by Joe Poyer
After 'a while, Gillon rolled over onto his stomach and got to his hands and knees. He knelt in the snow, breathing in deep gasps and wondering if he could ever manage to gather enough strength to stand. He took it step by step; first, forcing himself upright, but still on his knees, then he brought one leg up, and finally got onto both feet. The sky spun and he stumbled forward onto the boulder and waited for the vertigo to pass. His ribs grated against each other and he gasped in agony as the muscles cramped down, almost doubling him into immobility. The cramp eased after several minutes and by degrees he forced himself erect once more and, without thinking, began to hobble down the remaining slope.
Bits and pieces of conversation, scraps of scenes came and went without pattern.
Dmietriev talking to him earlier, pointing out the place to cross the border . . . the red smoke marker . . . the Chinese soldiers on the ledge . . . Stowe telling him . . . warning him? . . . that more soldiers were waiting for anyone to cross the border. All of it mattered no longer. To stay was to die .
to attempt to cross was only to struggle that much longer against the inevitable, that last bit of effort that kept you alive, because luck was made of anticipation and struggle . . . he laughed out loud and found that it hurt.
He went downslope, shuffling one foot in front of the other as if he were an old man. It seemed that he no longer controlled his body and it tended to go where the terrain pushed it. The valley swept away before him and he did not trust the scenes that his eyes displayed for him. The landscape wavered in the watery moonlight; shadows took on the menacing shapes of trolls, then those of soldiers rising up from the drifts to reach restraining claws and he wondered insanely if the people who lived in these mountains told tales of middle-earth creatures as did the Scandinavians.
The slope flattened and the valley floor became level. The snow was hard-packed under the wind that whistled endlessly through the wind tunnel of the valley. A thin line came into sight, black against the glimmering white. As he stumbled on, the realization grew in him that this was the border fence.
It seemed that he walked for an endless time barely conscious of the snow lighted by a lopsided moon. He was not aware of the long line of figures sweeping down the slope behind and it wasn't until the rifle fire began to kick up spurts of snow around him that he realized he was no longer alone.
He stopped and found that he had to turn his entire body to see the twelve ski troopers bearing down on him.
The shock of surprise brought him fully awake and he broke into a shambling run toward the fence. The rifle fire around him was increasing and he still had nearly a quarter of a mile to go to the fence. Something yanked violently at his right sleeve, throwing him off balance in mid-stride and he crashed into the snow, stunned by the shock of the fall.
After a moment, he struggled up and brushed the snow from his face mask and eyes.
A shallow snowdrift was between him and the leading skier, now less than a hundred yards away. Almost with resignation, he fumbled his pistol from beneath his parka and methodically checked the magazine; it was fully loaded and he laid his hand, the pistol resting comfortably in his grip, on the top of the snowdrift and began to watch the lead figure over the blade sights.
The distance narrowed to fifty yards, then forty, then thirty. The soldier saw him crouching behind the drift, flung his rifle up and snapped off a shot. He missed, the bullet striking the snow well to Gillon's left. Gillon kept his eyes on the lead skier, blocking the other soldiers from his mind. His man was approaching him directly and he had a clear dead-on shot to a full target. The soldier raised his rifle, steadied himself and Gillon stared directly into his eyes . . . at twenty yards, they fired simultaneously. The trooper's shot sprayed snow into Gillon's face before he went down in a cartwheel of snow, rifle and skis flying. Gillon saw only that the soldiers were still several hundred feet behind and he was up and running, the will to live suddenly overpowering once more. Gillon ran like he had never run before; he didn't bother trying to dodge bullets by zigzagging; he merely raced for the fence like a cornered animal, all thoughts of the minefield gone.
The darkness along the fence erupted into bright flame and a bangalore torpedo tore the barbed wire strands apart. Through the gap poured Russian soldiers, firing past him at the pursuing Chinese troops. Gillon raced on, ignoring the whistling of his breath and the agony in his chest. He ran for his life a final time.
Fifty yards from the fence he tripped and crashed headlong into the snow but was on his feet in one roll-ling motion. A gasp of pain brought him up short and he swung around, pistol leading him to the body of a man lying in a crumpled heap . . . Dmietriev.
Russian soldiers lined the fence, some on their knees, other prone, all pouring rifle fire into the Chinese troops, who were still advancing, but off their skis now and scuttling forward from one snowdrift to another. Gillon crawled quickly to Dmietriev and eased him over. As he did so, Dmietriev curled into a tight knot, hands clutched to his chest.
His exhalations came in ragged gasps. Each inhalation produced a curious whistle and Gillon gently pulled his hands away. In the moonlight, the blood that covered his white snow-parka was black.
He had been shot through the lungs, yet he was still fighting to talk, his lips moving in spasmodic jerks. Gil-Ion bent closer to hear what he was whispering.
Packet . . . don't know how . . . no shot . . . no one heard ..
`Shut up, shut up . . Gillon hissed furiously. His badly shaking hands yanked at the zipper on the parka. The zipper refused to work and he wrenched it apart and peeled back the jacket, then gagged. Dmietriev had been shot from behind with a softnosed bullet which had been cut into a dumdum. It had torn a gaping hole in his chest and Gillon wondered how he had survived this long. There was nothing that could be done and he knew it . . .
no way to even carry him back .. . to move him would kill him instantly.
Gillon pounded the snow in anguish, mouthing obscenities unintelligibly. Dmietriev opened his eyes and they brought Gillon up short with their desperate message. His mouth worked but no sound came.
The volume of gunfire increased as a machine gun opened up. Gillon jerked his head and saw the Chinese troopers diving for cover but even as they did, reinforcements in the form of two more groups were coming up from either side . . . a few moments more and they would have him cut off from the border.
Gillon tore the plastic-wrapped envelope from the pocket and turned to see a soldier beside the fence waving frantically in his direction.
A bubbling sound beside him drove him to his feet and he ran.
He knew that he had been hit. A Caucasian face, bent close to his, sobbed with exertion as he dragged him over the snow and through the gap in the fence. A stretcher was waiting and Gillon was lifted gently onto it. A man with a red star on his winter cap bent and spoke to him in Russian. Gillon shook his head. They were all dead except him . . .
all of them. He unclenched his fist and dropped the packet into the officer's hand. Then the face disappeared and the stretcher was lifted. The sound of gunfire died behind them and he watched the lopsided moon swaying from side to side as the soldiers hurried along, watched it until the only light in his eyes was that reflecting from the moon.
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN