It was time to part company with Nwargo. His leg was better and he was becoming antsy, always worrying about his children, his wives, and his cattle. I was never sure in which order.
Neither of us had any idea who could be after him, but we agreed that the leak was severe and needed to be patched.
Our isolation within Soleto’s monastery had been complete. No communications had arrived for me. Nwargo had received no missives from abroad. Nwargo and I agreed upon a code to avoid further misleading communiqués.
As Nwargo boarded the boat to Africa, I was torn between my sorrow seeing him go and my desire to find Sarge. In essence, I agreed with Nwargo: it was unlikely Sarge had betrayed us, but a lingering doubt persisted. It was essential that doubt not be allowed to fester, lest mistrust poison my mind.
***
Nwargo and I had roamed the favellas of Recife, listening to whispers, searching for unglazed eyes which might hold information. It was not long before the gangs that rule here heard of the odd couple and investigated. They were young, intoxicated, and heavily armed. In a word, dangerous. Nwargo and I explained that we were migrant farmers looking for work in the sugarcane fields. As proof we showed them our machetes.
“We were hoping to help harvest the fields of Nascimento.”
The most sober of them took renewed interest in hearing the gun-runner’s name. He chuckled, “I doubt Nascimento needs help with the harvest.”
They all laughed. One of the more intoxicated tossed his gun aside and a machete was handed to him. “Little man, I will feed you to my dog!”
Nwargo said nothing and saluted his opponent with his machete. The drunk youth towered over Nwargo’s squat frame. Nwargo easily parried the first few poorly-placed blows. The crowd laughed and heckled. The youth grew impatient and his blows became more desperate as Nwargo danced before him. The youth roared. Nwargo sidestepped the blow and brought his machete down on the youth’s arm. The roar became a scream of pain and the youth crumpled. The crowd pressed forward, straining to see the severed limb.
The arm was bent in the middle. Not severed, but broken. The youth writhed on the ground, clutching his arm. Nwargo kicked the machete out of the youth’s limp hand. “Boy, next time, I use the sharp edge.” Nwargo glared at the crowd, and with a flick of his wrist, turned the blade so the sharp edge was the striking edge.
“You wish to find work with Nascimento? Come with us.”
We followed.
Nascimento stared at us. His remaining hair had grayed and his belly had grown since I had seen him last. There was no recognition in his face. His basso voice boomed. “Eh? you are looking for work? You want to harvest ‘cane?” His mouth split into a toothy grin.
“We wish to harvest special ‘cane.”
Nascimento’s smile disappeared and his eyes scanned us with renewed interest. “What can I help you with?”
“We are looking for a friend.”
“Hmm. And why should I know where he is when his… friends do not?”
“He admires the quality of the ‘cane you sell around the world. Perhaps he has bought some recently?”
Nascimento stroked his chin. “You are not police. Mercenaries?” He tapped his upper lip absentmindedly, then spoke with finality. “I do not disclose to whom I am shipping.” He motioned to his bodyguards to take us away.
Nwargo spoke. “We seek the Pink Mamba.”
Nascimento pursed his lips. “He died in Sierra Leone.”
No hint of recognition of who we were crossed his face. “We have heard otherwise,” I offered.
“If he lives, he has not made any purchases of late.”
“When did he make his last purchase?”
“It was long ago in Freetown. Perhaps you should look there.”
I frowned. Nwargo shifted uneasily now.
Nascimento smiled at our discomfort. “I could arrange passage... if not to Freetown, then perhaps some other destination?”
“We lost our passports to pickpockets.”
A great bass laugh filled the hall. “Yes! Of course. We can replace them for a fee.”
***
Now I stood on the dock, watching Nwargo disappear on the horizon.
Alone again.
My ship left in two days. I was headed back to Berlin. Smitty might have useful information.
Showing posts with label Berlin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Berlin. Show all posts
30 June 2007
09 April 2007
In Which Sarge Faces the Needle...
Cpl.,
Easter. I always think of Tanner's painting. The two apostles at the empty tomb, not quite dawn, the reconsiderations made of what is truly possible.
I had to be at the restaurant early. I've moved back into the house on the beach, but I've set up several more booby traps, something I should have done earlier, as well, I've set up a remote camera unit that transmits to a set I have in my car. The screen looks like a book, specifically, Graham Greene's Journey Without Maps. If they want to kill me, they shouldn't send in the clowns this time. I've gotten lazy, but when I saw them shoot at my dog, something was reborn in me. Something that wanted to live.
Still, the thirst for the needle is unslaked, and the local supplier eats his breakfast here most everyday. Always, two eggs up with french toast and bacon. He knows I have the taste, I can sense it, my skin itches when I serve him. I want to ask and then I want to kill him, but I hold myself distant from the turmoil, and he watches with a bemused smile.
"More coffee, sir?" I ask. He nods. Looks at me. I pour.
"You want a taste," he says under his breath to me, like it's a fact.
"I've had my brekkie," I say and move to another table, of three old women planning a day's shopping. He breaks the yolk on his egg and slathers his french toast then adds maple syrup until it drowns his plate. I break out in a cold sweat, Sam comes up behind me and slaps me on the back.
"Look who was out late last night," he laughs. I apologize to him and get myself back together. I think about how many ways I could kill the dealer with a fork, or a coffee pot, or more ominiously, a spoon. My hands.
They shake. But only for a second. I think of Cody. I think of you and Nwargo in the jungle. I am happy you ignored my advice. Smitty reports he was ambushed and killed four Separatist-terrorists, but he was almost hamstrung and has been rehabbing back in Berlin. It seems our movements, at least those emanating from my command, are being followed too well. I think of Ranger, silent in the middle of a stream. So I serve my eggs, pour my coffee and learn to keep my mouth shut. At night I wake up with dreams in my head: Ahmet asks me for more potatoes, but how can he? He has no mouth. It has been cut out of him. His blood fills coffee cups and from behind me I hear Aglionby yelling at Cody; a silent chorus, that is the only word, for they look ready to pronounce but do not, of Sierra Leone Army regulars, many of them decaying visibly, stand at attention surrounding me. They must have crawled out of the street, for outside the windows the streets, fleshy, begin to pulsate and crumble. Cody whines as Aglionby begins to scream and Cody whines again, louder; I wake up. There is Cody, nuzzling me, pushing me awake, the curtain breathes in from the window and I hear in the distance the sound of the eternal crashing with the temporal. Deep night. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare off, the Southern Cross promises sun tomorrow, peace seems to settle in. I wipe sweat from the back of my neck.
I want to take Cody along the ocean, think about the ships and the contests with the sea, but I am still a little snakebit by the events of last week. I decide to wait for the morning. I try to sleep. I think about leaving to find the man. To take his heroin. I wouldn't pay him. The bastard stabbing his eggs, thinking I'm nothing but a dead-ender looking for a fix. He tips poorly, he half-laughs when he walks out the door.
With the dawn, desire fades. Cody must run with the waves, chase the birds. I follow him into the beginning of the day. I begin to make plans as I run behind him. He looks back at me and occasionally barks and sets out after a slow bird or God knows what. Things must change, then Cody is in the water, he brings me out a stick that has traveled far. It is a gift far greater than any I ever received in Tallinn.
I throw the stick, and he brings it back to me, again and again.
I must learn how they trace me.
with gladness at your well-being,
Sarge
Easter. I always think of Tanner's painting. The two apostles at the empty tomb, not quite dawn, the reconsiderations made of what is truly possible.
I had to be at the restaurant early. I've moved back into the house on the beach, but I've set up several more booby traps, something I should have done earlier, as well, I've set up a remote camera unit that transmits to a set I have in my car. The screen looks like a book, specifically, Graham Greene's Journey Without Maps. If they want to kill me, they shouldn't send in the clowns this time. I've gotten lazy, but when I saw them shoot at my dog, something was reborn in me. Something that wanted to live.
Still, the thirst for the needle is unslaked, and the local supplier eats his breakfast here most everyday. Always, two eggs up with french toast and bacon. He knows I have the taste, I can sense it, my skin itches when I serve him. I want to ask and then I want to kill him, but I hold myself distant from the turmoil, and he watches with a bemused smile.
"More coffee, sir?" I ask. He nods. Looks at me. I pour.
"You want a taste," he says under his breath to me, like it's a fact.
"I've had my brekkie," I say and move to another table, of three old women planning a day's shopping. He breaks the yolk on his egg and slathers his french toast then adds maple syrup until it drowns his plate. I break out in a cold sweat, Sam comes up behind me and slaps me on the back.
"Look who was out late last night," he laughs. I apologize to him and get myself back together. I think about how many ways I could kill the dealer with a fork, or a coffee pot, or more ominiously, a spoon. My hands.
They shake. But only for a second. I think of Cody. I think of you and Nwargo in the jungle. I am happy you ignored my advice. Smitty reports he was ambushed and killed four Separatist-terrorists, but he was almost hamstrung and has been rehabbing back in Berlin. It seems our movements, at least those emanating from my command, are being followed too well. I think of Ranger, silent in the middle of a stream. So I serve my eggs, pour my coffee and learn to keep my mouth shut. At night I wake up with dreams in my head: Ahmet asks me for more potatoes, but how can he? He has no mouth. It has been cut out of him. His blood fills coffee cups and from behind me I hear Aglionby yelling at Cody; a silent chorus, that is the only word, for they look ready to pronounce but do not, of Sierra Leone Army regulars, many of them decaying visibly, stand at attention surrounding me. They must have crawled out of the street, for outside the windows the streets, fleshy, begin to pulsate and crumble. Cody whines as Aglionby begins to scream and Cody whines again, louder; I wake up. There is Cody, nuzzling me, pushing me awake, the curtain breathes in from the window and I hear in the distance the sound of the eternal crashing with the temporal. Deep night. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare off, the Southern Cross promises sun tomorrow, peace seems to settle in. I wipe sweat from the back of my neck.
I want to take Cody along the ocean, think about the ships and the contests with the sea, but I am still a little snakebit by the events of last week. I decide to wait for the morning. I try to sleep. I think about leaving to find the man. To take his heroin. I wouldn't pay him. The bastard stabbing his eggs, thinking I'm nothing but a dead-ender looking for a fix. He tips poorly, he half-laughs when he walks out the door.
With the dawn, desire fades. Cody must run with the waves, chase the birds. I follow him into the beginning of the day. I begin to make plans as I run behind him. He looks back at me and occasionally barks and sets out after a slow bird or God knows what. Things must change, then Cody is in the water, he brings me out a stick that has traveled far. It is a gift far greater than any I ever received in Tallinn.
I throw the stick, and he brings it back to me, again and again.
I must learn how they trace me.
with gladness at your well-being,
Sarge
21 January 2007
-cc-4Ber.jpg)
09 January 2007
In Which Sarge Examines the Spring within the Spring...
Cpl.,
Is love simply ambition? An idea of what life should be when in fact we are fighting the familiar night sweats and mundanities of our true lives? Unexpectedly I must call off my return to Tallinn though I know there she remains. Perhaps the words we never speak are the thoughts we use when we have nothing else left: the things that remind us to live so that we may tell one more story.
Nwargo has been in contact and the red schoolhouse has a broken window. It looks like hell to pay but the chase is everything. I think Plato was wrong and that meaning and reality don't come from The Ideal but rather, simply, from time and the inability of anything to retain form and structure infinately. Flux is meaning. Our desire to create permanance is philosophy. The idea of perfection is, of course, pure philosophy.
I remember that in Commando school, when we took the philosophy class, Wilmot complained about the utility of the thing and the instructor just smiled. I understand that smile now, the smile of a man who has had to kill without meaning and must find solace in the weak light of tomorrow. You were particularly skilled in that class and it has always impressed me, so forgive me these broken thoughts; here, in Moscow, the sun has been down for a long time now.
I must leave questions of loyalty, betrayal and double-cross to you and Ranger for the moment. It's a twin-prop plane and a hydrofoil to my first destination, then it's another plane. At my first stop, there are famous hot springs I have read about. I have discovered that the elders found in towns with hot springs are usually kind and welcoming souls.
with best wishes to you and Berlin,
Sarge
Is love simply ambition? An idea of what life should be when in fact we are fighting the familiar night sweats and mundanities of our true lives? Unexpectedly I must call off my return to Tallinn though I know there she remains. Perhaps the words we never speak are the thoughts we use when we have nothing else left: the things that remind us to live so that we may tell one more story.
Nwargo has been in contact and the red schoolhouse has a broken window. It looks like hell to pay but the chase is everything. I think Plato was wrong and that meaning and reality don't come from The Ideal but rather, simply, from time and the inability of anything to retain form and structure infinately. Flux is meaning. Our desire to create permanance is philosophy. The idea of perfection is, of course, pure philosophy.
I remember that in Commando school, when we took the philosophy class, Wilmot complained about the utility of the thing and the instructor just smiled. I understand that smile now, the smile of a man who has had to kill without meaning and must find solace in the weak light of tomorrow. You were particularly skilled in that class and it has always impressed me, so forgive me these broken thoughts; here, in Moscow, the sun has been down for a long time now.
I must leave questions of loyalty, betrayal and double-cross to you and Ranger for the moment. It's a twin-prop plane and a hydrofoil to my first destination, then it's another plane. At my first stop, there are famous hot springs I have read about. I have discovered that the elders found in towns with hot springs are usually kind and welcoming souls.
with best wishes to you and Berlin,
Sarge
25 December 2006
In Which Sarge Wishes Peace to His Comrades and to the Demons...
Cpl.,
Here it was, they say, that Kalev's grieving wife made for him a burial mound some one thousand years ago, this hill of Toompea dominates the central geography of Tallinn and there it is, in that apartment, just off Dunkri, I thought one day I might surprise another who has grieved, perhaps with pastries from down the street and an omelet made with whatever looked nicest at the market, perhaps other days with a bottle of wine and a picnic basket. A grief that has been the foundation for castles and governments, this hill of Toompea, and I'm writing holed up in some junior efficiency apartment wondering if I have the scope on correctly. Wondering if I have ascertained the angle of the sun correctly so that I won't give myself away, but I fear Cpl., that I may already have.
Tallinn has been one disaster after another, and I wonder now how many enemies have made their way here to watch my death and to perhaps assist in it? Still, there is this junior efficiency, with it's refrigerator stocked with sausages and pickles and a half a bottle of vodka on one of the two windowsills, the corpse of Aglionby keeps me company, sprawled out across a dorm bed probably carted overland from Vilnius where he studied seven years ago. He is not the catch that Deseilligny was, but his soon to be worm-eaten hands will count no more money toward his vile cause and the information he had on me dies with him, unspoken save by my own lips: I am in Tallinn.
They suspect though, and they gather, and if they find that the woman might still be a useful bargaining chip and is still here, then I am done for. I need to know things that I cannot know fast enough about my own position but all I think of is yesterday I saw her smiling over dinner with another man, a judge. Maybe the only honest judge in Latvia. I re-read Ranger's missive, delivered by the old flower-peddler with seven fingers who served other, more desperate causes a few generations ago. It offers grim hope though, if Ramirez is right then there is a thaw in Ottawa and this might not all be for naught.
I am writing with the regrettable news that I will not be able to make it to dinner in Berlin tonight, but I will wish you anyway, the warm hopes and yes, the faith that is Christmas. Please send the same regards to Ranger and Nwargo, I have odd company for Christmas this year, but perhaps next year will offer more convivial company and more edible repast.
With fondest regards,
Sarge
Here it was, they say, that Kalev's grieving wife made for him a burial mound some one thousand years ago, this hill of Toompea dominates the central geography of Tallinn and there it is, in that apartment, just off Dunkri, I thought one day I might surprise another who has grieved, perhaps with pastries from down the street and an omelet made with whatever looked nicest at the market, perhaps other days with a bottle of wine and a picnic basket. A grief that has been the foundation for castles and governments, this hill of Toompea, and I'm writing holed up in some junior efficiency apartment wondering if I have the scope on correctly. Wondering if I have ascertained the angle of the sun correctly so that I won't give myself away, but I fear Cpl., that I may already have.
Tallinn has been one disaster after another, and I wonder now how many enemies have made their way here to watch my death and to perhaps assist in it? Still, there is this junior efficiency, with it's refrigerator stocked with sausages and pickles and a half a bottle of vodka on one of the two windowsills, the corpse of Aglionby keeps me company, sprawled out across a dorm bed probably carted overland from Vilnius where he studied seven years ago. He is not the catch that Deseilligny was, but his soon to be worm-eaten hands will count no more money toward his vile cause and the information he had on me dies with him, unspoken save by my own lips: I am in Tallinn.
They suspect though, and they gather, and if they find that the woman might still be a useful bargaining chip and is still here, then I am done for. I need to know things that I cannot know fast enough about my own position but all I think of is yesterday I saw her smiling over dinner with another man, a judge. Maybe the only honest judge in Latvia. I re-read Ranger's missive, delivered by the old flower-peddler with seven fingers who served other, more desperate causes a few generations ago. It offers grim hope though, if Ramirez is right then there is a thaw in Ottawa and this might not all be for naught.
I am writing with the regrettable news that I will not be able to make it to dinner in Berlin tonight, but I will wish you anyway, the warm hopes and yes, the faith that is Christmas. Please send the same regards to Ranger and Nwargo, I have odd company for Christmas this year, but perhaps next year will offer more convivial company and more edible repast.
With fondest regards,
Sarge
24 December 2006
Building Snowmen
I brought Alan and Henry to the ridge overlooking Kukes in the early afternoon. They took out binoculars and mumbled to each other while scoping out the city. The wind pushed ice floes across the narrow lake and carried banks of clouds crashing into the mountain ridge, periodically obscuring the view of the snowy valley below us. Alan turned and barked, “Wait for us here.” Henry tossed me a bottle of Vodka, “Stay and watch our packs. We’ll be back in the morning.” I grinned and opened the bottle, taking a long pull to their satisfaction.
Down the narrow ridge they set off, the setting sun illuminating their way.
There was no cover on their path to Kukes. Completely exposed, they were confident that they were safe. They had believed my ruse and their voices chided me inside my head, telling jokes of finding a frozen drunkard upon their return up the ridge: “Take one fifth of vodka and mix with one Macedonian. Allow to chill overnight. Serve in a frosted glass.”
Hubris tainted their judgment and they never looked behind to notice that a mountain sheep followed.
If they had been careless regarding me, they proved their abilities infiltrating this city of smugglers. As dusk approached they grew bolder and moved more quickly through the blocks of prefabricated buildings. They approached a dimly illuminated doorway where an old man with a newspaper smoked on an upturned paint drum. As I concealed myself in a pile of scrap metal opposite the courtyard, they handed him something. The old man disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. The two waited outside nervously, aware they were being observed and obviously uncomfortable about it.
A hand grasped my shoulder. I wheeled and snapped the offender’s neck before I realized it was an old woman wrapped in a shawl. The scrap tumbled and betrayed my location. The two were no longer in the doorway.
I barked like a dog.
There was no movement.
The babushka’s shawl smelled of piss, brown coal, and onions. I wrapped it around my head and hobbled over to the door where moments ago my quarry had waited.
The snow beneath my feet announced, “Here he comes!” In plain view I stopped and doubled over with a consumptive cough, supporting myself with her walking stick.
I knocked at the door. The old man’s narrowed eyes peered through the crack. I mumbled something and began coughing again. The door opened wider and the walking stick crushed his trachea then sent the other guard’s pistol flying. His cry was cut off with an uppercut.
No alarm sounded in the dim hallway. I followed my ears to a closed door where a heated discussion was underway. As I pressed my ear to the door, the latch failed and I fell into the middle of the room.
The room was silent. “Borka?” Henry’s confused expression mirrored his voice. Alan was not curious why his mountain guide suddenly appeared on the floor and used the distraction to grab a canister on the table and draw his pistol. Gunfire erupted in the room as I somersaulted away. Alan darted into the hallway but crumpled, still clutching the canister. Henry was screaming. There was a shot, then silence.
I entered the room and ensured that all parties to the prior negotiation were reunited at the bargaining table, joints placed at festive angles.
The canister contained Polonium.
For whom? For what?
All assembled carried multiple passports: Albanian, U.S., Russian, English, French, Serbian, German, Turkish – a United Nations of dead smugglers.
There was no time to investigate further and there were still two travelers waiting to be escorted to their destination…
The snow and Bill’s ankle had forced the two men to descend into the village. Everyone in the village knew of the two foreigners and where they were staying. Now I knew as well. I recruited a young boy to take the canister to the guests and tell them it was a gift from Borka. He dutifully marched off to the house.
At night I set the house ablaze. A steady wind caused the fire to spread beyond my intended target. The village alarm was sounded and people rushed to and fro trying to extinguish the blaze. Bill limped out into the street. I emerged from hiding to engage him and a bullet grazed my left shoulder. I retreated back into the shadows. Gene lay down an excellent cover fire while Bill limped to take up position. Gene then appeared, covered in soot, but Bill’s cover fire hindered my movement. I was pinned down. They would maneuver themselves until they had a clear shot at me. Hastily, I scraped a pile of snow together; returned fire then put my jacket and hat on my snow-doppelgaenger. Shivering, I moved back and watched bullets pierce my jacket. Gene approached cautiously. Before he could discover the ruse, I shot him. He lay groaning for a moment, then there was a flash and I was knocked back.
My ears rang as I scrambled to my feet and hid once again in the shadows. I had the advantage of mobility over Bill and I began scrambling in a half circle to put the fire between him and me as to give me a better shot.
Bill leaned against the wall and drank. His head darted left and right, peering into the shadows, searching for me.
He yelled into the night, “Who are you?”
“Canada.” I whispered into his ear as I cut his throat.
I am making my way back to Berlin as I write. The recovered canister is in my possession, although I do not know what to do with it. General Calrissian has been notified, but no orders as to its future have been given.
Stop by for Christmas Dinner if you can. It would be good to see you again, and Smitty is cooking goose.
Cpl.
Down the narrow ridge they set off, the setting sun illuminating their way.
There was no cover on their path to Kukes. Completely exposed, they were confident that they were safe. They had believed my ruse and their voices chided me inside my head, telling jokes of finding a frozen drunkard upon their return up the ridge: “Take one fifth of vodka and mix with one Macedonian. Allow to chill overnight. Serve in a frosted glass.”
Hubris tainted their judgment and they never looked behind to notice that a mountain sheep followed.
If they had been careless regarding me, they proved their abilities infiltrating this city of smugglers. As dusk approached they grew bolder and moved more quickly through the blocks of prefabricated buildings. They approached a dimly illuminated doorway where an old man with a newspaper smoked on an upturned paint drum. As I concealed myself in a pile of scrap metal opposite the courtyard, they handed him something. The old man disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. The two waited outside nervously, aware they were being observed and obviously uncomfortable about it.
A hand grasped my shoulder. I wheeled and snapped the offender’s neck before I realized it was an old woman wrapped in a shawl. The scrap tumbled and betrayed my location. The two were no longer in the doorway.
I barked like a dog.
There was no movement.
The babushka’s shawl smelled of piss, brown coal, and onions. I wrapped it around my head and hobbled over to the door where moments ago my quarry had waited.
The snow beneath my feet announced, “Here he comes!” In plain view I stopped and doubled over with a consumptive cough, supporting myself with her walking stick.
I knocked at the door. The old man’s narrowed eyes peered through the crack. I mumbled something and began coughing again. The door opened wider and the walking stick crushed his trachea then sent the other guard’s pistol flying. His cry was cut off with an uppercut.
No alarm sounded in the dim hallway. I followed my ears to a closed door where a heated discussion was underway. As I pressed my ear to the door, the latch failed and I fell into the middle of the room.
The room was silent. “Borka?” Henry’s confused expression mirrored his voice. Alan was not curious why his mountain guide suddenly appeared on the floor and used the distraction to grab a canister on the table and draw his pistol. Gunfire erupted in the room as I somersaulted away. Alan darted into the hallway but crumpled, still clutching the canister. Henry was screaming. There was a shot, then silence.
I entered the room and ensured that all parties to the prior negotiation were reunited at the bargaining table, joints placed at festive angles.
The canister contained Polonium.
For whom? For what?
All assembled carried multiple passports: Albanian, U.S., Russian, English, French, Serbian, German, Turkish – a United Nations of dead smugglers.
There was no time to investigate further and there were still two travelers waiting to be escorted to their destination…
The snow and Bill’s ankle had forced the two men to descend into the village. Everyone in the village knew of the two foreigners and where they were staying. Now I knew as well. I recruited a young boy to take the canister to the guests and tell them it was a gift from Borka. He dutifully marched off to the house.
At night I set the house ablaze. A steady wind caused the fire to spread beyond my intended target. The village alarm was sounded and people rushed to and fro trying to extinguish the blaze. Bill limped out into the street. I emerged from hiding to engage him and a bullet grazed my left shoulder. I retreated back into the shadows. Gene lay down an excellent cover fire while Bill limped to take up position. Gene then appeared, covered in soot, but Bill’s cover fire hindered my movement. I was pinned down. They would maneuver themselves until they had a clear shot at me. Hastily, I scraped a pile of snow together; returned fire then put my jacket and hat on my snow-doppelgaenger. Shivering, I moved back and watched bullets pierce my jacket. Gene approached cautiously. Before he could discover the ruse, I shot him. He lay groaning for a moment, then there was a flash and I was knocked back.
My ears rang as I scrambled to my feet and hid once again in the shadows. I had the advantage of mobility over Bill and I began scrambling in a half circle to put the fire between him and me as to give me a better shot.
Bill leaned against the wall and drank. His head darted left and right, peering into the shadows, searching for me.
He yelled into the night, “Who are you?”
“Canada.” I whispered into his ear as I cut his throat.
I am making my way back to Berlin as I write. The recovered canister is in my possession, although I do not know what to do with it. General Calrissian has been notified, but no orders as to its future have been given.
Stop by for Christmas Dinner if you can. It would be good to see you again, and Smitty is cooking goose.
Cpl.
06 October 2006
Nostalgia
Back in Berlin. General Calrissian is tense about something. It makes me wish we were still working together. You always seemed to read him better than I.
It makes me miss the Academy. Memories of that day when Calrissian showed up at our front door one day after school wearing his uniform. I was told to take the dog for a walk. When I came back, Calrissian was sitting in the kitchen, my mother was crying on my father’s shoulder. My father looked at me and smiled. He placed his calloused hands on my shoulder. “Son, Uranium City is no place for a child. You’re gonna be a man soon. Now the General here says there’s a military academy you’ve won a scholarship to where they can get you a great education. With an education, you don’t gotta be a miner like your pop. Make us proud son.” My mother hugged me. I didn’t understand that it would be the last time I would see my father. Isn’t it always that way?
Mom later told me that my father knew he had leukemia from excessive radiation exposure in the mines, that he had sent my application to that “military academy.”
Two months later, the letter that my father was in the hospital with influenza. Two days later the news that he had developed pneumonia. A hurried leave granted home only to be greeted at the bus stop by my neighbor. Silence. Stomach heavy, I entered the home with the shades drawn. My mother looked up and ran to embrace me, stumbling on the upturned edge of the carpet. A sickening crunch we are all now too familiar with. Her sobs mixing with her cries of pain, clutching her wrist, my father dead in their bed, the neighbors rushing to help her up, the dog barking, the priest, the candles.
The Academy was my new home. The discipline of chess. Reading Plato. Ten kilometer hikes with 15 kilo packs.
Remember when we stayed up all night breaking down and reassembling our rifles, just so we’d get the record time?
Simpler times. I used to laugh about the old Commandos. I used to think they had grown soft. When Carling urged restraint in ethics class, I could sometimes not contain my rage… How many times was I forced to do push ups in class until I collapsed?
Remember the time I sang “O Canada” to the tune of “Oh Tannenbaum” at the Christmas party? They made me run barefoot through the snow. You brought me leftovers from the buffet that night as I lay shivering and hungry in my bunk.
Listen to me! Now I’m the sentimental one!
Berlin does that to me.
Oh, thanks for the tea. It’s excellent.
Peace.
It makes me miss the Academy. Memories of that day when Calrissian showed up at our front door one day after school wearing his uniform. I was told to take the dog for a walk. When I came back, Calrissian was sitting in the kitchen, my mother was crying on my father’s shoulder. My father looked at me and smiled. He placed his calloused hands on my shoulder. “Son, Uranium City is no place for a child. You’re gonna be a man soon. Now the General here says there’s a military academy you’ve won a scholarship to where they can get you a great education. With an education, you don’t gotta be a miner like your pop. Make us proud son.” My mother hugged me. I didn’t understand that it would be the last time I would see my father. Isn’t it always that way?
Mom later told me that my father knew he had leukemia from excessive radiation exposure in the mines, that he had sent my application to that “military academy.”
Two months later, the letter that my father was in the hospital with influenza. Two days later the news that he had developed pneumonia. A hurried leave granted home only to be greeted at the bus stop by my neighbor. Silence. Stomach heavy, I entered the home with the shades drawn. My mother looked up and ran to embrace me, stumbling on the upturned edge of the carpet. A sickening crunch we are all now too familiar with. Her sobs mixing with her cries of pain, clutching her wrist, my father dead in their bed, the neighbors rushing to help her up, the dog barking, the priest, the candles.
The Academy was my new home. The discipline of chess. Reading Plato. Ten kilometer hikes with 15 kilo packs.
Remember when we stayed up all night breaking down and reassembling our rifles, just so we’d get the record time?
Simpler times. I used to laugh about the old Commandos. I used to think they had grown soft. When Carling urged restraint in ethics class, I could sometimes not contain my rage… How many times was I forced to do push ups in class until I collapsed?
Remember the time I sang “O Canada” to the tune of “Oh Tannenbaum” at the Christmas party? They made me run barefoot through the snow. You brought me leftovers from the buffet that night as I lay shivering and hungry in my bunk.
Listen to me! Now I’m the sentimental one!
Berlin does that to me.
Oh, thanks for the tea. It’s excellent.
Peace.
22 September 2006
In Which Sarge Addresses the Purpose of It All
Cpl.,
Berlin: the thump from the bass from the underground club beneath us is like blinking neon through a window and still Smitty is wiring and re-wiring the communications devices for tomorrow as if he were surrounded by a still sea.
Riga is half a memory of fog and double-cross, but the information is in the houndstooth coat.
The information is in the houndstooth coat.
I told you once that I only felt truly alive in Africa, but amidst the curving streets of these old and cobbled cities I feel myself come alive again in the intrigues of our world. It has been years since my training in the wilds of the Canadian Rockies, but I feel myself almost as eager now, as if, even in this profession of corrupted souls and the teeming morass of amoralism, I have some dirtied scrap of idealism left. I hold it carelessly in my hand, it is the thing that might, one day, undo me or save the bones of my thoughts. Perhaps yet, it will do some good for the things we try so hard to believe in.
In Riga the churches, topped with their odd, almost rustic vanes, made a key for which only the morning fog could trace and everywhere there seemed to be the suggestion of a shadow that might undo me, undo all of us really, for Reynolds, Hyland, Comstock and Dawes were there as well. I felt the weight of leadership press upon me while everything else around me floated on the breath of Riga's morning, and truly I wondered if the double-agent LaStrue had flipped us again. Only in this game do the cheaters get to re-join the table; we, you and I, know that it is the innocent who are most likely to die. But let us not speak of that for now.
Still, near the Cats' House in the Old City there was the street vendor with the one leg and I, on my own, wondering idly if I still was a commander of men or if I was so soon to be undone, asked idly for directions to the nearest tram, little did I know the carnival of flesh that awaited me in that terrible basement I was led into.
I shot my way out, human cargo about me and with me, and the words of the fool Nesberait still echoing, I shot my way through a backyard's garden and found the boat and we were off to Stockholm, scarred, half-men with secrets that have driven them half-mad and made them wanted by too much of the world stared at the white caps of the waves and maybe found a few moments of tranquility in the contesting rhythms of the sea and the boat. By early evening we were at the safe house in Berlin. Only Reynolds is still to be heard from, Comstock and Dawes are to Nice and from there I will rendovous with them in Cairo, but Reynolds' work is of a more sensitive nature, or so I hear from the gossip that passes for information here. I wonder if he will not be meeting up with Nwargo?
Hyland has just cursed under his breath, the bass thumps on and I stare at the ceiling while I write to you, the computer perched on my knees. Sometimes I wonder what this is all about, but then I remember the next thing that must be done, and I know it must be done. What bigger picture can we form in this world of next moments?
I know soon you will be back in Berlin. I leave this letter for you, and when you see it, know that I too, who am now in Cairo, loved this little octagon of a room too, know that I too wondered if I would be able to sleep through the heartbeat of our neighbors. I hope you appreciate the Russian tea I stocked, in Riga it was cheap and of exceptional quality. Take care to add the milk first.
with best regards,
Sarge
Berlin: the thump from the bass from the underground club beneath us is like blinking neon through a window and still Smitty is wiring and re-wiring the communications devices for tomorrow as if he were surrounded by a still sea.
Riga is half a memory of fog and double-cross, but the information is in the houndstooth coat.
The information is in the houndstooth coat.
I told you once that I only felt truly alive in Africa, but amidst the curving streets of these old and cobbled cities I feel myself come alive again in the intrigues of our world. It has been years since my training in the wilds of the Canadian Rockies, but I feel myself almost as eager now, as if, even in this profession of corrupted souls and the teeming morass of amoralism, I have some dirtied scrap of idealism left. I hold it carelessly in my hand, it is the thing that might, one day, undo me or save the bones of my thoughts. Perhaps yet, it will do some good for the things we try so hard to believe in.
In Riga the churches, topped with their odd, almost rustic vanes, made a key for which only the morning fog could trace and everywhere there seemed to be the suggestion of a shadow that might undo me, undo all of us really, for Reynolds, Hyland, Comstock and Dawes were there as well. I felt the weight of leadership press upon me while everything else around me floated on the breath of Riga's morning, and truly I wondered if the double-agent LaStrue had flipped us again. Only in this game do the cheaters get to re-join the table; we, you and I, know that it is the innocent who are most likely to die. But let us not speak of that for now.
Still, near the Cats' House in the Old City there was the street vendor with the one leg and I, on my own, wondering idly if I still was a commander of men or if I was so soon to be undone, asked idly for directions to the nearest tram, little did I know the carnival of flesh that awaited me in that terrible basement I was led into.
I shot my way out, human cargo about me and with me, and the words of the fool Nesberait still echoing, I shot my way through a backyard's garden and found the boat and we were off to Stockholm, scarred, half-men with secrets that have driven them half-mad and made them wanted by too much of the world stared at the white caps of the waves and maybe found a few moments of tranquility in the contesting rhythms of the sea and the boat. By early evening we were at the safe house in Berlin. Only Reynolds is still to be heard from, Comstock and Dawes are to Nice and from there I will rendovous with them in Cairo, but Reynolds' work is of a more sensitive nature, or so I hear from the gossip that passes for information here. I wonder if he will not be meeting up with Nwargo?
Hyland has just cursed under his breath, the bass thumps on and I stare at the ceiling while I write to you, the computer perched on my knees. Sometimes I wonder what this is all about, but then I remember the next thing that must be done, and I know it must be done. What bigger picture can we form in this world of next moments?
I know soon you will be back in Berlin. I leave this letter for you, and when you see it, know that I too, who am now in Cairo, loved this little octagon of a room too, know that I too wondered if I would be able to sleep through the heartbeat of our neighbors. I hope you appreciate the Russian tea I stocked, in Riga it was cheap and of exceptional quality. Take care to add the milk first.
with best regards,
Sarge
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)