Oleg nodded warily, his young face strained in anguish as another shot rang out, the elderly farmer, wife and disabled brother despatched with brutal efficiency behind their burning barn for suspicion of supplying the local rebels, a local informant rewarded by the Einsatzgruppen captain with a new farm and livestock. Raising his head briefly, he saw the Kubelwagen jeep and Opel Blitz lorry near the burning building, darkened billowing smoke beginning to shroud the vehicles as further figures became visible, the riflemen of the security police searching other outbuildings for any additional family members or partisans. His voice almost a reflective grim whisper, ‘No food for us…no tomorrow for them…’
The startled cattle were baying in the other barn, one soldier stood with tethered horses from the ignited structure, the supplies and spare ammunition that condemned the residents located beneath scattered hay and neatly arranged sacks now dumped in the centre of the small courtyard. Pavel staring towards the burning building as the shadow of an officer emerged from the farmhouse, light spilling outwards from the open doorway, several soldiers eating and drinking within as muffled laughter drifted across the field.
The young Russian watched as the distant officer seemed to adjust his overcoat, lighting a cigarette and conversing with a local resident, the man’s head bowed subserviently with cap in hand as he nodded, the German explaining that the buildings now belonged to the collaborator and that the patrol would be spending the night there as his guests.
Pavel raised his rifle slowly, his lips pursed in hatred, ‘Damn fascist officer…he will die…’
Oleg instinctively grasped the barrel, forcing it down, ‘Are you mad? We are no match…’ They both stared out again, the distant silhouette nodding once more in agreement towards the German officer, bowing briefly and backing away. The informant own family had been gifted one of the outhouses as shelter for the night whilst the security police stayed in the warm farmhouse by the fire and candles, a stew cooking in the open fireplace…the cooked food Oleg, Pavel and the two other partisans would have enjoyed had the SD not intervened earlier in the evening.
Pavel turned to his friend, glancing at the two other grim, mud smeared faces beyond him in the ditch, all of them having gone without food since the night before, ‘We can attack, take the food for ourselves?’
Oleg chuckled briefly in response at his friend’s frustration, ‘There are four of us and we have only around five bullets each…there are perhaps twenty fascists at the farm, with probably more reinforcements nearby…the odds are not in our favour, they have submachine guns and it would be a short fight.’ He grinned briefly as the younger Russian nodded, pulling his tattered jacket collar up around his face, ‘We will go to the farm to the north…he should have some food for us…’
Pavel glanced round in surprise and dismay, ‘B-but that is nearly ten kilometres away…it will take over two hours and I am hungry…’
Oleg grimaced as the others grinned unsympathetically, ‘Better to feel hunger than nothing at all…we will get revenge…we are still alive, your yearning stomach should tell you that.’
Further North:
Mishka stepped forward, eyeing the open ground before them with suspicion, the darkness seeming all embracing and almost comforting within the dense treeline, the woods behind heavily overgrown through which it had taken them some time to progress. Dusting the hide on her shoulders, she tuned slowly, gritting her teeth as a branch cracked beneath a boot behind, the young Russian with a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder biting his lower lip and raising gloved hands before him in defence as she shook her head in disapproval, his retorted grin raising a faint smile across her young lips.
Two other figures emerged behind the sniper, both laden down with cumbersome sacks as they breathed heavily, glaring towards the young female partisan, one struggling with a rifle and an additional box, the other younger man with an MP40 submachine gun and a bulging knapsack slung over his shoulder. Mishka’s smile widened, her voice a low hiss, ‘We wait for the next train to pass…then there will be some time to prepare…stay down…’ She indicated to the sniper as he raised a glove over his mouth, ‘…are the others in position?’
The man nodded sheepishly and sighed, tired of the changed and more aggressive female, ‘Mishka…they will be ready. Also, remember who is in charge…it is not you. We report to the newly arrived commissar…’ His head lowered slowly, wary of the young woman’s rising anger, ‘…I am sorry, your father was a good man, but the fascists caught him in the end. We cannot risk more lives in vengeance, this must be coordinated and organised.’
A shrill whistle sounded in the distance, the men lowering their bags and grasping the weapons from their shoulders. The determined female nodded to the sniper, her eyes moistening with emotion and irritation as she retorted, ‘Just because a comrade from the army has been parachuted in does not mean he knows how to kill Germans as I have seen...my father taught me well and to use the terrain, we will see who is the best judge…he left me to decide our actions here…’
The sniper grinned, shaking his head in acknowledgement of her determination and recalling the flushed young political officer raising his hands in frustration at the challenging female, simply turning and walking away in frustration, his voice virtually an irritated growl, ‘Just make sure these two men get to the railway tracks and in the place we agreed.’
The train wheels squealed on the steel rails, another shrill whistle causing the small group to stiffen, the armoured engine screaming as it turned a bend in the track at high speed, lowered and grim faced soldiers staring out wearily through grime coated windows on either side into the darkened trees, several with raised MG34s and rifles.
The Russians ducked down as the forward train’s lights swept past, Mishka glancing up into the darkened windows, glimpsing several silhouettes and wounded bandaged Germans staring out, their heads down low and sombre before the steam and smoke obscured the openings. Flatcars between the carriages carried sandbagged machine guns and riflemen, a single carriage armoured car with upper machine gun hatches and side firing apertures speeding past as the whistle shrieked shrilly once more, the fearful driver warning each blockhouse as the Wehrmacht medical train approached, heading west.
Then the train cars were gone, dust and air breaking across the lowered faces of the partisans as the cool night air settled, Mishka crouching further to approach the edge of the trees, her eyes straining through the renewed pitch darkness. Glancing across the outlines of low stumps and cut back bushes, she turned to look along the dual tracks to the west, glimpsing the retreating train in the distance, a lone sentry stood on the rear carriage platform, an arm raised towards the lighted blockhouse that had just been passed.
Turning slowly, she hissed into the black void behind, her pupils now unaccustomed to the shadows after the bright lights, ‘Move out…stay low before they use their spotlights…’
The two men lunged forwards, crouching next to her slim figure and beginning to crawl forward, their weapons and sacks slung across their backs, tightly placed felt caps over their heads and ears, the younger one turning inquisitively, his grey padded tunic stained and smeared with mud, ‘Why here Mishka…why not the bridge further to the east?’
Mishka smiled as the sniper raised his rifle towards the nearest blockhouse to the west, his eye narrowing on the scope and ready for any alarm being called as the woman next to him spoke, ‘The bridge will have their machine guns targeting it. If we are lucky, this will derail the troop train…fresh or returning men for the front…perhaps wounding some. The wounded trains heading west will be delayed as will all the other trains…hopefully some fascists will die without medical attention…we will shoot at the windows too, maybe kill a couple this way. If we make a mistake here, we will only face rifle fire…’ She nodded as the young man seemed convinced, turning and dropping to crawl forward after his countryman on his chest and stomach, Mishka and the sniper ducking back as a spotlight on either side flickered into life,
the beams sweeping initially across the edges of the trees as the crawling men drew breath, pushing their faces into the wet earth in fear as shadows spilled and danced around them.
The sniper drew a sharp breath as they ducked back into the trees, ‘Sentries coming out of the blockhouse…they will walk the tracks, we had better withdraw until they have finished.’
Mishka’s eyes widened, her voice low as she stared towards the distant silhouettes, and spotlight beyond, ‘Get back! We will wait for the sentries…’ The two prone men struggled round, gasping in frustration as they pulled themselves frantically back across the earth towards the trees, the beam of light above them as the German blockhouse commander scrutinised the woodland further along the track through binoculars.
Oleg stiffened as they neared a track, the land rising to the thoroughfare that ran north to south, the ground hardened after three days without rain, his heart rate beginning to quicken as he recalled in dread that this route was used regularly by German forces during the day. Beyond the track lay several barren fields bordered with rough undergrowth, the land rising gradually towards a forest that spanned two low hills, his eyes widening in recollection as he realised that Pavel and himself had escaped from that very forest nearly three months earlier in the bitter frost and falling snow. His memory became suddenly vivid, recalling that they had stumbled into and killed two fascists, one assisting his wounded countryman, their bayonets cutting the lives from the surprised Germans.
He shook his head as his boots slipped into a small depression, his mind now filled with uncertainty and guilt at killing the soldiers in their youthful fear and terror of being captured, neither of which had attempted to fight, both sets of two soldiers simply surprised by the others…that they had acted quicker and in adrenalin fuelled panic as each of the opposing men eyed the other briefly.
Oleg’s eyes strained in distain as he recalled one begging to be set free after Pavel killed the first, unable to understand the young man’s strange un-German like words as he instinctively lunged forward without thinking, stabbing him deeply in the chest and feeling the life slowly slip from the trembling and groaning body as he held his victim tightly then immediately in ultimate regret, tears in his eyes. A brief shudder and strange and almost musical words he had not heard before followed as the man passed, the soldier wheezing as if in deep final prayer, ‘Mama…both your sons can now never return. We are sorry for the pain we have caused you…these men know not what they do, may god forgive us all…’
He vowed they would completely avoid the spot where it happened, despondent remorse filling his chest as he struggled to push the grim thoughts and memories from his mind.
His hand waved to indicate for the men to duck down, their bodies slipping into the low depression before a ram-shackled wooden fence, Pavel biting his lower lip as he considered the loving farmer’s wife, recalling the way she would pinch his cheek playfully and kiss his forehead as though he was her own son. The robust woman would always hug him tightly to her breasts, whispering that he was her favourite, Oleg grinning as his young friend blushed. Then she would push him gently to sit by the fire for warmth, ladling warm soup or stew generously into an old chipped bowl for his consumption, standing back and scrutinising his response to the flavour and offering before feeding the others.
Guilt seemed to fill his mind, that the gunshots had meant the farmer and his family’s deaths, Pavel only thinking about food, his eyes straining as he scolded himself mentally, a regretful nausea twisting in his empty stomach as Oleg turned to him.
Looking his friend up and down, the older male grimaced at the bowed head, ‘You are still sulking? We will still have food this night…it will just be later than we thought…’
Pavel raised his head, their eyes meeting and Oleg glimpsing the raw sorrow in the youth’s eyes, the man stammering, ‘I-I was wrong and selfish…they were good to me and all I thought of was my own hunger…I should act older and think of revenge, for their loss…’
Oleg’s eyes widened, nodding slowly, ‘They died quickly, they would never have betrayed us…they loved you like their son. They told me one night when you were asleep that he was killed near Stalingrad late last year…August 1942. You reminded the woman of their boy and she loved you for that…’ He sniffed thoughtfully, ‘…perhaps you gave them one last look at their son…a brave fighter and a loyal Ukrainian.’
Pavel drew breath quickly, emotions rising rapidly as tears filled his eyes, his head nodding once as Oleg stiffened, grasping his friends shoulder and pulling him lower into the depression, his tone a startled grunt, ‘Engines…get down…’ The two soldiers behind pushed their faces into the dirt, Oleg roughly shoving his friend down and pushing his body protectively on top of him, the engine noise getting louder as he hissed, ‘Fascist motors…’
Oleg glanced upwards as a Kubelwagen jeep skidded into view round a sharp bend from the north, the silhouette of a driver and officer in the front seat, the outline of an MG34 machine gun mounted on a makeshift rack above, the helmeted gunner pressing his shoulder tightly to the heavy butt of the weapon as he scrutinised the darkened inclining field opposite. Behind the small swerving car, an SdKfz 222 burst into view, the commander sat upright in his low turret, his head just visible with the hatch open. With another MG34 placed in the upper turret, the camouflaged angled steel sided vehicle’s tyres spun, the armoured car bouncing on the track, the Germans keen to reach the nearest hamlet and quickly, all aware partisans potentially hidden in the darkness were very dangerous at night.
The two vehicles bounced along the track slightly above them, Oleg considering they could fire after the enemy in the darkness, perhaps killing one, but immediately discounting the idea, knowing the German security patrols were beginning to throttle the current local rebel activity, let alone provide the enemy with an incentive to increase their presence.
The aroma of cigarette smoke drifted into his nostrils, his hands tensing on his rifle and he heard the muffled raised voice from above, the German officer urging his driver on, inexperience and fear of a sudden merciless death apparent in his voice as the young Russian grinned in relish.
Oleg came to a decision at that moment…that they should move further northwards as the security police in this area were becoming more organised and ruthless once more, something he recalled from a story before when the Germans held the land for a long time. It was time for the four young men to re-join the battle nearer the front…staying on this land would only see them hung or worse.
The Tracks in the North
The Russians had waited with baited breath as two sets of sentries had passed each other along the double railway tracks, stopping briefly for a furtive discussion and shared cigarette, the four great coated soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders, grim faced and with their collars up against a cold enveloping breeze. Following the beams of the spotlights, the guards had then continued on towards the next blockhouse, glancing from side to side and swapping their garrisoned positions throughout the night after patrolling their designated section.
As the lights panned across the tracks once more, Mishka slipped forward cautiously, observing the guards reach their new lodgings for the night, a low bridge to the east beyond the blockhouse now absorbing the sentries’ attentions as an obvious target for partisans.
Slipping the rifle carefully from her shoulder, she turned her head, gesturing for the two Russians to proceed, the men lowering onto their chests to crawl out from cover, the knapsacks across their mud stained tunics once more. Slowly raising the weapon towards the eastern blockhouse, she felt the breath of the sniper behind her, the man blowing on her neck gently, his voice low and husky, ‘My little Mishka…tonight I think we sleep together under the stars after these explosives are planted…’
The young Russian female turned her head sharply, her lips pursed in disapproval, the man’s face only a couple of inches from hers, his eyes widening expectantly with taunting amusement. Mishka exhaled into his
face, her tone determined with a cold and unwelcoming stare, ‘You had my company in your bed once after my father died…I was weak then and needed comfort, but no longer…’ She looked away dismissively, swallowing, ‘…perhaps your gaze for physical pleasure can find another…your eyes should now be looking through your rifle sight comrade.’
The man’s eyes narrowed in disapproval, his teeth gritted in an almost sneer as his face drew nearer, ‘The young Mishka now thinks she is a cold and bold fighter seeking revenge…be careful you do not isolate yourself from the others, you need cunning and bravery to survive out here…and loyalty. Make an enemy of the wrong man and it could get dangerous for a young woman on her own…’
Mishka shuffled forward, raising the Mosin Nagant rifle to her right eye and staring to the east along the train tracks as the man behind stepped back between the trees into the darkness, glaring at the figure before him with contempt, his own scoped rifle raising towards the west.
Gravel crackled and was swept aside some twenty metres from them, the stones bouncing and running down the gradual rise, the two engineers carefully and nervously retrieving handfuls of stone from beneath the rails, the spotlight from the west sweeping the dark trees on either side, the beam just above their bowed heads as they worked feverishly. They knew they would have to conceal their charges completely, another German patrol expected before the next trains arriving from both Krakow and Kiev.
Mishka stared at the distant tower, seeing the brief shadow of a soldier in the upper level, the man probably staring through binoculars before resuming a vigil on the bridge on the other side of the viewing platform. She glanced down as the first figure began pulling himself towards her across the moist earth, slipping between low sawn tree stumps and overgrowth grass, his head ducked as the searchlight swept overhead once more, his mud smeared back weaving between obstructions.
Bloody Citadel Page 17
