The Fall and the Red, Red Apples

supertramp

The Fall and The Red, Red Apples

a short story by Supertramp


There is a photograph in my wallet. It's an old photograph, one that has not faded with time. It is a window that has shown a view of good friends, friends like I would never have again. It is a window into the past where men were brave and briming with confidence. In the bottom right of the photograph, crouched alongside me is Vincent, above him is Roman, and standing behind me is my good friend Andrei. We were a group of men from the far corners of Russia brought together by a national cause. But it was the cause of protecting the shoulders of the friends near us is what we fought for back then. We had ourselves and ourselves alone. Without friends a lonely mind begins to wander and lose itself.........

At last Spring had arrived. The birds began to sing in the mornings and the shops were stocked with fresher bread. But the cold was still piercing. Our worn overcoats were still in need. Andrei, Vincent, Roman and I were stationed in the town of Vladikavkaz, 60km south east of Grozny. We were sent here to protect the Russian people against attacks by Chechen rebels. The rebels, with the aid of Islamic terrorists were a growing nuisance in the Chechen region. Many Russian lives had been lost in recent months.
It was a long way from my home in Riga. Faces were tanned and colder. I missed my parents immensly. It had been a whole year since I was at home, every day seemed like I was a hundred more miles away. I wished for a letter but it never arrived, for my parents saw as treason for a Latvian to join the Red Army. I had bargained that my Russian comrades would embrace me as their own, and I would have brothers to ease my disownment. But only a small few did, for most looked on me like my father did as I closed the garden gate.
Andrei was from St Petersborg, and had stood up for me in harsh times. I thought highly of him and tried to find myself in his company whenever I could. He was large and stocky. He had the look of war etched into his face. He had fought in Afghanistan and fought well he did. As we were both on foot patrol around Markovic Square, he told me of his wife and son. He showed me a picture. Little Voromir was 9 years of age.
"He wants to play for Spartak! He loves them!" Andrei smiled "He wants to play in goal. I said, Voromir! You will play in midfield like your papa!"
Every day Andrei would send letters to his wife and son, he told me. Tommorrow he was going to send a special letter and his pocket knife home, as it was Voromir's 10nth birthday next week. Andrei was excited, even the loud and powerful stride told me that, as we turned into the square. The square was mostly empty apart from storekeepers taking stock and emptying bins. The lamps lit the streets and created a false scene of tranquility. There were instances of pure tranquility in this little district that made me feel as if I were a million miles from a front-line. I should have been carrying an ice cream cone in the place of this Kalashnikov.
That night was a quiet one, and we returned to our watch tower. Vincent and Roman were in the mess room.
"The boys return! What's the count?" Roman laughed "Medic! Medic!" he too was tired of the lack of action.
"They drag us thousands of kilometers to baby-sit." Vincent remarked.
Vincent was from a small village, the name of I can't recall, in the far north east of Siberia. It was really the most desolate place on Earth according to his accounts. "We even got bored of skating on the frozen lakes!" he emphasised. Vincent was the first to complain about being here, but I felt that this was bluff. There were twenty times more guys his age in this unit than there were at his village, and he seemed to enjoy the company.
Roman poured out the vodka. "Drink enough of this and we'll start our own war, Vincent!" Our friend Roman, who despite an obvious urge to escape this army life, got on with his job and even helped us with his up-lifting humour. He was the youngest of the four of us. For him, joining the army would mean parading through Moscow after a victorious epic battle and thousands of idolising women at his heels. But this guerilla warfare was not at all glamorous. In the end he received a small scale parade through his home town, with his family walking behind. Roman lost his life after he was shot in the back while looking in a shop window at a selection of desserts and pastries. It reminded us that there was a danger out there, lurking amongst us. To our dear friend Roman, we'll always lean.
The next day I was on radio operations in the watch tower. The radio stack was busy
"Tower II, Tower II, Supply group, Supply Group, approaching vicinity, approaching vicinity". So I had to arrange an escort.
"Alpha wheels, Alpha wheels, rendez-vous in blue, rendez-vous in blue, stork on approach, stork on approach"
On the quieter periods when there were no messages, I could sit back and gather thoughts. The radio room was on the top deck of the tower. It was a small, clostrephobic room filled with small LEDs which created a faint aurora in the room. To the right of my desk was the only door out to a balcony where a single soldier would walk in circles. I could see the town, its shadows creeping across the ground, trying not to be noticed. A flock of birds rose into the dusty sky in unison, probably off to their drinking waters before settling down for the evening in their perches. I tried to hear their chirping as they zoomed past the tower. As my ears strained a faint screech and tapping noise was carried with their wind. What kind of birds were these. Past they went, the brown spotted underbellies turning darker as they turned and manoevered their wings in swift movements. Now there was another cloud rising from where the birds came, and this time I could hear clearly
"Tower II, Tower II, Send back-up, send back -up, Markovijc, Markovijc Square. Enemy sighted, enemy engaged"
The spurradic gunfire lasted half an hour, before a calm blanket was thrown over the town and the birds could sleep soundly again. A group of partizans had been hiding out in an apartment attic when a football was kicked through a window. Fearing a raid the partizans panicked, shooting into the street giving away their hideout. There was no way out for them. They wouldn't dare surrender, and we wouldn't dare to let them get the chance. We expected no opportunity from the partizans. War always thinks the worst.
Back in the mess, the boys were upbeat and overjoyed. Fnally a bit of action. Vincent had taken part.
"The fools were planning a huge grenade attack on our marches!" he gestured fanatically with his large dust covered hands "They must have been in that attic for weeks. There were empty tin food cans thrown everywhere inside, and condensed milk."
"The inhabitants must have been taking care of them!" Andrei shouted
"No. it was unoccupied, it was the old mill house." Vincent replied "the children were playing in the street, and one kicked the ball into the window. They just went mad, firing, and throwing grenades from the attics. We managed to clear the square. Two kids had shrapnel injuries that was all. We moved in with a tank, and that was it. Whatever kind of explosives they had, went on burning and popping for almost an hour! We couldn't go near the building. Eventually we went up, and there bodies couldn't be distinguished from the rubble."
The next week went by without incident. i woke on the Saturday, to quite a quibble. The radios were hopping upstairs. Soldiers were up and down the stair cases with messages to their superiors. After breakfast I passed the incoming office where soldiers were gathering mail. It is the only room I've never set foot in. And outside I go where our unit is being briefed. Section I was to proceed on foot around the town centre. It is market day. All the locals will be there, and is a propoganda chance to show that we are protecting the peoples interests. Section II will pair off to fixed positions.
I was to proceed to Markovijc Square, where I would take position in a gun bunker. There was a young recruit whom I had never spoken to before. His name was Igor, and he was from Moscow. He had arrived after transferring from the naval forces.
The square was thronged with people. There were numerous stalls filled with breads, pastries, fruits, wooden crafts, household items, and books. Everyone was smiling and conversing. It seemed that these hardy people were snubbing the threats of the rebels, some snubbing us Russians. Whether they were safe or intimidated by our presence they were going to enjoy the day no matter what.
"What did you buy?" I asked Igor after he jolted across to the nearest stall.
"A wooden doll." He held it proudly in the air for me to see "I will send it home to my little sister."
"She'll love it.." I said
Andrei brought his letter up to the radio room to read. His bounds would have shook the tower on its foundations as he lost himself in his excitement. He pulled the stool out from the table and sat. He cut the crisp envelope with a knife.
I pulled the turret to face me in order to inspect the casings, and swung it back when I was happy.
"Do you want a piece?" Igor held out a slice of apple.
"Yes, thank you." I can't remember when I had apple like that. War made us miss the small things in life and regret the larger things. "But you shouldn't use a knife like that, you'll slice your finger off!"
There was an old couple haggling for a loaf of sweet bread in the stall below us. The owner wouldn't budge, as it was war for him too as he put it. Over along a kid was buying apples. A large bag of the ripest red apples you could ever see. And his face gleaming like sunlight he turned to run back and accompany his young girlfriend. A pretty little gift for his heart-throb. It seemed to spread a wave of good feelings over the community. In these foggy days of war, a light has shone on these two youngsters. It showed them all that God's will worked and broke past the bounds of evil, and that no matter what desolate and deprived circumstances that a person may be enduring, across these miles there is a gift of hope.
Andrei unfolded the yellow paper full of the antisipation of a bumble-bee prancing from flower to flower. He too had his light and shining joy. It was times and letters like these where words changed from ink on paper to something spiritual and deep, like bread to flesh in the Eucharist. This piece of paper was like a window home. It would bring him home to fields of wheat blowing in the breeze, where he would dance with his family, and search for his son hiding in the tall grass. The tall grass, standing tall like my papa, his son would call it. A letter could also carry Andrei down to the rivers and streams. His fishing line arking like a rainbow across the fast flowing ripples, the fly hitting the surface and bouncing back and he swung his arms to and fro "Like this Voromir! See? Just like this!" He would hold his sons hard with a tight grip as they negotiated the slippery rocks "If you fall in the river troll with get you!" Once his son fell, Andrei would rush in as quick as possible. Even though there was no danger of his son drowning in the shallows, it was to save his sons imagination from the river troll, who was waiting just below the surface to snatch him. Then, like a leaf in Autumn, the letter fell from Andrei's grasp, swinging to and fro in the air as it descended.
The red apples bounced on the ground and rolled along the path. Followed closely behind , by a trickle of red. As fingers spread, and a couples grasp loosened, the red, red apples kept rolling in a torrent of red. The boy, swaying in the wind, before sinking to his knees and then onto his face. The girl started to scream and cry, but the apples were still rolling. What had just happened? How did these rebels get past our watchful gaze? The marketplace erupted in panic, and I did not know where to look for an answer.
Then I saw the steam rising from my gun barrel before dispersing into the air. I looked to the ground and saw the empty casings. And then I knew what? A boy shot dead and another tragically killed in a car crash. Oh, what would become of me? And what about the poor grieving Andrei?
Maybe it was because I had nobody to love, nobody to send letters to, nobody to give a gift of red apples to. All that I had craved I was surrounded by. And now I have nothing but my pen and paper in this little cell until dawn. So I sit and wait and write.

The End

dj_quinn

Excellent, very well written. Thanks for posting that, I enjoyed reading it.

supertramp

dj_quinn wrote: »

Excellent, very well written. Thanks for posting that, I enjoyed reading it.

Thanks a lot