The Revolutionary - Part III

MILES WATCHED the day break from the back of a swaying hay cart, lead by an old man, with an equally old horse. Miles had managed a few hours sleep, but his mind kept replaying the assault on the Police station. He felt emotionally detached from it – it was as if he was watching a television with no sound.

Miles shifted his position on the hay. He could feel one of the crates under the hay. Comrade Izabela had ordered him to escort them to their destination. Miles didn’t know where they were going, and didn’t think that he would offer much of a threat to a Police patrol. The cart driver had grumbled a lot at the beginning of the journey, but had settled down to snoring his way along the roads.

It occurred to Miles that he was there to make sure the driver didn’t dump the crates in the hedge, and make off with the cart.

He let the cart swing him back and forth as he studied the landscape. It wasn’t much different to that around the training camp; rolling hills pocked with copses and thicker woodland. Ideal Revolutionary country.

He’d seen a helicopter at one point. Or more heard it, but it had been far away.

He didn’t notice the cart stop, so when three Revolutionaries appeared he started, grabbing his rifle.

“Easy! Easy mate, we’re on your side,” the Revolutionary made placating gestures with his hands. He looked about middle-aged, especially with his thinning grey hair. He was well built, but not particularly tall, and wore camouflaged trousers, and a dirty grey shirt.

“Crates are under here right?” the Revolutionary asked pointing to the hay. Miles nodded, he was surprised by the man’s sloppiness, he didn’t say “Comrade”, and he didn’t seem to take the uniform code very seriously.

He started digging about until he came across the end of one of the crates.

“Come on mate, we can’t hang around out here all day.”

This spurred Miles into action. The four of them took an end each, and they headed into the woods on one side of the road. They left the cart man to his own devices. They seemed to be heading deeper into the woods. The Revolutionary who had spoken before began an animated conversation with Miles. The other two Revolutionaries didn’t say anything.

“So what do we call you?” he asked.

“Miles.”

“Miles? Right, good. I’m Gorden, this behind me is Kristian, and the guy with you is Petar.” They were much older than Miles, but didn’t look as old as Gorden. Petar was the shortest of the whole group, and had a thin face with wire-rimmed glasses. Kristian had dark curly hair and walked with a limp.

“So were you given any orders apart from delivering this stuff?” Gorden asked.

“No, none at all.”

“Right, I guess you’re with us then. Do you have any kit with you?”

“No.”

“Right,” Gorden replied, "at least they sent you with a gun.”

"When do they normally give you your warm milk, little one?" Kristian said, with an answering snort from Petar.

They moved through the woods at a good pace, but Miles had lost all direction. He’d been used to the woodland that surrounded the training camp, but he’d become so familiar with it he’d been able to navigate without much need for a sense of direction.

It didn’t take long for them to reach their destination. It was a small clearing, surrounded by a huddle of tents, with equipment littered about the place. Gorden set his end of the crate down and began barking orders.

"Right, RPG's are here. We're on the move. Pack up and go."

There were a couple of other Revolutionaries lying by the fire. They didn't look like Arydanians; the ginger-haired one was introduced as Roscoe, and the other, wearing a green greatcoat with a German flag on the shoulder was called Sokotski. They paid little regard to Miles as they gathered their gear and weapons.

The last member of the group appeared shortly after their arrival. She was a girl about his age. He was told that she was called Rebekah. She was stern, and her face didn't look accustomed to smiling.

"Take these" said Gorden, handing Miles a leather bandolier and small rucksack, "when did you last eat?"

Miles had to think before he answered "Yesterday morning."

"You can eat this then." He was given a couple of small loaves of flat bread.
Before Miles had time to rest they were on the move again, but Roscoe and Sokotski had been put in charge of the crate he'd helped to carry. They marched in a line, keeping to valleys and woodland where they could. Miles was glad, it was dry, and the sun was hot on his back when they were forced to emerge from the shade. Rebekah walked out of the formation, scouting ahead, and although they were watchful, the Revolutionaries didn't walk in silence; instead whistling and muttering as they marched.

The weight of the rifle on Miles' shoulder made it ache. It was a lot heavier than the carved stick that he was used to, and it had its own oily aroma.

When the sun was at its apex, they stopped to rest at a stream. They sat drinking the fresh water and enjoying the respite. Everyone was sweating. The sky had become overcast, making the air oppressive and humid.

Miles tried to talk to Rebekah, asking when she had left her training camp. She responded with frigid silence and a cold expression, and left him by the bank of the stream.

Kristian laughed.

"Have actually fired that weapon yet, little one?" he asked.

"No," Miles admitted.

"Let me have a look," Kristian said. He examined it, working the mechanism, opening the breech and removing the cartridges. "It's an old gun, but it's been well looked after. It's accurate, if a little slow. Practice firing and cocking again - but don't forget to reload it before we fight."

He grinned and slapped Miles on the back.

They didn't hang around long; Gorden said they still had ground to cover. Miles took over carrying one end of a crate, and stumbled along behind Sokotski.

"I saw you trying to speak to Rebekah earlier," said Gorden as the marched, "she's not really one for talking, but wait until you see her fight."

"Hasn't she come from a training camp?"

"Oh no, she's been fighting with us for more than a year and you'll be glad she's fighting for us. Life hasn't given her much quarter, and she's not the type to show it.

"Anyway, what parts are you from, and how did you get caught up in this mess?"
"I'm originally from Moriarti, but my mum moved with my sister and me to the country when my father was killed in the riots back when the Revolution was just taking hold. I was only nine, so I don't remember him much. Then five months ago Police attacked my home, killed my mother and took my sister. I joined the Revolution for revenge."

Gorden was solemn. His face had temporarily lost its jovial expression.

"Much of this war seems to be based on revenge."

It was mid-afternoon when they stopped again. They arrived at a train track that wound along one side of a heavily wooded valley, and followed it until they came across another squad that was chopping down trees and laying them across the track.

The squad was led by the man Comrade Izabela had introduced as Comrade Captain Josif shortly before the attack on the police station. He saluted Gorden before giving him orders.

"Comrade Sergeant, go back along the track take positions on either side. I want the RPG's firing from both sides. The train is due in forty minutes.

"Yes Comrade Captain."

"And wait for my signal before you shoot."

"Understood comrade."

Gorden nodded and they headed back.

"Rebekah, Petar and Kristian, you take one crate and go that side. And make sure you're hidden.

"Miles, you stick with me. Roscoe and Sokotski, you take the other crate."
They climbed up the slope, away from the cleared trackway. Gorden headed for an area of holly thicket and found a space under a fallen tree, where he set up his light machine gun. Miles lay down next to him in the loam.

"The Government received these as military aid from another country," Gorden said, talking about the machine gun, "it's a good gun - in the right hands. When the shit starts to fly, just keep firing at the soldiers, okay?"

Miles nodded dumbly in reply and carefully loaded his rifle.

They heard the train a long time before they saw it. It crawled slowly along the track with two spotters watching from a machine gun nest on the front of the locomotive.

When they saw the fallen trees, the train stopped, and soldiers jumped out of one of the carriages and began to fan out.

"Keep your eye on them." Gorden whispered.

A whistle blew, long and loud over the noise of the locomotive. Gorden started firing immediately; sending disciplined bursts of fire down on to the soldiers. The woods were filled with the crack of gun fire. Then a rocket streaked out and struck the locomotive. Black smoke began to rise into the sky.

"Come on! Fire!" shouted Gorden.

Miles gulped and aimed at a soldier. He fired, and then reloaded. He couldn't see the soldier, and fired at another. The soldiers had scattered, and were firing blindly into the woods, unable to see their assailants. More rockets hit the train.

The soldiers that weren't already dead or wounded gathered their wits and reached the cover of the trees. The initial fusillade became sporadic bursts of gunfire as the two sides attempted to pick each other off.

A bullet hit the tree above Miles' head with a thunk. Three more followed, hitting the tree and earth.

Gorden began to wriggle back, and he grabbed Miles' shoulder so that he would follow.

The Revolutionaries had the element of surprise, but they were still outnumbered and outgunned. Gorden fired one last burst before they fled behind the cover of the thickets, barely stopping as they frog-hopped from tree to tree.

They stopped their headlong rush and took cover behind a rocky outcrop. Gorden hazarded a look back the way they came.

"Crap," was all he said.

He motioned for Miles to watch one side.

They were exposed behind the outcrop; Miles could see two soldiers carefully making their way towards them. He assumed that Gorden was firing at more that were hidden by the rock. Miles fired at the nearest soldier, but missed, and the soldier dived to the ground. The second didn't and instead fired back with his assault rifle. There was a third figure creeping along behind the other soldiers.
Miles watched as the figure speared the firing soldier in the back, and before the body had hit the ground, was firing at the soldier on the ground. Suddenly there was a grenade in her hand, which she threw towards the other soldiers. The explosion made Miles' ears pop.

Gorden stopped firing, and Miles gingerly looked around the side of the rock. Rebekah's semi-automatic spat twice, dispatching the last two soldiers stunned by the grenade blast.

There must have been half a dozen soldiers bearing down on their position, but Miles didn't have time to count; Rebekah didn't hesitate to survey the result of her actions, and the three of them continued to retreat through the woods.