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| - Borja’s sweet behind |
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Borja's sweet behindBorja Rimburg was an imposing 20-year old scout who had been with the brigade since the day it was formed. He was called up from his second year at the mathematics department of the Minsk University, and happens to be the hero of this particular episode. One snowy February night in 1943 I found myself standing in the window of a warehouse near some township, giving occasional short bursts from my weapon towards some shadows in the distance, which could equally have been German soldiers or random snowdrifts. Someone on the other side of the warehouse was helping me out with his own bursts. In this manner, we managed to hold the warehouse for some time - though, in truth, we could have abandoned it long ago. Our soldiers cleared out of this position before nightfall, and even my scout platoon had fallen back to new positions. These ran about a hundred meters back from the warehouse, right along the old German trench line. The two of us knew that we would be right to fall back as well, but felt that we could still hold the warehouse for just a little while longer, and the Germans had to take this particular warehouse before they could mount an attack on their old trenches. After a brief lull, I heard my mystery partner start firing again from the other end of the warehouse, and looked out the window. Man-sized shapes swarmed in front of the building, though it was impossible to tell whether each was a snow flurry or a man in winter camouflage. I started firing long bursts all the same. Then I heard the other guy stop shooting and did the same. I was tired and wanted to rest a bit. I let my weapon's barrel drop down to the ground and leaned against the window frame. Suddenly, something startled me, although there were no sounds. I looked towards the warehouse doors in alarm and saw silhouettes in winter camouflage. Germans. They stood there motionless, peering into the darkness of the warehouse. I quickly crossed the warehouse with several silent leaps and jumped out of a window facing our lines. After safely reaching our lines, I rejoined my platoon. At the time, I didn't bother to think what had happened to my mystery partner. At the front, this attitude was par for the course. The war constantly shuffled people around, and we never really had the time to get to know each other. Every attack made by the battalion would knock out almost all of its soldiers as casualties. All those tales of frontline camaraderie you so often see in post-war literature refer to events that took place in forces far more stable than infantry - artillery, aviation, etc. The same night after the firefight at the warehouse, I was wounded while on picket duty by a German patrol. My first hospital was located in a township school not far from the frontline. We rested on some mattresses strewn along the floor. The sun was shining, and the sounds of distant combat were still pouring through the windows while wounded soldiers moved about the corridors on crutches. Suddenly, I saw a strange figure - a man moving on all fours but with knees facing up. When he crawled a little closer, I recognized Borja Rimburg. - You're alive?! - I exclaimed in surprise. - They told me that you went missing a day ago. Borja explained what happened. Turns out, he was the other soldier in the warehouse that night. Unlike me, he didn't notice the Germans pouring in through the door until it was too late, and escape was impossible. He dropped into a hole in the floor and kept still. After a while, one of the Germans shone a light into the hole, but either thought he was a corpse, or else some rags - either way, he moved on and took up a post nearby. Through the night, Borja kept hearing him stomping his feet to keep warm. - Hey, what about your cough? - I asked him. It so happens that Borja was prone to coughing fits, particularly whenever stealth was of the essence. They'd almost booted him out of the scout platoon for this, but his other qualities prevailed and he remained the most senior scout in our platoon. - Never coughed or moved the entire night. - So how'd you get wounded? Borja pointed to the soles of his feet and slapped himself on his rear end. - Froze it off. He spent the entire night sitting in that frozen hole in the warehouse floor. The frostbite got those areas touching the ground. A nurse appeared in the doorway and, with a smirk, called out: - Rimburg, to the operating room! The other wounded chimed in with some words of encouragement. - Borja, don't straighten up or they'll cut off the front, not the rear. - Borja, don't let them cut all the way. - Borja - did you really freeze that off as well, - I inquired. - Nah, they're just kidding around. They're going to cut some more off my backside. Didn't cut enough to get to the living tissue the last time. And so, Borja began to crawl towards the operating room. For the next couple of days, Borja's backside was at the center of everyone's attention. The jokes never stopped coming, though Borja just shrugged them off with a smirk. Then, we got sent to different hospitals, and I never saw Borja afterwards. If anyone knows anything about him, please let me know.
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