The grunts commenced as the rape neared its conclusion, the frequency and depth of his thrusts indicating that he would soon expend himself.
The American let out a moan as he shot his semen inside her, shuddering in ecstasy, and forgetting where he was for the briefest of wonderful moments.
His memory was refreshed by a hand that grabbed his webbing and pulled him off Astafieva.
The terrified girl froze at the face of the man that held a Thompson submachine gun hard against the nose of the rapist.
The voice chilled her further for, although she failed to understand a word, the threat it carried was very clear indeed; but the anger was not directed at her.
“Woods… so help me God… I should shoot you now… you bastard… you fucking bastard…”
He pressed the terrified man into the snow with the weapon, his other seeking to comfort the petrified woman.
Towers composed himself, tenderly pulling Astafieva’s clothes up over her as he made his decision.
“Private First Class Woods, Robert H, I am arresting you for rape and murder under the authority granted to me by the Articles of War.”
He grabbed the prisoner’s Garand and tossed it to one of his waiting men.
There was much more that he wanted to say, but Towers had a battle to fight.
Eyes fixed on the wretched Woods, he spoke to the man who had caught the rifle.
“Corporal, take this man back to the rear and keep him secure until I return. Any trouble… any trouble at all,” his eyes burned into Woods’, stifling any building petulance, “Anything he does, if he gets outta line, deal with it. Break what ever you have to to shut the bastard up, but don’t be shooting him. He’s gonna dangle. Clear, Corporal?”
“Yessir.”
With a less than gentle prod of his own rifle, the newly appointed gaoler encouraged the prisoner to move off.
Towers moved aside, and let the medic do his work on the Russian girl, allowing his mind to switch back to the battle.
The US assault had taken the enemy line, and the combat engineers were pushing on, backed up by the remaining tanks.
The breakthrough attracted extra assets from higher authority, and the rest of the 746th Tank Battalion was focussed on the spot, leading the point elements of the 4th US Armored Division, unleashed by a certain pistol-toting general who was champing at the bit to get at the enemy.
90th Division had sustained some heavy casualties but had, in the main, done the job.
Love Company had had the fight knocked out of it, and was holed up on the northern and southern edges of town, steering clear of central and eastern Dahlem, for fear of enemy artillery.
A modest counter-attack was put in, seemingly without much conviction, for it was easily driven off by Micco’s super-equipped halftrack.
The Soviet forces then melted from the field.
Light artillery fire bothered the new defenders for some moments, enough to cause yet more casualties amongst the exhausted GI’s.
The incoming fire came and went in minutes, the Soviet unit responsible receiving a thorough working over from USAAF Thunderbolts, causing it to concentrate more on survival than supporting their weakened front lines.
Towers gritted his teeth as the unsympathetic orderly fished around for more wooden splinters.
One of the final shells tossed into Dahlem had struck an old hay cart, sending small slivers of aged wood in all directions, depositing at least thirty small, but excruciatingly painful pieces, in Towers’ back and rear portions.
The orderly had started with a wicked piece, some three inches long, carefully removing it from the Captain’s neck ,and then continued the journey south, removing pieces of wood on every visit to the swollen bleeding flesh.
“Hey, Cap’n. Didn’t you get it in the arse down south?”
There was a moment of silence.
The young medic, fresh from medical school in California, delivered to the 90th just after the war kicked off again, failed to spot the signs.
“Never forget a face, and this one looks familiar.”
The high-pitched laugh completed the job of pissing the officer off.
Towers rolled over as, as best he could, and engaged his victim in soft fatherly tones.
“Son, I swear to you, one more fucking word outta place and I’ll transfer you to the graves registration unit… where you’ll dig the holes with a spoon. Kapische?”
The smile held no humour.
“Uh yeah… Cap’n. I got it… sorry.”
The arrival of a badly wounded Henderson did nothing to improve Towers’ mood, neither did the sight of Baines’ mangled hand, an horrendous injury the Sergeant had sustained when dismounting a halftrack late in the day’s fighting.
Landing heavily, he had overbalanced into the offside assembly and the hand was crushed between track and roller as he tried to check his fall.
Shortly afterwards, the surgeons removed the hand at the wrist, and Baines’ fighting days were over.
Across the front, Soviet forces had repositioned in response to the warnings, reducing their casualties from air strike and bombardment, trading ground for lives saved. As the US and German forces advanced, resistance stiffened, and the experience of Dahlem was repeated in a score of small German villages from the Ruhr to the Ardennes.
Patton threw his men forward, pushing his commanders hard. Guderian, commanding the German pincer forces, understood that the situation was not as had been envisaged, and requested Eisenhower to discontinue the attacks.
“Spectrum Blue will continue as planned, Field Marshal. Make every effort to keep to the timetable.”
Eisenhower had said a number of other things, comments designed to soothe and to cosset the angry German, who had succinctly responded, with a phrase that wasn’t readily interpreted into English, but that suggested that the timetable was already to hell in a handcart.
The plan was not without risk, but the benefits would be huge if it went well.
And it started very well indeed.
Men and women, soldiers who had lived on their wits for years, fell easily, as white-clad special troops invested the defensive position, killing quickly, killing efficiently and, above all, killing quietly.
Their victims were Slovenian partisans, who had joined together in the new Yugoslav Army under Tito, forming the 31st Slovenian Division ‘Triglav’. Their victims stood no chance, and succumbed within minutes.
The second phase of the deception commenced on cue, vehicles and tanks sweeping down the Wurzenpass, spitting flame in all directions, engaging the Yugoslav main line.
Here and there, a soft-skinned vehicle flitted from cover to cover, depositing some of the dressing necessary to complete the NKVD plan to draw Yugoslavia in the new war.
The tanks, the half-tracks, the weapons, and the uniforms, were all British Army, as were the corpses that were being spread about the battlefield.
Only the living men, firing the tank guns or using Bren guns to flay the Yugoslav defensive positions, were not British, although the casual observer would see only British uniforms and insignia.
The sixty-two ‘British’ soldiers, actually Soviet penal soldiers, were there for a single purpose; to die and die well, ensuring that their families would be favourably looked on by a grateful state.
The defending soldiers started to fight back, calling down artillery, and even attracting a passing pair of venerable Yugoslavian crewed ME-109’s, previously removed from German control.