“Bratischka, the army calls for the assistance of our gallant comrades in the partisans!” Lieutenant Stanislav Knyaginichev looked around at the men and women who had answered his call. His words had been carried on the winds, to the units hidden in the villages and in the forests. The men and women had recovered their carefully-hidden weapons and come to aid the Army in its moment of need. Knyaz looked at them with pride. To do so took more courage than could easily be measured. The Army would fight its battle and be gone. The partisans would still be here when the fighting was over and the Hitlerites came to take their revenge. When the people had bravery such as this, the Rodina was safe. Embattled, hungry, besieged but safe. In his look at the Partisans around him, he had noted something else. They were better-armed than his men were. Every Partisan carried a German banana-rifle and were supplied with large numbers of grenades. Even those who had rocket launchers, either the German Panzerfaust or the Russian RPG-1 copy, still had a rifle and grenades as well. That was the measure of these men and women. Every banana rifle they carried meant a Germans soldier lying dead in the night.
“And how may the Partisans assist the Army, Tovarish Lieutenant?” The speaker was the leader of the largest of the partisan bands. It was rumored he had a brigade of no less than fifty men and women answering to him.
“There is a great gun on the railway; a gun that belongs to the American Navy. The fascists want to capture that gun very badly but it has escaped them. Every trap the Hitlerites have laid, the gun has escaped. American sailors, Russian engineers, my own Ski-troops; all of us are fighting together to get the gun to safety so that it can once again fire on the fascist beasts.”
“Why do they not give the gun to us? We could use some artillery!” There was a murmur of agreement that swept around the meeting.
Knyaz grinned. “Bratischka, this is a forty centimeter gun!”
The partisan leader lifted his hands up, about 20 centimeters apart at first and then spread them apart so they were about the diameter of the railway gun. There was a few muffled cheers and some gasps of admiration. This was certainly a great gun. A Tsar of guns thought some of the older men. They were careful to keep the description to themselves.
“It needs much preparation and special railway tracks to fire. When it does, it hurls a shell fifty kilometers and the shell makes the very ground turn to jelly under it. Truly, bratischka, this is a great gun and of much value. The Americans have fought hard and sent many aircraft to help it escape. Now it is we who must make a great effort. The Hitlerites have set an ambush just short of the river bridge. The survivors of a mechanized battalion, about a reinforced company in strength. With artillery and anti-tank guns. They have torn up the railway tracks so the train must stop. The engineers cannot repair the tracks until the fascists are killed.
“Bratischka, I will be honest with you. The men on the train have done well but they are sailors and railway engineers. Even so, they have beaten the fascists like a drum, inflicting great loss on them. But they are sailors and railway engineers, not real soldiers. This task is beyond them. My men are the only real infantry on the train and there are but twenty of us left. Can I count on you to join us, to kill the fascists and show the American sailors what the partisans can do?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then the leader of the largest of the groups stepped forward and hugged Knyaz in a bear-like embrace. “Tovarish Lieutenant, we will be there at your side. Now, how are we to go about this task?”
Knyaz got out his map. “The train is coming along the line here. It will stop behind the ridge where it is safe and as many men as can be spared will come forward to a position on that ridge, facing the fascists. We will move in on the fascist’s flanks and rear while they are watching the ridge and attack them. Then we can drive….”
“My apologies Tovarish Lieutenant. I have news we all should hear. The Americans have just bombed the lair of the Finnish Hitlerites. They have set the whole city on fire. The radio in Petrograd says they can see the glow of the fires from streets of Petrograd itself. The fascists are calling fire brigades from all over southern Finland to try and stop the fires spreading further but they struggle in vain. The fires have created a great wind storm and nothing can stop the spread of the flames.”
The meeting erupted in cheers. Knyaz felt his back being pounded by the Partisans. The Americans weren’t around to get the praise, but he was with them and that was near enough.
“Yes, Tovarish Lieutenant, we must indeed help the Americans save their gun. The whole city on fire? Good, that is very good.”
“You might at least have given me a cushion to sit on.” Igrat’s voice was indignant. Half her mind was in a screaming panic but she had locked that part away. Instead she concentrated on the task in hand. That was buying time so Henry and Achillea could catch up with her.
She was sitting in an old-fashioned wooden chair. Her wrists had been tied to the rails at the back, her ankles to the chair legs. It was a good, old-fashioned interrogation set-up that had her facing a desk with several lamps on it. The brilliant bulbs had been angled so they shone right in her eyes. She could see very little of the rest of the room; just the vague shadows of two men. One of them had a very heavy German accent. The other never spoke at all. He had opened her blouse and was pawing her, like a schoolboy, roughly and crudely. Igrat had noticed his hands had been shaking when he had unfastened the buttons. She looked at his shadow and put as much sympathy into her voice as she could. “You don’t have much experience with women do you?”
Silent-One whinnied with outrage. His fist came out of the darkness, hitting her in the face. She ran her tongue around her mouth noting the salty taste of blood.
“Where did you get the papers from? Talk to us.” It was German-Voice speaking.
“You want me to talk to you? Fine.” Igrat looked at the shadow of Silent-One. “You hit like a girl. OK? And by the look of your pants, you have to pee like one as well.”
The fist that hit her that time meant business. Igrat’s vision exploded into brilliant flashes and pinwheels. When they cleared, her sight was distorted and she could feel the eye on that side swelling shut. German-Voice was speaking again. “Tell us what we ask or by the time we finish with your face, your own mother will not recognize you.”
“She wouldn’t recognize me anyway, she dumped me in the trash outside a brothel as soon as I was born.” That, Igrat reflected, was quite true enough but I doubt it is what these two idiots wanted to hear. The panic started to rise again. She squashed it down ruthlessly
She was right. Her reward was another flurry of blows, some full-force punches, other slaps. She could sense the bleeding in her mouth was much worse and she let the stained saliva trickle from the corner of her lips. She was tempted to spit it at the men but resisted. The time for defiance like that would come later, when her chances of survival had gone.
German-voice was screaming at her. “What is in the briefcase?”
“My sandwiches. The food on the train is terrible so I got a packed lunch.”
“You want more beating?” There was urgency and lust in the voice. He looking for excuses to hurt her. That scared Igrat more than the beating.
“Well, look if you don’t believe me.” Igrat was genuinely irritated in addition to putting on an act for the men’s benefit. She was telling the truth and the idiots wouldn’t believe her.