On Retreat

Captain Ermler couldn't feel anything below his waistline. He lifted himself from the freezing water only to crash through again, and his platoon was on the far side of the lake laughing. The Germans must have been a few miles back, but no soldier was willing to help him. "Cowards," he cried, but this didn't move them. They clutched at one another like chimpanzees and fell to the ground. Some were so full of joy, they fluttered their limbs back and forth to make snow angels—something he imagined he'd never do again, even if he escaped. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep afloat since he couldn't kick, and if he lost his grip on the frozen edge, he'd sink.

"How's the water, Captain?" Private Drezhnov mocked, and right then, he understood: they didn't expect him to live or they wouldn't be so impertinent.

The captain's breath was heavy. It couldn't be more than 20 yards to the shore, but he shivered and his arms slipped.

"Bastards," Ermler chattered. "Those bastards…"

But back on the front they hadn't acted like men, why should he expect it here? He'd shot three of them when they'd disobeyed his order to charge, but he didn't take joy in it. Their deaths were a necessary sacrifice for maintaining leadership. If Shepitko hadn't been one of those three, no one would have cared, but he served as their mascot and his absence dampened their spirits while retreating. Ermler even experienced remorse when pulling the trigger, but ruthlessness was a prerequisite of war, and he called on this when executing his duties. He might have lost more men if he didn't, and they'd certainly be defeated. Now, this was his reward: no medal, no hero's welcome home, but an ignominious mutiny.

Captain Ermler choked on his first splash of water, sliding in, and the numbness spread to his upper body. The hollers died, and when he resurfaced, he was surprised that he hadn't swallowed much. If only his boots didn't weigh a ton. He tried kicking them off, but his legs wouldn't respond. He couldn't sense his thighs, his pelvis, or the lower half of his stomach. His fingertips were burning, but he soon wouldn't have these either and he'd go under. At first, he'd been angry, thinking they'd set him up, but he'd forgotten his anger and filled with fear.

Three objects remained: ice, his body, and water. And as his body anesthetized beneath this chilling force, his consciousness reduced to one simple formula—dry land was unimportant; earth, dirt non-existent; and getting out, however briefly, was his only concern. Maybe if the ice held he could catch his bearings. It couldn't all be so damned weak, could it? Near the shore, it would be thicker.

And then…

And then what?

Drezhnov's high-pitched laughter reminded him of his soldiers, but his revolver was waterlogged, and this would make vengeance difficult. Hand-to-hand combat wouldn't be smart in his condition, and if he didn't freeze, he'd be at their mercy. Why didn't they shoot him? Were they all spineless, or was his struggle that much fun for them? He'd inch forward and crack! They'd laugh. Inch forward again, and the same thing happened, but he was less than ten yards from the shore, and if he got there, he planned to fight. No legs and half his arms, he'd take them on one by one, if they were men, but when he pulled himself to shore, Drezhnov stepped on his chest and pulled his pistol.

"Goodbye, Captain," he whispered, squeezing the trigger, and of course, Ermler should have expected this, but as blood filled his throat, he was shocked.

"Say hi to Shepitko," someone said, and someone else replied: "If he doesn't burn in hell first."

Ermler used his last wind to grab Drezhnov's foot and twist it, but when the gun fell, Ermler didn't have the strength to fire. Still, Drezhnov's shock was enough to make it worthwhile, and though the wound wasn't enough to kill him instantly, on the horizon, he caught his first glimpse of figures marching toward them.

"I'll see you soon, bastards," he glowered. "Real goddamned soon…"

Jason Jones is an editor and writer from the Philadelphia Area. He is currently working on Barcelona, a novel about the demise of a failed opera singer after his diagnosis with a terminal illness. His work has recently appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Flutter Poetry Journal, Cause & Effect, and is forthcoming in Literary Mary and Gargoyle.

Email: Jason Jones

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