The Polish SAS soldier pulled out a bandage and wound it around the hand, leaving the trigger and third fingers exposed.
The two exchanged no words and Bouzyk slipped back to his position, missing Tappett’s nod of gratitude.
By now the barge was nearly at the bank and shapes materialised through the snow, quickly resolving into waiting partisans.
With the hand injury, Tappett’s contribution to shifting some of the load was greatly reduced, and he quickly swapped with Cookson and became the lookout.
It was Cookson who first spotted that not all was as it seemed.
“What the bleeding hell is that?”
Said to no one in particular, it drew both Cadbury and Bouzyk to the gap he had just created.
No one could supply the answer, but the metal drum carried more than enough warning markings indicating a horrible death that none of the three doubted it was something special, and very, very deadly.
Cookson risked a quick look with his red muffled torch and saw that inside the stack of supplies there were ten, possibly twelve such metal drums.
Knowing Bottomley was on the other side of the river, the decision fell to the SAS sergeant, and he swiftly processed the details.
“We need one… but fucking carefully does it, boys. Slow and steady.”
Slow and steady became less likely as the night was riven with sounds of automatic weapons, away up river for sure, but still close enough to impart urgency to the recovery process.
The partisans beckoned for more supplies but Cookson stood firm.
“No! We only take a little. They must think it’s lost, not stolen.”
Pyragius arrived and stepped in to the discussion.
“The man is right, my children. We have enough now… we must leav…”
“No, Boss. We can’t yet. We have to take one of these. It’s important.”
“What is it?”
“Haven’t got a clue. Metal drum filled with something very nasty.”
“How big?”
“Hundred litres.”
“We can’t carry that. Come on. Let’s sink the barge and be on our way before whatever that is up there comes down here.”
Pyragius slapped one of his men on the shoulder, encouraging him to pick up one of the boxes with him.
“Come on, my children, let’s get our booty home.”
“I’m not talking about carrying it… the dinghy will take it. We’ll float it away and hide it for now. I need one of your men… just for a few moments.”
The partisan leader calculated the stolen supplies and the hands available.
“Norkus… help them and then follow on. Stay safe.”
He slapped the man on the back and turned back to Cookson.
“Then you’re on your own. See you back at the camp. Let’s move!”
The whole partisan unit disappeared into the night in an instant, leaving the three SAS men to move the drum as Norkus pulled the barge in tighter to one of the dinghies.
“Parbuckle.”
Cookson gave the order and slipped up to the stern where Tappett was watching the east for any signs of what had caused the burst of fire.
“How’s it going, Tappers?”
“Nowt, Sarnt. Nowt at all. Firing stopped a’while back. Now nothing.”
“And yer hand?”
“I’ll have to wank with the left forra while, but I can still fire a gun if that’s what yer asking.”
“Keep sharp. We’ll sink the fuckers shortly. We’re using the dinghies…”
Tappett went to comment but he barely drew breath.
“I’ll explain later. We’re going out by dinghy, and we’re taking something nasty with us. Be ready on my shout, Tappers.”
“OK, Sarnt.”
Cookson slithered back to the waiting pair and saw that the drum was ready to lower.
A parbuckle was a simple use of a line to lower a round object, and the process was quickly initiated, the two men slinging the heavy barrel with relative ease, thanks to the looped line.
The drum sat in the dinghy quite snugly and Cookson dropped gently off the barge onto it, recovering the line from his two men, and using the ends to secure the barrel as best he could.
“Front and back… we’ll tie the other alongside it… it’ll take all of us.”
Bouzyk and Cadbury understood and waited patiently as the two dinghies were secured together.
“Norkus. Throw them the line now. Thank you.”
The partisan undid the securing line and threw accurately. With a simple salute, he disappeared into the snow.
The barge moved along, again under the influence of the flowing river.
Cookson pulled himself back aboard the vessel and hissed at Tappett, who moved back to the bow.
“Choc, you babysit the bloody thing. Tappers, you get yourself in and comfy. For fuck’s sake be careful of whatever that is. Boozy and I’ll spring the boards. Cast off if you think you’re in bother, but I’d rather not go for a dip. Move.”
Whilst the two men slipped over the side and onto the ‘raft’, Bouzyk and Cookson dropped into the bottom of the barge and sought the best way to sink the barge ‘accidentally’.
The drain plug was an obvious target but allowed surprisingly little water in, so they sought other methods, each of which seemed terminally noisy in the circumstances.
A crowbar helped with one of the more rotten members, but the water stubbornly refused to flow through the weakened timbers.
“Fuck it.”
Cookson reached around and pulled out his pistol, a CZ-27, onto which he attached a silencer.
Four shots created a weakness that Bouzyk quickly exploited, disguising the bullet holes.
Water burst in through the damaged hull.
“That’s the fucking boy, Boozy. Over the side with you.”
The water level grew steadily and it was obvious that the barge was doomed.
However, the removal of some crates had made the load less balanced and the barge quickly assumed a lean, one that worked against Cookson’s attempts to climb out of the hold.
As the angle grew worse, part of the load shifted and the barge rolled, allowing the water over the side and into the hold to complete the job.
It sank.
The SAS team had cast off so that the barge didn’t carry them down, but kept a loose hold on the sinking vessel to help get Cookson off.
The sergeant scrabbled up to the edge of the barge, now the only dry part, and rolled over towards the dinghies.
In a moment of petulance, the sinking vessel lurched and opened a gap roughly the size of an SAS NCO, through which Cookson dropped into the freezing cold water of the Neman River.
Rough hands grabbed at the floundering man and brought him upright at the side of the dinghy.
“Fucking hell. Me bollocks have done a runner!”
Laughing softly, Boozy and Choc pulled their leader into the dinghy, the belch of air from the barge signifying the exchange as the river gave up Cookson and claimed the barge.
The NCO’s teeth were already chattering as his soaked body as exposed to the wind that now drove the snow even harder.
The snow burst into a whiter light.
“Flare!”
It was stating the obvious but Bouzyk said it anyway.
More flares rose and the firing started up again, this time closer and decidedly more threatening.
The tell-tale chatter of an MG-42 declared that the north bank group had run into trouble.
The plan had allowed for them to remain in overwatch whilst the barge was looted, and Cookson calculated that they should have already moved off, but the evidence of their continued presence was unequivocal.
“Paddle into the left bank!”
Cookson led my example and his small oar bit into the water.
He explained in between strokes.
“Tappers, keep a sharp lookout on the left. There’s a stream… saw it on the map… drops off the main river… we get into there…”