Owen Sheers: Resistance

The first thing Gernot saw when he came to was the crows. A pair of them, hopping between the low bilberry bushes, close enough for him to make out the layered feathers on their chests and the points of light reflected in the beads of their eyes. He turned his head and the crow nearest him flapped away, cawing brashly at his movement. There were high clouds above him scudding across a deep blue sky. The low sun threw a light across the hills the colour of honey. He couldn’t tell if it was early morning or the beginning of evening. Suddenly he felt a shock of pain pulse up his leg and through his back, then another stabbing at his hip. And then he remembered. A bird disturbed, a grouse skimming away from the hooves of Bethan’s pony like a flying fish from the prow of a boat. The pony shying at the grouse and bolting from under him. His vision suddenly all sky, all ground, all sky as he lost his seat and fell from the pony’s back. And then nothing. Just the sound of the pony’s hooves resonating through the dry earth of the mountain, slowing, fading away from him, and then silence.

Where was Bethan’s pony now? He tried to shift onto his side and raise himself on an elbow. The pain pulsed through him again and the ground swelled beneath him. He fell back, groaning, sweat pricking at his temples, the taste of bile rising at the back of his throat. Another shot of pain ran through his leg, like a voltage deep in the bone, making him cry out and drop his head back to the ground. He lay there, breathing as heavily as if he’d just sprinted up the slope behind him.

His forehead throbbed inside his helmet, which felt heavy and awkward after so many months without wearing it. Unbuckling the strap at his chin, he let it fall away behind him, allowing a welcome breeze to brush across his brow. His rifle was still on his back, digging into his spine. With a movement that made him grimace, he edged its strap over his head until he could lie flat on the ground again.

It had felt strange for Gernot to be wearing his uniform again, to be clipping ammunition cartridges to his belt and strapping on his webbing. Even stranger to have the captain issuing orders, telling them to leave The Court and make their way across the valley in combat formation, swinging their rifles over the same fields he had, just yesterday, strolled across to go fishing down by the river. At The Firs they’d picked up Menna and her children. The captain had explained to her what had happened to Maggie’s yearling. She’d looked over them with shocked eyes as he did so, the men who’d been helping on her farm now standing before her as German soldiers again. Once she’d understood what was happening, they’d escorted her to Mary’s, where the captain had ordered Gernot to stay and guard the house and the women while he, Alex, and Steiner performed a sweep of the valley opposite Maggie’s farm. As the three others left Mary’s house, Steiner had looked back at Gernot, his face pale under the rim of his helmet. Gernot had waved to him from the door, as if to say, “It’s all right, this is all right,” although he knew in his heart it wasn’t.

The crows had come closer again, made bold by his stillness. He raised his head to look at his broken leg and they hopped backwards, flapping their wings. There was no blood, no bone protruding, and yet still the slightest movement brought a wave of pain and nausea washing over him. His hip felt dislocated. He raised himself higher on both his elbows and looked about him. The scene swam before his eyes, but there, across the hummocks of the bilberry bushes and heather, he could make out Bethan’s pony. It was grazing, the reins loose about its head. He thought about trying to crawl over towards it, but even the slightest attempt to turn his leg made him cry out in pain. He fell back to the ground again, cursing the captain, Mary, and his own stupid impulse.

The rest of the patrol had been gone for no more than ten minutes when Mary had come into the front room. Gernot was sitting at the window, his rifle at the ready across his chest. Without looking at him she’d walked to the front door and opened it. “Get out,” she’d said.

Since Bethan had left the valley, Gernot had stopped asking Albrecht for English lessons, but he’d understood Mary clearly enough. He didn’t know what to do. He wore the uniform of a soldier but he no longer felt like one. Should he order Mary into the back of the house, lock all of them — her, Menna, and the children — in a room and stand guard at the door? That’s what he would have done before. But now, after the months they’d spent here working alongside these women, tasting civilian life again, that would seem ridiculous.

“Get out,” Mary had said again, looking him in the eye, her fingers still hooked on the latch of the door. “What d’you think you’re protecting us from, anyway? It’s you as should be worried, boy. Not us.”

Gernot had felt himself blush. He stood up but Mary didn’t move, just held the door open, looking at him as if he were a child. Through the open door he saw the top of the valley, the sweep of its curve, the bareness of its slopes over which this woman had sent Bethan away. His embarrassment turned to anger. It wasn’t meant to happen like this. He was waiting for Bethan to return, to fulfil the promise of that kiss. Until then nothing should be changing. This is what they’d agreed, this is what the captain had promised. They’d seen too much of war, known too much of its stench and pain. They were all waiting for it to be over, but now the captain had ordered them into their uniforms and told them to carry their weapons again. Why? Because they were being threatened; because everything they’d hoped for was threatened. Well, if it was, and he had to be a soldier again, he wasn’t going to stay here guarding women and children. He wanted to defend what he cared for: his chance to be here when Bethan came back, the chance for them to sit in the bracken once more, watching the evening light compress and darken over the hills.

Gernot walked up to Mary, holding her stare, and stood before her. He could feel the fear emanating off her, the fear of him, of everything. He’d recognised it because he’d felt it too. His knuckles were white on the stock and body of his rifle. “Get out,” she’d said again, her voice smaller and cracked. Breaking her stare, Gernot looked out at the bare hills, turned back to meet Mary’s eyes once more, then walked out into the valley. He heard Mary close the door behind him, but he didn’t look back. His mind was suddenly clear. He would track down whoever shot the horse, and he would kill him. And then they could go back to living in the valley as before. They could take off their uniforms and he could go back to waiting, to watching out of his bedroom window for Bethan to appear at the thorn tree above him.

After leaving Mary, Gernot had gone straight to the paddock at the back of the house where Bethan’s pony was grazing. He’d watched her ride it up on to the hill before the winter, and again after the thaw, so he knew where she kept the saddlery in the lean-to in the yard. He’d never ridden much himself, but several times over the past few months he’d been out to check the flock with Alex, riding one of the two old cart horses kept at The Court. The captain had sent Otto to The Gaer, from where he was observing the mouth of the valley. The rest of the patrol were sweeping the woods and fields lower down. If there was anyone still there they’d be driven up onto the hills. So that is where he would go, up onto the plateaus that surrounded the valley.

Swinging his rifle across his back, he’d caught Bethan’s pony by its forelock and begun leading it down towards the yard, keeping an eye on the side door of the farmhouse in case Mary should try and stop him.