Overkill by James Rouch

Kirchdorf, but above the continual booming of Russian shells exploding in the city he could not make it out.
    Once the bridge had carried a multi-lane autobahn, but it had taken many direct hits and now only a single-lane track wound across it, twisting past and between the many craters and sections where the road bed had been severely damaged by rounds that had failed to penetrate.
    Some had done more than that though, they had punched right through. As he passed, Revell could see the river a long way below through a ragged-bordered hole. The various layers of the bridge’s construction showed clearly, and shreds of metal from a bomb fin caught in the exposed ends of reinforcing rods, still bright and shiny where the paint had been stripped from them, showed that the damage was recent.
    From the centre of the bridge they had a good vantage point over that half of the city. Shell bursts kept a permanent pall of dust and smoke in suspension over it and here and there rose a black column that marked the place of some more lasting blazes.
    ‘There should be many more fires.’ Andrea scanned those quarters under attack. ‘It must be that there is little left to burn.’
    Within a minute Revell had lost count of the number of incoming shells. He watched an impressive display of fire control as all the artillery fire ceased abruptly, and then shortly after recommenced with its entire weight falling on a single location that was instantly hidden behind flame and smoke. If the Russians were short of replacement uniforms, they weren’t short of ammunition.
    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