Yellow Mama E zine

Roland

 

by Kalvin M. Madsen

 

 

       “Do you believe in ghosts?” Artem asked me as we sat waiting for our drinks at a cafe. He had a look as though he was being pursued. It had been four long years since I had seen that man’s grizzled face, and I had to admit he still carried all the caution of a soldier.

       “Ghosts?” I asked.

       “Yes. Spirits, demons. Non-physical beings.”

       I was so puzzled by his question that when the barista called out my name, I didn’t hear her. It wasn’t until her third call that I realized and promptly retrieved our cappuccinos. I returned to Artem and found my response as I set his drink before him.

       “Ghosts, huh? I suppose I have my own way of believing in them. Why do you ask?”

       “I want to know how you feel about this before we go on. I remember your vague beliefs from our time back east — you could see things going either way. Are you agnostic?” Artem asked me.

        “Agnostic? Well, maybe about ghosts. That’s probably the best way to put it.”

        “Okay, that's fine. That’s good, actually.”

        “So you came this way to hear my indecisive, wishy-washy opinions?”

         Artem laughed at this, saying “That’s right, old friend. I want to hear what you think about something. I need help understanding this…”

         The expression on his face went flat and gray as he looked to recall a troubling memory.

         “Tell me about it,” I said.

         As a war reporter, I was well accustomed to the stories told by trusting, weary soldiers. I knew especially well how cathartic it can be to have a chance to relive and articulate a traumatic experience. It can usher in a greater understanding of the events and the storytellers themselves.

         Artem seemed to struggle before he could continue. I saw ideas appear and fade in his expression until he found a trailhead for his story.

         “You may remember, I was in a mechanized infantry unit during the Kursk incursion. It was the summer of ’24. During that time, we were on a bit of a high. After months of grinding away against Russian attacks, suddenly we were miles beyond the Russian Border with nearly the entire Kursk Oblast under our control.”

I remembered the heat of that summer. The buzzing of drones and the scattered smokestacks as far as the eye could see.

         “You went in on day one, right? You saw that offensive all the way through, didn’t you?”

        “I did,” Artem said solemnly. “Until the winter came. When I was injured by the drone swarm.”

         “I remember,” I said.

         “At the beginning of that winter,” he began, then took a breath. “Our battalion was dug into a tree line 3 kilometers from Kursk city. It was weeks before my injury. A quiet time during the operation. We were waiting for the 34th and the 11th mechanized battalions to push up to our flanks. Day and night we heard small arms fire from the east and west and listened to the radio chatter about entrenched Kremlin soldiers. Occasionally, an enemy recon quadcopter would fly over our position, yet somehow these never caught sight of us.”

         “How long were you there?” I asked, wondering where his story would lead. I thought, at that time, that perhaps he only wanted to come out to discuss these events for his own sake — to gain a better understanding by bouncing it off me.

        “Just under a week. It was a long time to wait. The only real offensive action we took was sending out a squad to trail a recon drone back to its operators and ambush them. This small operation was successful, but another enemy recon drone was deployed the next day. It was sometime after this that I first saw it.”

       “Saw what?”

       Artem looked away, doing a quick scan of the room like a thief checking security. His eyes were wide, and his body rose and fell with his deep breaths.

        “Look, I have no history of hallucination or drug use. I wasn’t drinking during that offensive. It was too risky. We just sat, watching the enemy line, hoping the day would be quiet. That day, I remember, I was set out with a pair of binoculars glassing the northern woods when I saw movement. I was sure it wouldn’t be a soldier, probably a deer, I thought. It went between some trees and vanished. I told an officer and continued to watch those woods until the figure emerged again, this time walking out from the woods proudly. It was no deer.”

         “What was it?”

        “It was a man. The body of one, anyway,” Artem said, looking away. “He had no head — nothing above the shoulders.”

           I had no words. I looked at Artem with a curious gaze.

          “He came a few meters from the tree line and stopped, standing in the weeds with his belly toward us. After I collected myself, I shouted to that same officer to come look. I actually shouted too loud, and he came to me red hot. He told me to shut up and asked me what was wrong, so I just handed him the binoculars and told him where to look.”

           “Did he see it?”

          “No.”

          Artem’s gaze sharpened, his expression tense as he took a steadying breath and tried to convey the significance of what he'd seen.

          "No, he didn't see it. He looked right at the spot I was pointing to, but to him, there was nothing there. He thought I was cracking under the pressure, maybe seeing things from the tension of waiting. But I knew what I saw, Dan. I wasn't hallucinating. The headless man was real, at least to me."

            I leaned in, intrigued and unsettled by Artem's story. "What did you do then?"

          "I kept watching," Artem replied, his voice dropping to a whisper as if the memory was too delicate to speak aloud. "The officer dismissed me, told me to get some rest, maybe talk to the medic if I needed to. But I couldn't shake the image. I watched that figure for hours, waiting for it to move again. But it just stood there, like it was waiting for something too. And, you know,  I was considering all sorts of actions. I thought of taking one of the sniper rifles from the special forces guys. I probably could have been arrested, or at least beat up for something like that.”

          As we sat in a confused silence, a cafe worker told us they were closing, and we had to clear out. So we did, taking up our shoulder bags and turning in our mugs before walking out to the sidewalk.

          It was still warm, but the sun had long since drifted behind the buildings.

          “Where are you staying?” I asked.

          “I’m just up the street. I have the room only for tonight.”

          “Why is that? How long will you be in town for?” I said, ready to offer him my couch.

          “No, I’m not here on vacation. I’m here to ask you to return with me. I have two tickets, Dan.”

          “Come with you? What do you mean?”

 

           The next morning, I walked through the airport with a hollow feeling that only seemed to deepen with each step. During the security screening, it was as if I’d slipped into a surreal dream, a fog I couldn’t escape. By the time I reached my terminal, I’d nearly accepted my dissociation, as though this entire journey was something happening to someone else.

           I began writing on the plane, coming up with titles like “Chasing Ghosts in the Fields of Ukraine.” I found myself stalled, realizing I didn’t have much to go on yet. If I wanted a substantial piece, I’d have to see this through with Artem. It was during my research for this story that I stumbled upon a song by an American songwriter titled “Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner” which had me dumbfounded. I was quite stunned with the song's relation to Artem’s story and planned to show him when we settled down.

 

           The next morning, I found myself in a Kiev hotel common room, where the staff had set out a modest breakfast spread—mostly pastries and oatmeal. As I ate, I noticed a group of journalists sitting together, deep in conversation about their assignments. A few mentioned heading to Kursk Oblast, and I couldn’t help but lean in, intrigued by their plans. The roads into that region were all closed, due to unexploded munitions, and so Artem and I had been debating how to break through.

          Now, I like to think of myself as a principled man, but that day, I experienced a lapse in judgment. The fault lies with me alone, but something came over me when I saw the VIP badge hanging from one journalist’s bag—a badge issued by the military that granted access to restricted areas. My heart began to race as I considered the consequences. I hesitated, nerves twisting inside me, yet before I could talk myself out of it, impulse took over. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, I slipped the badge from the journalist’s bag and tucked it into my pocket. The thrill of the theft was quickly smothered by a surge of guilt, but I pushed it aside, rationalizing that it was for a greater purpose.

           When I presented the badge to Artem later, he looked at me in confusion.

          “We’re going to Kursk,” I said, holding it up.

 

          The drive to Kursk was long and tense, with the landscape growing increasingly barren and desolate as we moved closer to the city. The highways, once bustling, gradually emptied, and the scars of conflict appeared more frequently — burned-out vehicles littered the roadside, abandoned checkpoints lay in disrepair, and now and then, the distant rumble of artillery fire reminded us of the danger lurking nearby. We took a rough detour along roads barely passable in some places, but we pushed forward, determined to reach our destination.

           As we neared Kursk, the weight of our mission settled heavily on us. We had crossed a line, both literally and figuratively, and there was no turning back. The badge had gotten us this far, but it couldn’t shield us from whatever waited in those fields.

            By the time we reached the outskirts of Kursk, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, eerie shadows over the bleak landscape. Artem, tense and alert, glanced down at the GPS on his phone, tracking our location carefully. The fading light seemed to deepen the silence between us, each of us lost in our thoughts, bracing for what lay ahead.

            “Wait!” he said. I noticed him staring at something in the distance.

            “What?” I asked.

            “Let’s pull over,” he said, pointing adamantly across a field. I looked in that direction and saw a blackened, partially destroyed home at the far end of an overgrown field. “I know that house.”

 

             As we walked, the atmosphere grew heavier, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of our footsteps and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. The further we went, the more I felt as if we were being watched, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I wondered about those rumored munitions; the landmines and unexploded cluster bomblets.

            The path led us deeper into the woods, the trees growing denser and the light fading rapidly. An oppressive feeling intensified, and I couldn’t shake the sense that we were being drawn into something.

We reached a small clearing, the ground uneven and littered with the remnants of old trenches and foxholes. Artem stopped, his eyes fixed on a spot near the edge of the clearing where the trees seemed to close in, their branches intertwining like skeletal fingers.

            “This is it,” he said, his voice barely audible. “This is where I saw him.”

 

            As we settled in for the night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were intruding, that we had crossed into a place where we did not belong.

             “Do you think he’ll come?” I asked.

            Artem didn’t answer immediately. He finished setting up his sleeping bag and sat down on the ground, his back against a tree. He looked out into the darkness.

            “I don’t know,” he finally said. “If he does, I’ll be ready.”

 

             I woke up in a state of mania in the middle of the night and saw Artem laying on his belly, looking through binoculars out over the field.

            “Artem?” I asked, wondering how long he had been at it.

            “Shhh,” he said without looking away from the field.

            I tried to go back to sleep but I couldn’t, I figured I had gotten at least two or three scattered hours of sleeping in by that point. I don’t remember the last time I slept in such conditions, but Artem seemed well accustomed. Once a soldier, always a soldier, I suppose.

            Everything was calm, and quiet until Artem was suddenly animated and sitting up like a frightened squirrel.

            “What’s up?” I asked.

            “Dan, I think…” he said, too distracted to speak. “Is it him?”

            “Let me see,” I said, sitting up and reaching for his binoculars. But as he handed them off, Artem launched off into the night leaving a whirl of wind and kicked up dirt. He had left with such speed and desperation that I hardly saw which direction he went.

            “Artem!” I cried out into the darkness, still stunned by his leaving.

            I could hear him fighting through the weeds, but I didn’t dare leave the camp. I called after him until I heard it. An explosion in the field. Sharp and loud, echoing down the valley. Its shockwave rolled through, shattering a glass vile of doom within me that bled out like dye in water. I was grounded, my fingers digging into the mud as I waited in disbelief for that dye to reach my brain.

            I shot up, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew what it was, the calculation happened immediately as I recalled the rumored munitions in the area. Even after the war had ended, its byproduct, buried and plunged into the dirt years ago, still claimed lives.

            Panic surged through me as I scrambled out of the tent, the darkness around me thick and impenetrable. I grabbed the flashlight and scanned the swampy clearing with its yellow beam. My hands shook, and my peripheral vision was closing in. There was no sign of Artem, but the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the trees, growing fainter by the second.

             I bolted after the sound, heart pounding, the beam of my flashlight slicing through the darkness like a yellow saber. The trees seemed to close in around me, the path ahead obscured by shadows. I called out his name, but my voice was swallowed by the night.

             And then, just as suddenly as they had started, the footsteps stopped. I was alone, swallowed by a suffocating silence. Panic crept in as I realized I had no idea how to find Artem through the dense foliage and tangled weeds. With no other choice, I began retracing my steps in the darkness, every cautious move haunted by the thought of hidden mines. The shifting branches and rustling leaves played tricks on me, conjuring fears of lurking specters or wild animals. I felt like a lost child, stumbling as branches scratched my legs and waist. Before long, I was weeping, blindly floundering through the darkness like a crab caught in slick, rolling oil. It seemed an eternity before I finally stumbled back to camp, feeling utterly defeated.

              “Artem!” I called out maniacally, feeling myself slipping away.

              In mania, I stumbled into the field, collapsing into a prickly thicket that clung to me with sharp, sticky burrs. They pierced through my thin clothing, embedding themselves into my skin and sending fresh waves of panic through me. Desperately, I rolled in the grass, clawing at the burrs, yanking them free with trembling hands. But before I could regain my bearings, I received the final blow to my waking mind. Just beyond a line of seeded grass, that monstrous figure stood—a soldier with no head, a Thompson rifle clutched in one hand, upright and formidable.

            Its body was clad in ragged military fatigues, the fabric worn and grimy, with a faded name tag barely visible on its chest: “Roland.” The headless apparition took a step forward, moving with the slow, deliberate power of a towering machine. I felt every muscle seize in terror, and then instinct jolted me into motion. I scrambled to my feet and took off, sprinting blindly toward camp, my heart hammering with each frantic step.

Branches and tall weeds cut at my arms and legs as I fought my way through the undergrowth, each scrape fueling the fear that Roland was right behind me, advancing with that relentless, mechanical stride. Suddenly, I crossed a blackened crater, the soil still smoky and charred. My mind barely registered it, as I pushed onward, refusing to glance back, certain that if I did, I’d see the headless soldier closing in, unstoppable.

I became tangled in the thick, knotted roots, my leg trapped so firmly that I couldn’t move. Desperately, I yanked at my leg, struggling to pull myself free. Just as I thought I might break loose, a sudden pressure settled on my shoulder—a grip that felt mechanical and evil. It squeezed my shoulder. I froze, fear paralyzing me, and then a rush of icy air swept over me, piercing through my skin and down to my bones. The cold was so intense, so unnatural, that my vision blurred, and a wave of darkness overtook me, pulling me into unconsciousness.

 

             I woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by sterile white walls and the steady beep of a heart monitor—somehow, I had survived the night. The memories that led to this moment were a disjointed haze, flashes of terror and confusion that barely pieced together. I tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through my side, forcing me back down. A nurse, noticing my attempt to move, hurried over, her face etched with a mix of concern and relief as she checked my vitals.

            "You're awake," she said, her voice soft and reassuring. "You've been through quite an ordeal."

I nodded weakly, the words gathering in my mind but stumbling before they reached my lips. “Artem… where is he?”

             The nurse’s expression shifted, her face tightening as she looked away, avoiding my gaze. “I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “Your friend didn’t survive the explosion. We found you not far from the site… You were lucky, but…” Her voice faded, and she returned her gaze to me, a look of profound sympathy in her eyes. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.” I felt a crushing weight of guilt and sorrow settle over me, the reality of what had happened sinking in.

 

             In the days that followed, I was questioned by the authorities. They wanted to know why we were there, what had led to the explosion. I gave them the details, leaving out the parts that seemed too unbelievable, too intertwined with madness and fear. I didn’t mention the headless soldier, mostly because I wanted them to let me go. Instead, I let them think it was a tragic accident, and that we were simply filming a documentary about Artem.

              When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I returned to my hotel room, but it no longer felt like a refuge. The memories of what had happened haunted me, and the silence was unbearable. I knew I couldn’t stay there, so I packed my bags and booked a flight back to California.

            But before I left Ukraine, there was one thing I needed to do. Artem had come here seeking closure, and while he hadn’t found it, I realized that I had a responsibility to tell his story—our story.

           Back in my hotel room, I opened my laptop and began to write. The article took shape slowly, hour by hour. By the time I finished, I felt strangely lighter, as though a heavy burden had finally lifted from my shoulders. I titled it, "Chasing Ghosts in the Fields of Ukraine.”

           Before leaving the country, I sent the article off to my editor, unsure of what the response would be. It wasn’t the kind of story that fit neatly into any category—part war reporting, part ghost story, part tribute. But it was the truth as I knew it, and that was all I could offer.

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Kalvin M. Madsen is a fiction writer based in Pasadena, CA. His debut story collection, Hello, Receiver, was published in 2019, and his work has appeared in Felix Magazine, The Catalyst UCSB, Low Hanging Fruit, and others. He is currently working on his second collection.

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Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.