleeding arms.
