Brennan, Brown, and Collins were stood together observing and the horror of it clearly broke through the red mist.
“What have we done?” asked Brennan, an appalled and pained look distorting his face.
“Jesus Buck, we’ve become animals.”
Collins said nothing but couldn’t disagree with Brown, especially as he could see the same thought processes going on in the minds of his soldiers. So much so that the last man on his knees was not executed, the horrified GI who had stood in judgement on him unclipping his bayonet and sliding the virgin blade into it’s scabbard very deliberately.
The old soldier from C Coy took his place and stove in the back of the last Russians head with an already bloody stock, but he did not delight in the killing and ensured the man died instantly.
The survivors felt cold and tired, their motivation and energy all consumed by the anger that had died at the same time as the Russian prisoners.
It seemed that only Collins wasn’t paralysed by it all. He walked into the middle of the disorganised group and started to rap out orders, waking them from their malaise and bringing them back into some semblance of a fighting unit. Brown shook the party out into new squads. Brennan, jolted from his own personal waking nightmare by a steady encouraging hand gripping his shoulder, was now accompanying the owner of that hand in a search for Finch.
Collins found the officer thirty yards from the Soviet position.
“Reckon he must have tripped and fallen during the run in, Major. Neck’s broke.”
Brennan thought for a few seconds.
“Get his body put in one of the dinghies and we will use it as a stretcher.”
Collins started his objection but was cut off short by a tried and stressed officer.
“I am not leaving him here, not,” and he pointed squarely at the line of murdered Soviet soldiers, “Not with that nearby. We owe him more than that Caesar.”
There was no more to be said, so Collins doubled away to organise the recovery of his officer.
Prudently, Brennan moved his group on swiftly, moving down the line of trees towards the river beyond.
Chekov actually had more men left than would fit in a lorry comfortably, but he still managed to shoehorn thirty-three men, himself and cargo into a space more readily used by twenty-four.
The battered lorry slowly carried him and the survivors away from Trendelburg and towards the promised peace and quiet of Stammen.
A working suspension had long since become a distant memory for the ancient weather beaten driver, but that didn’t stop him from hitting nearly every dip and pothole on the road back.
Even the cessation of the rain didn’t ease the pain of the journey, as potholes filled with water looked very much like puddles unless you looked closely. Chekov was convinced the old fool was blind in any case.
Finally, the lorry drew up outside a large undamaged building in North Stammen and the weary engineers dismounted and were chivvied into line by Iska. Under orders from his commander, Iska organised the removal of the boxes and crates from the back of the lorry and instructions were given to clean weapons and replenish ammunition.
Without a single word of complaint, his men set about the task. Chekov swelled with pride and walked amongst the men as they professionally went about their soldierly craft.
As Iska wandered around handing out grenades, Chekov strolled to the edge of the village and lit up a Sobranie. The rich Turkish tobacco made him feel extremely light-headed and he leant against the old wreck of a steam tractor that had rusted badly and become engulfed in grass and creepers.
From his comfortable position, he could see the Rapunzel tower and now some of the rest of the castle burning fiercely.
He took out his binoculars, only to find that they too had been damaged during the battle, fragments of one glass lens falling out, tinkling onto the ground where he stood.
Chekov suddenly felt so tired and hoped that the men would soon complete their task, although he knew only too well that he would remain awake for the first sentry turn to show example to his men.
A sound developed more and more in his subconscious until it was identified as aero engines.
Scanning in the direction of the growing roar, he spotted a flight of Shturmoviks heading north-west and flying almost directly over his head.
He craned his head, following the flight.
‘Off to cause the Amerikanisti more grief,’ he mused, too tired to really care.
His gaze lowered the further the aircraft flew on, Just as he was about to look away he spotted the movement, brief, vague, but none the less very real.
Gently but purposefully stretching, apparently unconcerned, he strolled back round the building and to where his men were finishing up their cleaning and rearming.
He needed to ask for one final effort from them, and quickly brought them to order.
Serzhant Iska would take a cover group of the two DP machine guns and six of the best riflemen into the building that was to be their billet.
As Chekov had walked back from the abandoned tractor, he decided Iska’s building’s field of fire would be good enough if the movement was what he thought.
A cover force of six men under a steady Yefreytor was set to watch the right flank of Iska’s group.
He, with the remaining eighteen men, would move west to the riverbank and then move northwards in its cover.
Now that action seemed likely, Chekov’s lack of a suitable weapon needed addressing. He had sixteen rounds left for the Garand and decided to discard it.
Iska went to one unloaded crate and fished out two weapons. The first was an SVT-40 automatic rifle, showing signs of similar damage as that which had rendered his PPSH useless at the bridge. The other was a pristine Mosin-Nagant sniper’s rifle. Whilst Chekov loved shooting, his head won over his heart and he took the SVT, along with a bag of magazines retrieved by an engineer at Iska’s direction.
The sniper’s rifle went with Iska’s unit and was quickly given to the unit’s best shot.
Chekov moved his men out and, using the cover of buildings and undergrowth, reached the river.
It was agreed that if Iska saw enemies on the loose then the lorries horn would be used, three times to confirm and then once for every five or so men seen.
It was simple but should prove effective thought the Serzhant, who stifled a laugh as he realised the rifle protruding from the window he was looking out of was in the hands of the elderly truck driver.
“Make sure you point that in the right direction granddad. You know which way that is don’t you?”
The old man looked at the NCO with something approaching disdain and hawked deeply, spitting the product out of the window and nearly reaching the derelict beyond.
“Have no fear; I have had cause to use one before Comrade Serzhant.”
Iska laughed softly.
“Such as where and when old man? I’m keen to know the metal of the man I fight next to.”
“I joined the Army in 1928 and became a rifleman in the 87th Rifle Division.”
Iska, speaking the truth but intent on mischief, probed further.
“Never heard of them. What did they do? Convoy duty on the Caspian Sea?”
“Bit of this, bit of that Comrade. Finland for the Winter War and of course Kiev. That’s all the 87th did really.”
Enjoying his baiting, Iska searched for more dismissive lines.
“That’s not a lot. Why didn’t you do anything impressive and brave then?”
“Because they changed our unit designation and the 87th was no more Comrade Serzhant.”
“Oh you were disbanded then?”
“No Comrade Serzhant. Just renamed.”
Part of Iska’s mind sounded warning bells but they were overridden by his attempts to wind up the old man. From the grins on the faces of his riflemen, he was providing glorious entertainment for them, grinning to a man as they were.