311. See them run

See them run, pushing the boundaries of their weary bodies.

Smell their toiling sweat.

Watch them suffer.

Somehow they have convinced themselves there is still time. If the messenger is intercepted, they reason, perhaps the inevitability of it all is suspended. Perhaps they, their sons and brothers won’t have to enlist in an unwinnable war. Perhaps their families won’t starve from hunger this winter.

Have they not noticed the machinery is already turning? Do they not understand that wars are not started or avoided by scraps of paper but by pieces on a politician’s chess board and that the sacrificing of pawns has already begun?

Surely they can hear the thunder of the cannons behind the hills, they can see the black smoke rising? Or do they simply block out the impending conflict? Do they cling to fantasy, rather than acknowledge the reality of war?

See them run, still.

Watch how they delude themselves with visions of peace.

The fools.

246. Manitoba Lee

Manitoba Lee took a swing at Dr. Gerhardt Messerschmidt, renowned historian, chief art collector of the Third Reich and – foremost – his nemesis. The doctor, a keen boxer in his youth, avoided the punch and slammed his fist in Manitoba’s side, who sank to his knees in pain.

“Hand me the painting,” the Nazi yelled.

“Never!”

“You are really prepared to die for a piece of art?”

“Only if you are prepared to kill for it.”

“Offensichtlich,” Messerschmidt said with a sardonic smile on his unnaturally thin lips as he produced a thin rapier from his sleeve.

The train – still gaining speed – hit an uneven rail at this point, catching Messerschmidt off-balance and giving Manitoba Lee the chance to grab a meat fork from the dining cart. He countered the first wave of attacks with it and cut Messerschmidt on the shoulder. The Nazi was not perturbed.

“Fencing is a funny game. Every competitor will take hits. But in the end, the German wins.”

And he leapt forward, pushing Manitoba back, against the coach door, which after a few knocks flung wide open and rushed a fierce cold wind through the carriage. Sparks flew as iron hit iron and the superior fencing technique of the Nazi shone through. Within half a dozen blows, he disarmed Manitoba Lee.

“The painting,” Messerschmidt demanded once more.

Manitoba unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the small, exquisite canvas, taped to his chest.

“Es ist wunderschön,” the Nazi said.

“It is. Better take a good look,” Manitoba said. “It’s the last time you’ll see it.”

And on those words, he flung himself out of the carriage, into the 200 feet deep ravine below.

He would not survive the fall, that was certain.

But the painting would not hang on the Fuhrer’s walls.

That was all that mattered.

 

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243. A winnable war

A winnable war had arisen from the ashes of inevitable defeat.

In each of the forty-three years after the skirmish had started, the North had been on the losing side. What was once a vast and far-reaching country, spanning time zones and continents, ten years ago had been forced to fold back onto its capitol. In the following decade the city would be under constant Southern siege. Few people believed the stalemate could be resolved.

But now, there was hope.

Like every other day, Southern bombs had laid waste to huge chunks of the capitol. Bombs that not once since the war had started had failed to explode. But after the dust had settled the inhabitants came across a shell stuck in the ground. Unexploded. Harmless. Impotent.

News soon spread across the city and lured thousands to the spot. Among them the five-year-old who fearlessly climbed the bomb, posed for pictures and would become the poster girl for the new wave of optimism.

Southern technology had always been far superior to Northern machinery. But the dud in the ground fed hope that the South was running out of reliable cogs and bolts. Insurgents who’d had trouble recruiting new blood, now were inundated with youngsters joining up to fight. And songs about a change in fortunes could be heard in the dark of night.

They reached the ears of the Southern forces surrounding the city as well. But the songs did not strike fear in their hearts. Everything was going according to plan.

A plan so simple it was sheer genius.

The South had knowingly smuggled the dud among the bombs. Had intentionally given the North hope of a winnable war.

For forty-three years, the South had tried to break their walls.

Now they’d break their spirits.

The walls would follow.

 

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218. They were a rowdy bunch, this lot

They were a rowdy bunch, this lot.

At midnight they had crashed the tavern, sober and hungry and tired. Now they were drunk, fat and rejuvenated. A belching, swearing, stinking passel of pigs.

Bring us another, the pigs bellowed at the barmaid. In no time there were fresh pints of ale on the table. Equally quick their groping hands were fondling the maid’s tits and ass.

She said no. And then again. But they wouldn’t take that for an answer. They’d bed her. One at the time or all together, the pigs didn’t care. Nor did the publican. He was used to this. He had seen it happen to all his girls.

He knew that when the rooster crowed at first daylight, the tavern would be trashed and the barmaid ravaged. The pigs would be leaving plenty of silver on the counter to buy off their debauchery.

And only then they’d set out to die.

For an army doesn’t march on an empty stomach.

 

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212. The Tubular Alloy Steel Company

The Tubular Alloy Steel Company had been instrumental in winning the war. There had scarcely been an airplane that didn’t use one of its custom-made tubes. The general manager had even received the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

But that was ten years ago. Wars were still being fought, but not on this big a scale. And so the demand for steel tubes had dwindled considerably.

On the factory floor, word had it that another dire fiscal quarter would put the nail in the company’s coffin. The workers did not take kindly to the rumour. They were proud of their welding and how it kept people safe.

But obviously that no longer worked for them. If the company was to survive, the welders would have to be creative. So even though it directly violated their work ethic, for every hundred tubes they’d weld a bad one.

And they prayed it would all fall apart somewhere above the Soviet Union.

 

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103. We’ve lost the Belgian contingent in the Sinai

“We’ve lost the Belgian contingent in the Sinai.”

The general kept staring silently through the window, his hands behind his back, ignoring the reflection of the messenger who was still saluting on the other side of the spotless oak desk, the only piece of furniture in the gargantuan room.

This war, this long, drawn-out war would never end. Years of slaughter and nothing to show for it but millions of dead soldiers – good, honest young men who never intended to be cannon fodder but signed on the dotted line anyway.

“How many?”

“Three thousand one hundred and twenty-four, sir.”

The general bowed his head. The number was but a droplet in an ocean of lost souls but it hit him hard every time. He went on holiday to Belgium once, with his wife and sons. They enjoyed it there: the kindness of the Belgians, their witty sense of humour, their fabulous cuisine. He’d like to go back some day. If there was a country left, that is.

“You’re Belgian, aren’t you, Serge?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Anyone you knew in the Sinai?”

The messenger did not reply immediately so the general assumed the answer was yes.

“Had any leave of late?”

“Not since February, sir.”

The general turned and opened the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a standardized form, dipped his quill in the inkwell, filled in the form, signed it, sprinkled some pounce over the ink en then handed the form to the messenger.

“Consider yourself on leave till Sunday, Serge.”

Serge declined the paper.

“My place is here, sir.”

War never fails to make damned fools out of soldiers, the general thought.

Damned naive fools, who imagined their ceaseless dangerous efforts would win the war.

How he longed to be one of those fools again.

 

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