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- Колин Маккалоу
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- Стр. 323/535
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Patsy
spoken
in
a
shout
:
"
It
's
the
silence
that
's
killing
me
!
"
"
You
fuckin
'
side-show
fraud
,
I
'll
do
the
killing
!
"
Col
croaked
hoarsely
,
reaching
for
his
bayonet
.
"
For
Crissake
pipe
down
!
"
came
the
captain
's
whisper
.
"
Who
's
the
bloody
idiot
yelling
?
"
"
Patsy
,
"
chorused
half
a
dozen
voices
.
The
roar
of
laughter
floated
reassuringly
across
the
minefields
,
died
down
in
a
stream
of
low-toned
profanity
from
the
captain
.
Sergeant
Malloy
glanced
at
his
watch
;
the
second
hand
was
just
sweeping
up
to
9:40
pip-emma
.
Eight
hundred
and
eighty-two
British
guns
and
howitzers
spoke
together
.
The
heavens
reeled
,
the
ground
lifted
,
expanded
,
could
not
settle
,
for
the
barrage
went
on
and
on
without
a
second
's
diminution
in
the
mind-shattering
volume
of
noise
.
It
was
no
use
plugging
fingers
in
ears
;
the
gargantuan
booming
came
up
through
the
earth
and
traveled
inward
to
the
brain
via
the
bones
.
What
the
effect
must
have
been
on
Rommel
's
front
the
troops
of
the
Ninth
in
their
trenches
could
only
imagine
.
Usually
it
was
possible
to
pick
out
this
type
and
size
of
artillery
from
that
,
but
tonight
their
iron
throats
chorused
in
perfect
harmony
,
and
thundered
on
as
the
minutes
passed
.
The
desert
lit
not
with
the
light
of
day
but
with
the
fire
of
the
sun
itself
;
a
vast
billowing
cloud
of
dust
rose
like
coiling
smoke
thousands
of
feet
,
glowing
with
the
flashes
of
exploding
shells
and
mines
,
the
leaping
flames
of
massive
concentrations
of
detonating
casings
,
igniting
payloads
.
Everything
Montgomery
had
was
aimed
at
the
minefields
--
guns
,
howitzers
,
mortars
.
And
everything
Montgomery
had
was
thrown
as
fast
as
the
sweating
artillery
crews
could
throw
it
,
slaves
feeding
the
maws
of
their
weapons
like
small
frantic
birds
a
huge
cuckoo
;
gun
casings
grew
hot
,
the
time
between
recoil
and
reload
shorter
and
shorter
as
the
artillerymen
got
carried
away
on
their
own
impetus
.
Madmen
,
maddened
,
they
danced
a
stereotyped
pattern
of
attendance
on
their
fieldpieces
.
It
was
beautiful
,
wonderful
--
the
high
point
of
an
artilleryman
's
life
,
which
he
lived
and
relived
in
his
dreams
,
waking
and
sleeping
,
for
the
rest
of
his
anti-climactic
days
.
And
yearned
to
have
back
again
,
those
fifteen
minutes
with
Montgomery
's
guns
.
Silence
.
Stilled
,
absolute
silence
,
breaking
like
waves
on
distended
eardrums
;
unbearable
silence
.
Five
minutes
before
ten
,
exactly
.
The
Ninth
got
up
and
moved
forward
out
of
its
trenches
into
no
man
's
land
,
fixing
bayonets
,
feeling
for
ammunition
clips
,
releasing
safety
catches
,
checking
water
bottles
,
iron
rations
,
watches
,
tin
hats
,
whether
bootlaces
were
well
tied
,
the
location
of
those
carrying
the
machine
guns
.
It
was
easy
to
see
,
in
the
unholy
glow
of
fires
and
red-hot
sand
melted
into
glass
;
but
the
dust
pall
hung
between
the
Enemy
and
them
,
they
were
safe
.
For
the
moment
.
On
the
very
edge
of
the
minefields
they
halted
,
waited
.
