The Doctor shouted at his orderlies, reassuring Kriks with sign language, as stretchers, fluids and other paraphernalia appeared, as if by magic.
Overhead, the Typhoons noted the two vehicles sat side by side, electing patience over the possibility of killing friendly troops.
The Soviet tanks embroiled themselves in the business of killing the British Shermans that had appeared, something which they did extremely easily, and with little loss by way of return.
Occasionally, the Typhoons would drop down and attack, but the smoking battlefield favoured the Russian armour now, obscuring more and more as vehicles died and contributed the products of their fiery demise; there were no more RAF successes and the Typhoons were limited to impotent inactivity until fuel considerations forced them to depart.
The fighting continued, long after it was obvious that the Allied plan, meant to push 1st Guards away from the main road, had failed, and that Naugard and its environs would remain Russian, for another day at least.
Whilst the battle raged, another battle, one to save two badly burned men was fought, and both won and lost.
When the battle petered out and the night staked its claim to the field, the new phenomenon of ‘night scavenging’ took place, an activity that had started through necessity, units here and there finding what they could, until now, when the activity was officially sanctioned and encouraged by higher command.
Outside Naugard, as with a hundred other locations in Europe, special Soviet groups silently stole into the silent arena seeking anything and everything that could be carried, dragged or hauled back to their own lines.
Vehicles gave up fuel, siphoned from intact tanks, or ammunition, taken from undamaged containers.
The dead bodies of both sides surrendered their unused bullets and grenades, abandoned positions often yielding a fine harvest of heavier weapons and compatible ammunition.
As the practice grew, many an Allied soldier found himself shot at by weapons made in his own land, held in the hand of someone who wasn’t.
“So, are we agreed, gentlemen?”
Again, Lieutenant General Bortnowski sought their agreement, some might say complicity, in the message he had prepared for the consumption of McCreery and Eisenhower.
“We can still attack but…” Major General Boruta-Speichowicz, commanding officer of Polish IX Corps, conceded, “As you say, we must retain the ability to respond in force to any unexpected Russian activity.”
Bortnowski’s eyes fell upon Barker, the commander of British XXXIII Corps. Whilst of equal rank to the Pole, he was not in command, and it did not sit well with him.
“I don’t agree and, furthermore, I believe we should continue the pressure. However, you are in command, General.”
Next was the Spanish officer, Muñoz-Grandes, released from his liaison duties with SHAEF to command the Spanish I Corps.
“Sir, Twenty-First Army Group is still advancing, so perhaps it is prudent to harbour resources to assist in our relief,” Bortnowski nodded in acceptance of the support, too soon, as Grandes had not yet finished, “But it could be equally prudent continue attacking towards our British saviours, Sir.”
Barker looked at Grandes.
‘Drag up a fence and sit down why don’t you.’
Last was Lieutenant General Matthew B. Ridgeway, former commander of the slaughtered 82nd US Airborne Division, and subsequently given the top job with the 1st Allied Airborne Corps.
“General, Sir, I think we should keep up and at ’em. Their losses’ve been far greater than ours. Our air’s solid, our supply’s solid, morale’s great. Twenty-First’s pushing hard and we can help ’em. I say we hold to the east and get everything going west a-sap.”
The same proposition that ‘Old Iron Tits’ had tried to persuade Bortnowski to follow previously.
“Thank you, gentlemen. You may return to your units.”
Bortnowski saluted them and waited for his commanders to file out.
He was alone for only a moment, as his CoS entered as agreed.
Passing the unaltered message to the poker-faced officer, Bortnowski felt a moment of relief.
“Send that to 21st and SHAEF immediately.”
Much like the Anzio landing before it, the landing in Poland was about to metamorphose from wildcat to stranded whale.
The train, clearly marked with huge red crosses, was ready to make its way back across occupied Europe, carrying a forlorn human cargo of bodies damaged by war.
Kriks, his right arm bandaged to prevent infection seeking out his burns, watched as the stretcher was carefully loaded on board, the dedicated team of three following on with everything that would keep Yarishlov alive until he got to the hospital on Gorodomlya Island, where the task of putting the badly burned man would be taken up by a specialist burns team.
Deniken stood stiffly and shouted an order.
“Soldaty! Fall into ranks!”
Men and women in different uniforms, and of different ranks, all responded immediately, falling into ranks as directed.
“Soldaty! Atten-tion!”
The entire platform was lined with soldiers at the attention as the train sounded its whistle and gently started forward.
“ Soldaty! Sal-ute!”
One hundred and thirty seven right hands, one heavily wrapped and painful, responded to the order, offering a salute of respect to a man long past caring about such matters, but for whom the gesture was sincerely meant.
Deniken dismissed the impromptu parade and, with Kriks in tow, disappeared to examine a schnapps bottle.
“Why didn’t you go, Praporschik. You should have gone with him, really you should?”
Kriks debated his reply for the briefest of moments but he was comfortable with the able infantryman, rank differences aside, and trusted the judgement of Yarishlov, his commander and friend.
“I didn’t go because he asked me not to, Comrade.”
Deniken looked at Kriks, his lips forming a question that the NCO pre-empted.
“No… not since his injuries, but before then… before this battle, Comrade.”
“Before this battle?”
“Yes… you see, Comrade Polkovnik… Arkady knew he was on borrowed time… we all are really… so many close calls… miraculous escapes… you know…”
Deniken nodded, staying silent to encourage Kriks to speak further.
“He suspected his time was approaching and made me swear to stay with you, come what may, Comrade Polkovnik.”
Deniken poured two more measures, wishing to loosen any further resolve before he pushed Kriks harder.
“To Arkady.”
Kriks nodded and voiced the same toast.
“To Arkady!”
Fiery liquid burned throats, but not enough to stop the conversation.
“Why did he ask that of you?”
“Because… don’t be embarrassed, Comrade Polkovnik… but because he said you were the future of our country… you and men like you… that when all this fucking mess was over, you would be needed to build Mother Russia up again.”
The words arrived and were absorbed immediately, although the processing of their meaning took a little longer.
Deniken, genuinely confused by what his mind suggested, could only voice its findings.
“You mean that he thought…”
“Yes, Comrade Polkovnik… Arkady Arkadyevich Yarishlov, Polkovnik of Tanks, Hero of the Soviet Union, understood before this last battle. The evidence is clear for any fool to see, he told me. The war’s lost… if not today, next month or even next year… the war is lost… and men like you will be needed to repair the damage caused when it’s all over.”
“And him? Why not him?”