Jagers, Part 3
Here's something Benedict Neuman knows how to say:
I'm going to kill that one. Yes, I got him. Say it like this: "I see him. Target down."
And the man in his sights, raised in some other country by hands not unlike his own, breaks apart under lead hammer. Cloud of blood. Scream in the air. Behold Benedict: a lightning maker. (In a clear day, you could occasionally tell where the man was hit by observing the blood splatter).
Benedict made his first kill in Lothringen, in an engagement against a group of partisans who maybe thought that bravery and valor could replace discipline and well-guarded supply lines. Sometimes, rookies fall apart after the first kill, eaten up by guilt. Benedict's seen this, but the cry-scream-puke cycle never hits him, even though up to that moment, he had been afraid of his own compassion. Even though the nicknames his comrades gave him was almost: Flower Boy.
Instead he feels a high.
There's a chaplain waiting at the barracks, prepared to provide support for post-kill trauma to soldiers. He waves him away. Twenty years of being raised by humanist parents and academies, cherish all life hammered into his very bones. All meaningless. All wasted.
The high says: a born killer.
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Who is Captain Roland? Benedict thinks about this question often, puzzles and probes. Sometimes, it's a joy. Sometimes, it hurts. Sometimes he doesn't think about the question at all--mostly when he's with the Captain, patrolling, and killing.
Maybe that's what Roland is to Benedict. A moment. A place where Benedict never has to think, reflect, or be anything other than a laughter and a killjoy. That's a selfish way to look at it, though, isn't it? Roland is his own man: impatient, ferocious, and profane. Benedict shouldn't go around making an icon of him. He's not a lion, not some kind of war-god, and not some kind of oblivion that Benedict can just crawl into.
A conversation they have, halfway into the war:
"I've heard you moved like **** today," Roland says to him, waiting in line to use the barracks showers.
"You got sloppy. Exposed yourself twice to enemy fire. You do realize you are the only one with marksman training?" Roland continues.
"I wanted to identify where the fire was coming from, sir. It was a calculated risk."
"Not much good if you get killed before you can brag about it."
"Yet here I am, sir."
"You'll spend a few hours with the staff sergeant regarding the use of effective cover and concealment before I let you in the lines again," Roland says, with a little crack of authority at the end of the sentence. Then he grimaces as if he just noticed the fear-stink of all the soldiers waiting in queue for cold water. "He assures me they were good kills, nonetheless."
Benedict grins toothsomely at his captain and Roland, exasperated but grinning back (!), shakes his head. "You love it, don't you?" he says. "Being out here in this war. You are happy here."
Benedict puts his hands on the back of his head--an improper attitude towards a superior officer, and holds the grin.
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Near the end of the war, on leave in Belgium, officers and a few of the enlisted men decide to put on an exhibition for all the oddities, inventions, and improvisations for the army. They decide to make Lieutenant Kriegsmesser a promotion girl.
"What? Why the hell?" he calls out as somebody thrusts his outfit into his arms.
Because he was the only one who looked effeminate enough in the officer corps and were of low enough rank, thought Benedict, although he didn't say it out aloud. "Because you have a very convincing high voice," he says instead.
Kriegsmesser sighs, and moves to the dressing rooms.
Few hours later, Benedict sees him again at the entrance to the exhibition, collecting entrance money while dressed as a nurse. Yellow straw hair, pink cheeks, very red lips, and a false bust decollete gave the him a very meretricious appearance. When Benedict drops a rather generous donation, 'she' throws 'her' arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks to the riotous laughter.
"Not a word of this later," 'she' says.
'She' collected almost a thousand marks that day alone.
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It's one of the last months of the war. It's nearing Christmas, and the soldiers are pissed in a way only soldiers can be.
On route to a rendezvous location, they come across a section of a city heavily shelled by artillery fire, and find a group of French military engineers trying to access a collapsed building. The Germans immediately disperse and take firing positions. The French repeat the gesture.
But then they hear someone crying from within the building. Lieutenant Kriegsmesser immediately order a ceasefire. Neither the French nor the Germans have enough gear to save those inside the building. The light infantry Germans don't have the equipment or the engineering expertise (ironically enough) to mount a rescue without risking further collapse. The French engineers are not carrying medical supplies.
Captain Roland negotiates a truce with the French commander, symbolically lighting each other's cigarettes as the medics and engineers try to work out a plan of action.
Benedict doesn't move an inch from his sniping position, fingers on the trigger, quietly looking through the scope at the uneasy truce. Some of the soldiers shout insults at the French, and they shout back in French, their humanity still plain.
Lieutenant Kriegsmesser seem amazed by the female soldiers of the French engineering battalion, and wanders over to them, seemingly cooing over their uniforms and exchanging buttons. He shows his prized officer pistol to a rather unimpressed looking group. Say what you want about him--he always seemed to fit in fine wherever he went.
One of the enemy soldiers--a rather boisterous and tall Frenchman, struts out, asking for Benedict by name. There's a bounty on Benedict's head--as part of the Enemy Marksman Initiative. The smartass French wants to talk to him and live to tell the tale. Benedict tunes him out as his gaze wanders over elsewhere.
When he stops to think about it, he thinks that this war isn't really necessary. So it's quit--or, don't think about it. That's what Roland taught him: always pack and move light. You throw away everything about yourself that doesn’t help you kill. Strip down, sharpen up. Weaponize your soul.
Another Federation squad, wondering why Captain Roland's platoon have not shown up at the rendezvous show up. They have no idea about the civilians or the truce. They assume the worst. When they show up, they immediately open fire on the French, and everything goes back to being very simple.
Benedict gets the smartass, he's pretty sure.
Lieutenant Kriegsmesser immediately shoots the French soldiers with the very pistol that he was showing off.
Say what you want about him, he always fits in.
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One night in the gym, the platoon gets to sparring and Benedict's in the ring with Roland, nervous and half-fixed on quitting until they get into it and slam into the sand, grappling for the arm-bar or a joint lock, and something inside Benedict clicks. It's just like sharpshooting--predicting movement and waiting for the perfect moment to cut in and shoot.
He gets Roland in guard, flips him, puts an elbow in his throat. Feels himself grinning down with pressure while everyone else circles and hoots. Benediiiict! Look at him! He's got it!
Roland looks back up at him and there's this question in his wary, wonderful eyes, a little annoyed, a little curious, a little scared. What are you?
He rolls his shoulders, lashes his hips, and throws Benedict off sideways. Benedict's got not breath and no strength, but he figures Roland must be feeling just as tapped and the rush feeds him, sends him clawing back for the finish.
Roland puts his finger up, thumb positioned like firing hammer of a revolver. Before Benedict reaches him, he says: "Bang."
Benedict falls on his belly. "Oof, aargh."
It's important that Roland don't laugh too hard. He's got to maintain command presence. He's been careful about that since their first mission.