Lily of the Lamplight

Chapter 3

Gilbert sat leaning against the front wall of a tiny building in the little town square, watching with half-hearted interest as a nearby fight between a sailor and a former SS officer escalated. Gilbert was rooting silently for the sailor. Roderich sat in the doorway beside him, gripping the wooden step tightly, his knuckles white. They had not yet been told their sleeping arrangements, their eating arrangements, any of it. There was nothing to do but sit and wait. No wonder men were starting to fight - nothing like a good brawl to break up the boredom. Any other time and Gilbert would have happily joined in. These two men were hopeless, their swings wild and sloppy and unfocused. Gilbert could smash them easily. He wondered what the prince would say of it, however, and forced himself to stay put.

The heat and smell of the nearby small fire wafted over Gilbert's senses. Oxenstierna had probably started it for the warmth, or perhaps simply because it was something to do. True, it was ridiculously freezing for this alleged summer, but surely the Swede should be used to the cold. He was Swedish, after all. The Swedish 'Lion of the North.' Gilbert wondered what the hell the title was supposed to mean. Why did Oxenstierna have a title? Surely Gilbert deserved a title. The 'Eagle of the East' or something. Gilbert grumbled softly to himself. He wanted a title, damn it. The blasted 'Lion of the North' sat on the ground by the fire, polishing his rifle, ignoring Gilbert's suspicious glances. The Polish soldier, Łukasiewicz, had come closer for the heat, and filed his nails silently as he sat on a small crate close to the fire. In all of three years, he was the first soldier Gilbert had ever seen filing his nails.

Gilbert picked up a twig from the dirty ground and threw it in the fire. Only the slightest spark of flame greeted his efforts. "What's the deal with the captain, do you think?" he asked no one in particular. The silence was starting to annoy him. Gilbert did not particularly like silence. Silence was suspicious. "He's no German career soldier."

"I heard some of the men talking about it." The Pole spoke softly, with a strong accent, and did not look up from his nails as he spoke. He wore the grey uniform of the SS, but he looked like no SS Gilbert had ever seen. He flicked back his shoulder-length blonde hair and shrugged. "Apparently he's, you know, like a Swiss mercenary. Or something."

"Crazy bastard," muttered Gilbert. It made sense, however. Who the hell else would run a unit like this?

"Swiss, did you say?" asked Roderich, his voice pensive. Gilbert almost startled at the words: it was the first Roderich had spoken since the line up. Basically the pretty Austrian had stayed close to Gilbert, darted his big violet eyes around nervously, and glared at everything and everyone like they were something nasty on the bottom of his shoe.

"Yeah," answered Feliks vaguely. He blew on his nails.

"Zwingli..." Roderich furrowed his brow, like he was trying to remember something. Gilbert peered at him curiously. He hoped the guy wasn't going insane already. He hadn't even seen combat yet.

"Problem?"

Roderich glanced up at Gilbert quickly, as though he'd forgotten he was there. He pushed his hair behind his ear and adjusted his glasses. "No, it's... it's nothing."

Gilbert shrugged and turned his attention back to the nearby fight. The sailor and the SS officer's shoddy punches were actually starting to connect now. "Money's on the sailor," Gilbert muttered softly. To his surprise, Oxenstierna responded.

"Pack'f cigarettes on th'SS."

Gilbert nodded, somewhat impressed. Maybe this Nordic lion wasn't quite as boring as he seemed. "You are on, my leonine friend."

Oxenstierna did not look up. "Done."

"Done." Gilbert smiled, rather pleased with himself. He needed some cigarettes. Roderich barely seemed to have noticed the exchange, instead eyeing the fighting soldiers warily. Gilbert, however, was becoming a little more worried about why this huge, blank-faced Swedish bastard he'd just placed a bet with kept polishing his rifle right beside them. "Oxenstierna," he barked loudly. "Why the hell do you still have your rifle?"