"AA up!" a Polish corporal bellows near the field.
He's got one gun alive and two crews who were potato farmers three days ago.
The first burst is wild, the second finds its rhythm.
On the third, a Stuka jerks, lists, limps away with smoke coughing from the engine.
"Good, good...again!" the corporal yells, eyes bright with a joy that scares him.
A shell pops right of the barrel.
The gunner flinches and loses the bead. "Stay on it! Goddamn it, Staś, stay..."
The fourth burst never comes.
The second Stuka's bomb lands two houses over and the shock swallows the road, shakes the gun off its mounts.
Men stumble like drunks.
Someone says very politely, "I think I've lost my hearing," and pukes black.
The corporal blinks gritty tears.
He hears the world come back in pieces. "Reload," he croaks, and his guys good boys, stupidly brave do it with hands that don't feel like theirs.
They fire again.
They live through that minute.
That's all.
---
The bridge.
