Queen of Swords

On The Front Lines—EVENING

As infantry soldiers, we march.

And march.

And march.

And march.

Right now, we are marching through a through a bombed out town near the front. But my legs are beginning to cramp. It gets worse and worse until I cannot spread my legs to walk or even stand, let alone keep up with the column. I hang back and crabwalk towards the commander at the rear. He acts seemingly very apologetic, muttering.

“I’m so sorry, my boy.” he says, with all due insincerity “I will try to get you sent home.”

“I’m not trying to go home.” I say, insulted, “I’m an officer. I just want to be fixed so I can walk.”

“Sit on the shoulder, then,” he says laughing. Belittling. “And take your pants off and someone will fetch the doctor to check you out.”

I collapse as ordered.

By the time I recover, I don’t know where everyone else is.

Off in the jungles somewhere, most likely is my best idea. But I find myself still marching. Shuffling around wrapped in a blanket, thinking. And marching, of course. Always marching. Alone now.

I am passing now through the temporary barracks and duck in. I look for the Sailor in his bunk. He still thinks I should have danced on tape for the documentary crew and has been haranguing me. Now he suggests us taking a few shots of me with his 8-mm to slip in with the rest cameraman’s footage.

“Fire away. I don’t care.” I sigh. I plop unto a large driftwood piece the Sailor uses as a stool and pull the blanket over my face. I add “Perhaps, we’ll have some shots of whiskey first?”

However, there is no answer. I pull the blanket off my head but the Sailor is not there. A mysterious woman, a tall slim redhead, is now inside barracks. Beckoning to me from the back row of bunks. Taking up my rifle, I hobble to find her. Marching between the endless rows of cots and footlockers and duffle bags and shiny boots. Occasionally catching in my sights a glimpse of blood red locks fleeing in the back recesses. I march after.

She leads me to a back room. But my rifle quickly drops as I corner her here. Crouched on a very out-of-place circular bed. We disrobe silently and begin to kiss.

But as my apprehension turns to pleasure, she pulls back a sheet to reveal some kind of half woman half-animal creature. The animal half looks more or less like a wild boar; the human half is not unlike my Andrea. Regardless the thing is dead and bleeding.

But.

They are attacking once again and everyone in the camp is rushing into battle. I jump from the bed and grab a shirt.

It’s not mine. Someone has taken mine. This one barely buttons. My rifle is gone too. I run out of the barracks as fast as I can on my hobbled legs. As I go, I consider a detour to the quartermaster’s tent to get a new rifle or perhaps more likely I can find one lying about from a fallen soldier.

I cannot keep up. I fall behind, doubled over, wheezing and laughing.

Everyone is running toward the enemy guns blazed. I think. And here I am. My shirt is tight and I cannot find a gun.

“Ah, fuck it, I give up.” I pick up a heavy stick lying in the roadside drainage ditch. I’ll use as it as a club, “No sense dying here in camp. Unarmed. Unlegged. Might as well get to the front and bash some heads.”