The tank groans forward, smoke curling.
Białek stands up without meaning to, like a man seeing a wave.
"Shit!" Staszek cries, tears in his voice now. "It's...."
A German bullet slashes powder at his feet.
He flinches and drops the box.
It thuds into the mud with a sound so small it's obscene.
"Pick it up!" Kulesza roars.
He feels his throat rip.
Staszek dives, hands fumbling blind in slime.
The detonator's cord tangles around his fingers.
He gets it, he gets it, he....
A shadow falls over him.
"Staszek!" Białek yells.
He slings his rifle, grabs a fistful of Staszek's collar, and hauls.
Staszek slides like a fish on a bank.
The tank's track bites the edge of the ditch and throws a curtain of mud into their faces.
They roll.
The track misses Staszek's head by the width of a confession.
"Fuck you!" Lewandowski screams at the machine, voice breaking, and empties his magazine into the side of the tank because it's something his hands can do.
