The first wave of bombers had come and gone. In the distance, the formation of planes appeared as specks in the sky, lazily turning in a wide, wobbly arc heading back in the direction from which they came. The second wave had begun to fill in the blank spaces, black blots on the airy landscape. We perched on the surface of the T-34 and watched the spectacle as it unfolded. Two hours passed. No one stirred or spoke. Behind us came the sound of crashing and an engine. I jumped up, my legs gone stiff from the cold. Mischa grabbed his rifle.
“It's the fuel truck. Good.”
I climbed down to wait for it. I saw three men in the cab instead of the usual two. “Oh s**t,” I muttered.
Commissar Brancovic was the unit's protocol and p********a officer. He climbed down from the truck cab awkwardly. A s
