Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  “You never know, it may turn up again. Where will you go now, Bishop?”

  He smiled bitterly. “The Robe had gone for good, the communists will never let it go. We have a monastery on the outskirts of St Petersburg, Leningrad now, of course. I shall go there, admit my failures and offer to make my penance.”

  “We’ll be going to Leningrad too, it’s where the battalion is based. Perhaps we can offer you a lift, when we find some transport.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, yes, that would be helpful.”

  “Don’t thank me, Bishop, if I hadn’t come along you wouldn’t have lost the Robe.”

  “We are all sinners, my son.”

  “That’s true, Bishop.” I smiled. “It’s just that some are worse than others.”

  Chapter Eight

  We reached Leningrad two days later, it seemed to be colder than ever. I still had a decision to make, an important decision. Kurz greeted us well enough and was reasonably courteous to Tamara, his dislike of Soviet citizens was overcome by her obvious physical charms. She had relations in Pskov, which was about five hundred kilometers to the south west, close to the Estonian frontier. I promised to help her travel to Pskov where she could wait out the war in some safety. After the war, maybe we could talk again. I booked a hotel for two nights, Kurz had given us a brief period to recover from our abortive mission. He was surprisingly upbeat.

  “Look on the bright side, Roth. You’ve upset the Soviets, probably they diverted several battalions of men to hunt you down after your escapade in Moscow. That is a success in itself. Never mind about the damned relic, they’ll soon find another one that they decide they have to have at all costs. Then you can go and retrieve it, Obersturmfuhrer, it’ll be a chance to redeem yourself.”

  “Kind of you to say so, sir.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I know it’s not been easy, I’m sure you’ve had more than enough of the Moscow sights for this war.”

  “Yes, Sir, I have.”

  “There’ll be plenty more opportunities for you to carry out important work for the Fatherland. You’re lucky that this time it seems the Gestapo have to take responsibility for their failure, so none of it reflects badly on you or the battalion. It’s more than I can say about Hachmann, I understand he’s under close arrest.”

  “What will happen about the Schutzhaft that’s held on me, Sir?”

  “It’s been torn up, Hachmann was behind it and he’s been discredited, so as far as the Gestapo is concerned it’s a worthless document. You’re in the clear, Roth.”

  I found the hotel where Tamara was staying and we spent two wonderful days and nights together. The first night we spent an hour soaking together in a hot tub. I had to bribe the hotel half a week’s wages to heat up the water, but it was worth it. Afterwards we went to bed naked, I took her in my arms and felt a jolt of what felt like electricity stab through me. She looked down at my rock hard penis and smiled.

  “You’re very eager tonight, Max.”

  “If you were looking at what I’m looking at, the most beautiful and desirable woman in the whole of Russia, you’d feel the same way too.”

  Her smile broadened. “I doubt that, but I understand what you mean, thank you. Now, fuck me, Max, I want this to be a true night of love, just for you and me.”

  She was soaking wet, panting with arousal and excitement and I slid into her easily. Immediately we lost ourselves to the war, to the Russian and German armies, to blood and death and danger, there was just us, two lovers sharing an erotic oasis in the midst of the icy squalor that had gripped almost the whole of Europe. We slept, in the early hours we woke up and made love again, slowly this time, it was a long, sensuous and thoroughly satisfying experience. We drank champagne that I’d ordered earlier from room service, it was lukewarm and almost flat but we didn’t care. Just for those brief, few hours, there was no war, there was only us.

  The respite was all too short, afterwards I managed to get Tamara transport to Pskov and then I had to report back to Battalion. Kurz was crackling with electricity, we had orders to move up to the front. The Soviets were showing signs of preparing a massive counterattack and every available man was being brought in to reinforce the defenses. Before we left, I spoke to Blomberg quietly.

  “Any problems?”

  He grinned. “None at all, all ready for you.”

  I borrowed a Kubelwagen and Blomberg drove us to the outskirts of Leningrad, the military build-up was palpable, tanks, artillery and troops were moving forward to shore up our dwindling army that was all that stood between us and the Soviet hordes.

  “I thought we were supposed to be taking Leningrad, this looks like we’re clinging to a lost position,” Blomberg commented.

  He was correct, it seemed that our mighty German armies had hit a brick wall, just as they had in Moscow three months ago.

  “I’ve no doubt it’s all part of the Fuhrer’s master plan for taking Russia.”

  “Yes, you must be right, Sir. What else could it be?”

  What else indeed. Commonsense would dictate that despite the fierce rhetoric that spewed out of Dr Goebbels’ propaganda ministry in Berlin, the Soviets were proving to be more than a match for our armies. If that were true, the future would be very bleak indeed. It was best not to think about that, we had enough to contend with as it was. We reached the Monastery of St Stephen and were admitted to the Abbot’s office. Bishop Romanova was in seclusion, dealing with his guilt at having lost the Robe of John the Baptist.

  “We need to see him, Abbot, we have important news.”

  He shook his head. “Whatever news you have, he will not come out of his cell. It is a part of his penance.”

  “In that case, show us to his cell, we’ll go to him there.”

  He argued that it was impossible, he was seeing no one, but when we pushed him hard, he acquiesced. After all, two armed SS troopers were not easy to reason with when you were a peaceful man of God. We were shown along echoing, flagstoned hallways that were cold enough to douse the fires of hell. We reached a heavy wooden door, studded with iron. I opened the door and went in. Romanova was kneeling in front of a tiny altar, just a small stone shelf with a crucifix and two candles burning. He didn’t turn around.

  “Bishop Romanova, we have to speak to you.”

  “No, you do not. Go away, I have nothing to say. Haven’t you done enough?”

  “Bishop, we need to talk, turn around or we’ll turn you around, we’re not speaking to your back.”

  Slowly, he turned around and his expression changed, his face was like watching a bright, sparkling dawn after a night of pitch darkness. Blomberg had taken off his pack and removed the Robe.

  “But, your man took it when he drove away in the truck outside of Smolensk. How did you get this?”

  I explained that Hachmann had taken it from Blomberg’s backpack. During the action in the aircraft, when we were under attack, he managed to creep forward from his position on the rear gun. He took it back and substituted the worthless rags and pieces of paper that Hachmann himself had put into Blomberg’s pack when he stole the Robe.

  “It was a classic switch, you see. Hachmann thought he still had the Robe and Wasser thought he had it too. When Wasser deserted to the Russians, I would think he was trying to make a deal with the Robe so that he could escape the fighting. The Russians have put out a lot of propaganda promising high rewards to any of our troops that would go over to them, Wasser obviously thought he would be feted as a hero.

  We stayed for another few minutes with Romanova, then he took us to the Abbot’s office to announce that his penance was over, the Robe was restored to its keeper. Then we took our leave and left.

  “Why didn’t you tell Kurz we had it and send it on to Berlin?” Blomberg asked.

  “Because it doesn’t belong to them, or to the Russians. If we have to survive this war by looting for the ‘Golden Pheasants’, the bloated bureaucrats that control the Reich and are stripping Europe of all its artworks, so b
e it. But that was a step to far, Werner. You know I don’t believe any of this religious nonsense, but suppose, just suppose that robe was worn by Jesus? Should we allow Hitler or Stalin to get their hands on it?”

  He shook his head. “You’re right. I’d sooner send both of them a live hand grenade.”

  That was my sentiment too. We drove back to Battalion and I reported to Kurz for a briefing. He was bursting with excitement.

  “The Reds are expected to make an attempt to break through here,” he said, pointing to a large-scale map with a stick. “Our task is to fill in this gap in the defenses here, two kilometers south of Leningrad, near the shore of Lake Ladoga. We think they’ll use Siberian ski troops to cross the frozen lake and attempt to hit our defenses head on during the night. They don’t have any armor, but without a doubt they’ll try to soften us up with artillery, we’ll just have to keep our heads down until their barrage ends. Then we can deal with these Siberians. Our own artillery will do their best to hit them with counter battery fire and the Luftwaffe has been briefed to hit them where possible. They’ve called up a couple of Stuka squadrons to help out, but we’re not sure they’ll get here in time. So there we are, our job is to hit them hard when they do attack, hurt them and push them back. As soon as this damned winter ends, we’ll go back on the offensive and hit the damned Reds where it hurts. With any luck we’ll be inside the city by summer.”

  I’d heard that sentiment many times over the past few months, we always seemed to be about to take the city, the Red Army always had other ideas.

  “Oh, there’s one more thing.” Kurz made sure we were all listening. “Minefields.”

  We thought the briefing had ended and we talking amongst ourselves, I was mentally ticking off all of the tasks I had to complete to prepare my platoon to move out. We went quiet, he had our attention again.

  “The Soviets managed to sneak across the lake and sew a minefield in front of the sector we’re moving into. They’ll have safe paths marked for their own troops of course, but if their attack fails, which it will, their idea is for us for run into the minefield when we counterattack. Headquarters has called in a Strafbatalion to go forward and clear the mines, so we’re likely to run into them when we move up there. Whatever happens, let them go across first, it’s their job to get themselves blown up, not ours.”

  I shuddered. Strafbatalions, penal battalions, were units of convicted soldiers for whom service in such units was either the assigned punishment or sometimes a voluntary alternative to imprisonment. Occasionally it was offered instead of the death penalty. Strafbatalions were mainly used on the Eastern front to conduct the most dangerous operations, often no more than suicide missions. Casualties were high as soldiers sentenced to Strafbatalions were commonly used to clear minefields, assault difficult objectives or defend positions against overwhelming attacking forces. Injured members of the German Strafbatalion were often shot or left to die as military doctors were ordered not to provide treatment. When Strafbatalion soldiers were killed, their bodies were not buried but left to rot where they lay.

  “That’s all, we leave in two hours.”

  We drove forward in our trucks until we reached our assigned position. Several hundred meters in front of us, we could see the troops of the Strafbatalion crisscrossing the ground, searching the frozen earth with bayonets for signs of the Soviet mines. We deployed in the trench system already dug in the ground, which was fortunate, the ground was so hard that digging new trenches would have needed heavy engineering equipment that we didn’t possess. A whistle blew and the penal unit came walked back, their work completed. As they passed, I was astonished to see Hachmann. It was not the Hachmann I knew, his uniform was ragged, he was thinner, unshaven and blue, shaking with cold. There was of course no cold weather equipment for the penal units. I called him over.

  “Kriminalinspektor, what happened to you?”

  He smiled bitterly. “It’s Sturmann Hachmann now. They blamed me for that last fiasco, that’s what happened. Heydrich was still looking for a scapegoat for his cousin and Himmler said that someone had to get the chop. I was nearest so they picked on me. It was this or a death sentence.”

  I shouldn’t have felt sorry for a Gestapo man getting a taste of what they meted out to others, but he had been part of the squad I took into Moscow and I felt a certain sympathy.

  “How long is your sentence?”

  “Six months. But the average survival rate for penal units is two months at best.”

  “Maybe you’ll beat the odds.”

  “I doubt it,” he said with a serious expression. “We’re all of us resigned to die. One or two of us may last until the sentence ends, but what then? Even the regular army and SS regiments on the Eastern Front are taking massive casualties. I’m afraid we’re all done for, all of us. I remember you saying what happened to those Gestapo officers who investigated your activities, Roth. That they all died. It looks as if you were right.”

  “Perhaps Wasser had the right idea then, going over to the Reds.”

  “Wasser? Didn’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “He was NKVD. He was recruited by them a while ago, he’s always had communist sympathies, it seems. They discovered how important that Robe was, but at the time they weren’t aware of its location. He was told to get it for them at all costs.”

  “So now he’s enjoying himself in Moscow, I suppose he must be a hero to the Communists,” I laughed.

  “That’s the funny thing. When he presented himself to NKVD headquarters they took him out and shot him. I can’t understand why they did that, after all, he did bring them the Robe.”

  “Yes, that is strange.”

  There must have been something in my tone that alerted him. “He did have the Robe, didn’t he?”

  I shrugged. “We know he took your backpack, and you took the Robe and put it in there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well then, he must have had it. But who knows? It probably wasn’t genuine anyway, most of these artifacts are worthless fakes.”

  He stared at me for a few moments more. “You switched it, didn’t you?”

  “That’s nonsense, Hachmann.”

  “I’m a policeman, my friend, I know when someone is lying or not telling me the whole truth. Something happened to that Robe and you know what it is. So Wasser never had it to give to the Reds, eh? That’s good news, I’ll see that treacherous, thieving bastard in hell. It’s too late for me, I can’t change my sentence. The chances are we’ll all be dead anyway when the Soviets launch their new counteroffensive. Even Berlin is being bombed to rubble, Adolf certainly miscalculated when he started this war.”

  An NCO shouted over to him.

  “I have to go, Roth. I expect I’ll see you shortly. In hell.”

  He walked away to rejoin his unit of corpses in waiting.

  The attack came unexpectedly in the middle of the night. One moment everything was quiet, and then the darkness was torn apart with explosions, flares and tracer bullets. Troops were everywhere, ski-troops in white camouflage suits. Siberians. We could see our machine guns cut through their ranks as we stood on the parapet of the trench. We were firing repeatedly at the madmen who kept coming at us, no matter how many of their comrades were cut down by our furious defensive fire. Even when they were hit, they kept coming, crawling forward like Dervishes, still firing or trying to throw grenades at us. My platoon was using an MG34 that was doing sterling work, cutting through the attackers until the barrel overheated. A group of Siberians realized what had happened and formed a wedge of about forty men, they came at us in a mad, howling pack. It was obvious that we were about to be overwhelmed.

  “Grenades, use your grenades,” I shouted.

  I armed and threw one stick grenade, then the other. Some of the men were quick enough to do the same, I saw Sturmann Dagmar thrown back by a burst of fire from a Soviet PPSh, then a grenade tore his assailant to shreds. Two more Russians hurl
ed themselves forward and I pulled the trigger of my machine pistol but the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber, I was out of ammunition. I dragged out my Walther and shot the first man but the second launched himself on me, he dived into the trench and dragged me to the bottom. The Siberian was armed with a long, wicked looking bayonet, his lips drew back in a fierce smile of triumph as he thrust at my neck. My pistol had been knocked from my hand and I had nothing left to fight him. I knocked his hand to one side and jumped up. He came at me again, the bayonet stabbed forward but as it was reaching for my stomach the power went out of the thrust. He fell to the floor of the trench, Goethe stood behind him, pulling out his bloody combat knife.

  I nodded to him. “Thank you, Scharfuhrer. That’ll make you an Oberscharfuhrer, a field promotion, try and live long enough to enjoy it.”

  He smiled briefly, tossed me his spare MP38 and I turned back to the fight.

  All along the trench similar skirmishes were going on, it was touch and go. The Siberians outnumbered us by a factor of two to one but we managed to hold on to our positions and kill them in large numbers. The adjacent platoon was wiped out to a man when a Siberian jumped in amongst them with his body festooned with grenades. It was a suicide attack, there was little they could do to stop him. Even as they riddled his body with bullets, the grenades went off and sent shards of hot metal spinning around the trench, every member of the platoon was hit and either killed outright or suffered mortal wounds. But that was the high point of their attack, they started to fall back, there were no more assaults, we’d killed so many of them that they decided they’d suffered enough. We spent the rest of the night shivering in the trench, occasionally taking shelter from the Russian artillery barrages, intended to keep us awake. Once we had an alarm when a squadron of Polikarpov Po-2 night bombers came over. The wooden biplanes, often flown by women pilots, came over our lines by night, they flew very slowly and made little noise. They were all painted black which made them almost impossible to detect. Their bomb loads were light, but the damage they did to our morale was out of all proportion to the physical damage their bomb loads caused. Part of a trench further up the line suffered a direct hit from one of their bombs and none of us slept at all after that. In the morning Kurz came around to inspect his troops. He singled me out for a quiet word.