The Reincarnationist Papers

by D. Eric Maikranz

“Captain Eumen Hoxa.”

  A look of astonishment came over her face. “Tell me about Hoxa, tell me about the battle, tell me everything.”

  “It was a fluke. We shouldn’t even have been there, which is probably the only reason why we surprised them and why we survived. When it happened, on September 18 and 19, 1918, the whole of the Bulgarian front had been in full retreat for three weeks . . .”21

  Evan refers to the modern town of Vodica (also called Voditsa), Bulgaria.

  Mithraic temples, or Mithraeum, were common in all corners of the Roman Empire and were normally constructed in grottoes or caves to imitate the location where Mithra slew the sacred bull. (E. O. James, The Ancient Gods, 1960.)

  Bulgaria entered the First World War in October 1915, with mass conscription and mobilization. (November 1918 by Gordon Brook-Shepard.)

  Evan’s description of the Bulgarian collapse is fairly accurate. By the third week in September 1918, the whole of the Bulgarian front had failed and was in full retreat. (The Marshall Cavendish Illustrated Encyclopedia of World War I, editor-in-chief Peter Young, 1984.)

  13

  Eumen Hoxa’s legend was born on those days in September 18 and 19, 1918, when the whole of the Bulgarian front was in full retreat. Vasili wasn’t a military strategist, but it didn’t take one to realize the small triangle of land formed where the Cherna river flowed into the Vardar made a poor spot to make a stand, even if only for one night.

  Vasili labored in the autumn sun, stacking the seventy-five pound, two-foot-long artillery shells in long rows three deep next to the gun emplacement. The five new Krupp 77mm howitzers stood a menacing vigil, looking south toward Greece and the two French divisions that lingered somewhere on the horizon. Vasili set down a shell to talk to the passing captain.

  “How many rounds do you want to bring out of the wagon, sir?”

  Captain Hoxa twirled at the ends of his thick handlebar mustache as he surveyed the surrounding Macedonian countryside. “Better bring them all out, soldier, just in case. And go help first squad when you’re done,” he said, walking down to the river.

  Vasili arched his back and sighed before reaching back into the horse-drawn wagon for more shells. Two hours later he left his six neat rows and walked the twenty-five feet down to the next gun. The loader and breech operator shoveled dirt around the large steel-spoke wheels of the gun, bracing it. The first squad’s ordnance man had unloaded only half of his wagon. His rounds lay in loose rows that leaned precariously.

  “Thanks for helping,” the ordnance man said as Vasili started handing shells down to him from the wagon. “Hoxa’s been busting my balls all afternoon.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get it straight. But I’ll tell you something, I don’t like setting up here one bit.”

  “You know if we didn’t have to hump these shells in and out every goddamn day, we’d be in Skopie by now, where we belong,” said the smaller first squad man, straining to keep up with Vasili’s pace. “Hopefully, he’ll decide to use some of these rounds so we won’t have to reload so many tomorrow morning. Besides, I’ve been dying to shoot some of these babies off in anger.”

  “You just might get your chance tonight, soldier,” Captain Hoxa said, stepping around the wagon. “Now get your lazy ass back to work!

  “All right, ladies, here’s the drill,” Hoxa shouted loud enough for all five crews to hear. “Have your positions and camps ready in one hour. Tie all the horses off next to the river. There will be only one fire tonight, the one that Verga is using to cook, and that will be snuffed before dark. We’ve got two full-strength French divisions sleeping in this valley with us tonight, so be careful.”

  vasili peered over the rim of his cup at the worried faces surrounding him. The sound of twenty-two tired, dirty men sipping thin barley soup from metal cups reverberated as one continuous fifteen-minute-long slurp. The sun dropped quickly behind the hills on the west wall of the valley. To the south, the remaining sunset exploded beautifully along the leading edge of a storm approaching off the Gulf of Salonika.

  “What do you think, Captain?” asked a lonely voice at the edge of the circle.

  “I think it’s going to rain. Brace yourself for a miserable night. Everyone keep a sharp eye for fires. The French won’t be nearly as apprehensive or worried about us as we are about them.”

  “With a fire they’ll be much more comfortable though,” someone shouted, trying to break the tension.

  “You know the French. They don’t go anywhere if they can’t go comfortably,” came another voice from the circle.

  “I hear they even have whores that travel with them, but only for the officers, of course,” a young soldier said, looking at his commander.

  “I think we should form a raiding party and plunder their camp of wine and women.”

  “A raiding party? Why not just attack them head on? A Bulgar is a match for twenty Frenchmen, if he’s fighting for the right cause.” The anonymous voice was met with boisterous laughter.

  “Enough!” barked Captain Hoxa. “This isn’t some church social. Be quiet and keep watch.”

  Hoxa climbed on top of the center howitzer and straddled the end of the barrel. He kept a firm grip on the muzzle as the operator cranked on the elevator control, raising the barrel toward the night sky. He scanned the horizon with his binoculars.

  “Somebody saddle my horse,” he said coolly from his perch.

  “Do you see anything?” asked the corporal.

  The captain shook his head yes.22 “Lower the pitch so I can get off.”

  captain eumen hoxa was a legend in Bulgaria. He won the Order of Bravery, First Class, Bulgaria’s highest military combat honor,23 in the first week of the war. He single-handedly, and without authorization, took his company and outflanked a large, broken Romanian column in retreat from Petrila. He moved seventy men and ten artillery pieces thirty miles in one day and night. The encircling maneuver he executed was a masterpiece. His company opened up at first light and cut the column to ribbons, capturing four Generals of the Romanian High Command in the process. His courage was only outstripped by his detestation for rear area commanders, which is why he never advanced above the rank of captain. His reward for unshakable bravery and initiative was to be placed at the very front, facing a confident, fresh army.

  vasili watched as hoxa jumped down off the end of the gun barrel, mumbling to himself as he walked to his readied horse. “Don’t do anything until I get back,” he shouted. He had planned to ride across the shallow, swift-running Cherna river toward the second and third artillery companies dug in over a mile farther north. Five silent minutes passed before the corporal jumped up and straddled the gun the way Hoxa had done.

  “Can you see anything?” Vasili asked.

  “Yes,” the corporal replied, “fires, about twenty of them in one bivouac.”

  “You don’t think he would fire on them, do you?” a nervous voice asked.

  “No, of course not,” the corporal said, still atop the howitzer. “He just wants to let the other squad leaders know.”

  “How far away are they?”

  “I’d say about two miles.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. He won’t attack, but we’ll probably have to break camp and move out tonight.”

  “And reload all those goddamn shells too,” said the first squad ordnance man. “What do you think, Vasili?”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight. I have a weird feeling about this whole spot.”

  “But Hoxa’s lived through too much shit to try something like this,” the first squad ordnance man said, trying to convince himself.

  Vasili reached into the empty munitions cart and pulled out his dirty gray uniform jacket. “That man is capable of anything.”

  as quickly as he had left, Vasili spotted Hoxa riding back into camp. He jumped off his horse, hand
ing the reins to the soldier closest to him. His eyes were ablaze with excitement. “The other companies are ready,” he said, running up the riverbank behind the guns.

  “Ready, sir? Ready for what?” asked the corporal.

  “The reckoning,” the captain answered, pulling a worn map from his pocket.

  “You’re not going to attack? I climbed up there. I saw them. There must be at least four-hundred men out there.”

  “At least,” Hoxa said, getting even more excited.

  “You can’t do that, Captain. It’s sui—”

  The corporal was unable to finish his sentence before Hoxa whipped his revolver from its holster and pointed it at the end of his nose. “We are going to attack, by surprise, when the rain starts, and crush them in their tents. And anyone who has a problem with that order will hear the sound of this pistol.” The corporal’s eyes were locked on the end of the gun. “Now, everyone in their places. Start with high-explosive rounds, except for you,” he said, pointing to Vasili and the other three men that made up second squad. “You prepare five white phosphorous rounds. We’re going to target for the other two companies. They can’t see the bivouac, but they’ll sure as hell be able to see those shells exploding. We’ll wait until their fires almost die out, then when they’re asleep, we’ll annihilate them,” he commanded. Lightning began to flash, lighting up the open south end of the valley behind the French camp.

  Vasili saw Captain Hoxa sitting astride the raised number three gun barrel. Hour after hour passed in silence. The air in the valley resonated with the claps of approaching thunder. Fat, cold raindrops began to spatter against the hard guns and dirty uniforms. Vasili could feel the level of apprehension in the camp rising along with his own every time that Hoxa made the slightest move. “Lower me,” Hoxa said. He grabbed the end of the barrel for support. “Somebody give me a handful of mud.” The members of the third crew looked at each other confused. “Mud. Somebody give me some mud.”

  “I know what he wants,” the breech operator of Vasili’s second squad said. He jogged down to the riverbank and brought back two handfuls of wet clay mud. Hoxa reached down from his perch and took a small amount with his fingertips. He shaped it into a thumb-sized roll, broke it in two, and inserted the mud plugs into his ears. Everyone else immediately imitated the captain.

  “Raise me,” commanded Hoxa.

  The breech operator cranked slowly on the control that gently elevated the barrel.

  “Second squad, raise to twenty-three degrees and load!” Hoxa barked.

  Vasili handed a white phosphorus round to the loader, who carefully inserted it up into the open orifice at the back of the barrel. He withdrew his hand and the breech operator closed and locked the four-inch-thick, round breech door. The trigger man wrapped the cord around his hand twice to take the slack out. “Ready, Captain.”

  The wind blew strong from the south, running in front of the storm as a wave rises before a steaming ship. The lightning, thunder, and rain were directly on top of the French camp, exactly where Hoxa wanted them. “Fire for effect!”

  Vasili covered his ears with gloved hands. The trigger man jerked hard on the cord that tripped the firing pin. A six-foot long tongue of orange flame jumped out of the barrel and into the night sky as the shell screamed toward the dying French fires. The echoes from the violent report had died down when the round impacted two miles away. Everyone in the company watched in awe. The exploding phosphorous ignited as soon as it hit, leaving ghostly white smoke trails as the burning fragments fanned up and out in long, graceful arcs like some obscene firework.

  “Two degrees down,” shouted the captain, binoculars still held up to his eyes. The crew reloaded. The breech operator made four quick turns on the pitch crank, and the barrel edged closer to the ground. “Ready!”

  “Fire!”

  The shell impacted after six long, eerie seconds.

  “Everyone draw a bead on that burst and set for twenty-one degrees. High explosive rounds except for number two,” Hoxa said, climbing down off the number three gun.

  “Ready,” cried each of the crews in turn.

  “Fire!” barked Hoxa.

  The five guns erupted as one. The muzzle flashes pushed at the darkness and lit up the entire camp as if it were day for a split second. The earth shuddered under the guns’ collective recoil. The crews reloaded the guns as the first salvo of shells exploded in quick, white flashes. Hoxa stood between the second and third guns and held his riding crop high in the air, signaling to hold. A dull flash followed by a low rumble came from the west side of the valley behind them. First company’s shells sounded like whistling tea kettles as they crossed overhead. Another volley came from the east flank a second later.

  “They’re in the game with us, boys. Fire!” Hoxa shouted and swept the crop down like a race starter.

  The rain intensified with each barrage as though the shells were ripping holes in the bottom of the sky.

  “Fire! Fire! Fire!” shouted the captain at the end of each loading cycle.

  shells rained down mercilessly from three sides on the French camp. The sky lit up time and time again as if the whole south end of the valley were exploding.

  The munitions handlers, loaders, and breech operators danced a frenzied ballet as they fed the ever-hungry guns. Each time a loader shoved a round into the gun, the operator slammed the breech closed, missing the man’s hand by a fraction of an inch.

  The cold, driving rain screamed and sizzled on the hot gun barrels like sausages on a griddle. It was the kind of rain that drives creatures underground and demands submission. Multiple flashes of lightning exploded fiercely over their heads, belittling the petty rumblings of men.

  Oblivious to the elements, Hoxa continued to bark orders. “Fire! Reload! One degree up! Fire! Reload! Fire!”

  Vasili grabbed the smoking spent shell casings as fast as they were ejected onto the churned-up mud behind the gun. His wet cotton gloves provided just enough protection to hold the searing casings for the second it took to throw them onto the growing pile down by the river. The five guns fired a salvo every ten seconds, just far enough apart for Vasili and the other handlers to pass the heavy rounds to the loaders and start the whole process again.

  “Fire! Reload! Fire!” The shelling, the lightning, and the rain intensified as the night wore on. Vasili threw the hot casings over his shoulder one after another, ignoring the weather as best he could until, between salvos, he heard the splash of a shell casing as it hit the water.

  The water, he thought, handing another shell to the loader. He grabbed another casing and threw it back behind him, watching this time. The shell splashed just before a bolt of lightning crashed to the left of number one gun, lighting up the area behind the camp. The shallow, swift-moving Cherna had swollen into a raging torrent. The brown, silty water moved like a giant undulating snake between the tops of the riverbanks. Vasili stood dumbfounded through two more close flashes and watched as the river seemed to rise before his very eyes.

  “Vasili! Vasili!” shouted the loader. “Shell! Shell!”

  He snapped to and rejoined the rhythm of the crew.

  “The river is flooding. I saw it when the lightning flashed!” Vasili shouted quickly to the loader when he handed him a round. The guns roared as one.

  “Those last three weren’t lightning!” the loader screamed. “They’re shooting back at us!”

  Vasili was reaching down to grab a spent shell casing when another flash and explosion hit ten meters from number one, knocking him off balance.

  “Reload, reload, reload!” screamed Hoxa, flailing his riding crop in the charged air. “Fire at will!”

  The number one gun fell silent, but the rest fired in unsynchronized disorder as soon as each breech locked closed. Night turned into day as flashes constantly broke around them. The explosions from the incoming shells, the lightning, and
the outgoing shells assaulted their senses as an indistinguishable, chaotic chorus of destruction. It sounded like the earth itself was being dismantled.

  Vasili worked faster, keeping one eye on the dwindling rows of ammunition and one eye on the river that swallowed the empty casings as fast as he could heave them.

  Captain Hoxa made a quick circuit of the squads before climbing on top of the quiet number one gun, binoculars in hand. The trigger man for the silent gun lay facedown in the mud, the cord still wrapped around his lifeless hand.

  Vasili’s ears, partially deafened and somewhat adjusted to the constant explosions, began to pick up a faint yet distinct sound, a sound that shouldn’t have been there amidst the tumult. Pinging. He concentrated on the sound in an effort to block out the fear that clung to him like a shadow. Ping, p-ping, ping-ping, ping. The ethereal sound got clearer and the chaos fuzzier the harder he focused. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He grabbed each shell tighter and threw each casing farther as the sound of the surreal scene around him slowly went silent. Flashes came with concussions but no sound. Vasili kept an eye out for the source of the pinging while he worked, and the guns took on a comical feel as they silently bucked and blew fire. Ping, ping, p-ping. Each time a trigger man jerked on his cord, another ping. Ping, ping, ping. It was the spring-activated, thumb-sized firing pins striking the metal backs of the shells inside the guns. It didn’t seem possible that he could hear them, but the striking pins rang out clearly, like a crew of blacksmiths working on an anvil at the edge of town.

  “They’re coming for us!” Hoxa screamed. His voice jolted Vasili back to the pandemonium around him. “They’re coming!” Hoxa jumped off the wet gun awkwardly and landed spread eagle in the mud next to the fallen trigger man. He got up, seemingly undaunted, and slapped each remaining trigger man with his crop as he ran by. All four held fire, rubbed at stinging welts under their uniforms and watched the captain for orders.

  “Raise your pitch to forty degrees, load phosphorous, and fire on my command.”