A Square of Apples

Friday, June 19, 1868. Night. In a forest just over the Austrian border. From the road, a narrow deer path broke off and led farther into the woods, blacker yet. Behind a large boulder not visible from the road, with the coordination born of practice and habit, Richter and Wolff, two young men with tired eyes and scruffy beards and ragged, dirty uniforms, silently dug a small hole and in it piled a dried, abandoned bird’s nest, resinous pine needles and brittle twigs. Over this, Richter struck the hilt of his dagger against a flint and from the falling sparks breathed fire. Wolff added fatter conifer stubs and fallwood and then gripped a dead rabbit and with his dagger cut around each ankle. He slit the inside of the legs and joined the incisions with a long slice from the abdomen to the throat. He pulled off the skin, removed all the organs and skewered the carcass on a shaved greenstick. Richter was about to add more wood to the fire, but Wolff stopped him. “Not too much light,” he cautioned. After the meat was cooked they silently chewed their dinner, alert to any sound. When they were finished, Wolff honed his already-sharp dagger and sheathed it. Again he opened a folded paper and closed it. Front and back, front again. Richter fiddled with his helmet. In a low tone he said, “He’s late.” Wolff replied, “Calm down; he’ll be here.” “You’re sure?” Wolff snorted. “He thinks he’s getting a bonus.” He opened the letter again. Richter peered across the fire. “Whatever they say, those words won’t change.” Wolff did not look up. Richter continued, “I appreciate that you’re the best scout we have, and I’ve learned a lot from you, but I’ve never seen you so insistent; you could have that memorized by now.” Wolff folded it again and grunted, “I do.” Richter searched for a change in topic. “They’ll like us better, you know; even in these worn uniforms, once we get our medals for this.” “Who?” “Women. I’ll want a big one. And shiny.” Wolff lifted a brow. “The woman or the medal?” Richter made a face. Wolff shook his head. “I told you at the beginning; there was never going to be public recognition with this mission; matter of fact, the fewer people who know our names, the better.” “Still, a man can dream.” “Dreams are nothing but lies we tell ourselves.” Wolff thought of a 17-year old girl with a long, golden braid down her back, and shoved that image aside. “Are you ready for this?” Richter nodded and Wolff repeated the question and Richter snapped, “We’ve been over this a hundred times!” “And we’ll keep reviewing until you can keep a cool head. Remember your training with the torch.” Richter nodded and replied in a calm voice, “I’m ready.” Wolff stared at him across the fire. “That torch will be our last resort.” Richter smirked. “You’re a mother hen.” A twig snapped and the men froze. From behind the boulder a voice whispered, “Hello? Anyone there?” Silence. “Oh, very well …” He cleared his throat and said in a mocking tone, “The Bavarian owl is my prey.” Wolff reached for his dagger and signaled Richter to stay put. Richter shook his head and with his finger made a circling motion. Wolff nodded and rose to a crouch. His letter fluttered to the ground. He snuck around the boulder and assessed his opponent in the starlight. A chubby young man. Wolff sniffed the air and smirked. Snuff and pomade. Wolff came to a stand, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. His dagger glinted. “What’s that you said?” “You heard me; The Bavarian owl is my prey. Why meet out here? My father’s tent is empty and there’s plenty of wine. I know a way through the back; no one would see us. You have my money?” Wolff presented his shoulder and set his knife toward the other man, who soon realized that he’d been set up. With a yelp he turned to flee and saw that Richter had blocked his retreat. Wolff advanced, slowly. The young man whimpered and took a step back and reached into his jacket. Richter hissed, “Dorch!” Dagger! With a quivering grip, the traitor held out a blade. He feinted and weaved. Wolff parried, lunged. The two men circled each other, knees bent, hands forward. The traitor held his knife forward with both hands. From behind the boulder, Richter called, “Down.” Wolff looked down. Richter brought out a torch from the fire and lobbed it toward the traitor. It landed at his feet. The flames were bright; the traitor was temporarily blinded. He squinted and slashed randomly, frantically at Wolff, who advanced and flicked the knife from the traitor’s grip. The traitor brought out a leather pouch. “Please … I know people … my father has money … I can get more …” “Quiet, you bastard.” With one hand, Wolff grabbed the man’s neck and pressed his thumb into the man’s windpipe. The man squeaked and his eyes bulged. He grasped at Wolff’s hand. Wolff stabbed him in the stomach. The man gaped and gripped Wolff’s wrist. With a grunt and a wrenching twist, Wolff sliced up, into the man’s chest. The man’s eyes remained open and he exhaled a long, guttural sigh. After a brief, gurgling sound, the man sagged onto Wolff, a death embrace. Wolff dropped him to the bloody, slippery ground. Beside the man’s bulbous belly he planted his boot next to the dagger, gripped the handle, twisted and pulled. The dagger resisted at first and then with a benign sucking sound, popped clear. Wolff stood for a moment, staring at the traitor. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Wolff staggered to the fire with a shallow cut bleeding down the side of his face. Richter silently handed him a clean cloth. With trembling hands Wolff set it on his wound. With a clump of grass he wiped blood from his dagger, sheathed it. He lowered himself to the ground, took a bite from the rabbit. He chewed it but soon he twisted away and vomited. Richter asked, “Did he get you anywhere but your face?” Wolff shook his head. He tossed the bloody cloth onto the fire and then peeled off his tunic and threw it onto the fire as well. From his shoulder pack he retrieved his other tunic and with trembling hands pulled it over his linen shirt. Richter stared at the tunic, which had started to smoke, and the bandage beside it, disappearing in the flames. “Why waste a perfectly good, perfectly expensive uniform?” Wolff rolled a cigarette and inhaled. “Traitor’s blood.” He closed his eyes and exhaled long puffs to settle his nerves. The two men sat there in the glow of the fire, each alone with his thoughts. After a while Wolff patted his pack and looked around on the ground. Richter asked, “Lose something?” Wolff muttered, “Guess not.”