It wasn't difficult to locate the Russian guns; all they had to do was head toward the sounds of firing. Lying on their bellies they watched the Russian HQ, just behind the battery of four 105s. It was quiet. Ivan was careless or overconfident; they had no sentries to their rear. After all, they knew all the Germans were bottled up in Novy Bug. Yuri slid on his belly, soundlessly. He took advantage of every dip and drift to ease himself closer to the entrance of the peasants hut serving as a command post for the battery commander. Close behind came Langer. Gus and Teacher took the flanks to provide cover in case any more Russians showed up before they finished their business inside.
The battery was continuing to fire regularly spaced shots in sequence, first one then another on rotation, a steady, continuous, methodical order, designed to get the most out of their weapons and give each one's barrel some cooling time and thereby prolong the life of the guns. It would also serve to muffle any sounds that might come from the interior of the hut.
Yuri reached the side of the hut and crept on hands and knees to the edge of the doorway. Standing on the right he drew his butcher knife and held it low to his side, sharp edge up. Langer moved to the other side, preferring the long-bladed bayonet from a Mauser. He had honed down both sides to razor fineness. They listened to the beat of their hearts pounding like drums in their ears. A shaft of reddish gold light glowed weakly through a crack in the door. Putting his eye against it Carl tried to take in as much of the room as possible.
Three men were visible, two lying on pallets and one sitting at a Russian field desk, going over charts, probably working out the coordinates for the morning's firing program. From his shoulder boards it seemed he was a lieutenant. Tapping at the door softly, so as not to wake the sleeping men, Langer gave a strange whisper, Tovarisch! Idi-sodar charoscho! The lieutenant raised his head, Shto? Langer repeated his message to come in a hurry.
Sighing, the officer raised himself heavily from his seat and took the four steps to the door. Raising the wooden latch he opened the door and stepped out, only to find a hand gripping his throat, twisting his body around, cutting off his breath. The next thing he felt was a deep burning; Yuri's butcher knife found its way unerringly into the man's heart, severing the aorta. Langer let the body down easy.
Blades held low to the front in a half crouch, they stepped inside.
They moved swiftly inside, blades ready. The source of light was from a field lantern sitting on a couple of wooden shell crates for the howitzers. Yuri moved to the side of one of the sleeping Russians. Langer picked the other, a sergeant from the markings of his shoulder boards. Langer gave a quick nod of his head and both men moved, covering the mouths of their victims as the blades struck deep.
Langer and Yuri quickly looted the hut of all they could carry that would be of any use to them, mainly food and a couple of bottles of vodka. These they stuffed into one of the Russian field packs lying on the dirt floor. They moved back out into the dark, taking the same route away from the hut.
Gus and Teacher had been lying on their bellies, waiting. The cold of the ice crust creeping up through their uniforms was starting to stiffen them, making them sluggish, and slow to respond. Langer had to call twice before Teacher answered. Grabbing him by the shoulders he pulled him to his feet as Gus slowly rose from his icy bed.
Yuri cracked one of the bottles of vodka and stuck it in Gus's paw. Two quick swallows and half the bottle was gone down Gus's gaping gap-toothed maw. Reluctantly he handed the bottle back to Yuri, who passed it over to Teacher. A couple of gulps and Teacher, too, felt some renewed strength and warmth.
There was no need to ask what had happened in the hut. The fact that they had returned spoke for itself.
Wraithlike, they moved away from the guns. Circling wide, they tried to get as much distance between themselves and the hut as possible before the Russians' bodies were discovered by their comrades. If they were lucky the Ivans would think the killers had come from Novy Bug, a reconnaissance patrol that stumbled on the hut and now were back in their own lines.
That morning there was no breaking of the dawn, just a gradual lightening of the sky to dull grey. Another storm was coming. The four sat huddled in a snow cave, lying on their shelter halves and blankets, of which each had one. This helped to keep the cold from the floor of their makeshift shelter to a bearable level. They fed on coarse black Russian bread and goat cheese. Gus was bitching because Langer wouldn't let them finish off the last bottle of vodka. But Langer knew that a couple of drinks were okay, but too much alcohol in the system actually lowered the body temperature, even though you felt warmer for taking another drink. They needed to reserve all the body heat they could, if the storm blasting over the Ukrainian plains was to leave them alive at its end. This night the winds were fifty KPH and growing in intensity. Here, huddled together, they had to wait and let the storm use up its strength while they tried to conserve theirs.
Sleep, the great healer, was their best ally, and they used him as much as they could, letting the darkness take them for hours at a time. They woke Only to repair an item of their gear, or to eat a piece of bread. They filled their canteens with snow from outside and waited for it to melt, then drank and slept some more. They only left their cave to take a leak or crap and scurried back to their burrow cursing. The storm passed, leaving a startling clearness. The new snow sparkled with millions of flashing diamonds, each one a pinprick to the light-sensitive eyes of the cave dwellers. A brilliant crystal cold day, the air bit at their lungs and skin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the Ingul they crossed over what in the spring would be swift flow, now frozen solid to a depth of five feet. An eighty-ton tank could rumble over it with no fear of crashing through.
They decided not to try and break through the Russian lines to their own forces at Novy Bug. With the food they had picked up at the hut they had a better chance of making it on to their original destination at Yuzhney Bug. Twelve days of crisp clear weather and they reached the first German outposts. Staggering in they almost had their asses shot off by the machine-gun crew sitting behind an MG-42. Only Gus's string of curses which could have been heard clear to Berlin stopped the gun crew from ripping them to pieces.
Ragged, bearded, filthy caricatures of soldiers, they were hustled to the rear in an amphibious Volkswagen. They were shown into the presence of
an immaculate colonel of Jagers, a man who obviously considered those beneath him fit only to do his bidding.
Langer read the martinet correctly and reported in the best military manner. "Sir, Stabsfeldwebel Carl Langer begs to report that he has reported back to German forces with three other ranks following the destruction of our tank in the battle around Nikopol three weeks ago."
Colonel von Mancken rose from behind his field desk and stepped in front of Langer, looking the man up and down in distaste. Wrinkling his nose at the odor of this disgrace to the glory of German arms, he said, "You mean you came all the way from Nikopol? I do hope you have a proper explanation or I assure you that you and those with you will most certainly face a court martial for desertion." He called for his regimental sergeant major, a huge Bavarian with a barrel chest. He had the look of a man who enjoys the power he has over others.