Mind's Eye
A short story by Richard J Kischuk
Hitler was dead. Strafing fire ripped complacent earth. Desperate Adolph bolted, flinging his panicked self one filthy trench to another. His commander's final bloodied message never reaching the next German held trench. One British .303 calibre bullet blew the back of Adolph's head out. Another round right through his chest, exploding his fanatic German heart. British artillery pummeled every square yard, torturing man and earth. Adolph's crumpled body plummeting into stinking water. Blood, bits of body, shit and piss corrupting that bomb crater. That hole, just another rancid well, polluted with sick mud and tangled guts. Every shell hole, another stewing mix of German, British and Canadian courage.
Months of brutal trench warfare and hellish battles. Germany finally winning that miscarriage called war. 'War to end all war', so the slogan. Reverently stated, finally historically ended, hand written records and typed documents recalling each grim scene. So many useless deaths on all sides. So many bloodied uniforms and disgraced national anthems. So many brothers in arms saluting septic political colours.
Britain failed miserably in its virulent quest. Dominance came in tonnage and millions of stinging rounds. Enemy ordinance couldn't crush the mortal Kaiser's grey suited army. So much destruction, so many dead. More maimed and forever wounded. Soldiers and peasants buried beneath detritus and horror. Blown out earth created by hellish storm after brutal storm thundering with fatal detonations. Millions of tons of hatred, spilled out. Horrid conglomerates of guts and blood ground into bits. French and Belgian battlefields a human canvas signed by death itself. Dead and dying soldiers, laying helplessly naked. Hot searing shrapnel piercing pulsating organs and numbed brains. Bodies literally torn apart, passionately atomized. Bloody bodies heaped one upon another. Arms and legs splayed and dislocated. Like all the severed heads strewn about in piss soaked trenches and plasma slick bomb craters. Hundreds of thousands of other dead. Men and women rotting in unrecognizable fragments along eastern and western fronts. Bloated bodies of soldiers and civilians horribly still. Month after decomposing month, senseless gut wrenching brutality. Mustard gas burning victims with despotic death. A lack of authoritarian pity for demoralized soldiers. Lost souls surviving in surreal lines of putrid shit hole trenches.
German storm troopers crossed the channel. Streams of grey coated men, young and old storming stony beaches. Raging armies landing on British shore, charging waist deep through frigid sea water. Mortars, machine guns, mausers fixed with heartless bayonets. Tubular grenades grasped in ready fists, crossing rank shores of what had been the seat of the British Empire. British Monarchs fled weeks prior to that final German invasion. Czar Nicholas II offered protective refuge to his Hanover cousin. Both British King and Queen hurriedly gathered jewels and gold. Everything of value, servants accompanying that privileged entourage could carry. Monarchy rushing off to sea, a ready British warship steaming safely along the northern coast. Finally the northern shore of Czarist Russia rising in the distance. Relative safety and related family awaiting British Royalty and glittering crown jewels.
Winter 1916 -1917, a final fatal straw breaking the back of British command and their weakened allies. Hungry ranks often freezing to death or dying of dysentery. Plus continuous mind wrenching German bombardment, followed by ground assaults. Trench to trench fighting along the Maginot line. Europe and Britain were conquered. Allied troops fled in confusion. Demoralized armies from far across the sea returning bloodied and beaten to their own broken countries.
Spring 1917. Allied armies failed to stop a final push west by screaming red-eyed German divisions. Paris and Antwerp had fallen. Days later London streets were filled with storm troops. British bodies hung by their feet and necks from tree limbs and lamp posts. War crime execution, civilian bodies strewn along flaming streets, death visited every English city, village and town. Two million German soldiers, unyielding regiments from those dreadful trenches mercilessly forcing every brick house, wooden barn and stone castle into surrender. Groups of weeping women in dank cellars huddled with frightened shaking children hiding amongst folds of mother's long skirts. Fractured souls, the only inhabitants in their conquered country. Their courageous men, killed by German troops, captured in battle, imprisoned or miraculously escaping to sea. Allied ships carrying battle survivors to foreign shores. Ships soon torpedoed by U-boats or bombarded by the Kaiser's superior battleships and cruisers. German war planes flew over brown waters of the channel bringing terror. Troops ferried in hordes, trudging ashore in unchallenged droves. Battle trained fliers dropped ordnance on military targets and civilians alike. Smoking machine guns blasting those last British warplanes out of the sky. A turkey shoot, or so the neutral Yanks would have called it.
Czar Nicholas signed a peace treaty with his cousin the Kaiser, in January 1917. War had ended on the eastern front, in time for Russian peasants to return to their farms for spring planting. Socialist uprisings quelled, for the moment, by armed Czarist troops and sabre wielding Cossacks. Millions of dead Russians, combatants against German soldiers and victims of violent civil uprisings in Russian cities and towns, all buried in hurried mass graves. Broken bodies piled and burned, others plowed under. Conquering armies hoping war would be put behind them and soon forgotten. Grandiose propaganda ran rampant through the Russian countryside, filtered words salted with false assurance. Leaflets liberally spewed through streets in Saint Petersburg and all of Russia. Propaganda imitating spring melt and rain, a verbal flood rushing from the Czar's palace. Everything seemed possible after the impossible had been attained. Russia was saved, for the time being, from further destruction. Russians were feeling more at ease in May 1917. A sense of peace filled the spring air perfumed by flowering trees and wild violets. Russian people finally had enough bread and potatoes to fill swollen bellies. Once again the warming sun seemed brighter. Hope restored as glorious spring flourished into ripe summer.
Canadian and American officials signed declarations of peaceful intent June 5th, 1917. Britain crushed, the monarchy removed, the infamous British Empire finally dissolved. British colonies around the globe quickly realized their own sovereignty. Foreign governments and nations soon making their own decisions with no British Crown lording it over them.
America encouraged English Canadian authority to round up French families. Expeditiously shipping underling citizens across the border. Like Acadians long past, English didn't care much for Canada's French population. Families quickly arrested by army and police, loading everyone onto trucks and trains. French people shipped off to Louisiana and southern parts of the growing American empire. American authority suggested, politely, returning soldiers be given rights to farms, houses, homesteads, towns and community centres French folk had occupied for several hundred years. General Montcalm turned in his grave. Acadia writhed in plight with suppression and coercion. Subjects bending to English rule. American landowners, having lost many slaves after their own soulless civil war in the 1860's, more than willing to house and clothe 'Frenchies', racist and callously called. Capitalist exchange for free labour in Yankee white plantations and fields. Adolph Hitler would have delighted with Canadian and Yankee collusion. Confederates delighted at the prospect of new generations of free forced labour. Nothing less than cheap, free labour for American farms and factories. Slaves manning the elite's expanding war machine. American Senators suggested, behind closed doors, blacks, browns, yellows be reshackled. Export them with expediency across the cold ocean, dumping them on rocky shores of Africa, India and Asia.
Japan invaded Australia in March 1917. Japanese navy landing in Northern Territory. Japanese army, supplying Australian aboriginals with guns, bullets, mortars and grenades. Japanese soldiers urging on insurrection. With lightning speed battles were easily won as a haunted army rushed over the continent, crushing English, shooting whites, murder in every settlement. Soon Japanese armies swept across the country. Every white population subdued and exterminated. Japanese commanders, under orders from Tokyo, stripped aboriginals of weapons, rounding them up, forcing them into the sea. Crocs and great white sharks feasted for weeks on bloated black bodies.
Africa, a similar story. German divisions hammered all resistance encountered. German armies swarmed every capital city. Germany blasting into submission every warring tribe they encountered. Black lives didn't matter, only white skin, blonde hair, blue-eyed boys and men would rule from 1917 onward.
Germany controlled Europe, Britain and Africa. In short order well armed German troops invaded Arabia. Germanic armies slaughtering musket firing Arabs and Persians armed with bows and primitive cannon. Ill-fated warriors, many horseback, unprepared to battle tanks in modern armoured warfare. Germany conquering oil producing territory with their initial invasion. Only Turkish troops, armed with modern guns and other more useful weaponry, held German armies at bay. German dictators deciding Turkey made a better malleable ally than mortal enemy. Peace negotiated, addendums promising governmental rights, Turkish officials signed peace treaties, never honoured by either troubled side.
So the world had been reborn. World war concluded before further apocalypse tore remaining civilization to bits. Segments of old regimes continued, at least in some small manner. By 1920 Germany was maintaining control of European territory and economy. Victors ruling the globe, divied up by distrusting allies. Previous empires smoldered in ruin. Populations forced into subservience, cruel slavery and relative hell for many. Life for the conquered simply survivalist existence.
"Comrade." She spoke politely, in subdued tones. "Comrade. Time to get up. It is almost 6:00 a.m."
Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin opened his eyes. Stirred beneath the warmth and luxury of his comfortable bed. Winter roared on, its grip on St. Petersburg arctic and brutal in February 1945. Russian winter chilling everyone to the bone.
Stalin traveled from Moscow to St. Petersburg. That stunning place where his first wife, Ekaterine Svanidze had been raised. St. Petersburg, such a beautiful city. His first wife, Ekaterine 'Kato' Svanidze, dying November 22, 1907 at the young age of twenty-two. Typhus overwhelming her slender being, stealing away her life. Joseph had felt 'some sort' of love for his young bride. Deep down Stalin knew the devil took whomever, whenever, without prayer or begging plea. Bad water takes no prisoners.
"Today you begin your journey. To Yalta comrade!" Svetlana, his personal maid, gathering her great leader's clothes for the day. "It is Siberia cold this morning, I've laid out your warmest woolens and best socks, your best trousers, your warmest finest shirt."
"Good. Svetlana. Bring my robe and slippers."
"Yes comrade Stalin. What would you like for breakfast?" Svetlana stood a meter from his bedside, cautious to not overstep her bounds.
"Three boiled eggs, potatoes and toast." Stalin shifted his bulk, swinging his thick legs over the edge of his king size bed. "And that jar of British marmalade. The one comrade Churchill sent me."
"Yes comrade, as you wish." Svetlana did her little bow. A little ceremony before pushing the heavy bedroom door shut.
"Hurry." Papa Joe ordered, breathing deeply. Scratching his hard head, smoothing his shiny black hair between his thick Russian fingers. "I'm hungry for some reason this morning. Tell Vladimir to pour a tall glass of vodka. Next to my coffee. Hot coffee! Not that cold or cool one. Hot!"
Maid and comrade Svetlana turned at the doorway. "Yes comrade. Vodka and hot coffee for such a cold morning." Svetlana bowed again. A little grin on her face. She dared let her brown eyes shift, meeting Stalin's own commanding, yet rather disinterested, steely gaze.
Svetlana stepped between the big bedroom doors. Such an ornate division between the collective socialist passageway and ultimate dictatorial authority. Far beyond subdued common workers, though some of the preferred given elitist privilege and rights. Those chosen few quietly shuffling through long ornately decorated hallways, many sitting stiffly behind robust desks performing bureaucratic duty. Her long dark skirts swished. Svetlana quickly made her worker way, down into the lower depths of the old building. A warm kitchen where she ordered Comrade Stalin's hearty breakfast.
Comrade Stalin sat on the edge of his bed. Shuffling his bare feet on the cold tiled floor. Grinning, indulgently recalling his disturbing dream. Thinking to himself, "I wonder what Roosevelt and Churchill would think of my dream." Stalin chuckled quietly, recalling how different the world would have been if Herr Hitler had not survived that first war. Thinking to himself, "I wonder what Herr Hitler and the great Ill Duce would think, perhaps another nightmare for them both. Those Sheiks and Kings, they aren't sorry."
Comrade Stalin lay on his bed letting out a long roar. Delighted, the man couldn't help but wonder what Tojo would think of his imagined scenario. Raising himself, he shoved his peasant feet into warm slippers. The ominous man stood up. Slipping strong arms into a favourite checkered robe, his mind wandered for a moment. Thoughts instantly shifting to his wife Nadezhda. He had no idea the foolish woman would put a gun to her head, back in 1932, blowing her brains out. A pitiful, senseless suicide in his view.
Joseph's warm tunic snug over his barrel chest. Stalin made his way to the bright dining room. An long array of tall windows encouraging every bit of winter light into the large room. Armed body guards at attention by each regal door. A select number of his closest advisors and Generals gathering for breakfast.
"Good morning Comrade Stalin." Everyone rose from their chair bowing graciously, offering best wishes. Smiles, some resembling camouflaged sneers, crossing those confident Russian faces.
"Off to Yalta comrades. Everything is in place for our great country. Cross your fingers. Comrade Roosevelt and comrade Churchill will come to understand our views. They owe us a great deal." Stalin sat himself down. Comrade Stalin dominating the helm, his communist bulk comfortably accommodated. Surveying those in attendance he slid his chair up to the polished edge of the long broad table.
"What news from the front comrades?" Stalin settled onto his wooden throne.
"Comrade, our Generals tell me they are forging towards Berlin." Commander Georgy Zhukov studied Comrade Stalin's dark features, searching for hints of resolve. "We must beat the Americans to Berlin if we wish to gain ultimate control."
Stalin nodded. Agreeing. His General's statement reiterating terse words, everything he had already told them. "Za zda-ro-vye comrades." Stalin raised his vodka. Uniforms and suits seated at table mimicking comrade Stalin's form.
"Za-zda-ro-vye" Lifting their glasses, the toast. "To good health". Mouthfuls of communism, their nation's strong liquor. Quick swallows, fire in the throat, a little shake, hidden so not to show weakness.
"Da comrades." Papa Joe confidently set his empty tall vodka glass on the table. A hearty meal waiting in front of him. Satisfied Stalin grunted, digging into a porcelain plate heaped with boiled eggs, boiled skinless potatoes slathered with butter, alongside three thick slices of rye toast. Chewy slices slathered with English marmalade. Confident, Papa Joe knew fanatics and despots. He would maintain control over subservient, subversive, insurgent masses. Remembering, bad water takes no prisoners.
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