“And you, Top?”
Hanebury inclined his head towards the markings discovered by Art Nave.
“That’s where the bastards came from. I’m going to quietly slip inside there with a section and see what we can find. Give us an idea of what we’re up against here, cos I’m goddamned sure as I can be that this ain’t renegade commies.”
He pointed at the ambulance.
“That was organised, efficient killing.”
From a distance, it looked like the entire platoon departed the scene, not that anyone was watching, save Hanebury and a dozen men who had slipped quietly into the woods.
He waited twenty minutes, keeping his men in check and silent, watching… waiting…
Nothing.
“OK boys, you two sit tight and watch that vehicle. Report anything to me. Rest of us… move it on out. Nave, you got point.”
The small party picked their way forward, silently reversing the trodden path of whoever it was that visited themselves upon the medics and wounded.
It was nearly a quarter to one when Nave held up his hand, halting the silent advance in its track.
Everyone dropped to a knee and watched their assigned area for signs of trouble, all save Hanebury who noticed the summons and moved forward to Nave’s side.
Even the studied whisper seemed like a church bell in the quiet darkness of the forest.
“This is where they camped, Top. See the flattened grass and undergrowth… fire circle… trimmed wood…”
Hanebury got the idea, and waved his men into a skirmish line, expanding outwards to embrace the modest clearing.
Whilst the men were shaking out, both he and Nave studied the area for booby traps, their torches flicking across the ground in front of them.
None were apparent but…
The two moved forward, assessing each step, checking the ground before they lay a foot down, moving apart… just in case…
Crack…
Hanebury froze, the faint sound and tremor of something breaking under his foot causing him almost panic with fear.
Almost… but his training and natural courage rose above the immediacy of his plight.
“Move away, Arthur, move away.”
That his Sergeant was stock-still, and clearly tense, was enough for Nave.
“Where, Top… which foot?”
“Back away, Arthur.”
“Not happening, Top. Which one?”
“Front.”
Nave crawled gingerly, going flatter the closer he got to Hanebury’s left boot.
Torch lodged firmly between his teeth, his knife was out and probing the area, seeking out whatever it was that had so spooked his commander.
Standing still is not normally a particularly draining exercise, but standing still when the slightest movement might send you and one of your men to Valhalla is as draining as it can get, and Hanebury, minute by minute, started to feel the strain.
His leg wanted to work, the muscle sought to get going, but he fought against it as hard as he could.
“Arthur, leave it now… my leg’s got a fucking mind of its own here… move out, soldier!”
Nave hummed a response as he worked closer around the boot, scraping away earth and leaves and…
The laugh nearly made Hanebury lose it.
“What the fuck!”
Nave allowed the torch to fall away so he could talk.
“Err, Top… you can move your foot… it’s clear.”
Almost reluctantly, despite the urgent requirements of his aching legs, First Sergeant Jim Hanebury picked up his foot, revealing the cause of the alarm.
“Make a wish, Top.”
The broken wishbone of some long since consumed fowl lay taunting Hanebury.
“Goddamnedsonofafuckingbitch!”
A couple of the others drifted in close, just to see what the fuss was about.
Hanebury’s relief did not stop him from slapping Nave on the shoulder.
“Nice work, Arthur, but next time I give you an order, you better fucking obey it!”
Neither of them believed the harshness in his voice was anything other than relief.
Half the men moved through the clearing, whilst the others turned outwards and watched.
Hanebury was mentally rehearsing his report and citation for Nave’s recommendation; chicken bone or no, the man had shown real guts and deserved his reward.
The man in question rummaged in a pile of wood nearby, his demeanour drawing Hanebury’s interest.
“Shit!”
Nave jerked back, weapon at the ready, and immediately the whole group were primed and alert.
Nave beckoned the nearest man, and together they pulled some of the undergrowth away.
By the time Hanebury moved over to the site, enough had been exposed for his torchlight to reveal the last resting place of a group of slaughtered Russian soldiers.
Twelve… no… fourteen bodies, all bearing all the hallmarks of expert and quiet deaths… signs unfortunately familiar to those who had recently stood at the back of a certain US Army ambulance.
‘What the fuck?’
That question went through a number of minds.
Nave leant down into the shallow grave and plucked something from the grasp of a large cadaver, whose neck had been sliced through twice, spilling the man’s lifeblood in seconds.
The material was camouflage, of a type they had all seen before. Hanging from it was a thin strip of cloth, black with silver thread lines and inscription, made red by the product of the Russian’s opened neck.
After cursory glance, Nave passed it to Hanebury, who examined at more closely.
“Sonofabitch.”
Rickard moved closer, keen to see what was causing the commotion.
Handed the cloth by Lucifer, he spoke the two words aloud.
“Prince Eugene?”
Nave snatched it back with mock severity.
“Prinz Eugen, you illiterate chunk of Pennsylvanian dog’s mess. Prinz Eugen… it’s… it was an SS division. Don’t you know anything?”
“I know you’re gonna get my boot up your ass pretty soon, farm boy!”
The two often sparred, but now was neither the time nor place, so Lucifer descended upon them swiftly and mercilessly.
“Shut up!”
Control re-established, Hanebury spoke his thoughts aloud.
“So… this little bunch of bastards are a throwback… Nazis who’ll kill anyone, commies, or us, come what may.”
In a moment of clarity, Hanebury saw everything.
“Medical supplies… it’s all about medical supplies. They hit the ambulance for its supplies.”
His mind focussed… the enemy group had probably moved north… north… Bräunisheim…
“Shit, they’re after the hospital stores.”
He beckoned Shufeldt forward with the HT set, dialling straight in to Stradley to issue a warning…
…that was neither sent nor received.
“Nothing… it’s not working.”
Handing the useless set back to Shufeldt, Hanebury worked off a little frustration.
“Work on it… get me contact with Pennsylvania-six-two pretty damn pronto.”
Picking up his Thompson from where he had leant it, Hanebury pumped his fist and indicated the route of advance, sending the lead man out at increased pace, understanding that time was probably not his ally in the matter of the hospital and the SS unit.
The night had not been kind to the SS-Kommando, and Lenz was in a foul mood.
Whilst on guard duty, one of his men had blundered into an animal hole, hidden by overgrowing greenery.
His leg had slid into the hole and forward momentum did the rest.
The snap of the soldier’s femur was like a gunshot, waking every man instantly.
With iron will, SS-Sturmann Jensen had not made a sound above a low groan, despite the fact that the sharp bone protruded from the back of his thigh like the shaft of a spear.