The other passengers filed down to the soldiers waiting below and matter-of-factly handed in their guns to one who had produced an oily bag.
I heard some murmured conversation as they went (and even a half-stifled giggle from one of the younger women).
Ginger spat on the ground and said to himself, "chance gone for them, I think they happy with that." But he said it in English, so therefore being for the benefit of Mr Kite (me, if you don't get that allusion).
Beraubtes and Erschrocken were standing together, Beraubtes holding on, crying, Erschrocken, with arm around her.
Mocz was looking sick, and Bêbe was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
I was standing there like a long streak of piss (or a lemon, something yellow and surplus anyway).
Ginger smiled suddenly, and said, in a big voice, "come on then, happy band of comrades! Let's go and make peace."
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