Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  The Brits had mentioned that Armin had given them the equipment, and there’d been no implication that this was a one-time thing. They’d also invited him to fence with them any time. Perhaps even teach some of the men who’d never really learned. If there was anything that would keep him sane for his time here at Ahlenstieg, he was certain he’d found it.

  Footsteps outside. Approaching, and quickly. Mark lifted his head, looking toward the door. What was going on? God, not an escape attempt.

  The door opened and Mark sat up so fast he nearly hit his head on Silent Joe’s bunk.

  “Captain Green?” German accent.

  Above him, Silent Joe stirred. “Hmm?”

  Mark stood. “What’s going on?”

  A shadow moved closer. “Your presence is requested in the infirmary.”

  Oh God.

  Silent Joe was awake, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk and almost hitting Mark. He dropped beside him. “What’s going on? How’s Rubble?”

  Someone else stirred. “Rubble?”

  Oh, shit. Mark got up. “Kitten, go back to—”

  “What the hell is going on?” Kitten was on his feet now too. “How is he?”

  The German was quiet for a moment. To Silent Joe, he said, “My condolences, Captain. The doctor has informed us—”

  Mark didn’t hear the rest. The sound Kitten made just before he went to his knees was all he heard. He moved to Kitten’s side and put his arms around him.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark whispered. Their crew had always been close, but Kitten and Rubble had been about as close as two men could be without being lovers. Hell, maybe they had been. It hadn’t been anyone’s business but their own.

  The other men in the cramped room were waking up, mumbling “what’s going on?” and “what’s wrong?” in sleepy voices before they caught on and, like Kitten and Silent Joe, were suddenly wide awake.

  Kitten sniffed sharply and wiped his eyes. He looked up at the German—another had brought in a lantern, illuminating their faces. “Can I see him?”

  The German eyed him. He turned to Silent Joe, who’d sat down on Mark’s bunk.

  Without a word, Silent Joe nodded.

  “Very well.” The German motioned for him to follow.

  Mark helped Kitten to his feet. Then the two of them followed the German through the castle’s dark corridors. The infirmary was dimly lit, only a few beds occupied, and they were taken to the bed at the end of the room.

  There, lying motionless and peaceful beneath a blanket, was Rubble.

  “Oh God.” Kitten sank onto the edge of the bed beside him, and touched Rubble’s face. “No …”

  Someone put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. When he turned, Silent Joe nodded toward the door, and headed in that direction. Mark gave Kitten and Rubble a glance, and then followed Silent Joe.

  In the cold privacy of the corridor, Silent Joe said, “This is going to hit him hard.”

  “It already has.”

  “Yeah, but it hasn’t sunk in yet. Not completely.” Silent Joe’s forehead creased as he glanced at the door again. “We’ll need to keep an eye on Kitten.”

  “We do.” Mark glanced back at Kitten and sighed.

  We’re just two men now. And I’m sorry for your friend.

  It wasn’t Armin’s fault, or his doctor’s. It was just war. Just as air crew, they’d been removed from looking it all in the eye. Death came in the shape of a diving Messerschmitt, in a hail of rounds, tracers guiding them. Death on the ground though? Peacefully, almost, in a dark and cold castle that could just have been the witch’s castle from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?

  Silent Joe met his gaze. “You know. The Kommandant. He mentioned Rubble was in a bad way. He tried to help.”

  Mark was only glad for the gloom and that nobody else was around who’d have listened to him. “He did.”

  “Why?”

  Because he isn’t what you think. “Why do people care about the wounded? I don’t know. Compassion?”

  “Or a hell of a lot of paperwork to deal with. We’re officers. He can’t shoot us in a ditch.” The exhaustion in Silent Joe’s face said very clearly that, if the Kommandant chose to have him shot, he didn’t have enough fight left in him to object. And that worried Mark even more than seeing Kitten fall apart.

  Mark reached out and pressed Silent Joe’s shoulder. “He won’t.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I know him from before. He wasn’t evil. Isn’t evil. No, never that. Hedging, and flirtatious and sometimes just a bit awkward, and proud and sometimes really quite dashing, but evil? No. “Call it instinct.”

  Silent Joe nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Mark pressed his shoulder again. They were out of things to say, so they just stood there, smoking while they waited for Kitten to say his goodbyes. After a long while, Mark went to fetch him.

  Kitten was sitting beside the bed. One of the Germans must have brought him a chair, and he just stayed there, grasping Rubble’s hand in both of his.

  Mark touched his arm. “Hey.”

  Kitten acknowledged him with a glance, but didn’t speak. It always struck Mark how it was a sign of weakness for grown men to cry, especially soldiers, but there was no shame in grieving like this. If there was one thing a soldier could cry over without reservation, it was another fallen soldier. Just seeing them both—Rubble lying motionless and Kitten crying softly by his side—was enough to raise a lump in Mark’s throat, but he forced it back, if only to offer his friend some strength by proxy.

  Kitten turned to the German who’d escorted them. “The Kommandant was going to bring in a priest. Did he …?”

  The German shifted his weight. “I don’t know. I can—”

  “Yes.” The doctor stepped out of the shadows, looking tired and haggard. “The priest came yesterday afternoon. Delivered his last rites.”

  Kitten nodded. “Good. Thank you. And please tell …” He paused and cleared his throat. “Please tell the Kommandant we’re grateful.”

  “I will, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you.” Kitten patted Rubble’s hand, and then laid it gently on the bed. He stood, looked over his friend one last time, and turned to Mark. “We can go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  The German escort stepped toward them. “I will take you back to your quarters.”

  Kitten exhaled. “Okay.” He turned to Mark. “You got any cigarettes?”

  Mark gave him one, and lit it, and the two of them smoked in silence as they and Silent Joe followed the German back to their room.

  The door wasn’t locked behind them, but what did it matter? They weren’t going anywhere. He was, however, grateful they’d been let out long enough to see Rubble. Sanitation demanded the body not linger in the infirmary for long, not even when it was this bitterly cold. Kitten didn’t need to know that, though.

  To Mark’s surprise, Kitten hit his rack and fell asleep almost immediately. He was probably exhausted just from that brief visit. Or maybe he’d known, as they all had, that Rubble hadn’t been long for this world, and he’d been keeping his own distant vigil. Now that it was over, he simply gave in to the fatigue.

  Mark lay back on his own bed. It had been less than an hour since he’d been lying in this same place, staring up at the bottom of Silent Joe’s rack and listening to the other men snore. Oh, how the world could change in an hour though. Earlier, he’d been filled with a strange sense of hope, a feeling that he could make it through however many months lay ahead because he finally had something he could care about again.

  And then one of his men had died, taking a piece of the other two with him, and that sense of hope had cooled like the ashes of a stomped-out cigarette. Yes, he could fence now. Yes, he could do something besides bide his time until death or liberation.

  But they were still at war.

  And he was still in hell.

  Chapter 14

 
“The prisoner died last night.” Schäfer shrugged his heavy shoulders. “The American.”

  “Lieutenant Keller?” Armin leaned back. “That’s unfortunate.”

  Maybe he should have pushed the doctor to operate. Maybe. But if there was one thing the war had taught him, it was that every decision could lead to death and often it was nobody’s fault. He’d lost his faith in any plan and order long ago. Months. Was it more than a year ago? It should have been five-hundred years—halfway through that thousand-year Reich that the Nazis threatened the world with.

  “Wiese took them to see the body.”

  “Them?”

  “Captain Driscoll and Lieutenant Broadwater. They were his comrades.”

  And the bond of comradeship was sacred. Wiese knew it. Schäfer knew it. Just Armin had always been a little apart, a little removed. Always unable to throw himself fully into this bond which was somewhere there with love. Maybe the one noble feeling left in the world, but he’d never quite allowed himself to surrender to it.

  “I’ll deal with it.”

  “Wiese said Lieutenant Broadwater said to thank you.” Schäfer eyed him.

  “Seems I’m making friends.” Armin’s voice sounded sardonic to himself.

  “Their respect means nothing—they will keep playing us for fools.”

  “That’s their duty. With most of them, I don’t think it’s anything personal. They are bored. They are men of action, penned up like chickens. Who wouldn’t be resentful and stir-crazy? Our duty is to keep them here and keep them alive until the war is over.”

  And it wouldn’t be long now. It can’t be long. Not after Stalingrad.

  City of rats. City of men.

  Rat men.

  He shuddered.

  And that was all before the Americans had landed in Normandy. The enemy was closing in now from all sides, and Armin secretly welcomed whatever end they brought with them.

  “Kommandant?”

  Armin shook himself. “It’s a small kindness. If I have to be a prison warden, I can be one who’s not hated.”

  “But held in contempt?”

  Armin leaned forward. “I appreciate you’re a straight talker, Schäfer. I respect you for it and I’m not going to be all high and mighty about this. However, in the absence of being able to duel each and every one of them—Chandler first—I bear in mind that there are more of these men than there are of me. What it takes to keep the peace seems to be worthwhile to me.”

  Schäfer straightened. “The discipline in this camp hinges on your authority, not mercy or sympathy.”

  “And I think Germany has had quite enough of leaders who will not listen to reason and hold their own pride higher than the well-being of everybody else. I don’t care.”

  Schäfer’s eyes widened a little at the words—mutinous words, almost. Blasphemous, to some. But Armin knew that Schäfer wasn’t a Party member, and wasn’t a Nazi. He’d managed to transfer two ardent Nazis during his tenure already. There were still some on the staff, but from what he could gather, they were in the vast minority.

  “Will that be all, Schäfer?”

  Schäfer swallowed. “Yes, Kommandant.”

  Armin made a sharp gesture, and Schäfer obediently left, the door closing perhaps harder than was necessary behind him.

  Sitting back in his chair, Armin released a huff of breath. He understood Schäfer’s concerns, but he’d stand his ground on this argument every time. If he was unfit for duty as Kommandant of this place, then one of the Führer’s men would be along sooner or later to inform him of such. Maybe that message would come in the form of a bullet between the eyes or somebody meaningfully placing a pistol on his desk, or maybe he’d be relieved and sent back home to—

  Home. Armin shook his head and reached for a stack of neglected paperwork as a shudder worked its way through him. He’d happily leave this place if ordered or allowed, but to where? To the family’s castle on the Rhine, assuming it still stood? He had no idea if it remained. He did, however, know that there was nothing left for him in Hamburg. He doubted much remained for anyone there. Just bombed-out carcasses of buildings and the scarred, blank-eyed survivors. Wherever he went when all this was over, it wouldn’t be there. Not unless he wanted to go back to the sanatorium as well.

  He shuddered again and looked through some of the papers, trying to focus on the words.

  A quiet knock at his door was both an annoyance and a welcome distraction.

  “Eintreten.”

  One of the guards entered carrying a few pieces of paper. “Kommandant.”

  “Obergefreiter Krause.”

  “The prisoners have discussed the, uh, Games”—his eyebrows quirked, as if he wondered if he’d fallen for a prank by the men he’d been guarding—“and asked me to give you this.”

  “Very well.” Armin held out his hand.

  The guard came forward and handed him the papers.

  Armin scanned them. They were mostly lists of requested equipment. Some of it would be near impossible to acquire—he wondered which joker had thought the “Prisoner Olympics” as it had been dubbed would include a riflery portion—but other things, he could manage. Pads and gloves for boxers. Something with which to draw stripes and boundaries on the ground.

  “All right.” He set the papers aside. “Tell them I will look into it. Have they formed teams?”

  “Uh …” The guard’s eyebrow rose. This is really going to happen? “Right. Of course, Kommandant.”

  “Danke. Wegtreten.”

  The guard saluted, and then left.

  Armin skimmed over the papers again. Perhaps it wasn’t just the prisoners’ morale that would benefit from these Games.

  Maybe they should add football—the Britons were wild for it (in their blasé, quiet way), and he had a number of guards who were following their teams and talking about them any chance they got. Maybe he should include the guards. He’d give it some consideration. It might be a good way to release some frustration on both sides.

  He’d present the issue to the mayor down in the village and ask him if they could loan some of those items.

  As crazy as the idea was, maybe it was the best one he’d had in a long time. The real spirit of athletics didn’t need much. Ambition. Heart. Courage. Faith. All in short supply here, but seeing it re-awaken in people in a place where they’d need every ounce of it—that warmed his soul.

  And that was something that he had a very short supply of.

  * * * *

  Talk of the “Prisoner Games” rippled through the inhabitants of the castle with an enthusiasm that was usually reserved for successful pranks or escape attempts. Especially with the lieutenant’s death and the palpable grief from his men, the prisoners welcomed a diversion. Armin dared say they clung to it.

  Of course hosting something like this was risky—it could hide all kinds of activities; digging, for example.

  The prisoners seemed more active, more agitated than they’d been in weeks. When Armin walked through the great hall, there was no lecture in progress. The Britons had apparently decided that they would claim first place in fencing, wrestling, and football.

  The Americans concentrated on running and jumping—their athletes had always dominated in the track and field sports, so the choice seemed natural. And quite against what Armin had expected, they treated their kit with respect. Nothing seemed to get deliberately broken. One glove had ended up ripped, but they’d managed to fix it.

  Two Americans joined the Britons at the fencing practice. One was Mark. The other was, Armin thought, a Second Lieutenant Shaw.

  Armin stood to the side as Mark explained the kit to the other American, from the plastron to the britches and the jacket. As Mark put his on, Armin tried not to imagine the body underneath. Or remember it too well. After all that time, memories should have blurred, and maybe they had and all he’d left now was pure fantasy, but that didn’t help him at all.

  Once Shaw was kitted up, Mark picked up one of the
swords and demonstrated the grip. They were all French grips, just like Armin had always used, and if memory served, so had Mark. Still, Mark grimaced as he demonstrated the grip because he had to use his weaker hand. Left-hander teaching right-hander. Something twinged inside Armin’s body when Mark took Shaw’s hand and corrected the grip, carefully arranging the man’s fingers along the hilt.

  Quite possibly Armin’s first male obsession had been his own fencing teacher, and this was why. That sure touch, the push-pull of a teacher-student relationship, wavering between the need to impress and having absolutely no means to do so but ambition and obedience. It was always a fatal mismatch, profoundly unsatisfying, but in that, it kept spurring him on. And he’d always wondered how it might feel to be the master instead of the pupil, the one with the patient wisdom to impart to the eager student.

  Mark and Shaw handed their weapons off to a pair of Brits. While those two sparred, Mark stood beside Shaw and schooled him on footwork, talking him through everything from saluting—a motion infinitely more impressive when one was holding an actual blade rather than pantomiming—to advancing and retreating.

  Shaw scowled each time Mark explained a new set of footwork, be it a feint or a lunge, and Armin chuckled to himself as the man’s eyes flicked toward the Brits who were sparring animatedly—and more skillfully than before—not far away.

  Patience, dear boy. You have to have your feet beneath you before you have any hope of putting a blade into your opponent.

  “Nervous about letting my men wave swords around?” Chandler’s voice raised Armin’s hackles.

  He turned around, and offered a polite smile as the American approached. “Good afternoon, Major.”

  “Kommandant.”

  Armin faced the fencers again. “I rather enjoy fencing, Major.”

  Chandler snorted. He stood beside Armin and watched the others. “Dancing with swords. It’s no wonder the French can’t win a war.”