049: Intermission

Sure as he made little green apples, God hates the radio.  Sniper by the roadside, hits the radio.  Bone jarring pothole, there goes the radio.  Bird flies overhead, shit on the radio works its way inside.  I've been through four since I left Krakow.  I'm going back to mirrors and smoke.

Cap Kat wants those men back from Baron Black-ass.   I figure it would be easiest if I found them first.  Easy, right?  About as easy as finding an ice cold RC Cola.  Warsaw's a shit pile.  Surprised it doesn't glow.  Bright boy could give me a dozen reason's why it doesn't.  All I need to know is the Geiger isn't chattering.

So, I find a good spot to stash the UAZ, shoulder my pack, and ready the carbine.  Time to go hunting.  Can I get a blue-nose hound?

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Fuck, don't anybody speak English around here?  Went in for a day and half before finding three rejects from Road Warrior.  They forgot the ganger gear and are outfitted with oven mitts, tarp ponchos, and  face scarves.  Were all industrious shifting rubble for whatever could be found.  Got all riled up when I announced myself.  Quieted down after I tapped the carbine.  Guns, a language we all speak!


Settled on charades.  I point to my shoulder flag, "Americans," and make like Tonto scanning the horizon.  Numb nuts sit there.  Point to myself, "American."  Play Tonto.  "Where Americans?"  Don't look at each other.  Tell me.


One shrugs, points west, waves his hand, far-far away, "American NATO."


"Czarny."  That gets their attention.  Grab my arm and make like I'm pulling it off.  "Take Americans"


The brave one slowly stands, hands held far out to the sides, see empty.  "Czarny," cringes, fearfully.

"Czarny," I spit to the side.

He stands.  "Czarny, ha ha ha," mimes a rifle.  "Americans," mimes a rifle.  "Pole," cringes.

I make my hands into kiddie pistols.  Point at each other.  "Czarny, Americans, bang-bang?"

He shakes his head.  Fucking idiots.  He grabs one of his friends, stands him up, makes him aim a rifle.  "Czarny."  Pulls his other friend up.  Puts him in front of Czarny.  Has him take up a air rifle as well.  "Americans."  Goes to the head of the line, cringes down, "Pole." 


I point all about, "Where?"


He points north and north west.  Holds his hands about a foot apart, "Kilometre."  Moves his hands to the side, "Kilometre."  Points again to the north and northwest.


I really should kill them now.  They won't tell no stories that way.  But then Cap would get all weepy.  I give them the roll of sweets from my third to last MRE.  Hearts and minds, man, hearts and minds.


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"Hey, J-boy, jumped out of any new planes?"


I remember meeting him in '92.  He loved to pump iron.  His arms was as big around as my thigh.  Now look at him, skin tight over bone, and an ancient Mauser cradled in his arms.  Sergeant Jonathan Schmidtz, 82nd Airborne has seen better days.  

He makes a slow careful turn.  Hope he remembers the nickname after all this time.  He quints trying to see in the dark, J-boy needs his vitamins, but I'm too far back.  "Moonie," he coughs into his elbow, "Moonie won't eat it, he hates everything."


"Less you got a Moon-Pie."


"No Pies, no pies.  Come forward," he looks around, "less chance of being heard."  He puts the rifle butt on the ground.  Parade Rest.