Captain Katriana Paterson, September 18th
This place punishes you. Everywhere, the rubble reaches out at you with sharp steel edges, broken glass, and shifting layers underfoot. You can't climb above it. The ridge drifts are too unstable. We have to move down, around, and through. The morning rains haven't helped. Down in the drifts the dusted rubble takes on the consistency of a clay pit. We're drowning in sweat, fighting for every step, and forget about stealth.
Rataj takes it the hardest. Fighting age and despair. He talked the whole trip down, sharing memories of his sons, daughter, and grandchildren. Strong hopes of finding them hale and whole. Instead, this ruin. He spoke quietly to me before the trek took his breath. "How can they live in this?" We've seen nothing but rats.
Leo has the point. He's making better headway than us. Seems to have a knack for the terrain that we haven't caught yet. I'm following at 20. Doc and Rataj take the middle with her lending a hand whenever possible. Alphabit has the man-pack radio and the tail.
I should be paying more attention to the surroundings, but I'm watching Leo, trying to figure out how he's doing it. Damn near bouncing from slab to rock past the concrete mires. He's going to break a damn ankle. And then he's gone.
Fist in the air, signal stop. We're down in the drifts, nearly a valley in the rubble, closed in by the sides. A voice calls out, polish, "Hands high, you fucks!"
Alphabit turns, drops to his knee, covering the back. Doc's caught out, helping the Old Man. I keep the big gun's barrel down, the safety's snicked off. No sign of Leo.
I try tell them, scan, pick, and move. From slab to slab. You make faster time going one side, other side, than slogging through. I'm past ambush before I know it there. Catch a glimpse of movement where it should not. Take three quick bounces away and up, freeze.
There's the fuck. No uni, gray coveralls hanging with bits and pieces of ruins. Gillie suit for Warsaw. Shouting behind, no shooting, yet. He turns away towards party. I see how he got there. Hop, hop, hop like bunny.
"Who are you?" I cry back, playing for time.
"You know you black owned bastards! Now I want to see your hands or we'll send you back in pieces!"
Rubble shifts above and ahead of us as his men reveal there position. Walked right into it. They have elevation and cover. In open ground I could laugh at the shotguns and engage from 500 plus meters. Here, I remember Moon-pie stretched out as Doc cleaned his gut of pellets. We might make it, but the Old Man would be nothing but rags. I raise my hand from the barrel.
Wait, Black Bastards?
Keep eyes front. Cover your sector as assigned. I'm right behind. The cold barrel end press into his neck. A frozen moment and a whimper as his eyes roll back to me. I mime silence. Put the gun down. I see him think hero thoughts. Decide against it. His gun goes down followed by him. I take his position, foot and weight on the upper back, I've got three targets. Dial in and hold We're still talking not shooting.
Polish is a second language. Not blacks, but Czarny's. He thinks we're his men. Which means he isn't.
Deep breath. Let the gun swing free. Hands out. "Wrong man, Captain Rataj pays my wage. I wouldn't piss on"
"Rataj?"
Before I can answer the Old Man speaks up in his captain voice. "Captain Adam Rataj. I've come seeking my family."
To his men, "Cover them well." To us, "I'm coming down."
I have a good view of talker. His shotgun is at the ready as he works his way to my comrades. He'll be first. Then up and to the right. Give them the mag in one long run. They shit and cover.
The leader shambles forward. His clothes are a splotched gray with a steelworkers apron over them. Looks as if he's glued rubble to the apron in a haphazard pattern to make it blend in better. His head is cover with a welder's mask sans the leaded glass.The heavy work glove on his right hand is missing all the fingers. Urban guerrilla.
His shotgun wavers as he closes. His hand comes from the trigger. "Brother?"
He lifts the mask back, shock on his face. Rataj chokes, "Andrezj?" Then the two are on each other with a joyful noise. Trading crushing embraces and slapping backs.
Andrezj turns back to his men shouting, "MY BROTHER! HIS MEN, HIS! COME DOWN, THEY ARE FRIENDS!"
I won't be shooting him today. I step off my prisoner. Help him up. "I won't tell them if you don't." He nods, grabs his weapon by the barrel, and looks to me. "After you comrade, after you."
We're surrounded again, in a good way. Andrezj's men around us, shaking hands, slapping shoulder, and making like they weren't about to kill us moments before. I'm having the same adrenalin release, grinning like a loon and slapping back.
The Old Man's eyes are full of tears. "My sister, my brother, the children are here. Little Brother will take us in."
------------------------------------------------
Two more hours in the rubble and mud. We come to a wall. Challenge and response. That's it, we're in.
Past the wall they've build out of the ruins themselves, the ground opens up, gold and green for nearly two kilometers from the north east to the southwest. They're the scents of hay drying, fresh turned earth, and honest work. God it is beautiful.
"We make this," such pride in Andrejz's voice, "we make this."
How can they live like this?
Because it's right.
No comments:
Post a Comment