His reactions had been passed down through millions of years countless generations, of evolution, and this gave him no choice but to run and hide, and run again, when the noise and violent movement of the earth got too close to him again. Jumping seemed not to help and neither did baring his teeth, but again there was no thought behind his actions; just evolution testing out different strategies for the survival of his species.
Up till now his survival was a miracle of nature and of natural selection. He seemed to be able to smell certain smells that his nest mates could not and he sensed just when he needed to be extra cautious when about foraging for food. He could not communicate any of this to his companions and they would go out while he stayed behind. One by one, they never come back.
He was the last one left in his nest, and even though food was plentiful here, he has sensed that it was time to seek other territory. But of course he could not bring himself to move during the daytime. His very genetic makeup made that quite impossible. Only the smell and the violent eruption of the earth surrounding his nest, could have made him attempt this mad dash to… just somewhere else… somewhere not in the daylight… somewhere dark.
Dodging and weaving he scampered and jumped, and tumbled, from obstacle to obstacle his brain-stem making him dash from place to place… his beady eyes unable to see any kind of permanent hiding place or safe refuge.
All of a sudden he was thrown in the air and his back legs would no longer work. He struggled to move and dragged himself a little further and then felt extremely tired and fainted… then it closed its beady little rat eyes, never to wake again.
“Ha! I hit it! Did you see that shot?”
“I think the American shot it.”
“No! It was me I tell you. See? Even the American is giving me credit with that little salute. I WOULD RATHER HAVE A CAN OF SPAM, YOU CAPITALIST PIG!”
“He cannot understand you Yuri. Be quiet, before a commissar comes over to see what all the shouting and shooting was about. He will not understand our little game with the Americans and the rat. He will point out the fact that we are supposed to be shooting at each other and not some filthy rat. Then we shall all find ourselves in Siberia, or worse.”
“Pah! What could be worse than these cursed mountains and this war comrade?”
“Death, or torture, my friend. Just salute the American back and let’s get on with living. Tomorrow we may have to try and kill each other again, but for today, the rat was our mutual target. It will be different tomorrow and both sides know it. Today, the rat dies. Tomorrow, some of us will die.”
Chapter Twenty-Six:
The Little Ones
05:00 hours
Report submitted by Clayton Brisbane,
Sub-Lieutenant,
HMS Craysforth, Destroyer, Royal Navy
Interdicted French fishing vessel, a 35-foot trawler named ‘Jeune Fille de la Mer,’ off Dunkirk.
Crew of three, Two French and one Italian male, interrogated.
Two days out of home-port of Brest, with their fish hold a quarter of the way full.
Transcription of the interrogation as follows:
The Captain of the trawler reported the following:
“We were sixteen kilometers from shore on a pleasant, sunny, day. The Channel was calm and we were on the lookout for sea birds, hoping they would guide us to our prize. The wind was from the English side and was about five knots. We could see forever. Pretty rare for September… no?”
“We were keeping our eyes on a flock of seagulls that were on were on the surface, hoping that they would take flight and guide us to a catch. Fish are hard to find in the Channel this time of year, but with the food shortage we can get good money for our catch even if it is small. It is definitely worth the risk of a sudden storm. Such is the life of a fisherman, no?”
“All of the sudden, the birds took off, as if something had startled them. They were flying in every direction, with no organization. I have never seen this before, except in warmer waters when a shark passes by. The time for big fish in the Channel was over, so we were exceedingly curious. Curiosity killed the cat, eh? We moved closer to investigate. I did not see the thing but Mario did. Tell them what you saw Mario.”
The Italian crewman begins his part of the narrative:
“Of course Capitan. It wassa shaped likeada whale. A little darker thena the water, it was. It did not have a tail anda glided pass anda underneathada boat without a ripple. It was just abouta the size of our boat and was going at about 4 knots but again without any wake or ripples. It looka to be going deeper as it passed almost underneath our boat. It wassa pregnant whale because it was fatter then the whales I have seen offa da Spain. The really strange thing to me, signores, was that it did nota… how you say… swish backa anda fortha. It did nota wiggle and I could nota see a tail of any akind.”
When pressed for more information none of the crew could add any new details of the event. They were rewarded, and sent on their way.
Report filed at 0623 hours.
The back of his head was bathed in condensation. They had just missed colliding with a fishing trawler. “Close call eh Matvey? Another meter, and we would have been in serious trouble.”
“It was a close call Luka. Not a heroic way to die, all tangled up in fishing gear. I’m glad he was not trawling when we slid by him. I wonder what they saw and what stories they will tell?”
“Perhaps we are the lucky ones comrade. Perhaps we shall be the ones who will sink some British battleship and return home to tell tall tales about it. That would be agreeable with me my friend. I suppose all it will reward us with is another mission at sea though. Damn, this boat is cold! Are the heaters working?” He reaches for a valve and checks to make sure it is closed as the little submarine glides effortlessly beneath the churning water above.
They are two days out headed for unfriendly waters filled with targets. Nice fat targets. Their midget submarine is the most sophisticated model ever built and the design was well-tested by the Germans in the English Channel, just six months ago. A little confusion was normal as the gauges were still in German and tape with new labels had been positioned at strategic locations.
Now the dripping condensation was seriously starting to irritate him. Each drop slowly dribbling down his back bringing the cold of the surrounding ocean close to his warm body. His little boat was remarkably agile and pretty easy to use. The German builders had done quite well for themselves. He had heard that the newly-built models did not fare so well as the earlier ones. Parts were not fitting well, and the tolerances were off. In a submarine that was the difference between life and death between submerging and reaching the surface again, or ending up in a watery grave.
“Damn this dripping! Time to take a look. I’m raising the periscope. Keep your fingers crossed.” The periscope slid up in its oily tube until the eye-piece reached a comfortable level.