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Authors: Douglas W. Jacobson
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an eardrum-shattering, hammering noise that shut out everything around him. He stared down the fi re-belching barrel, struggling to keep it aimed at the charging horses.
Nothing happened. The horses kept coming. Schmidt could see the riders—
and something glinting in the moonlight.
50
Douglas W. Jacobson
“Christ, they’ve got sabers!” Willy yelled.
The gun blazed away, the smoke burning Schmidt’s eyes, the noise banging his mind into numbness.
The horses began to scatter.
Schmidt was frozen to the handle of the wild, clattering machine, terror building in his heart. He was certain he’d missed them. Then they started to fall. First one, then another and another, the horses crashed to the ground, their legs fl ying wildly, their riders propelled into the air like dolls.
He was no longer in control of the killing machine blazing away at the end of his arms. It had taken on a life of its own. He was just hanging on, no longer hearing or feeling, completely transfi xed by the terrible scene unfolding before him. Horses, now by the dozens, charged into each other and tumbled to the ground. Riders, tossed in every direction, staggered to their feet only to be trampled by another stampeding animal. Schmidt’s heart screamed for them to get out of the way. He closed his eyes unable to continue to witness the carnage.
Willy’s shouting jarred him back into the moment. “ Stoppen Sie! Stoppen Sie! Barrel change! Barrel change!”
Without thinking, Schmidt instinctively released the trigger, set the safety lever and rotated the barrel jacket counterclockwise. His glazed eyes fell upon Willy, and he watched the ammo tender slide out the smoking barrel and slide in the spare. But he did not comprehend. It was like watching a slow-motion dream of something he had never seen before. A strange person was doing a strange task that had nothing to do with him.
Willy reached over him and rotated the barrel jacket back into position.
Schmidt did not understand how it happened, but the big gun was fi ring again and horses were falling. He prayed for it to be over.
It seemed like it would never end . . . and then it did. He felt someone’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him back.
“ Stoppen Sie! Hold fi re! Hold fi re!” Willy yelled.
Schmidt collapsed backward and almost toppled to the ground before catching himself and getting to his knees. His ears were ringing and his hands were numb.
“Kluge called a cease-fi re,” Willy yelled. “They’ve retreated out of range.”
Schmidt turned toward the meadow. The remaining cavalrymen were Night of Flames
51
galloping to the north, disappearing into the darkness. He looked around.
The battalion’s rifl emen had scrambled into positions between the machine guns, and offi cers were shouting orders. Engines fi red up and vehicles began moving.
Above the din, he heard Kluge’s voice. “Machine gunners stay at your posts! Ammo tenders get reloaded! Stay alert! Stay alert!”
As Willy pried open an ammo box, Schmidt looked again into the meadow.
The sight was appalling. Horses stumbled about aimlessly, shadowy images in the night, heads bobbing and tails twitching. Dark heaps lay on the ground.
He couldn’t see them very well, but he could imagine them: not moving, or kicking their feet and raising and lowering their heads.
Among the stricken animals, he knew there were men. He couldn’t make them out but he knew they were out there, crawling away or, like the horses they had been riding, lying in their own blood on the hard ground. They were too far away for Schmidt to hear their cries.
Chapter 8
Justyn sat under a tree in the small orchard, staring down at the brown burlap bag of apples he had been collecting. Of the various chores he had been given, this was his favorite. The orchard was cool and shady, and the branches hung low, within his reach if he stood on his tiptoes. It didn’t take long to collect enough to fi ll the bag.
He picked one of the
Nothing happened. The horses kept coming. Schmidt could see the riders—
and something glinting in the moonlight.
50
Douglas W. Jacobson
“Christ, they’ve got sabers!” Willy yelled.
The gun blazed away, the smoke burning Schmidt’s eyes, the noise banging his mind into numbness.
The horses began to scatter.
Schmidt was frozen to the handle of the wild, clattering machine, terror building in his heart. He was certain he’d missed them. Then they started to fall. First one, then another and another, the horses crashed to the ground, their legs fl ying wildly, their riders propelled into the air like dolls.
He was no longer in control of the killing machine blazing away at the end of his arms. It had taken on a life of its own. He was just hanging on, no longer hearing or feeling, completely transfi xed by the terrible scene unfolding before him. Horses, now by the dozens, charged into each other and tumbled to the ground. Riders, tossed in every direction, staggered to their feet only to be trampled by another stampeding animal. Schmidt’s heart screamed for them to get out of the way. He closed his eyes unable to continue to witness the carnage.
Willy’s shouting jarred him back into the moment. “ Stoppen Sie! Stoppen Sie! Barrel change! Barrel change!”
Without thinking, Schmidt instinctively released the trigger, set the safety lever and rotated the barrel jacket counterclockwise. His glazed eyes fell upon Willy, and he watched the ammo tender slide out the smoking barrel and slide in the spare. But he did not comprehend. It was like watching a slow-motion dream of something he had never seen before. A strange person was doing a strange task that had nothing to do with him.
Willy reached over him and rotated the barrel jacket back into position.
Schmidt did not understand how it happened, but the big gun was fi ring again and horses were falling. He prayed for it to be over.
It seemed like it would never end . . . and then it did. He felt someone’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him back.
“ Stoppen Sie! Hold fi re! Hold fi re!” Willy yelled.
Schmidt collapsed backward and almost toppled to the ground before catching himself and getting to his knees. His ears were ringing and his hands were numb.
“Kluge called a cease-fi re,” Willy yelled. “They’ve retreated out of range.”
Schmidt turned toward the meadow. The remaining cavalrymen were Night of Flames
51
galloping to the north, disappearing into the darkness. He looked around.
The battalion’s rifl emen had scrambled into positions between the machine guns, and offi cers were shouting orders. Engines fi red up and vehicles began moving.
Above the din, he heard Kluge’s voice. “Machine gunners stay at your posts! Ammo tenders get reloaded! Stay alert! Stay alert!”
As Willy pried open an ammo box, Schmidt looked again into the meadow.
The sight was appalling. Horses stumbled about aimlessly, shadowy images in the night, heads bobbing and tails twitching. Dark heaps lay on the ground.
He couldn’t see them very well, but he could imagine them: not moving, or kicking their feet and raising and lowering their heads.
Among the stricken animals, he knew there were men. He couldn’t make them out but he knew they were out there, crawling away or, like the horses they had been riding, lying in their own blood on the hard ground. They were too far away for Schmidt to hear their cries.
Chapter 8
Justyn sat under a tree in the small orchard, staring down at the brown burlap bag of apples he had been collecting. Of the various chores he had been given, this was his favorite. The orchard was cool and shady, and the branches hung low, within his reach if he stood on his tiptoes. It didn’t take long to collect enough to fi ll the bag.
He picked one of the
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