Blood and Salt by Barbara Sapergia

steam goes out of him. He glances at the internees who have drawn closer to listen. Taras could swear he looks scared. He must have thought the prisoners would be scared of him. Now he doesn’t know how to act.
    The black-haired man, the Bolshie, sits down, peers around. All the men in the bunkhouse are watching him. The guards would never have given him an audience like this if they’d thought about it. He feels the area over his wound. Blood comes off on his hand.
    “Sure could use a doctor, boys.”
    “Doctor’s off today,” says Bullard. “Maybe tomorrow.” He looks uncomfortable. So does Andrews.
    “You’re okay,” says Taveley. “Fresh blood’ll keep the wound clean.” He also looks like he can’t wait to get away.
    “Good to know. Here I thought I was going to bleed to death while you guys were off drinking and playing cards.” The Bolshie’s dark eyes sweep over the guards.
    “I’d shut up if I were you.” Angry again, Randall points to Bullard and Andrews. “They know about you. They’re not gonna take any chances.”
    “Be fair,” the wounded man says. “Did I hurt anybody? No. Wouldn’t you run away if you could?”
    “Shut up! We don’t care about being fair.”
    “If you want to see the doctor tomorrow, don’t make trouble,” Taveley says wearily.
    “Me?” The black eyebrows lift to even sharper points. “I’ll be a lamb.” He’s wearing them out with his talk. Even wounded and bleeding, he’s enjoying baiting them.
    “You’d better be,” Randall sneers, but Taras can see he’s happy to be leaving. The Bolshie’s making him feel stupid.
    “Could you just go now,” Andrews says. “These are our prisoners. We’ll take it from here.”
    “Yeah sure,” Randall says. “But this guy needs to change his ideas.”
    “Yeah, and it’s not your job, it’s ours.” Bullard looks ready to burst. “Bad enough we’re landed with this new guy. I mean, he’s obviously a troublemaker –”
    “Lunatic, if you ask me,” Randall says.
    “Didn’t.”
    “Oh.” But now Randall can’t leave it alone. “Still, how do you tell with these Ruthenians or Galicians, or whatever they are?”
    “Yes, well,” Andrews sounds very strained, “but crazy or not, we don’t hold with bringing in a wounded man who hasn’t seen a doctor.”
    “Come on,” Taveley says. “Let’s get out of here.” He grabs the younger man’s arm.
    Randall turns to offer a salute to Andrews, but forgets that his bayonet is in the way. Bullard jumps aside, a hand shielding his face.
    Taras can’t help smiling.
    “Private!” Andrews says. “That will be all.”
    “Sir!” Randall marches for the door. Taveley shrugs and follows him out.
    “Christ’s sake!” Bullard says. “Asshole almost took out my eye.” He and Andrews light cigarettes and look around the room.
    Andrews speaks in a low voice, but Taras hears. “You’ve got your flask, haven’t you?”
    Bullard points to his coat pocket. “Couple of slugs and we’ll sleep like babies.” They laugh. “Goddamn it, though, it’s starting to give me a pain in my gut.”
    Interesting, Taras thinks: Bullard in pain. He turns from the guards to the new guy.
    The prisoners are silent, unsure how to speak to the newcomer. He catches Taras’s eye. Speaks in Ukrainian.
    “You want to ask me what it’s like, don’t you?” Taras can’t think how to answer. “Escaping, I mean. Don’t you want to know what it’s like?”
    “I wouldn’t mind. What is it like?”
    “It’s grand.” The prisoner laughs, and for a moment Taras imagines a sharp wind and the scent of pine. “You know, just to be alone for a bit. In charge of your own body, your own thoughts. Once we got into the forest, it was like no one else existed. Just us and a million trees. Shall I go on?”
    Taras nods. “Proshu. Please do. It’s...very interesting.”
    “I’ve no idea how they snuck up on us. Oleh and Slava were making too much noise, that’s for sure, and