We could hear the rustling and moving of men not very far away, but there remained this sense of suspension in time, of living outside the army, outside the real war, of being in a dream-like village where people fired rifles into fields. Our only support was a three-inch mortar. It was brought up and from behind one of the houses it lobbed shells into the field. But its range was too great and we could not get the shells to fall close enough. The two-inch mortar was with us and it would have done the job, but the ammunition carriers were lost.
The last plane dove directly upon our battery and released its bomb load. One of the bombs flew directly at my dugout. I saw my own unavoidable death approaching, but I could do nothing to save myself: there was not enough time. It would take me five to six seconds to reach a different shelter, but the bomb had been released close to the ground, and needed only one or two seconds to reach the earth – and me.