The first of us was killed on the bridge, while he was on guard duty one night. Apparently the partisans had made an attempt to blow the bridge up, but our sentry had prevented them by giving the alarm. In the morning we found him dead beside the parapet. He was lying in a very strange position, with his mouth open. Did you ever see that film Death of a Cyclist? Well when I went to see it I almost yelled out right in the middle of it. The body, on the screen, was so much like that vision I still have engraved in my mind.
Scarcely two weeks went by before it was the second one’s turn. The circumstances were identical you might say. We were pretty sure the village people were shooting at us themselves, but we had no proof. We’d stopped bartering out cartridges with them by now of course. But it was too late.
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