A flicker of light caught Bradley’s eye; vehicle headlights on the autobahn to their left, at least two or three trucks, he surmised. Reinforcements. Matters had just got worse. They were at least getting further and further away from the railway line, and starting to put some distance between them and the soldiers behind them. There was a squeal of brakes as more vehicles pulled over onto the hard shoulder of the autobahn, disgorging MFS troops to join in the hunt.
Bradley stopped suddenly, Jacko ploughing into the back of him, as they arrived at a road, Buchhorster Strasse. Left along the road would take them under the autobahn, right to the village of Schonwalde. He did a quick scan left and right; then called to Jacko, “Let’s go.”
They pounded across the metalled road, the sound hollow, turning back on a northern heading, moving away from the roads and deeper into the forest before they got boxed in, although Bradley felt sure it was too late. He could hear Jacko’s laboured breathing behind him, the bark of the dogs indicating the hunters had closed the gap again, keeping pace with them.
“They can’t be more than 500 metres behind,” Bradley called back to him. “Jacko.”
“Yeah.”
“We stop… in five.”
“Right.”
“Drop Bergen’s… take scoot packs.”
“Gotcha.”
“We need… to pick up… speed.”
“I’m… fucked.”
Bradley dropped back alongside him as they made their way down a wide path through the trees. He placed a hand on Jacko’s shoulder. “Come on, Jacko… your lanky legs… and skinny frame… can run faster than this.”
Jacko nodded his head, spit and froth flying from his mouth as his breathing got faster and faster. Encouraged, he lengthened his stride and picked up speed. Bradley stretched out his stride and returned to the front to lead them both on again. They continued north for another six minutes, crossing a track that ran south-west to north-east, Bradley taking them through and around the trees. His intention was to keep moving, remain under cover of the trees for long as possible. He knew they had to lose the dogs. If the war dogs stayed on their tail, the two runners would eventually run out of steam. Although the dogs and their handlers would also tire, additional troops would already be closing in, with fresh dogs ready to take over the manhunt. If only they could get to the farm he knew was a mere two kilometres away, they might stand a chance. Get amongst some cow muck, or silage, overpower the scent of their bodies, make it hard for even the sensitive noses of the dogs to differentiate between the smell of animal waste and men.
Whop, whop, whop, whop, whop.
“Down!” yelled Bradley.
They both dived beneath the canopy of a tree, the helicopter flying directly over their heads before turning left and flying west. Another could be heard off to the east. The net was closing in; it didn’t look good. The Tegler Fliesstal was a large forest for them to hide in, but with helicopters, troop carriers and hundreds of police and soldiers, it was only a matter of time.
But Bradley wouldn’t give up. “We dump the Bergens here.”
They shrugged the heavyweight rucksacks off their shoulders and quickly extracted their scoot packs: smaller packs containing essential items such as water, ammunition, food and some medical supplies. Bradley still persisted with carrying the radio.
“Come on, let’s go.” Bradley pulled Jacko up from the floor and they set off again, the sound of a helicopter to their right and the barking of the dogs behind ringing in their ears.
They picked up speed. Although panic had not yet set in, they were starting to feel that they were running for their lives. Having shed their Bergens, the two men were running hard and fast. Bradley heard Jacko stumble, heard the cracking of branches and twigs as he crashed into some low-lying branches, catching a glancing blow off a tree, crying out as his shoulder rolled over the lumpy ground. Turning back, Bradley was soon crouched at his comrade’s side and could just make out the grimace on Jacko’s face, his bared teeth showing in the half light of the forest, indicative of the pain Jacko was in.
Bradley looked about him, noticing that the dogs were quieter, tiring perhaps, saving their energy for when they got within striking distance of their quarry.
“It’s my bloody ankle, hurts like fuck.”
“Here, grab my arm.” Bradley braced his legs, a smell of mulch and pine reaching his nostrils as he leant over and offered his hand.
“Aaagh, my bloody shoulder!” He hoisted Jacko up, the man crying out again as he put weight on his ankle.
The barking of the dogs suddenly picked up again, seeming much closer now, perhaps getting a whiff of their scent, driving them to pull their handlers ever faster.
“The dogs are getting closer. We need to shift.”
“I’m ready.”
They headed off again, but Jacko made a mere ten metres before crying out in pain as he jarred his badly twisted, if not broken, ankle. He was going nowhere. Before Bradley could say anything, the soldiers suddenly appeared as shadowy figures not more than 300 metres away, a gap in the trees giving them a view of Bradley’s and Jacko’s silhouettes.
“Fuck, run, Jacko.”
Bradley jogged sideways, watching his comrade’s poor attempt at running at speed, his ankle giving way again and sending shockwaves of pain through Jacko’s nervous system. Even knowing the enemy were in striking distance was not enough. Shots rang out.
Zip… crack. Zip… crack.
“Run, Jacko,” he screamed.
Bradley dropped down on one knee, pulled his pistol from the holster at his side, flicked the safety catch, aimed in the direction of the advancing shadows, tried to steady his still heaving body, his hands shaking, and fired a double tap. Now, at 200 metres, he knew the shot was pointless. But it may give Jacko a chance.
Thunk, thunk. Two more shots rang out, hitting the trunk of a tree.
Zip… crack. Zip… crack.
“Ughh.”
Bradley turned his head to see Jacko tumble forwards, the momentum of his attempted sprint forcing him into a forward roll, hitting the ground hard.
Zip… crack.
“Halten Sie! Halten Sie!” The soldiers screamed the order to halt. Less than 200 metres away now, the dogs were barking and yelping, straining at their leashes, forcing their handlers into a sprint.
Bradley rushed to Jacko’s side. His friend’s body was limp. Although he couldn’t see Jacko’s glazed-over, staring eyes, a hand over his mouth didn’t reveal the warmth of his breath, an indicator that his fellow soldier was dead. He couldn’t dally, got up from his crouch, fired another two shots, and ran for his life, jinking left and right, changing direction as snappily as he had seen any hare do.
Zip, crack.
“Halten Sie! Halten Sie!”
Zip, crack.
He weaved in and out of the trees, trying to spoil their aim, using the trunks for cover, the occasional bullet splintering a tree or chopping off small branches, twigs and leaves showering the escaping soldier. Faster and faster, arms pumping, his breath rasping, lactic acid burning his muscles as he tried desperately to outrun his pursuers.
The firing stopped. The noise of the dogs yelping and barking increased once they got the scent of blood as the soldiers of the Volksarmee established the condition of the escapee they had just shot. Leaving a couple of soldiers to watch over the dead body, they continued the chase, fresh dogs having been brought forward from the autobahn, the dogs jumping forwards, dragging their handlers in the direction of fresh quarry. They headed off after their prey, knowing Bradley would be tiring.