Down The Volga Pt.3
The patient fear.
I must say that night was easily the worst of my life, glad enough, to sleep through its remainder. Even if only a few hours, on a muddy shore, too exhausted to think anything warmer than the Siberian winds. Writing about it now, sends a chill down my body within these daub walls, but not for long.
The next morning came, yet not at all welcoming. With that dammed wind bringing clouds across in monotone grey. The lifeless land that came with it made me feel like I floundered into some great chasm. A grey tourmaline roof, blocking the unwilling or unknowing heavens above. But I’d take it over a pitch night, however well the enemy took it too.
But in that time, my step had doubled after nightfall into the next morning, before warmer weather brought a fog into that wide valley. A blessing of concealment I wouldn’t have thought I needed then. As the night before gave me an odd feeling. Like realizing something or, someone had found a trace of me. Most likely with me on their mind, for to seek and, destroy. Then again, that’s a feeling mind you, everyone should’ve had out here, as you’ll see.
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My path then led toward a steepening bank of damp, muddied rock and gravel. A slow incline, not enough to wear my sore legs, still gaining their strength. So, I came closer with the dimming murk surrounding and revealing the eastern end of a bridge. Blown and broken like a twig snapped at the tip of a thumb. I could only imagine what someone like Hoffmann would have us do here. Use a rope? Maybe, tell us to cross right over the remains of it, which I feel most likely. To mention quite a thin bridge it was, with the river rushing a tone faster than before. So, I could only guess the far shore was quite close again, like when I, or my party, had crossed two days before.
Coming closer to it I readied my submachine gun and strode at a crouch, to my pain and inevitable regret. There was no other sound than the oddly soft humming Volga, washing over my padding feet. Making my eyes more a logical tool even in such opaque air. Up onto looking around the stones of the bridge’s foundation. Where, I lost myself in the stonework curving steadily, from the splintered planks above into, the cliff of wet shale or slate. With each upper stone, jointed of mortar aimed down toward a crevice of a hidden bank seeming of sand, and dead grass.
I glanced right, again cautious to the river, almost holy, and at peace in the odd weather. Then to my left at the foundations center, now revealed to me within the joints. The print of blood long stained by a clutching hand in a dried maroon, like the last leaf of an oak. And the honor that came with my rank, was quite shaken I’m embarrassed to say! While the sights of my weapon locked on the crawl space. Each breath of mine, conflicting with the wash of the Volga, now eerily flowing cold to each ear.
Inching into the dark crevice, my finger rattled against the cold trigger of the firearm. Whilst an unexpecting fresh sent of juniper came northward, causing a tattered piece of clothing to wag in its wind. On the other end of the crawl space, it flapped on an old nail, loosely driven into the mortar by forgotten hands. Could it have been a flag of surrender, or a warning? Now, I expect the latter, even if the one who made it could no longer tell of it. For there the man sat forever waiting, to the left of his bloodied signal. Legs stiff and stump, the only part of him shown in the growing dark.
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Both feet were like boards once kicked, nothing gave. With that I sighed in relief and fatigue, kneeling before him to take anything of frontline value. The blood on his blouse seeped into the remaining bandages. But his bedroll was welcomed gift and, the ammunition to his MP40 fit mine just fine. He bore also a locket on his neck, and an iron cross on his chest. Yet, gawking at either, would squander precious time through reminiscence, or fearful uncertainty of my mission’s end.
After standing up, my whole body caught on to the dark. Eyes seeing little, skin shivering and muscles wavering by an internal clock. With no better option for shelter, I camped across from the body, at least not very decayed thanks to the cold. To which I held away from, under the bedroll with my gun close by. Even after knowing death, it still felt off to lay near it.
Alongside it, that lurking dread of hostile country came to me before sleep. Lingering into deep night whenever I awoke either from a passing dream. Or the surprise claps of mortars cratering frozen mud north and south. Both reminding me of other worlds beyond the fog of the Volga. Alarmingly I thought, what batch of the red army was out there? Skulking as vengeful killers while I slept.
If not sleeping, praying for it became second best that night, before day rose just as wearily as I did. Wind whistled the fog mostly clear away, below the open sky. That cloth still blowing and the man still silent beside it. Next thing to do was leave beyond any doubt by me.
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As the bridge came up a hill on the other end, it declined into more fertile land in front. Bordered, tilled and, fallow it all was as if the farmers had recently left. Like clockwork I continued down, into the field country and strode by a fence line. Even by the street the walk was quite peaceful at first. The ground my feet stood on felt firm and dry with much concealment as a one man group could hope for.
And an hour wore on; the last mist fading without another clue of skirmish or battle. Save the body of yet another German soldier, his back against a brick wall starring in shock toward the direction I came. Then the serenity formed into an eerie watch to my front, or a quick glance behind me. Noticing I could look far to my north now, to the hills past the broken bridge. On the conceived line between both fore, and background there; a glimmer of light shone like a star fallen onto earth.
My heart began to beat faster, with both feet to follow. Realizing, my dread since the first flight had been realized. As one loud crack came through the air, slapping gravel into my face like blunt shrapnel. Then, surging through me, came the high of a marathon man dashing up the street, to a stonewall guarding evergreen bushes. Another shot rang out my left ear in a quick, terrible pain before, lunging over the stacked stones. Crossing, more as a frightened deer into the hedge, than a calculating leader.
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Above the ringing, I endured many cuts on my exposed skin as of landing into an uncomfortable bed of pine needles. Besides my grunting, it became dead quiet once more. Within a minute of waiting I pulled, wince after wince as each dry needle unstuck from my skin. More of an annoying pain, not a direct issue. But I must’ve been mad or stricken dumb by the bullet for, I paid no mind to the unending ring. And there was lingering darkness on the periphery of my vision whilst, surveying the plot now next to me.
Though so late into the year, the grass around me nearly glowed emerald green of some spring wheat, I couldn’t tell. My eyes focused over and at my path ahead, with my heart then racing on anticipation. For the greenery stopped at the side of a barn worn, and tilting to one side. Making my crawl a little unsure, in case it’d fall, just my luck all things prior, considered. Crawl however, I did, unrolling my sleeves, the only region of clothing not entirely filthy.
As each arm collected dirt, the same hedge of pines rolled along to my left, hiding me in shadow all the way up. Only standing with my back against the wooden wall once each hand could reach it from my prone. And the pines rustled, freezing me in place a while. Not even nature thought to disturb this game of cat and mouse long. So, working up the vigor, I snuck around the back, looking like a slinky fool I don’t doubt. My legs spread in a line as if treading on a tight rope, whilst something of metal jabbed me on my way. Until I reached the other side, nearly crashing against the planks in great relief.
Like my last refuge, this rest too came with a price. It shown on it’s right, a lowly farmhouse nailed together with a hundred meters in between us. Holding no visible door and only one window on my end. And, to my enduring torment on this mission, a figure could be seen standing faintly on the glass’ opposing end. Need I say that has been already drilled? For, soon enough I held tight my weapon, creeping from whence I came. Giving up sound mind for escape and, for a craven fear normally, that holds little power over me. And the day was over, under the high noon sun.