Killing Ground by James Rouch Page A

the most obvious route to where they bumped into that reception committee.’
    ‘Knowing about it didn’t do them any good. One dead and one in the cage, or worse.’ With the toe of his boot, Hyde idly made a dam of leaves where water was overflowing from a puddle into the tread-patterned rut. ‘They came from the direction we’re heading.’
    ‘I hope our luck holds better than theirs.’ Burke muttered that under his breath. The novelty of the unspoiled scenery had worn off for him.
    As they moved off, Scully cut a slice from the turnip he had washed in a shallow stream beside the road, while the others had refilled their bottles. He’d hacked the skin from it in a series of thick chunks, reducing its weight by nearly half. He bit into it, and grimaced. ‘It’s fucking terrible.’
    ‘You’re supposed to cook them.’ Sampson enjoyed their self-appointed cook’s disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you try a carrot? You can eat them raw.’
    ‘I know that. I was a chef in civvie life ...’
    ‘Wouldn’t have know that from the last meal you did.’ As he walked, Garrett broke tiny pieces from a chocolate bar in his pocket and surreptitiously slipped them into his mouth.
    ‘What was wrong with it? That was borscht, and it came out all right, considering the conditions under which I was making it.’
    ‘What were those little bits of meat floating in it? They were tough as old boots.’ Finishing the last of the bar, Garrett balled the foil and wrapper together, and when he thought he wasn’t being observed, flicked it away.
    ‘Cat.’
    ‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.’ Garrett tried to recall the taste but could only remember the texture, or lack of it. ‘The only cat I’ve seen in the Zone in the last six months is that one the major’s APC went over ... Oh, sweet Jesus, you didn’t, did you?’
    ‘Why not? Think what it would have been like if it hadn’t been tenderized that way. Made skinning a bit messy though.’ Scully crammed the remains of the turnip back into the bag. ‘Hey, Boris!’
    Farther down the line the conversation had been hardly audible to the Russian.
    ‘Yes?’ He was surprised to hear his name called.
    ‘What did you think of my cabbage soup?’
    Hesitating, Boris considered his answer. He could not be sure that Scully, who had never talked to him before, was not simply involving him so as to score some obscure point. He hedged. ‘I did not have very much, but... it was quite good.’
    And it had been, too. Boris had been surprised. Of course it did not have the special touch that made the dish so distinctly Russian, but it had been close enough to bring back many memories…
    ‘Pity I didn’t have any sour cream.’ Scully sought to excuse Boris’s slightly less than enthusiastic response, for the sake of appearances in front of the others. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘Yes…’ Sensing what Scully wanted, and pleased to be involved in any conversation, Boris sought the right answer.
    ‘But then every cook in Russia has his own recipe, and your cabbage and beetroot were perfect.’ That was not the perfect truth, but Boris had been so glad to be taken off the permanent cooking detail he would now have said anything to maintain the current happy arrangement. 
    It had been hard for him, after he had settled down in the post of signaller for the company and had begun to gain the men’s grudging respect, if not Andrea’s, to be taken off such sensitive work because of orders from headquarters. There was still so much distrust toward those who had changed sides. Yet they were the ones who had most to fear from a Communist victory. A NATO soldier, if he was lucky, might survive as a prisoner; for him that was not an option.
    The talk of food had reminded him of his hunger, and his mind drifted back to the last time he had enjoyed a steaming bowl of borscht at home, his last leave before ... His mother must have saved coupons for several months to make the meal.
    With the