Kriks, sipping on the ever-present flask containing something of non-regulation issue, eyed Deniken with concern. The personality change that had swept over the young Colonel since the loss of Yarishlov, and the heavy casualties infected upon his men in and around Naugard, seemed to have darkened the man irrevocably.
What had been a close relationship between them had quickly floundered, seemingly becoming more of something to tolerate for Deniken, a situation that was unusual for Kriks after his friendship with Yarishlov.
True to his word, he stuck as close to the 1st Guards’ commander, or as close as the man’s moods would allow.
He moved up to Deniken’s side and offered the flask as a reminder of his presence and the good relationship they once had.
“No.”
Kriks stayed close as Deniken moved forward to where the burial party had just completed its digging.
Other men moved forward to place fourteen men in the soil of Poland forever, men who were born and bred in Mother Russia.
Today was a bitter day indeed for the man that Yarishlov had seen as the future of his country.
As per his wish, Deniken assisted in carrying one of the bodies, that of his long-time friend, Vladimir Grabin, with whom he had shared breakfast, and now would bury, all in the same day.
The soldiers, without distinction of rank, spoke their piece over their dead comrades, heartfelt eulogies to men with whom the trials of a life of a soldier had been shared for months, and often, years.
More than one man shed tears as the earth was moved back into its former place, entombing the dead in its cold embrace.
A few prisoners watched dispassionately, some with understanding, some without comprehension.
A few, a very few, moved away from the site.
Deniken concluded his silent tribute to his close friend and made his vow, the mirror of the one he had given as the train carrying the hideously burned Yarishlov pulled out away from the station, and the one he had repeated on a number of similar occasions, when men under his command were forever confined in enemy soil.
He stood at attention and saluted the turned ground, holding his tribute long enough to repeat the names of those beneath his feet.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the waiting Captain as was the agreement on implementing his order.
Two DSHK machine-guns chattered into life, sweeping away those who had gathered to gawk at the internments.
Rifles and sub-machine guns joined in.
Kriks, horrified, shouted and screamed for a cease-fire.
A few men heeded his calls, but were quickly encouraged back to the killing by their own officer and NCOs, or, for a few, by the shouted threats of their divisional commander, Colonel Deniken.
Kriks rushed towards Deniken, screaming his protest.
“What are you doing, man? For the love of the Rodina, stop this madness! Stop it!”
Deniken turned deliberately, his eyes burning with fury and lacking any hint of reason.
He gesticulated at the bloody field in front of him.
“Those bastards put your friend… our friend… in a hospital or worse. They’re responsible for this whole fuck up, all of it, so don’t tell me to stop firing! I’ll kill the bastards every opportunity I get!”
He turned and fired his PPd in the direction of the massacre, emphasising both his point and his lack of control over himself.
Kriks grabbed him.
“What are you doing, man? Stop this insanity! Have you gone mad?”
Deniken brought the sub-machine gun up, crashing it into Kriks’ jaw and sending the Praporshchik flying.
“Serzhant!”
The nearest NCO turned and leapt to his Colonel’s side.
“Arrest the Praporshchik, remove his weapons, and take him away.”
Kriks mouthed a protest that was stifled in blood and broken teeth.
Detailing two men to the duty, the sergeant had the injured Kriks dragged away, as Deniken turned back to oversee the end of the killing.
Soviet soldiers picked their way through the littered corpses, occasionally halting to slide a bayonet home, or issue a coup-de-grace shot.
It is often said that there are always survivors from such massacres, but Freienwalde was an exception.
Seventy-two allied servicemen were executed on the orders of a man driven to the edge by personal loss.
The one man who could have saved him from himself lay in a peasant hut, under guard, being treated for his facial wound, and decidedly disinclined to have anything to do with the murdering colonel ever again.
The newly arrived units, two reinforced MP platoons allocated from the Corps command, had been assigned to the static defence of the hospital site.
In reality, Hanebury had recognised that the new arrivals were not up to the task of rooting out an experienced enemy unit and, for the matter, neither was the green Captain in charge.
The officer offered no opposition to Hanebury’s continued command of the hunt, and accepted the passive role of his units with relative good grace.
The search had commenced early in the morning, when Hanebury led a reconnaissance cum assault on the positions in which they had observed the enemy the previous day.
With the exception of some excrement that might have been human, and traces of blood that could equally be so, the only certain indications of a recent human presence were suitable sized areas of grass that were slightly flatter than others… and a footprint.
The tell-tale marks of the metal studs declared everything that Hanebury needed to know.
The birds had definitely flown.
Lucifer took the proffered HT set and contacted Stradley.
“Execute Alpha, Execute Alpha, over.”
“Roger.”
Plan Alpha was the only plan they had, but it had been put together to sweep up the area around the medical facility in the first instance, and then move outwards, embracing the likely area into which the enemy had melted. Trying to put themselves in the enemy’s boots, Hanebury and Stradley had decided that the likely area was a large expanse of woodland that ran due south from Bräunisheim, extending some six kilometres, north to south, by five kilometres wide. They would move around the zone, watching out for signs and interrogating any locals they might come across, before methodically reducing the area down, although more troops would be needed to ensure success.
In any case, First Sergeant Hanebury had understood that he needed more help, so the armed medical staff, plus a handful of combat soldiers from amongst the wounded, were added to his force.
Utilising some of the new arrivals, he would be able to establish the picquets necessary for the plan.
He also had assistance from an unexpected but most welcome source.
Whilst not an official Kommando, a handful of German citizens had appeared, offering their services to the hunters.
Initially, Hanebury was perturbed that such things were public knowledge, but moved on immediately; he’d take all the help he could get.
Most of the score of Germans were ex-military, and wore their old uniforms, tactfully altered to remove certain ‘devices’ from a previous political era.
Most wore medals that marked them as combat veterans.
One had spent his life as a woodsman, and he was already positioned with Stradley’s force, along with five of his compatriots.
Another six, including the two WW1 veterans, were kept within Hanebury’s force. Initially, Lucifer’s thoughts had been to reject the two ‘grandfathers’, but there was something about the older men, particularly the elder of the two, who proudly wore the ‘Pour-le-Mérite’ around the neck of a tunic that bore the insignia of the German Empire’s 13th Infanterie Regiment.