to either side of you, so he continued to map every new landmark and identify every new strongpoint.
To the east there was a triangle of locust trees all bent in the same direction as if they’d raised themselves in a constant wind. To the west was a mountain peak that rose to height in staggered elevations so perfectly structured it might be the constructed burial mound for a giant race of people. There, an odd shelf of rock resting in opposition to the prevailing syncline. But on the whole, it was an empty and barren country, and clouds were banking. It was colder now and there would be a snow.
They advanced farther up the road, deeper into the country. Spotter planes were constantly leaving from the east and returning from the west, drifting, circling, floating. The line of march was already too long and too thin to be supplied and supported by reinforcements, and they all knew this, even the fools among them. Each man knew they were the lethal plaything of the old men who directed them, the old men who were always fighting the last war.
He knew they’d be coming back down this road, and when they did he knew they’d be cold and hungry, winnowed and bleeding. It was just a matter of time.
“Henry,” Lew called, whipping around smartly to march backward. “What’s the story about the kids leave bread crumbs in the woods to find their way back?”
“How should I know?” he said.
“You’re a kid, ain’t you?”
“I don’t ’member.”
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“My mind has to know what that damn story is.”
“One of us will ’member,” Henry said, and Lew spun forward again.
Loose stones grated under his boot treads. No matter how he tried not to, he thought of Mercy and when he did she was always inside a shroud of mystery. Their days together were silent or spent talking about nothing at all. He held memory of kissing her and their lovemaking in the white and gold rooms, desperate and hungry for each other. They preyed on each other and tore deeply and always left behind was a small emptiness that needed to be filled again. There were times now when he hated her, but it was hatred short lived. It would flash in his mind and burn brightly and disappear in a wondering question. Where did she go?
“Hansel and Gretel,” he whispered, remembering the time before this time.
Chapter 16
I N THE MORNING SLEEPING bags hung from every tree, drying after a night’s cold and bitter drizzle. Snow had fallen in the night, the temperature had plummeted, and all about them was the cracking rime. He wondered if daylight would come at all and then it did. It was still snowing, great heavy flakes as large as wood shavings.
The stink of burning diesel fuel permeated the air as the heavy engines built to a din. They ate pancakes with syrup and drank scalding-hot coffee and after breakfast they drew on cold-weather gear: pile-lined parkas with fur-trimmed hoods, mittens with trigger fingers, mitten inserts, waterproof trousers, clumsy thermo boots, heavy socks.
They’d given up their steel helmets and they wore Korean caps made of dog fur with ear lappets, one down and one up to hear and then change sides to warm the cold ear. The march north was fast and had not been foreseen and many of them lacked woolen underwear, parkas, and fur caps.
A game of football broke out and they tackled each other in the snow. They sweated and they shed their new gear and their thighs burned. One man dislocated his shoulder and another broke a finger. And then they were told to mount up.
That afternoon they filed past steel drums of boiling water and with long tongs a cook fished out cans of meat and beans for each. There was more scalding-hot coffee and tins of fruit cocktail. Their calves ached from the cold of the march. So swift were the events of the last few days, Henry could not recollect where he had been or what a time he’d had. One night he’d slept in a dog tent and another night in an
To the east there was a triangle of locust trees all bent in the same direction as if they’d raised themselves in a constant wind. To the west was a mountain peak that rose to height in staggered elevations so perfectly structured it might be the constructed burial mound for a giant race of people. There, an odd shelf of rock resting in opposition to the prevailing syncline. But on the whole, it was an empty and barren country, and clouds were banking. It was colder now and there would be a snow.
They advanced farther up the road, deeper into the country. Spotter planes were constantly leaving from the east and returning from the west, drifting, circling, floating. The line of march was already too long and too thin to be supplied and supported by reinforcements, and they all knew this, even the fools among them. Each man knew they were the lethal plaything of the old men who directed them, the old men who were always fighting the last war.
He knew they’d be coming back down this road, and when they did he knew they’d be cold and hungry, winnowed and bleeding. It was just a matter of time.
“Henry,” Lew called, whipping around smartly to march backward. “What’s the story about the kids leave bread crumbs in the woods to find their way back?”
“How should I know?” he said.
“You’re a kid, ain’t you?”
“I don’t ’member.”
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“My mind has to know what that damn story is.”
“One of us will ’member,” Henry said, and Lew spun forward again.
Loose stones grated under his boot treads. No matter how he tried not to, he thought of Mercy and when he did she was always inside a shroud of mystery. Their days together were silent or spent talking about nothing at all. He held memory of kissing her and their lovemaking in the white and gold rooms, desperate and hungry for each other. They preyed on each other and tore deeply and always left behind was a small emptiness that needed to be filled again. There were times now when he hated her, but it was hatred short lived. It would flash in his mind and burn brightly and disappear in a wondering question. Where did she go?
“Hansel and Gretel,” he whispered, remembering the time before this time.
Chapter 16
I N THE MORNING SLEEPING bags hung from every tree, drying after a night’s cold and bitter drizzle. Snow had fallen in the night, the temperature had plummeted, and all about them was the cracking rime. He wondered if daylight would come at all and then it did. It was still snowing, great heavy flakes as large as wood shavings.
The stink of burning diesel fuel permeated the air as the heavy engines built to a din. They ate pancakes with syrup and drank scalding-hot coffee and after breakfast they drew on cold-weather gear: pile-lined parkas with fur-trimmed hoods, mittens with trigger fingers, mitten inserts, waterproof trousers, clumsy thermo boots, heavy socks.
They’d given up their steel helmets and they wore Korean caps made of dog fur with ear lappets, one down and one up to hear and then change sides to warm the cold ear. The march north was fast and had not been foreseen and many of them lacked woolen underwear, parkas, and fur caps.
A game of football broke out and they tackled each other in the snow. They sweated and they shed their new gear and their thighs burned. One man dislocated his shoulder and another broke a finger. And then they were told to mount up.
That afternoon they filed past steel drums of boiling water and with long tongs a cook fished out cans of meat and beans for each. There was more scalding-hot coffee and tins of fruit cocktail. Their calves ached from the cold of the march. So swift were the events of the last few days, Henry could not recollect where he had been or what a time he’d had. One night he’d slept in a dog tent and another night in an
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