The battle of Rembrandt/van Gogh saw the most bitter fighting of the
entire war. Even at Schiller, where the Coalition pilots were forced
to continue a battle they could not win, after perhaps the first three
hours came the grim realization, the last human outlet, that death
awaited them. Here there was no such comfort, nor did the torment end
after five hours only.
Here the collision of forces and opposing wills was so even---the
determination of the Coalition fighters to liberate, avenge and
overthrow, the determination of the Belgians and Swiss to survive, and
not be enslaved by the Soviets---that the conviction of the one and the
desperation of the other crashed together time and time again without
any clear result. And added to the white-hot intensity of their
struggle, was the question that for thirty-six hours could not by
either side be answered: was victory still possible?
If one is cold and hard enough to perceive it, he will see that in a
truly fatalistic world there is a limit to the terror of the wretched
souls caught inside it. Always death is there as a final end to all.
But where death is not an alternative, because hope remains, where the
questions: "Will I survive? Can I still live and find peace? Or is
my very struggle in the world of flesh ended forever?" remain
unanswered, tipping first one way and then the other on the blind
scales of Justice, or Fate, or some damnable, unnamable thing.....
Here, there is horror.
The world which the existentialists present to us---where all is
meaningless, nothing is lasting, and death and mutilation of dreams
inevitable---was here, as in countless battles of flesh and blood,
rendered empty and false. For where is the terror in such a
predetermined world? Let the man who sees the black truth, end his
life and have done. As if the multitude of Life and Universe around us
could be supported by some trick of cruel gods!
The true intensity of Man's existence---real, physical,
undeniable---lies in the fact that success and victory are possible, if
like everything else in our finite lives and understanding, limited and
passing. Health, happiness and love (in varying degrees, and depending
largely on outlook) are too many times evident in those around us to
merely to say, THERE IS NO HOPE, THERE IS NO CHANCE, THERE IS NO GOD.
The man dying of terminal disease, or imprisoned without hope of escape
in a living hell not of his own creation, has the right when pain and
fear become unbearable, to give in to despair. We have not. Because
for the rest of us, the fact remains that victory and success (if the
goal is just, and based on reality) ARE possible, however terrible the
price, or the roads which lead to it.
A man is forced to ask himself, as he is borne down the swift water-gap
of crisis, toward the razor knifing across his path, CAN I SURVIVE THE
VERY TIP OF THAT BLADE, AND PASS THROUGH? IS MY RAFT OF FLESH STRONG
ENOUGH, MY SHIELD OF WILL AND UNDERSTANDING SUFFICIENT? And while
caught on that blade, how multiplied the anguish by the fact that his
hope never leaves him. "Hope springs eternal in the human breast."
But even this would not make the struggle so overpowering, if it were a
false hope, and we knew it. But all around us there is the rumor of
triumph (and tragedy), of those who have survived personal hells,
accomplished the impossible, and stand now on a more permanent footing,
if only in posterity. How then can we, caught in the midst of the
fray, despair, and surrender our dreams? We cannot.
Age approaches us, inevitable death, suffering that cannot be avoided.
And yet there is also the eternal Spring of youth inside us, that hope,
that yearning, if not for peace in this world, then at least for some
last accomplishment before release into the great unknown: some reason
for having been here.
For this Battle is not fiction. It is not words, nor one man's
opinion. It is life: LIFE, the beautiful and terrible.
How can a man survive?
*
Olaf Brunner experienced more physical, emotional, and spiritual
torment in those thirty-six hours than he would have thought possible
for any man to bear, let alone himself, and in his weakened state. The
physical anguish came from sickness and fatigue, and from the
intolerable heat upon the wounded bridge, the emotional, from the loss
of ships and lives that had been given him to protect, and the
spiritual, from the Godless red carnage that lashed back and forth like
a writhing, bloodied serpent: the death and mutilation he saw with his
eyes and heard through the earpiece. And from the Goddamnable and
agonizing question of whether or not they could still break through.
The dual colonies having no substantial defense shields or stations
(those of the Dutch had been destroyed in conquest, and not
sufficiently rebuilt), the Bel-Swiss had chosen to counter-attack, and
to make their stand in the open Space around them. Meanwhile the
Soviets, epitomizing their policy of conditional help, held their own
forces back, lending only long-distance firepower in times of greatest
need.
After the first twenty-four hours, Brunner had realized grimly that his
poor physical health and personal trauma were no longer a
deterrent---that many men with strength and good fortune he did not
possess, would have faded and given up long before. And he knew also,
for all his introspection, that he BELONGED on that bridge, in that
fight. HE WAS NOT A QUITTER OR A LOSER! Like a savage wolf defending
its fallen mate he remained there, as rationality slipped farther and
farther from sight, till in the end he truly was a wolf, as the hyenas
around him lunged ravening about the helpless form of his wife, which
he alone defended.
And this feeling of desperate and unyielding righteousness communicated
itself not to him alone, or to the men who served under him. In those
late hours all the Coalition felt it, and the more unattainable victory
seemed, the more bitterly they steeled themselves to attain it. The
Belgians and Swiss began to waver, and at last the Soviet battleships
moved in.
The question had finally been answered. The field of battle and the
Islands beyond, belonged to those who had wanted them more desperately.
*
When the matter was clearly in hand, and those Alliance vessels which
could not flee had surrendered, Captain Brunner turned the helm back
over to his subordinates, placed his destroyer group (what remained of
it) under the command of Col. Liebenstein, and retired to his quarters.
Taking a sleeping lozenge he collapsed onto the bed, where his limbs
trembled slightly and his eyes moved feebly in their sockets, until it
began to take effect. Then at last his eyelids closed, and he knew
nothing more for three hours.
He was jolted back to life by a young officer tugging urgently at his
arm. "Commander Brunner. Commander."
He rose suddenly and, between the still pronounced effect of the drug
and the liquid-shock state of his nerves, felt certain that something
terrible had happened.
"What? What is it?" The victory of so few hours before seemed not at
all a sure memory. "Have the bastards broken through?"
The officer, himself as taut and fatigued as a violin-string on which
some mad symphony had been played, had no trouble interpreting his
words. "No, Commander. It's your wife."
These words did not at first make any impression on him, since he was
sure there was some mistake. If the man had told him that the stars
had all turned black, his mind could have accepted it more easily. But
slowly his eyes narrowed upon the serious face of the adjutant.
"Where?" He had not the courage to ask in what condition. And
besides, it could not possibly.....
"At the former headquarters of the Alliance High Command." These words
not seeming to make an impression, he added, "On Rembrandt. Our envoy
went to negotiate terms of surrender."
"Ara Heidi Brunner?" He pronounced the words slowly, with rising and
uncontrollable emotion. "You're sure?"
"Yes, sir. She asked for you specifically, if you would be allowed---"
"I've got to go to her!" He rose and started for the door, but lost
his balance and stumbled down on one knee. He pushed away the
adjutant, who was leaning over him.
"It's the sleeping pill. Tell the doctor I need a stimulant, and find
out about a landing craft." He waved his arm vaguely.
"Colonel Liebenstein has said to meet him aboard the Kythera in half an
hour. They will be sending a party to the capitol at that time."
"Have we a functioning shuttle?" The deja-vu was almost too powerful.
"Yes, Commander."
"Go. Go." The young man left the room as he strained to right himself
and recover some semblance of calm. Realizing the latter was
impossible, and that the stimulant would make it worse, being so far
beyond any choice..... He sat helpless on the edge of the bed, and
gave himself up to the Sea which had dashed him so mercilessly, yet now
was bearing him, heedless, toward all his desire. "If only she is all
right!" His head dipped again beneath the drowning swells, and he
struggled for breath.
A medic entered with a syringe and a distracted, irritated look on his
face. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Brunner said nothing,
rolled up the sleeve and pointed to his upper arm. Shortly afterward
the adjutant returned. No longer shunning his help, he leaned heavily
against him, and after the first mad adrenalin rush, made his way as in
a three-legged race to the shuttledock.
"Can you fly a shuttle?" he asked as they entered. But seeing a pilot
already at the helm, he asked instead, "Can you be spared from your
duties?"
"Yes, sir. If you wish---"
"I do." A complex series of emotions, such as only real life can
provide, made him not want to be parted from this lad, so very little
more than a boy.
The shuttle made its way to the Kythera, from which her summons had
come. Upon arrival he and the boy boarded the larger landing craft,
which then made for the soft and flowing hues of Dutch Rembrandt.
Brunner's last rational thought of that voyage was that planets had
been misnamed, since van Gogh at its distance was all of gold and black.
*
The vessel touched down before the vast, geodesic Headquarters
building, after first passing through the airlock of the encircling
dome. It took some time before the soldiers in the broad entranceway
could be made to understand what was wanted of them in relation to the
strange, grizzled and begrimed Captain. The detachment to escort the
prisoners they expected, and Liebenstein's name they knew..... Finally
after several attempts on the com-line, during which a voice on the
other side could be heard to utter clearly, "There must be some
mistake," a sympathetic looking officer of indistinguishable rank
emerged form an elevator and said:
"Group Commander Brunner? Please come with me."
He followed lifeless, along with the boy. They went up in the sealed
capsule, and then across and then, for some reason, down again. The
motioned stopped. Two doors slid apart.
They walked down a short hallway, and entered a room. There were three
people in it. A military policeman, a Belgian officer, and a woman
with dark hair.
That the woman was his wife he slowly realized, because she came up and
embraced him gently. But his mind was so uncertain, and his body so
weak that he wondered if he were awake, or it was all a trick, or.....
She looked up at him with shining eyes, kissed his unmoving lips, and
said: "Olaf, are you all right?"
"Who is the man?" he said, as to a stranger. And at this some kind of
life began to revive inside him. But it was not love. An ember caught
to flame and, smoldering, began to rise.
The man in question rose, looking apologetic and unsure. He came
nearer and offered his hand, which Brunner left dangling. Then with a
heavy accent and sudden coldness he said. "I am the man who brought
your wife here. I am General....." and his mouth produced some name.
WHILE A BELGIAN OFFICER WAS RAPING YOUR WIFE. RAPING YOU WHILE A
BELGIAN OFFICER WAS RAPING YOUR WIFE. RAPING YOUR WIFE, was all that
his mind and last instinct understood.
Something savage took hold of him. He struck the man with such a
sudden, vicious blow that even in his weakened state it nearly broke
both jaw and hand, as the general staggered and fell back.
The MP came towards him and his wife caught his arm, which was raised
to strike again. "Olaf, what are you doing?" she pleaded. But he
could not perceive what was happening and shook free of her grasp, and
with starvation violence moved toward his foe again. But the MP stood
between them.
His wife turned his numb and again lifeless form toward her, and with
tears in her eyes, said words that almost made it through to his mind.
"Olaf, please. He never touched me."
And then in a simple, childlike sob he said her name.
"Ara?"
"Yes, it's me. It's me, it's all right."
And again she embraced him, instinctively and with all the love she
could muster massaging his back, the taut muscles of his neck. He
stepped back after a time and held her arms, confused.
"Then why....."
"To be a governess for his children, and to keep me from the prison
colonies."
"To protect you? Why?"
"Because I'm pregnant."
"I thought you said he never....." It was all too much. He looked
hard at her figure, perhaps a little fuller, tried to reckon the
months. All useless. He did not understand. He did not understand.
Then it was his eyes that pleaded, and he felt himself beginning to
pass out.
"Ara?" His last hope. "What is happening?"
"I had the child, Olaf. A son. YOUR SON."
At this he let out a piteous groan, as the lance pierced his heart.
And he stumbled, then collapsed into a corner, weeping uncontrollably,
oblivious of his wife's caressing hands.