by W. R. Benton
“I see you are awake, Major.” a doctor said as he entered, clipboard in hand.
“Major?” Rusak asked, unaware of his promotion into the officers ranks.
“Uh, yes sir, that is what your chart reads.”
“My name is Rusak, Captain, and I am a Master Sergeant.”
“Not any longer.” Colonel Dubow said and entered the room, “You have been promoted, as all of you have been. Our number of kills is a new record and all of Russia is talking about our unit, but since your mission was classified, all they know is we killed over two hundred Americans.”
“Sir, I cannot be an officer, I lack the education.”
“Seems Russia does not require an education in your case, Rusak. Once returned to Russia, you will be sent to a school where experts teach men to become officers. Our country needs men like you, and we have been assured you will graduate. You will learn language, protocol, customs, dining, and writing. I am sure you will do just fine.”
“I . . . I am not sure what to say.”
“Then be a good officer, and say nothing, Major. Now, once you are up and moving, you will take command of the infantry unit Lieutenant Markov is currently commanding. We were short of good officers, but your promotion will fix our shortage, in one unit anyway. We have line units being commanded by Lieutenants and Captains, when we should have Majors and Captains.”
Rusak was feeling sleepy and had no idea he'd been in the hospital for almost a week. He'd lost one toe, had a mangled foot, and his burns, while painful, were not life-threatening. He gazed into the Colonel's eyes and said, “Yes, sir.”
Dubow tossed a quart of vodka to the new Major and said, “Celebrate in moderation, since you are on medication.”
“Sir, what of my men?”
“So, you are thinking of your men already? See, you will make a fine officer. Of the three of you, you are the least injured. Bluska has some serious burns to his face and left side, which means he will be returning home for more advanced medical care. The burned Private is hanging to life by a thread, and the doctors tell me it is only a matter of time before he dies. He experienced over eighty percent of his body burned and has developed pneumonia, so forget about him.”
I cannot forget about him, he is one of my men. I am not sure I can be an officer, if they write men off and forget about them so easily, the new Major thought.
“Are you okay, Major, you look as if your mind is wandering?” Colonel Dubow asked.
“It is the drugs, sir. The medication makes it hard for me to concentrate or keep my thoughts lined up properly. I apologize for my lack of attentiveness, Colonel.”
Patting Rusak's shoulder, Dubow said, “After your combat injury, I have no problem understanding how the drugs can affect you. You are on painkillers, medicines to make you relax, and medication to help you sleep. I want you to rest until the doctors say you are fit for release, and worry about nothing. Once you are released, you will need to move to our officers quarters and start eating at the officers mess. Your promotion was a big one, Rusak, and now your thinking will have to change. You need to consider the big picture of combat and not just the small window you were looking out in the past. Men will die, but it is your job to make sure we kill more of them than they do of us. Attrition will end this war, as it has all wars in the past. Mother Russia will be victorious in the end, as we always have been.”
What of Afghanistan and our mess there, Colonel? We damned sure did not win there, Rusak thought as he opened the vodka and took a short snort.
Over the next month, few Americans were killed, but mines, booby-traps and ambushes racked up the number of Russian maimed and dead to the point Moscow was wanting answers. Colonel Sokol was under a great deal of pressure and was drinking far more than usual. More than one staff meeting was canceled because the man was unable to function due to strong drink. He was terrified of failure and knew anything other than complete success would be frowned upon. He walked around his office now, hair uncombed, breath reeking of alcohol, and his nerves shot. He needed a shave desperately, except his hands were shaking so badly it wouldn't happen today.
“Falin, I want you to select fifty prisoners and take them into Edwards and hang them.”
“Oh, and why fifty, sir?” the Major asked, knowing full well the Colonel's mind was not working as it should.
Suddenly grinning, Sokol said, “Because I just ordered it done. I may be drinking a bit more than usual, Major, but I am still the boss here and what I order, you will do.”
“Yes, sir. I will see them killed within the hour.” Major Falin replied, suspecting he would do like the last time and simply forget the order. Sokol no longer followed up on his orders and usually forgot them anyway. The constant consumption of alcohol had deadened his mind to the point that other officers joked about him now. He no longer attended interrogations or watched executions as he once did. All he did these days was stay in his quarters and drink.
“I cannot figure out,” Sokol took a long swig of vodka and then continued, “why the Americans are so damned, uh, —”
“Determined to beat us?” Falin asked. It was typical of Sokol to forget words these days and others often finished his sentences for him.
“Exactly.”
“Sir, these people have a history of being determined. I would like to remind you that these are the same people who carved a once great nation out of woods and wilderness. There is very little quit in Americans over all, especially when it comes to fighting for their country. My guess is we are no closer to conquering this country today than we were when we first arrived.”
“They must have a weakness we can use to bring them under our control.”
“Death usually works, but not always. The last bunch we hanged were still praying for their country when the truck they were standing on drove out from under them. Colonel, they died praying for America and not themselves.”
“I believe in no God!” Sokol screamed and then guzzled more vodka.
“What you and I believe is not important. It is something most Americans believe and that is what we are battling.”
“You stand there and expect me to believe the Americans are all Christians and we are fighting a holy war of some sort? Bullshit.”
“No, sir, this is not about religion, as you know. Americans are complex people, sir, and while they might come to blows over politics with each other, they will not tolerate being invaded by anyone. They see America as blessed by God and a special country. Most are willing to die to regain their country and that spirit is the very essence of what we are fighting.”
Cocking his head to one side and glaring at Falin, Sokol said, “With their country torn to hell and back, do you mean patriotism is the reason for their fighting us? Hell, they have no country!”
Knowing arguing with a drunk was a waste of time, Falin said, “I must leave, sir, and see to the executions you ordered.”
“Executions? Who is to be killed now, Falin?”
“You requested fifty American's be hanged, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I guess I did at that. Major, if you had my job, what would you do to bring the partisans under control?”
“So, do you want my honest opinion, sir?”
“Yes, uh, please.” Sokol moved to his bed, sat on a corner and met the Major's eyes.
“I would break our troops down to squad size groups, train them better on mines and booby-traps, and then send them out. I would keep them out a month at a time, resupplying them with helicopters, and evacuating their dead and wounded. I would fly in replacements for those killed and hospitalized and keep them in the field.”
“Surely there must be more to your plan.” The Colonel took a long swig of his drink and then pushed the cork deep into the neck of the bottle.
“I would have everything that flies working with the troops on the ground. They would allow the men to stay out in the field a long time, provide assistance in fights, feed the troops and keep them supplied. The infrared air
craft I would have out every night the weather would allow. The key, or so I see it, is to work smarter with what we have, sir.”
“What else, Major?”
“Sir, this is none of my business, but I have heard rumor that Colonel Dubow is considering relieving you of duty if your drinking does not slow down or stop. I cannot validate the information and am only telling you what I have heard.”
“You are right, Major, it is none of your damned business. Now, I want what you suggested implemented immediately and want you to present our new tactics at the staff meeting this week.”
“Sir, the staff meeting was yesterday and you missed it. I covered it for you. I am sure you were so busy it had slipped your mind.”
“Well, by God, prepare another meeting, and I want you to explain what you just told me to everyone. I want all forces to work closely together and help end this damned war, understood?”
“Yes, sir, I will call for a meeting later this afternoon.”
“Good, good, and let me know how it goes.” Sokol stood, with the bottle in his hand and raised it to his lips. Instead of taking a drink, he tossed the half empty bottle to his bed.
The Major saluted, turned and left the Colonel's quarters.
Major Rusak was back in the saddle again and leading troops, but as an officer, he found his role much safer. His job was to run things and not personally go into the field. Additionally, with his promotion and Sergeant Bluska's, the other men in his old unit had been promoted as well. He had a tent set up in the woods and he was surrounded by a hundred men. They were all dug in and for the first time in his career he slept well at night. He liked the idea of Colonel Sokol's and agreed that smaller units with air support would do well. He currently had twenty units of ten men each out in the field and most of each day he'd sat by the radio drinking hot tea. This was the second day of the insertion by chopper, so he was tense and a bit nervous. So far, all was quiet.
He'd just raised his cup to his lips when the radio exploded with excited chatter.
The radio operator began to talk and Rusak could hear gunfire and explosions in the background as the men in the field began requesting assistance. A huge explosion was heard on the radio speaker and then complete silence.
“Bravo 6, do you read, over?” the headquarters radio man asked continuously.
A few minutes later, an accented voice, speaking Russian said, “My name is Colonel Williams and your men are all dead. This is the third squad we have killed today. Come for me and you will discover Americans are hard to kill, comrade. I do enjoy fighting your squad size units, because they are like children in the woods.”
Rusak took the microphone from his radio operator and asked, “Who are you?”
“I am the leader of the partisans and a prior Special Operations man, a Green Beret, which I am sure you Russians know. And, what is your name?”
“My name is Major Rusak and one day, Yankee, you will die.”
“Of course I will die, because all things eventually die, Major. You think you are safe, surrounded with a hundred men, but I can kill all of you with a single order. I know exactly where your tent is located, Major. I also know you are a prior enlisted man, a Master Sergeant, so I do not take you lightly. You, sir, are a threat to my people and will soon die.”
“Come for me, Yankee dog.”
“Name calling, eh? It means I must have pissed you off, which is good. When we visit, I will personally, if possible, kill you, but you will die. Enjoy your evening, comrade, and give our coming fight some thought.”
Handing the microphone back to his radio man, Rusak thought, There is something unnerving about speaking with an enemy and having him threaten to kill me. I must double and triple check our defenses and get the men dug in deep. I must take his threat to kill as real, and I do believe he will try.
Razor wire was flown in, a tank was placed in the middle of camp, and a man with a flamethrower was added. The foxholes the men dug were now deeper and each had a small shelf carved in the soil where hand grenades were stored. Rusak had the men positioned two to a hole, so one could sleep while the other stood guard.
The tank crew had orders to sleep in the tank, which brought a round of cursing because it was cramped and uncomfortable. Finally, the three man crew accepted their orders and he'd not seen them since. The only time one of the crew was allowed to leave their armored beast was to use the latrine or gather supplies from the choppers. Thousands of ration meals were flown in, as well as drinking water and more ammunition.
Rusak still suffered from pain but most was located in his shoulder, where he'd been injured first. Some mornings, right after waking up, he'd down a long pull of vodka to ease his discomfort. This morning, right after brushing his teeth, he downed about a half pint of the strong drink, and made his way to the radio operator's tent.
The senior radio operator was at the desk and said, “The body of the last informer has been found and fairly close to here, at an old automobile junk yard. The medic said it was a woman, but she had been left to hang and was in pretty sad shape when found. She was hanging from her ankles, with her head on the ground, and a sign reading “Traitor” pinned to her chest and the usual card in her mouth.”
Rusak waved the man's comments away, because informers were not his responsibility. He picked up the log of messages received and sent, scanned the list and then asked, “I notice where some infrared Ka-60's discovered some heat sources last night. Why were the targets not attacked?”
“Mainly because they were too close to our location. According to a pilot named, Paley, a Warrant Officer, we were surrounded by people moving in close to our position. He seemed to think they were massing for an attack, but nothing happened.”
Rusak remembered the words of Colonel Williams, When we visit, I will personally, if possible, kill you, but you will die. He felt a shudder go through his body.
The day was a good one, with one Russian ambush killing twenty Americans and another killing two and injuring many more, but they escaped. Dogs were trailing the injured men now.
Just as the sun when down, the radio came alive with chatter. Rusak moved close to the speaker and listened as a half a dozen teams reported contact. Strange, he thought, all of the contact happened at the exact same time.
“Major, Lieutenant Markov is under attack by a large force and is barely holding his own.”
“Have him contact air support and they will clear the way.”
“Master Sergeant Turchin reports he needs support or he will be overrun shortly.”
“Tell him to contact air support as well. What in the hell does he think I can do? There is nothing any of us can do for him or his men; we are a headquarters, for God's sake, and have no guns.”
“Well, besides the request for help, he said he has never seen so many Americans out in the bush in his life. They encountered hundreds of mines, booby-traps and avoided at least two ambushes. You know Turchin well, and the man does not panic easily, sir.”
“Get the air base on the phone and tell them to get anything that can fly into the air and do the job now. Colonel Dubow gave me any assets I need to do this job, and right now I need aircraft.”
Thirty minutes later a flight of three jets flew low overhead and continued moving north. It was full dark now, with the little camp pitch black. No one spoke, everyone was awake, and no one moved.
Near 2200 hours, the listening post outside the wire reported a lot of movement.
“Ears one to base. Movement all around us. Request permission to pull back into the wire.”
Rusak nodded to the radio man and said, “Tell them to come in and do it now.”
A minute later, the radio man said, “They are coming in now, sir.”
Abruptly guns sounded as red and green tracers flew through the air. Some of the green, which was Russian, was being shot into the wire, at the camp, and all of the red was. Sticking his head out of the tent, Rusak said, “Call the base and tell them we are under heavy attack
.”
When the radio man did not reply, the Major turned and saw the man was on the ground, kicking as blood spurted between his fingers from a bullet to the face. He is dead, Rusak thought as he moved to the radio.
CHAPTER 12
John and his group were joined by the others at the old garage, and Willy was pissed that the Russians had killed over 250 partisans with just two jets many weeks back. He paced around inside the garage as he listened to the almost fully recovered Esom.
“I'd estimate the number of Russians in the woods to be around 100 to 120 and they're dug in well, with razor wire and a few dogs. We can take the place, but why should we?”
“Because we can, and to show the Russians we'll hit them when and where we can.”
“But the cost in lives will be high for us.”
“I think a lot depends on when we strike and how many of us attack. I plan to hit them around 2200, when most will least expect an attack. Additionally, at the same time, I want the Russian Squads looking for us to be hit as well. I want to do the most damage with the least losses to our side.”
“Colonel,” Esom said, “like I said, we can take the place, if you want to pay the price.”
“Good, let's move.”
The night was early, just a bit past 1900 hours, but the walk, barring any problems, would take an hour and a half. The moon was not out yet, but most of the partisans wore NVG's for ease of movement in the darkness. The wind was light, and it reminded Willy to position his men downwind from the Russians. By doing so, the dogs would have a harder time discovering their scent.
The Colonel was the only one of the group not packing a pack and it was due to his physical condition, not his age. The gulag had robbed him of most of his strength and power, because of a poor diet, and he was not capable of carry a load this night. He did carry a Russian pistol and four grenades; he knew how to use both.
