~Guardian Angel II~
Roche slammed the shovel into the hard ice-covered ground, laying what dried grasses or flowers he could find in the wilderness which was the field onto his friend's unmarked grave. As the cold cruel wind bit into the blisters that formed on his cracked hands, the last drop of tear hit the grave. He had none left to spare. They had buried him in his gear, rifle and all. And with his watch. Roche
couldn't bear to think of that familiar golden sparkle, the rhythmic ticking, the constant movement of the exquisite minute hands. No, not ever again.
He shouldered the shovel, looking for one final minute at the withered pink flowers scattering into the four winds, drifting off forever. Like Heinrich. Lost, gone, and swept away into time's endless terrifying journey forever...
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Those Soviets have asked for it. The message screamed and etched itself painfully, excruciatingly on Roche's mind. The powerful engines roared over the messages from HQ and the chatter of the crew members. The column of Panzers advanced, a terrifying stream of steel, threads, cannon and dust clouds.
Miles behind, the rest of the army followed, storm troopers in their half-track APCs, carbines in hand, ready for deployment at any moment. Operation Barbarossa was well on its way.
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The 5th Panzers were issued simple orders. Storm the area South of Stalingrad, destroy any remaining Soviet forces and then push on. Vergeltungswaffe*, thats what they were.
Crush all opposition. The hand of the Fuhrer, the glory of the people.
Roche burned with rage, his eyes blazed hot, bulging in their sockets. The interior of the tank was a furnace, yet the fire that ignited in his soul made it feel like the icy weather outside. The hot blood coursed fast through his veins, only one word in his mind. Revenge.
The battle was a huge success, the enemy, or rather the diminshed ranks and remnants of them had routed hopelessly, driven across the great wild steppes. Filled with the panic of the world, they ran blindly, shot from the back by the victors.
Roche pushed on, his tank column pursued the enemy like hunters chasing a fox. The spirit of battle flushed his cheeks, trying desperately to quench his never-ending thirst for revenge.
But one plucky lucky group had stayed back. The Soviet rats had hid in a shellhole...
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The Molotov cocktail slammed into the tank's inpenetrable armor, exploding into a brilliant display of deadly fireworks, showering the ground with shards of soot stained glass.
More of the paraffin-filled terrors rained on Roche's tank. The Panzer belched forth long searing tongues of orange flame from every hatch. Like a dead comrade's hanging pale pink tongue...
As the amunition exploded in the interior, the hull was racked by violent convulsions. Like the frantical death throes of a dying man...
Bright sparks erupted from the spout of the barrels like the fireballs of a Roman candle. Silver rivulets of molten aluminium poured from the engine like tears. Like a horrified friend in tears...
The fiery lashes whipped Roche's thick uniform mercilessly, teasing his fingers, roasting his pale skin. He felt a curious sensation, both hot and cold at the same time.
The gunner swiftly opened the small escape hatch. Fresh winter air blew in, ventilating the asphyxiated crew. The hungry flames devoured the tank in minutes. Roche was the last to get out. As he scrambled out for dear life, that was an almighty boom, a sickening crunch of metal, a flash of bright light, the feeling of being lightless. Then all was darkness...
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The four spotless white walls closed in on him, four silent white figures hovered around him. Each held a gruesome surgical instrument, a syringe, a knife, no.... Stop it...
One of the figures leaned forward, extending a faceless head, like a blank cipher. The smooth marbled like face rippled, a timeless surface. A bloodied and rusty serrated blade was gripped in its hand as it glided menacingly towards him. No... Get away... NO!
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The sweat streamed down his face onto the sheets as Roche sat up abruptly, his back arching violently, his fingers bending back. His breathing was rapid, shallow. There was a single bare bulb on the ceiling, providing a fading orange glow. Fat flies buzzed around, their elongated shadows played across the room. He was in a field hospital.
A doctor calmly walked by to his bed. Roche extended a shaky hand, grabbing to the manâs soiled coat.
Doctor Wilhelm sat on a rickety stool next to the lice-infected bed, facing his thirteenth patient for the day. He sighed; the weariness weighed him down like a lead bar. Shell shock, horrific amputations, and gangrene- he had faced it all.
Roche looked helplessly at the bandages wrapped around his leg. The hand of despair crept from its dark dank grave, clawing at his heart. He wanted so badly to return to the Front.
'You're at a base hospital, twenty miles South-East of Stalingrad.' Wilhelm rasped his voice hoarse after a day's bloody work. Literally.
'An explanation perhaps. According to your men, you were half way out when the tank exploded. You landed on a patch of straw fortunately. They got you here pretty fast.'
'Now the extraordinary thing was, both your legs were broken. The kneecaps were shattered. We considered an amputation. I say considered because of what happened yesterday.'
Wilhelm's tone picked up, the breath coming in short bursts now. His moustache quivered with heightened excitement.
'Something happened here last night. Just when I made my last rounds, I saw a bright light right at your bed. Hovering about, a little orb. Its radiance was that of a full, setting blood-red moon. Just as I entered to make light of what was happening, this mysterious satellite exploded, into a multitude of vivid particles. Just like those scarlet and green flares you send out before an attack. Blow me, when I examined you for any trauma, your bones were back to normal. We left the casts on just in case.'
'Ha, must be the work here...must have been dreaming, I must say what I saw was absurd. Should apply for retirement soon. Still the pension they dole out these days is smaller than a Soviet's ****! If you need me, call a nurse.'
Roche sat there, Wilhelm's words struck him like Zeus' mighty thunderbolts. Wild thoughts raced to his mind, was it a sign? No...no it couldn't be. The dead are gone...beyond return. It gave him the creeps thinking about it. He grappled with the shadowy fancies that plagued his mind. Perhaps the doctor was imagining? Yes, yes...that was it, just like what the doctor said...a figment of the his imagination. Stress, ah poor chap. He laughed aloud at that thought. It seemed so ridiculous, so unbelievable to him. Hah! Red glowing balls? Miracle cures? Bah! Yes it all made sense now...Stress....Dreams...Madness...
He was still muttering as a brunette nurse walked in, distributing newspapers, food and letters. Roche sat in his bed, shaking his head like a wet German Shepherd, in vain to get the images out of his mind. He did not even look up or stir as she dropped a grimy parcel wrapped in grease paper on his bed clothes.
Long after she left...Roche reached out slowly, his motions deliberately leisure-like as though the air was a viscous liquid, reaching out to grab at a fragile link to the human world. Must be a food parcel from home he thought. Bless them.
Time seemed to slow to a screeching halt, those two whole minutes ticking by like two dreary centuries...A single bead of sweat flowed down his nose...with an almighty splash...it hit the glass of a sparkling golden watch...as a red flash passed subtly on it's surface.
A crumpled note fell to the floor, like a dried autumn leave, floating...twirling...Three ink-smudged words in a familiar hand...
'I'll be watching.'
*(Revenge Weapon in German, the term actually referred to the series of missiles the Germans used in WWII.)
