POPCORN

by Victor Gischler

  I look down. No Jerrys, but I see the castle. I'm holding my Sten anyway. In case some Kraut shows his ugly head.

  But no, by some miracle nobody spots us. Or maybe they think we're really Red Cross people. Does the Red Cross normally parachute over woods? I wouldn’t think so, but as long as the Nazis don’t bother us, I don’t mind.

  I land, I roll, I repair behind a huge stone just out of the wood. If the bloody map doesn’t lie, the tunnel should be some one hundred yards uphill.

  Jericho lands a little bit downhill from me. He stumbles and falls, but is immediately up. Our eyes meet again. He seems amused.

  We shed the parachutes. Jericho comes near me, submachine gun in hand. Thankfully his English is really good. And apparently so is his German. We got ourselves a bloody scholar. “Ishma,” he says.

  I grab his neck through the thick clothes he's wearing. “Look, you bastard…” Then I hear a click and realize that his FNAB-43 is trained straight to my chest. I let him go and take a step back, hands open and palms out.

  “Sorry, Ishmael, but don’t you react like that on me. Ever. Again.”

  I understand from his eyes that if we weren’t in the middle of a wood probably full of Nazis and with a tracking device up our arses, I wouldn’t be fit to walk. Or talk. Or breathe.

  “Fair enough. Sorry mate. But do not call me Ishma. Ever. It's Ishmael. Or Richard.”

  “Understood,” he says. “Now; you must have noticed that the snow is not the most silent thing to walk on. Imagine you are on dry leaves. Be careful. And try to walk on my steps. Or where the snow is not thick, there under the trees. Got it?”

  “Got it, Lieutenant.”

  “Drop the Lieutenant, Ishmael. It is Gerico. I don’t outrank you. Not in this crap we are in anyway. Looks like we are supposed to be Skuld’s hands. And legs. And probably his brains too.”

  He spits on the ground. Skuld. I imagine a hulking man, holding a Browning M2 in one hand and a Vickers in the other. Or something even heavier. An airplane maybe. A tank. Whatever. One who snaps trees with one hand. Not iron bars, clearly. Skuld. My life for you, Skuld. Whoever you are.

  Jericho starts walking, weapon at the ready. I follow in his steps, crouching down.

  We reach the pines. We're in the wood. I move next to him.

  Then I see something to my right. I touch Jericho’s arm and point at it.

  A Nazi.

  Smoking a cigarette, his back to us.

  If the wind hadn't been blowing behind us I would have smelled it much earlier.

  Idiot.

  I take the F-S out of my boot. No need to make noise. Slit his throat, easy as. Jericho pulls out a knife too. Good. We understand each other.

  The Jerry starts walking uphill, away from us. We follow him moving from tree to tree, from rock to rock. Always hiding. Slowly but not too slowly. I want to get him before he reaches the other Krauts.

  I look around.

  And to my right, I see him.

  The other Jerry.

  Of course there are two of them. There’s always two on patrols.

  He's crouching down behind a pine.

  His arse is hanging out.

  He's taking a dump.

  He seems focussed, looks like it is hard work. He grunts. Something falls on the ground.

  Thump.

  I see the Jerry’s turd steaming in the freezing April air.

  He's not done.

  Jericho's seen it too. His eyes are open wide. He's amused. I never killed a man while he's taking a dump.

  I'm ready to add it to my record.

  I point at Jericho and then at the Kraut who is walking away. He seems disappointed, but he realizes that the job needs to be done. Now.

  Jericho follows the Jerry, hidden from him and from his friend. Who is still pushing. I can hear him. He feels safe.

  I draw closer. The tree he's leaning against is big. I'm behind it.

  But I wait. I don’t want to step in a Jerry’s shit.

  Another grunt. Another thump. Another turd. More steam.

  “Aaaah,” the Nazi says. “Endlich!” He grabs some snow and starts wiping his arse. Then he throws the snow behind him. Nearly hits me. I move suddenly. I suppose he hears me, because he jumps up and turns around.

  I don’t give him the time to react. Not even to shout. I kick his testicles, and as he bends over I plant my F-S in the top of his head.

  As he crumbles down without a sound, I release my hold on the knife to avoid being hit by a spray of his blood. The dead Jerry falls with his face in his own shit. Damn. My knife is soiled.

  I bend down, a foot on the Kraut’s head, and I pry the F-S out of his skull. Then I crunch it under my boot. The Nazi’s skull I mean. Not the knife. Just to make sure he's dead.

  Then I remember that I'm stepping in shit too. I roll my eyes. Then I clean my boot on the snow and I'm ready to reach Jericho.

  I walk uphill. I hear voices barking in German. One laughs. They're talking about the guy I just killed. Johann. Johann ist tot,du Arschloch, I think.

  I get closer.

  Jericho's on the ground, behind a boulder. Great position, he can see them, they can’t see him.

  The Krauts are being loud. I whisper. “Jericho, it’s me.”

  The Italian turns his head and shows me three fingers, then he points towards where the voices come from. I nod and move a little to find another vantage point.

  Behind another boulder, I peek towards the three Nazis. I see them, smoking and laughing in a snow covered clearing. And behind them I see a hole in the mountain.

  No, not a hole; a door. The entrance to a tunnel. And it’s open.

  At least Driscoll wasn't lying about that.

  Jericho points at me. I'm in charge of this. Good. I like killing Nazis. Even if they're not taking a shit.

  They're all holding their cigarettes.

  Best moment.

  I look at Jericho. He's still looking at me.

  I nod.

  He nods back.

  I raise a fist.

  One finger.

  Two fingers.

  Three fingers.

  He jumps up, knife in hand. I've already hit the nearest Jerry in the centre of his back, severing his spine. He makes a noise like a stifled belch and goes down.

  Jericho has a different technique. Quite effective though. He just jumped on one of the Nazis, brought him down and stabbed him several times.

  I'm already on the third. He has time to unholster his gun and he shoots from his hip. Too soon. I've already moved to the other side. He misses wildly.

  I throw my knife. I hit him in the left eye.

  Good shot.

  Too bad he had time to pull the trigger.

  I hear barks in German from above. “Amerikaner!” someone says.

  You are so very wrong, my friend.

  But it's not the moment to discuss national pride.

  Jericho is already in the tunnel.

  I crouch, take the knife out the Jerry’s eye and dive in just as the first bullets hit the ground.

  “Sie sind im Tunnel!” some Nazi screams.

  Bye bye surprise.

  Gerico

  As the last of the Nazis shoots a round that will wake up a whole garrison of damned Krauts, in my mind I run through all the places we'll need to cross.

  The main tunnel, the manhole to climb through, then up the well, the inner chamber, the secret passage that leads straight to the cell where Skuld is kept. Problem is, nobody knows how to open the door into the secret passage.

  Well, first we need to get there, right? So, let’s press on.

  As soon as we get in it’s raining lead. The Nazis come in waves like hellspawn and spray us with .9 Parabellum bullets. Their MP40s roar and shoot all around.

  Shards of stone explode like grey lava from the walls of the tunnel, solid fountains that shatter the air while I look for some shelter praying I won’t end up with more holes than a Swiss cheese.

 
The pulsating globes of some of the torches hanging on the wall glow like red tongues ahead of me in a crazy set-up. One after another, like the eyes of the devil through the fog created by the shots.

  As I dive right, where our tunnel crosses another, Ishmael dives left.

  Let’s completely forget the hope of a surprise attack. The MK2 fragmentation grenade that Driscoll, the crazy warmonger, had given us leaves my hand like a promise of death while the lead spat by the German machine guns doesn’t stop.

  The Nazis keep shouting insults like enraged animals.

  The following roar makes the whole tunnel shake. A rain of stone explodes in a single, solid river flowing fast towards us. From my small shelter, I see the tail of the explosion fall in dark grey plumes. No time to lose.

  In a surreal silence I turn the corner and dash forward. The smell of burnt skin. Boiled blood stains the walls of the tunnel.

  According to the map, we need to follow the main channel for at least four hundred metres. I hear Ishmael’s boots hitting the stone on time with mine. The noise is dull, pressing.

  I jump over piles of ruins and burning pieces of what used to be human bodies. Dark stains pool along the way. They look like thick oil. But it’s blood. My stomach tightens more and more. I keep my submachine guns levelled, ready to cover anyone who appears in lead. The fact that the tunnel is barrel vaulted increases a sense of claustrophobia that bites into my heart.

  Find Skuld.

  Free Skuld.

  That’s all that matters. That, and the piece of metal they inserted under my skin.

  The dirty glimmer of the barrel of a rifle tells me that trouble is coming.

  Brakka, brakka.

  My two FNAB-43 vomit short, quick volleys cutting down anything I see in front of me. My eyes are welling up because of the smoke. Two bodies dance a hysterical waltz before me as if a mad hatter had plugged their fingers in a power mains.

  They fall with a thump, but I'm already past them when they touch the ground. We need to get there as fast as possible. Nothing else matters. I feel my heart pushing against my ribcage, as if it wanted to get out.

  A metallic pain that shortens my breath. The air gets colder the further away we get from the centre of the explosion.

  We should be close to the manhole on the ceiling. I shoulder my weapons and grab a torch.

  I'm below the manhole. I check the cover while Ishmael appears in front of me.

  “Quick,” he says, as we hear the Krauts barking from some distance away. Not too far though. It takes a second to grab the bottom rung, lift myself up and begin the climb.

  I press on as the yellow beam of my torch slices the darkness brightening the black space above me.

  We try to be as quiet as possible, trying to make the Krauts lose our trail. At least for a while.

  “Alarm,” someone barks. But his voice is feeble, far away, as if only the last fragments of the sound had found their way in the tunnel we are climbing. Damp and a freezing cold start to hit us, but our movements get more and more fluid the closer we get to the top.

  Below me, Ishmael’s regular breathing gives a creepy rhythm that seems to be pushing me. I wonder if that damned kilt wearer ever gets tired. Anyway. The short beam of my torch bounces on the narrow walls of the well. From far up I can see some light. It's milky, dull, the colour of butter, but it's there.

  One rung after another. The top is getting closer.

  Finally, I get to a grid. I lift it and I climb up to the new area in a single, natural movement.

  More or less.

  As I wait for Ishmael to appear from the hole I look up and let my eyes wander in what seems to be an inner chamber. Or rather a cave. The walls of the room we emerged in are bare rock.

  As if whoever built the castle had done so including some kind of a cave in their design. Or he had built that stronghold around some kind of gorge.

  Anyway. Above us shines a crystal… thing, a chandelier that looks like a cage, trapped in a series of iron cables like a spider’s web. I don’t like it.

  Then I see on the wall furthest from us a huge armoured door that should lead to the secret passage towards Skuld’s cell. And I feel like swearing.

  Because of course it's locked. And we have no idea of where the key is.

  So we open the map on the floor. No useful hints. We closely inspect all that mess of passages, tunnels, inner chambers, cells, hidden rooms, but there is nothing hinting at where the key should be.

  Ishmael seems to be losing heart too. He turns over the map. So we realize that on the back there are some small pencil-drawn sketches.

  They look like the doodles of a mad painter but I look closer and point the torch at them. And I realize that, strangely, they make sense.

  Yes. The author of the map has drawn some kind of a key. What astonishes us is that it's definitely the key that opens the door we are facing. Yes, the artist made it very clear.

  But the worst thing is the last absurd conclusion that those notes lead us to. No doubts about it; the key is inside that crystal lighting fixture above us.

  Only God knows how it got there. Point is, we need it to open the door.

  No magic, no tricks, no damn solutions.

  My memory goes back to the triumphant expression on Driscoll’s face. No way he didn’t know about it. Now I understand why he kept talking up my skills as a climber and an alpinist.

  Son of a bitch.

  I realize that time is running low.

  “Ishmael,” I say, “light my way the best you can. I need to climb up there.” I nod towards that thing hanging at the centre of the room.

  His eyes open wide. Then he says “Right.”

  Christ, how encouraging.

  Well, whatever. Let’s do it. I drop everything that might hinder my climb. Guns, submachine guns, holsters, cartridge cases, knives, helmet. Everything.

  I give Ishmael my lamp, he extracts his own and lights up both. He aims both beams of light on the smooth rock surface.

  Some twenty metres up there is a spur on which one of the iron cables is anchored. It coils like a mutant snake around one of the beams of the chandelier in which the key is hidden.

  I quickly check the other walls, but I don’t see a better solution. So I choose what I have in front of me.

  I choose not to use a static line, but there's no time. I follow Paul Preuss’s rules and I start a free climb. I'm very careful. I use every natural niche, every tiny protrusion to get some safety. No hurry. If I fall we're both screwed.

  Not both. The three of us. Skuld.

  Another thing you will have to pay for when I find you, Skuld.

  I test each support point more than once before I find the perfect balance for my body and climb. Slow but constant. A bump in the limestone gives me one more small crease.

  I manage to go further up. I find a series of tiny tiny handholds. A couple more metres are gone. I find a dièdre. It's a blessing. From there, lifting myself up to the iron rope that crosses the space above me doesn’t seem impossible.

  I put my hand in the slit, but the rock doesn’t seem too steady.

  I test it with my open hand and at least ten centimetres crumble and fall down. Sweat runs all over my face like a small river. The damned trembling lights of the lamps help as much as they can. There is some hope I’ll make it.

  After the frail crust of the rock has gone, what was below it is strong and allows me to climb some more. I reach a narrow ledge and from there, hanging like a monkey, I manage to grab the iron rope.

  I just hope it holds my weight.

  Then, slithering like a worm along the cable, reaching the light bulb, putting my hand in and taking out the wrap that contains the key is child’s play.

  I drop the wrap.

  Ishmael grabs it. He opens it. Rises one finger. He's holding the key.

  I crawl again towards the chalky spur. Getting from the rope to the rock is not very easy, but I try a couple of times and finally I find something saf
e to hold on to. Then, getting down is easier. So to speak.

  * * *

  When I feel my feet touching the solid ground I feel like I’m dreaming.

  Slowly, I go to ground and assume the foetal position. I stay down for a couple of minutes trying to catch my breath.

  Tension is pulling my muscles like an invisible series of pincers. The air that escapes from my mouth creates small, blue clouds.

  “Let’s go,” says Ishmael. “Time flies.”

  I‘d like to kill him with my own hands for that, but he's perfectly right. So for once I reply with a single word too.

  “Coming.”

  I stand up. I mount the silencers on my .9 Berettas. The Krauts seem to have no idea of where we are, and if we're lucky they won’t be expecting us to appear right in front of Skuld’s cell.

  It's a damned secret passage after all, isn’t it? So I choose to travel light and leave some of my stuff in the cave. Sure we will come back this way. No doubts.

  The lock gives a dark, metallic clack. Time to open it and we're in another tunnel, dark as a moonless night. We try to avoid making too much light with our torches. Just enough to see where we are going.

  After a couple of minutes’ walk in the dark, I see some light before us. We carry on until we reach another grid. Behind that, the harsh voices of two Germans break the silence. I get closer. They are sitting at a table, drinking something.

  I promise: This is your last glass. One for the road.

  I aim the guns through the grid.

  I aim carefully. This needs to be a clean job. No errors, they need to go down immediately.

  Then I hear my two pairs of shots.

  The .9 Parabellum bullets smash the heads of the two Nazis. The blood arcs out, painting everything around with plasma and brain matter. The corpses wilt down slowly on the backs of their chairs.

  Ishmael opens the grid and we leave the tunnel.

  In an instant we reach the place where they were killed.

  The two Krauts look like grotesque puppets. Two huge bullet holes each. Thick red lumps cover the dark wood of the table like pieces of watermelon and drop in gloopy strings slowly reaching the ground.