He looked at the blood covering Stempel. ‘You hit?’ he asked. Stempel shook his head. The man’s eyes roamed the woods. ‘You heard anything?’ he whispered. Great puffs of smoke emanated from his mouth.
‘Not in a while,’ Stempel replied. The man was a sergeant, Stempel saw from the three chevrons on the front of his helmet.
‘Anybody else in your area make it?’ Stempel shook his head. He girded himself for the next question — Why aren’t you dead? ‘Okay, you fall in with us. No noise!’ he whispered through clenched teeth. They rose. Stempel’s white parka was drenched in blood. The deep brownish-red was almost black. His dirty secret was clear for all to see. ‘Where’s your weapon?’ the sergeant asked. Stempel felt tears well up in his eyes. ‘Never mind,’ the sergeant said. ‘There’s gear lyin’ around. We’ll scrounge one up.’
Stempel followed the man and joined the others. Sure enough, they found the battlefield rich in equipment. The unit had been fresh from barracks, and each man had carried a full load. The Chinese must have been in a hurry. Some of the bodies were picked clean. But others still wore full existence loads in blood-splattered packs and pouches.
They scavenged everything they needed, and finally found the most prized possession of all. Beside a fighting hole, one of Stempel’s new comrades reached down into the snow. He pulled up the black barrel of an M-16. He carefully brushed away the snow and ice. Stempel watched as the man looked the weapon over. Satisfied, he handed the rifle to Stempel Stempel made no sound. He gave no outward sign. But inwardly, silently, where it counts, he vowed he would never put the weapon down. He would die with it pressed firmly into his shoulder. He would raise his head up into the storm. Just like the PFC and the sergeant, he told himself. Just like the PFC and the sergeant.
‘This is the most stupid idea you’ve ever had,’ Kate whispered to Woody. They sat huddled together at a table in the center of the dark barroom. Gold-toothed Russians and a smattering of rough-looking foreign oil workers occupied all the other tables. They sat there staring at Kate — the only woman not working the place — and getting more and more drunk.
Woody downed a shot of vodka with a backward toss of his head. The fifty-dollar bottle had been their price of admission. He exhaled, winced, and wiped his lips with his hand. ‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘The stupidest idea was to try to sneak our way up to the front in the first place.’
‘But the army hasn’t taken the press pool anywhere near the fighting, Woody,’ she whispered.
‘Yeah, well, did you ever think there might be a reason for that?’
Kate rocked back against the huge, thick Russian fur that she’d draped over the back of the chair. It made her look more like a bear than a fashion model, but it was warm. It also stank. ‘I can’t believe you, of all people, would kowtow to the military like that.’ Woody poured another shot and threw it back. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?’ Kate asked. Woody was the veteran at these things — her navigator through a dangerous world. They had bought a dilapidated Russian car for a hundred bucks from a former officer in the Russian army. Woody had smoked a joint as thick as her thumb on their drive through town in search of the seediest bar in Russia. Now he downed vodka like it was water.
‘Actually,’ he said — pouring another shot in the dirty glass — ‘I have not yet begun to drink.’
He raised the glass to his lips, but Kate’s hand pressed his wrist firmly down. ‘Woody, please,’ she whispered. He sniffed loudly, but left the glass on the table.
Ascending the staircase behind Woody was a hairy, potbellied Russian. He grinned lasciviously at two women. His hand firmly grasped their pudgy rears. He kissed one with a disgusting, sloppily open mouth. Kate winced and looked away as the other woman reached to rub crudely at his fly.
‘So,’ Woody said in an argumentative tone, ‘you want to get to the front, as you call it. I happen to call it the onrushing Chinese army. But let’s just use the word “front” for the sake of convenience. Now, the suits at NBC News say they can’t get permission through the Pentagon. And, you might have noticed, they pointedly did not exactly send us there. Why do you think there were so many lawyers on the speakerphone? Why’d they use such hyper-careful language when you told them about getting up to the action? They were doing some fast legal maneuvering — that’s why — so they don’t get sued by our heirs when we get our butts killed.’
‘Come on, Woody. Watergate was a long time ago. Give it a rest, okay?’
Woody giggled. ‘Okay. Paranoia. Fine’ He sniffed again. ‘The Army says it’s too dangerous.’
‘Well, that’s just bullshit!’ she replied. She looked around. Everywhere men tried to catch her eye. Brutish men, unshaven and unclean, with bad teeth. ‘They’re just saying that,’ she continued in a whisper, ‘because they must have something to hide. They screwed something up. Now, they’re trying to cover it up.’
‘Who’s spinning conspiracy theories now?’ He had slumped down into his chair. He looked tired.
‘What is it with you?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied, but she pressed him. ‘Look!’ he finally snapped. ‘I think it’s a fucking stupid idea. This isn’t the bush leagues, Katie, it’s the big show. People die. All the time. The camera and the official UK-accredited press badges don’t stop bullets!’
‘I know that, Woody! I know it’s a dangerous job. But it’s a job that I’m still trying to do!’
Her last jibe deflated him. He was slumped even lower than before. A door beside the bar opened. The noise of a tiny, smoke-filled casino poured in. There was no law any more. No police. The British patrolled the streets. They occasionally responded to impassioned pleas for help from foreigners or from Russians who spoke English. Most of the British soldiers, however, trod warily down both sides of darkened streets. Armored cars rolled down the middle at foot pace. The last man in each file of troops periodically spun around to walk backwards a step or two — the ‘Ulster twist.’
‘If we can’t get there officially,’ Kate said — repeating her earlier logic — ‘then places like this are the best for making alternate arrangements.’
The door to the street opened. Everyone in the bar fell quiet and looked attentively at the new arrival. It was yet another natural resource of Siberia that seemed in virtually inexhaustible supply — scary-looking men. The bar’s patrons resumed their silent drinking. They accepted the presumably suitable newcomer into their fold. When the bartender pointed at Kate and Woody, however, Kate grew frightened. ‘This is who we were waiting for?’ she whispered — incredulous.
‘The bartender said he could help us,’ Woody replied.
The man pulled up a chair from the table next to them. He turned it around and straddled it — seated backwards. His hands rested on the high wood back. His chin rested on his hands. He let out a noisy gush of air through his nostrils like a beast of burden. He looked at Woody briefly. Then he ran his bloodshot eyes over Kate from toe to head — especially at points in between. The certainly large but otherwise indeterminable contours of the man’s body were hidden from view by a fur coat. Its rough quality made Kate’s look like it was straight off a hanger at Saks. He even smelled like a mastodon — completing the image in Kate’s mind.