Maybe, but Siberians… he was damned thankful that he didn’t have to work with them.
Among the junior officers at HQ the topical horror story was the tale of the Siberians who had murdered their young platoon commander, recently arrived from the Academy only two weeks before. All fifteen of them had deserted and headed for the hills above the central Czechoslovak plain. The officer had pursued them across country and caught up with them after several hours. Picking up their tracks couldn’t have been difficult. The trail of rape victims, both male and female, had considerably narrowed the search. The commander’s attempts to bring them in had resulted in his death too, but only after he had been tied, tortured and screwed by each Easterner in turn. The officer had no choice but to find them, Malenkoy knew that. He had either to bring them back for trial or face the prospect of a bullet in the base of the skull for gross failure in the field.
Malenkoy’s driver slammed his foot on the brakes and the jeep slewed across the road.
The first bullet splintered the windscreen, the second tore a hole the size of a man’s fist in the petrol can that was strapped to the inside of the jeep next to Malenkoy’s legs. He threw himself flat on the other rear seat, but not before he caught a glimpse of something in the middle of the road about fifty metres from them.
Malenkoy’s mind screamed. He fumbled for his pistol. The driver was crashing the gears trying to find reverse. The smell of petrol burnt his nostrils. Why couldn’t he get the fucking pistol out? Just as he felt the reassuring rough texture of the pistol grip, the driver found reverse and Malenkoy was jolted forward. Another crack, but no telling where the bullet found its mark. Malenkoy took a deep breath and came up from the seat letting four shots off in quick succession at the figure further up the track. The jeep shot forward and Malenkoy’s fifth shot went wild. The driver tore off down the road back to Chrudim and Malenkoy fired the rest of his clip at the single assailant who had ambushed them like some sort of maniac, standing unprotected by cover, in the middle of the track.
The hunter had the last word. Malenkoy saw the flash from the panzerfaust just within the tree line and then the searing blast of hot gas caught him on the side of the face as the explosion tore into a pine only metres to his left. The jeep lurched onto two wheels and Malenkoy thought they would go over. The wheels spun, then gripped the surface of the road. Two seconds later they rounded a bend in the track.
Malenkoy and his driver never exchanged a word. The speed of their departure almost took them off the road at several points. The Russian kept his eyes on the dark interior of the forest, scouting the shadows for signs of movement or a hint of sunlight reflected off metal. They could be anywhere. It was the first time in three years of fighting that he had felt shit-scared. If one bullet had found the petrol-soaked interior of the jeep, he would have been roast meat by now.
Shit! The fucking SS were in his sector. It hadn’t been a partisan who had attacked them. He had seen the camouflaged battle smock and the coal-scuttle helmet. He had better place a call through to HQ when they got back to Chrudim. This was another job for the Siberians.
Half a kilometre back up the track, the soldier was still swearing loudly at his comrades about the failure of the ambush.
They ignored the tirade of profanities. So two more Ivans had got away. There were probably half a million others in the area to choose from, judging by the enemy activity they had seen.
The officer was chastising the burly sergeant for his bungling stupidity. What had he hoped to achieve by darting into the middle of the road and taking on the Russians alone? Another act of disobedience like that and he would be shot.
As the small party of insurgents set off in single file through the forest, the sergeant smiled to himself. They would not dare to shoot him. Without his battle experience, they would never be able to make their way back through enemy territory to their own lines.
He slid back the bolt of his rifle and pulled out the unspent bullet with the soft snub head. He’d better go easy on those. He had only about ten left.
The officer tried to control his anger as he joined the rest of the platoon. Dietz’s decision to ambush the GAZ could not have come at a worse moment. As if they did not have enough problems getting back to their own lines, every Russian in the sector would now be on the look-out for them; and there would be search parties.
The dispatch case they had taken off the Russian major offered them a chance, but he needed time to study it and to think. He had been examining its contents when he heard the first shots from Dietz’s Mauser.
What he saw had made him catch his breath. The maps inside the case seemed to show the exact positions and strength of all the Soviet units ranged along the Eastern front. More than that, they highlighted areas of Allied strength and the location of his own forces. If they were genuine. It was most unusual for a mere major to be carrying such highly classified material. He needed time to think.
“Fire off the port beam, Herr Hauptmann!”
“I see it. Let’s take a look.”
Klepper banked the Focke-Wulf gently round to the north until the thin wisp of smoke emanating from the carpet of forest below was straight in front of them.
Menzel, in the nose of the Uhu, peered down through four thousand metres of icy clear air at the source of the smoke trail. No sign of any activity down there, but according to his maps they were only twenty kilometres or so from Chrudim itself, so it was worth checking out. Could be some crazy Ivan patrol cooking a meal on an open fire in the middle of the great forest, reckoning themselves to be safe from any Germans. Klepper should take the plane down to tree top height and let him and Lutz spray the area with machine-gun fire. That would do something for their appetites. Menzel knew that Klepper would never give way to such a futile gesture. Their orders were simple. Take photographs of Chrudim and get out. No Ivan patrol was going to jeopardize the mission for Klepper, of that Menzel could be sure.
He checked his maps again. There should be a road down there. It was hard to see, but he could just make out a trail through the forest. Only then did he realize that the fire below was burning right beside the road that snaked its way off to Chrudim in the middle distance.
“Herr Hauptmann, that smoke is coming from a fire beside the main road into Chrudim. I think there must be a burning vehicle. Could be part of the reason we came here. Mind if we take a look?”
Klepper nodded. “We’ll check it out. I’ll continue on up the trail until we reach Chrudim. Make sure your weapons are armed, both of you. And Menzel, get ready with the cameras. You’ll only have a few seconds over target.”
The FW 189 went into a shallow dive. Menzel suddenly didn’t notice the cold anymore. His heated flight suit still wasn’t working, but he could feel the sticky perspiration soaking his back as he lay prone in the clear perspex dome at the front of the aircraft.
He grasped the St Christopher medallion that was swinging from his neck and squeezed it, his lips mouthing a silent prayer. His sweetheart had given him the charm when he had last been home on leave. Was it this year or last? He couldn’t remember.
They were now skimming over the tops of the trees at 210 kph. He felt an urge to cover his face with his arms as a bough danced crazily in front of his eyes before flashing past him in a green and brown blur.
The trail of smoke was straight ahead. Closer… closer.
They were already several hundred metres beyond the fire by the time Menzel radioed through to Klepper that there was nothing there, only a clump of trees burning beside the road.