Post by Steve on Oct 9, 2005 3:06:45 GMT -5
Somewhere in the Austrian Alps...
Hannes lit up his last cigarette. Where the hell was Gunther? He should have been back hours ago. Manfred's lard-fingered insistence on dropping his mess-kit all over the rock-face had created enough racket in the sleepy valley to wake the dead, but where he had expected a hail of gunfire to pelt their position, there was no sign of movement from the Russian encampment below.
Stroking the shell beside him like a loving mother hen doting on her precious lone egg, Hannes could smell victory in the air, and it smelled an awful, awful lot like Russian blood. It would be a glorious day for the Austrian Liberation Front.
A sound like an ox plowing through a gravel quarry came scraping through the pass. The sound grated on his ears and he could feel heat rushing to his face and his jaws clenched reflexively. The cigarrete turned downwards as his lips twisted into a scowl. It was fully another two minutes before Gunther stumbled into the camp.
"What is that?" Hannes asked. Manfred's head snapped up, apparently quite startled by the return of their comrade.
"What's what?" Gunther said, strangely, not the least out of breath. He had taken his time.
"That thing under your arm. It looks like... is that... a... wheel?"
"Oh yeah. Here it is. Took it off Bolivar's cheese cart. Can you believe the bastard wanted $5 for the thing? Like, come on! We're fighting a war here!"
"You brought me a wheel?"
"Um, yeah. You said you wanted a spare tire."
Gunther's hearing hadn't been right since a Russian cannon had ripped through his family's home in Salzburg.
"A flare to fire, Gunther. A flare."
Disappointment, then confusion filled the man's face. Hannes looked away in disgust.
"Well it looks like we're on our own then," he said, spitting the words out like nails, "Since now we have no way to signal for back-up." Exhaling sharply, he turned to the mounted brass cylinder, "Manfred, help me with this thing. But for Christ's sake, don't drop anything."
The three of them manouvered the cannon into position. It was a great, ancient thing, antiquated even ten years ago by the invention of the Howitzer, and it had taken the three men days and prayers and curses to drag it up here over the unforgiving, trackless mountainside, but this old tarnished behemoth was the saviour by which he and his fellows would liberate their beloved motherland and restore the glory of the Hapsburg Empire.
Just then, a lamp came on in a tent below. The three of them ducked behind a boulder and huddled together there, watching. Waiting. A figure stepped out into the late evening gloom. A young Russian officer by the look of him. The man, who was singing drunkenly in the dog's foreign tongue the hated anthem of the interloper, lit a cigarette of his own, walked to the river's edge and dropped his trousers. Hannes jaw went slack. He could hardly believe his eyes. The sheer insufferable indignity of it all! This... this... Cossack pissing in the Danube... It was nearly too much to bear.
"Manfred," he said quietly, his voice belieing the rage now racing through his veins, "Bring the gun to bear on that man."
Manfred did as he was told, with surprising swiftness and an uncharacteristic agility. Hannes raised his hand for the signal. He would savour this anticipation for a moment longer. Then, movement in the trees behind the camp drew his attention.
A second figure, this one mounted on horseback, trotted into the Russian camp. The figure levelled his rifle at the drunken, peeing Russian, who abruptly stopped singing. There was a timid greeting offered by the Russian just before a loud crack rang through the valley, followed by the man falling forward to be carried off downriver.
Dismounting, the second man paused to survey his handiwork. Satisfied, he strode purposfully over to the flag pole where the Russian banner swayed feebly in the evening breeze. Wheeling the white and blue cross to the ground, he made an exchange and ran a new banner up the pole.
"Is that a German flag, Hannes?" Manfred had only seen German flags on crates of chocolate and salted pork his brother had imported before the war.
"We're being invaded by Germans?" the disblief in Gunthers voice sympathized with his own. Both men looked to Hannes for reassurance but after missing the opportunity to raise his fist to who he now guessed had been be the sole Russian soldier around for miles, the humiliation was too much. He buried his face in his hands. His intelligence had been grossly flawed.
To his left, as if sensing the hopelessness in the hearts of the three men, the heavy cannon shifted in the rubble of the outcropping and rolled forward, pitching off the side of the mountain. Tears welling in his eyes, Hannes picked up a smooth heavy stone and hurled it into the darkness toward the German camp and it's lone officer.
He didn't hear it land.
He didn't even care.
Hannes lit up his last cigarette. Where the hell was Gunther? He should have been back hours ago. Manfred's lard-fingered insistence on dropping his mess-kit all over the rock-face had created enough racket in the sleepy valley to wake the dead, but where he had expected a hail of gunfire to pelt their position, there was no sign of movement from the Russian encampment below.
Stroking the shell beside him like a loving mother hen doting on her precious lone egg, Hannes could smell victory in the air, and it smelled an awful, awful lot like Russian blood. It would be a glorious day for the Austrian Liberation Front.
A sound like an ox plowing through a gravel quarry came scraping through the pass. The sound grated on his ears and he could feel heat rushing to his face and his jaws clenched reflexively. The cigarrete turned downwards as his lips twisted into a scowl. It was fully another two minutes before Gunther stumbled into the camp.
"What is that?" Hannes asked. Manfred's head snapped up, apparently quite startled by the return of their comrade.
"What's what?" Gunther said, strangely, not the least out of breath. He had taken his time.
"That thing under your arm. It looks like... is that... a... wheel?"
"Oh yeah. Here it is. Took it off Bolivar's cheese cart. Can you believe the bastard wanted $5 for the thing? Like, come on! We're fighting a war here!"
"You brought me a wheel?"
"Um, yeah. You said you wanted a spare tire."
Gunther's hearing hadn't been right since a Russian cannon had ripped through his family's home in Salzburg.
"A flare to fire, Gunther. A flare."
Disappointment, then confusion filled the man's face. Hannes looked away in disgust.
"Well it looks like we're on our own then," he said, spitting the words out like nails, "Since now we have no way to signal for back-up." Exhaling sharply, he turned to the mounted brass cylinder, "Manfred, help me with this thing. But for Christ's sake, don't drop anything."
The three of them manouvered the cannon into position. It was a great, ancient thing, antiquated even ten years ago by the invention of the Howitzer, and it had taken the three men days and prayers and curses to drag it up here over the unforgiving, trackless mountainside, but this old tarnished behemoth was the saviour by which he and his fellows would liberate their beloved motherland and restore the glory of the Hapsburg Empire.
Just then, a lamp came on in a tent below. The three of them ducked behind a boulder and huddled together there, watching. Waiting. A figure stepped out into the late evening gloom. A young Russian officer by the look of him. The man, who was singing drunkenly in the dog's foreign tongue the hated anthem of the interloper, lit a cigarette of his own, walked to the river's edge and dropped his trousers. Hannes jaw went slack. He could hardly believe his eyes. The sheer insufferable indignity of it all! This... this... Cossack pissing in the Danube... It was nearly too much to bear.
"Manfred," he said quietly, his voice belieing the rage now racing through his veins, "Bring the gun to bear on that man."
Manfred did as he was told, with surprising swiftness and an uncharacteristic agility. Hannes raised his hand for the signal. He would savour this anticipation for a moment longer. Then, movement in the trees behind the camp drew his attention.
A second figure, this one mounted on horseback, trotted into the Russian camp. The figure levelled his rifle at the drunken, peeing Russian, who abruptly stopped singing. There was a timid greeting offered by the Russian just before a loud crack rang through the valley, followed by the man falling forward to be carried off downriver.
Dismounting, the second man paused to survey his handiwork. Satisfied, he strode purposfully over to the flag pole where the Russian banner swayed feebly in the evening breeze. Wheeling the white and blue cross to the ground, he made an exchange and ran a new banner up the pole.
"Is that a German flag, Hannes?" Manfred had only seen German flags on crates of chocolate and salted pork his brother had imported before the war.
"We're being invaded by Germans?" the disblief in Gunthers voice sympathized with his own. Both men looked to Hannes for reassurance but after missing the opportunity to raise his fist to who he now guessed had been be the sole Russian soldier around for miles, the humiliation was too much. He buried his face in his hands. His intelligence had been grossly flawed.
To his left, as if sensing the hopelessness in the hearts of the three men, the heavy cannon shifted in the rubble of the outcropping and rolled forward, pitching off the side of the mountain. Tears welling in his eyes, Hannes picked up a smooth heavy stone and hurled it into the darkness toward the German camp and it's lone officer.
He didn't hear it land.
He didn't even care.