Flowers For The Girl
By: Shane Kennedy
Preview and purchase Shane's excellent new mystery Highbinders. Thank you for supporting the authors of WordShack.
“He says you can't have her sir.”
It was a simple enough statement, except that it had been uttered by Quid. Lieutenant Robert J. Dixon, third squad leader for the Lord Kirk's Horse (Loyal Canadians) Regiment, glanced quickly at his translator. The corporal was a strange man; of this there was no doubt. Underweight, too pale, and an odd demeanor. Dixon had no time to review what he had already considered. He looked at the twenty or more soldiers standing in opposition to his group of eight.
“Tell him, too bad. Tell him it's obvious that she and her father,” the lieutenant pointed to the body on the ground “were going to seek refugee status from us and she's now under our protection. Tell him all that.”
Quid started speaking slowly, relaying the decisions of his superior. The twenty or so soldier settlers listened to Quid and almost let him finish, when one interrupted, screaming, pointing at the lieutenant, then the rest of the squad, then the village, and finally the mountain. Quid listened intently.
“He says, he says we're in the wrong. We're outside the village and have no jurisdiction here. He says that we shouldn't be here in the first place and we should go home.”
“You tell him, I'm a Canadian officer and that I and my men will go where we damn well please. Tell him we're patrolling the outskirts of the village, since he and the rest of the settlers are preventing the villagers from fleeing their homes and we have to try to find asylum seekers where we can. Tell him it's been the case since the settlers came into the valley from over the mountains. Tell him that.”
Quid spoke again to the leader of the settlers.
“Private, pick-up that girl,” Dixon ordered.
The girl was squealing and crying, pawing at her father's lifeless body, when the private hoisted her into the air.
“Papa,” she screeched bringing Quid and the leaders' bickering to a halt.
“Get her into the coyote, move it,” Dixon snapped. In an instant, the private and the girl disappeared inside the armored personnel carrier.
“Here, you and the rest of the men get back inside, slowly.” Dixon scooped a pink backpack off the ground and chucked it at one of his men. “Sergeant, check his pockets, see if he has any ID.”
The sergeant dropped to his knees and nimbly slipped his hands into the jacket of the dead man, before patting down his side pockets. Nothing. He stood, grabbed the 35mm camera that hung around his neck and snapped two shots of the dead man's face. He dropped the camera and let it swing back and forth. His hands gripped his GR-4, a sort of mobile gattling gun, one of four that had been illegally purchased from a French unit that had earlier left the region, and served as extra firepower against the weapons of the settlers. He leveled it towards the settlers, ready to decimate them.
“Lieutenant,” Quid called, “they're really hostile.”
“I can see that, corporal. Tell them we're taking the girl, and we'll be on our way. Now that they're free to lay claim to her father's house, I'm sure lots of toys were left behind that their children can play with.” He scanned the group of settlers, then looked back and noted that the last of his men were inside the coyote. Only he, the corporal, and the sergeant remained outside its protective confines.
“Close the loading door to the coyote,” he ordered.
From inside the vehicle he heard a couple of questioning “Sir?”s.
“Do as I say,” he yelled back. When he heard the clank of the door locking in place, he began to give his orders, but was interrupted by yelling from the group of settlers.
“Sir, locking her in with the men has really agitated them,” warned Quid.
“What's their problem anyway?”
“It's the girl.”
“And what do they care?”
Quid spoke to the leader of the settlers, calming the group down. Dixon waited impatiently.
“And? Corporal?”
“Sir, let me tell you what I think is going on. A sniper over there,” he pointed to a raised platform about two hundred feet away “spotted the girl and her father attempting to leave the village about fifteen minutes ago. According to them, there is a curfew before sunrise, so he took aim and hit the father. He says he wanted to take pity on the girl.”
“Oh yes, corporal, pity. I can see where this is going.”
“Well, he took aim and tried to hit her three times.”
“And missed.”
“I'm sure that's what happened, but he says the bullets passed through her.”
“What? Tell them enough nonsense, we're leaving.”
“You don't understand, see, the sniper is that guy over there,” Quid jerked his head towards the man “and I think he is scared to admit that he wasted a bunch of ammo and missed, so of course, he makes up a BS story. Now here's the problem, those people are as superstitious as they come and most of them believe in this legend about a baby girl who will come out of this region and be able to cure any illness.”
Dixon listened. “Are you joking, corporal?”
“No sir, they say she is….” He hesitated, asked the leader of the settlers a question, and then continued his explanation to Dixon. “We don't have a word for what they're calling her in English, but they say you just have to bring her flowers and she'll heal your sickness.”
“She's a villager, why would this healer come out of their ranks? Why wasn't she born a settler?”
“I asked them that, they say it doesn't matter. They want her now, crossing the mountain ranges has made many of them sick and they need her help. Plus, I think she's like some sort of walking icon to them.”
Dixon thought for a moment. “Driver, start the coyote. Sergeant, corporal, get ready to move. We'll run along the side of the coyote and use it as cover.”
“Aye,” replied the sergeant, waiting for a confrontation, ready to use the GR-4 to kill.
“Lieutenant, I think they suspect something,” said Quid.
“Corporal, do you believe what they're saying? I mean, you don't suppose they'll just use her for target practice?'
“I have no doubt that the ignoramuses really think the girl can heal, but what are they going to do with her when it turns out she can't?”
“My thoughts exactly. LET'S GO!” He screamed the last sentence. Within seconds they were around the side of the coyote, which lumbered forwards as the settlers began firing. The sergeant returned fire, easily killing two of the settlers. Dixon and Quid fired with their C-9s amid the rain of bullets from their opponents. Dixon was certain he saw Quid struck twice in the shoulder by bullets, but the man didn't fall.
“We're gonna die,” screamed the sergeant as he sprayed the settlers with his gun.
The coyote bumped up and down over the rough terrain, its driver trying to move forward as fast as possible while still acting as a shield for the three men trapped outside. Inside the armor plated wagon, the little girl cried, in spite of being safe with the rest of the soldiers.
The father had watched his little daughter scamper among the toys in the playroom, happy that she wasn't getting into any tug-of-wars with her older brother over favorite toys. He looked at her big brown eyes and her brown hair, and listened as she chortled while playing, occasionally stopping to squeak “Papa.” It would be dark soon, and he would feed her a bottle of milk and make her sleep in his arms. Then, just before dawn, when most of the settlers' sentries where half asleep, he would sling her in a bedsheet across his chest and try and sneak out of the village to the temporary military camp that the Canadians had established and claim refugee status. He knew that there would be not problem in their accepting him and his daughter, the difficulty lay in his making it past the settlers who would slaughter him and his daughter if they caught them.
His wife and seven-year old son had made it to the camp two days ago, but it had been easy for them. They were both blond haired and blue-eyed, and the lazy sentries had not even bothered to check them as they walked past the entrance point, looking like typical settlers strolling around trying to decide which house or property to steal from which villager. He had watched with binoculars, hidden in his attic, sweating every minute as they walked towards the check-point, then waved at the sentries, then kept walking until they were at the gates of the camp. The Canadian soldiers moving them inside and closing the gates of the camp once they realized the mother and son were villagers. He even allowed himself a smile when he scanned over and saw the surprised, then angry look on the sentries' faces when they realized they had been fooled.
It would not be so easy for him and his daughter. Both dark, both with brown eyes and brown hair, they would be stopped and, without an identity card, they would be shot.
He looked around his house. He would miss it. The beautiful furnishings, the large backyard, the view of the mountains. He would miss it, it was sad, but they couldn't stay behind much longer. He began to pack items into his daughter's pink backpack, guessing as to which toys he should take. The last item he stuffed inside was a CD that held scanned images of all their family photos. He took a last look around the house, then sat down and watched his daughter play, waiting for night to fall.
Colonel Braun sat at the wooden bench that served as his desk. He looked up from the daily report that he was writing, and noticed his bodyguard looking in at him through one of his tent's mesh windows. As commanding officer Braun was afforded two luxuries no one else possessed in the camp: a soldier assigned as his guard, and his own tent which doubled as both his quarters and his office. Braun continued writing his report:
'02-14-95 Confirmed the worst today. Capt. Loo's body, along with those of Pvt.s Green and Blanchard were found five miles north of village X, the apparent victims of sniper fire. The Capt.'s body had been mutilated, possibly with a bayonet. They had been missing for three days after leaving camp on a scouting party. With the death of Capt. Loo and the death of Capt. Scott last Nov., and Maj. DeCouray still invalided, I have decided to promote one of the Lt.s to assist me in my duties. Lt. Dixon is highest in seniority. I hope that he will make an effort to adjust to his new duties.'
Braun sighed and looked back over his log. Nine months of notes, three months longer then their tour was originally intended. An extra month, then one more extra month, followed by another extra month. They hadn't received supplies in eight weeks and were low on everything. He continued to write.
I don't know what to do about morale. The last of the refugees left at 1600 by air transport today. We are promised transport out within the week, but I remain skeptical. Our four coyote troop transports are being airlifted soon, which means that we will be restricted to camp. I have no desire to lose any more men and the coyotes are the only safe means of patrolling outside the camp.
Braun put his pen down and stretched. In a fit of despair he snatched the pen up again and jotted down all of his grievances.
No water for bathing, the river near our camp is no longer safe from snipers. No one has had a decent wash in three weeks we all stink.
No food, except for mashed potatoes and bully beef twice a day for ten days.
Little firewood.
No medical supplies. My illness is impairing my performance.
Low amounts of drinking water have led to rationing.
Only two of the five generators still working.
Plenty of ammo.
He slammed the book shut, and threw it into a corner. He no longer cared who read what he wrote. Braun had been a desk jockey during his twenty years of service, but, when the next promotion to Brigadier-General had come down to a choice between him and a weaselly colonel named Chambers, he realized that without field experience, he would be passed over. He arm-twisted a friend for help. This tour was to have been ideal for him. Six months in a valley ringed by mountains, where he would have to keep apart two ethnic groups until the UN arranged a permanent peace between the two groups in their war-torn country. Not to worry, he was told, the mountains will keep them apart, you'll be there for show and tell, and then home in six months and a general by Christmas. We'll send Major DeCouray along as your second, he's a good man and has had experience in these matters.
The mountains hadn't kept the settlers from flooding into the valley along with their soldiers. At first, they had been able to keep the two groups apart, but every day more settlers arrived, until eventually he had received orders to evacuate as many of the four hundred villagers as possible. That was when people started dying. Including his own men. He had brought forty-eight men into the valley and had lost eight.
When they first arrived, Braun had been in charge of a platoon consisting of four squads, each with eight soldiers, one corporal, one sergeant, and one lieutenant. He had three captains; one was a medical doctor, and the other two were each in charge of two squads. His second-in-command was Major DeCouray. Now, the major was sick with the fever that had swept the camp, two of his captains, one of his corporals, one of his sergeants, and four of his soldiers were dead. Fever, land mines, snipers. Each had helped to thin the ranks of his men. He couldn't afford to lose another man. He couldn't afford to lose his daughter, either.
A week before he had left, he did the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life. His daughter had graduated from law school and had all the major firms offering her articling positions. He had been glad in his heart, knowing she was both secure in her future and that she would rise above the meagerness of her family's situation in life. She destroyed all his secret dreams for her when she returned home to announce she was joining the army to serve as legal council. He was furious when she tried to explain herself:
“But, I want to be like you and grandpa and serve our country.”
“Serve our country,” he fired back at her, “and end-up like your grandfather and me. Being bounced around from base to base, never having a real home. Receiving poor wages and a bad pension. You can do so much more. You can be someone important. I want you to quit.”
The answer had been no. She had tried to contact him before he left, but he had refused to reconcile with her. Now, in this foreign land, trying to protect a people whose mentality he found completely alien, he realized how much he had thrown away by cutting off his daughter. If she wasn't happy, then what was the point of his existence?”
“Sir.” He heard his bodyguard call. “Something is up at the front gate.”
Braun rose, checked that he had his sidearm, and burst out of his tent, his bodyguard following in his wake. He walked double-time towards the entrance of the camp and watched as a coyote lumbered through the open gate. Three men rode on top of its roof, one of whom he recognized as Dixon when the lieutenant jumped down. Braun came closer.
“Lieutenant, you're an hour late. What happened?'
“We got into a bit of a fire fight, colonel.”
Braun watched and waited as Dixon and Corporal Quid helped the sergeant off the vehicle.
“The sergeant was hit in the leg, but he's alright. We were coming back from the northeast corner of the village when we spotted some settlers around a man and his daughter; the man was dead, but we saved the girl. She's about three years old.” Dixon delivered as much information in sentences as short as possible to his commanding officer. It was his army training at work. “We lost a GR-4 to the settlers. The sergeant dropped it when he was hit.”
“Alright lieutenant.” The colonel had heard enough and began to take control of the situation. “Close the gates.” The command was unnecessary; the guards had started to swing the doors shut as soon as the coyote had cleared the entrance. “Get the sergeant and the little girl over to Captain Beck for a medical exam. Have the coyote taken to the depot. Dismiss the men. Lieutenant, follow me. I want your report straightaway.” He was about to walk back to his tent, when he noticed Quid's shirt.
“Corporal, you've been hit as well.” He reached out and took hold of a section of fabric on Quid's shirt that had a hole torn in it by gunfire. The hole matched up with the corporal's shoulder, but where a wound should have existed, there was none. He grunted, wondering how it was possible.
“You're lucky corporal, just a torn shirt.” He started back to his tent.
Dixon said to Quid, “Corporal, break out the men and get the sergeant and the girl to the doctor's.” He ran after the colonel, trying to catch up.
Soldiers started to exit the coyote. One held the girl who was still whining and crying.
“Do any of you have families? Little ones back home?” Quid asked.
“I do,” answered a private.
“Good, good. Prescott, looks like you're official babysitter for our new arrival. Peters and I will help the sergeant, you take the girl.” He took hold of the girl, just for a moment touched her forehead, and instantly she stopped crying.
“The rest of you men, back to your barracks.”
He pointed towards the driver of the coyote, then towards the depot where the rest of the armored vehicles were parked, indicating where he wanted the vehicle. He waited till the iron wagon was motion.
“Let's go,” he said to Prescott and Peters.
“Unbelievable. So, they tried to kill you over one little girl. In the last four months, they've become incredibly aggressive. I guess we can't expect our blue helmets to protect us anymore.”
“Not any little girl, sir,” answered Dixon. “They think she's magical or something.”
“It sounds like a good story, Robert, but I'm willing to bet it was just an excuse to kidnap her. Does she have any identification? Do we know who she is?”
“There was no ID on the man; the corporal or one of the men has her backpack. It might offer some clues.”
Braun stood up from his desk and picked up his canteen. A pitcher of water sat nearby.
“Water?”
“No thank you, sir.”
The colonel poured from his canteen into one of three glasses on his table and began sipping it. Dixon wondered again if the rumors were true that there was something more then water in the colonel's canteen.
“Well, let's hope so. If they decide to put up a fuss, it will be a bigger problem than that boy claimant last month was. At least he could talk; for this girl here, they might dig-up some instant relatives.” He drained off the last of his glass' contents. “I better radio for instructions.”
“Instructions? Colonel, you're not thinking of turning her over to them? Not after what we just went through.”
“That's precisely what I might have to do. Oh, and before I forget. This morning, after you left, Captain Loo's body was found. All of his party were killed. I'm sorry. I know you and the Captain were friends.”
The words were like a blow to Dixon's chest. The shock knocked the wind out of him. They had only been late by three days; there had been hope. Now there was no hope.
“With the major still ill and with the loss of both of the company's field captains, I need to promote a lieutenant to act as my second. You're highest in seniority.”
“I don't want the job,” snapped Dixon.
“I didn't ask if you wanted it.”
“Give the job to Beck, he outranks me; he's a captain.”
“He's a doctor, not a field officer. The announcement regarding your new position will be made tonight at 1800 hours, after chow. Find out what you can about the girl and then report back to me. Dismissed.”
Braun sat back down at his desk and scooped up some paperwork to show that the interview was finished.
“Yes, sir.”
Dixon left the tent, his new responsibility weighing heavily on him.
The coded message came over the radio at 2340. Braun had the radioman write out the message exactly. He returned to his tent with instructions for his guard that he was not to be disturbed, then brought out his cipher books and unlocked their metal covers. Since all messages relied on a rotation between cipher book A and cipher book B, even if an enemy managed to steal both books, they would be useless without the unwritten information that Braun held in his head. Tomorrow morning he would pass the unwritten information on to Dixon. It was Tuesday, so Braun started with cipher book B, translated the message, then translated the message again using cipher book A. When he was finished, he read the message over carefully.
'Charle-Foxtrot-Charle 132 (Canadian Forces Camp 132) message received and confirmed. Prepare APVs for transport at 1500 hours 02-15-95. Prepare evacuation of camp at 2200 hours 02-16-95 by helicopters. Have received protest from consulate regarding unidentified three-year-old female child. If identity can be confirmed, then transport on 02-16-95 pending refugee claim. If identity cannot be assessed, then turn over to local authorities. Message complete.'
They didn't waste much time trying to keep the girl here, thought Braun. I wonder what is so important about her? Superstitious idiots. Unless there's a miracle in her backpack, it looks like she'll be staying behind. At least we're finally going home. He had two more glasses from his canteen and went to sleep for the night.
“What's this about?” asked Dixon. He had slept badly during the night.
“I have no idea, sir,” answered one of the guards at the front gate.
It was just after sunrise and about one hundred settlers, mostly women with children, had gathered outside the gate. All had flowers in their hands and were screaming while banging on the gate doors.
“They want the girl. They have flowers for the girl,” said Corporal Holt. He and Quid were the only translators in the camp who spoke both the settlers' and the villagers' languages. Holt had just risen and was still pulling on his flak jacket.
“Flowers?” Dixon remembered what Quid had said about the girl's being able to cure illness if brought flowers. “Holt, talk to them. Tell them the girl is sleeping or something, just get them to shut-up.”
“I don't think it will be easy, sir.”
Holt walked towards the gate and shouted something in the language of the settlers that quieted the crowd. He began speaking past the wire fence to individual settlers; as he spoke, many would hold up a child or display an injury, or point to individual parts of their bodies. Many tired to pass the flowers they held to Holt by pushing them through the spacing in the fence. Holt had to hold up his hand continually to decline the gifts. After about ten minutes, he said something to the crowd, then walked back to Dixon. The crowd pushed towards the fence, many trying to listen to the Canadians speaking in their unintelligible language.
“What do they want, corporal?” asked Dixon.
“Sir, they just want to see the girl. All of them have brought flowers for her. Many of them said they need her intervention, lots of them have sick kids or are sick themselves from crossing the mountains. One or two have lost fingers from frostbite, a couple have broken limbs that didn't set right. One lady says she has cancer. Maybe we could bring the girl out and just let them file past her and let them give her their flowers. That's all they want sir, just to give her their flowers.”
Dixon snorted. “Yeah, I bet they would like it if we let them into our camp. They'd slaughter us in an hour.”
“There's no soldiers with them, sir,” answered Holt.
“Corporal, I'm not opening the gates of the camp to those people. I'm not going to let them upset that little girl more then they already have, and I'm not going to let them mill around the gates to a military camp. Tell them to clear off; if they haven't cleared off within twenty minutes, I want you to get some men, have everyone suit up with masks and place tear-gas canisters near the gates. The fouled air will make them move.”
“Sir, they're civilians.”
“They're the aggressors in this dispute. If they didn't want problems, they should have stayed on their side of the mountain. You have your orders.”
Dixon trudged towards the colonel's tent. He had decided that if he was going to be forced into the role of aide de camp, he was going to spend his last hours in the camp reporting every single detail to his commanding officer. When he was admitted to Braun's tent, he was surprised to find the colonel playing crib with Captain Beck.
“Come in, lieutenant. Join us.” The colonel was all smiles.
Dixon was taken off guard. He tried to remember how the game is played so he wouldn't look like a fool in front of Beck. He became so engrossed in the game that he forgot to deliver his report. Twenty minutes later, when white clouds of gas began pouring over what had turned into an angry mob, there wasn't an officer anywhere in sight.
“Colonel Braun,” the bodyguard yelled into the mesh window, “Sergeant Siemens says he has to see you sir, says its an emergency.”
Dixon suddenly had a sick feeling.
The colonel went to the door and swung it open.
“What's the problem?”
“Corporal Holt and a couple of the men just gassed a bunch of the settlers.”
“Holt? Where? At the village?”
“No, at the gates to the camp.”
“Our camp? What are settlers going there?”
“Colonel, I can explain,” interrupted Dixon.
The sergeant talked over Dixon. “Corporal Holt said he tear-gassed the settlers under orders from Lieutenant Dixon.”
Braun shot a look at Dixon.
“Sergeant, go back to the gates and put a stop to the gassing. I'll be there shortly to take over.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant fled back towards the direction of the gates.
“Sorry, Doctor, we'll have to finish our game latter. Lieutenant.” His jaws cinched when he said the word. “Let's have a look-see at what's happening at the gates. On the way down you can tell me what was going through your mind.”
When they arrived at the gates, they found that the settlers had been forced back by the gas. The canisters that had emitted the pungent fumes were next to the entrance of the camp with their lids closed. The fumes hung like a dense fog just outside the gates. Most of the camp had turned out trying to find out what the cause of the disturbance was. Many wore gas masks; some held cloths to their faces. Holt and Siemens were standing far back from the gates. Holt had removed his mask, and they were talking. Braun noticed that some of the settlers were throwing rocks in a futile attempt to hit the soldiers.
“Corporal Holt, Sergeant Siemens,” Braun yelled.
Both men came running over.
“Sir.” Siemens answered for both of them.
“Sergeant,” Braun looked at his men, then the few rocks that had made it over the fence. He looked at Dixon then, lastly, the settlers.
“Orders sir?” The sergeant asked.
“If the settlers come near the fence again, open up the canisters. Keep clearing them until they finally give up and move away. Tell the men that anyone not involved in gate-keeping is to return to duty. Make sure everyone on gate-keeping duty has a proper mask and coverings. That's all.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Corporal Holt.”
“Sir.”
“Go get Corporal Quid and the girl and have them come to my office.”
“Wings and the girl.” Holt had said the comment louder then he intended.
“How's that corporal?” asked Braun.
“Sorry sir, I didn't mean Corporal Quid any disrespect. It's just the little girl keeps saying he has wings. I think she thinks his hair sticks out.”
“Humph. Never mind that, have Quid bring the girl to my office straightaway.”
“Yes, sir.”
Braun turned to speak to Dixon and was annoyed by the look of relief on the man's face.
“Come along, lieutenant. We have to make a decision.”
“Yes. Thank you, colonel.”
“Not to worry too much. You did the right thing. Unfortunately, it was for the wrong reason.”
“Sir?”
“Your temper, Robert. You're going to have to learn to control it.”
“Yes sir.”
When they arrived at the colonel's tent, Beck was gone. Quid played quietly with the little girl as she routed about the colonel's possessions. Dixon thought it odd. He didn't think that Holt could even make it back to his barrack by the time the colonel and he had made it to the colonel's tent.
“You didn't waste any time getting here, corporal,” said Dixon.
No, sir. Colonel, here's what we know about Cassandra.” Quid held out a CD disk and a bunch of papers for the colonel.
“Cassandra?” asked Dixon.
“Yes sir. She can speak a few sentences that Corporal Holt and I can understand. Cassandra is the closest thing we have to her name in English. She doesn't know her last name.”
Braun looked over the papers he had been handed. “I have no doubt, the smallest of their last names is twenty-five letters long. What is all of this?”
“I had Smedly-Taylor spin the disk on the computer. All that was on it was a photo-conversion program and family photos. The man in the first page holding her was presumably her father, the guy who got his ticket punched by the settlers. No other information was on the disk. Only toys in the backpack.”
Braun looked at the man in picture. He was proud, standing while holding his daughter. His beautiful wife and handsome son were standing next to him. Now, he was rotting somewhere outside the village. He looked at the clothes they were wearing, then glanced over at the little girl while she tried to pull open the drawers on his desk. She was wearing little gold earrings and a gold band hung from her right wrist. The family had had access to a computer with a CD-burner. Her family weren't nobodies. They were better off then the average villagers. Who are or were they?
“Corporal, does anyone remember seeing this woman or boy among the refugees we shipped out?”
Quid shrugged his shoulders. “Sir, we moved over three-hundred people in the last three months. It'd be hard for anyone to remember. I'll circulate the picture at mess tonight if that's your wish.”
“Please do. We don't have much time to deal with this matter. The coyotes are going home today at 1500 hours and we leave this valley tomorrow at 2200. Sorry, Dixon. I was about to discuss this with you this morning when the little incident at the gates distracted me. Corporal, is there any possible way of getting a last name out of her?”
“Holt and I will try, but so far, we haven't had any luck. Do you want me to get the paperwork rolling for her? We could put her down as Cassandra X until we find out who she is.”
“That won't be necessary. If we don't find a last name that we can match with one of the other applications, then she'll be staying.”
“You can't be serious!” Dixon blurted.
Braun ignored him. “Corporal, tell the depot to start preparing the coyotes for transport, have some men prep the landing strip its been looking shabby. Any problems looking after the girl? Captain Beck says she's as healthy as a horse.”
“She's fine and dandy. Prescott does most of the work of looking after her. I'll take care of the coyotes and the strip. Anything else sir?”
“Tell Lieutenant Haig to prepare the men for a briefing at 1300 hours and that the officers will be meeting at 1100. And not a word about the evacuation tomorrow, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
When they were alone, Braun roared at Dixon. “Just where did you do your officer training? Camp screw-up? Don't ever question my decisions in front of a grunt again. Damn you, do you hear me?”
“You know, I didn't choose to come here.”
“What did you just say?”
“I didn't choose to come here.”
“I didn't hear 'sir' or 'colonel.' What's wrong with you, lieutenant? Do you have crap between your ears? And do you think I care that a malcontent part-time reservist is unhappy? Look at the men around you! I could feed them dirt sandwiches every day for a year, order them not to sleep, and not one, not one, would complain. You've bellyached every day since we've arrived. You're a disgrace. Time to shut-up and show some leadership or maybe those stripes are too heavy for your shoulders?”
“What's in your canteen? Colonel, sir.” Dixon sneered back at his tormentor.
The accusation stopped the colonel's assault. He walked over to his desk, poured from his canteen into a glass and held it out before Dixon.
“Drink it.”
“I don't like vodka, sir.”
“Drink it. That's an order.”
Dixon took one sip and was overpowered by the taste of the medicine. He almost retched.
“I have worms, lieutenant. Are you happy, now that you know? Beck says he doesn't have anything to kill them. This only settles them for a couple of hours. I crap a load of them out every time I go to the latrine.”
“I'm so sorry.”
“Now you know. Robert, I only need you to be a soldier for another forty-eight hours. Can you do that for me?”
“I'm sorry I spoke out of turn.”
“Can you be a soldier for two days?”
“Yes, colonel.”
“I know you can, Robert. Right now, our biggest headache is that little girl. I've been given orders to release her to the local authorities, which now appear to be the settlers, if I can't find out to whom she belongs.”
“She needs to come with us.”
“Are you listening? I have orders.”
“You said you wanted me to be a soldier.”
“Yes. And being a soldier is often a difficult task. One has to sometimes make difficult decisions.”
“Like leaving an innocent girl in the hands of murderers?”
“If it's in the form of an order from a superior.”
“So you only follow orders, you're not concerned that somewhere down the line you'll be judged for what you've done?”
“You mean God or the Brass?”
“I don't know, let's say God.”
“Sorry, Robert, I've been around too long to get caught up in that fairytale.”
“And if it's not a fairytale?”
“You mean to tell me you believe in a compassionate deity after all we've seen here?”
“In some ways it re-affirms the notion.”
“Then I'll leave you to your God.”
Braun walked over to a cardboard box that served as his filing cabinet and pulled out a manilla folder.
“What do you know about the corporal?”
“Quid?”
“Yes.”
“To be honest, I think he's a little odd.”
“So do I. He was transferred into the platoon at the last minute. All I have on him is his transfer paper.” He pulled out a single sheet that served as the entire contents of the folder. “Doesn't even list his first name or date of birth.”
“Are you concerned about the man?”
“Maybe not, but something about him and this girl worries me. I think he may rile the men against me if we end up having to leave her behind.”
“I'll be doing the same thing.”
“Robert, you're not the one I'm worried about.”
Braun sat at his desk with his chair turned around towards the middle of the tent. Lieutenants Stewart, Haig, and Edwards sat on stools in front of him. Beck half-sat on a corner of his desk. Dixon was behind the row of lieutenants leaning against a beam. Haig was speaking.
“I understand about the child, but the way the men are becoming attached to her, it's something else.”
“This concerns you?” asked Braun.
“No. Yes. I don't mean to sound callous, but you could have brought-in a dog and it would have had the same effect. She is very precious and she's lifted their morale, God knows they haven't had anything to be happy about in the last little while. Now, to answer your question, they all think she is going home with us. If you order her turned over to the knuckleheads outside the gate, there could be a bad reaction.”
“Are you suggesting a mutiny over a little girl?” Beck asked, incensed.
“I'll say it like it is, Doc,” interrupted Stewart. “None of us here inspire the men, that was what DeCouray and Loo did best.”
“Don't forget Scotty,” said Haig.
“And him to a lesser degree,” answered Stewart. “The rest of us, we're second stringers.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence in my leadership,” said Braun.
“It's not you colonel, it's artificial meat and dehydrated spuds every day for over a week. It's funny-tasting drinking water. It's being cold every night. It's being tired of smelling your neighbor's feet and armpits from ten feet away.”
“That's not my fault,” Braun answered defensively.
“Then whose fault is it, sir?”
“That's enough, lieutenant,” interjected Beck.
“It's alright, doctor. The lieutenant is right,” said Braun.
“What about the girl?” asked Edwards.
Braun scratched his hair, sighed, then answered. “I'm under orders to return her to local authorities if we can't find out who she is. We can't find out who she is, so I'm sorry, but she's going to have to go.”
The colonel's junior officers exchanged uneasy glances.
“As you say, sir,” Dixon answered for all of them.
“Guard, I'm not to be disturbed until the transports arrive to pick-up the coyotes.” Braun slammed his door behind him. His address to the assembly of the men had gone wrong. He had stood on a chair and carefully explained how they were to be evacuated. A cheer went out among the men until someone yelled, “What about the girl?”
“Oh, the girl, the girl….” Braun had tried to explain the situation to his men. The result was that the platoon took on the persona of unruly schoolchildren with insults and demands shouted at Braun.
“Shut your gobs.” screamed one of the sergeants. A clump of dirt was thrown into his face. Braun and his bodyguard retreated from the unsatisfied gathering, leaving Dixon to try to settle the men.
Soon after the officers' meeting, two supply planes made a low pass over the camp and flew towards the mountains. Holt picked up his binoculars and followed the planes.
“Where are they going? Aren't they supposed to pick-up the coyotes?” asked Siemens.
Holt lowered the glasses. “They aren't ours. They have Republican markings on them.”
“What are they doing this far from the capital?”
“Beats me.”
Both men started towards the landing strip, but stopped when a jet fighter roared over-head. Holt raised his glasses again.
“That's one of ours.”
“Think she'll catch the supply ships?”
“They have a big head-start.”
Simens watched the plane disappear into the distance. “Come-on. Let's get that landing strip checked out.”
“Aye.”
The pilot from the airbus walked up to Braun.
“Colonel.” The pilot saluted, violating field conduct designed to protect officers from sniper attacks.
“Major.” Out of courtesy, the colonel returned the salute and received a correspondence package from the man.
“If there's nothing else, sir, I'll be leaving. It looks like your men are finished loading.”
“Proceed.”
Braun ripped open the package. Since it was hand-delivered, the message hadn't been encoded. He read it and handed it to Dixon.
“Give it a read, lieutenant.”
Dixon read the message:
'Charle-Foxtrot-Charle 132 Rebel forces have declared themselves an independent republic and have advised the UN they do not recognize the neutrality of the joint UN peacekeeping troops. Have declared war against Canada, France, and the Netherlands, stating that those countries' peacekeeping units are an invasion force. Have been advised by Dutch authorities that a unit of five hundred regular republican militia troops is moving towards your position. ETA is 1800 hours, 02-16-95. Republican airforce is attempting to drop supplies and armored equipment on your side of mountain range for use by unit. French authorities advise they are moving to assist Dutch peacekeepers that have come under fire. Have reported heavy casualties. Evacuation time remains unchanged. Do what is necessary to preserve life. Good luck. Message complete.'
Dixon handed the paper back to the colonel.
“We're going to die.”
“No, lieutenant. We're going to die half an hour after those troops arrive.”
“Sir, we'll need the coyotes to…” His voice trailed off as he watched the airbus complete its take-off and gain altitude.
“You were saying, lieutenant?”
“Do you want me to gather the men?”
“Yes. I'ts time to start making preparations to leave.”
Braun peeled back the flap that served as the entrance to the tent no one wanted to enter. Five cots were lined up across from a stove. A corporal without a foot occupied one, and the other held the major. A solider serving as an orderly sat on one of the cots reading a book, but sprang to attention when he recognized the colonel.
“Easy soldier. Could you give me a moment with Major DeCouray?”
“He's pretty weak, sir.”
Braun stared at the solider without responding.
“Yes, sir.” The soldier left quickly.
Braun pulled off his helmet and combed his fingers though his greasy hair. He looked down at his second and took in the hollow cheeks and labored breathing. DeCouray's eyes had sunk so far back into his head that his face looked like a mummy's. Braun felt a spasm in his side as he flinched in pain. He waited, then dragged a cot close to use as a seat.
“Jean, its me, Gregory. Jean?” He gently nudged the sleeping body and was taken back when the eyelids flashed open.
“I'm still here?”
“Yes Jean, you're still very much alive.” Braun tried to find words that would soothe.
“No, no colonel, I thought that when I awoke, I would be away from this horrible valley and those disgusting vermin that slaughter each other,” he sighed. “We're never going to leave this ugly little valley are we colonel?”
Braun took hold of the man's hand, trying to comfort him. The hand was ice cold.
“Settle yourself, Jean, soon we'll we out of here. Listen to me, old friend, I need your advice.”
“You know both groups claim to be Christians, but they're butchering each other. How can they claim to be Christians?”
Braun tried to calm the man. “Jean, you know I've always respected your advice and I need your help now. There is a girl…”
“I know all about the problem.”
“Really?” Braun was impressed. He wondered how the major would have heard about the girl. He looked across at the corporal with no foot who hadn't moved or breathed or given any other indication that he was alive.
“How do we solve the problem?”
The major started to laugh. It was an odd, unhappy laugh. “Do you know why they're killing each other? Lack of affordable tract housing. We have so much housing because of the way we produce it in Canada. Here, nothing. That is why they feel that they have to fight each other for housing. If only we could introduce affordable tract housing to both groups the bloodshed would end.”
“That's the fever talking, settle down.”
“Never. Not well, not ever.”
Braun spent another twenty minutes with DeCouray. It was useless. The infection had stolen the man's mind and left him a waste. Braun thanked him and waited for him to fall asleep again before pulling back the flap of the tent and exiting.
Braun slept poorly that night. He had drunk three shots of his medication, enough to stop the digging in his belly, but not enough to stop the dreams that troubled him. He had awoken in his dream then walked out of his tent naked. He knew something was off: no bodyguard fell in line behind him. He realized that the camp was deserted, or almost deserted. The sound of children's laughter drew him towards the center of camp, where Cassandra and another little girl were chasing each other in a game of tag. It took him a moment, then he realized the other little girl was his daughter, only she was three years old again.
“Kate,” he called. He noticed a figure standing behind the girls. It was Quid, but different from Quid. The figure was at least eight feet tall, it had gold eyes and its fingernails were long and claw-like.
“Quid?”
The figure drifted towards him and gestured towards the girls. “Choose.”
Braun was suddenly gripped by fear. He reached for his sidearm and realized he was without it.
“It's an unfair question. Of course I'll pick my daughter.”
“Why?”
“She's all I have. Her mother abandoned us. Without my daughter I have no reason to live. I don't feel like I'm alive.”
“You must choose both or you will not live again.”
“Why? Why is this girl so important? Tell me?” Braun felt his terror making him hysterical.
The Quid-like figure didn't answer. It opened its mouth and Braun heard music that wasn't music; it was the sound of whales singing, dogs howling, a hurricane.
Braun sat bolt upright in his bed. The music had stopped and his whole body was soaked in sweat. He stumbled, the worms tearing at the inside of his belly. Finding his canteen, he gulped down the medicine. He finished the contents and dropped the canteen, then fished around in his dark for his gun. Finding it, he stormed out the door of his tent and noticed his bodyguard was gone. He searched the camp in the dark until he found Quid warming his hands over an open oil-drum filled with burning wood.
“Corporal. Who are you?” he demanded and leveled his weapon at the man's face. In an instant, Quid had snapped the gun out of the colonel's hand and thrown it aside.
“It's a cold world, old girl. I'm your only friend in this camp, colonel. Best you get back to your tent before one of your men kills you.” Quid went back to warming his hands.
Braun looked around at the soldiers drifting about the camp in the dark. For the first time, he saw their yellow demon eyes stare at him with hate. A soldier bumped hard into him and kept going without an apology.
“Private,” Braun admonished. The man looked back in anger, without stopping. Another soldier bumped into him. Braun ran away, running hard back to his tent, and once inside; hid in a dark corner and waited for morning. When the sunlight came, he awoke with a start. His canteen lay on the floor. He looked out his mesh window and saw his bodyguard on duty.
A little after 2002, when the sun was beginning to hide behind the mountains, a jeep with a mounted assault gun pulled up before the gates. The private on duty said to his partner, “Better get the corporal.” While his partner ran to find Holt, the private watched a soldier prepare and aim the assault gun as an officer gingerly stepped out of the jeep, crashed a cigarette beneath his heel, and casually walked up to the entrance to the camp. Many of the settlers, who were still milling around the outside of the gates, ran to welcome the officer. There were hugs and kisses, handshakes, and smiles. The officer moved comfortably around the crowd while they pointed at the camp and offered their explanation as to why they were gathering outside the camp of the foreigners. Eventually, the officer went up to the gates, looked past the soldiers on duty, and knocked on the gate.
“O-pen,” he said.
The private just stared.
“O-pen.” The officer repeated, his voice betraying his growing hostility.
Holt arrived a few minutes later, following Braun and Dixon.
“Ask him what he wants,” ordered Dixon.
The republican officer and Holt began an animated discussion, while the officer gestured towards the camp at first, then later towards the mountains.
“Lieutenant, he says he's a Captain with the Republican Militia.”
“Tell him there's no such thing,” barked Dixon.
“Hold on that corporal,” said Braun, “let's hear him out first. After all, he should have been here two hours ago.”
Holt continued, “he says he's a Captain and he's been sent to meet with us to discuss the conditions of our surrender.”
“Colonel, do we have to listen to this?” whined Dixon.
“Continue, corporal.”
“He wants you to know that his regiment is only an hour behind him and they would prefer not to fight. He requests that you lower the Maple Leaf, assemble the men and have them hand over all weapons. He gives assurances that the men will be well-treated. Finally, he demands that you hand over your prisoner.”
Braun listened. “Corporal, advise the captain that we are here with the full authority of the UN's Security Council.”
Holt translated. “He says that he and his countrymen have declared themselves an independent republic and that we no longer have any authority here. He begs you to think of your men.”
“Tell him we appreciate his concern. Tell him that we are leaving very soon. Explain that we have no prisoners, but that we will be transporting one refugee claimant in accordance with her father's wishes.”
Braun's men looked at him, the words were a declaration of his intention, the girl was to come home with them, if they were able to get home.
“Go ahead, corporal, tell him.” The decision was final.
“He says the settlers say we're holding a little girl hostage and that we will release her to him immediately. He also demands to know why we used gas on civilians.”
The colonel sighed. He held his stomach where it ached.
“Corporal, tell him we've heard his demands and we must decline them. We are here under the full authority of the UN's Security Council. Tell him we consider his presence here an aggressive posture and we will do what is required to defend ourselves. Tell him he is to leave at once.”
Holt translated. The captain laughed, said something to Holt, then sketched something like salute at the colonel before walking away. He spoke to the settlers who cheered, then climbed back into his jeep and drove away. The settlers began to disperse.
“We're all waiting, corporal. What did he say?” asked Dixon.
“He said, whatever we wanted; then he told the settlers to go home and come back tomorrow when both the camp and the little girl would be in his hands.
“Looks like we won't be talking our way out of this one,” said Dixon.
“Damn, I shouldn't have opened my mouth about the girl; now he knows she's still with us. Lieutenant, we are going to have to hold the camp for about an hour till the helicopters are able to take out the men. We can't load men and defend the camp at the same time so Lieutenant Stewart will arrange the loading of squads one, two, and four. Personnel only, all equipment, with the exception of firearms, and personal items, is to be left behind. Third squad, your squad, will defend. Advise Stewart I want him to start assembling the men at the strip now. After that, return here with members of your squad in full combat gear.”
“Aye.”
“Colonel.” Beck trotted over to Braun.
“What bad news do you have to tell me, Doctor?”
“The Major's dead.”
By 2130 hours, Stewart had the men, along with Cassandra who was sleeping in Prescott's arms, assembled and lined-up ready to storm aboard the helicopters when they arrived to evacuate the men. Unopened flares were laid out along the landing strip, together with a floodlight that wouldn't be turned on until the helicopters came within a hundred yards. The Canadian flag had been removed from the flagpole. The camp was dark.
Thirty feet from the north side of the camp, which faced both the mountains and the direction from which the militia troops would arrive, third squad had dug a trench and rigged it with booby-traps using shells from the camp's two 155-millimeter howitzers. The trench had been covered using tent sheets and was almost invisible in the darkness. If a jeep or armored vehicle fell into the trench, then all thirty of the shells would detonate at the same time. In the space between the trench and camp walls, they had set and dumped land mines; there had been no time to bury them, so they were counting on the darkness to hide them. The wall had been reinforced using timber from the south wall. The lights that ringed the camp had been shut-off except for the two that hung above the gate.
“Why guide them towards the gates?” Dixon had asked. “It's the weakest part of our defense.”
“I want to know where they are going to try to enter, that way; we guide them right to the gates and towards the batteries.” Braun had explained. He didn't have the courage to tell Dixon that he had seen this tactic in a war movie and had no idea whether it was a sound military strategy.
Two six foot wide sandbag walls, or batteries were erected a hundred feet apart; the first was fifty feet from the gates, the second was fifty feet from the landing strip. The batteries were where third squad would make its stand. Braun did a final inspection, repeatedly asking himself if he were doing the right thing and if he had set up a credible defense. He could barely stand the tension.
“Into the valley of death rode the five hundred,” said Dixon.
Braun snapped. “You listen to me lieutenant part-time, if there is one thing that is going to happen before this is all over, I'm going to see that smart-assed smile wiped from your face.”
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“Its okay Robert, its just me. I guess I also need to learn to control my temper.”
At 2155 everyone was in position when the whirring of a fleet of helicopters could be heard.
“Hit the floodlight,” shouted Stewart. The light shot-up into the air; serving as a homing device for the helicopters. The flares were snapped and tossed to the ground, creating an outline of where the helicopters were to land. There had been no sound from outside the camp and every man inside prayed that he would be on the helicopters and away long before the militia troops had arrived. The first helicopter touched down.
“Let's move it,” ordered Stewart.
Prescott bent over as he ran towards the open door of the helicopter. He and the rest of first squad were quickly loaded and buckled-in. The helicopter rose straight up into the air. Prescott felt like he was riding an elevator. He looked down and smiled; Cassandra was still sleeping in his arms. The second helicopter was just about to be loaded when the sound of an explosion outside the fence rocked the camp. There were screams and yelling as militia troops tried to extract themselves from the trench and then the sound of blasts as men helplessly walked over land mines.
“Your friends are here, lieutenant,” said Quid.
“They don't sound happy,” answered Dixon.
Three of the four helicopters were airborne by the time the militia troops burst through the gates using a converted bulldozer. At the first battery, the Canadians were able to repel the first wave of invaders.
“Lieutenant, have the men fall back. The corporal and I will provide cover fire.”
Somehow, the ten men were able to make it the hundred feet back to the second battery. A second wave of militia drove into the opening in the fence. Quid and the colonel cut them down as death sputtered from their GR-4s.
“Corporal, who are you?” yelled Braun over the machine-gun fire.
“Colonel, time to go.”
Quid pulled his weapon across his chest and ran towards the second battery. Braun hesitated, then followed Quid through the darkness. When they arrived, they found only Dixon and Holt. The last helicopter was fifty feet away. Braun could hear its rotors begin to pick up speed.
“Sir, the sergeant is loading the last of the men on the copter. It's just us.”
They heard shots and then saw flashes of light as the militia's armored vehicles started to enter the camp.
“Lieutenant, take everyone to the helicopter. I'll provide cover.”
“I'll stay with the colonel,” said Quid.
“Go now,” ordered the colonel. Dixon paused, then said, “Let's roll.” He and Holt ran towards the waiting helicopter.
“Corporal,” demanded Braun.
Quid reached up and touched his thumb to Braun's forehead. “Live again,” he murmured quietly.
Braun couldn't control himself. He dropped his GR-4 and ran to the copter where his men helped him aboard.
“Pilot, we need to pick-up a man. Fly us low over there,” he ordered. There was confusion as the helicopter lifted off and began to skim the ground as it headed towards the second battery. From his position, the colonel hung outside the helicopter. Lights from militia vehicles lit up the second battery and he could see the solitary figure of Quid firing at the militia. Braun turned his head to speak to the pilot.
“Down there,” he pointed.
The colonel looked away. Dixon was the only other man who had spotted Quid. He watched him steadily. He won't make it, he thought. Will we make it out? He really didn't care; the little girl was safe. Then, in a blink, he saw Quid vanish. It was as if the man was a chalk drawing on a blackboard that had been erased. First, his legs disappeared, then his lower body and arms, and finally his head. Dixon saw the GR-4 drop to the ground.
“He's gone, colonel,” he yelled.
“What do you mean he's gone?” They were all shouting to be heard above the noise of the blades' rotors.
“The corporal just disappeared, colonel.”
Braun thought for a moment, “Check on the legs, did he grab the legs of the copter?” Holt flattened himself out on the deck of the helicopter and leaned over the side of the open door and looked beneath the belly of the helicopter. “Nothing Sir, he's not there.” Braun was about to give the order to land when he heard Quid's voice “Live again.”
“Pilot, take us out of here,” ordered Braun.
“You can't leave him there,” argued Dixon.
“Pilot, you have your orders” Braun said, sounding definite. The copter lurched upward at a dizzying speed until they were far from the dangers below, then slowly moved forward away from the valley. Dixon began searching with a floodlight, looking for any sign of the Corporal. Quid was gone.
Braun was exhausted. He stretched back in his seat, glad to be aboard a troop transport over the Atlantic. Their next stop would be just outside of Toronto. He had made inquires, and it would take them no longer than ten minutes to drive to the army base where all of the villagers they had evacuated were being held, pending the completion of their applications by Immigration Canada. He watched the little girl as she slept on Prescott's lap. He felt content. When the copters had touched down at the base in Germany, Beck had immediately arranged for medicine for his stomach worms. It must have been working. The pain was gone and he hadn't passed any of the little creatures in two days. He tried to sleep.
“She'll be over here sir,” said the sergeant as he led Braun and Dixon along the makeshift barracks in the aircraft hanger. Cassandra was content and allowed herself to be carried by the lieutenant. Braun held up the picture and scanned the room. First he saw the boy; sitting next him was the mother, along with other women and children, playing cards. The savagery of her life had not changed her; she was still beautiful. Braun checked the photo again. There was no doubt.
“Well, lieutenant, come along.”
They stepped a couple of feet forward, the woman took a quick glance at them and was about to go back to her game when she did a double take. She stood, dropping her cards; a scream of joy came out of her mouth. Her hands came up as if she was going to pray, then began to shake. Tears started to flood her eyes. She darted towards Dixon. Cassandra saw the woman and screamed, “Me Mommy,” almost wrenching herself from Dixon's hands and into her mother's waiting arms. Cassandra was grabbed and hugged and kissed and loved. Then the young mother grabbed Dixon and in gratitude kissed his cheeks. She stopped, grabbed Braun and repeated the exercise. Back she went to the table, hugging and kissing her daughter and son while her party danced around in joy. Suddenly, the woman stopped, put her daughter down, wiped the tears from her face and asked the sergeant a question.
“Sir, any word on her husband?”
“Tell her we're still searching.”
The sergeant relayed the message. The woman smiled, waved at them, and went back to her children.
“Tomorrow, sergeant, you can tell her we found his body along with her daughter outside the village. You can give her these after the shock wears off.” Braun handed the man the pictures that had been taken of the dead father. He continued, “Sergeant, where are their papers?”
“Their papers? They were told to hang onto them.”
“Get them for me, please.”
The sergeant walked over to the mother, talked with her, then returned with the woman's immigration papers, while she nervously looked on. Braun read the last name on the paper. He took out the copy of the application he had filled out for Cassandra and filled in her last name; he checked the date on the mother's paper, February 13, 1995, adjusted the date on his stamp to match it before stamping and signing Cassandra's copy. Since Braun's signature appeared on each of the villagers' applications, there would be no way of telling that Cassandra's paperwork had been filled out at a date later then her mother's or brother's. She was safe. Safe from the Republicans and the settlers. Braun pointed to the paper, then Cassandra, before handing all of the papers back to the anxious mother. She nodded and smiled, indicating that she understood.
“Colonel, you're not supposed to be doing that,” said the sergeant.
“Sergeant,” answered Braun, “that little girl is the last refugee we took out of the village where we were stationed. Soldiers were about to torture her to death when the lieutenant here and his men saved her. The Republicans are trying to locate her so they can try to force Canada to turn her over to them. She has a lot of symbolic interest to them. Without that bit of paper, they might just be able to get their hands on her. If you want to take her paperwork away, then be my guest.”
The sergeant looked at the little girl. “Paperwork sir? Not sure what you mean, that little girl arrived with her mother and her paperwork was already completed.”
“Thank you, sergeant.”
The soldiers started to walk out of the hanger.
“Sirs, if you don't mind me asking, was the camp as bad as we heard?”
Dixon laughed. “Sergeant, if they offer to assign you outside the country, make sure it's a posting to Hawaii or Japan.”
“I'll remember that, sir.” The sergeant gave a half-hearted smile.
The two men exited the internment camp. Though they walked in synchronized step like good soldiers, they walked as far apart as manners would permit.
“Well colonel, where to now?”
“We best get a cab and find our way over to H.Q. and try to sort out this mess. We're into a load of trouble.”
The lieutenant stopped, “I think we're about to find out the worst. Seems someone told them where we were going.”
A green military jeep was parked outside the entrance to the camp, and two military police officers were walking towards them. The colonel sighed. “Let's wait here for them.”
The two MPs walked up to them and, without saluting; the lead MP addressed Braun.
“Excuse me sir, are you Colonel Braun?”
“Yes, what is this about?”
Without answering Braun, the lead MP asked Dixon “You aren't Major DeCouray?”
Braun answered, “Major DeCouray is dead, this is Lieutenant Dixon. He became my Aide de Camp after the major's demise. You haven't answered my question.”
The second MP pulled out a spiral notepad and asked “It was Lieutenant, and Dixon is spelt how?”
“Yes, its Lieutenant, Dixon is D-I-X-O-N. First name, Robert.”
The lead MP spoke to Braun. “Colonel, we have orders to place you under arrest and I believe the Lieutenant as well, now that the Major is dead.”
Braun was calm, “And what are the charges?”
“Well Sir, there are a lot. The main complaints are being absent without leave, failing to report to a superior officer, and unlawful abduction of an alien national. Sir, do you have the alien national with you or do you know of said individual's whereabouts?”
“I haven't a clue what you're talking about; we don't know anything about any alien national. Listen, let's save some time. Who placed your orders? Was it Brigadier Folders?”
“No Sir, it was Brigadier Chambers.”
“You mean Colonel Chambers.”
“It's now Brigadier Chambers. Has been for the last four months, since he replaced Folders.”
Braun and Dixon exchanged glances. Now everything was clear and made sense to Braun: their tour's being extended by three months, the lack of stores and rations, and the reversal of their mission's objective. The unanswered letters. It made sense, but it didn't. How could Chambers have hated him so much as to cost men their lives? It had been a mindless stab at a vanquished foe.
“You don't have to shackle us, do you?” Dixon asked.
“No, I think we can count on the fact that, as officers and gentlemen, you'll behave yourselves.”
“Am I permitted to make a phone call?”asked Braun. “I'd like to speak with my daughter.”
The lead MP shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir, my instructions are to escort you and your next-in-command back to lock-up.” He thought for a moment. “Of course, there is nothing to stop me from relaying a message to your daughter on my own time if you were interested in writing something down and giving me a contact number.”
“I'd be very grateful.”
“How about you, lieutenant?”
Dixon looked over at the colonel before answering the MP “No. No thank you. There's no one I need to contact.”
“I should have guessed,” snorted Braun.
The MPs led them back towards the waiting Jeep. Braun said under his breath, more to himself then to anyone else, “It was worth it.”
“For God or the Brass? Which will you say at the court-martial?”
“Leave it alone, lieutenant. Just leave it alone.”