Final Blackout: A Futuristic War Novel

  The hut was more colorful than could be expected, for camouflage paint brightened the supporting columns and the bunks and table and several bunches of flowers were about, placed in vases hammered out of large shells.

  The place was lit by an intricate system of polished metal plates which, in the daytime, brought the light down from the, slots and, at night, scattered around the light from the fireplace.

  The lieutenant grinned happily and stood up to the blaze to warm his hands.

  The sentry stepped into place at the bottom of the stairway and Mawkey closed and bolted the passageway doors.

  Carstone looked in. "Any orders, sir?"

  "Might post a couple of guns at the corner of the clearing to rake it in case!'

  "Yessir." He lingered for a moment.

  "Yes?"

  "I found another pneumatic tank, sir. They use it for water storage."

  "Take it along."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Ah…" sighed the lieutenant happily, getting the weight of his cape from his shoulders. He unstrapped his helmet and gave it over to Mawkey, "Near thing, sir," said Mawkey, poking 2 fingers into the cape where a new slug had gone in exactly upon an old one.

  "Mawkey, isn't there any way to get the bullets out of that thing? It weighs nine hundred pounds more every night I remove it."

  "I saw some parachute silk on one of them women, sir. I could cut out the bullets and wad that stuff for a patch. It'd be safer, sir."

  "By all means, Mawkey."

  "Sir," said the sentry, "there's a bunch of people up here that want to see you."

  The lieutenant made a motion with his hand and the sentry beckoned to someone up in the darkness. In a moment a woman, followed by two small children, came down. She looked as bravely as she could at the officers and then instinctively chose the lieutenant.

  "You are our guest, sir," she said in halting English.

  "Oh, yes, of course. You live here, eh? Well, there's plenty of room. By all means, bring your family down."

  She looked relieved and made a beckoning motion to the top of the stairs.

  Three younger women and another child came down, followed by a very hesitant young man who stood defensively between two who were apparently his wives. A fifth woman came helping a very aged dame whose eyes gleamed curiously as they inspected the officers. She, too, turned her attention to the lieutenant.

  "You good gentlemen gave us a time," said the old woman in French.

  "Hush," said one of the women, terrified at such boldness.

  "Well, if they didn't kill us before, they aren't going to kill us now.

  Welcome, gentlemen. In payment for our lives these girls will get you a very good supper."

  The five younger ones made haste to tuck the children into the far bunks, where they lay with their heads submerged and only their wide eyes showing.

  An attractive blonde hurried to the fire to replenish it and, so doing, dropped a stick of wood on the lieutenant's boot. She backed up, paralyzed.

  "Don't mind Greta," said the old dame, sitting down and putting her toothless chin upon her cane. "She's a Belgian. Pierre here brought her back one day. You can't really blame a Belgian."

  "Of course not," said the lieutenant. He looked curiously at the girl and smiled. Very cautiously she retrieved the piece of wood and cast it on the fire without again daring to look at him.

  The young man had settled himself watchfully in the corner. His hands were. enormous with toil; his eyes were brutish and sunken. He suggested an animal in the way his shoulders hunched. The girl Greta, sent for food from the locker at his side, walked clear of him, but he succeeded in seizing her wrist.

  "You clumsy fool," he whispered harshly. "Do you want us all killed? I would not be surprised if you did that on purpose!"

  She wrenched away from him, her whole body suddenly like a flame. She struck him across the mouth and then yanked open the locker door in such a way that it pinned him in the corner while she got the mask container of flour.

  The old woman was delighted at the young man's discomfiture. "Well! I have been wondering how she would answer you at last."

  "Serves him right," whispered one of the women to another. "Picking up strays."

  Their laughter stretched his intelligence beyond its elasticity and it snapped into rage. As soon as he was released he lunged at her and began to strike at her, roaring that she had pushed him away too long. But he stopped with a scream of pain and dropped to the floor, holding the side of his head. At a sign from the lieutenant, Mawkey had thrown his chains.

  "I'll have no fighting here," said the lieutenant. "Throw him out."

  The sentry's fingers fastened about the clod's collar and he was wrenched toward the door.

  "Don't have him Wed!" screamed the young man's wives, instantly down and clutching at the lieutenant's boots. One of the children began to howl in fright.

  With distaste the lieutenant freed himself Malcolm was grinning at the predicament. Greta stood with her straight back pressed hard against the wall, watching the lieutenant.

  Pollard was down the steps in an instant with drawn automatic, knocking the young man out of the sentry's grip and down to the floor once mom The clod, snarling, rebounded. The room was full of flame and smoke and sound. The clod was down on his hands and knees, shaking his head like a groggy bull. He tried to reach Pollard and then, abruptly, the effort went out of him and he dropped to the mats, kicking straight out with his legs with lessening force. Pollard rolled him over with his toe. The arms flopped out and the blood-spattered remains of a face stonily regarded the beams above.

  The two women who had protested started forward and then checked themselves, their eyes fixed upon the body. Slowly, then, they turned and went back to the bunks to quiet the wailing of the young one.

  "Everything else all right?" said Pollard, smoothing his rumpled tunic.

  "Carry on, sergeant," said the lieutenant, making a small upward motion with his hand.

  Mawkey and the sentry towed the corpse up the steps. One of the women took a handful of reeds and hot water and cleansed the mat. Malcolm was gray.

  The lieutenant warmed his hands before the blaze and the affair drifted out of his mind. Greta, eyes lowered, began to mix pancakes.

  The business of supper went on and soon the lieutenant and Malcolm were eating at the table while Mawkey squatted over a pannikin in the corner.

  The sentry's back was expressive, moving restively and then springing erect in gladness as his fed relief came down to take over. The women sat at a smaller table by the fire with the exception of Greta, who waited with swift, quiet motions upon the officers and seemed to have forgotten about food. Angrily, at last, the old woman called to her and made her sit against the wall with her dinner.

  "You are going far?" said the old woman.

  "Far enough," said the lieutenant, smiling.

  "YOU ... YOU intend to carry away our stores?"

  "We won't encumber ourselves with them, madame. An army fights badly upon a full stomach, contrary to an old belief."

  She sighed her relief "Then we will be able to live through the winter."

  "Not unless you find some other way of disposing of your smoke," grinned the lieutenant.

  "Ah, yes, that is true. But one does not always find an attack led by an officer of such talent!'

  "But, on the other hand, one sometimes does." The lieutenant stretched out his legs and leaned back comfortably, opening up his tunic collar and laying his pistol belt on the table with the flap open and the hilt toward him.

  The old woman was about to speak again when the sentry snapped a challenge and then rolled aside on the steps to let Pollard come down.

  Pollard, a fiend for duty, stood up censoriously, his long mustache sticking straight out.

  "Well?" said the lieutenant.

  "Sir, I have been checking Bulger's count on the storehouses. And¯"

  "Why count them? We're heading away from here at da
wn."

  Pollard received this without a blink. "I wanted to report, sir, that we have uncovered thirty-one soldiers."

  "Feed them, shoot them or enlist them," said the lieutenant, "but let me digest a good dinner in peace'

  "Sir, these men were naked in an underground cell. Fourteen of them are English. They have been used as plowhorses, sir. They say they were trapped and made slaves of, sir. One of them is balmy and I'm not sure of a couple more. They been cut up pretty bad with whips. Another says they're all that's left of the Sixty-third Lancers."

  "Dixon! That's Dixon's regiment!" said Malcolm.

  The lieutenant sat forward, interested. "Jolly Bill Dixon?"

  "That's him," said Malcolm.

  "They say he's dead, sir."

  "By Heaven¯" began Malcolm, starting up.

  The lieutenant motioned him back into his chair. "Bring the leader of this village down here, Pollard."

  "Yessir."

  The old woman was thumping her cane nervously, her eyes fever-bright.

  "General¯"

  "Quiet," said Mawkey.

  The room fell very still with only an occasional pop of the fire and the movement of shadows to give it life. The flame painted half the lieutenant's face, which was all the worse for having no particular expression beyond that of a man who has just enjoyed a full meal.

  The leader was thrust down the steps in the hands of two guards. His small eyes were wild and bloodshot and he shook until no part of him was still.

  His sudden fright passed and he managed to fix his gaze on the lieutenant.

  "When we came in," said the lieutenant, "I saw evidences of traps. There were bones in them and no equipment."

  "The soldier's sickness! I swear, general¯"

  "And we have just located thirty-one prisoners. Soldiers you saw fit to convert into slaves."

  "We have so much plowing, so few men¯"

  "You're guilty, then. Pollard, hand him over to those soldiers you found."

  "No, no! Your Excellency! They have not been mistreated, I swear it! We did not kill them even though they attempted to attack us¯"

  "When you take him out, parade him around a little so that this offal will know enough to respect a soldier," said the lieutenant.

  "Your honor¯"

  "Carry on, Pollard."

  "But your Excellency! They'll tear me to pieces! They'll gouge out my eyes¯"

  "Am I to blame because you failed to treat them better?"

  The old woman leaned toward the lieutenant. "My general, have mercy."

  "Mercy?" said the lieutenant. "There's been none of that that I can remember where peasants and soldiers are concerned."

  "But force will be met with force," said the old. woman. "This is a good man. Must you rob this house of both its men in one night? What will we do for a leader? There are only seven hundred of us in this village and only a hundred and fifty of those are men¯"

  "If he is alive by morning, let him live. You have your orders, Pollard."

  "I'll give them full rights!" wailed the leader. "A share in the fields, a voice in the council¯"

  "You might communicate that to those fellows," said the lieutenant to Pollard. "No man is good for a soldier if he allows himself to be trapped in the first place. Carry on."

  The leader was led away and the lieutenant relaxed again. Greta filled his dixie with wine and he sipped at it.

  The other women in the room were very still. The children did not cry now.

  The fire died slowly down.

  Shortly there was a commotion at the top of the steps and the sentry lounging there reared up with his rifle crossed, barring passage to several men who seemed to desire, above all things, to dash down and worship the officer who had set them free. Finally understanding that the guard would have none of them, they went away.

  "…a voice in council," the leader was saying, falsely hearty. "For some time I've kept my eye on you. Glad to have such an addition."

  The women in the room started breathing again. A child whimpered and was caressed to sleep. Wood was tossed upon the fire and the room became cheerfully light.

  "You are a good man, my general," said the old woman in a husky voice.

  Greta sat in the recess of the chimney seat, her lovely body perfectly still, her eyes steady upon the lieutenant.

  A long time after, the lieutenant lay in the bunk farthest from the door, gazing at the dying coals upon the grate, pleasantly aware of a suspension in time. Tomorrow they would again be on the march, heading back to G.H.Q. and an uncertain finish. He was quite aware, for the first time, that the war was done. He was aware, too, with ever so little sadness, that England and his people were barred to him, had rejected him, perhaps forever.

  The fire died lower and most of the people of the household slept, the women in the tiers of bunks near the steps, the children with them. Malcolm was rolled in a blanket by the fire. At the far end of the dwelling in a wide bed which had been shaken and dusted well the lieutenant watched the fire dying. He watched through a slit in the curtains which masked him from the remainder of the room.

  He was unconsciously aware of Mawkey lying just behind the slit as an active,, living barrier to anything which might seek to approach his invaluable and beloved commander. There was a rustle of parachutist silk and the creak of a bunk in the forward partition of the room. And the lieutenant was suddenly alert, but not to danger. Naked feet fell uncertainly amongst the reeds. The fire threw the curves of a shadow softly on the curtain. The footsteps came nearer.

  As the snake strikes, Mawkey fastened savagely on her ankle as she would have crossed to the lieutenant. It was Greta.

  The lieutenant raised on his elbow and whispered hoarsely, "Let her go, you fool!"

  Mawkey came to himself. Her skin was soft under his hand and her fingers held no weapon. In the soft firelight the parachute silk revealed the rondeur of a lovely body. Mawkey shamefacedly withdrew his hands. And when again she had her courage up she stepped over him and went on toward the large bed in the deepest recess of the room.

  Mawkey d e curtains shut as he rolled outside them. For a little he listened to the whispers, then at last, the girl's soft rich laugh. He smiled, pleased.

  One by one the glowing coals went out. Mawkey slept.

  Chapter IV

  Through the morning, the brigade mounted ridge after ridge, keeping to no definite course but working toward a certain objective by arcs and angles. It was hot work and, to Malcolm, senseless, for they only succeeded in exposing themselves to several random shots by hopeful snipers in high rocks who vanished like their powder smoke upon approach, wanderers who coveted a knapsack or two, could they drop it into a ravine and beyond the immediate concern of the troops.

  It had taken Malcolm only forty-eight hours of fast traveling to get from the G.H.Q. to the Fourth Brigade, and it was taking the lieutenant interminable days of circuitous march to make the return. Malcolm had followed the high ground with a relief map. It would be very different when he had this command, he thought.

  Malcolm's crossness was not lost upon the lieutenant, but it did not wear upon him until they halted wearily at noon on a hill which commanded all approaches.

  "What's the matter?" said the lieutenant.

  Malcolm looked at him innocently. "Nothing."

  "Come on, have it out."

  "Well… I think you should have had that village leader shot. Dixon was our friend."

  The lieutenant knew that this was a dodge, but he answered. "We had no evidence that those people killed Dixon. Jolly Bill was entirely too good an officer to be rolled down by peasants."

  "I never knew you needed evidence to execute a man."

  "To put you straight on the matter, I did execute him. Now, are you satisfied?" "How's this? Why, I saw him with my own eyes bidding us good-bye."

  "And you saw Toutou issuing their rifles to the thirty-one Pollard dug out of the ground. Tell me, Malcolm, why should I thicken up the atmospher
e of that hut any further and so annoy myself when the task was clearly finished at the release of the prisoners? Peasants do strange things. While we were there, there might have been an incident of some sort if the leader had been killed. It is done, anyway."

  "You mean those soldiers?"

  "Of course. The village, you might say, has passed under a military regime.

  And why not? There were few enough men there when we arrived. They should appreciate the additional thirty-one. And who knows but what the place may become all the stronger therefore? However, such matters are outside my domain."

  Malcolm was not mollified in the least. He gazed very uneasily at the lieutenant, suddenly unsure in the presence of such cold thoroughness. In fact, he began to feel sorry for the leader, forgetting completely that he had trapped soldiers and enslaved them.

  "Sometimes I don't understand you," said Malcolm. "Maybe it is because I have been less long at the front than you. Maybe I'm just a staff officer and always will be. But¯ Well, you're not consistent. You were courteous to the Russian commander and yet you treated that village leader like a cur."

  The lieutenant had not thought about it. Mawkey came up and spread lunch out on a rock and the two officers ate silently for some time. The lieutenant finished and sat back, looking down across the autumn-colored valley without really seeing it.

  At last, he spoke. "I suppose it was because I felt that way. Maybe there are so few of the officers' corps left that we have a feeling we ought to preserve ourselves. Maybe it's because all officers have been taught the necessity of exalting their rank and being as above that of the civilians. Civilians started all this mess anyway, didn't they? Bungling statesmanship, trade mongering, their 'let the soldier do the dirty work' philosophy, these things started it. The Russian was a fellow craftsman. But the leader of that village commune. A stupid blunderer, raised up from filth by guile, a peasant without polish or courage. The thought revolts me! He was silent for a while, staring out at the painted slopes. And then: "There are so few of us left."

  Malcolm, a little awed now by the quiet sadness he had drawn forth, could not venture to carry it forward. He had been dwelling, in the main, upon this circuitous marching and had not quite the courage to speak boldly in criticism of a commander in the field.