It had all been going so well. My squad and I had competently secured our position, a train track that stood over even the tallest towers of Rotterdam. We didn’t get long to enjoy this success as enemy armour advanced on us. I dove for cover, as my plucky little band of brothers did the same. We all lay stranded amid the wreckage of bombed out train carriages. If one of us dared peek at the picturesque inner-city canals and roads below, our rash move would be punished with a barrage of explosive fire, certain death whizzing past our terrified faces by a whisker: the tank has us pinned.
Our offensively-minded assault squaddie was unable to return fire, and I was hardly in a position to revive a downed comrade as the resident medic. Then, as we were beginning to get surrounded by enemy support, an almighty explosion roared into our ears: a brave engineer’s anti-tank mine had done its job. As we picked ourselves up and basked in the Dutch sun once again, more of our fellow soldier’s squad spilled out onto the streets to relieve us.