Lightly falling snow could be seen through the kitchen window. Papa sat across from Michael at the breakfast table, nervously rubbing his hands together, while Hans spoke words no one listened to. Mama could be heard in the other room quietly offering up prayers to the Virgin.
Outside a couple of birds fluttered about throwing snow into the air as they contested landing space on the window sill. Michael recalled the same scene from the morning before, hundreds of years in the future. Funny they should be so agitated; there was more than enough room for them both. Finally settling down, the birds cuddled together each drawing warmth from the other — an act mutually beneficial to their survival.
Two men had come to the house earlier in the morning. They wore 'feldgrau' colored uniforms with matching metal helmets covering their ears and the back of their necks. Long metal and wood weapons Michael recognized as 'rifles' were slung over their shoulders. When they first arrived, Hans answered the pounding at the door, a pounding Michael slept through. Hans was told to rouse Papa from his bed. Papa was already dressed and half way down the stairs by the time Hans turned to fetch him. The soldiers ordered Papa to get himself ready. The Major was coming to the village to visit him and his 'idiot' son. The men now stood outside the front door awaiting the officers' arrival.
From previous dealings with the villagers, the Major knew Papa held a position of influence with them. Together with other respected and elected men, Papa had agreed to build and defend the wall as instructed by the Major. An unspoken compulsion lay behind the agreement. Papa knew the Major's reputation for cruelty against those who failed to agree. He also knew from the very beginning the inherent foolishness in the plans given him and he had quickly begun to surreptitiously convince his fellows to surrender when the enemy should first approach. It was a wise decision, one reached by the majority of villagers, opposed only by the few who remained fanatically devoted to the 'leader'. The decision to surrender was abandoned with Herman's apparent miracle feeding the villagers' hunger for hope, only to be resurrected by Michael's blunt appraisal of their situation and forewarning of their deaths.
Papa knew what the Major was coming to see him about. He had spent most of the night speaking to the other men, flopping fully clothed onto his bed in the early morning hours exhausted from his efforts to again save them from disaster. Someone had played the Judas and reported his actions to the Major. There was no other reason for his 'visit'. If it was simply to confirm the defensive preparations or to arrange for supplies, the burgemeister would have been sought by the Major, not him. No it wasn't for such things as those, and Papa was afraid, Michael saw it in his eyes. Michael felt Papa's petrifying fear, a fear the Major with haughty arrogance relied upon to hold the man in place even after having announced his imminent arrival.
In a modest village where the sound of an automobile is noticed even when a lack of petrol does not prevent such travel, the distant murmur of the Major's car was heard rising to a hum in the silent morning. The hum held steady for what seemed an eternity, before taking on a distinctively harsher quality — a harshness emphasized by the knowledge it brought closer something unwelcomed.
Papa's agitation increased as everyone listened to the noise of brakes squealing the vehicle to a halt outside. Boot heels clicked smartly together as the car door was opened. Papa's head slumped chin on chest and he seemed ready to collapse. Dispassionately, Michael found his thoughts were only oriented to curiosity. It was as if a mechanism inside him had turned on, drawing out years of training, permitting him to deal with the type of person the Major promised to be.
There was no knocking at the front door politely requesting admittance to the family's home, only a loud bang as it slammed shut following the intruder's entry. The men remained in their chairs listening as thick hob nailed boots ruined the polished wood hallway floor. One of the soldiers from earlier in the morning appeared at the kitchen entrance, immediately moving to the side, his back rigid to the wall, rifle diagonally in hand across his chest. A tall austere man in a crisp gray uniform immediately followed, with a second soldier in train who then precisely mirrored against the opposite wall the stance of the first.
The Major wore the trappings of his position in the manner for which they were designed. Both sides of his tunic's high collar bore double slashes of lightening against a black surface, while a silver skull rested on crossed bones in the centre of his officer's cap, the brim of which hid the top of his eyes. Michael received only a cursory glance before the Major placed the full weight of his stare onto Papa. The lips moved on the man's thinly chiseled face, threatening to crack its rigidity.
"Stephen, some disturbing news has reached me," the voice frozen, "I know such a report as I have heard cannot possibly be true." He said nothing more and let the silence hang in the room.
Papa looked at the Major but only to the limit of the officer's chest, not possessing the strength to meet the man's eyes. Michael knew that such failure amounted to an admission of guilt. No matter what the Major might say further, Papa was acting as if he was seeking absolution for his sins. The Major pretended not to notice.
"I have been told that there are cowards among you, traitors, men who might refuse to participate in destroying the enemy," his words flowed slowly, thick with contempt. Again he waited, letting the silence convict Papa.
No longer able to even raise his head enough to look at the officer's chest, Papa sat in front of his plate, the food untouched and cold, as if acknowledging he was one of those being derisively spoken about. Michael knew human nature would not allow the silence to continue and that Papa would soon crumble, giving voice to what the Major already accepted as confirmation of his guilt.
Sensing what was coming next, Michael had to take the attention away from Papa. The abject demeanor and failure to protest begged for punishment. Michael had dealt with men like the Major, men who did not hesitate to set cruel examples in order to bend others to their will; men who would use someone's death to instill unquestioning obedience in others.
As the Major began to turn away to give orders to the soldiers, Michael preempted him.
"You are wrong to say there are cowards who refuse to destroy the enemy. There isn't a person in this village that would refuse to help with the enemy's destruction. The problem is not with the people or with their courage; the problem is that such destruction is not possible." The focus now squarely on him, Papa was safe for the time being.
The Major jerked his head around to look at Michael, talking as he did so, "What did you say?" There was a puzzled look on his face and a thick disdain in his question. It was obvious he had been caught by surprise not only by what was said but by the speaker's ability to have said it.
"You are the half-wit, the retard. I remember you. We have met before. At your father's shop. You could barely speak. So this is the miracle the villagers spoke of to my soldiers." The Major eyed him coldly, "Say something else. Tell me that you are not an imbecile."
Michael responded intuitively, seeing the opportunity to completely deflect the Major's murderous intent away from Papa, certain it had been the order about to be given by the officer.
"I am not an imbecile. But if it is an imbecile you are looking for, I would search out the person responsible for devising a dirt wall in the middle of a field as a defensive strategy."
He had no concern for his own safety should he now become the objective of the Major's refocused and more intense wrath. He could easily disarm and disable the three threats present in the room before they could hope to react. The important thing was to have Papa ignored and his life spared.
Visibly taken aback, the Major lost his veneer of absolute control, searching for a suitable retort, "The dirt wall ...it is ...I'm the ...".
Placing the knuckles of his left hand under the brim of his cap, he pushed it back slightly on his head, fully revealing his eyes. He stared at Michael without blinking and without emotion — control of himself and the situation re- established, at least in his own mind.
"So you are not quite the idiot I'd been led to believe you were. Yet you have an idiot's appearance, and your questioning of an officer's decision in military matters shows that no miracle has taken place; you remain a very stupid young man."
The Major waited for a reply, one that would not be given. Michael was now in control though the Major did not realize it. Papa was forgotten and Michael would act to control the man's emotions only as it might suit his own purposes. However, there was no need to antagonize his opponent into an angry ill-thought action at the present moment.
"Now you can't speak?" the Major continued when he saw Michael did not intend to confront him further. "No doubt you appreciate the foolishness in questioning your superiors." There was a reflective pause, the Major tapping his jutting chin with a gloved index finger.
"There are no cowards in this village you say? I am truly puzzled," his words dripped with insincerity, "That is not what I have been told. I am in a quandary. I suppose there is only one way to prove the truth in what you say."
The Major stopped talking, allowing everyone to hear sounds from outside. A large truck rumbled up to a stop near the officer's automobile, its tailgate falling open and many men noisily jumping to the ground. But there was another sound in the background, far off and approaching very slowly, a metallic clanking ponderously moving towards the village along the main road. The edges of the Major's mouth twisted almost imperceptibly upwards in what for him passed as a smile.
"Ah, the timing is perfect. Let us see if there are no cowards among your fellows as you claim." Without taking his eyes from Michael he gave a sharp order and one of the soldiers in the kitchen rushed out. He was to have the burgemeister gather all the men and teenage boys together in the square within the hour, bringing their guns and ammunition with them. Consequences were to be expected if even a single person was missing.
In a false show of civility, the Major clicked his heels together while bowing stiffly and ever so slightly in Papa's direction. He then turned abruptly and left the house followed closely by the second soldier.
With the Major's departure came a short lived respite. Mama cried to herself between short bursts of prayer; Hans asked questions, excited at the prospect of preparing to fight, thinking the Major had come to assist the villagers, not understanding the threat made. Papa prepared to do what he was told. Michael planned.
After sitting for a few moments Papa stood and rushed upstairs, quickly returning with three aged rifles. He knew the Major's intent was to make them attend at the wall and stay in place until the coming battle ended. There was no illusion that age or infirmity might cause mercy in any form to be extended. Faced with the inevitable he would adhere to the original plan, protecting themselves as best they could until such time as an opportunity to surrender presented itself. And if an opportunity did not arise, then they would die with whatever dignity God afforded them, even if it meant shooting at the enemy to encourage the most brutal reaction possible.
Although the guns had seen better days, Michael saw they had been lovingly cared for and restored to a near perfect condition. Papa apologized for never having allowed him to use any of them, saying he had feared Herman's 'condition' made such an activity too dangerous for everyone. Michael in turn assured Papa with disguised sincerity that, even though wanting for experience with such a weapon, he would have no trouble in using it properly. Papa accepted Michael's assurance but nevertheless warned him to be careful for the recoil when firing. Michael thanked him for the advice, remembering when he used similar historical weapons during his own time, injuries were sustained when they were placed too loosely against the shoulder.
Long winter coats were brought out for each of them. They were heavier than they looked, and when Michael asked about it Hans reminded him of Mama's alterations. She had opened the linings and re-stitched them after Papa inserted thin metal sheets backed by moderately thicker pieces of wood between the layers; sufficient protection against some types of bullets, but only if they were fired from a great distance. The coats were wearable despite the additional weight of the home made armor. Michael marveled at the desperate parent's ingenuity, knowing the measures only added psychological comfort and did nothing by way of physical protection.
It was time to leave. As Papa, Hans and Michael donned their boots, gloves, hats and altered coats in the hallway, Mama busied herself in the kitchen. Papa called to her saying they were ready to go. She emerged carrying a large cloth bag containing flasks of water, hot ersatz coffee, dark bread and cheese. They thanked her, Hans innocently mentioning that the supplies should last until they returned for the evening meal and suggesting a mid-afternoon visit by Herman and himself to replenish the items if necessary. At this, Mama, who had managed to control her tears for a brief while, again began to well up. She tearfully kissed each of her men on the cheek before hurriedly withdrawing to offer prayers to the Virgin. As they shouldered their rifles and left the home, Michael heard the sound of paper being torn amidst Mama's deep sobs.
Down the road and unseen behind houses at the far end the tank sat, its location made known by the low throb of its engine idling as it waited. The sound continued during their walk to the town square. Just as they turned into the square the metallic clunking of the tanks tread caught their attention as it lurched forward beginning to move. The metal 'behemoth' rolled past them in the opposite direction, followed closely by a group of soldiers march jogging to keep up.
Over two hundred men and boys mingled in the square. They surrounded the fountain over which stood the stone angel on its pedestal.Facing no particular direction, they huddled in groups varying in size and age. Anxiety permeated the gathering, evidenced by their hushed conversations and absence of joy. The Major was not yet present but his troops were in place at irregular intervals around the square perimeter. Six soldiers guarded the entrance to the church, standing near a pile of gray uniforms placed to one side of the large wooden doors. To the other side was a second pile consisting of metal helmets, all with the same lightening slash insignia as worn by the Major.
The church doors opened and the Major walked as if on cue. All talk abruptly ceased. Striding to the edge of the top step he stopped and, with hands on hips, began to address the crowd. It all seemed overly theatrical to Michael.
"Our great fatherland has been attacked by its racial inferiors and betrayed by traitors in its midst. Our leader has given us victory over these people and now calls on you to personally join him in the final victory. Regardless of your age he shares the glory with you. As I speak, our soldiers in the north are pushing the mongrel enemy forces back into the sea as was done four years ago. We destroyed them then and the leader allowed them to come back to us so that we could destroy them once and for all. They have delivered themselves into our hands and you will share in this ultimate honor for our race. A small band of enemy soldiers are even now moving towards your village. They will be here in a few hours. I have positioned our tanks at the crossroads where the foe will be crushed. But in their fear driven panic they will try to escape us by entering the forest and going around us, trying to stab us in the backs. That is why you will be in the field, safe behind the impregnable wall I had you construct. You will await the frightened enemy and destroy him as he emerges from the trees."
The Major took a deep breath, his eyes aflame, inspired by the lies of his insipid speech. Those addressed showed no signs they had been aroused by the words. Most looked at the ground or simply avoided eye contact by gazing into the backs of those in front of them. Seeing the lack of interest, which could only be interpreted as disbelief, the Major continued ever more passionately.
"I have heard lies about you. I've been told you are cowards. You will not fight. I know this not to be true. We are brothers, our race is pure. Our race does not surrender to an enemy too degenerate to admit its own defeat, too stupid to run away and save themselves. Even the most feeble minded of our race is smarter than the enemy. We have such an idiot in our midst," he had located Michael in the crowd and locked his gaze on him, "an idiot who agrees with me that the men of this village are not cowards."
Two soldiers were signaled to enter the throng and, following the Major's direction, located Michael, pushing him forward to the church steps where he was made to turn around for all to see.
"The half-wit is to be commended for acknowledging your bravery; that is his race speaking. Unfortunately, a part of him remains an idiot; he doubted the wall's ability to protect you. Let me tell you this as a soldier, the wall is built with the dirt of our land and the sweat of its sons. The wall will protect you, your racial superiority will protect you and your God will protect you. The idiot speaks words clearly that nevertheless are nonsense. Even so, God has given him clear speech as a sign that forces we do not understand, divine forces, are on our side. The idiot is a sign but he is also a doubter and doubters must be punished."
The Major's arm shot into the air causing a soldier at the far end of the square to do likewise. The signal was repeated by another who stood at the corner watching down the long main road. Immediately an explosion was heard in the distance, reverberating into the square. A few seconds passed and there was a second explosion. Other than turning to look towards the main road, no one moved. The Major lowered his arm.
"You have now heard justice. The idiot's house has been destroyed. His family suffers for the lack of faith he and others have shown." The Major's head moved slightly towards where Papa stood with one arm around Hans' shoulder. "The village is cleansed by this chastisement and you may now fight with clear consciences. To encourage you and to embolden you I have uniforms for the young men," he motioned to the pile of clothing, "and helmets for everyone," pointing to the second pile.
A soldier shoved Michael roughly back into the gathering as others began to distribute the uniforms and helmets. Deceived by the Major's words most of the boys enthusiastically received the items. Only a few of the older men acted in like manner. Most took hold of the helmets thrust at them as if they were accepting a death writ.
Michael watched Papa and Hans, feeling their distress at the loss of their home, and sharing their concerns, though surely not to the same gut wrenching degree, for Mama's safety. That the gentle woman had not been warned and allowed to leave the house before the first shot was fired was beyond what Michael cared to consider. Papa and Hans too had to believe she was safe. Did they? The bounds of human cruelty are infinite, and he had learned this all too well during his life. But Michael knew the Major needed the men and boys, for whatever twisted reasons motivated his lies to them, and it was unlikely he would risk the crowd turning against him by his having dealt so cruelly with Mama. He had to bring this certainty to Papa and Hans.
"Major," Michael called so all could hear, "Major, sir." Waving his arm above his head and speaking in a manner so as to convey a lesser intelligence than he actually possessed, wanting to sound servile in order to draw out a true response, "I have to know about Mama. Is she safe?Please sir, is Mama alright?"
The Major was aware of the crowd and of their ability to overcome his men, albeit at great loss to themselves. But Michael sensed there was something else in the man's considerations, making him want to assure everyone that she had not been harmed. He smiled too largely, showing more teeth than necessary, his bearing and voice a sham.
"Your Mama is quite safe. After all, I am here to protect you; to share in your glorious future. You are about to face a wicked enemy, many of you for the first time. You needn't be afraid. Some of my soldiers will remain in the village to protect the women while I will send some of my soldiers with you to the field of victory. You will march together to face the enemy and, as you hold your positions at the wall, they will stand behind you ready to assist any who might be tempted to falter."
Only the young and the very naive failed to decipher the transparent warning within the Major's prevarication. The women would remain in the village as hostages, to be shot, along with any man who abandoned their suicidal placement in the field.
Hans was not one of those who had been fooled. Awakened to reality by the Major's wanton action in destroying his home, he would have willingly traded the mere cloth of the uniform now being forced upon him for the special coat Mama had made. Yesterday he saw the Major as a genius, a man of strength to be looked up to. Yesterday Herman was retarded and in need of protection. Yesterday he had a home. Not to risk further retribution, Hans changed into the uniform. Under the Major's watchful eye Michael did likewise. All three of them then strapped on the metal helmets with the twin lightening slashes on one side.
"Herman," Hans addressed his older brother so no others could hear, "is what you told us last night true? Are we all going to die?"
"No Hans," Michael lied to the boy, "you aren't going to die. I will protect you. And Papa," attempting to comfort himself as well with the intended truth of his answer. He would do whatever he could to save at least Hans and Papa, if not everyone else. How much easier this would be, he thought to himself, if only his gun had not been left in the shuttle before he walked into the forest yesterday morning. At its highest setting the tiny weapon could have turned the tank to slag before anyone reacted; or cause a human to explode in a puff of gray ashes a second after being contacted by the beam.
"How Herman, how will you protect us?" Hans pleaded not from fear but from trust in what he had been told.
Michael thought about what to say, wanting to tell the teenager about his special training, skills, knowledge, his battlefield experiences — how he had killed many people better able and better equipped than those now threatening them. He wanted to lie and say he believed in the miracle God had performed in making him intelligent; how it was a sign that the Almighty was going to intervene and give them a victory; how he had been mistaken in foretelling their deaths — lies being so easy to live with in difficult circumstances.
He wanted to but he could not. He had the skills needed, but they were in his mind, and the body he now possessed might not be able to translate them with the effectiveness required. He did not believe in God and he no longer had the stomach for lies. Instead he answered from his heart, surprising himself in so doing.
"If you believe in God then believe everything in the universe has a purpose ordained by God. And once you accept that, then you must believe I am here for such a purpose as well, God's will be done."
Flanked by soldiers, the disorganized army of villagers left the square. The stalwarts who refused to acknowledge the truth besieging them, choosing rather to believe the lies, initially attempted to march as they had seen the professional soldiers do. Amused, Michael watched as
some of them stiffly raised their legs in the garishly awkward marching style common to their nation's army at this time in its history. Despite the perilous situation, Michael smiled, observing the efforts of such simple men, efforts not seen by the Major who had left in his car for the crossroads. It wasn't long before the marchers began to tramp along with the rest of their fellows, embarrassed by their own foolish behavior as they passed the rubble of Papa's destroyed home.
Most refused to look, Papa, Hans and Michael among them. The former from the pain in knowing their own people had done this, Michael from respect for their suffering. Instead they looked to their left, across the road at the tank and its crew. Scorn graced many of the villager's faces, as if asking how the soldiers could have caused such hardship to helpless people when there was a common enemy nearby.
The tankers did not react, instead drawing on cigarettes and exhaling the smoke while impassively glancing back as if those passing before them were of little consequence. They were not part of the regular army, but rather a separate one, more political than military, created on a radical doctrinaire belief in their own racial superiority, and possessed with a fanatical disregard for lives considered unworthy; an army whose 'weltanschauung' excluded common morality. Identified by the double jagged 'S' insignia worn proudly on their uniforms, they worshiped a depraved god in human form. The group slowly passed by these cold, hard, lifeless individuals and down the road before turning to cross into the field.
The wall lay covered by new fallen snow giving it a soft beauty testifying to its weakness. Without instruction the men and boys dispersed along its length, the village to their backs. A small number of men and most of the boys unshouldered their rifles, aiming them over the wall towards the forest. The youngest made shooting sounds with their mouths and then informed those men nearest to them how many enemies had been killed.
It can be a wonderful thing for the young not to know, Michael thought to himself as he watched their ignorance protecting them from sickening fear. If nothing can be done to prevent their deaths, hopefully it will happen quickly, allowing them to avoid emotional as well as physical pain.
Soon an army truck arrived bumping across the field and pulling up near the wall. A dirty canvas flap covering the back was lifted as the villagers watched two large weapons, each on a three legged stand, being removed. Michael recognized them as rapid fire weapons; heavy machine guns most formidable when used against a mass attack by an unarmored enemy. Pockets of cheering arose among the observers when they saw the additional fire power provided to them by the Major. Michael knew that, even if the weapons were to be used against the enemy, their chances of surviving had increased only marginally. He also new the real purpose behind the machine guns having been brought out to the wall, and that he remained with the dead either way.
The cheering became sporadic, and then died away completely, as the soldiers moved the weapons well behind the wall, positioning them so they aimed at the backs of the defenders. Anger and dismay within the majority of the villagers had been present since learning of the earlier requirement to gather in the square. Now even the most patriotic, the minority who had trusted the Major, were infected with the same despair. The infection grew as most of the soldiers who had accompanied the villagers across the field piled into the back of the truck as it prepared to leave. As the truck pulled away only four soldiers remained, two to man each of the machine guns.
The placement of the machine guns meant everything had changed.No amount of talk would now convince, or encourage, them to either surrender or flee. They would have to stay and face the enemy otherwise their own countrymen would cut them down. Any action to surrender, any misstep in turning to run away, would riddle the individual with flesh ripping metal. Barbaric weapons that needed to be dealt with should the villagers be afforded any chance to survive. Michael would watch for an opportunity, trusting he could act before it was too late.
Over the next few hours those at the wall talked little, preferring to either look towards the forest in gnawing anticipation of what was to come, or back at the village remembering what was now lost, each trapped in their own thoughts. Michael reflected on neither. His mind dwelt on nothing behind the instance when Nathaniel had first been encountered, or on anything ahead of where he now was. The future failed to be an immediate concern for him, despite the distraction of death presented by it. Michael held in his mind a high degree of certainty he would be removed from the scene before his own death became imminent.
Confident in being placed in this time for a purpose other than his own death, such being capable of accomplishment by simpler means, his life apart from Nathaniel's involvement was not a present consideration. Michael concerned himself only with the present, his purpose within it, and returning to his own time. Even so, he was angered by the limitations on his thinking. Desiring constructive action but forced into merely thinking about what might be done, he would remain unhappy until relieved of inaction's burden. Of everyone around him he alone, having no loved ones to protect, was the only person possessed with a freedom of action, with the ability to control events. Only he could alter the present situation.
Placed thirty meters to the rear and spaced thirty meters apart, the machine guns together covered the wall's entire length while providing sufficient time for their operators to react to any approach, whether by individuals or a frightened mass. Piled neatly on the frozen ground next to where the soldiers sat, two men behind each gun, were sundry supplies including boxes of ammunition, some hand held explosive devices and rifles. One of the rifles closest to where Michael stood in place along the wall was unique from the others. Overlaid with a camouflaged cloth tied securely with leather straps, it had a telescopic sight and an extra large ammunition clip. It could be fired rapidly in succession with great accuracy from a distance. In his nascent plan it became the weapon of choice.
He knew he would be unable to rush at either machine gun by himself and have any hope of successfully overcoming it. He would be shredded by the weapons before even going ten meters towards them. An 'en masse' charge by all the villagers, even if they collectively could be convinced to do so, also wasn't worthy of consideration; the death toll surely exceeding fifty percent. Inaction meant all their deaths were certain. But the villagers, in not knowing the future, retained hope, albeit faint, they still might prevail over the approaching enemy. An unknown and unseen foe frightened them less than the very real and nearby threat at their backs.
Papa and Hans had spoken with them, telling of Michael's warning about the enemy's destructive power. But how could simple village folk be expected to act to save themselves based on the words of one so recently seen as only an idiot?
Michael thought about trying to arrange for everyone to turn in unison and fire upon the soldiers manning the machine guns. Hundreds of people shooting at the same time, even with their mostly old and unsophisticated weapons, would be sufficient to kill the four soldiers before they reacted. Casualties would be minimal. However he did not pursue the idea at length — there were those with them who believed in the Major and would not act against the soldiers, and who would act to warn them of such a plot.
Once the enemy was sighted might it not be possible to quickly climb up and roll over the wall, thus protected from the machine gun fire behind him, attempt to signal to the enemy their desire to surrender? This idea too was fraught with difficulties. An overanxious enemy soldier might shoot him before discerning his intent. Although confident he was not in this time period simply to be killed, Michael possessed no guarantee it would not happen. Reasonable caution would still need to be taken. Even if made aware of the intent to surrender, the enemy might be unable to accept it. Again, the suspect loyalty of some of the men created an additional problem. Last night someone had gone to the Major and told him about the plan to surrender. Those who believed the Major's lies remained among them and were likely to shoot at anyone attempting to surrender or trying to accept any surrender. Those unknowns caused Michael to discount the idea.
Michael watched the people along the wall, oblivious to the reality the last hours of their lives were upon them with predestined certainty. In his own time period they were long since dead and he was feeling powerless to change what had happened. Nevertheless, he was compelled to try. He had to do something. Then, with little further thought given, he acted.
Turning he began to feign a meandering imbecilic walk which gradually brought him closer to the machine gun on his right. If he could just get near enough he could easily subdue the soldiers bare handed and then, gaining the rifle, there was the chance he could kill the soldiers at the other machine gun before they brought their weapons to bear.
Walking more or less diagonally from the wall, appearing fascinated by something invisible moving along the ground, Michael seemed to be drawing farther away from both the wall and the soldiers while actually bringing himself ten meters nearer to the latter. One soldier noticed him, tapping the others shoulder so he too looked towards Michael.
Surprisingly, Michael felt no fear as he stepped backwards a couple of steps and began pointing at the ground, as if following the course of a small rodent with his finger. He made a noise expressing surprised glee as he pretended to track the imaginary creature on an almost direct line towards the soldiers. Watching the 'retard' move about, they hesitated. He was two thirds of the way to them, when he abruptly dropped to his knees and began pounding the earth with cupped hands as if trying to capture what was not there. On hands and knees he drew ever closer to the soldiers.
Papa, standing by the wall, saw what was going on but feared to make a sound least unwanted attention be drawn to 'Herman'. Silently he prayed for his son's life.
With his face down and only five meters to go, Michael heard the click- clack of a rifle bolt being drawn back then thrust forward. Looking up, he saw one of the soldiers raising their rifle to shoulder height and sighting it on him. Michael let out a confused yell, sounding like a child being attacked by an angry dog. The rifle dropped from the soldier's shoulder as the man stared full into Michael's eyes. There was a second of uncertainty before the rifle was again raised. A shot rang out, the sharp report echoing in the cold still air, as the hard ground only centimeters from Michael's feet burst into tiny brown shards exploding against his boots and pant legs. Cautiously, Michael stood and began stepping backwards, loosely swinging his head from side to side and muttering 'no-no-no' over and over. The soldiers watched him until he rejoined Papa and Hans at the wall. Papa clung to him, telling him how brave and how stupid he had been to do what he did.
Lacking any other plan, Michael decided to have none at all. Constrained by circumstance, he would wait with the rest of them and react as best he could to reduce casualties as the situation developed.
Regardless of this reluctant acceptance, his mind continued to explore one implausible plan after another, refusing to acknowledge that he had already agreed to be defeated. Physically he acted as an automaton while his mind continued to churn. Eventually, he decided to try and convince Papa to go with him and talk to those men who were considered trustworthy, asking them to not shoot at the enemy when they first appeared. Instead they were to lay flat on the ground, up against the base of the wall. If they dropped to a prone position as soon as the attack began, hopefully protected by the thicker dirt at the bottom of the wall, they might be safe long enough for the enemy to realize they posed no threat. The enemy might not attack those areas of the wall offering no return fire and, once those who did shoot back had been dealt with, an opportunity to surrender might present itself. Seeing no other options, Papa agreed to talk to the others.
Concerns were expressed about the machine guns; their own soldiers being likely to shoot any villager not actively participating in the battle. Michael assured them he would deal with the machine guns as soon as the shooting started and confusion took a foothold, giving him a chance to act.
His assurance was met largely with a skepticism Michael could not blame them for possessing. Many still perceived him only as a half-wit, their memories unable to let go of all they had ever known of him. The fact he now spoke amazingly well failed to overcome their past remembrance and his present physical appearance. Frustrated, he wanted to tell of his military training, far superior to anything their own soldiers or the enemy had been given. But he knew to do so would only hinder his chances of convincing them, for then he would be viewed as insane and all his words only those of a madman.
After much discussion, those spoken with agreed to do their best to act together as instructed, seeing no other choice if death's surety was to be avoided in the unequal fight. Having done all they could, the two men returned to Hans and the interminable vigil.
Past mid afternoon, closer to evening's approach than to noon, a motorcycle came from the direction of the village, slipping and sideways sliding across the field. Stopping first at the soldiers the rider spoke to them briefly before giving a sharp twist to the throttle and hurtling forward towards the wall. Finding the burgemeister, he informed him and everyone within earshot the enemy would be upon them within the hour. Refitting his goggles as he turned the stuttering machine he shouted a final order from the Major, saying everyone was to commence shooting as soon as the first enemy was sighted and to not stop until reinforcements could be sent. With these words ringing in their ears the men and boys watched the motorcyclist disappear in a trailing haze of blue exhaust.
A palpable excitement born from ignorance immediately enveloped the younger men and boys. The older men only grew quieter than they had been before hearing the news. Ever so gradually, as if awakening from sleep, they began to busy themselves with rummaging through bags and baskets, withdrawing breads, cheeses and a variety of alcohols in preparation for a last meal. Everything they had was shared among them without exception. There was no joy in the occasion.
Papa took Hans and Michael apart from the rest to express his love for them and his hope for their futures. He apologized to both for his many fatherly mistakes and often ill advised words; mistakes and words common to all parents which, except for the moment's stress, would never have been remarked upon let alone forgiveness sought for. Without awkwardness he said he trusted his sons would do much better than him when they too became fathers. Michael wondered how much of what Papa said arose from remorse and how much was calculated to keep his children from concentrating on the present. Papa talked about a future he could not possibly believe would be fulfilled. After a few more moments remembering happier times he encouraged Hans to go off and wish his friends good luck, telling him to hurry back. It was an arranged chance for Papa to talk to Michael alone.
"Herman, everything I've said to Hans and you I believe in my heart to be true. I trust God will protect the both of you, if not me. I will do what I can to save you, but you can't be taking foolish chances like you did when you approached the machine gun. You are my child and, even so, I sense you are no longer my son. Not the son I've always known. In the past twenty-four hours I have been miraculously blessed with the son I wanted you to be, but at the loss of the son I had learned to love. Forgive my foolishness and please take no offense with what I'm about to ask you, but I think God has done something beyond my ability to understand and I need to know if what I feel is true."
Papa, who had been looking into Michael's eyes, briefly averted his gaze, first looking towards the forest, then to the dismal sky, and finely to the ground scarred by digging and the tramping of many feet. He then cupped Michael's chin in his gloved hands and brought their faces closer together before asking the question that troubled him. Michael looked back at the tawny bewildered face of a man whose life was worn in its flesh, a harsh life he would never know anything about, and saw Papa as if peering through a window into his soul.
"Are you Herman?" Papa asked, his words faltering, yet determined. "My Herman, or are you someone else?"
The question's discernment startled Michael by its unexpectedness. And yet, possibly this was an opportunity being given to him; a chance to explain who he really was and how he could help them. Papa seemed ready to believe Herman was gone, somehow replaced by someone else.
Papa readily believed in Herman's miraculous healing not doubting God's ability to perform such a feat. It wasn't too great a leap in thinking for Papa to hold faith in another type of miracle. But what benefits would be derived from telling him the truth? And what might the consequences be? If Papa did accept Michael's presence within Herman, it remained doubtful anyone else could be convinced of the same. A soldier from the future come back in time to save them from a destruction certain to occur; an unbelievable story even he would have given no credence to only a short while ago. Except for his experiences he would have also remained among the unconvinced. Papa and the rest of the villagers were afraid and confused as it was. To tell them the truth would only add to their confusion, and it would add to their fear in believing Herman's supposed miracle was nothing more than a progressing insanity.
There was no benefit to the truth, no solace in speaking upon what they could never understand. Best to let them believe in a false miracle and, in Papa's case, let him find comfort in the presence of both his sons at the time of his death. Decency, honor, respect for the dead; whatever probity it was to be called, dictated that 'Michael' stay unknown.
"Papa," Michael intentionally used the familiar, "in truth I am not the Herman you have raised since birth but I am nonetheless your Herman. I am the flesh and blood born to you and nurtured by you even though I am now a different being. I can't explain it myself, I'm still trying to comprehend all that's taken place, but I promise you there will come a time when we will both understand beyond any doubt what has happened and the purpose behind it."
Michael said nothing more, satisfied his dissimulation had in fact been honest and made with the sincerest of motives.
A short time later, just as the late afternoon silence became accepted and ideas about returning to hot food and loving wives and mothers began to ease nerves, with propinquity creating illusory substance, an explosion shook the earth. Well to the rear of the machine guns, it caused no harm other than to pound everyone with cowering fear. There had been no warning, no whining sound of hot metal flying through the air as was expected. Before anyone could react to the first explosion, an equally surreptitious second explosion thunder clapped into the ground much closer to them.
Nothing more happened for a few moments and the villagers, speaking from jangled nerves, began to express their belief that God was causing the enemy to have very poor aim. The religious truly believed this, while the irreligious accepted it from lack of any other hope. Michael knew they were fooling themselves. The first shots would only be ranging fire from mortars now being adjusted to hit the target. Hell was about to fall into their midst.
"Get down, get down. Roll into the wall," he began yelling while running along the line and pushing at people's backs and shoulders.
Stunned and stupid, most did not respond right away, failing to react until a third explosion, almost on top of them, threw large chunks of frozen earth into the air. Michael continued to run along the side of the wall screaming even louder. He took notice that the soldiers were not firing the machine guns at those who lay down.
No enemy had yet been sighted when a fourth explosion tore away a section of dirt wall, killing three men huddled next to it, their bodies tossed into the air to fall with bone cracking thuds. A group of men closest to the latest explosion, delirious with adrenaline, jumped up and began wildly discharging their guns into the trees. Immediately the gunfire was returned a hundred fold and those standing were spun around in an array of blood from the metal assailing their bodies. They were dead before the strength in their legs any longer provided support. Michael realized the enemy would now see the wall as a certain threat to be eliminated — the villagers' gun fire sealing that determination — and anything he might now do had to be done without delay or else everyone would be lost. A voice in his head, as clear as if Gabe were speaking to him, told him it was already too late.
A fifth and sixth shell exploded, one atop the other, near to where Michael was, somehow harming no one, giving him a fortuitous opportunity.
Before the dirt blown skyward had a chance to settle, Michael leaped over the double crater made where the rounds landed and began screaming hysterically with arms flailing above his head. He ran straight at the soldiers nearest to him. Three more concussive impacts shook the ground in rapid succession behind him as he ran. After that, he no longer consciously kept account of the fury being rained down upon them.
The soldiers saw him coming; in their eyes a wildly excited retard crazed with fear, the one who had chased a mouse towards them only hours earlier. Neither moved from their position flat to earth to reach for a rifle or swivel the machine gun in his direction. Why risk rising and giving a piece of shrapnel a larger target to hit, simply in order to kill one frightened half-wit? Michael counted on this, and to encourage the soldiers to remain in place he made as if to run past, altering his course to their left. Only as he came even to where they lay, clear of their field of vision, did he act against them.
With a speed and accuracy honed by years of mental discipline Michael forced Herman's unmuscled body to react as it never otherwise could have. Rapidly veering to his right and taking three quick strides, he swung a leg with perfect coordination, bringing his booted foot into the first soldiers chin. Michael struck the man in such a way that his jaw crushed upwards into his brain, killing him before he knew anything was amiss.
Continuing in a fluid motion, Michael hopped over the dead soldier, landing with his knee hard into the spine of his compatriot. As intended, the fragile bones in the back cracked, rendering the man immobile despite his brain screaming for movement. Grabbing the soldier's helmeted head Michael exerted a violent twist and the brain signaled no more. In only a couple of seconds he had ended the lives of two men.
Michael's attack did not go unnoticed by those at the second machine gun. One of the soldiers glanced over just as he rolled from his last victim's body. It was a calculated roll, bringing him to the rifles he had seen earlier.
Reaching for the one possessing the telescopic scope, Michael lay on his stomach and peered through the sight. Both of the remaining soldiers were now looking in his direction, stupefied expressions on their faces.
Centering the cross hairs onto the forehead of the one who had first seen him, Michael applied a slight pressure to the trigger. He watched a small dot appear between the soldiers eyes as red mist noiselessly clouded the air behind his head. The shot threw the man backwards with his helmet still in place. Michael could only imagine the size of the hole created in the metal by the exiting bullet. A half second later the other soldier was similarly dispatched. From the moment of his initial sideways movements towards the first machine gun until now, less than ten seconds had elapsed. The villagers were free to flee or surrender. There was no time to waste.
As if waking from a dream, Michael again became aware of the explosions and gunfire around him. The villagers had not seen what he had done and consequently they did nothing. Those who did not want to fight, cowered, while the zealots and unhinged shot their rifles with little consideration for the peril being brought to all. Crouching low and holding onto the rifle, Michael ran back to where he had left Papa, finding him huddled into the wall forehead on knees. There were many dead around him.
"It's over," Michael yelled, "you can run away. The soldiers are dead. You don't have to fight. Surrender if you can. Run away if you can't surrender."
Papa did not respond other than to raise his head and show his suffering tear stained face. Feeling like he had been punched viciously in the stomach, it was then that Michael noticed Hans' bloodied body pressed between Papa and the wall. A small triangular piece of metal was embedded deep into the boy's skull. Except for the dirt and blood, an angel's visage could not present greater peace than shone on Hans. Near to his father, he passed unafraid. Michael's tongue failed to provide him with any words that might comfort Papa, and he refused to attempt to provide what wasn't his place to give.
"Papa", Michael spoke softly while placing a hand gently on his shoulder, "please go to Mama, she is going to need you. You don't need to die." Papa said nothing and Michael knew from the blank stare given that the father was unable to abandon his son's body.
"Do you have a handkerchief Papa?" Michael asked, remembering such was a common item for people of this time to carry with them, "A handkerchief Papa, do you have one?"
Papa's head fell back into his knees as he fumbled at his coat pocket, eventually withdrawing a white square cloth. Michael took it from the trembling hand and tied it with a knot to the rifle barrel. Raising the rifle over his head, the white cloth, now visible above the wall, fluttered in a weak breeze. It did not take long and, before a minute had passed, all shooting ceased along that stretch of the wall. However, farther along the earthen structure the gunfire slackened but did not end, the villagers not yet seeing that Michael was indicating to the enemy their desire to surrender. The enemy's mortar fire stopped and Michael knew word was being given in their ranks to hold off and wait to see what was happening. It was the only opportunity they would be given.
Holding the makeshift flag so it remained in view above the top of the wall, Michael stayed low and began running along its length, stopping only to let people know what he was doing. So informed, each of them stopped shooting and, backs against the wall, rested waiting for the surrender to be accepted. Approaching the breach in the wall caused by the fourth mortar round, the one first resulting in deaths, he lifted the rifle higher, exposing his arms in so doing. Waving it frantically from side to side Michael waited until he was certain no shots were being directed to that area. Only once he was completely satisfied did he leap across the face of the opening.
Near the wall's farthest end, five men were grouped together taking turns at maintaining a regular rate of fire into the forest. They aimed at nothing specific for there was nothing to be seen that could be counted as a target. Nevertheless, the constancy of their efforts kept the enemy concentrating shots to where they were. Michael's approach was met with anger.
"Stop shooting, we're surrendering. You're going to get us all killed," he screamed at them while motioning with his free hand for them to put their rifles on the ground. There was no reaction other than one man, his face particularly harsh, rising to his full height at great risk, and firing three shots in succession over the wall. Having to manipulate the rifle's bolt action between each shot, the resulting delay kept him dangerously in the open. His eyes ablaze, he showed no apparent concern for himself. A steady stream of cursing accompanied what he did. No sooner did Michael come within arms reach of the man, he jumped for the white handkerchief, ripping it from the rifle barrel and grinding it into the mud under his boot. He spat in Michael's face and cursed him.
"You retarded swine, go back to those other frightened women sprawled in the dirt before I shoot you. The leader has promised victory. The leader's never wrong. Your kind sicken me." The man swung his rifle butt at Michael who deftly avoided the contact.
"You fool, you'll kill us all. You don't know what's out there. We don't have the fire power to win this fight," Michael argued with the man's fanatic stupidity. Neither the one addressed, nor those who stood with him, heard anything Michael said. Instead they turned their rifles as one towards him.
"Last chance retard. Go back to the cowards or die."
Michael looked upon them with pity as he stumbled backwards in his bent over posture and began to turn away, "You don't know what you're doing. You're fools who've believed a lie," he said as he left. Two steps later he heard the men recommence their shooting into the forest at an even greater rate than previously.
With the white symbol of surrender removed and the firing from the wall not falling away, it didn't take long for the enemy to renew and intensify their attack. The winter afternoon was almost dark, the sun well below the tree tops. Michael was aware that every effort would be used by those attacking to finish the battle before nightfall and he was not surprised by the immediacy of the increased gunfire and explosions.
The enemy had no way to know they were opposed by only old men and boys unfit for regular army service; villagers wearing army helmets and gray uniforms purposely given them so that they would be soldiers. No mercy would now be given by the enemy in ridding themselves of this blockage in their rush to join the main body of their forces.
Michael again came to the breach in the wall, where a murderous barrage from automatic weapons now made it impossible for him to cross back to Papa. All hope of salvation was lost. He had been unable to undo the past-ordained historical event. Everyone was now going to die as they had before.
Michael refused to believe his own death at this time was fated. Nathaniel would surely return him to his own time very soon. But, as he witnessed the destruction taking place around him, he decided not to simply wait passively to be recalled to the future. Believing he might still have a greater purpose he set off, running from the wall, using it to shield him as he raced across the field, jinking to avoid any marksman that might care to track his course. Past the soldiers he had so recently killed he headed towards the main road, the wall at his back providing limited protection. Unhindered by thoughts of shot or shells Michael ran with vengeance.
Tomorrow was Christmas, a day Michael knew held great significance for the western societies of the day and age within which he had been placed. It was supposed to be a day of hope and peace. It would be a day Michael was determined the Major would not live to see.