Oz’s Platoon was stood midway between the NATO and Russian lines, and ten feet away stood a like number of Russian paratroopers.
This was the agreed upon site for transport carrying the prisoners from both sides to stop their vehicles and the men would be transferred to their own side’s transport.
There was no attempt by either group to break the hostile atmosphere that existed out there in no-mans-land; the soldiers eyed each other coldly.
4-ton trucks waited just out of sight on NATOs side whilst the first civilian ambulances and buses with blacked out windows appeared at the airport’s perimeter, within view of the NATO troops between the lines and stopped.
Oz looked the vehicles over with binoculars before speaking briefly into the microphone suspended in front of his mouth; a few moments later the first 4-ton truck arrived from NATO lines and the men on board had their plasticuffs and blindfolds removed. A Russian officer checked that the men were indeed Red Army troops and all fit or walking wounded. NATO were keeping the most badly wounded, it defeated the argument to demand their return.
Alontov’s reasons for the exchange took precedence over the humanitarian concerns, in that of buying time and undoing the damage that the killing of NATO prisoners caused by way of bolstering enemy resistance. To highlight the point, there were few prisoners from the recent to and fro battles on the airport’s perimeter where the 82nd troopers and the Brit squaddies had not been inclined to surrender when that opportunity had arisen, and had not been inclined to give quarter either.
The Light Infantrymen, Argyll’s, and Coldstreamers had lost too many friends to the no-prisoners policy carried out by the Red Army units at the river, and they had no reason at the time to believe that the Russian Airborne troops at Leipzig were any different.
In a small cavern created by jumbled rubble, Big Stef was peering through the spotting telescope, whilst ‘Freddie’ Laker set the crosshairs on the chest of a man stood on an aircraft hangar roof, who was watching the proceedings through binoculars.
A full magazine was attached to Freddie's weapon but the bolt was open, as a more certain preventative against ‘enn dees’, negligent discharges, during the cease-fire. A clean piece of cloth covered the open breach, keeping it free of the brick and cement dust that was kicked up at the slightest movement inside the hide. They had used up the contents of one water bottle in damping down the dust, but that left them with just a half bottle between the pair of them and no way of getting a replen without compromising their firing position. The dust had now dried out again and under the present circumstances, that meant that they could fire only once, after which they would have to relocate. Firing the weapon would create a small, yet tell-tale puff of dust that the enemy would be looking for.
“I bet that bastard’s at least a battalion commander; see how those other tosser’s are stood just behind him, all deferential like?”
“That’s a thousand metres Fred, bit far for a boss-eyed bastard like you.” Stef commented.
“Well if he’s still there when the cease-fire ends we’ll see about that… at the very least we’ll get to see a senior officer with brown adrenaline running down the backs of his legs.”
Nine hundred and eighty-nine metres away, Serge Alontov finished his methodical scanning and placed the binoculars back inside his smock.
“Well it would seem that NATO is sticking strictly to the terms of the agreement… .” Stepping away from the edge, he addressed the brigade commander.
“See to it that ours do the same Pyotr. Only foolish poets speak of combatants taking a pause in the middle of a hard fight to regard their adversaries with a new found respect and other such romantic mud'a. Our men will be itching to kick them in the balls while they aren’t expecting it, and so will theirs.” He strode away toward the maintenance ladder at the far side of the hangar and his entourage followed on.
Freddie lowered the weapon and punched the concrete slab beside him in frustration.
“Arse, bollocks and wank… the wankers gone!”
Big Stef sneezed as dust raised by Freddie’s tantrum got up his nose.
“Stroll on, mate… you’ll have this lot down on our swedes if you ain’t careful!”
It was almost ninety minutes before CSM Probert appeared, the last man to emerge from the back of a Leipzig public bus, the last vehicle in the exchange, and could stand squinting at the light. The remaining newly released POWs POW’s were filing towards NATO’s side of no-mans-land, but Colin paused to look about. He had been blindfolded for five hours despite the windows being blacked-out.
“Sergeant Osgood!” he called out when his eyes had adjusted enough for him to see.
Oz grinned broadly as he recognised his friend.
Colin was shoved roughly from behind and turned to confront a Russian Paratrooper.
“Move… English shit!”
As per the agreement, all the troops at the exchange point had their weapons slung and magazines secured in ammunition pouches. However the Russian wore on his hand a wicked pair of brass knuckle-dusters.
“Push me again you tosser and I’ll back-squad yer teeth to zed week!”
The angry remark drew all eyes; both British and Russian as the paratrooper started to say something in return, but Colin stepped in fast and hit him squarely in the mouth with a straight left that snapped his head backwards. After a split second of silence the troops of both sides piled into one another, fists swinging and boots flying. It didn’t last long because officers from either side ran over barking orders at their men.
Fighting next to Colin, Oz heard the shouting but he was having a good time and sent his opponent stumbling backwards, flattening the Russians nose with a ‘Glasgow Handshake’ before backing off and adding his voice to that of the officers.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something flying towards him and ducked out of the way, the object hit Colin before falling to the earth.
Colin picked up his webbing fighting order and looked at the man who strode through the huddle of Russian paratroops.
“Much obliged sir.”
“Well I’ll be, it’s the Fanny Magnet!” was all Oz could say.
“Hello Sergeant Osgood, nice head-butt by the way.” Nikoli extended his hand to the Geordie squaddie.
All the returned NATO prisoners had been brought back in just the uniforms they had on their backs, their captors knew that there was plenty of equipment from the dead with which to speedily re-equip them. As a matter of principle neither side had reunited the prisoners they had, with their kit. It takes time to get webbing to fit properly and even longer to replace the personalised items they carried in and on it. Nikoli reached into his smock and withdrew Colin’s K-Bar fighting knife and shorter bladed survival knife, which he handed across to the CSM.
“Aren’t you going to get in the shit for this?”
“It is a small matter Colin, and besides which these men are all from my Company.”
Oz was grinning at the Russian lieutenant.
“We heard you had done a runner and were shagging the brains out of some drop-dead-gorgeous RMP captain. You never turned up at the internment centre, and the monkeys were going ape trying to find you?”
“That is a long story Oz, but as you can see I did get back to Russia.” He looked around at his troops and spoke to them in a calm voice. The Russians expressions still looked fierce once he had finished, but they had a touch of respect in them too.
“I told them that I lived and trained with you all for six months, that you were good men and almost as good a unit as we are.” Actually Nikoli had only worked with Colin and Oz, but it served to act as a buffer against any of his own men starting another fight.