Dark Benediction

by Walter Michael Miller

  The distant thunder of the artillery was only faintly audible in the dugout. The girl sat quietly picking at her hands while the colonel spoke. She was only a slip of a girl, all breast and eyes, but there was an intensity about her that made her unmistakably beautiful, and the colonel kept glancing at her sidelong as if his eyes refused to share the impersonal manner of his speech. The light of a single bare bulb glistened in her dark hair and made dark shadows under deep jade eyes already shadowed by weeping. She was listening intently or not at all. She had just lost her child.

  “They will not kill you, grazhdanka, if you can get safely past the lines,” said the colonel. He paced slowly in the dugout, his boot heels clicking pleasantly on the concrete while he sucked at a long cigaret holder and milked his thumbs behind his back in solemn thought. “These Americans, you have heard about their women? No, they will not kill you, unless by accident in passing the lines. They may do other things to you—forgive me!—it is war.” He stopped pacing, straddled her shadow, and looked down at her with paternal pity. “Come, you have said nothing, nothing at all. I feel like a swine for asking it of you, but there is no other hope of heating back this attack. And I am ordered to ask you. Do you understand?”

  She looked up. Light filled her eyes and danced in them with the moist glittering of a fresh grief already an ancient grief old as Man. “They killed my Nikolai,” she said softly. “Why do you speak to me so? What can it mean? The bombardment—I know nothing—I cannot think of it. Why do you torment me?”

  The colonel betrayed no impatience with her, although he had gone over it twice before. “This morning you tried to leap off the bridge. It is such a shame to die without purpose, dushka. I offer you a purpose. Do you love the Fatherland?”

  “I am not a Party member, Tovarish Polkovnik.”

  “I did not ask if you love the Party, my dear. However, you should say ‘parties,’ now that we are tolerating those accursed Menshevist deviationists again. Bah! They even name members of the Gorodskoi Soviets these days. We are becoming a two party republic. How sickening! Where are the old warrior Bolsheviks? It makes one weep…. But that is not the question. I asked if you love the Fatherland.”

  She gave a hesitant nod.

  “Then think of the Fatherland, think of vengeance for Nikolai. Would you trade your life for that? I know you would. You were ready to fling it away.”

  She stirred a little; her mind seemed to re-enter the room. “This Ami Gyenyeral. Why do you wish him dead?”

  “He is the genius behind this assault, my child. Who would have thought the Americans would have chosen such an unlikely place for an invasion? And the manner of it! They parachuted an army ninety miles inland, instead of assaulting the fortified coastline: He committed half a million troops to deliberate encirclement. Do you understand what this means? If they had been unable to drive to the coast, they would have been cut off, and the war would very likely be over. With our victory. As it was, the coast defenders panicked. The airborne army swept to the sea to capture their beachhead without need of a landing by sea, and now there are two million enemy troops on our soil, and we are in full retreat. Flight is a better word. General Rufus MacAmsward gambled his country’s entire future on one operation, and he won. If he had lost, they would likely have shot him. Such a man is necessarily mad. A megalomaniac, an evil genius.

  Oh, I admire him very much! He reminds me of one of their earlier generals, thirty years ago. But that was before their Fascism, before their Blue Shirts.”

  “And if he is killed?”

  The colonel sighed. He seemed to listen for a time to the distant shellfire. “We are all a little superstitious in wartime,” he said at last. “Perhaps we attach too much significance to this one man. But they have no other generals like him. He will be replaced by a competent man. We would rather fight competent men than fight an unpredictable devil. He keeps his own counsels, that is so. We know he does not rely heavily upon his staff. His will rules the operation. He accepts intelligence but not advice. If he is struck dead—well, we shall see.”

  “And I am to kill him. It seems unthinkable. Now do you know I can?”

  The colonel waved a sheaf of papers. “Only a woman can get to him. We have his character clearly defined. Here is his psychoanalytic biography. We have photostats of medical records taken from Washington. We have interviews with his ex-wife and his mother. Our psychologists have studied every inch of him. Here, I’ll read you—but no, it is very dry, full of psychiatric jargon. I’ll boil it down.

  “MacAmsward is a champion of the purity of womanhood, and yet he is a vile old lecher. He is at once a baby and an old man. He will kneel and kiss your hand—yes, really. He is a worshipper of womanhood. He will court you, convert you, pay you homage, and then expect you to—forgive me—to take him to bed. He could not possibly make advances on you uninvited, but he expects you—as a goddess rewarding a worshipper—to make advances on him. He will be your abject servant, but with courtly dignity. His life is full of breast symbols. He clucks in his sleep. He has visited every volcano in the world. He collects anatomical photographs; his women have all been bosomy brunettes. He is still in what the Freudians call the oral stage of emotional development—emotionally a two-year-old. I know Freud is bad politics, but for the Ami, it is sometimes so.”

  The colonel stopped. There was a sudden tremor in the earth. The colonel lurched, lost his balance. The floor heaved him against the wall. The girl sat still, hands in her lap, face very white. The air shock followed the earth shock, but the thunder clap was muted by six feet of concrete and steel. The ceiling leaked dust.

  “Tactical A-missile,” the colonel hissed. “Another of them! If they keep it up, they’ll drive us to use Lucifer. This is a mad dog war. Neither side uses the H-bomb, but in the end one side or the other will have to use it. If the Kremlin sees certain defeat, we’ll use it. So would Washington. If you’re being murdered, you might as well take your killer with you if you can. Bah! It is a madness. I, Porphiry Grigoryevich, am as mad as the rest. Listen to me, Marya Dmitriyevna, I met you an hour ago, and now I am madly in love with you, do you hear? Look at you! Only a day after a bomb fragment dashed the life out of your baby, your bosom still swelled with unclaimed milk and dumb grief, and yet I dare stand here and say I am in love with you, and in another breath ask you to go and kill yourself by killing an Ami general! Ah, ah! What insane apes we are! Forget the Ami general. Let us both desert, let us run away to Africa together, to Africa where apes are simpler. There! I’ve made you cry. What a brute is Phorphiry, what a brute!”

  The girl breathed in gasps. “Please, Tovarish Polkovnik! Please say nothing more! I will go and do what you ask, if it is possible.”

  “I only ask it, dushka, I cannot command it. I advise you to refuse.”

  “I will go and kill him. Tell me how! There is a plan? There must be a plan. How shall I pass the lines? How shall I get to him? What is the weapon? How can I kill him?”

  “The weapon, you mean? The medical officer will explain that. Of course, you’ll be too thoroughly searched to get even a stickpin past the lines. They often use fluoroscopy, so you couldn’t even swallow a weapon and get it past them. But there’s a way, there’s a way—I’ll let the vrach explain it. I can only tell you how to get captured, and how to get taken to MacAmsward after your capture. As for the rest of it, you will be directed by post-hypnotic suggestion. Tell me, you were an officer in the Woman’s Defense Corps, the home guard, were you not?”

  “Yes, but when Nikki was born, they asked for my resignation.”

  “Yes, of course, but the enemy needn’t find out you’re inactive. You have your uniform still?… Good! Wear it. Your former company is in action right now. You will join them briefly.”

  “And be captured?”

  “Yes. Bring nothing but your ID tags. We shall supply the rest. You will carry in your pocket a certain memorandum addressed to all home guard unit commanders. It is in a code the Ami have al
ready broken: It contains the phrase: ‘Tactical bacteriological weapons immediately in use.’ Nothing else of any importance. It is enough. It will drive them frantic. They will question you. Since you know nothing, they can torture nothing out of you.

  “In another pocket, you will be carrying a book of love poetry. Tucked in the book will be a photograph of General Rufus MacAmsward, plus two or three religious ikons. Their Intelligence will certainly send the memorandum to MacAmsward; both sides are that nervous about germ weapons. It is most probably that they will send him the book and the picture—for reasons both humorous and practical. The rest will take care of itself. MacAmsward is all ego. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. Porphiry Grigoryevich reached for the phone.

  “Now I am going to call the surgeon,” he said. “He will give you several injections. Eventually, the injections will be fatal, but for some weeks, you will feel nothing from them. Post-hypnotic urges will direct you. If your plan works, you will not kill MacAmsward in the literal sense. Literally, he will kill himself. If the plan fails, you’ll kill him another way if you can. You were an actress. I believe?”

  “For a time. I never got to the Bolshoi.”

  “But excellent! His mother was an actress. You speak English. You are beautiful, and full of grief. It is enough. You are the one. But do you really love the Fatherland enough to carry it out?”

  Her eyes burned. “I hate the killers of my son!” she whispered.

  The colonel cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Very well, Marya Dmitriyevna, it is death I am giving you. But you will be sung in our legends for a thousand years. And by the way—” He cocked his head and looked at her oddly. “I believe I really do love you, dushka.”

  With that, he picked up the phone.

  Strange exhilaration surged within her as she crawled through the brush along the crest of the flood embankment, crawled hastily, panting and perspiring under a smoky sun in a dusty sky while Ami fighters strafed the opposite bank of the river where her company was retreating. The last of the Russ troops had crossed, or were killed in crossing. The terrain along the bank where she crawled was now the enemy’s. There was no lull in the din of battle, and the ugly belching of artillery mingled with the sound of the planes to batter the senses with a merciless avalanche of noise; but the Ami infantry and mechanized divisions had paused for regrouping at the river. It would be a smart business for the Americans to plunge on across the river at once before the Russians could reorganize and prepare to defend it, but perhaps they could not. The assault had carried the Ami forces four hundred miles inland, and it had to stop somewhere and wait for the supply lines to catch up. Marya’s guess—and it was the educated guess of a former officer—was that the Ami would bridge the river immediately under air cover and send mechanized killer-strikes across to harass the retreating Russ without involving infantry in an attempt to occupy territory beyond the river.

  She fell flat and hugged the earth as machine gun fire traversed the ridge. A tracer hit rock a yard from her head, spraying her with dust, and sang like a snapped wire as it shot off to the south. The spray of bullets travelled on along the ridge. She moved ahead again.

  The danger was unreal. It was all part of an explosive symphony. She had the manna. She could not be harmed. Nothing but vengeance lay ahead. She had only to crawl on.

  Was it the drug that made her think like that? Was there an euphoric mixed in the injections? She had felt nothing like this during the raids. During the raids there was only fear, and the struggle to remember whether she had left the teapot boiling while the bombs blew off.

  Macbeth. Once she had played Lady Macbeth upon the Moscow stage. How did it go? The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me, from crown to toe, top-full of direst cruelty!

  But that wasn’t quite it. That wasn’t quite what she felt. It was a new power that dwelt in her bosom. It was something else.

  Her guard uniform was caked with mud, and the insignia was torn loose from her collar. The earth scuffed her knees and the brush scratched her arms. She kept falling flat to avoid the raking fire of her own machine guns. And yet it was necessary that she stay on the ridge and appear to be seeking a way across the river.

  She was too intent upon watching the other side to notice the sergeant. She crawled over a corpse and nearly fell in the foxhole with him. She had been crawling along with her pistol in hand, and the first she saw of the sergeant was his boot. It stamped down on her gun hand. He jammed the muzzle of a tommy-gun against the side of her throat.

  “Drop it, sister! Voyennoplyennvi!”

  She gasped in pain—her hand—and stared up at him with wide eyes. A lank young Ami with curly hair and a quid of tobacco in one cheek.

  “Moya rooka—my hand!”

  He kept his boot heel on the gun, but let her get her hand free. “Get down in here!”

  She rolled into the hole. He kicked the gun toward the river.

  “Hey, Cap!” he yelled over his shoulder. “I got a guest. One of the commissar’s ladies.” Then to the girl: “Before I kill you, what are you doing on this side of the river, spy?”

  “Most chyeryez ryekoo…”

  “I don’t speak it. No savvy. Ya nye govoryu…”

  Marya was suddenly terrified. He was lean and young and pale with an unwelcome fear that would easily allow him to fire a burst into her body at close range. The Ami forces had been taking no prisoners during the running battle. The papers called them sub-human beasts because of it, but Marya was sufficiently a soldier to know that prisoners of war were a luxury for an army with stretchy logistic problems, and often the luxury could not be afforded. One Russian lieutenant had brought his men to the Ami under a while flag, and the Ami captain had shot him in the face and ordered his platoon to pick off the others with rifle fire as they tried to flee. In a sense, it was retaliatory. The Russians had taken no prisoners during the Ami airborne landings, and she had seen seen Ami airmen herded together and machine-gunned. She hated it. But as an officer, she knew there were times of necessity.

  “Please don’t shoot,” she said in English. “I give up. I can’t get across the river anyway.”

  “What are you doing on this side?” he demanded.

  “My company was retreating across the bridge. I was the last to start across. Your artillery hit the bridge. The jets finished it off with their rockets.” She had to shout to be heard above the roar of battle. She pointed down the river. “I was trying to make it down to the ford. Down there you can wade across.”

  It was all true. The sergeant thought it over.

  “Hey, Cap!” he yelled again. “Didn’t you hear me? What’ll I do with her?”

  If there was an answer, it was drowned by shellfire. “Undress!” the sergeant barked.

  “What?”

  “I said to take off your clothes. And no tricks. Strip to the skin.”

  She went sick inside. So now it started, did it? Well, let it come! For the Fatherland! For Nikolai. She began unbuttoning her blouse. She did not look at the Ami sergeant. Once he whistled softly. When she had finished undressing, she looked up defiantly. His face had changed. He moistened his lips and swore softly under his breath. He crossed himself and edged away. Deep within her, something smiled. He was only a boy.

  “Well, what are you cursing about?” she asked tonelessly.

  “If I didn’t think you would I mean I wish this gun if I had time I’d but you’d stab me in the back but when I think about what they’ll do to you back there…”

  “Jeezis!” he said fervently, wagging his head and rolling his quid into the other cheek. “Put the underwear and the blouse back on, roll up the rest of it, and start crawling down the slope. Aim for that slit trench down there. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “She’s quite a little dish, incidentally,” the Ami captain was saying on the field telephone. “Are w
e shooting prisoners now, or are we sending them back… Yeah?” He listened for awhile. A mortar shell came screaming down nearby and they all sat down in the trench and opened their mouths to save eardrums. “To who?” he said when it was over. “Slim? Oh, to you… Yeah, that’s right, a photograph of Old Brass Butt in person. I can’t read the other stuff. It’s in Russky…. Just a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece and looked up at the sergeant. “Where’s the rest of your squad, Sarge?”

  The sergeant swallowed solemnly. “I lost all my men except Price and Vittorio, sir. They were wounded and went to the rear.”

  “Damn! Well, they’re sending up replacements tonight; and we’re all going back for a breather, as soon as they get here. So you might as well march her on back yourself.” He glanced thoughtfully at the girl. “Good God!” he murmured.

  Marya was surrounded by several officers. They were all looking at her hungrily. She thought quickly.

  “You have searched me,” she said cooly. “Would you gentlemen allow me to put on my skirt? I have submitted to capture. As an officer, I expect…”

  “Look, lady, what you expect doesn’t matter a damn!” snapped a lieutenant. “You’re a prisoner of war, and you’re lucky to be alive. Besides, you are now about to have the high privilege of lying down with six…”

  “Quiet, Sam!” grunted the captain. “We can’t do it. Lady, put on the rest of your clothes and get going.”

  “Why?” the lieutenant yelled. “That damned sergeant is going to…”

  “Shut up! Can’t you see she’s no peasant? Christ, man, this war doesn’t make you all swine, does it? Sergeant, trade that Chicago typewriter for a forty-five, and take her back to Major Kline for interrogation. Don’t touch her, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain scribbled an order in his notebook, tore out the page, and handed it to the sergeant. “You can probably hitch a ride on the chow wagon part of the way. It’s going to get dark pretty soon, so keep a leash on her. If anybody starts a gang rape, blow his guts out.” He grinned ruefully. “If we are going to pass it up ourselves, by damn, I want to make sure nobody else does it.” He glanced at the Russian girl and reddened. “My apologies, lieutenant. We’re not really bastards. We’re just a long way from home. After we wipe of this Red Disease (he spat out the words like bites of tainted meat) you’ll see we’re not so bad. I hope you’ll be treated like an officer and a gentlewoman, even if you are a commie.” He bowed slightly and offered the first salute.