Spent shells litter the ground like autumn leaves; as I take a step forward they clink and roll. I freeze and for a moment after they stop moving there is silence. Even the birds have fled. Then the cries of the survivors reach me. The others gather shovels from the back of one of the trucks, but Hans and I move into the field with our guns. It is time to clean up. I jerked awake, freezing cold. The bed was saturated and the room stank. I’ve wet myself! Tears of shame burned in my eyes. With a sob I pressed the red button and immediately a red light blinked on. Someone was coming. * * * The next morning I lingered in the bathroom, unwilling to go to breakfast. Everyone’ll know I wet the bed and I can’t face being a joke. Not here. I stared at myself in the mirror. Maybe if I didn’t look so awful . . . Perhaps it was time to try some of the make-up I bought on the way home from Germany. The little pots and tubes lay in the bottom of my washbag, untouched. I fiddled with the tube of tinted moisturiser.
