He reached into a pouch for another clip. His fingers told him this was his last, just five rounds left. The Canadians were moving up fast. Each group covered the others, keeping a constant stream of bullets and grenades on the Finnish position. Ihrasaari pulled the pin out of his grenade and threw it. He ducked down so that he wouldn’t see the results. The problem with grenades was that their blast could throw fragments further than a man could throw the grenade. Still here, the snow tended to tamp their exuberance a little. He looked up as the blast faded. The Canadians were still approaching. Then he remembered his Molotov cocktail. He pulled the bottle out of its pouch, turned it upside down quickly to soak the fuse, lit it and threw. He heard the whoomph as it shattered and heard a scream. Another quick look showed him the Canadians were very close now. More shots from his rifle and a final despairing click as it ran dry. They were almost on top of him. That only left one thing to do. He stood up and raised his hands in surrender.
The Canadian soldier looked at him with loathing. “Too late, chum.” They were his only words and his submachine gun crackled. Ihrasaari felt the impacts and fell back against the snow. His last sight was of the Canadian taking careful aim and his finger closing for a short, vicious burst that Ihrasaari neither heard nor saw.
“Sir. Message from Brigade. Coronet has broken through the Finnish lines. They’re on their way to us now. We’re to exercise full caution, Sir. The first troops will be infantry and they’ve had a hard fight. They’ve got M27s from the Sherbrookes backing them up.”
Lieutenant Colonel Haversham read the message flimsy. People getting killed by their own side was a serious danger. The infantry and tanks coming in would be ready to shoot at anything that moved. The troops out on the defenses could easily make a mistake and assume this was another Finnish attack. “Major Gillespie, spread the word fast, to everybody and I mean everybody. Even the cooks and bakers. Friendly forces coming in, the colors of the day are… blue to green with response green to white. Nobody to shoot unless fired upon and then only if they are absolutely sure the shooters are Finns or Huns. Better to take a few shots than start a blue-on-blue here.”
Gillespie nodded and started his rapid circuit of the perimeter, passing the urgent orders along the line. Especially to the Vickers gun crews. One mistake with those murderous water-cooled guns could turn the relief into a massacre. Then, he took up his position and watched. He could see the trees moving slightly as the vehicles passed between them. He guessed that the incoming infantry already had seized positions along the treeline. Now was the time. He took his flare gun and a flare from the recognition pouch, religiously checking that it was indeed blue turning to green. Then he fired it upwards and followed it with his eyes. A blue train of smoke that arched upwards and turned to green as it descended. A second or so later, another flare arched upwards from the treeline. A flare that started green and turned to white.
Cautiously, some white-and-gray figures detached from the treeline and started to move down towards the hedgehog. Gillespie focused his binoculars on them and checked details. The top-mounted curved magazine of the Bren gun, the sideways mounted magazine of the Capsten. They were Canadians. He stood up and raised a Bren gun over his head. The figures broke into a run and closed on the defensive hedgehog. About 30 yards out they stopped and a voice echoed across the trees.
“Reginas?”
“Aye, that’s us. Welcome home.”
“We’ll be more sure of that when you tell us where the mines are.”
“You’re clear. We didn’t have enough for a circuit, so we put what we had on the roads in case the Huns brought up armor. Come on in”
The relief force broke out of the trees. The best part of an infantry platoon so Gillespie guessed, and eight tanks. Plus three of the Kangaroo armored carriers. “Lieutenant Marcelle, Sir. We’ve got wounded with us, mostly grenade fragments, none too bad. One man badly burned. Finnish bastard threw a Molotov at him. Could I ask the loan of your field medics?”
“Certainly, Lieutenant. Seeing you here today, you can have anything we have, including the services of my wife and daughters. If they were here of course, which, of course, they aren’t. Otherwise I would not be making the offer.”
There was a roar of laughter from the Canadian troops surrounding him. “Your medics will be more than gratefully received. In response, I must tell you I am reliably informed the tanks have bottles on board. I believe that Captain Brody may even have a bottle of Canadian Club.”
Gillespie looked heartbroken for a split second. “Lieutenant, you’re a hard man. Get your wounded over to our first aid tent. Be careful to identify yourself. After we heard what happened at Division, it’s unmarked and heavily guarded.” Gillespie dropped his voice slightly. “We heard, unofficially. Are the stories true.”
Marcelle looked grim. “Sir, it’s true. Heard it from a Sergeant who was in the fighting at Division. The Finns killed them all; even the nurses. Don’t think we’ll ever know why. All the Finns that attacked the camp got killed. The bastards fought to the last man on the way in here as well. We’ve taken no prisoners we can ask and I very much doubt that any of the other columns have either.”
His words were silenced by the roar of tank engines as the M27s nosed into the hedgehog. “Sir, Captain Brody, Squadron commander. Where do you want us?”
“Captain Brody, a little bird tells me you have some Club on board. Is there any truth to that scurrilous rumor?”
“Well, Sir, we have now, but if you’d like to confiscate it…”
“A generous offer, Captain. Could you accompany me to meet Lieutenant Colonel Haversham? Perhaps we can have a little chat over a glass and find out what comes next.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN: CLEARING THE DEBRIS
“Igrat, we’ve had another message from Loki. He says he has some information of critical importance that we need to see right away. Won’t say what, says it’s too critical even to talk about. I’d like you, Achillea and Henry to make another Geneva trip to pick it up. I know it isn’t scheduled but if it is as important as Loki says, then we need to get it here.”
“Assuming this isn’t one of Loki’s practical jokes.” Igrat flicked her heavy black hair, smoothing it into a cascade that ran down her back to her waist. One of the troubles with Loki was that he was an inveterate practical joker.
“Loki’s never staged a practical joke with the intelligence data he sends back to us. If he ever does, I’ll add Geneva to the target list.” Igrat knew that Stuyvesant wasn’t joking. Nobody knew what had started it but the feud between the two men had started a long time ago. They despised each other. Their present fragile relationship was the product of the war; nothing else. She doubted if Stuyvesant would actually have Geneva bombed just to deal with Loki but he would do something drastic.