French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  Sasha returned to Marina, unable to look at her bloodied and bruised face. The rest of her was blackened with dried blood. Her skirt had been torn, legs exposed leaving little doubt what had happened. The Germans had come, and she had resisted one of the brutes and been punished for her unwillingness to submit. He clutched his stomach, sobbing at the destruction of everything and everyone he had known. Death was all about him and he realized the living were envious of those who had departed. Sasha pushed up to his knees, his hand moved the strands of hair blown over Marina’s face. He touched the skin, as he imagined it less than a month earlier when life was simpler. He leaned in, whispering to her. “Marina I love you, I always have.”

  Marina’s eyes opened. A whimper escaped her tattered lips, eyes blinkering, cloudy, seeing nothing. “Sasha?”

  Sasha leaned forward, “Da, Marina it is me.”

  Marina struggled to raise her head, “The Germans.” Her head dropped, the few words exhausting her.

  “What, what, the Germans?”

  Her eyes, lids coated with blood and dirt, struggled to remain open. “We told them, no communists, no communists here, they would not listen.” A shudder gripped her body; her eyes closed, Sasha’s stomach sank.

  “Marina, it does not matter, you must rest. You are hurt.”

  Marina’s fingers, coated with mud, slid weakly down his arm as she tried to keep his attention. “A man, older than my father,” she turned her head as her hand dropped, and blocked the memories and the pain. She turned her head toward the old, rusted water tank used for the zveno’s small collection of livestock. “I must die now.”

  Tears flowed from Sasha as he imagined Marina’s ordeal. The fires, the annihilation of the zveno and everyone in it. She had been kept alive for men “as old as her father” who then beat her with a shovel, exhaustion or orders forcing them to move on without finishing the task. “I tried to push them away, I tried to run but they caught me. I should have hid better. I should have run faster.”

  Sasha rocked her head much as his mother had when Timor was crying. He swallowed at the memory, never again able to speak of little Timor, slain like a chicken. He looked down at Marina. “It does not matter, you are alive.”

  Marina’s story and the release of emotion darkened Sasha’s mood. As she spoke his muscles tightened, jaw set, much as when Igor had died. Revenge crowded his thoughts.

  “Have mercy,” Marina’s voice was husky, blood and phlegm clogging her throat. “End my suffering, I cannot go on, those beasts.” She smiled as her hand wobbled to his cheek before it dropped to the ground. “I always loved you and wanted to be with you. I know I cannot be with you as a wife.

  Sasha rose, gripping the broken shovel; his eyes lost focus as he watched Marina, her eyes suddenly clear and pure, much as she had been. He had no choice.

  “Do it Sasha, you must. I am ready. I love you.”

  Sasha raised the shovel handle, mind willing, body weak, arms suddenly going limp. He dropped the shovel behind him, as Marina’s eyes widened at his refusal of her last request.

  “I will not, I will not.” He fell to the ground, hand reaching to scrape the thick mud from her cheeks. “I have no one else, I have nothing else. We may live only a week but we will do it together.”

  Silence covered them, and Marina flinched as he removed the mud. Sasha nodded as the pink and white flesh appeared beneath the filth. It was the same Marina; what had happened had not been her, he could forgive. “Marina, we have each other. We must leave here, we will go first to the pine forest by the river and take shelter there. When you are better we can move further, escape the fascists.”

  “Sasha, it hurts, they beat me.”

  He guided Marina to sit up then lean against a tree. He brought her what few morsels of food he could find. There was water to drink and wash, the food returning life to her eyes, the water refreshing once bloodied skin. After a while she joined him in gathering food for the journey. They picked through the dead bodies, and Sasha discovered an SS trooper behind an old tractor. The jagged gash across his throat served as the solitary victory of those at the zveno. “His death must have started the shooting,” Sasha said. “Whoever was courageous enough to defy this German surely paid with his life.”

  Marina grabbed his elbow and pointed under the tractor. “Sasha, there’s a gun.”

  Sasha’s gaze followed her hand and he pulled the Mauser Model 98K bolt action rifle towards him. Sasha knew little about rifles; he had never held a firearm but the German piece appeared easy to learn. “I can use this. Help me find bullets.”

  They searched the body for bullets and found several pouches. They denuded the German of his backpack, knife, canteen and medic kit. Sasha cast aside the gas mask. “There is only one and we are two.”

  Marina nodded. They would live or die together. Sasha tugged at the dead German’s strange black uniform. Gripping the trooper’s knife, he cut away the unit insignia and the strange Death’s Head Totenkopf patch. “These patches tell us who these men are within the Fascist army,” explained Sasha. “We will keep these always. Someday we will find these murderers.”

  They loaded everything they now owned onto their backs and started for the pine forest east of their kolkhoz on the Berezina River in the Minsk Voblast. They did not look back at the zveno.

  23

  May 22, 1940

  “Natasha, if the Red Army is defeating the Nazis at the border, why are we preparing the KV-1s preparing for battle in Smolensk?” Reilly leaned close to his companion to ensure no listening ears could overhear his doubt.

  Natasha pressed her finger across her lips, Reilly’s voice carrying as they stood outside the hotel where they were to stay in preparation for testing the tanks they had accompanied to Smolensk. “You ask too many questions,” she said from between her teeth. “We are here on a government mission, not to question military conditions.”

  The two had survived a five day journey from the Leningrad Kirov’s People’s Factory accompanied by two Russian engineers, the four of them to rendezvous with three early production KV-1s, assigned to the 5th Separate Heavy Tank Brigade stationed at the tank training facility eight kilometers south of Smolensk. They were to provide technical assistance in the event of teething problems with the new tanks. Reilly was stirred by radio accounts of “brave Russian soldiers” holding the Germans at bay and the massive casualties suffered by the Nazis. Eager to witness his creations in action, he volunteered for the mission, which left Natasha no choice but join him.

  The engineers were mere technicians, the demands of war removing NKVD surveillance from the American and his consort, traitors in the war front a more pressing threat. Reilly was determined he could make Natasha his. He was also confident the Red Army would halt the invader. The Soviet soldiers and tanks would shame the Wehrmacht. Once confronted with such an overwhelming force, Hitler would skitter quickly across the border, tail between his legs.

  The five day journey from Leningrad to Novgorod to Moscow then Smolensk shook Reilly’s confidence in the war effort. The Soviet rail system was a mess, ignorance and fear abounding. Those who knew what to do feared taking the initiative while those with the authority lacked the knowledge to act. Inaction was the Order of the Day as a blunder would lead to the Gulag.

  Though no German planes strafed their train, Reilly and Natasha came upon a wrecked line of train cars at the Smolensk station, a victim of German Stukas. As they passed the scene Reilly held Natasha close, and shielded her eyes from the dead soldiers, peasants and horses, the animals’ death seemingly the worst. The Smolensk rail station had survived but not unscathed, with shattered windows and holes in the station roof.

  Their arrival did not end the troubles; the lead engineer Dmitry forced to haggle over an hour to secure transport. Another hour of traffic jams and clogged roads reminded Reilly of the scene at the Jersey Shore on July 4th weekend. Vehicles lined up bumper to bumper, as the driver sought the smallest advantage in the procession. T
he group finally arrived at the tank training facility.

  A building at the entrance to the tank training base sagged, wood and stone scorched by aerial bombardment. Red Army soldiers were busy digging trenches and Reilly followed their eyes as they looked anxiously at the western sky, searching for signs of the Luftwaffe. There were none. Reilly realized this was a war zone and worried he had blundered in his zeal to witness his tanks battling the Germans.

  “This is worse than I thought,” Reilly said in Natasha’s ear. “The Germans are closer than we were told.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Natasha ignored the scorched building and the anxious skyward stares. “The Fascist air force has been decimated and very few can make it this far east.”

  They reached their accommodations, separate rooms enforced by a guard in the hallway. Reilly plopped, the creaky bed protested his weight. He took inventory of his space, which was more a cell than a room. The walls were bare and cracked, a single light bulb hung from the ceiling on a cord, though it was only for display, as the electricity did not function. A scent wiggled into his nose, it reminded him of a summer spent on a farm. Reilly sighed and acknowledged a simple truth of life in the Workers’ Paradise. The further one travelled from Moscow and Leningrad, the more primitive the conditions.

  Visions of Natasha alone in her room stirred him as he licked his lips, the taste of vodka nearly driving him from his room. His thirst was quenched by the possibility of being shot in the night by a nervous guard and he remained in his room. Reilly sagged in the bed and listened for the low roar of Luftwaffe bombers. They never came but Reilly still could not sleep; his body still bouncing from the memory of five days of train travel, keeping him in a drowsy half sleep for the night.

  Dawn came, the odor stronger as the sun warmed the room. Reilly rose and stared out his window at the Dnieper River as it flowed south on its long journey to the Black Sea. For a brief moment he was grasped by an insane idea of canoeing the entire length of the river. He planned on how to avoiding the dams and rapids that were downstream. He stored the question for when he saw Natasha.

  The group met at the main barracks to plan their day. Issued a car and driver, the four set out to find the KV-1s. Reilly watched as they passed scores of the light BTs and T-28s. He knew the models well but was more interested in the 5th Separate Heavy Tank Brigade’s T-35s. The tanks had been the proud focus of the Soviet May Day parades Reilly attended at the behest of his American contacts who sought information on their effectiveness. He had went further by observing their final production at the Kharkov Locomotive Factory. No one from the West had ever seen them in the field and armament experts believed the T-35 was an impractical dinosaur.

  “It is huge!” squealed Natasha when she spotted a T-35 in a field at the southern edge of the base.

  Reilly agreed. At over 30 feet long and 11 feet in height, each tank weighed an astonishing 50 tons. The T-35 bore an assortment of multiple turrets, housing a 76.2 mm howitzer and two 45 mm guns. There were six 7.62 mm machine guns and a P-40 anti-aircraft machine gun. A crew of 10 was jammed inside to man the assortment of weapons. Amidst all of the weaponry and size, the T-35 was slow, with limited range and thin armor.

  “It is a land battleship.” Reilly said. “It is little better than a mobile pillbox.”

  “Jimmy that is why the Work Defense Council has stopped production.”

  Reilly eyed her, surprised by her working knowledge of T-35 production. He shook his head. “What a waste of resources. It costs 10 times as much as a single BT tank.”

  “The T-35 failures have led to better designs,” said Natasha, pointing to the direction of the three KV-1s parked at the edge of a small stand of woods. “When we move the KV-1s up to the front and see them in action, you will see the T-35’s served a purpose.”

  “Or the front will come to us,” Reilly grunted.

  0

  With the two Russian engineers he completed a quick perusal of the tracks and the suspension, the latter troubling one of the tanks. The problems were easily corrected once he gathered his tools, but none were available at the moment, another example of Russian blundering. A battlefield raged miles from them and the tanks they needed to win could not be moved for lack of simple tools.

  After the examination was complete, Reilly and Natasha split from the engineers, the American following his consort to a mud bank overlooking the Dnieper River. Since their arrival in Smolensk he knew they were in danger with the Russian soldiers searching the skies while the tanks all headed west to the battlefield. Sitting beside Natasha, Reilly chattered about canoeing the Dnieper to the Black Sea but failed to ease he worries. Reilly grabbed Natasha’s shoulder and turned her toward him.

  “I am worried,’ he said. “How can the Germans be threatening Smolensk if everything we hear about the border fighting and the Soviet equipment advantage?”

  “Jimmy don’t lose faith in the Party. The Fascist dogs will be stopped and destroyed.”

  “What if you are wrong? If the Germans slice through the Red Army like they did to the Poles what will we do?” He waited for his words to sink in, then tried to dazzle her. “We need to leave Russia, together.”

  Natasha shook her head, face wrinkling with despair. “I will not listen to this.” She stroked Reilly’s face, her hand barely covered his cheek. He pulled it close to his eyes and smiled in wonderment at the miniature finger before he dropped them to his lips. No one would see them, the party more concerned with survival than a single American.

  Their interlude was interrupted by anti-aircraft fire over Smolensk. A handful of Heinkel 111 medium bombers approached from the west. Reilly snatched Natasha’s wrist and tugged, “To the air raid trenches.”

  The fifty meters to the nearest trench seemed interminable, the roar of the Heinkels’ engines grew louder. They flopped into it and Reilly was surprised to see Dimitry, one of the engineers deposited in the dirt, suddenly paranoid he had spied on them. The trench offered little protection, barely a meter deep, as it had been dug hastily by nervous tank school trainees. The shallow gash forced Reilly to lie on top of Natasha; the feel of her body distracted him from the danger above them.

  The Heinkels flew leisurely, an absence of Russian fighters allowing them to choose their targets carefully. The rail station received the first in a string of 500 kilogram bombs, the explosions shook the earth and threatening to deafen Reilly and Natasha. As they bounced in place she found Reilly’s hand and squeezed hard, the blasts continuing as fuel and other flammables were swept up in the conflagration. The Heinkel’s moved to find more targets, turning west for another load of bombs.

  Natasha turned her head to find Reilly’s ear and whispered, “Jimmy, I am scared. Don’t leave me.”

  Reilly had no intention of doing that.

  II

  May 23, 1940

  Waltraud Shriver glanced at the rising sun as he strode to his Fieseler Storch Fi 156C-2 spotter plane. It would be another cloudless day, perfect for spotting the enemy from the Storch.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Oberleutnant,” called out the young Flieger, the ground crew responsible for fueling the Storch. His plane sat between two wrecked Russian Polikarpov I-16 single seat fighters. The Flieger pointed to the Russian planes. “Not too modern.”

  Shriver looked down the neat row of nearly a dozen I-16s destroyed at the captured Russian airfield east of Minsk. The Russian plane was short and stubby, driven by a huge radial engine grafted to the front of its fuselage. Shriver could not imagine flying such a crude machine. “Ja, they would have served well in the Great War but today our ME-109’s would swat these down like flies.”

  “If they could get any in the air,” the Flieger snorted. The rows of I-16s had never gotten the chance; the machines met their fate parked on the ground.

  Shriver reached over and patted the young man on the shoulder, “Get as much in there as you can. I’ve got to fly over to Shklov to pick up some more fuel. It was bad over there yesterday, and
I would like to have enough to get back here if I can’t land.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant. No one riding in the back?”

  “Nein,” Shriver grinned. “Want to join me?”

  The young Flieger paled, the thought of floating in the air in the tiny Storch over the angry Russians too much for his youthful imagination. He shook his head and stuttered about fueling the Stukas for a bombing sortie. “Danke schon. Perhaps another time, Herr Oberleutnant.”

  Shriver and the Flieger removed the tie down ropes. Shriver always verified the correctness of the tie down ropes before he left the aircraft. The aircraft’s wings had slats along the leading edge that generated an astonishing amount of lift. The slats could not be retracted. As such, an unsecured Storch could actually become airborne in a strong enough wind without the engine running and without a pilot.

  With the ropes stowed, Shriver climbed in the Storch. As was his routine he required a few minutes to get organized. He set the altimeter to the field elevation and adjusted the directional gyro to the compass heading. He folded his map and slipped it to the side of his seat. With his pre-flight routine complete he offered a thumbs up signal to the Flieger. It was returned immediately. He engaged the electric starter which caused the Argus As 10C-3 inverted V-8 air cooled engine to roar to life. Shriver silently thanked Herr Gerhard Fieseler for installing such a powerful engine in the little Storch.

  Shriver set the flaps to 20 degrees and taxied into the wind. Under normal conditions he would not have used flaps for takeoff but the Russian airfield was grass, its surface pockmarked from bombing runs. The Storch taxied on small tires which did not fare well when encountering sizable ruts. Shriver shortened his takeoff time, and rose into the air before the pitted surface blew out one of his tires. He turned into the breeze and advanced the throttle. He stood on the brakes and waited for the Argus’ rpms to increase to takeoff power. Shriver released the brakes and bounced down the grass strip. A mere 50 meters later he eased back the yoke and lifted off; he pushed the Storch’s nose down and flying only a few feet above the airfield. Shriver knew well to stay within a wing’s length of the surface in the aircraft’s ground effect as he built up airspeed. Non-flyers were always mystified when he explained an aircraft can fly at slower airspeeds when it is within its ground effect. Leaving ground effect too soon could result in a stall and nothing good happened with a takeoff stall.