Don't Worry, The Boss Knows All About It

By Mark Mellon

Rozenkrijtz resumed work after supper. There were fewer interruptions and it kept Zholudev busy, who Rozenkrijtz knew spied on him, when he could be drinking vodka. Even iron tyrants like Rozenkrijtz (for that was what his men considered him) had to rest. He told Zholudev to be at his desk by 0600 and turned in at 0130.
The hut was miserably hot and stuffy. Rozenkrijtz stripped to his shorts and lay on the cot. He was almost asleep when someone tapped at the door. Used to summons at any hour, he got up and opened the door. It was Zholudev.
“You’ll excuse me, Captain. The signalist says there’s an urgent call from Senior Lieutenant Boldunov.”
This surprised Rozenkrijtz. Boldunov commanded the 90th Border Guards detachment, responsible for the frontier region immediately in front of Rozenkrijtz’s battalion. Rozenkrijtz had introduced himself shortly after being stationed on the frontier. Boldunov struck him as a typical NKVD son of a bitch, arrogant, uncultured, with no doubt in himself or the system. He’d never heard from him until now.
“Tell the signalist I’m on my way. Get Korzhak up too and tell him to get the lorry ready. I may need it.”
“Tak tochno, exactly so, Comrade Captain.”
Rozenkrijtz dressed. He went to the whitewashed plaster building that housed the general store and the village telephone exchange, the only substantial structure in Domacheva other than his billet. The signalist, a grizzled reservist fifteen years older than Rozenkrijtz, handed him the bulky headset.
“Rozenkrijtz here.”
“Comrade Captain.” The voice was thin, distorted by static. “You’ll excuse this call at such a late hour, but something’s come up. It’s no great affair, but I still think you should come up to the frontier. Is that possible?”
Despite his disclaimer, Rozenkrijtz could sense Boldunov’s urgency. Fear was palpable in his quivering voice.
“That’s no problem. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Spasibo vam, my thanks, Comrade Captain,” Boldunov said.
Rozenkrijtz had scrounged a GAZ-AA lorry that he guarded like his life. Korzhak, a Leningrader with mechanical expertise from factory experience, drove quickly through the forest down narrow dirt roads to the frontier. They were halted a kilometer from the border by nervous NKVD men armed with submachine guns. Satisfied as to their identities, the border troops led Rozenkrijtz on foot to a nearby bunker.
Inside, Boldunov sat at a field table, jowly in black trousers and a blue cap. Another man sat opposite him, young with a soldier’s closely cropped hair, tall and ungainly with large, trembling red hands, naked except for a tightly wrapped blanket. Rozenkrijtz noticed his hair was wet even though it hadn’t rained.
“Ah, Comrade Captain Rozenkrijtz.”
Boldunov jumped up, delighted as if seeing an old friend. “Thanks for coming here on short notice at this hour. Would you mind stepping out for a moment?”
Unused to such courtesy from an NKVD man and accordingly suspicious, Rozenkrijtz went outside with Boldunov who lit up a papirosa.
“Sorry for the precaution. I don’t want to take chances. I’m not sure if that bastard speaks Russian.”
“Who is he?”
“Claims he’s a German soldier. The night patrol found him on the riverbank. He says he swam across.”
“That accounts for the wet hair. What does he want?”
“I don’t know. I can’t understand him. He points to the calendar, to the 22nd, and keeps saying, ‘kreeg, kreeg.’ I understand you speak German so I was hoping you could help interrogate him. ”
Rozenkrijtz wasn’t surprised Boldunov knew he spoke German. Information was the NKVD’s business. He nodded assent and motioned to Boldunov to return to the bunker. Rozenkrijtz pulled up a chair, sat down, and inquired in heavily accented but functional German, “State your name, rank, and unit.”
Delighted to hear his own language, the young man smiled broadly and said, “Liskof, Alfred, obergefreiter, 22nd Infantry Regiment, 74th Infantry Division, Herr Offizier!”
Rozenkrijtz translated for Boldunov who wrote the information down in the crabbed, careful hand of the semi-literate.
“Find out why he deserted.”
“Why are you here? Why did you desert?”
“I hit my company commander after he insulted me. They were going to court-martial me.”
“He says he ran away to avoid court-martial for striking his CO.”
This information elicited a broad smile from Boldunov. Wrongdoing was something an NKVD man understood.
“I have very important information for you, though. I’m not just a deserter, my father was a communist, a member of the Rote Fahne.”
Liskof looked like he was about to sing the Internationale. Rozenkrijtz intervened with another question.
“What is this information?”
“The Germans are going to invade! In three days, on Sunday, the 22nd. I even know the hour, 0330. Everybody’s excited. The men keep talking about all the loot they’ll have.”
Rozenkrijtz sat utterly still, as if some old koldunya from a Russian fairy tale had turned him to stone. He told himself, don’t be shocked; you expected it. Yet it was still unbearable to have his worst fears confirmed.
“What did he say?” Boldunov demanded. “You’re white as a sheet. If he’s getting rude or difficult, let me know and I’ll have the lads soften him up.”
“No, it’s not that. He says the Germans will invade in three days.”
Now Boldunov was stupefied. The gravity of the deserter’s words sank in upon them. Only Liskof was animated. Aware his fate depended on them, he eagerly scanned his captors’ faces for any clue.
“Put this prisoner in a tent under guard, two men at all times. Get him food and a uniform. Mind, no rough stuff for now. We may need him later.”
Liskof was led out. Boldunov turned to Rozenkrijtz.
“What do we do now?”
“Report this to Western Border Command in Minsk. You should tell 4th Army also, Korobkov’s staff. If I were you, I’d recommend they pass this on to every unit in 4th Army down to division level.”
“They won’t believe me. I’ll just get in trouble. They’ll say I’m a provocateur trying to start a war between Russia and Germany. They’ll strip me of my commission or arrest me.”
Boldunov made an already tense situation even more uncomfortable. He burst into tears. Disgusted, Rozenkrijtz decided there was nothing more to do here. He rose to leave, but Boldunov grabbed his coat.
“It’s not like I haven’t told them before. We’re not blind. We can see what those bastards are doing on the other side of the Bug. Come with me, please. I’ll show you what I mean.”
Boldunov practically dragged Rozenkrijtz to the bunker door. Curiosity aroused, Rozenkrijtz followed him. The path sloped gently downward to the river. An observation post was at the treeline’s edge. Boldunov pointed across the river.
“Can you hear them?”
The angry whine of diesel engines in low gear, the clank of metal treads.
“Armor. A lot of it.”
“They get bolder every minute. At first, they stayed well camouflaged. We saw almost no trace of them by day. Now they don’t even bother to conceal themselves. You can’t see it now, but they’ve built what looks like a mooring for a pontoon bridge almost exactly opposite us. I write it all up and pass it on to Minsk. They do nothing. When I ask, they just say, ‘Don’t worry, the Boss knows all about it.’ I’ve got my wife and kids here. So do other men. When I asked permission to evacuate dependents, Minsk denied it! Where’s the sense or justice of that?”
Rozenkrijtz considered it ironic to hear an NKVD man complain about injustice, undoubtedly steeped to his elbows in blood, but kept quiet.
“You’ve got to help. Make them understand. I’m told you’re considered one of the best officers in the division. They’ll listen to you. Once you tell them what the deserter said, they’ll believe you.”
“They won’t listen to anyone who contradicts them. High Command has decided the Red Army won’t do anything that might be interpreted as a provocation and cause war. That means if a German personally shoots you in the head, you don’t even whisper about it.”
“What can we do then?”
“Do? What sort of weapons do you have? Any mortars? How about supplies?”
“We only have small arms. There’s three days' rations, kasha and hardtack.”
Rozenkrijtz thought. “See those ridges to our right? They have a good view of the riverbank. Set up firing points there with interlocking fields of fire. You know how to do that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, Comrade Captain.”
“They’ll send engineers across first on rafts. Watch for them. Wait until they land and begin securing their perimeter before you open fire. That way, you’ll bag a few before they flank you.”
“Before they flank us? You mean that won’t drive them away?”
“‘Drive them away?’ Durak, fool, you think this is some pinprick assault? We’re being invaded, overrun. They’re sure to penetrate the border in at least half a dozen different spots on either side of us. Whole divisions will crash through. Do you think your counterparts on your flanks see anything different?”
“What about my wife and kids?”
“What about them? You’ve killed women and children in your time. You’re surprised it may happen to yours? Build a bunker in the forest where they can hide. Write letters putting your affairs in order. Pray. Just don’t expect any help.”
“Oh, my God, isn’t there any hope?”
“No.”
Rozenkrijtz left. It was a clear night. The moon and stars burned brilliantly. Rozenkrijtz found the GAZ-AA, roused Korzhak, sensibly asleep in the cab in his commander’s absence, and ordered him to return to Domacheva. They rode in silence. What he learned at the border sat on Rozenkrijtz’s stomach like lead. The worst conceivable disaster was going to happen and he was helpless. Yet he must do something, like an ant that scurries for shelter the instant before being crushed by a hobnailed boot. He had to at least try or go mad.
It was 0300 when they arrived at Domacheva, three hours until reveille. Rozenkrijtz excused Korzhak from first assembly and dismissed him.
Deryagin was waiting for him. “What were you doing on the border?” “Comparing fly-casting techniques with Boldunov. He tells me there are some fine, large trout to be had.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm. As a Red Army officer and unit politruk, I’ve a right to be informed.”
Rozenkrijtz grabbed Deryagin by his Sam Browne belt and jerked him so close their faces were only millimeters apart. “Play your silly games while you can, little man.”
He shoved him away and went to his hut for a couple of hours’ sleep. Utterly mystified, Deryagin watched him walk away.

***

Rozenkrijtz woke at 0500. His batman fetched hot water from the field kitchen and he shaved. He dressed, went to the telephone exchange, and told the signalist to put in a request to Regiment to meet as soon as possible with the commander, Major Ogarik.
It was Rozenkrijtz’s habit to periodically review a company at first assembly to keep them sharp. No one thought it unusual, therefore, when he visited second company’s encampment at 0600. Lopatov gave the orders of the day, work on the new barracks for the first platoon and tactical and physical training for the second and third.
After he dismissed the company, Lopatov walked over, smiling broadly until he saw Rozenkrijtz’s grim expression.
“What’s the matter, Semka? You look exhausted.”
“I am. Let’s walk.”
They went into the forest, to a small clearing where livestock grazed. Rozenkrijtz briefed Lopatov on what he learned last night at the border. Lopatov whistled.
“Looks like we’re really in the shit. What do we do?”
“I asked to meet Ogarik today. I’ll tell him what I told you. If he goes up the line to Division and they pass it on to Corps, the Big Shits may notice, although I doubt it. I’m also going to try to pry some mines and ammo out of him. While I’m gone, reconnoiter the road to the border, just the first five kilometers past Domacheva. Look for a good spot for an ambush, a sharp bend in the road. Look for defensive positions behind that, with enough cover for all three companies. There won’t be any time to reach the border when things start, not on foot. They’ll only meet us on the move and tear us to pieces. We’ll fight nearby. If that asshole Deryagin wants to know what you’re doing, bite his nose off.”
“With pleasure, Comrade Captain,” Lopatov said as he saluted.
Rozenkrijtz returned to Domacheva. He checked with the signalist who told him Major Ogarik would be available this morning. He confirmed a meeting for 0800 and had breakfast, kasha and tea. At 0700 he rousted Korzhak. They left shortly afterwards in the lorry for the headquarters of the 136th Rifle Regiment in Pruzhany.
Headquarters company was encamped in tents on the town’s outskirts. The encampment wasn’t camouflaged. A fat target for German Stukas, practically begging to be strafed and bombed.
Ogarik received Rozenkrijtz in his tent with evident pleasure. A tall man in his late forties, with the deeply inset eyes and proud nose of a true Russian, he had begun military service in the tsarist army. He was one of the few senior officers Rozenkrijtz respected.
“What brings you to the rear today? Rations, supplies, personnel troubles? Tell me what the problem is and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I wished it was something like that, Comrade Major.”
He took the chair Ogarik offered.
“This sounds serious. Out with it, man.”
Rozenkrijtz reported in detail, not only discussing the deserter and his news of imminent invasion, but what Boldunov and his men had seen before. Ogarik calmly listened without interrupting. When Rozenkrijtz finished, Ogarik handed him a dossier.
“This isn’t supposed to be disseminated any further, but I don’t think it makes much difference at this point if you see it.”
Rozenkrijtz scanned the dossier quickly. In workmanlike prose, it laid out an order of battle for German forces on the Belorussian border, fifteen identified infantry divisions, five tank, two motorized and two cavalry divisions, a total approximated strength of forty divisions, almost seven hundred thousand men, all well equipped and trained.
“Colonel Blokhin, intelligence head for the Western Front, prepared that. It’s dated 7 June, so things have probably changed in the past eleven days, undoubtedly for the worse.”
“So what I’m telling you isn’t much of a shock?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry to ruin your surprise, but I’ve expected them to move for some time now. If they invade this year, they have to do it soon while the good weather lasts. Of course, that business in the Balkans slowed them up, but not by much.”
“Division and Corps must know about this. So must 4th Army. Why don’t they do something?”
“They know, but they’re inclined to discount it. From what I can gather, most senior officers insist the Germans are just strengthening their positions for purposes of political bargaining. That’s the line Front Commander Pavlov is taking in any event.”
Rozenkrijtz mulled over Ogarik’s revelations. When he finally spoke, he carefully chose his words.
“I understand, Comrade Major, that like everybody else in the Red Army, you have to obey orders. What our superiors have decided must be followed. Yet is there nothing we can do? Aren’t there any concrete, practical steps we can take?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“What about mines? We can have the engineers stop construction and lay minefields on the border. That would slow the Germans considerably.”
“There are none to be had.”
“Well, ammunition then. My battalion has its basic issue, but that’s hardly enough for one day’s combat. I’ve got a lorry. Let me use the next couple of days to stock up.”
“As you know, further ammunition cannot be issued without the approval of the Front Commander. General Pavlov has issued no such order.”
Astonished and appalled, Rozenkrijtz stared at Ogarik, who returned his amazed look with his own calm, friendly gaze. As much as the regiment commander might want to help, his hands were tied. The shortsighted system they swore to protect had hamstrung them.
“Don’t think I don’t sympathize, Captain, but any measures we might be able to take in the short time your deserter claims we have left would undoubtedly be detected by the NKVD and immediately reported and countermanded. I know what I’m talking about. They did just that to Kirponos in Kiev when he tried to move some troops up to the border. We can do nothing that might be interpreted as a provocation.”
About to plaintively demand to know what they could do, Rozenkrijtz realized how childish that would sound. Instead he stood up.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d pass my information upward to Division with a request to bring it immediately to Corps’ attention.”
“Gladly.”
Ogarik put an arm around Rozenkrijtz’s shoulder. “Try not to worry. Perhaps the deserter is a provocateur sent to trick us. Things look bleak here, but we don’t have the advantage of the big picture like they do in Moscow. You know what they say, ‘Stalin the Boss knows better.’”
He was lying. Both men knew it, but Rozenkrijtz let it pass. He shook hands with Ogarik, a strong, lasting clasp, for this was in all likelihood the last time they would meet. He returned to Domacheva.

***

The next two days passed normally on the surface. The battalion followed its usual routine. One platoon from each company built barracks; the other two trained for combat. If the focus was on field entrenchment several kilometers to the west of Domacheva and eight kilometers from the border, that could be explained as an effort to remedy a long standing deficiency. The troops followed orders without question in the traditional Russian manner, although grumbling, especially by men without entrenching tools who had to use their helmets.
The entrenchments were too far from the border to be interpreted as a provocative move. Deryagin was nevertheless suspicious as Rozenkrijtz expected. He snooped everywhere, walked down every trench, and demanded to know what was going on from ignorant privates.
This suited Rozenkrijtz since it permitted other, secret preparations back in Domacheva. He took a leaf from former Finnish enemies. Trustworthy men made Molotov cocktails under his supervision. Petrol was blended with kerosene and tar in empty vodka bottles (one thing in plentiful supply) with dishrags jammed in the bottles’ necks as fuses. Grenades were taped together into clusters to blow off tank treads.
Rozenkrijtz gave no sign of being under any strain. He followed his usual punishing itinerary, but slept regularly. In reliance on an order from the Main Military Soviet to camouflage forward military units, he moved to a command post in the woods outside Domacheva. A sharp observer, Deryagin noticed he frequently conferred with Lopatov, huddled over topographical maps, whispering so Zholudev couldn’t overhear.
Saturday the 21st was another muggy, hot day. It was a duty day so Rozenkrijtz could continue his preparations. Junior Lieutenant Bychkovskij, the third company commander, asked if he could be excused early to attend a play at the Minsk Officers Club. Rozenkrijtz denied the request, an action that struck Bychkovskij as arbitrary and unjustified, but which surprised no one, given Rozenkrijtz’s notoriety as a tyrant, a reputation reinforced by his recent behavior.
He was more than usually harsh that day, constantly on the move, always dissatisfied, his tongue a lash that drove men and officers. Despite his efforts, Saturday still slipped through his hands. The evening found him sitting on a camp chair at the command post in the woods. He sipped tea and for the millionth time reviewed a situation that could only be called hopeless.
“Semka,” Lopatov said, “don’t brood. We did what we could in the short time we had. Who knows, maybe the German was lying.”
“That’s what Ogarik said. Save your fairy tales for children. It will happen just like the deserter said.”
“Even if it does, what else can we do?”
“One other thing occurred to me. Take a squad. Post it around the telephone exchange as a guard. The Germans may send fifth columnists ahead of them, Ukrainians who follow Bandera, the OUN. Man the first watch. Make sure the men stay vigilant.”
“Exactly so, Semka,” Lopatov said, always glad to act rather than think.
Rozenkrijtz wasted another hour in pointless brooding before he lay down on the cot set up for him. He couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow loomed in his mind like an abyss, a pit that would swallow him and millions of others, never to be heard from again. He almost wished it would begin now, just to have it over with. At last he drifted off into a gray, dissatisfactory half-sleep, crowded with vague, disturbing thoughts and unidentifiable malevolent images until it was shattered by rifle fire’s unmistakable crack.
He jumped up, fully awake and already dressed, and pulled out his sidearm. He ran to the village where the rifle fire came, to the telephone exchange. Wary of being shot by his own men, he advanced cautiously. Weapons at the ready, Lopatov and his squad watched a man thrash on the ground. The wounded man wore civilian clothes.
“Report.”
“We took up positions as ordered,” Lopatov said after a few seconds. He couldn’t stop watching the dying man.
“Remskij saw some men, five or six at most, running from hut to hut toward us. We challenged them and got no answer. They opened up on us. It sounded like machine pistols. We returned fire. This fellow ran toward us and we shot him.”
“You caught him in the lung. Too bad he’s in no shape to be interrogated. Any other enemy casualties?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Keep the squad here. Reinforce it with another one. They may attack again. Have the remaining squads turn everyone out of their huts. Put anyone unfamiliar under arrest.”
Lopatov ran off to execute his orders. Rozenkrijtz looked down at the dying man again. He was young, a boy. His thin white face was drawn even sharper by pain. Blood bubbles formed in his mouth as he gasped for air.
“Mat,” he cried, “Mother.”
Rozenkrijtz took his Nagant revolver and put it to the Banderist’s temple. He pulled the trigger. The bullet killed him instantly. The silence that followed was broken by villagers’ shouts and wails as Lopatov and his men dragged them from their homes.
Rozenkrijtz heard another sound, a background noise that steadily grew in volume, muffled rumbling like summer thunder from the west. Vivid flashes of orange and red flared all along the horizon. His wristwatch’s luminous dial showed 0330.
“It’s begun.”
He went into the telephone exchange and told the signalist to put him through to Regiment. Quaking with fear, he fumbled with the crude switchboard only to report the telephone was dead. Rather than foolishly assault the telephone exchange again, the Banderists had instead cut the lines outside Domacheva. Rozenkrijtz ordered the signalist to take his tool kit, find where the lines had been cut, and repair them, a command that prostrated him. He only obeyed after Rozenkrijtz detailed three men as a guard and threatened to shoot the signalist if he didn’t move fast. Lopatov was waiting for him.
“Find anyone?” Rozenkrijtz demanded.
“No, just the usual hostile bunch.”
“That’s what I expected. They’ve gone down to the road to Pruzhany and cut the lines. I sent Logarev with a guard to repair them. Put the peasants back in their huts. Barricade the doors so they can’t escape. Otherwise they’ll stab us in the back. Turn Korzhak out and tell him to load the lorry. Fetch Bychkovskij and Zakharov. Bring them to the command post. I’ll give my orders there.”
Rozenkrijtz ran back to the woods. The intensity and volume of the German barrage steadily grew. The guns were getting closer. The guard remembered to properly challenge Rozenkrijtz, a small thing that encouraged him. Zholudev was in a complete funk.
“Comrade Captain,” the little man squealed, “what’s happening? We heard shooting. What’s that noise? Is an artillery unit nearby?”
“No, fool. The Germans are invading. Get your rifle and helmet and report to first company for duty as a rifleman. I’ve no further need for a clerk.”
Zholudev whimpered. Rozenkrijtz slapped him hard across the face.
“Move, you filthy informer or I’ll field court-martial you and shoot you for the scum you are.”
Zholudev scuttled away, weeping piteously. Lopatov arrived with the other company commanders.
Rozenkrijtz ordered Bychkovskij and Zakharov to deploy first and third companies in the forward entrenchments with full field kit including rifles and ammunition. Second company would continue to secure Domacheva and the command post and only deploy once the other two companies moved out. The two officers hastened to carry out their orders, leaving Rozenkrijtz and Lopatov alone. They listened to the hellish thunder of thousands of high caliber field artillery.
“Think we’ll get out of this one?”
Rozenkrijtz grinned. “No. Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
“Never,” Lopatov replied, “although I’ll admit this terrible Red Army food makes me feel like shitting my pants.”
“Captain Rozenkrijtz. I must speak to you immediately.”
Deryagin walked up.
“Be quick. We march in minutes.”
“That’s exactly what I want to discuss. Pursuant to whose orders are first and third companies forming up to march?”
“Mine.”
“And what is your authority? Have you heard from Regiment? If so, I demand to see the written order.”
Rozenkrijtz and Lopatov stood open-mouthed, incredulous Deryagin could be so rigidly doctrinaire at such an obvious moment of crisis.
“Communications with Regiment have been cut. We’re trying to reestablish them. Can’t you tell from the cannon fire we’re being invaded, Deryagin?”
Deryagin looked westward and waved a hand dismissively. “Undoubtedly another attempt by the Germans to provoke us into hostilities. I needn’t remind you we’ve repeatedly received explicit instructions from the highest authority not to engage in activities that might be deemed belligerent by the Germans. Yet you tell me without hesitation you’re acting on your own initiative in direct contravention of those orders. And there’s more. On the way here, I observed Korzhak loading incendiary devices into the lorry. I take it those were prepared at your direction also.”
“You understand correctly,” Rozenkrijtz said, mocking Deryagin’s bureaucratese, enjoying the charade, Deryagin’s serious manner.
“You leave me no choice. You’re under arrest for anti-Soviet behavior and for disobeying direct orders from the Main Military Soviet. Lopatov, consider yourself under arrest also. You’re in on it too. I shall have to ask you to surrender your side-arms. I knew you’d slip up sooner or later, you cold, arrogant bastard!”
Rozenkrijtz pulled his revolver from his holster, but didn’t hand it over. A crack shot, he raised the pistol and fired. The bullet caught Deryagin just below his officer’s cap. He fell, dead before he even hit the ground.
“Guards!” Rozenkrijtz shouted. “Deryagin has been murdered by Banderists. Double the watch. Secure the perimeter immediately.”
“But you killed him,” Lopatov said.
“Shut up, do you want people to hear?”
Rozenkrijtz went to Deryagin and took his pistol and cartridges. He smiled at the dead man.
“My silver lining.”
Rozenkrijtz put the cartridges in his pocket and stuck the pistol in his belt. He exchanged his cap for a helmet, put a rucksack full of grenades on his back, and shouldered a Moisin rifle.
Rozenkrijtz turned to Lopatov and said, “Deploy second company. We march to battle.”
“Exactly so, Comrade Commander!”

****

Mark Mellon is a novelist who supports his family by working as an attorney who served for four years in the U. S. Army as a Russian linguist from 1980-84. He writes two fisted, hardboiled, blood and guts pulp fiction. Four novels and over eighty short stories have been published in the USA, UK, Ireland, Bulgaria, and Denmark. A novella, Escape From Byzantium, won the 2010 Independent Publisher Silver Medal for F/SF. A website featuring Mark's writing is at www.mellonwritesagain.com.