Ian Slater - Rage of Battle

“All right—” he said, sitting up from his slouch, grabbing for a boot, obviously about to stalk out in a mad huff.

Quickly she sat down on the bed beside him, her hand touching his shoulder. “What did I forget — please?”

The corporal stared hard at her, his tone still angry, undershot with petulance. “My name—”

“Oh — Mitya. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I forgot.” He hesitated for a moment, the muscles in his face and neck so taut that his face took on a knotted yet strangely adolescent expression. “It’s very important you call me Mitya.”

She understood now — her saying “Mitya” would make it all right. She could feel his whole body relax, except his member, which now looked so big, she knew it would split her, make her bleed.

“It’s a nice name,” Malle said.

“Kiss me first,” he said, then pushed her away as her face neared his. “No,” he instructed her. “There.”

She hesitated, felt him tensing angrily again, and so, quickly, closing her eyes, she bent her head between his legs. He fell back onto the bed, bumping the headboard, but of this he was oblivious, his groan of pleasure filling the room. She almost gagged.

“Mokree!”— “Wetter!” he ordered her. “Much wetter!” Now his arms folded from him like wings, his hands grasping both sides of the bed, the quilt sliding beneath him. Above them somewhere there was a noise, a rustling sound. “What—” His eyes opened, They were glassy. He looked idiotlike. “What’s that—” he began.

Malle lifted her head, brushing her hair away nastily.’ “The heating vent,” she gasped. “Do you want me to stop, Mitya?”

“What — no, no. S’wonderful.” Her lips encased him again, her tongue pressing, curling and darting, her saliva in danger of drying up, driving herself on frantically to keep him under the spell. “I love you,” he said, his breath panting. “I love you, Raza… Raza…” Then, just when she thought it would be over, he told her to stop, kneel astride him, pushing her, shifting her as one would a piece of furniture for the best effect, telling her to sit on him, pulling her forward until her brassiere was so close, he could smell the perfume of violets mixing with the musky cinnamon odor of herself. His eyes were closed. “Raza…”

She heard another noise, like a scrabbling, above her, and she rose, then drove herself down upon him, harder and harder until he was in a reverie, his head lolling, then whipping from side to side, his tobacco-stained teeth plainly visible, his mouth open like an ugly fish, eyes half-closed, the idiot expression becoming more pronounced so that it seemed his eyes were going to roll back into his head, his grip on the crazy quilt so powerful, he was now holding it up either side of them like the sides of a canoe, his wrist veins bluish in sharp contrast to his pale white skin. He was trying to talk, but it only came out as a series of short, gurgling noises and grunts, then the quilt sides fell from his hands, his body arched, arms locked about her, pulling her down hard against him, his body smacking her hard as spasm after spasm racked him, his crying like a child running terrified from some huge beast but the cries of ecstasy. Eager to get off, Malle felt him pulling her back, and he kissed her tenderly on the earlobes, stroked her hair, whispering how wonderful she was, how beautiful, his voice cracked and dry. “Did you come?”

Of course not! she wanted to scream. “Yes,” she said.

He knew she was lying, but it didn’t matter.

His breathing slower now, he pushed her away gently, asking her to bring him a towel.

When she returned, she had a housecoat on, and he avoided looking at her as, wrapping the towel about him, he walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. “Put on some coffee,” he said, closing the door.

As Malle turned on the gas, the blue ring became a blurred circle and she used her sleeve to wipe away the tears. She must get control of herself, mustn’t make him feel as if he’d forced her, for he could still turn on her. But what choice had she had? she asked herself. Turning the hot water tap full on — it was only lukewarm — she rinsed her mouth out again and again. For a moment in the bedroom when she had felt she couldn’t bear doing it, she had thought of her husband as the only way of getting through it. Now the guilt of sordid betrayal weighed so heavily on her, she felt she could never look anyone in the face again.

She heard a surge of radio static. It so alarmed her, she swallowed and swung about, realizing it was only the corporal’s walkie-talkie. Unhurriedly he pulled on his boots, turned down the squelch button on the walkie-talkie, and rising from the edge of the bed, picked up his cap from the bedside table. She thought she heard some mention of the Tallinn docks. The corporal glanced at his watch as he slipped it on his wrist, then clipped the walkie-talkie onto his belt. “The apartments are to be kept under surveillance,” he said, adding apologetically, “I can’t stay for coffee. We have to go to the docks.”

“Oh—” She tried to sound convincing. “That’s too bad.”

He was out in the kitchen now, pulling on his tunic, looking smart, repositioning his cap in front of the small hall stand mirror, the green cap’s green ribbon in gold lettering reading, “Infantry of the Border Troops.”

“Never mind,” he said, opening the front door and smiling back at her. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

In Moscow there had been snow flurries all morning, giving the air a bluish-white tinge with a wind coming down from the Lenin Hills, making eyes water and noses run. Inside the Politburo chamber, all fourteen members and their aides present, the air was warm. It was too much so for Premier Suzlov, as he found, not yet halfway through the meeting, that his sinuses were plugging up. The minister of war was in favor of releasing twenty-five Far Eastern divisions, to be entrained at once from all points west of Ulan-Ude near the Mongolian border two thousand miles away.

“And if Japan enters?” asked Kiril Marchenko.

“Japan is already in it,” said the minister of war, suspecting, though not saying it, that because one of Marchenko’s sons, Sergei, had now qualified for fighter service and was based in Ulan-Ude in the Transbaikal, his father wanted to keep him out of it. The minister rejected the suspicion, however, as quickly as it had come in a moment of pique. Whatever else the Marchenkos were, they were not cowards. Sergei’s gallantry during the bloody breakout at Fulda was evidence of that — for this he had been awarded the Order of Lenin, the Soviets’ highest award for bravery. Nevertheless, the minister was confused by Marchenko’s comment about the Japanese. It was as if they still had something up their sleeve.

“Yes, they do,” answered Marchenko. “They are throwing in their lot with America but are not yet fully committed. Their defense forces are at America’s disposal, but only in a support role so far, and in defense of our bombing attacks on their ports. I assure you, gentlemen,” said Marchenko, looking down the long, green baize table toward Suzlov, “that Tokyo is nowhere near fully committed. My estimate — and it is supported, I should add, by the commander in chief, eastern TVD — is that they might yet throw in all their ground, naval, and air forces if they see the gate to their north unguarded. That is why I will vote against the motion.”

“Rubbish,” retorted the minister of war. “Beijing wouldn’t let the Japanese walk into Manchuria. The Chinese navy would sink them before they got across the straits.”

“It wasn’t Manchuria I was thinking of,” said Marchenko pointedly. “I am talking of our raw materials. Ore, oil— our Far Eastern holdings.”