Rise of the Bloodied Phoenix

by Andrew McGregor

  Mishka nodded to her cousin, the man staring through his sniper sight at the muddied terrain before them, his tone hushed, ‘The land is clear…the fascist troops are finally behind us.’ He sighed deeply as distant shots rang out, ‘They have captured most of our group, they will be shot or hung in front of the locals. Your father…my uncle…is probably already dead. The SD will see to that with brutal efficiency. We cannot stop that now.’

  Mishka drew a sharp breath, tears filling her eyes as she stammered, ‘W-where will we go?’

  The Russian sniper glanced round, their position in a low ditch concealing their figures from any onlookers to the north and south, their clothing soaked from the high flowing water, bodies braced against the strong current around their legs. Staring back up the slope behind them, he scrutinised the darkened trees, the second forest they had hidden in, ‘We move further north…the fascist supply railway is there to Kharkov…there will be partisans nearby.’

  The Russian woman shrugged in defeated misery, her chest rising and falling heavily, ‘How do you know? We could walk into the Germans…’ Her eyes lightened briefly with hope, ‘We could go back to the village…act as normal as they watch us?’

  The man shook his head, turning to stare knowingly at her, another distant volley of rifle fire as SD soldiers executed more captured rebels, ‘Mishka…they will know who we are now. Once they have your father it will only take a matter of time…we will be hunted…there is no going back. Loyal Ukrainians will be ready to jeopardise the fascist supplies…that is how we hit them…that is our revenge.’

  Mishka swallowed hard, suppressing her emotions, her jaw stiffening, ‘Then we go forward…find more loyalists and make the fascists pay!’ Her lips pursed in hatred, ‘I just hope Pavel and Oleg may have survived…that we will see them again.’

  The figure crept silently through the undergrowth, the tarpaulin cover tied tightly around his field cap and wrists, the rain having fallen continuously since dusk the previous day. Breathing heavily, he wiped the raindrops from his face, spitting phlegm from his mouth. Water cascaded from the branches around him, the patter of the droplets on the waxed covering seeming endless, but a soothing accompaniment to the lonely vigil.

  Shivering as water droplets ran down his back, he smiled faintly at the physical sensation, his body lowering as he realised the edge of the bushes and trees were just metres ahead. Slowly dropping to a crouch, he inched forward, eyes darting from side to side cautiously as he heard the dull snapping of a branch, a small animal scuttling away from the intruder in fear. Repositioning himself, he adjusted the covering around his shoulders, lowering to one knee amongst the wet ferns and leaves, water slowly infiltrating the tarpaulin and seeping through the fabric of his uniform.

  Retrieving a small pair of binoculars from within the heavy covering, he readjusted once more, pulling the tarpaulin across his body again, the hood folding forward and extra folds loosened, the cover adjustments of his own design for comfort and practical use. Meticulously wrapping cords around the sturdier branches on either side, he exhaled slowly, satisfied with the makeshift awning he had created, the rain water now dribbling across the lowered front and back of his darkened shelter.

  Lifting a roll of waxed tarpaulin from his back, he took the small military pack, unrolling the waterproof material and carefully padding it along the right of his thighs then placing the pack upon it, keen to keep the contents dry.

  Unwrapping the scoped rifle carefully, he sniffed, the scent of damp moss and lichen filling his nostrils, the rain pouring down almost relentlessly as he leant the weapon across his knees, ensuring no water could get to it. Having moved stealthily to this spot, he knew the higher crest of the steep slope to his left overlooked the enemy front line in the distance, his eagerness to perhaps catch a few complacent soldiers in the early morning light just too much of a temptation to resist.

  Hangovers and an urgency to relieve themselves usually proved the downfall of an inexperienced trooper, the unfortunate man not as cautious as when on duty and more likely to stray from cover. Occasionally the chance sighting of messenger or cable laying soldier would prove a valuable catch, the victim often unfamiliar with the local defences and therefore far more likely to expose themselves to fire.

  Inching himself forwards, he stretched his neck out beneath the raised tarpaulin, water droplets falling onto the lip of his combat cap then dripping before his face, his eyes straining as he raised the binoculars in the early morning light. Knowing his position was in shadow under the raised ground to his left, he inched further forwards, rain water splashing across his gloves and the top of the glasses.

  Staring through the enhanced view, he smiled as he glimpsed the Russian defensive positions on the other side of the River Donetz, the surging water now flowing from north to south, the current strong and swollen, the addition of melting snow and heavy rain causing burst banks in places.

  In the distance, he could just make out several soldiers struggling through the thick sodden earth, their greatcoats soaked and caked in glutinous mud as they advanced towards the emplacements and trenches. A grin flickered across his face as he stared into the bleak morning light, glimpsing the abandoned trucks and armoured cars behind the soldiers, a T34 tank shuddering back and forth as the driver revved the engine, plumes of diesel exhaust billowing upwards as the wide spinning tracks proving virtually ineffective in the churning morass.

  The virtual liquefied track extended and wound off into the distance, the hulls of several more vehicles embedded in the worst parts of mud, a number sitting at angles, their front wheels or tracks wedged into ditches or hollows, the supply drivers having abandoned them during the night.

  Grinning in anticipation, the sniper moved his glasses across to the front defences, staring at the shining helmets of miserable and soaked sentries, the soldiers struggling to keep under cover, the slops of mud in the base of their trenches adding to their discomfort as the rain poured down.

  Slowly he shuffled back, sniffing once more as he felt the onset of a cold…perhaps his own rasputitsa, he mused as he lifted the rifle. Checking the scope and reaching into the overcoat pocket to mentally check his stock of bullets, he knew the small pack to his side also contained ammunition and his rations for the next two or three days. Reaching for his chest pocket, he felt the waxed map, the seven fire points that the young Austrian’s three days of reconnaissance had located clearly marked along the river for five miles, the chances of discovery from the opposite bank limited for the first three or four shots…his option then to move to nearby secondary choices.

  Shuffling his body to the right and onto the waterproof material, he pushed his shoulder against a narrow tree trunk, slipping his legs sideways and behind. The rifle held carefully in his hand as he moved himself slowly down into the undergrowth, the tarpaulin drooping above him until it lay across his prone frame, the material beneath adequate to cover his stomach and upper legs. Tugging the waxed material over his head, he slipped the barrel of the Kar 98 through a pre-prepared hole in the fabric, the upper sight just protruding as he lowered his breathing in the darkness beneath the cloth, his eye adjusting to the enhanced view.

  Drawing a low breath, he scanned the terrain opposite, seeing that the soldiers were now nearing the defences, the men still struggling and wading through the mire. With the light improved, he scanned the figures for sight of their officer, grinning as he realised the Russian soldiers had deliberately removed their shoulder straps and insignia, their heads sweeping from side to side nervously.

  He exhaled slowly, his breath held briefly as he chose a suitable target, the young infantryman further to the right than the others and breathing heavily. The rifle cracked, the Austrian moving the sight back below the tarpaulin and glimpsing the soldier’s right chest shudder, blood pouring from the wound as the young man shook and sank backwards to his knees, slumping over on his side into the glutinous mud.

  Pulling the bolt back sharply, the sight panned
quickly round, searching for what the experienced sniper suspected would happen, the officer unable to resist shouting orders in reaction to the loss of one of his men. Then he froze, the stouter man towards the back of the group gesturing frantically, the soldiers around him younger and struggling off to the left. The man’s lips were shouting as the Austrian drew breath quickly, his eye pushed forward as the rifle cracked once more, the crosshairs raised above the target’s head due to the rain and distance.

  The bullet swept across the river, spinning at high velocity before smacking through the centre of the officer’s chest, his legs buckling as blood poured from his mouth, his head slumping forward into the deep mud.

  The bolt rasped back once more, blind sporadic machine gun fire erupting from the opposite bank in anger and attempted distraction. The rifle moved to the left, the young man squeezing the trigger as the struggling soaked soldiers reached the entrance to the first emplacement, the mud above their ankles as boots crunched onto a log based walkway, their progress quickening.

  The third Russian victim was thrown backwards against the trench wall, the bullet shattering his shoulder and tearing through his chest, blood splattering onto the men behind as they screamed in panic, pushing and shoving desperately to gain cover as two glanced across the river fearfully.

  On the winding track behind, several men were lying face down in the mud, too terrified to raise their heads, comrades shouting from either side for them to come to them, their rifles raised in alarm. Officers stared out from their hidden positions, desperate to locate the sniper’s position, two Russian snipers biting their lower lips as they realised the language the local commissar was considering, the firing having been too quick for them to react.

  One hundred metres back from the river, the young Austrian sniper moved at a half crouch behind a tree covered rise, his boots slipping and sliding on wet rocks as he pulled the lower tarpaulin around his shoulders, the covered rifle across his back. He slowed as he realised any line of sight was broken, stepping carefully towards a secondary position three kilometres downstream, the route marked discretely to avoid the deepest mud during his initial reconnaissance.

  He grinned to himself in adrenalin fuelled excitement as he felt his heart rate rise, a surge of energy shooting up his spine. Now that the initial work had been completed, the fun and hunt could begin…there were now new Russian snipers on the opposite bank, ones that would be ordered to find him. He would enjoy the stand-off and knew once again he would hold the initiative to begin with…at least until they realised who he was and then it would be time to move on again. Major Wolff had already provided permission and written orders.

  Eventually, as before…more and more of the enemy snipers would be deployed in desperation to find him and bring his career to an end…but until then…

  Mid April 1943:

  Leutnant Hausser turned the wheel of the Kubelwagen jeep, staring up at the dark four storey blocks on either side, recognising the wording on the smeared and grimy sign, his stomach tingling with anticipated excitement. The street was relatively narrow, a small horse pulling a lumbering four wheeled wooden cart at the far end and then disappearing into the next set of blocks, part of a vast estate. Bullet pock marks covered the exteriors of several buildings, a number of the glass window panes broken or obscured with makeshift materials such as worn blankets or cracked planking.

  The blocks were in poor repair, some war weary with emaciated elderly residents sitting warily on the front entrance steps or leaning against the soot caked walls, all eyeing him with dread and suspicion as the military jeep slowed, Hausser glancing from side to side and observing the block and apartment numbers. With four thin children in dishevelled clothing running along the narrow pitted pavements on the left side, he smiled faintly, recalling his own street in Berlin when he was younger, the similarities apparent.

  The Kubelwagen slowed further and pulled over to the kerb, a couple of the local boys turning in curiosity from a doorway, their eyes widening as the German officer nodded a greeting, a faint smile crossing his lips as the jeep stopped with a jerk, the brakes heavily worn and squealing.

  The braver of the two youngsters approached nervously, his grime covered face and matted hair half concealing a wry cheeky grin, his tone bold, ‘Bitte...bread for the children?’

  Hausser shrugged innocently, pushing the field cap back on his head and retrieving the full heavy pack from the back seat, replying in fluent Russian, ‘When I come back...you look after my vehicle, l will be only a few minutes.’

  The boy nodded eagerly, indicating for his more nervous friend to approach with a wave of his hand, his confidence growing as he glimpsed the Wehrmacht gate-like emblems on the officer’s collar, ‘We keep your car safe...’

  Leutnant Hausser grinned, the metal door creaking open as he pulled himself upwards, slinging the cumbersome pack over his back and rubbing the boy’s matted hair with an outstretched gloved hand, ‘Danke, junge...’ Then he corrected himself, ‘Thank you, young man.’ He swung back, leaning over to the passenger seat and grasping the strap of the MP40 to sling over the other shoulder of his padded jacket. Hesitating briefly, he looked up at the block before him, many of the windows cracked or broken, the openings sealed with anything the residents found that was suitable in protection against the elements. Swallowing with rising emotion, his eyes glistened as he stared across the grimy cement facia, the dirt laden windows, glimpsing several grim faces peering out briefly to study him, the engine noise bringing them to their windows.

  Stepping forward, he nodded to the two young boys, both stiffening in response to his stare, devious hungry grins on their faces as they considered what food they may receive as a reward, both eyeing the military box in the back of the Kubelwagen with curiosity, the words ‘Nur fur Wehrmacht gebrauch (Only for German military)’ burnt across the chipped and battered wooden surface, a small eagle clutching a swastika beneath. Hausser waved a finger knowingly as he strained against the weight of the large pack, ‘Don’t touch the box! It is a military offence!’

  The young boy nodded, his eyes widening at the stern tone before smiling as the German officer winked at him, ‘No Sir…we guard it for you…you have food for us?’

  The young commander nodded, ‘I will provide some ration tins for you and your family…’ He nodded to the other, more nervous youth, ‘…and for yours…how many people?’

  The boy smiled as his eager friend interjected boldly, ‘Sixteen Sir…’

  Leutnant Hausser shook his head, grinning at the boy’s exaggeration, ‘Very well…sixteen it is, but only if you guard the car…if anything goes missing I will have to call the chain dogs.’

  The boy nodded solemnly, knowing he would need help to carry the box if he did indeed steal it and that the Germans could exact a vicious reprisal, ‘It will still be here when you come back…’ He giggled, ‘…and so will your car and supplies!’

  The young commander stepped forward again, looking up at the block before him once more, ‘Very good, you will have extra then…and perhaps tomorrow…’

  One of the worn front doors opened with a shrill creak, Hausser pushing through into a musky entrance hall, the walls smeared with dust and grooved, indicating the passage of many bodies over time. He smiled as an elderly man passed to exit the block, the older individual’s eyes averted from the German officer in distrust.

  Glancing upwards into the gloom, Leutnant Hausser began to climb the cracked wooden stairs, the balustrade worn and chipped in places, a gloved left hand sliding across the cold wood, a twinge of pain seeping through his right shoulder. The hobnails on his boots scraped and clicked on the worn steps, the surfaces creaking beneath his weight as he worked his way to the next floor, checking the numbers on the doors and realising he was required to climb the next set of stairs.

  His heart rate rose slightly in anticipation as he climbed the last few steps, stepping onto the third floor landing and seeing the door ahead to his left with flaked paint.
His eyes swept across the smeared walls, the area almost in darkness with no electricity, the residents cooking food on wooden stoves for warmth and sharing with their neighbours when supplies permitted.

  His gloved hand rose slowly, nervousness suddenly filling his chest before he smiled, the loudness of the knock startling him. Shuffling inside, a cautious and nervous male voice from within, ‘Who is it?’

  The young officer stepped back, ‘Leutnant Hausser...76th Infantry Division attached to Grossdeutschland, Sir. I need to speak to you regarding something important.’

  The bolts slowly cracked back on the other side, the door opening slowly and reluctantly as if wearily, the grey elderly heavily moustached man glancing through the gap, his face lined with worry, hands shaking as he glimpsed the German uniform and eyes fixing on the MP40 submachine gun on the soldier’s hip.

  Hausser stepped forward, indicating for the gap to widen and sensing the man’s fear, ‘May I come in please? I mean you no harm...’