In amazement. Malovidov asked, "We are leaving? We are running?"
"Yes, we are leaving. At least I am leaving with what is left of the company. Do you wish to stay and join your comrades over there?"
Ilvanich pointed to the side of the perimeter that had been raked by the American aircraft.
"No, I'll go. But Lvov, what about Lvov?"
"We take the bastard with us."
"What if he refuses?"
Ilvanich smiled. "So much the better. He will die a hero's death as we break out. Come, it will be light soon and there is much we must do."
The sudden hail of small-arms fire caught Duncan and his men off guard.
Instinctively they sought the protection that the bottom of their foxholes offered. After a few moments, the volume of fire began to drop. Duncan slowly raised his head and peered over the top. As he did so, the sound-powered phone leading from the platoon leader's foxhole buzzed. Duncan picked it up and yelled, "Duncan."
"What the hell are they doing?"
Duncan looked out of his foxhole again. The firing continued to subside.
"I think they're getting ready to pull out, Lieutenant."
"They're attacking?"
"No, just trying to break contact." Then a thought struck Duncan.
"Hey, Lieutenant, call the Old Man and tell him to let them out."
"What? You mean let them get away?"
"No, let them out in the open. Let the bastards get out of their holes and get them in the open where we can take them out. Beats the shit out of digging them from their holes."
The lieutenant thought about it for a moment before responding. "Yeah, that sounds good. Get the platoon ready to move while I talk to the CO."
Duncan gave his platoon leader a "Roger" and turned to Sergeant Hernandez.
"Get ready to move out. We're going to go hunting Commies."
The breakout had been easy, too easy. Ilvanich, along with half a dozen men, were taking up the rear, watching to see whether they were being followed. Malovidov was in the lead, moving the company toward a rock-strewn ridge three kilometers to the west. Between the two lieutenants the remnants of the 3rd Company struggled to carry their wounded comrades and keep up with the point element. Of all the men, only Lvov had protested. Calling Ilvanich a traitor and a coward, he had demanded that they remain in place. A sergeant offered to silence the captain for good.
Ilvanich, though tempted, ordered the sergeant to keep Lvov quiet but alive. The sergeant did so with great zeal, stuffing a dirty rag into the captain's mouth and binding him.
"Move it! Come on, let's go. Keep it moving." Duncan pushed and yelled and did everything but pick up and carry those who were dragging behind. Not that the men needed much urging. They were all as eager as he to get in front of the fleeing Russians and finish them.
After a quick study, Duncan and his platoon leader had figured out that the only place the Russians could go was to the west, where a rocky ridge offered them protection and where they could hide during the day before they began their trek north. After having done the same thing for a month, Duncan knew what to look for.
He was sure he was right. Now all they had to do was beat the Russians to the ridge and set up there, and they would have them in the open with no place to hide.
He stopped for a moment and looked to the east in the gathering light, then to the west. Less than a kilometer to go. A rifleman, panting and covered with sweat, came up behind him and paused. "Who told you to stop, soldier? Move your ass or Ivan will move it for ya."
The crack of small-arms fire and explosions of grenades at the front of the column startled Ilvanich. He turned and watched the company disperse and drop to the ground. Desperately the men scurried for whatever cover they could. There was not much. They were in the open, less than two hundred meters from the first line of rocks that would have meant safety. But those same rocks, instead of providing a hiding place for his men, concealed the enemy that was bringing effective fire down on them.
Dropping to his hands and knees, Ilvanich began to make his way forward.
His path was blocked by men trying to dig in with their helmets and by the bodies of those caught in the first volley. When his movement drew fire,
Ilvanich froze in place and hugged the ground. Although his face was pressed to the dirt, he could see one of his men crawl up behind the body of a fallen comrade, prop his rifle up over it and, using the body as cover, begin to return fire. The Americans soon located the soldier and began to concentrate their fire against him. Ilvanich listened in morbid fascination as bullets thudded into the body being used for cover. The soldier's lone stand lasted less than a minute. Ilvanich saw a stream of bullets from a machine gun climb up the body of the dead 394 soldier and hit the live soldier in the face, sending him sprawling.
This is madness, Ilvanich thought. He looked around. There were dead and wounded everywhere. The moans and screams of the wounded were momentarily drowned out by a sudden burst of fire and the explosion of a grenade.
Ilvanich decided there was nothing more to be gained from continuing the uneven contest. For a moment he considered grabbing his rifle and charging.
He would at last be able to end his nightmares in a manner befitting a soldier. But he hesitated. If he got up and charged, his men would follow.
And, like him, they would be cut down to no purpose. How easy it would be to end it now, he thought. I have wanted this. But not for them. I cannot do that to my men.
The sound of approaching helicopters in the distance finally convinced him the time had come. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a dirty white rag and stuck it into the muzzle of his AK. Yelling to his men to cease fire, he began to wave the white flag.
Duncan saw the flag as he sensed the slackening of return fire. For a moment, he wanted to ignore it. He wanted to continue firing. For the first time he and his men had the bastards pinned with nowhere to go.
Finally he had the chance to avenge his old platoon leader and all those they had left in their smashed positions on that day long ago.
This was his moment. He stopped firing, though, as did the rest of the platoon. Each man in his turn looked down at his enemy, now humbled and helpless. Whether it was out of mercy or a simple desire to stop the senseless killing, all firing stopped long before the platoon leader gave the order.
When all the men who could stand finally stood up, Ilvanich counted eleven men. A few others, including Junior Lieutenant Malovidov, were wounded and could not stand. As Ilvanich made his way forward, he saw Lvov, still strapped to the makeshift stretcher he: had been carried on. He was alive.
Ilvanich carefully moved over to the captain, watching the Americans as they 395 approached. When he reached Lvov, he knelt down and looked into his commander's eyes.
"Well, Comrade Captain, we have come to the end of the line. At least you have." With that, Ilvanich reached down into his boot and pulled out a knife. "You will finally be able to give your father, the great Party man, the only thing that will make him proud of you, death in battle. Goodbye, you miserable bastard."
Duncan watched from his position as the Russians began to stand and throw down their weapons. He ordered the 1st Squad to gather the prisoners while the 2nd Squad swept the area and checked the wounded and the dead. He stayed with the 3rd Squad, covering the other two. As he did so, the actions of one of the Russians caught his attention. He watched as the man, obviously an officer, went over to a wounded man on a stretcher. The
Russian bent, then knelt. For a moment, Duncan thought he was trying to help the man.
He was about to direct some men to help the Russian when he noticed a sudden glint of sunlight from a piece of metal the Russian pulled from his boot. The Russian then put it to the wounded man's throat. The bastard's pulled a knife! Without hesitation, Duncan brought his rifle up and fired a burst, hitting the Russian in the shoulder and knocking him backward. He watched for a moment until the Russian he had hit began to move. Two of Duncan's men ran over, grabbed the knife from the Russian and made him stand up. Duncan cursed himself. Shit, the bastard was only wounded.