Post by Steve on Oct 21, 2005 15:34:57 GMT -5
Somewhere near Eisenstadt...
In the firelight of the inn, Hannes stared blankly into his warm, flat ale. His body was much like his spirit these days, numb and uncaring. Remote. More out of habit than want, he sipped apathetically at his stien. The world had ceased to have much meaning for him the past few years since the humiliating German occupation began.
Manfred still wrestled his stien with enough success to continue drinking though his coat sported much of his prize, spectators too close to a boxing match to avoid the splatter of gore. Gunther had passed out some time ago, doubled over, forehead on the edge of the table and craddling his belly. Hannes thought he saw a string of drool reaching to the floor.
"Are we gonna fight some Germans today, Hannes?" Manfred slurred.
"The Germans?" Gunter wept into the table without looking up. Apparently he was more awake than he looked. After two years, his voice still held the same anguished disbelief as the day the Aryan officer had taken over his beloved country. It wasn't the first time he'd rhetoricked on the state of affairs, and it wasn't the first time Hannes had considered beating him to death with a blunt object for it. He'd be more useful if he could accept the Germans as their new enemy.
It was another day in a long string of similar days for the Austrian Liberation Front.
"No Manfred, we won't be fighting the Germans today." Hannes replied, bitterly. Truth was, they hadn't even seen a German soldier for months. News had come from Vienna that the Germans themselves had suffered terrible losses to the British in their own homeland. Rumours of undead shuffing their way across Northern Europe one worm-eaten step at at time had been unconfirmed but made Manfred nervous. 'What if they come here?' he had asked. 'Phah!' Hannes snorted. The idea was absurd, even from Manfred. The British. Zombies. Really. 'Yes, the British. Certainly. Perhaps we could convince the Turks to repel them with their Martian allies.' 'But we hate the Turks?' Manfred whined. The conversation had ended when Hannes slung a frying pan at his comrade's head. For all his oafishness, the man could move with remarkable alacrity when circumstances demanded it.
The tarnished brass cannon sulked in the corner of the inn. Hannes regarded it with a sort of posthumous affection, like a photograph of a long-dead wife, or lost paramour. While the German had been away from his camp, the three men waded into the freezing spring waters of the Danube and fished it out, nearly drowning in the process before succumbing to hypothermia for their trouble. 'Think it'll shoot?' Gunther had asked, once they had surveyed the cracked and dented barrel. 'Of course it'll shoot.' Hannes replied, irritated by the question. He had tried to conceal any trace of doubt, but in his heart he felt the way Manfred looked. Without further consideration, they'd hitched their waterlogged symbol of liberty to their donkey and withdrew to safety.
Convincing the innkeeper to let them set the old girl up in the corner of the tavern had been almost as difficult, but he eventually agreed. 'A conversation piece' Manfred had suggested, 'a genuine piece of Austrian history, right here in your tavern'. Normally Hannes cringed whenever Manfred opened his mouth, but the innkeeper's eyes softened then and warmed to the idea, ever the shrewd businessman. So it had come to rest in the corner, gathering dust and perhaps several dozen generations of arachnids. The shell sat unimpressively at the wheel of the carriage. No one said ambiance was easy.
Hannes' nostalgia soured to resentment. He clapped Gunther on the back of the head hard enough to jar the table. "Up! We're leaving." Rising, the three men stumbled out into the grey October chill, their barley breath forming on the air and the cold, muddy road sucking at their boots. Just then, a breeze carried the whiff of a horse to their noses and they looked up to see a rider heading toward them. Even from this distance, the spiked helm was unmistakable. Each of them spun, tried to squeeze back through the tavern door at once before falling and scrambling around on the tavern floor, drawing irritated glares from the other patrons. They pressed their faces to the window for a better look, like eager childern on Christmas Eve.
Sure enough, walking his horse up the muddy road was the tall uniformed officer, en route to where ever German officers occupying a foreign nation went to. The sight of him brought a fresh flush of anger to Hannes' cheeks.
It would end today.
"The gun, Manfred." His companions' eyes lit up like a child who had just been given a pony. Despite the red-faced protests of the innkeeper, the three men kicked over tables and chairs and wheeled the old cannon up to the window. It wasn't until Gunther produced a pack of black powder he'd been carrying for years and Hannes grabbed the chimney broom that people began to really panic. In moments they had loaded the thing and people began ducking behind whatever cover they could, cursing the day their fathers spared enough coin to afford their mothers. A wick from an oil lamp supplied the fuse.
Lining up the nose of the cannon with the shape of the unsuspecting German officer walking up the road, Gunther steadied the gun as best he could. Manfred wobbled beside him, flame in hand. Hannes assumed command once more, relishing the anticipation as always. Finally, he dropped the signal.
"DIE YOU FUCKING KRAUT!" Gunther screamed. Manfred lowered the torch and ramming his fist against the barrel in his excitement. The pitch of the cannon dropped six inches as part of the carriage broke. There was a terrible thunder in the inn as the blackpowder ignited, and the shell ripped through the wall of the tavern, sending a shower of mortar, glass and wood into the street. The ten-pound iron ball hurtled toward the German officer, swiping out his horse from underneath him. He toppled to the ground and broke his neck.
In the smoking, wall-less tavern of the inn, the only sound was a ringing in the ears from the explosion. A giddy laughter overcame the three men and they danced into the road, celebrating thier victory over the Germans. They embraced and tears of joy streamed down to their muddy, besotted faces. Ignoring the lynch-mob forming behind them from the tavern, they sang "Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser" with their very souls, off-key and with half the words wrong. But they didn't care. The German was dead, their humiliation ended and their empire restored. Truly, fortune was on their side this day.
Then, the three men acknowledged a sound they realized had been growing louder for several moments. Looking up the opposite end of the road, their hearts sank back into their boots. A column of men marched toward them, a familiar white and blue cross flying above their heads. Hopeless, the three revolutionaries stood in the middle of the road as the Russian soldiers marched between them and on down the road, ignoring them completely. One of them fell out of line and stayed behind to order a sandwich from the smouldering tavern. Watching the rest of the soldiers go, hot stinging tears welled up in Hannes' eyes. Gunther lost his knees and collaped into the muck. Manfred stared slack-jawed after them, as if not quite sure what he just saw. Hannes found an apple from a bowl of fruit that had sailed into the road with the rest of the wall of the tavern and hurled it at the disapperaring soldiers.
It fell short. Strangely, in his heart of hearts, he wished they had been zombies.
In the firelight of the inn, Hannes stared blankly into his warm, flat ale. His body was much like his spirit these days, numb and uncaring. Remote. More out of habit than want, he sipped apathetically at his stien. The world had ceased to have much meaning for him the past few years since the humiliating German occupation began.
Manfred still wrestled his stien with enough success to continue drinking though his coat sported much of his prize, spectators too close to a boxing match to avoid the splatter of gore. Gunther had passed out some time ago, doubled over, forehead on the edge of the table and craddling his belly. Hannes thought he saw a string of drool reaching to the floor.
"Are we gonna fight some Germans today, Hannes?" Manfred slurred.
"The Germans?" Gunter wept into the table without looking up. Apparently he was more awake than he looked. After two years, his voice still held the same anguished disbelief as the day the Aryan officer had taken over his beloved country. It wasn't the first time he'd rhetoricked on the state of affairs, and it wasn't the first time Hannes had considered beating him to death with a blunt object for it. He'd be more useful if he could accept the Germans as their new enemy.
It was another day in a long string of similar days for the Austrian Liberation Front.
"No Manfred, we won't be fighting the Germans today." Hannes replied, bitterly. Truth was, they hadn't even seen a German soldier for months. News had come from Vienna that the Germans themselves had suffered terrible losses to the British in their own homeland. Rumours of undead shuffing their way across Northern Europe one worm-eaten step at at time had been unconfirmed but made Manfred nervous. 'What if they come here?' he had asked. 'Phah!' Hannes snorted. The idea was absurd, even from Manfred. The British. Zombies. Really. 'Yes, the British. Certainly. Perhaps we could convince the Turks to repel them with their Martian allies.' 'But we hate the Turks?' Manfred whined. The conversation had ended when Hannes slung a frying pan at his comrade's head. For all his oafishness, the man could move with remarkable alacrity when circumstances demanded it.
The tarnished brass cannon sulked in the corner of the inn. Hannes regarded it with a sort of posthumous affection, like a photograph of a long-dead wife, or lost paramour. While the German had been away from his camp, the three men waded into the freezing spring waters of the Danube and fished it out, nearly drowning in the process before succumbing to hypothermia for their trouble. 'Think it'll shoot?' Gunther had asked, once they had surveyed the cracked and dented barrel. 'Of course it'll shoot.' Hannes replied, irritated by the question. He had tried to conceal any trace of doubt, but in his heart he felt the way Manfred looked. Without further consideration, they'd hitched their waterlogged symbol of liberty to their donkey and withdrew to safety.
Convincing the innkeeper to let them set the old girl up in the corner of the tavern had been almost as difficult, but he eventually agreed. 'A conversation piece' Manfred had suggested, 'a genuine piece of Austrian history, right here in your tavern'. Normally Hannes cringed whenever Manfred opened his mouth, but the innkeeper's eyes softened then and warmed to the idea, ever the shrewd businessman. So it had come to rest in the corner, gathering dust and perhaps several dozen generations of arachnids. The shell sat unimpressively at the wheel of the carriage. No one said ambiance was easy.
Hannes' nostalgia soured to resentment. He clapped Gunther on the back of the head hard enough to jar the table. "Up! We're leaving." Rising, the three men stumbled out into the grey October chill, their barley breath forming on the air and the cold, muddy road sucking at their boots. Just then, a breeze carried the whiff of a horse to their noses and they looked up to see a rider heading toward them. Even from this distance, the spiked helm was unmistakable. Each of them spun, tried to squeeze back through the tavern door at once before falling and scrambling around on the tavern floor, drawing irritated glares from the other patrons. They pressed their faces to the window for a better look, like eager childern on Christmas Eve.
Sure enough, walking his horse up the muddy road was the tall uniformed officer, en route to where ever German officers occupying a foreign nation went to. The sight of him brought a fresh flush of anger to Hannes' cheeks.
It would end today.
"The gun, Manfred." His companions' eyes lit up like a child who had just been given a pony. Despite the red-faced protests of the innkeeper, the three men kicked over tables and chairs and wheeled the old cannon up to the window. It wasn't until Gunther produced a pack of black powder he'd been carrying for years and Hannes grabbed the chimney broom that people began to really panic. In moments they had loaded the thing and people began ducking behind whatever cover they could, cursing the day their fathers spared enough coin to afford their mothers. A wick from an oil lamp supplied the fuse.
Lining up the nose of the cannon with the shape of the unsuspecting German officer walking up the road, Gunther steadied the gun as best he could. Manfred wobbled beside him, flame in hand. Hannes assumed command once more, relishing the anticipation as always. Finally, he dropped the signal.
"DIE YOU FUCKING KRAUT!" Gunther screamed. Manfred lowered the torch and ramming his fist against the barrel in his excitement. The pitch of the cannon dropped six inches as part of the carriage broke. There was a terrible thunder in the inn as the blackpowder ignited, and the shell ripped through the wall of the tavern, sending a shower of mortar, glass and wood into the street. The ten-pound iron ball hurtled toward the German officer, swiping out his horse from underneath him. He toppled to the ground and broke his neck.
In the smoking, wall-less tavern of the inn, the only sound was a ringing in the ears from the explosion. A giddy laughter overcame the three men and they danced into the road, celebrating thier victory over the Germans. They embraced and tears of joy streamed down to their muddy, besotted faces. Ignoring the lynch-mob forming behind them from the tavern, they sang "Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser" with their very souls, off-key and with half the words wrong. But they didn't care. The German was dead, their humiliation ended and their empire restored. Truly, fortune was on their side this day.
Then, the three men acknowledged a sound they realized had been growing louder for several moments. Looking up the opposite end of the road, their hearts sank back into their boots. A column of men marched toward them, a familiar white and blue cross flying above their heads. Hopeless, the three revolutionaries stood in the middle of the road as the Russian soldiers marched between them and on down the road, ignoring them completely. One of them fell out of line and stayed behind to order a sandwich from the smouldering tavern. Watching the rest of the soldiers go, hot stinging tears welled up in Hannes' eyes. Gunther lost his knees and collaped into the muck. Manfred stared slack-jawed after them, as if not quite sure what he just saw. Hannes found an apple from a bowl of fruit that had sailed into the road with the rest of the wall of the tavern and hurled it at the disapperaring soldiers.
It fell short. Strangely, in his heart of hearts, he wished they had been zombies.