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  This particular room had probably begun life as a root cellar. Now it remained only because the engineers had ruled that its walls provided significant support. It was empty now; whatever it had held had long ago been taken by the Fritz or maybe even by the Ivans before them. The floor was dirt, packed hard from years of trampling and cold as ice, but I had heat enough for us both.

  With signs, I directed my girl to get on all fours, pausing long enough to make her somewhat comfortable by folding a rag of blanket under her knees. She didn't protest. I had no doubt she'd been through this before. I've heard that these shepherd peasants don't know how to do it any other way. In any case, the Abduls aren't exactly romantic toward their ladies.

  Maybe it was that last thought, maybe it was the resigned look in the girl's big brown eyes, but before I flipped up her skirts and hauled down her ragged underthings, I put my arms around her and kissed her warmly. She started slightly. Then the saucy thing kissed me right back!

  When our lips parted, she rolled onto her back, making quite clear that she preferred the act this way. I wasn't about to argue. I'd thought I might need to club her to keep her from screaming and here she was inviting me to have at her! I supposed she thought that rogering was more to her liking than hauling rubble in a dark tunnel.

  I was too damn fired up to manage much in the way of warm-up activities, but I did give her bubbies a squeeze before mounting up and getting on with the business. Just to make certain she stayed quiet, I put my mouth over hers. She nibbled my lips, moaning gently, a sound I felt more than heard.

  It was over faster than I'd have liked, nor could I risk a second go, not with my crew laboring maybe three meters away. I straightened my uniform and, locating a chocolate bar in my pocket, I gave it to the Circassian wench.

  "Think me," she whispered in very broken English, "when you get loot?"

  I gave her soft parts a squeeze to show her that I would indeed, though I did wonder if she realized that she herself might be part of that loot rather than on the receiving end of any gifts. Given what I learned about her later, I wouldn't doubt it. Then I slapped her across the rump, handed her a shovel, and sent her back to the labor party. I joined them a moment later, well pleased with the interlude.

  When the fortifications were complete, Eric sent our erstwhile laborers out into the wilds to fend for themselves. They went burdened with food and blankets, the latter from a store the Fritz were too stupid to destroy when we attacked. I found my wench and slipped her a few extra pieces of chocolate, not out of any softness, but because I'd been playing with the idea of hunting her up again next time Eric sent me out on sniper duty. Finding her would be a long shot, but then I wasn't paying for the candy.

  After the Circassians were gone, we settled in, waiting for all hell to break loose as we knew it must in time.

  * * *

  I suppose this is the best place to set the record straight about Eric's relationship with our comtech, Sophie Nixon. In his own accounts he represents his relationship with her as one of those wonders that blossom under fire. She is the voice of practicality when he lapses into too deep thoughts. Her no-nonsense approach to life and death is a natural antidote to his Byronic brooding.

  Well, I've said already that Eric von Shrakenberg was not the person he presented himself as being. Neither then was Sophie Nixon, but I don't suppose that even in fiction can a man tell the truth regarding the woman he eventually married.

  About the only true thing in Eric's portrayal of Sophie is her age. She was nineteen and a half in April of 1942. I checked the record later, curious as to whether he had left any scrap of the truth intact. He portrays her as a cute, round-faced wench with features lacking the aquilinity so prized by the Draka. Of course she was in perfect condition, but who among us wasn't after paratrooper training?

  I recall Sophie as round-featured, but not at all cute and I wasn't the only man in the company to make that assessment. She smoked constantly so her horsey teeth were yellow stained. Her hair and breath reeked of sour tobacco smoke. Her skin was dull and flat—again from those damn fags.

  Like most of the men in Century A, I knew that Sophie was as lusty as a cat in heat. She preferred men to women, but would take women and if she couldn't get women just about anything would do. I'm not kidding—the stories about her role in the girl-and-pony show at the Legion Hall were common currency back then. I understand that the Politicals considered going after her for it, but she hadn't broken any laws but those of good taste.

  You must recall that in those days the Race Purity laws were in full effect. I might go and have a romp with a captive wench, but any Citizen woman caught taking her pleasure of a male captive in a similar fashion would be liable for criminal proceedings. So when Sophie had an itch to scratch, she needed a Citizen male for her toy.

  Well, I'd had my go at Sophie and found her too pushy for my tastes. I like a woman who will play, not one who wants to ride me like a fire fighter who's just heard the bell ring. It's undignified and takes some of the fun out of it. Most of the men felt the same and the women in our Century were off Sophie for some obscure reason based in feminine politics. That meant that if Sophie Nixon wanted her ashes hauled there was just one man left in the Century who could do it for her—Eric von Shrakenberg.

  Now Sophie was never a woman to turn down a challenge. Her posting as a comtech in those days of primitive radio was proof enough of that. Bedding Eric would make keeping vacuum tubes unshattered during a parachute jump seem a lark. We all knew Eric preferred sex with serf wenches—I suppose it went back to his childhood. Once a week he'd trot down to the officers' Relief Station, take a half-hour with a girl—any girl—and then his itch was scratched. In all the gossip around the mess hall, I never met anyone who could swear Eric had done it with a Citizen.

  So to be fair to Sophie, maybe it wasn't just because no one else would have her that she made her play for Eric; maybe she wanted to be the one to get his cherry, to force him to do the capital act human to human, rather than master to serf.

  Whatever her reasons, she sniffed after him like a dog in heat. It became something of a company joke—one we kept from Eric and Sophie, of course. There was even a betting pool going about when she'd get him, where, and how publicly. I would have won, too, but the circumstances under which I was witness were such that I preferred to keep my lips buttoned.

  But I'm getting ahead of my story.

  * * *

  Hell broke loose at around 1600 hours that same interminable April fourteenth. The Fritz, in the person of a fighting SS unit, brought the battle into our fortified little village, winding up the road with tanks and various other vehicles. They were armed to the teeth, ready to smash through what they imagined was a medieval village held by a rather lightly armed and armored paratrooper unit.

  They were wrong and we punished them severely for their conceit. For once I was in the thick of it, not liking that at all but not wanting to risk my hard-won reputation as a hero. If I died here, that reputation wouldn't matter much, true, but I planned on living on and living well.

  After the fight was over, we knew the trap was sprung. There was no way we'd pull the Fritz into it twice—especially not this particular unit. The SS were pure slime, but cunning, too. And, sadly for my hopes of a solid eight hour's sleep, they weren't afraid to work nights.

  About 0230 on April fifteenth—less than twenty-four hours since we'd made that damn parachute drop, if you've forgotten—one of the Circassian scouts came in with the news that the Germans were moving into position to crush us, probably with first light. We didn't have the luxury to wait for them to come to us. If we did, not only would they most certainly win, but they would also roll up and pinch our fellow Draka between their advance and the Fritz already in position.

  I'm no empty-minded hero with stars in my eyes and the flutter of dragon's wings in my ears. I suppose that's apparent enough. Still, even I felt a burning anger that the losses we'd already suffered might go f
or nothing. I was also determined that I wouldn't join the casualties if I could help it. A brilliant idea born of desperation sprang to mind.

  When Eric scanned our group looking for volunteers to round out Tetrarchy Two, the unit he had nominated for certain death, I stepped forward.

  "Take me, Eric," I said boldly, thinking of treetops and the two dozen ways a man could honestly claim to get lost in the dark during a battle. I'd be a hell of a lot safer out there than waiting in this death trap of a village.

  He nodded. Tetrarchy Two's shooter had been killed in our second action. While Eric named the others who were being sentenced to death and lust-sick Sophie Nixon proclaimed her right to sacrifice more radio equipment to her desire to get laid, I stuffed my pockets with things that would make survival in the damp forests more tenable. So eager was I that I was ready to go before Tetrarchy Two assembled, so I made myself useful at Eric's right hand.

  He smiled at me. The vicious light in his eyes said: "Now I'll have my chance to get rid of you, Egyptian."

  Mere minutes after the Circassian scout's report, the augmented Second Tetrarchy filtered out into the night. Our faces were smeared with black, our bodies weighted down with two kilos of gear apiece. Rain poured from an unseen sky where clouds obscured what little light stars or moon might have offered. I can sincerely say that I have been in brighter mines.

  Despite the icy trickle of rain that ran from my hair down the back of my neck, I grinned into the darkness as I ran along the muddy road. Red-haired Loki must have smiled upon my plans. There could hardly be a more perfect night for slipping away from trouble.

  After about ten klicks of jogging along through perfect darkness, a soft whistle sounded a halt. We clustered round while the native scout reported that we had reached the trail that would take us to the Fritz. Eric snapped out orders. Most of the Second Tetrarchy—myself included—were to go west and cover the other trails, picking off the Fritz as they headed along them toward Village One. Another group under Eric's own command was to escort some satchelmen from the combat engineers to blow up the Fritz tanks.

  Well, we'd all have done a hell of a lot better if Eric'd just stayed back at the village and let us do our jobs without his damned leading by example. If what Eric pulled that night was an example of the best Draka High Command can offer, well, no wonder breeding ghouloons and mutant Citizens became such a priority in later years.

  And how did I happen to be there to witness Eric's muff when I'd been sent off with the bulk of the Second Tetrarchy? Once again, I'd been clever and screwed myself good in the process, but then if I hadn't, I suppose I wouldn't have been in position to win the battle for the Draka.

  As soon as we split to cover the various paths, I left my partners. No one questioned this, not with my cool assurance that I'd be there when they needed me. It's that Guardian Angel thing again. Also, as Eric is fond of noting when his own disobedience is mentioned, Draka encourage a certain amount of independence and innovation among even the lowest ranked troopers, and I was a decorated hero.

  I melted back into the darkness and here my own ignorance of forests defeated me. Egyptian-born as I was, I was more comfortable with deserts or river swamps and marshes. I'd trained in places similar to these dark, wet forests, but training isn't the same as having a terrain imprinted in your blood.

  To make the least fuss about an interminable time spent creeping around in the damp, looking for a place away from both the Fritz and my homicidal buddies: I got lost.

  A dim flicker of light, barely glimpsed through the hateful black tree trunks gave me my first landmark. I closed, moving across the sodden forest floor with supreme stealth. Soon I could distinguish the faint sound of boots and the swish of rain capes. I matched the cadence of my movements to theirs and closed further. My plan was to trail long enough to get my bearings and then beat cheeks in the opposite direction.

  I only realized how far off course I'd gotten when I heard Eric von Shrakenberg's voice, hoarse and low, reminding his small troop of their orders. Ahead, just visible through the trees, were the Fritz with tanks, trucks, and troops. I didn't need to be told that they were also far better rested than we were. I hated them for being dry and asleep when I was out here sodden, my head pounding with fatigue as the effects of the chocolate and coffee I'd bolted down burned off.

  What I did next wasn't cowardice but prudence—at least I'd like to think so. If I joined Eric and his brave band, I'd have been damned for disobeying orders. If I tried to slip away, I might be caught in the crossfire. There was a sturdy tree just ahead, an old monster with vines and moss hanging from the limbs and a thicket at the base. In two seconds I'd imitated a squirrel and slipped into the boughs, finding myself a position in which I could lie hidden.

  Darkness was my friend at that moment, darkness and pouring rain. I felt almost cheerful, like when as a boy I'd slipped into the old brothels in Cairo and watched my elders fornicating in what they thought was decadent privacy. They'd never dreamed that a little boy lay silent and aroused on one of the ceiling joists, observing them through the cracks in the lath and plaster. Now once again I figured I'd play voyeur from perfect safety and maybe learn something I could turn to my advantage.

  Turns out, I proved more a prophet than I'd ever dreamed.

  Eric and his little band closed on the Germans. From my vantage, I saw the sentry before Eric did, but I couldn't very well give warning.

  "Halten sie!" came the nervous challenge.

  Then Eric blew it.

  "Ach, it's just me, Hermann," he said in German. "Where's the Herr Hauptman?"

  To this day I hold that if Eric hadn't been so busy trying to be clever—I mean, why bother calling the sentry "Hermann" as if he knew him?—he might not have forgotten something as elementary as the fact that the SS doesn't use the German Army rank system. No matter, the cat was out of the bag.

  The Germans opened fire and I ducked close to my guardian tree trunk. Nothing came near me, however, and in the wild light of flare fire I was more safely hidden then ever. No one, Draka or Fritz, would have believed that my black-painted face was anything but an illusion wrought of shadows and fear, even if they did catch a glimpse of me.

  Slowly, I worked my rifle into position. I no longer needed to worry that the flash from my shooting would be seen, and I had a fancy to lessen the odds that some Fritz might get lucky and take me out.

  As I sought targets and fired, I caught glimpses of Eric behaving like a raw recruit. Spotting what any idiot could have realized was the command truck, did he draw back and fire into the body from safety?

  No! The idiot pounded forward and tossed something—I guessed a grenade and a muffled "whump" a couple seconds later confirmed my guess—into the back. Then, without checking or even firing a few shots through the canvas to make certain that the grenade had done its job, Eric went loping toward the back of the truck.

  I'm not certain to this day what he was after. Maybe the radio. Maybe the commander. Maybe a safe place to hide. What he got was a boot soundly in his jaw as a big German came barrelling out. Then the two of them were in the mud, wrestling like mad dogs. If it hadn't been for Sophie Nixon's desperate need for Eric, we would have been spared his continued troublemaking. As it was, she rescued him from his own stupidity.

  Kicking the Fritz in the balls to distract him, Sophie proceeded to beat him to death with the butt of her machine pistol. It was pretty ugly. I distracted myself from the sight of Draka femininity in action by picking off a couple of opportunistic Fritz—one of whom had fled into the woods, chanced on our native guide, and would have killed him but for me.

  The once quiet, rainy night now echoed with manmade thunder. The air reeked of explosives, burning fuel, and roasting corpses. As if in an effort to reclaim the night for Nature, the storm grew in force. To me up in my tree, it was evident that despite his crew's valiant effort to make up for Eric's mistakes we Draka were losing the battle.

  After Sophie forced a stim bet
ween his lips, Eric caught on. He hollered the call to retreat to those few sodden and battered Draka who still lived. They dropped back and damn me if Sophie and Eric didn't take refuge under my own favorite tree!

  Somehow Sophie had managed to keep hold of her radio, even while saving Eric's bacon. I saw her thrust the handset into his palm, urge him to do something. The stim had taken effect by then. Trembling in my perch, I damned Eric's eyes as he called for firefall—a bombardment of the very area in which we had taken shelter!

  Didn't the idiot realize that our people would be using captured ordnance—ordnance that they couldn't trust or aim? Didn't he realize that we could get killed? Let him die a hero if he wanted! I knew that the only way to be a hero was to live and enjoy the benefits!

  I wanted to leap down, to drag the handset from his mouth, to shout a counter command, but the memory of Sophie beating the Fritz to death with the stock of her machine pistol stopped me cold. Then . . .

  Well, according to Eric's account, what happened next was that he ordered his troops to retreat "firing for effect". Wotan! As if with the skies raining fire and explosion our little guns could have any effect! Anyhow, that's the official story and many a Draka has thrilled at the drama of those blood-smeared survivors hauling ass up the trail, led by a commander who collapses in pure exhaustion at the brink of safety.

  Rather reminds you of the tale of Moses and the Promised Land, doesn't it?

  There isn't a word of truth in it. What really happened is that the remnant of Eric's band hugged the dirt, praying to whatever gods they believed in that they hadn't just gone through hell to die by friendly fire. And hidden in the thicket at the base of my mighty oak, Sophie Nixon tore open Eric von Shrakenberg's trousers, straddling him then and there in the mud and rain.