like a nut being cracked open, mingled with a choked groan of pain: “Aaahhh.” The gun fell out of the soldier’s hands, and he fell, face downward. A violent twitch pulled his head down between his shoulders. I went on beating his head with the grenade, as hard as I could. After every blow, he gave a choked rattle. Jets of warm blood spurted over my face and hands. I continued smashing the grenade down on his skull with uncontrollable anger. I was half-mad by that time. My clothes were red with his blood. They soaked through with it. He tried to move, with the last drop of his strength, to stretch his hand out toward the gun that lay in front of him. But a crushing blow to his skull put an end to that.
The grenade in my hand was red. Blood dripped from it. The warm touch of the blood made me even more insane. Without knowing why, I pulled the pin of the grenade. A click. The wick lit up with a hiss. Four seconds left until the explosion, but it seemed as if hours went by without the grenade going off. I lost all sense of time. His blood-spattered head hung in front of my eyes. He was my enemy and had wanted to kill me. Here was his gun, which he had aimed at me. But I had gotten him first. His friends weren’t very far away. They were out for my blood. I heard the rustle of their approaching steps, steps coming closer.
The grenade . . . I threw it at the soldiers creeping toward me, threw as hard as I could. It exploded in the air with a sharp, strident blast, like a giant whip cracked over the hills, followed by an angry clap of thunder that echoed around the valley. Cries of pain from behind the rocks. The splinters of the grenade must have hit them. I had to get to the bag of grenades. On a sudden impulse, I picked up the machine gun that was lying on the ground, and rose to my feet, firing in all directions, firing and yelling with all the strength of my lungs. I ran along like this, shooting and shouting furiously, until I ran into the stone fence. I stumbled over it and rolled over into the outpost beyond it. The gun fell out of my hands and struck me on the head.
Dizziness. Black and red circles whirled and galloped before my eyes. Their orbits grew smaller, until they stopped spinning altogether, and the great metallic dome of the sky showed again above my stinging eyes. It wasn't over yet. I looked around me. The post. The bag of grenades lay on its side, propped against the fallen wall of stone. I stretched out my hand to the bag, and the grenades spilled out, striking the ground with a heavy, muffled sound.
Automatically, I took hold of the first grenade my hand touched. I pulled the pin out and threw it over the wall. I went on throwing the grenades, picking them up from the ground and tossing them feverishly, one after the other. Through the boom of the detonations, I heard broken cries. I didn’t know what they were. Were they human voices? A sudden movement near a thorn bush a few yards away brought me to my knees. I kept my eyes on the bush. It moved, and I threw a grenade at it. As the grenade spun toward it and my arm came down again, two soldiers peered out from between the thorns. I could see them crouching there, like taut springs. But I could also see the black muzzles of the guns in their hands, pointed straight at me. I threw myself backward and pulled my head down.
A white, clear light flashed in the muzzle, a quick, light flash, like the flame of a candle flickering in the wind. Then sharp and terrible lightning struck me, struck me like a raging storm, and a crushing, howling wind burst over me. A mighty blow shook my whole body. I was thrown backward, blinded. Darkness, a deep blackness in whose vast space flickers of flame spat, showering sparks over me. They fell on me, exploding on my head.
I couldn’t breathe. My lungs were clenched in a painful vise. I struggled to take in a little air, but couldn’t shake free. A gust of heat began spreading through my chest and blowing through my body, my arteries, spreading like a licking flame. I felt hot spouts of blood filling the hollows of my chest and belly, rising up to my gasping throat, my blocked nose. I kept trying to breathe, to suck in some air, to wriggle out of the ring of suffocation pressing on my throat and lungs. But I couldn’t get any. Blood and spit spurted from my mouth.
My head hung to one side, humming and buzzing spasmodically. A grating noise pounded in my ears like a rusty saw, and drops fell softly somewhere in my bursting skull. Drums roared against my temples—loud drums. They swelled up into a crescendo. I pressed my burning cheeks against the sunbaked stones. I felt their cool, smooth surface. My lips quivered in longing for a little moisture. I held them against the stones, which still held some of the spit and blood I had vomited up. I sucked the wet stones thirstily. They gave me a few minutes of chill relief. But soon their cool touch became a feeling of burning fire. The fire of thirst.
Thirst . . . I was boiling all over. A bellows blew in my veins, blowing heat and flame. My tongue burned, my parched palate was on fire. My throat was choked by the mixture of spit and salty blood. The darkness that covered my eyes gradually lifted. Its place was taken by the dim image of the sun. I could feel its warmth through my closed eyes. It came closer and closer to me, a ball of fire—turning and boiling, swirling and blazing—until it became a huge purple spider, which put its white-hot hands on me, clasped my shrinking body, and vomited a sea of molten lava into me. I was burning, scorching! All the moisture in my body had gone. In another minute my flesh would burst, like land tormented by drought. “Water! Water!” But my voice choked and faded away. My dry lips moved up and down, but I couldn’t make a sound.
Agonizing pains squeezed my chest. A bayonet of white-hot steel pierced my lungs, twisting cruelly in the wound. And then dozens of sharp knives stuck into me, cutting my living, quivering flesh—cutting, twisting, and tearing. With the last of my strength, I tried to escape the sharp points. But I couldn’t. They cut me angrily, devoured my flesh. Devoured me limb by limb . . .
Tired. No strength left. My chest and lungs swelled up with the blood that flooded them. My hands were weak and soft. My heart beat slowly. The arteries were empty: the streams of burning blood had flowed out. A drowsy fatigue enveloped me, and I felt myself falling asleep, sinking into a redeeming slumber. I knew that I was going to die. Soon I wouldn’t feel anything. I sank quietly into a dark, cool cave. Fell down and down. My head felt dizzy. Everything was dark and black. Only one small spot of light glistened above my head. There was the mouth of the cave. But I was going far away . . . far away . . .
I was only eighteen, and already departing from life. Going . . . I saw the misty shapes of my mother and father. They approached me with hesitant steps. Their trembling hands were held out toward me. Their faces were lined with sorrow, and their backs bent with mourning. They pleaded: “Come back, son, come back!” They begged me. They were crying.
I continued falling and receding from them. I waved to them wearily, trying to say something to wipe away their tears. But I couldn’t. My voice had gone. I loved them, and wanted to comfort them. I was sorry for them. I was tired. I drew away from them and sank still further. Sank down . . . sank . . .
The single spot of light over my head had also gone. Complete darkness surrounded me. I could hear a weak, soft wail somewhere. A long wail, the sound of a trumpet. A wailing trumpet.
Everything was blurred. All falling to pieces. The darkness lost its black color and became hollow. It wiped everything out, this darkness. But the shadows were stronger than it. Figures came out of the dark mist, blurred figures. Quivering clouds reminded me of something. But what? Who?
Who was I?
The events of my life flashed in front of me with giddy speed: faces, like the reflection of a small, laughing boy. His black hair waved in the strong, wailing wind. The trumpet moaned. His blue eyes laughed.
The images changed. Came and hurried on. A boy in his teens. A smile of compassion playing at the corners of his mouth. Everything was going around and around. Faces of people in the whirlpool . . . people . . . human beings . . . my own face.
What was I doing here? . . . The war . . . the war . . .
The visions chased one another. Everything was happening so quickly. The war . . .
