Two more shots quickly followed, either of which could have been the one that extinguished its life.
A dozen anguished cries rose into the early morning air, the sight of their comrade causing great distress to the other members of the Goumier patrol. Three more shots were fired into the dead boar, more in anguish, than to serve a purpose.
A blanket was stretched out on the earth, and the remains were reverently covered up before being carried away for a burial in accordance with the man’s faith.
In the trees, the four men had not dared to draw breathe, the staccato rattle of their beating hearts seemingly louder than that of the disturbed forest around them.
The Goumiers disappeared.
Nikitin relaxed his rifle, looking to his companion for guidance.
Starshy Serzhant Nakhimov was weighing up the pros and cons of the situation, and having difficulty finding any con.
A whispered order, and the NCO turned to the two men in the adjacent tree, simple hand gestures passing on his instructions.
When he reached the ground, Nakhimov waited for the other man, checking the two men above were covering as ordered.
“Right Vassily, tonight we dine on boar. Come on.”
The two men moved gingerly to the location of the fight, the large quantity of blood and human detritus startling them.
The dead boar proved difficult to carry, but they managed to get it up and into a jury rig. Comprising two stout branches and weapon slings, the whole contraption more resembled something used on a safari in Africa
Struggling under the weight, they thanked their luck that the hiding place was close by.
2351hrs, Tuesday, 18th September 1945, Les Hauts Bois, the Vosges, Alsace.
Apart from the two men on watch, the whole contingent was present in the dry, warm cave. Waiting until dark spread its wings over the forest, the boar was cooked over a fire whose smoke disappeared into the cave system and, if it popped out in plain sight, would undoubtedly be lost in the increasing darkness.
The sounds filling the cave were those of contentment, as hungry mouths ripped at greasy meat, filling bellies that were contracting as every day passed.
Ivan Alekseevich Makarenko, commander of the last remnant of Zilant-4, chewed the sweet pork, happy that his men had been fed well for a change, but already planning to relocate, now that the hunters had come close again.
Nakhimov read the look on his General’s face and, pausing to rip another hunk of meat from the carcass, he moved to his commander’s side.
“You have orders, Comrade Mayor-General?”
Makarenko considered his thoughts, and made an instant decision.
“0200, Comrade Nakhimov. They can sleep for now, but we move out at 0200.”
Producing his map, the firelight just sufficient for planning the march, he drew the NCO closer.
“We are here. This is where your forage party came across the Africans,” he circled an area just east of Colroy-la-Roche.
“We will go north-west as quickly as we can, passing between,” the officer screwed up his eyes, but was none the wiser.
Nakhimov took a burning stave from the fire, bringing sufficient light for Makarenko to read the small text.
“Thank you, Comrade. Between le Bambois and Waldersbach.”
Testing the distance in his mind, he continued.
“I want us to be hidden away before first light in this area, southeast of Natzwiller. Clear, Starshy Serzhant?”
“As you order, Comrade Mayor General.”
Neither man enjoyed the stiff formality, but both understood its necessity in the circumstances, ensuring military discipline was maintained under the extreme pressures of their circumstances.
“Get some sleep, Comrade. I will wake you at one.”
Makarenko got no argument.
Looking through the sights, the target loomed large, the eyes betraying awareness and alertness, neither of which was going to save its life on this sodden morning in the forest.
A hand reached out and touched the rifleman on the shoulder, giving a moment’s pause.
The owner of the hand placed a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet, the finger then moving to point out the problem.
Other than the steady pitter-patter of rain, there was only the sound of spades at work, and the grunting sounds of the men using them.
The huge Russian overseer had erected a shelter from where he could watch his flock in relative comfort, prisoners who did not enjoy similar good fortune, being soaked to the skin as they toiled to dig the long holes.
The problem was the guard on the top edge of the site. He had moved, a relocation that had taken him away from the nemesis in the undergrowth.
The nemesis moved after his prey.
Both men watched as their comrade gently slid through the dense greenery, his progress betrayed by a gentle twitch of a stem here and there.
The four guards were positioned on the peripheries of the work area, making an approach easy enough for those tasked with the silent killing.
The overseer’s shelter made a stealthy approach impossible, its position in the centre of the clearing ensuring that he would die last, at the hands of Schultz and Irma.
Satisfied that the killer was now back in prime location, Müller gave a warble, imitating some bird, in a signal that brought instant action.
The four guards died as one, their lives taken silently by whatever method their stealthy killers preferred.
The overseer, an NKVD Sergeant, was slow to act, his eyes seeing all, but his brain failing to understand the death scene he observed as his corporal had his throat cut.
Grabbing at his PPD, he intended to shoot down the murderer, but Irma spat a single bullet, dropping him into the dry interior of his shelter, as dead as his men.
The prisoners stopped working, some conscious only of the single gunshot that had rent the air, others aware that silent killers had taken the life of every guard.
“Good kill, I think, Feldwebel. Let’s go and calm the nerves of our new allies.”
Slapping Schultz on the shoulder, Müller dropped gently from their firing position on a huge fallen tree, finding his balance quickly, and walking off with the balance and speed of a man who possessed both his legs.
Schultz, wiping his beloved rifle down with an oily rag, watched his friend and commander, easily spotting the indistinct signs in Müller’s gait.
The four killers moved out of the undergrowth, speaking in either English or French to the confused prisoners.
The Canadian prisoners were heartened to see men in their own uniforms, bearing weapons, and carrying the fight to the enemy, although the presence of the man in command, clad in the uniform of a Captain of the German ‘Groβdeutschland’ Division, troubled more than one of them.
Müller moved to the shelter and took the item he coveted from the corpse, his professional side noting the entry wound in the left ear of the dead NKVD man. Picking up the PPD, and stripping away the two spare magazines, he moved to where his senior Canadian was talking with a dishevelled RSM.
The RSM followed his compatriot’s lead, saluting the German officer.
“Müller, Kommando Bucholz.”
He accompanied the words with his own salute, and followed them by proffering the Soviet sub-machine gun and magazines to the newly liberated RSM.
“Forbes, strip the dead, anything of use, distribute all weapons amongst the prisoners.”
Tasked, Corporal Forbes led his men away.
MacMichaels was checking over his new weapon, clearing it, checking the magazines, his professionalism not dulled by his captivity.
Removing a cigarette from the pack he had just looted, Müller gasped in the pungent smoke, coughing as it stimulated his throat.