Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #22 January 2016 | Page 11

“I want them to come back,” Elsa says. She does not seem to be tired at all. Under the blankets her uniform is saturated with Mitchell’s blood. She grips the stock of the MG240 and peers deep into snow flurries between the black pine trunks. “I want those fuckers to come back.” Suzi mutters. Day 327 We lay siege to a convoy from out the west. It is the third one we have destroyed in as many weeks. Felled trees block the trail, explosives and anti-tank rockets chop the column up into isolated pockets. The Banlites are in their element, firing with their characteristic flat slap-crack sound from prepared positions, dominating a mile of the broad, snow-covered trail. Day 286 We are advancing. Incredibly, we have been reinforced, re-equipped and supplied within less than a week. Suzi is back with us, cheerful, but wincing as the stitches pull on the shrapnel wounds in her legs and stomach, her face still bandaged from flash burns. This is a different army than the one that so casually battered us over a month ago. The troops are tall, sallow-skinned, with dark, oriental eyes. Under their winter camo they wear midnight blue silk underclothes, padded and quilted. It is light, warm, and breathable. Suzi says it is aspirational clothing and soon we all have some. As soon as the orderly leaves, Suzi strips off the bandages. Her face is bright pink, shiny, soft with new skin. She has one eyebrow. She gives Elsa a hug. Mitchell has lost both legs, one above the knee, one below. He is going home. The four of us can still man the guns but lack rifle defence so we are reassigned again, this time to support an infantry unit, freshly arrived, all in snow camouflage, skis and winter equipment. We scrounge fresh clothing and join the briefing late. Life has become comfortable. Light patrols rove a hundred square miles of boreal forest, locating the slow-moving columns. Then we move ahead of them, travelling fast on skis, pulling home-made toboggans. Like most of the other men, Kosygyn and I have grown full beards. It is now too cold for lice. The officer, broad-shouldered, lean, with wind-burnt skin, glances at us and carries on talking. “We have no idea who they are. Intelligence now believe they didn’t know we were here either. Our forward units were on their flank, they hit us and kept on going. Ships in the night, ladies and gentlemen.” Sometimes Kosygyn and Elsa go hunting. Mainly we live off what we capture: food, clothing, medical supplies and weapons. The infantry major, Lenzl-Wington, has a free brief, able to conduct operations in any way and for as long as he sees fit. We are dozens of miles behind what we think of as enemy lines, far to the north of the mountains, though in truth the war here is an east-west one, fought between two armies we never knew existed until we blundered into them. Now we feast on them. Suzi and I exchange glances. “This is the plan: 05:00 hours we move d YB