A moment later, the rear left tire on the Soviet truck exploded in a burst of flying debris. The rubber of the disintegrating tire was flung in all directions as the truck skidded to a halt. Hale heard the driver exclaiming loudly, “Chert poberi!” As the truck slowed to a stop.
As soon as the truck stopped moving, the driver flung his door open and jumped out of the cab. As his booted feet struck the snow-covered surface of the road, he looked to his left and saw the source of his problem, the disintegrated tire. Letting out what must have been another loud curse, he put his hands on his hips. Whatever he said attracted the attention of one of the men underneath the canopy. The man, threw a leg over the tail gate and began to make his way down to the ground.
As the driver stood and waited, Hale raised his rifle up and took aim at the man’s head. He worked to line up the shot despite his shaking arms. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This helped him to relax and still his uncooperative appendages. He took another deep breath and held it. Satisfied the shot would hit, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked and slapped his shoulder with the force of the recoil.
A moment later, Hale’s 7.62mm bullet struck the man’s forehead. As the bullet smashed through the bone of his skull, it was deflected and bounced around inside the unfortunate’s head. Outwardly, the driver’s uncovered head, appeared to exploded like a melon smashed by a giant fist.
Before the driver’s body hit the ground, Hale worked the bolt on his rifle, took quick aim at the other soldier, and squeezed the trigger. The driver’s corpse gained a companion. A Soviet soldier inside the canopy covered rear deck of the truck, stuck his rifle out from behind the canopy and fired a shot. As soon as he pulled the trigger, another man jumped to the ground. Losing his balance as he leaped, the man’s fur covered cap came off his head as he struck the frozen ground. Thinking quickly, he rolled to absorb the impact.
Hale waited patiently for the man to sort himself out and stand up. As the man reached his feet, someone from within the canopy covered area, tossed him a rifle. The man turned toward the movement, as Hale took aim, he saw a skin tone that he was unfamiliar with. The man’s coloration was darker than anyone he had ever seen in the frozen tundra of his Finnish homeland. Where is this guy from? Hale thought. Could he be one of those China men I read about?
Not wasting any more time to think about what he was seeing; Hale pulled the trigger of his rifle. The bullet penetrated the left eye of his target, causing his luckless victim to drop the rifle he had just caught. The man wavered for a moment, then dropped to his knees and fell face forward into the snow.
Hale was forced to duck, as a shot rang out from the back of the truck. He quickly worked the bolt on his rifle and crawled over to the nearest tree. Using the tree’s trunk as a shield, he stood up, raised his rifle, and peeked out from behind the tree. He nearly ate a bullet as the sound of a Soviet rifle rang out and the bullet struck the tree mere inches from his head. This one has some skill.
Hale tried to take a moment to identify the shooter from the shadowy interior of the truck. Not wanting to linger as his unseen assailant worked the bolt on his rifle, Hale squeezed the trigger. His rifle barked and he heard a Russian yell out in pain as his bullet found flesh. As he started to grin, a second rifle report rang out and the bark of the tree he was leaning against fractured less than an inch from his face showering him with splinters.
Apparently, the shooter is still alive and well. I must have hit someone else. Hale worked his bolt quickly, and fired his fifth and last round into the opening in the canopy. This time he did not hear anyone cry out in pain. A miss. Worth a shot, especially with that enemy sniper in the back. Hale grinned at himself over the use of a pun in his internal monologue.
Hale ducked back behind his tree, removed his thick gloves, popped his magazine lose, and caught it with his left hand as it fell toward the ground. He then slipped it into his left pocket, and reached into his right for the reload. His fingers closed around the cold metal clip. Pulling it out, he slapped the magazine into place on his rifle. The clip of five bullets easily slipped into position with a click.
He heard the sounds of several voices and what was likely the sound of boots hitting the snow-covered road. If I stick my head out, that Soviet bastard will likely take it off. Sighing deeply, Hale slipped his gloves back on, slung his rifle onto his shoulder, dropped to the ground, and began crawling to the south.
As Hale slowly worked his way along on the ground, the surviving members of the Soviet Squad, cautiously made their way toward his last known position. Hale would occasionally pause his own movements, to listen for the Soviets. Each time he heard the sound of their boots crunching in the snow, still at a distance, he continued crawling.
After about two hundred feet of crawling across the frozen ground, Hale decided that he had put enough distance between his original position and his current location. Remaining prone on the ground, he slowly worked his way around until he was facing in the direction of his former position. He took the rifle from his back, and checked it to make sure there was a round was in the chamber. Satisfied, he took aim at the position he recently occupied as he dealt death to the Russian invaders.
The Soviets, moving cautiously, took another ten minutes or so to reach the location that Hale had slain half their number from. It took them only a moment to spot his trail, and one of them pointed in his general direction. It was the last act he would ever take in this life. The other two men dropped to the ground, as Hale worked the bolt on his rifle to chamber another round.
Hale raised his rifle back to his shoulder and attempted to take aim at his two surviving opponents. From his position on the ground, Hale could not see them. Deciding to take a chance, he crawled forward and stood up behind a tree trunk. From somewhere off to his right, a rifle cracked. He felt the warm breeze of the bullet travel closely by the back of his neck.
Not wanting to wait around for a second shot, Hale threw himself on the ground. It saved his life. Two more shots rang out from the soldiers in front of him. As soon as he dropped to the ground, they had stood and taken careful aim at him, Fuck, they have me in a cross fire.
The sound of Hale’s heartbeat thundered in his ears and his body flooded with adrenaline. Trying not to panic, he tried to follow his training and remain still. As he did so, his mind slipped back to his training. “If the bastards know where you are, but don’t have a shot remain calm. If you panic, your blood be feeding the trees.” Sergeant Kivi said.
Hale made eye contact with the Sergeant’s pale blue eyes as he continued to speak, “Be patient and sit still. This will buy you time, and most importantly make the enemy nervous. A nervous enemy makes mistakes. Especially half trained Soviet farm boys who can’t wipe their own ass without permission from their political officer.” Sergeant Kivi said.
“How do you know so much about the Soviets?” Dal, a private standing a few feet away from Hale asked.
Sergeant Kivi, unconsciously raised his hand to his face and fingered the jagged scar on his left cheek before replying, “I volunteered to fight the communist in Spain. Over the course of the war, the Nationalist’s International Brigade, which was made up of volunteers from every country that wasn’t Germany or Italy, had several engagements. Several of those engagements were with a brigade of Soviets fighting for the Republicans. None of the Spanish Nationalists could go toe to toe with the Soviets, so we got ordered into their path frequently.”