Indeed, Gudrun’s swearing father ordered her to run as he himself drew a large-bore pistol and fired two shots past the mother’s corpse into the Posleen mass. Gudrun never saw whether he hit anything or not.
The girl’s hand fumbled with the door release. The father fired several more times at the nearest Posleen; the roar of the shots both hurting her ears and lending urgency to her actions. The door flung open, Gudrun sprang from her seat behind her father and fled, coatless. Safety lay, if anywhere, across the snow-covered field. As she fled, the screams behind her arose to a heartrending crescendo, then rapidly grew fainter and fewer. She heard no more shots. This only served to spur her flashing feet.
East of Paris, France, 29 March 2007
Isabelle fled mindlessly, driving the family auto in a dream-state. Better said, she drove through a nightmare and dreamt of a time it might be over.
She had waited for a day or more, eyes fixed to the television, hoping to discover from the news some route of escape for herself and her boys. In that time two things had been made clear. The first was that the old line of fortresses to the east, the ones facing Germany and misdubbed the “Maginot Line,” were holding out well for the nonce, and butchering the invaders in the process. The second was that the French Army was holding open, however tenuously, an escape route from Paris to the east.
Sound carried poorly through the densely falling snow. Light was diffused. Nonetheless, so intense was the fighting some miles to either side of the road on which Isabelle drove that some must leak through.
Some even leaked through a brain gone on autopilot with terror. She kept her foot on the accelerator, moving as fast as snow and the traffic would permit.
Hammelburg, Germany, 29 March 2007
“Spur it, son, spur it,” whispered Brasche to the distant, unhearing, Schiffer.
Another Tiger, number 102, had gone down; first immobilized by an unlucky hit then pounded to scrap by the mass fire of nine C-Decs. Schiffer was bounding backwards with the remaining pair, himself holding stationary and firing at the dimly sensed enemy while the other Tiger moved back to reinforcement and relative safety, then switching over.
Brasche’s 1a, or operations officer, pointed out, “There is a ridge, between us and Number One Company, Herr Oberst. I was just thinking…”
Hans thought about it, looking at the tactical display, his mind measuring distances and interpolating times. “Yes. Yes, Major… it has possibilities.”
Thirteen had been Brasche’s unlucky number. His arms grown tired, he missed a kidney. The Vietminh had managed to call out to his comrades, once, before the crimson river spilled to the ground. Hans soon found himself running from a fusillade of ill-aimed shots.
The number of shots suggested to Hans that his pursuers numbered no more than twenty, the original number his squad of legionnaires had expected to ambush. A thought grew.
“Schiffer, how goes it?”
“Tight, Herr Oberst. The enemy presses us… but I have lost no more tanks.”
“Very good, Leutnant. Do you see the ridge about three kilometers behind you?”
“Yes, Herr Oberst. I was hoping to get a moment’s shelter behind it.”
Unseen, Brasche shook his head. “I want you to go right on past it and keep on going until I summon you. Do you understand?”
“No, sir,” answered Schiffer over the radio.
Brasche sighed audibly. “The problem, Leutnant, is that the enemy sensors outrange ours in the snow. But if you can entice them to follow you over to this side of the ridge the rest of the battalion can be waiting, within range of our sensors and sights. I doubt they will sense as well through solid rock as they can through diffuse frozen water. Nine Tiger IIIs, with an element of surprise, can handle that many of the enemy.”
“Ah, I see now, sir. How much time do you need to set up on your side of the ridge?”
The 1a answered aloud, “Five minutes, Herr Oberst, no more.”
“I heard that, sir,” announced Schiffer. “I will gain you that much time.”
Seeing that the 1a understood, Hans ordered, “Do it.” To Schiffer, via the radio, “Good lad. Five minutes.”
Amidst the shots fired at him, the fleeing Brasche kept up a running monologue, quite a loud one, in the practical language of the Legion of the times — German. Far too many Vietnamese for comfort spoke French.
Puff, puff… “Don’t answer”… Grunt, grunt… “They’re following me”… Pant, pant… “About twenty of them”… Wheeze… “Stand ready”… Gasp… “Let me through then let them have it when they’re in the kill zone.”… Groan… “I’m almost there… nicht schiessen.”[37]
With a heart pounding as much from fear as exertion, Hans jumped the first Viet corpse and then sprinted through the kill zone. From behind him came more shots and the chatter of furious, enraged Vietminh fighters. He thought about ducking to the side to rejoin his men but rejected the notion. The Viets had to have a reason to follow, and he thought only a fleeing man, one who had left a trail of throat-slashed corpses along the trail, would serve as reason enough in the jungle gloom.
Hans felt a sudden blow to his back. He never heard the shot that hit him. The shot spun him to the ground. The blow was painful enough, but then came the burning, a fiery agony that inflamed the entire path taken by the bullet. Hans moaned, “Shit, not again.” He closed his eyes from the pain.
When he opened them, the Viets had arrived. Precaution thrown to the winds, the little anatomies clustered about Hans. They all apparently wanted to plunge a bayonet into the monster who had hunted their comrades and slaughtered them like pigs.
Beginning to lose consciousness, Hans saw two of the Viets lift high their bayoneted rifles. He braced himself for the coming cold steel.
Giessen, Germany, 29 March 2007
The snow was cold, so cold, under her exhausted body. Gudrun’s heart beat within her like that of a trapped rabbit on the approach of the trapper. She had run her race… and she had lost. Now she awaited the pot.
And she was trapped, she knew. Though the horrid aliens behind her pursued in only desultory fashion, the other arm of the pinching Posleen impi was before her, stretching as far as the eye could see in the still falling snow. Even though the sound was snow-muffled, her ears told her that many more Posleen closed in beyond the range of her view.
Helpless and alone, afraid beyond terror, the girl began to weep softly. The sound of her quiet sobs attracted the attention of a Posleen normal. It approached.
“No… please no,” Gudrun pleaded. “Please? I have so many reasons to live. Don’t hurt me. Don’t eat me, please?”
The normal was unmoved. Nothing human could move it. Its needs were simple: food, work within its limited skill set, service to its God. At the moment the greatest need was food. Standing over Gudrun it drew and raised its boma blade.
The girl — innocent, bright, the “battle maiden” who would never hurt a soul — gave off a final scream. “Dieeeterrr!”