Category: GM

Progress has been slow.

Monk warned us that running two vehicles was guzzling our gas so with great reluctance we siphoned off everything from the tank in “Dale” and filled up “Chip”. We covered Dale with branches and dirt and hid him in a ditch. Monk then buried a a 2 litre bottle filled with gas 10 paces north of Dales ditch – just in case we had to come back, just in case something happened to Chip. I can’t think of anything worse than having to backtrack to pick up a jeep that we just filled with dirt and branches in a ditch but I guess it’s “to be sure, to be sure”. Monk claims to be part Irish so I guess that’s funny.

Fitting all five of us into Chip, plus gear and stores was a pain in the ass and we can’t drive fast or something will fall off. Our bungee cords are so stretched as to make them worthless so I’m tying things in knots and wishing I’d paid more attention to which knots to tie. It would be more comfortable if someone would ride on top, but we’ve heard a couple of light rounds being shot off in the last couple of days and sitting up top and presenting a tempting target is not that inviting.

Early in the morning we rolled into Lawalde, into a vineyard called Kekila. The fields were already blackened and there wasn’t anyone around but we stopped on the hunt for fuel and, heck, maybe a bottle of wine but it seemed the fires got there before we did.

The Doc and the Colonel are talking about putting together a still, which they’ll get Monk to build. Monk thinks he can get the UAZ to run on alcohol, but I’m thinking that I’d rather drink it and stay right here. I’ve never been a drinker but a night of booze-induced oblivion would be welcome.

What spooks me about here is that there’s no-one around. No villagers, no militia, no refugees, no stragglers or deserters. We are definitely on our own and it’s creeping me out.

Colonel wants to make it to Leipzig or south to Nuremberg by the end of the week but I know and Monk knows we don’t have the fuel for it. So, for the next couple of days we are going to sit tight while Monk, Dal and I go hunting for gas.

The little things in life make a big difference.

We’d just crossed into Germany and pulled into a town called Görlitz. It’s beautiful, even now with the smoke blackened towers and the burning fields. We were flagged down by a cheery Herr Emmerich, landlord of a Gastehaus that survived most of the fire. He babbled at us in German but luckily the Doc was able to get some sense out of him. Yes, she knows German too. He was offering us bed and breakfast and hot showers.

We all looked at each other in disbelief. The Colonel, Doc, Monk, the Czech boy.

Showering with hot water and soap was something I’d almost forgotten.

Waking in a proper bed with crisp white sheets was something I never imagined would happen again.

Eating a cooked breakfast with a white napkin on my knee was … well, it was ok.

After breakfast, Herr Emmerich, sat down with us, poured some wine and regaled us with tales of what happened in the town. And the problem he had. There was a gang of militia in the town that were causing problems for the civilians. And he was asking for our help.

The Colonel listened intently.

And then we packed up and left. Emmerich was very unhappy, turns out he knew a lot of English too. I understood. We just weren’t equipped for a fight. I don’t like to think of it as running away, but we weren’t the US Army rolling into Paris to liberate it from the Germans. We were just looking for a bed and a hot shower. So, we rolled out of there and we weren’t happy about it either. But it wasn’t worth getting killed over.

As for our Czech friend, turns out his name is Dalek. After I stopped laughing he was really funny with me for ages even after I tried to explain. I’ve told him that we will all call him Dal, to tell no-one his full name and that he’ll thank me for it. I’d love to show him what I mean but finding a tape and a VCR would be tricky in this place.

Asking us to get rid of some armed thugs wasn’t a small thing. It would have made a small difference. This world is broken. There would just be another bully picking up a gun. And we’d be dead.

I remember just after I finished Basic, I was late for Guard duty and the SM thought I should work it off in the kitchens. I spent days peeling potatoes, mopping floors and washing dishes. My hands were constantly wet so my skin started to slough off – which was pretty gross for anyone who was getting them for lunch. I was up from 4:30 am and worked solid until 9 pm. I thought I was tired. I really did.

I’ve spent the last two days doing laundry. Scrubbing makeshift bandages and rinsing liquified skin from dressings literally from sunrise to sunset. Again I thought I was tired.

The fireburst caused hundreds of casualties. That’s about a thousand injured. The Colonel is off doing his own thing investigating what happened as he reckons it was unexposed munitions that someone set off. While we’re all happy to have him out of the way, I know he’s scared there’s more than one of these incendiary fireburst monstrosities out there.

Doc is a machine.

I don’t know much about her, no-one does. She is never without her headscarf. I know she speaks great English, probably better than me. I know she’s lived in loads of countries or been to them at least. She rhymes off places she’s been to like I rhyme off baseball players. I’d barely even heard of Poland before I was shipped out here – which I know is a damning indictment of our education system back home. I knew that some people were “Polish” or “Polacks” but I didn’t really understand what that meant. I didn’t associate it with a place or a people. Just a term to describe kids we didn’t like.

But back to the Doc. She’s up before the rest of us, and stays up later than the rest of us. She has time to pray, she has time to wash and she has time and endless compassion for her patients. I’ve never heard her speak with a raised voice but I’ve seen her glare at the Colonel when he’s having one of his moments. She talks about how we have to pull together, we are all humans now. The Colonel still thinks the war is on.

I don’t know how the Doc ended up here, in this hellhole. But I’d damn glad she ended up with us.

This afternoon, I brought her coffee, some of the last in our stores, and we sat and cried together. Just a few moments of humanity before we got back to the grind.

While I’ve been washing bandages, Monk has been tinkering with the vehicles. I think it’s his way of avoiding work he just doesn’t want to do. When something is going on, he just fades into the background or makes an excuse and disappears. You’ll find him under the engine of something later. Talk about avoidance issues.

I can’t say much about the Colonel. Colonel Alexander Harland. He’s a gung-ho stereotype. I swear he bleeds red, white and blue. Despite everything he’s well turned out, always clean shaven and I know his weapons are as clean as a whistle. But for all of that gruffness and military precision, he’s also the best scrounger I’ve ever met. Doesn’t matter if he needs to get 30 ft of copper wire or requisitioning an APC, the Colonel can talk anyone out of anything. A real mix of charm and authority.

I suppose I should mention our new hanger-on. For the last two days, we have had a young Czech lad helping out. I think he was a refugee here and when the fireburst hit, he was homeless again. He’s helping Doc with anything she asks. Nice lad, kind. Who knows if he will stay with us.

That’s our crew. We aren’t anything more than survivors. We’re not a force to be reckoned with – we’re just trying to get to somewhere beyond the bombs and bad guys. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a couple of heavy hitters join us, but those folks are scary as fuck. How can we trust someone like that?

There aren’t many people I’d take a bullet for. Until two days it was my mom and my little brother. I’d take a bullet for the Doc. No question about it.

W+10

No. That is not the sunrise.

We’d been near the town of Luban, not far drom the German border for a few days and was beginning to feel a little more human. The people of the town had given us a couple of buildings to settle in while we repaired the UAZ and calmed our own nerves. We’d been on the run for ages and Doc was still treating everyone for burns in the firebombing a few days ago. But it was easier. While Monk was making himself useful repairing a tractor, the Colonel was helping the town salvage supplies. He was actually doing it; not just detailing us grunts.

Anyway.

I’d woken that morning, started to brush my teeth and was looking North to the town. The light dazzled me at first but my surprise was fleeting as I stumbled back shouting for the Doc.

The town was a few clicks away but by the size of the fireball I knew we would be busy that day with the crying wounded and the walking dead. There just wouldn’t be enough medicine or time to help everyone. Doc would know what to do, even though she’d barely slept in days.

Maybe we’d have to move on sooner.

I woke at 7 am and padded into the shower.
Hot water. Soap. Clean towel.
Breakfast. Coffee.

I heard a voice calling me. I knew it was the Colonel. And I was back to my foxhole.

So, again, woke. It’s 5 am. I’m cold. There’s no shower. I shave in cold water out of a mug that I brush my teeth in. Everyone else is up. Monk glares at me with his sunken eyes. I don’t think I did anything wrong. The Doc is silent; the woman speaks at least four languages and she’s got nothing to say.

I pull my blanket around me and I stumble towards the UAZ and then all hell breaks loose. The ground erupts in a shower of dirt and panic. I see Monk scramble into a foxhole and the Doc hits the ground. I hear treebursts around me and I’m showered with splinters that embed themselves in my blanket.

Monk is screaming. The Doc is screaming. I think I’m screaming. And then I’m hauled to my feet by the Colonel. He shoves me against the UAZ and then goes to get Doc and Monk. Minutes later we’re all moving and I see why he was rushing us. A wall of fire is behind us and coming this way.

The silence is deafening.

We were shelled last night. I could hear the pum-pum of guns and the blasts as they landed near. My ears bled from the pressure waves and even those blasts I couldn’t hear, I could feel in the ground. I could hear every one as I tried to sleep. I thought it was night but I realised it was just my eyes that were tightly closed. I felt like if I opened them, one of the shells would get me.

As the rumbles died down, I opened them. Around me my platoon was smashed. Not just the equipment. My friends. I closed my eyes again. I didn’t want to open them ever again. I didn’t want to.

The clouds of smoke cleared with an Eastern wind and I could see the sun was high in the sky. I could hear voices but they weren’t speaking in English so I hid under a tarpaulin and just waited for death. The voices quietly died away.

The Colonel found me that way. Hiding and pretending to be dead in a foxhole. He said he took one look at me and knew I was still breathing. So, he hauled me outta there and carried me on his back to his HQ – a lean-to made of a corrugated iron shed using two UAZs for walls. It was simple and effective. A skinny guy with a mohawk handed me a steel mug of hot coffee. Muttered something about no milk and sugar. And then he disappeared. I felt alone and vulnerable. These people all knew each other; they didn’t know me. I’d lost my entire squad, my entire platoon was behind me.

As I finished my drink the Colonel reappeared and asked if I wanted to go home. I didn’t have the words to answer him so he just ruffled my hair like I was his kid or something and said nothing.

These people; the Colonel, the skinny guy was called Monk and later I met the Doc. These were my new platoon.