Red Moth

Rifleman Stefanov breathed in sharply

Rifleman Stefanov breathed in sharply and sat up, pushing aside the olive-brown rain cape he had been using as a blanket. His back ached sharply from lying in the foxhole. Barkat’s voice had woken him.

On the other side of the clearing, the gun-loader was moaning about the lost love of a woman named Ekaterina, whom he confessed was actually one of his cousins. ‘I was going to marry her!’ he announced.

‘You can’t do that!’ shouted Ragozin, who had left behind a wife and three children when he enlisted. He always seemed to be on the verge of hysterics, when he was not actually hysterical.

‘Can’t do what?’ asked Barkat. He was frying bread in a blackened mess kit full of bacon grease‚ which he had collected over several weeks.

‘Marry your cousin is what! You’ll end up with maniacs for children.’

‘I don’t think the correct word is “maniac”,’ said Stefanov.

‘Well, forgive me, Professor!’ Ragozin rolled his hand in mock obeisance.

‘I can think of better uses for the word maniac,’ replied Stefanov.

‘I’m not going to marry her now,’ said Barkat. With the point of a bayonet, he poked the bread around the pan, chasing the bubbles of boiling bacon grease. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘I used to worry that my wife couldn’t manage without me.’ Ragozin sighed and rubbed his face. ‘Now I worry that she can. They’re all long gone,’ he muttered. ‘Yours. Mine.’ He wagged a finger in Barkat’s direction. ‘His sister or whoever she is. Every day that goes by is one step away from being able to pick up where we left off. Eventually, we’ll all reach a point where we can never pick things up. We’ll have to start again from scratch.’

At that moment, they heard a rumble of thunder in the distance.

‘Oh, no, not rain,’ groaned Ragozin. ‘We’ll drown in these foxholes if it pours.’

‘It can’t be rain,’ Stefanov countered. ‘The sky is clear.’

‘He’s right,’ said Barkat.

The three men looked around in confusion.

‘There!’ Stefanov pointed towards the north, where a wild, flickering light danced along the horizon.

‘They’re bombing Leningrad,’ Ragozin muttered sadly. ‘That poor city. They used to love my radio broadcasts.’