Chapter 2

He rode along farm trails and small roads, knowing that the larger roads would be held by the enemy. For a good couple of hours Tilsley didn't see anyone, friend or enemy. He went past several smoking, burnt out farmhouses, and the occasional destroyed Allied vehicle, but no Soviet ones. There were contrails in the sky, telling of aerial battles. Tilsley hoped that the Allied Air Forces would be able to stop the Soviet's advance where the ground troops had failed, but he was beginning to doubt that.

Maybe the package he carried would help that.

He checked to see if it was there still - His heart leaped when he saw it wasn't. He stopped the bike. 

With a great sigh of relief, he saw the package had merely slipped a few inches. He cinched the straps tighter and took a swig of water, before checking his bike. It was red-hot from all the riding, but hadn’t suffered anything other than the usual wear-and-tear. He'd been meticulous about keeping his trusted steed cleaned and repaired, and now that care was paying off.

Back on the road, and half an hour later, Tilsley pulled over again, feeling the call of nature. He couldn't present the package to the Commander in Chief having wet himself could he?

Laying the precious bike down in some bushes, Tilsley stood up behind a tree, and took his riding helmet off for some air, placing it a few metres away. 

It was strange being able to hear again, without the helmet or roar of his bike drowning everything out.

As he unzipped and let fly, he heard birds singing. Never in his life had it sounded do reassuring to him. It took him back to a time before the war. A better time.

He heard jet engines, far away, and the war came flooding back. Then there came the distant thump of artillery, making him think of the man he'd saw hit, his broken, almost boneless body.

He heard a voice, and then another. He stopped what he was doing, overtaken with fear. A shaking hand pulled out his Webley .454 revolver - A gun he'd never had to use off the pistol ranges.

The voices came closer - Russians. They must have heard Tilsley’s bike!

Tilsley leaned around his dampened tree.

By God, they were close! They had been running up while Tilsley’s hearing was still acclimatizing. Three Russians. One spotted him.

BLAM! 

The pistol bucked. The back of the Russian's head blew out, and Tilsley’s arm snapped back painfully. He cursed the designer of the powerful pistol. Then he saw the brains spattered over the grass and cursed again.

The other two Russians had gone to ground - Muzzle flash highlighted bullets whipping through the grass. Tilsley ran, emptying the pistol blindly behind to try and discourage the Russians. Something tugged at his leg - He glanced down, and saw blood, though he hadn't felt anything yet.

Clambering onto his bike, he shoved the pistol into its holster and prayed the engine would start first go - It did... Again, testament to his care and attention. He pulled a wheelie while zipping off, but kept low - A good rifleman could still put a burst through him.

None came.

Once safely down the road, he put a field dressing on his grazed leg. Then he zipped himself up.

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