up!’
But Daniel paid no attention. ‘My dear old friend,’ he shouted with tears of laughter in his eyes. ‘Happy New Year!’
Daniel pointed to his watch and then it dawned on Gudbrand. Daniel had obviously been waiting for the Russians’ New Year salute, because now he stuck his hand down in the snow which had been piled up against the sentry post to hide the machine gun.
‘Brandy,’ he shouted, triumphantly raising into the air a bottle containing a heel of brown liquid. ‘I’ve saved this for more than three months. Help yourself.’
Gudbrand had crawled up on to his knees and smiled at Daniel.
‘You first,’ Gudbrand shouted.
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely sure, old friend. You saved it up. But don’t drink it all!’ Daniel hit the side of the cork until it came out and raised the bottle.
‘To Leningrad. In spring we’ll be toasting each other in the Winter Palace,’ he proclaimed and took off his Russian cap. ‘And by summer we’ll be home, hailed as heroes in our beloved Norway.’
He put the bottle to his lips and threw back his head. The brown liquid gurgled and danced in the neck of the bottle. It twinkled as the glass reflected the light from the sinking flares, and in the years to come Gudbrand would ponder whether it was that the Russian sniper saw: the gleam from the bottle. The next moment Gudbrand heard a high-pitched popping noise and saw the bottle explode in Daniel’s hands. There was a shower of glass and brandy and Gudbrand closed his eyes. He could feel his face was wet; it ran down his cheeks and instinctively he stuck out his tongue to catch a couple of drops. It tasted of almost nothing, just alcohol and something else – something sweet and metallic. The consistency was thick, probably because of the cold, Gudbrand thought, and he opened his eyes again. He couldn’t see Daniel from the trench. He must have dived behind the machine gun when he knew that he had been seen, Gudbrand guessed, but he could feel his heart racing.
‘Daniel?’
No answer.
‘Daniel?’
Gudbrand got to his feet and crawled out of the trench. Daniel was on his back with his cartridge belt under his head and the Russian cap over his face. The snow was spattered with brandy and blood. Gudbrand took the cap in his hand. Daniel was staring with wide eyes up at the starry sky. He had a large, black, gaping hole in the middle of his forehead. Gudbrand still had the sweet metallic taste in his mouth and felt nauseous.
‘Daniel.’
It was barely a whisper between his dry lips. Gudbrand thought Daniel looked like a little boy who wanted to draw angels in the snow but had fallen asleep. With a sob he lurched towards the siren and pulled the crank handle. As the flares sank into their hiding places, the piercing wail of the siren rose towards the heavens.
‘That wasn’t how it was supposed to be,’ was all Gudbrand managed to say.
oooooooo-OOOOOOOO . . . !
Edvard and the others had come out and stood behind him. Someone shouted Gudbrand’s name, but he didn’t hear. He just wound the handle round and round. In the end Edvard went over and held the handle. Gudbrand let go, but didn’t turn round; he remained where he was, staring at the trench and the sky as the tears froze solid on his cheeks. The lament of the siren subsided.
‘That wasn’t how it was supposed to be,’ he whispered.
11
Leningrad. 1 January 1943.
D ANIEL ALREADY HAD ICE CRYSTALS UNDER HIS NOSE AND in the corners of his eyes and mouth when they carried him away. Often they used to leave them until they went stiff so they would be easier to carry, but Daniel was in the way of the machine gun. So two men had dragged him to a branch off the main trench where they laid him on two ammunition boxes kept for burning. Hallgrim Dale had tied sacking around his head so they didn’t have to see the death mask with its ugly grin. Edvard had rung the mass grave in the Northern Sector and explained where Daniel was. They had promised to
But Daniel paid no attention. ‘My dear old friend,’ he shouted with tears of laughter in his eyes. ‘Happy New Year!’
Daniel pointed to his watch and then it dawned on Gudbrand. Daniel had obviously been waiting for the Russians’ New Year salute, because now he stuck his hand down in the snow which had been piled up against the sentry post to hide the machine gun.
‘Brandy,’ he shouted, triumphantly raising into the air a bottle containing a heel of brown liquid. ‘I’ve saved this for more than three months. Help yourself.’
Gudbrand had crawled up on to his knees and smiled at Daniel.
‘You first,’ Gudbrand shouted.
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely sure, old friend. You saved it up. But don’t drink it all!’ Daniel hit the side of the cork until it came out and raised the bottle.
‘To Leningrad. In spring we’ll be toasting each other in the Winter Palace,’ he proclaimed and took off his Russian cap. ‘And by summer we’ll be home, hailed as heroes in our beloved Norway.’
He put the bottle to his lips and threw back his head. The brown liquid gurgled and danced in the neck of the bottle. It twinkled as the glass reflected the light from the sinking flares, and in the years to come Gudbrand would ponder whether it was that the Russian sniper saw: the gleam from the bottle. The next moment Gudbrand heard a high-pitched popping noise and saw the bottle explode in Daniel’s hands. There was a shower of glass and brandy and Gudbrand closed his eyes. He could feel his face was wet; it ran down his cheeks and instinctively he stuck out his tongue to catch a couple of drops. It tasted of almost nothing, just alcohol and something else – something sweet and metallic. The consistency was thick, probably because of the cold, Gudbrand thought, and he opened his eyes again. He couldn’t see Daniel from the trench. He must have dived behind the machine gun when he knew that he had been seen, Gudbrand guessed, but he could feel his heart racing.
‘Daniel?’
No answer.
‘Daniel?’
Gudbrand got to his feet and crawled out of the trench. Daniel was on his back with his cartridge belt under his head and the Russian cap over his face. The snow was spattered with brandy and blood. Gudbrand took the cap in his hand. Daniel was staring with wide eyes up at the starry sky. He had a large, black, gaping hole in the middle of his forehead. Gudbrand still had the sweet metallic taste in his mouth and felt nauseous.
‘Daniel.’
It was barely a whisper between his dry lips. Gudbrand thought Daniel looked like a little boy who wanted to draw angels in the snow but had fallen asleep. With a sob he lurched towards the siren and pulled the crank handle. As the flares sank into their hiding places, the piercing wail of the siren rose towards the heavens.
‘That wasn’t how it was supposed to be,’ was all Gudbrand managed to say.
oooooooo-OOOOOOOO . . . !
Edvard and the others had come out and stood behind him. Someone shouted Gudbrand’s name, but he didn’t hear. He just wound the handle round and round. In the end Edvard went over and held the handle. Gudbrand let go, but didn’t turn round; he remained where he was, staring at the trench and the sky as the tears froze solid on his cheeks. The lament of the siren subsided.
‘That wasn’t how it was supposed to be,’ he whispered.
11
Leningrad. 1 January 1943.
D ANIEL ALREADY HAD ICE CRYSTALS UNDER HIS NOSE AND in the corners of his eyes and mouth when they carried him away. Often they used to leave them until they went stiff so they would be easier to carry, but Daniel was in the way of the machine gun. So two men had dragged him to a branch off the main trench where they laid him on two ammunition boxes kept for burning. Hallgrim Dale had tied sacking around his head so they didn’t have to see the death mask with its ugly grin. Edvard had rung the mass grave in the Northern Sector and explained where Daniel was. They had promised to
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