Still no verbal commands had been issued; such was the expertise that SS-Kommando Lenz had developed since the start of the new war.
Readying his ST-44, Lenz nodded at one of his men who spoke in casual Russian.
“Tovarich Kapitan, a word please.”
The sound of movement inside indicated that the words had been received and the NKVD officer emerged sleepily, suddenly becoming wide-awake when he saw the muzzle of Lenz’s assault rifle aimed at his chest.
Behind him came the unit’s senior NCO, his PPSh useless in his hands, resistance so clearly futile.
Disarmed, the two men were moved into the centre of the clearing, more so that they could examine the work of the Kommando than for any other reason.
The Russian speaker set about his task, questions fired rapidly at the officer, a proud and haughty man, who remained silent, his contempt, and hatred plain for all to see.
After a third bout of unanswered questions, Lenz held up his hand.
The two NKVD soldiers stared at it, appreciating it had some significance well beyond the silencing of the interrogator.
The hand dropped and four men stood forward, grabbing the NCO, and dragging him towards one of the larger trees.
Lenz did not watch them; he watched the officer, the man’s eyes changing, at first questioning and inquiring as he watched his Sergeant dragged away, then filled with fear, as he understood what was to come.
Most of Lenz’s assassination party was plundering the dead for booty, cigarettes, and alcohol being the most prized.
The NKVD officer’s attention moved to one group, the bodies of his dead men being tossed around like rag dolls as the commandos went in search of their trophies.
His attention refocused as the NCO groaned, his mouth full of oily cloth rammed home by unfeeling hands.
Lenz watched as the man’s face went from fear to outrage to full blown horror in a microsecond.
The scream of pain was choked by the cloth.
The Serzhant was now suspended above the ground, his feet desperately trying to broach the gap from his boots to the earth below, the few inches being as good as a mile for a man who was being held up by knives rammed through his shoulders.
The first time that Lenz and his men had crucified a prisoner, they had made mistakes. Now, they ensured the flat of the blade was uppermost, supporting, rather than cutting.
The entry area was sufficiently low enough not to rip through the flesh, yet high enough to ensure no fatal wound was inflicted.
Extending the moaning man’s arms, four more blades were rammed home, again supporting the weight.
Even through the rag, the man’s agony could be heard.
Lenz watched the enemy officer’s reaction.
‘Two more will do it.’
He hadn’t been wrong so far, but he was this time. The NKVD Captain did not crack as another two long blades were hammered into the sergeant’s thighs, pinning him further against the cold trunk.
Nodding at his man, Lenz listened as the interrogation continued, the Russian clearly not talking despite ordeal of his soldier.
Those Kommandos at the tree waited for further instructions, receiving the signal from Lenz.
Bending the legs, slicing more flesh as the blade in the thigh resisted the movement, two of them rammed blades through feet held flat to the bark.
The muffled screams became animal-like, the extremes of pain being realised by the unfortunate man.
‘Tough bastard.’
Lenz wondered for a moment which of the two men he was referring to.
Over at the tree, the Kommando torturers reasoned that they would soon need to be creative, as this was as far as they had gone previously.
The NKVD officer stood immobile, tears running down his face, his silence condemning his NCO to a painful death.
A simple nod from the Kommando leader followed, and the Russian closed his eyes, the increased sounds of extremis the only link to the brave man he was condemning by his silence.
The sound changed, an almost high-pitched whimpering, rhythmical in its nature, as a blade worked steadily and carefully.
Something struck the Soviet officer on the chest, falling to the ground, via his right toecap.
He opened his eyes.
Even in the low light, the sight of his NCO’s testicles and scrotum were unmistakable.
He broke.
The answers quickly flowed, each one punctuated by a plea for mercy, a swift end to the tortured man’s suffering.
Once Lenz had what he needed release was granted, a silenced pistol removing the temple of the crucified man.
Pointing at the broken NKVD officer, Lenz issued his last orders.
“Bind that piece of shit. We will put him with the others. Jensen, he is yours. Any trouble…” the Hauptsturmfuhrer drew a finger across his throat, ensuring that the Russian saw the universal sign and understood.
Turning away, he nodded to one of his NCO’s.
“Leave our calling card, Weiss.”
The young NCO extracted his Hitler Youth dagger and cut away at the crucified man’s shirt, working quickly on the bare flesh below.
Watching the youth at work, Lenz lit a cigarette from a pack given to him.
“American,” he said to no one in particular, as he drew the smoke deeply into greedy lungs.
Checking the clearing, and satisfying himself that all was in order, he gave the order to move.
“Emmering,” the Senior NCO immediately attentive, “Pick up the other group, then north-west towards Neuburg.”
The Kommando moved off, Lenz considering the recently gained information. Lenz was a cautious man, and had mentioned Neuburg openly, just in case.
As was their normal practice, two of his best men remained to, as Lenz called it, ‘dress’ the casualties for those who found them later.
Once they had all joined up with the rest of the Kommando, Emmering would steer them towards their real target, the newly formed Soviet supply base near Ingolstadt.
Chapter 81 – THE SWEDE
The reason that the United States Navy does so well in wartime, is that war is chaos, and the Americans practice chaos on a daily basis.
Using her binoculars, Captain Larisa Sverova surveyed the scene, trying hard not to focus on the disgusting sight that was screaming for her attention.
Her unit of twenty-one replacement mortar personnel had been moving up to the front, when their aged GAZ lorry had broken down.
Leaving the cursing driver to do his best, she and a few of her unit decided to explore the surrounding woods.
The discovery of a brand new Studebaker down a track was a matter of celebration, until one of her young girls spotted a pair of feet beside it, the blood purple and dried upon the exposed flesh.
Harrying the inexperienced women into some sort of organised group, Sverova moved forward carefully, her only combat-seasoned NCO moving amongst the female soldiers, advising here, pointing there.
As she approached the clearing, Sverova silently ordered the group to stay put, and beckoned her NCO forward.
It was then that she first saw the horrors of the new war up close.
Senior Sergeant Ponichenkarova silently dropped beside her officer, the PPD in her hands ready for action at a moment’s notice.
“Govno!”
The almost male voice of the NCO spoke that which her inner voices screamed.
She had also seen the awful apparition that stood out from the slaughter.
Sverova’s words interrupted Ponichenkarova’s train of thought, bringing her attention back to the business in hand.
“I count at least thirty men here, Dina. NKVD uniforms.”