Guardian Angel
The white snow fell on the rugged terrain, covering it like icing on a cake. Lieutenant Roche leaned on his faithful Panzer, a bottle of beer in his hand. As the bitter brown liquid swirled pleasantly in his mouth, a homemade cigarette appeared in his gloved hand. Putting it at his mouth's end, he flicked the steel lighter's cap expertly, lighting the precious cancer stick. The beer had made a ring of white froth around his lips.
The field stretched into the horizon. The golden setting sun pierced the clouds like arrows, Roche bathed in its fading orange light. Good thing he was posted here in Poland. Leningrad was so wintry that your spit froze before it hit the ground. The men there had to have whale blubber rubbed onto them before patrol, or so it was said. Roche shuddered in horror.
He picked up the helmet from the ground; it was bloodied and bent in at a single spot. A sniper bullet's hole. Inside he cursed terribly at the Soviets, filthy beasts, all of them. Whipping around, the muddied ground crunched beneath his feet. Taking a single stride, he placed the battered helmet on his friend's head, for one last time. His friend's gold watch glimmered in the sunlight, his uniform dirtied and crumpled. '**** it!' he spat out harshly in German. **** sniper.
Heinrich had been with him since childhood. Played together, gone to school together, went to the barracks together. Roche recalled the bitter-sweet memories, the pictures flashing past like the black and white grainy pictures at the old cinema. Both had survived the Great War relatively unscathed, teenagers at the time. Now twenty years on, both had answered the Fuhrer's call for soldiers. Patriotic veterans! More like practice targets for the Soviets. Roche gritted his yellow teeth loudly. No more would that quick grin light up Heinrich's face again. All that remained was a grey shell in a uniform, no spark within.
It was all a big bloody mistake. A mistake to let Heinrich go on patrol yesterday. The cursed sniper had spotted his
cigarette light, a perfect target that he could not miss. The regret pierced his heart like a razor-sharp sword. A tear hit the snow, dripping from his long thin nose, melting a small hole in the white. A tear of anguish, remorse, torment...If only, if only...
'Sir! HQ just transmitted a message!' a young corporal quipped, saluting Roche.
Roche snapped to attention, back to reality, professional once again. He could not look weak, not in front of his men.
'Right! Let's see what bloody plans they have to get us pass that infernal minefield!'
The wide open field was one of death. For there were landmines under the soil; cruel things that would rip a tank to shrapnel immediately. Roche had seen a battalion trying to cross a minefield before. Not a pretty sight. Blood, gore, eyes and limbs everywhere. Some were blown clear from their uniforms. And the screams, never would he forget those hellish-like shrieks, the last desperate cry grasping at life. Soviets, brutal monsters, every last one of them. Wait till we conquer their beloved Motherland.
HQ's orders were simple. Camp for the night and take a detour across the mountains tomorrow, never mind how hard it will be. An idiot, that's what every last of them were. Buffoons all of them, staying in HQ planning ridiculous attacks, never giving a thought for the men.
Just as he was about to retire into the flimsy canvas tent, he saw something small and dark in the distance, approaching. It threw up large clouds of dried mud and dust. It came from the end of the minefield.
As the truck neared the edge of the ground that was filled with those dreaded Soviet Tavor mines, it turned a sharp corner, plunging straight through, like a confident diver jumping from the platform. Amazingly, it made zigzags here and there, turning ninety degrees at certain points. Roche was stunned, rooted to the ground, his cigarette dropping into the snow. The corporal next to him gulped, boots quaking uncontrollably.
Never had he in his 40 years had he seen such a sight. The driver at the wheel drove confidently, making erratic turns before finally stopping a mere meter from Roche. The engine grinded to a halt, the driver stepped out. He was a young man, a thick mane of platinum blonde hair under his hat, almost covering his bright cobalt coloured eyes. A machine pistol hung casually in his leather shoulder holster.
'Sir, these are new instructions from HQ! Their radio had some malfunction sir.' He saluted smartly, handing a tattered envelope to the still shell-shocked Roche.
'How... how...did you get pass... those...mines...' Roche managed to utter, stammering through his moustache, his commanding bark lost momentarily.
'Well Sir, this wonderful chap helped me get across. Just following his direction and lead. He was wearing a gold watch sir. Walked towards those tents when I arrived.'
Roche felt a rock drop in his stomach. His hands trembling, from awe or shock he did not know, as he pointed to Heinrich's lifeless body. 'Is that the man you saw?'
The grin faded instantly from the messenger's face, blood drained from it, his face was shallow, chalky white. 'Yes.' He swallowed abruptly. Saluting quickly, he ran to the truck, starting the engine. He crashed his gears speeding off in the opposite direction. Roche never saw him again.
The last of the evening light faded as twilight approached. Roche turned and look at the flamingo pink and gold clouds. He stood there muttering a long prayer.
The crickets chirped melodiously. The pastel pink skyline turned an inky black, devoid of clouds. A lone star shone brightly, hanging casually in the heavens. It seemed to wink mysteriously at him. As Roche turned around slowly to his Panzer; he swore that he saw a slight ghost of a smile fade across his friend's bloodied face. A guardian angel... watching over them...perhaps...
The tears flowed hot and freely this time.
All right. Thoad, this is the first portion, I'm writing out a 'sequel' as this has too abrupt an ending.
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