Any Instructions? (1/5) By Denis Price

(1/5), (2/5), (3/5), (4/5), (5/5).

It wasn't the first time he'd missed the bus. From the Mess to the monitoring hangar was only a quarter of a mile walk, something he relished during the central European summer as the airbase had been carved out of heavily wooded countryside teeming with wildlife. He could still smell the heavy musk of a startled dog fox as it stared at him in surprised confrontation.

He'd met the stare unflinchingly yet with apprehension. For the few seconds their eyes had met, all senses were alert, each assessing the probable reaction of the other. Suddenly the animal had slid silently back into its own habitat, leaving him as the interloper standing alone on the narrow moonlit track with eyes and ears straining for further movement.

He turned up the collar of his greatcoat, adjusting his non-regulation scarf to protect his ears. Summer had passed, winter was another matter. Remorselessly the bitter Russian wind swept westward, freezing all in its path as it raced across Poland and entered Germany. His booted feet crunched the virgin snow as he considered his immediate circumstances.

He knew he had to take care of his ears, as a listener the State had invested heavily in his training and it would be ironic if the Russian wind damaged a valuable asset. It had happened to others, the vicious cold nipping the tips of the ears. The progressive numbness and then the treatment with its constant itch. The final stage of healing was often accompanied by scarring or discolouration giving rise to ridicule and some apprehension as the scarring could be permanent. The link between his ears and listening preoccupied him as he trudged on. Usually alert for the sounds of the night, his awareness was blunted by the sting of the wind blown snow on his face and the need to keep his footing on the now hard packed surface of the track. The night fed his imagination. He was a child of the war and his prejudices had been well established in those early years of turmoil. Eighteen years had elapsed since the war's end but it might as well have been yesterday, even now he felt he was on enemy territory where the sound and sight of the German language, unavoidable on his forays into Berlin, left him with a feeling of unease.

He found himself viewing men who would have been of wartime military age with suspicion. What had their roles been? Were these the men who'd destroyed his parent's home and city? Were they guilty of worse as they smiled their everyday civilian smiles and bought drinks for their new found protectors on the strength of the new found German Economic Miracle? He'd suffered the anti-Soviet indoctrination lectures but the new enemy couldn't replace the old one. Just ask my father and his father before him, he thought.

The numbness touching the end of his nose and the tips of his ears told him his trek was almost over. As the pine trees ahead of him swayed and parted they revealed the yellow halo of the hangar's lights surrounded by constant whirling confetti of snowflakes.

In the hangar compound was a large dark bus. It stood like a ravenous mythological beast awaiting new passengers as it would its next meal. Its engine ticked over slowly causing it to shudder with its exhaust belching waste gases into the freezing night air, adding to its aura of brooding menace. The on-off blink of the airfield lights in the background heightened the unreality of the scene. Hands in pockets in spite of his gloves he picked his way gingerly over the slippery surface and past the vehicle. He was attempting to avoid the triumphant grin of its driver. The bastard had left early, he knew that.

Continued...Next Page

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