The Revolutionary - Part V

They travelled until nightfall, when the darkness made it impossible to see they way. They wouldn't risk using spotlights or headlamps in the dark.

They ate a perfunctory meal without a fire.

Miles lay with his pack for a pillow. The night was filled with the chopping thrum of helicopters. But that wasn't why he couldn't sleep.

Miles was relearning his entire standing in this war. He had been told that the Government and the King were evil. He realised that the Revolutionaries were no better.

He was lying in the middle of the countryside next to people in which he had no idea of the atrocities they could have committed. He felt alone. He missed Lucas and Helan. At least he could trust them. His old life was little more than a dream now.
But Rebekah didn't seem the type. If what she said was true, she was more of a victim than anything else. Why was she fighting? And the way she looked at Gorden, almost like a father.

*  *  *

Miles did sleep; fitfully and so disturbed that he wasn't sure afterwards when he'd been asleep or awake.

"The sun hates us," said Petar as he returned from taking a piss, "the sun doesn't want to come up because it hates us."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Roscoe asked. He was in a foul mood.
Petar pointed at an orange glow beyond a copse. "Look at it, has it moved since you last looked?"

"It's in the wrong fucking place; the sun rises in the east," Roscoe

"He's right. That's the sun," said Kristian, pointing to a pink glow gradually increasing in the east."

"That'll be St. Loren in the north then," Gorden, "they must have hit the airbase."

"The day of two suns," said Miles, absently.

"Heh, he's a fucking poet, this kid," muttered Roscoe as he heaved himself on to the trailer.

*  *  *

Gorden explained their new orders before they set off. They were heading for a radio aerial that was a relay point between Sarkhozi and the base at St. Loren. Their orders were to reconnoitre the area and establish what strength of garrison was stationed at the aerial, then wait for reinforcements.

They travelled by tractor until they were a few miles from the aerial; then finished the journey on foot. When they were in sight of the aerial, they found a position to defend if the scouts were pursued. It as situated in a dell with an abandoned mill located by a stream.

The scouts, Rebekah and Kristian left to begin the reconnaissance. Miles took cover behind an old wall. It had long ago fallen into disrepair, but offered a good view of the stream in the direction that the scouts would retreat from. More importantly to Miles, it offered good cover. He ripped up some ivy and placed it over head and rifle.
This reminded him of the wargames they played in the woods around the training camp. Though this time he cradled a real rifle in his arms. He was used to sitting absolutely still. During training they'd spend days hiding in the woods, whilst the instructors hunted them with sticks to beat any trainees that they discovered. Only his eyes moved.

He could see the top of the aerial through the tree canopy. It looked at odds with the surroundings - a metal pine tree with needle-less wire branches reaching to the ground.

Miles wasn't aware of Kristian's proximity until he appeared by his side. He grinned in response to Miles' surprise.

"Where's Gorden?" He asked.

"Over there," Miles replied, pointing at a thicket of holly bushes.

"Should've guessed. He has a thing about holly."

*  *  *

The aerial station was abandoned, and they gathered where the central sleeping area appeared to have been.

It was built in an old manor or castle. It was roofless, but many of the thick stone walls still stood. A part of the ruins had been rebuilt, providing shelter for the radio equipment and generator. Tarpaulins and supply crates littered an area that once must been the main hall. The most permanent structure was the aerial, which was sunk into a large concrete base.

The old castle was situated on a large hill that offered an excellent vista for miles around. St. Loren was visible by a distant rash of black against the sky.

"They must have left this morning," Kristian reported, "sometime after breakfast. The fireplace is still warm."

"Very civilised," Gorden sniffed. He glanced at his watch, "I guess it's about time for lunch."

"Rebekah found a laundry pool as well. She was kind enough to offer to do our washing," Kristian added. Rebekah scowled and gave him a two-finger salute.

"I like that kind of enthusiasm," Gorden said, and stripped off his t-shirt. "Miles you give her a hand. Petar, Kristian, you take first watch. Roscoe and Sokotski; eat something, you're next."

Miles didn't like the self-satisfied sneer on Sokotski's face when he handed Rebekah his jacket and shirt. They left the others topless in the sun.

The peacefulness of the ruins was infectious. Miles stopped a moment to appreciate the place when he dumped the clothes in the pool. It was in a little courtyard. Ivy covered the arched doorway, and moss covered the sheltered parts, including a fallen statue that had an arm missing. He was reminded of his childhood with his sister, helping his mother with their laundry.

"Stinking fuckers," Rebekah complained, rinsing a jacket through.

Miles refused to let his optimism be curbed as he set to rubbing the clothes against the stone side of the pool. Surreptitiously he rolled up a shirt and threw it at Rebekah. Too late he realised he wasn't at home, and Rebekah wasn't his sister.

The shirt caught her right in the face.

His apology was cut short by a volley of wet clothing. Before he could react, Rebekah was pushing him in to the pool.

Miles dragged her in. The war forgotten, they pelted the wet clothing at each other, giggling with delight.

Then Rebekah stopped abruptly. She picked up her rifle and snuck out of the courtyard. Her face had returned to its typical grimness. Miles retrieved his rifle and followed. Fear lent silence to his steps.

There was no-one in the main hall. As easily as it had been lifted, the inescapable shadow of the war settled back on their shoulders.

Miles could hear an engine ticking over. He looked at Rebekah questioningly. She glanced in the direction the sound was coming from, and nodded. That was what she had heard.

Carefully, they crept out of the ruins and toward the source of the sound. The engine had been turned off. They could hear the chatter of voices. Although Miles couldn't make out the words, they sounded relaxed; not the urgent bark and command of soldiers in combat.

As soon as she saw them, Rebekah's body eased, she turned to Miles. "It's the reinforcements."

Miles thought he could see forty or so young Revolutionaries like himself gathered around a motley collection of vehicles; two four-by-fours, a pickup, a military jeep and a mini-bus. They appeared to be well armed.

Comrade-Captain Izabela was in charge of the group. She was talking to Gorden by the jeep.

Miles recognised some of the Revolutionaries, but he didn't go over and greet them. Instead he followed Rebekah down to where the rest of his squad stood by. He didn't feel a part of that Revolution any more.

*  *  *

"The garrison heard the news about St. Loren on the radio," Kristian explained, "and decided to defect. This lot encountered them on their way over here, about thirty of them. So they liberated their weapons, then sent a group to escort them to HQ for intel questioning."

"They fucking stole our tractor," Petar moaned through a mouthful of bread, "bastards."

"You shouldn't have left the fucking keys in the ignition," Roscoe retorted. Petar responded by shaking a key in front of him.

"Fucking criminals, they hotwired it."

"Stop moaning," said Gorden, returning from his conference with Izabela. "We're going to get some rest here for a bit, then take one of the Pajeros to Sarkhozi later on. Hopefully we won't get shot up by a chopper in one of those things."

He looked at Miles and Rebekah, who were still sopping wet, "Is my laundry done?"