Free Blind Date by Jerzy Kosinski Page A

kept him standing at attention while the troops gathered along the course. Barbatov stood up on his seat in the jeep.
    â€œThis is Private Levanter,” he shouted into a bullhorn, pointing to the solitary figure. “Like all his people, he got himself a better bargain: he is in charge of planning your exercises, but you have to do them. You see, Levanter thinks he is too smart to do them himself. And because he is so smart,” Barbatov said, drawing out the last word, his thick lips in a sneer, “Levanter will show you damn peasants how to do the exercises.” He looked down at Levanter and yelled, “Ready?”
    Levanter saluted. He made his mind go blank.
    â€œAttack!” screamed Barbatov, jumping out of the jeep. Crouching low, Levanter started to run, rifle in hand. “Machine-gun fire!” barked Barbatov. Levanter somersaulted over the parapet into the wet, freshly turned soil of the nearest trench. His pack and spade slipped off, nearly tripping him, and he barely managed to pick them up before the next command came. “Attack!” Already panting, Levanter clambered over the top of the trench. Just as he had begun to crawl forward, smelling the new grass, he heard Barbatov shout, “Hit the dirt!” and he dropped back down into the mud, which spattered into his eyes and clung to his mouth. The rough strap of his new helmet cut into his chin, and he could feel his coat ripping. Barbatov ran alongside. “Tanks. Dig in!” Levanter pulled out his spade, but the blade was locked. The students lining the course hooted raucously, shouting insulting words of advice. Levanter began scooping up the lumpy soil with his hands. Again Barbatov screamed, “Attack!” Levanter staggered to his feet. He was covered with mud and dirt and was having trouble breathing as his throat filled with phlegm and pain seared his chest. He tried to hurdle a trench but missed and fell into the crater. He scrambledout and rolled over into the next one. His head was bleeding now, and as he plunged up against the breastwork his vision blurred. He was attempting to leap over another trench when his legs gave way and he pitched headfirst into the hole.
    He came to slowly. In the distance he could hear the platoons marching away, the footsteps receding, the singing growing fainter. Filthy and aching all over, he found he was lying on Barbatov’s coat. The captain knelt at his side, pouring coffee from a tin mug over his face, then wiping the mud off his forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief.
    â€œThere you are, silly boy,” he muttered, his face creased with worry. “All brains but no muscle!” He grinned and urged Levanter to his feet, steering him toward the jeep. As he drove, he kept glancing apologetically at his passenger. In the barracks, he helped Levanter remove his gear. Then he went to his quarters and returned with several bottles of his best beer.
    One evening the following week, Barbatov completed the counterfeiting of a pass, winked at Levanter, and drove off to the village. At midnight, Levanter went into the captain’s room. As usual, Barbatov had not taken his service revolver or his Party card, and he had also left behind the large map of the forthcoming divisional maneuvers, marked SECRET.
    Levanter rolled up the black window shade. To attract the military police, he turned on the light. In minutes, a jeep pulled up in front of the barracks, and two MPs dashed inside the quarters, calling Barbatov’s name. Levanter showed them his papers and, with a straight face, explained that Captain Barbatov had gone into town for the evening. One of the MPs immediately phoned regimental headquarters and was informed that Barbatov had no authorization to leave the camp. The MPs confiscated the captain’s revolver, his Party card, the divisional maneuvers map, and several blank passes they found. Then they locked and taped the door and left without another