by Brian Bakos
An explosion. Shrapnel plasters the armor but cannot punch through. Another grenade arches through the air above us. I watch with fascinated horror as my death approaches. Events screech into slow motion.
But then Katella flings out his arm and bats the grenade in mid air, as if he’s playing on a handball court. The little bomb tumbles over the far side and goes off, rocking our machine. But it does not stop our progress.
We’re at the gate now, crunching the barrier under our treads. I spin the machine gun around and fire a parting burst at the trees.
***
After the chaos at the base, the rest of the morning seems almost placid, but the sounds of war are everywhere. Massed artillery continues to thunder, and the roar of aircraft fills the sky. We keep to narrow secondary roads which Bel selects from a map spread beside him. Trees often arch over us, providing cover from marauding aircraft.
There are lots of aircraft, and, judging from the sound of the engines, they are not ours. But the trees and the low-lying clouds provide us some protection. Occasionally, Bel pulls off the road to seek better cover. Progress is slow, and we have no radio to monitor. Our little island moves along uninformed of the broader situation.
“What about the other armored vehicles?” I ask at one point. “Did any survive?”
Bel shakes his head. “The slobes hit every one.”
He doesn’t add the phrase, “like I said they would,” but I know it’s there just the same.
Unlike the relatively quiet APC used by the commando, this is a clanking half-track with a deep-throated engine. It is meant to haul grenadiers behind a tank assault, and stealth was not a consideration in its design. If partisans are in the immediate area, they cannot fail to hear us coming. Hopefully they’ve committed all their manpower to the assault on the air base and other fixed targets. Bel seems to pick up my concern.
“Sorry about the noise,” he says, “the motor pool was fresh out of limousines.”
I’ve got my machine gun, though, and that makes all the difference. Until now I’ve been a helpless victim. The enemy has blown up my train and shot me out of the sky while I’ve been unable to fight back. But now things have changed.
I stroke the gun barrel as if it is the flank of a beautiful woman. As if it were Ket.
God, if only our orders had come through sooner! We’d be safe now instead of wandering through this nightmare. My whole being aches for the Homeland, and for Ket ... and for Gyn.
But I’m not being fully truthful. There is a part of me that prefers things the way they are. A warrior strain has come to the fore, turning me into something hard and ruthless. I recall Bekar’s startling transformation when he flew his wheelchair fighter plane at the rally.
In any case, there isn’t much I can do about the situation. The enemy offensive is going to unfold without asking my opinion.
Late morning, Bel pulls over and shuts down. The world becomes quieter. Even the artillery booming in the distance seems more subdued. The roaring engine has been rattling my kidneys for hours, and I need to “take a mean piss,” as Bekar would put it. But this has to wait a while.
“Keep an eye on things, eh?” Bel says. “We won’t be long.”
“Sure, Bel,” I reply.
The others climb out, using the doors this time and taking the submachine guns with them.
“You there, Sipren,” Bel orders, “top off the fuel tank.”
“Yes, sir,” Sipren answers.
He reaches back inside and grabs a can of diesel. I catch his eyes for an instant, then he looks away.
Everyone heads a short distance into the woods, including Sipren after he’s finished his refueling task. Bel conducts a lecture on small arms operation. I can hear him clearly from my post in the machine gun turret.
“Don’t make rocket science out of it,” Bel says, “any idiot can fire one of these.”
We’ve all had sharpshooter training before, but that was with precision rifles, not these weapons of wholesale killing. Bel’s voice drones on, I catch snippets of his remarks as I scan the area for signs of the enemy.
“Here’s the safety ... fire short bursts ... drop the magazine like this ...”
I half expect to hear practice rounds being fired, but Bel is too smart to attract unnecessary attention to us. This lads have to get by with a quick overview.
They exit the forest. Bel hefts a submachine gun, as do Albers and Grushon. Albers seems an odd choice to entrust with a gun; I’d have thought Bel would choose Sipren instead. Then again, Sipren has not been himself lately since his family was massacred in the air raid. And, of course, Bel would not arm Katella.
Beltran clambers aboard alone and approaches my position.
“Sorry there aren’t enough submachine guns to go around,” he says. “Here’s some ammo for your pop gun, though.”
He hands me two little clips for my automatic pistol. I don’t know whether to be grateful or insulted.
“Thanks.”
I tuck the clips into a pocket.
“I’ll take over a while if you need to make a pit stop,” Bel says.
“Thanks,” I say again.
I step down from the gun position and Bel effortlessly takes my place, as if he’s the one who truly belongs there.
As I stand urinating against a tree, I feel oddly humiliated. So, Bel is even deciding when I can take a leak! A paranoid fantasy plays through my mind in which the APC drives off, abandoning me.
But it waits. I climb back behind the machine gun, and we start rolling again.
40. At the Bridge
Afternoon arrives as we continue our roundabout journey along the back roads. Albers sits in front beside Bel now, navigating from the map. Grushon, flanked by Sipren, rests his back against the rear doors, submachine gun at the ready. Katella positions himself as far away from them as he can and is crowded up next to me.
It’s a cozy arrangement, one that leaves no doubt as to who’s in charge. And it sure as hell isn’t Dytran.
We’re all in this together, I reason, just get through it.
But the situation fills me with unease. Bel has pulled off a coup; he and his supporters are armed, while my closest friend isn’t. Albers, weakest willed of the lot, has been cleverly won over. Bel has entrusted him with a gun and has granted him the supposed authority of being navigator. Bel doesn’t need him in the front seat, though. A sack of potatoes would be a more useful load.
Katella and I exchange glances; he clearly shares my misgivings.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid. How could anybody exist in this nightmare world without being paranoid? And if it wasn’t for Bel’s ‘coup,’ I’d be lying back at the airbase riddled with bullets. Still … what would it take for Grushon to shove his gun into my face and tell me what’s what?
Even after all this time, the slobe diving incident still gnaws at me. I’ll never forget the look of hatred on Grushon’s face when he and the others closed in on me. I’ve often wondered if Bel would have called them off if Katella hadn’t intervened first. I’ve never dared ask him. I know he wouldn’t lie, and the truth might be more than I can handle.
Well, if I don’t like the current arrangement, I can always get out and walk. My ‘pop gun’ would be fine defense against the partisans or any regular troops that might appear. And don’t forget the hand grenades in my pack. I could always blow myself up when the time came.
The gloomy woods and overgrown farmlands we traverse promote these thoughts. We are adrift in an alien wasteland. We will have to depart these tributary roads soon. We’re approaching a river and will need a stout bridge to bear the weight of our APC. I lean down to speak with Bel.
“How much father?”
“A few more kilometers,” he replies.
“Until what?” Albers asks, but we both ignore him.
Shortly afterwards, we make an abrupt turn toward the north. Our period of relative safety is coming to an end, I know.
Bel knows it, too. His hands grip t
he wheel hard; his jaw tightens.
***
We come to the main route and the whole world changes. Every imaginable type of military vehicle clogs the road – tanks, armored cars, APCs, trucks. Staff cars bearing high-level officers are stuck in the backlog, despite heated threats issuing from their occupants. Everyone is headed west in a nightmare logjam. Worst of all, the sky has cleared, and bright sunlight illuminates the disgraceful spectacle.
Columns of battered troopers march along the shoulders, some of them hurl mockery at the staff cars.
“What’s the matter, Colonel, did Piotra break up your tea party? .… Hey! Your fancy uniform’s wrinkled .… Thanks for getting us into this mess, Pop!”
The officers can only glower back at the insolence. I feel zero sympathy for them. A gigantic catastrophe is unfolding, and people need to get blamed. Why not the pompous fools in the staff cars? Any officer worth his salt would be out trying to control the mayhem, not adding to it. I fanaticize about blasting one of the cars with my machine gun.
We force our way into the traffic jam behind a tank and before a truckload of infantry. The men in the truck curse furiously at us, but Bel ignores their ire.
“Sipren, Albers, go see what you can find out,” he orders.
The lads exit and walk off in opposite directions along the road.
Now that Albers is out of the way, I feel a barrier start to come down between me and Bel. It’s time for sincere talk; I lean down toward him.
“Thanks for saving us back there,” I say. “We’d all be hash without your help.”
“Hey, no problem,” Bel says. “I had nothing better to do.”
“You sure called things right,” I say.
Bel grins, his face brightening our little world. I reach down my hand and he slaps it in boyish salute. For a moment, it seems like old times. But the glow is already starting to fade; the tank ahead of us revs its engine, sending a miasma of diesel fumes our way.
“God!” Bel exclaims. “How long do we have to put up with that?”
Sipren and Albers return; their news is not hopeful. Every soldier they’ve spoken to tells an identical story – total surprise, countless enemy breakthroughs, collapse all along the line. Overwhelming force thrown against us, and no effective resistance anywhere. Piotra is not far behind, but nobody knows exactly where he is.
Enemy assault teams infiltrated past our strong points in the first hours of operations, and their infantry advanced skillfully behind. Then came the armored fist. Our brilliant senior officers did not realize the scale of the attack.
“Incompetent cowards,” Bel mutters, casting a venomous glace at the nearest staff car. “With leaders like them, no wonder we’re getting creamed!”
The brigadier general sitting in the back seat keeps his eyes fixed rigidly forward. He must be one of the politician generals, attaining his rank by currying favor with Party big shots. The NSP armband he wears attests to his true allegiance.
I am discouraged by the reports, but hardly surprised. The story of defeat is etched on the face of every man strung out along the road.
We continue to crawl ahead with the steep riverbank plunging down to our right. The bridge is in sight now where the river makes a sharp curve leftwards. Men and machines jostle each other for a place on the span. Overmatched military policemen try to keep order, but their efforts are ignored. All is shouting, cursing, the rumble of engines and distant artillery. Then a new sound intrudes.
“Enemy planes!” somebody shouts.
They hurtle toward us like angels of death, a whole column of them flying low. They open fire with machine guns and cannon. Spent shell casings tumble away from them, glistening like Christmas tinsel in the sunlight. Rockets streak down at us.
I spin my machine gun around and open fire. Back along the line, others do the same, but their efforts are quickly silenced. Vehicles explode under the rain of shells and rockets, others careen off the road, men jump for their lives amid a chorus of screams.
Katella yanks at me hard. “Come on, Dye!”
He throws himself over the edge. I am still reluctant to abandon my gun and fire another burst at the approaching aircraft. Déjà vu as a line of bullets stitches along the column toward me – as happened during the air raid back home. There is a fascination to the spectacle.
I’ve outgrown my death wish, however. I know that I can’t luck out a second time. I jump clear of the APC and hang suspended in mid air. It is a moment of strange perfection.
Then Earth rushes up and I hit it hard. I tumble down the slope amid a cascade of bodies, while behind me, our vehicle goes up like a Roman candle. The world does not seem big enough to contain all the noise. Machinegun bullets and cannon shells pepper the dirt around us. Albers takes a round; his head disappears in a bloody mist, and his torso thuds to the ground at my feet.
I gape at him, rigid with shock. Then I’m moving again, picking up Albers’ submachine gun and grabbing the knapsack out of his dead fingers. Another person seems to be performing these actions, while I observe the horror from afar.
All around me panicked men are scrambling down the embankment toward the river, including the brigadier general who is moving with more speed than seems possible for his comfortable bulk.
“Hey, puss bag!” a trooper shouts.
He fires his carbine. The general falls onto his back, an amazed expression on his face and a blood spot spreading across his crisply pressed uniform. Again I freeze. The trooper points his rifle at me, I await the bullet. But then he thinks better of it and moves off. More gunshots ring out, other officers go down.
We are inside a brutal spiral of violence. The vortex is here now, but it’s shifting inexorably toward our Homeland, erasing everything in its wake.
Katella is running alongside me while the slaughter continues on the road above us. The roar of heavy guns and exploding rockets is unceasing. Blasted vehicles tumble down the slope, crushing anybody in their path. A wave of panic carries me along.
Finally, I regain some self control. I stop my headlong retreat and glance back up the slope. Bel is up there. He is injured and sprawled out on the ground. Sipren is attending to him.
“To hell with them.” Katella grabs my elbow. “Let’s go!”
I almost start downhill again, but manage to restrain myself. I pull out my pistol and extra clips.
“Take these.” I shove the items into Katella’s hands.
Then I’m moving uphill, past an avalanche of terrified men and tumbling debris. Katella reluctantly follows. As we near the top, I can see a dive bomber hurtling toward the bridge, sirens screaming.
“Get down!”
From my position in the dirt, I swivel my head up to view the attack. The plane releases its bomb and pulls away sharply. The pilot inside me feels the tug of massive G force. I see the bomb hurtling with lethal precision. It is beautiful in the afternoon sky. Then I duck my head back down; a monstrous explosion makes the earth heave like an ocean wave.
Another dive bomber descends, then another. The bridge is blasted to smithereens; its carcass crashes into the river below.
The gunfire and explosions finally stop, the aircraft buzz away. They must have exhausted their ammo. They’ll head back to base now for refueling and rearming where the pilots will congratulate each other for showing those Mag bastards what’s what. Then they’ll take off on another massacre mission.
The air is foul with the hissing stench of fire. I get to my feet and stride over to where Beltran is sprawled with Sipren examining his ankle. Bel looks up at me; his face is an utter blank, as if he cannot comprehend what has happened. He seems oddly smaller than I remembered.
“Report, medic,” I say. “How severe is the injury?”
“It’s a bad sprain, sir,” Sipren replies, “no broken bones as far as I can tell. His knee took a severe jolt, and he might have a cracked rib.”
I glance at the devastated road above. There is no future for us that direct
ion.
“Is he all right to move?” I ask.
“Damn right I am,” Bel says. “Help me up!”
His old self reappears, pugnacious and defiant.
“Let’s get going,” I say. “I know where to ford the river.”
“Yes, sir,” Sipren says – he’s under my command again.
He and Grushon stoop to assist Bel. Grushon’s back is toward me, his machine pistol dangling from its strap around his shoulder.
“I’ll take this,” I say.
I deftly relieve Grushon of his weapon before he knows what’s about. Then I take his knapsack and pass both items to Katella. Bel observes my slight of hand with an ironic little smile.
“Well done, Commander,” he says.
I’m in no mood for sarcasm.
“You hump Bel’s knapsack,” I tell Grushon.
“Yes, sir.”
He’s under my control again, too.
Bel hands his knapsack to Grushon but retains his submachine gun which dangles around his neck like some lethal jewelry piece.
“Don’t shoot yourself with it,” I say.
Sipren and Grushon pull Bel to his feet. He places his arms over their shoulders for support. We begin moving downhill.
41. Lost
We are at the tail end of a mad, retreating procession. Ahead of us, men are scrambling across the river as best they can. Some try to form human chains or concoct safety lines; many simply plunge in and take their chances with the current. The water is frigid, as I well remember from my previous soak. There will be drownings and deaths from hypothermia, I believe.
Most of the soldiers seem to have fled the opposite direction – to the far side of the bridge. The river narrows upstream, and crossing might appear easier there. Good. The fewer panicked men we have to deal with, the better.
We make our way downstream toward the fording which I discovered on my last trek through this area. I consider telling the troopers of its location but reluctantly decide against it. Best to keep as far away from them as possible. All discipline has broken down; those men are no longer soldiers but desperadoes capable of anything. They’ve already shot numerous officers – why shouldn’t we be next?
To them, we’re just pampered ‘pretty boys’ dressed in Yuliac uniforms that reek of the NSP. And the NSP is not highly regarded today. Besides, our knapsacks are tempting booty. At very least we could be relieved of them at gun point, if not executed outright.
