Skryabin, drinking from a recently filled hip flask, drew closer to the Captain.
Pencil poised over the paperwork containing the prisoner details, he looked up at the first man.
“Name and rank?”
“Schwartz. Major.”
It took a minute to find the name, on the last but one sheet.
A head gesture moved the suffering Schwartz on, the frozen man still wrapped in the summer tunic he had been wearing when taken prisoner on the 7th August.
“And you?”
“De Villiers, Flight Lieutenant.”
The South African pilot’s name was on the first sheet.
“Next.”
“Jus’ there, man.”
The Scottish soldier tapped the paper hard, causing a small tear at the side.
“See there. It says ‘Kiss ma fucking chassis, ye commie wanker’. Just there.”
McLinden laughed.
De Villiers laughed.
Collins laughed.
Skryabin certainly didn’t.
No-one laughed as the top of McLinden’s head disappeared, and those nearest got a spray of blood and brains as Skryabin’s bullet smashed a path through the NCO’s head.
Returning his pistol to the soft leather holster, Skryabin leant forward, speaking over the shoulder of his Captain, who had received an exaggerated share of the detritus from the dead McLinden.
Indicating the body, the warm blood steaming in the freezing temperature, Skryabin shouted at the next prisoner in line.
“Now. What was that’s name?”
Julius Collins looked long and hard at the sneering NKVD officer and debated his options.
‘You’ll fucking keep, you commie son of a fucking bitch. But you an’ me’ll dance soon enough.’
“Maclinden, Lance-Corporal.”
The NKVD Captain re-established himself.
“And yours?”
“Collins, Master Sergeant.”
A head gesture sent Collins limping on his way as McLinden’s body started to stiffen in the cold.
An American officer strode up to the table, pushing others aside in his anger.
“Who the fuck is in charge of this… this…,” his finger pointed at the corpse, his anger leaving him unable to speak.
“I am. Who are you?”
“I’m Colonel Lee,” the ex-commanding officer of the 317th US Infantry Regiment leant over the table, using his scarred face and huge frame to try and intimidate the two enemy officers, “And who the hell are you? Shooting prisoners is murder, you sonofabitch. When this is over, there’ll be a reckoning.”
Skryabin also leant forward and encouraged Durets to find the name.
Once it was located, the pencil did its work.
The Tokarev was out of the holster and had put the first of two bullets into Lee before anyone had a chance to move.
Skryabin, his face lightened in amusement, tapped Durets on the shoulder.
“Amend your records, Comrade Kapitan. They are incorrect.”
Converting the tick into a cross, Durets steadied himself with a deep breath.
Skryabin walked down the line of waiting men, seemingly indifferent to the naked hate that emanated from each set of eyes, although those that looked saw a purposeful grip maintained on the unsheathed pistol.
Back at the desk, Dryden and Hamouda tended to Lee, trying to stem the flow of blood.
The Colonel, shock removing his capacity for coherent speech, started to moan louder and louder.
Anxious to avoid any further attention from the psychopath NKVD commander, Hamouda clamped his hand over Lee’s mouth, stifling the sounds of a man in the extremes of pain.
Skryabin, hearing the moans, turned back, but was intercepted by the arrival of one of his soldiers.
The salute was text book and extremely impressive, something all the Major’s team had found to be necessary to avoid a beating, or worse.
“Comrade Mayor. General Lunin is on the phone. Guard hut Seven.”
As Skryabin stalked off towards the nearest guard post, Dryden appealed to Durets.
“Please, Captain… if I don’t get him in the warm and work on these wounds, he will die.”
English simply wasn’t Durets strong point, but he understood what the naval doctor wanted.
However, his language skills were up to a response.
“No.”
To punctuate his response, Durets continued with the next in line.
It was twenty past eight in the evening by the time the Allied prisoners were permitted to move off the assembly ground, by which time forty-nine more men had succumbed to the effects of the Soviet winter.
By some miracle, Dryden and Hamouda had managed to keep the wounded Lee alive.
In hut two, a space was created close to the single stove, and the two men went to work.
All around them, men huddled together on solid bunks, six to a space meant for one, some watching, others drifting off into a sleep of sorts, all just thankful to be alive.
At nine o’clock the two electric lights went out, the normal routine for the camp, had they but known it.
“No! Get them back on!”
Dryden fumbled around solely by touch, desperate to find the blood vessel that was still causing Lee problems.
“I need light!”
A movement of a finger brought some, as Julius Collins flicked his contraband lighter into life, although it was weak and flickering.
Another , then another joined, but the combined light was still less than ideal.
Dryden probed with his finger, feeling a pulsing flow.
All of a sudden that flow became a geyser, squirting Lee’s blood straight at his face.
“Shit! More light!”
Two more lighters added to the array.
The geyser subsided, but not because the blood vessel had been found.
“No! No! No! Hany!”
Standing ready with the twine, Hamouda could do nothing but check the colonel’s vital signs.
“Weak, racing.”
He laid his hand on Dryden’s, the one deep inside the main wound.
“Lieutenant Commander, there is nothing you can do now.”
Lee died, one final prolonged exhalation marking his end.
“Bastards! We could have saved him, Hany! Bastards!”
The lighters clicked out one by one, until the glow of the wood stove provided the only illumination.
Kevin Roberts, a young Canadian Major, lit two cigarettes from one of the pieces of red luminous timber and passed one to the naval man.
“You gave it your best shot, Commander. It just wasn’t enough today.”
Dryden looked at him in anger, and then he slumped in resignation.
Hamouda stayed silent, but he was also obviously feeling the loss.
Roberts slapped both men on the shoulder and spoke with conviction.
“There will be other days.”
Huts one, two, and three contained the Senior NCO’s and officers from amongst the prisoners, men whom the NKVD reasoned would be of higher intelligence, and therefore more capable of the later tasks that would be demanded of the workforce.
Until that time came, all prisoners cut wood, mixed concrete, carried stone, or dug as best they could in frozen soil, often prepared by explosives,.
Much as the Germans had brought together their most troublesome prisoners in one place, a move that concentrated the most devious minds in one camp, the Soviet focus on huts one, two and three also meant that they created a rod for their own backs, as subtle moves, planned discretely round the hut stoves, spelt delay for the project over the coming weeks and months.
Chapter 125 – THE QUIET
It is not a field of a few acres of ground, but a cause that we are defending, and whether we defeat the enemy in one battle, or by degrees, the consequences will be the same.