but Revell heard and saw nothing as Inga guided him through a labyrinth of ruins, occasionally commenting noncommittally, but mostly just listening. For this duration, however short it might be, he’d escaped the war.
‘Fucking half rations! Half fucking rations!’ Dooley looked at the miniature pool of potato soup swilling about at the bottom of his bowl, and hurled it and its contents at the nearest wall. ‘I’ll tell you, fucking Colonel fucking Horst, what you can do with your fucking half rations!’
‘Yes?’ Horst was unmoved by the impressive display of temper by the giant American.
‘I fucking took out a shitty T72 with my fucking bare hands. I jammed a fucking log in its fucking tracks then broke the fucking necks of the fucking crew as they came out, and you stand there like some fucking comic opera general from Ruritania and tell me I’m on half fucking rations? Piss off!’
‘Why did you have to kill the,’ Horst paused, ‘the crew with your bare hands?’ ‘You know fucking why. Because my fucking weapon had jammed, that’s fucking why.’
‘And your weapon jammed because you fired a burst. A burst! You used more ammunition in three seconds than my unit has done in the last three days. If we have no food to spare, we have even less ammunition. That is why you are on half rations.’ Dooley made to say more, but didn’t. He sat beside Burke against the cellar wall and watched his meal trickling down until it had absorbed so much dust it could run no further, but stopped, and began to harden.
‘If it’s any consolation, mate,’ Burke slurped noisily on his soup, ‘the Ruskies are a bugger sight worse off than we are, even you, on half rations.’ With the last of his bread he mopped every drop of moisture from the bowl. ‘I stuck my bayonet through a Commie who weren’t anything but skin and bone. I’ll swear the bugger looked almost happy to die. He couldn’t have weighed above eighty pounds, and I saw others who weren’t no better. If what we’re getting ain’t good, what they’re getting ain’t nothing.’
Pushing the last morsel into his mouth, he licked his spoon, and then the crumbs from his fingers. ‘This bread tastes ruddy awful, real bitter. Wonder what they been doing to it?’
‘Shit, that sure isn’t no mystery.’ Ripper was taking longer over his food, and had more than half of his three ounces of bread left to eat. ‘During vacation I used to work in a bakery, and taking an interest I had a chat with the guys who work the ovens here. Seems they can’t afford to use a few tons of cooking oil each week, greasing the tins, so they made an artificial substitute, using a soap base. That’s why the crust tastes kinda bitter. Won’t do you no harm though, less you drunk a gallon of the stuff.’
‘Such things have had to be accepted a long time in Russia, since before the war.’ Boris pointed at Clarence and Burke. ‘Perhaps one more election and your country would have started down the Socialist slope towards food substitutes, food rationing and uncomplaining acceptance.’
‘Well, I sure ain’t accepting, and sure as hell I’m complaining.’ Chewing the last mouthful, Ripper pulled a face at the coarse flavour of the lukewarm drink with which he tried to wash it down. ‘What we just had, well all excepting Dooley that is,’ he ducked the flake of damp-stained plaster shied at him, ‘weren’t fit for hogs. Now isn’t there some place hereabouts where a guy can get decent food that at least bears some resemblance to the real thing?’
‘I heard they got a black market.’ Burke prised gristle from between his teeth, then pressed his stomach with the palm of his hand and produced a rapid sequence of spectacular belches. ‘But if what I’ve seen in the Zone in the past is anything to go by, then I’d say our chances of scraping enough together to find the price of a can of beans is pretty remote. Especially as the only thing they’ll accept in
‘Fucking half rations! Half fucking rations!’ Dooley looked at the miniature pool of potato soup swilling about at the bottom of his bowl, and hurled it and its contents at the nearest wall. ‘I’ll tell you, fucking Colonel fucking Horst, what you can do with your fucking half rations!’
‘Yes?’ Horst was unmoved by the impressive display of temper by the giant American.
‘I fucking took out a shitty T72 with my fucking bare hands. I jammed a fucking log in its fucking tracks then broke the fucking necks of the fucking crew as they came out, and you stand there like some fucking comic opera general from Ruritania and tell me I’m on half fucking rations? Piss off!’
‘Why did you have to kill the,’ Horst paused, ‘the crew with your bare hands?’ ‘You know fucking why. Because my fucking weapon had jammed, that’s fucking why.’
‘And your weapon jammed because you fired a burst. A burst! You used more ammunition in three seconds than my unit has done in the last three days. If we have no food to spare, we have even less ammunition. That is why you are on half rations.’ Dooley made to say more, but didn’t. He sat beside Burke against the cellar wall and watched his meal trickling down until it had absorbed so much dust it could run no further, but stopped, and began to harden.
‘If it’s any consolation, mate,’ Burke slurped noisily on his soup, ‘the Ruskies are a bugger sight worse off than we are, even you, on half rations.’ With the last of his bread he mopped every drop of moisture from the bowl. ‘I stuck my bayonet through a Commie who weren’t anything but skin and bone. I’ll swear the bugger looked almost happy to die. He couldn’t have weighed above eighty pounds, and I saw others who weren’t no better. If what we’re getting ain’t good, what they’re getting ain’t nothing.’
Pushing the last morsel into his mouth, he licked his spoon, and then the crumbs from his fingers. ‘This bread tastes ruddy awful, real bitter. Wonder what they been doing to it?’
‘Shit, that sure isn’t no mystery.’ Ripper was taking longer over his food, and had more than half of his three ounces of bread left to eat. ‘During vacation I used to work in a bakery, and taking an interest I had a chat with the guys who work the ovens here. Seems they can’t afford to use a few tons of cooking oil each week, greasing the tins, so they made an artificial substitute, using a soap base. That’s why the crust tastes kinda bitter. Won’t do you no harm though, less you drunk a gallon of the stuff.’
‘Such things have had to be accepted a long time in Russia, since before the war.’ Boris pointed at Clarence and Burke. ‘Perhaps one more election and your country would have started down the Socialist slope towards food substitutes, food rationing and uncomplaining acceptance.’
‘Well, I sure ain’t accepting, and sure as hell I’m complaining.’ Chewing the last mouthful, Ripper pulled a face at the coarse flavour of the lukewarm drink with which he tried to wash it down. ‘What we just had, well all excepting Dooley that is,’ he ducked the flake of damp-stained plaster shied at him, ‘weren’t fit for hogs. Now isn’t there some place hereabouts where a guy can get decent food that at least bears some resemblance to the real thing?’
‘I heard they got a black market.’ Burke prised gristle from between his teeth, then pressed his stomach with the palm of his hand and produced a rapid sequence of spectacular belches. ‘But if what I’ve seen in the Zone in the past is anything to go by, then I’d say our chances of scraping enough together to find the price of a can of beans is pretty remote. Especially as the only thing they’ll accept in
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