by James Rouch
She declined the bottle, but helped herself to the bread, tearing off a piece and dunking it in the jam.
The major considered taking another swig, but decided against it. He didn’t enjoy it that much and to do so might have seemed, would have been, showing off. Christ, he’d thought himself past that stage. It was just that he couldn’t find a way through to her. Well, regressing wasn’t going to do it. How old was she? Twenty-something or nearer his own age, thirty. There was a frightening maturity about her that many of the most sophisticated women would have striven for years to perfect – and failed. But then the camps were a forcing ground, thrusting people through the spectrum of their adult lives in months rather than years.
‘I want you to stay back when we go into action. Kurt and the others will be enough. We can pick you up after.’
She went on eating.
‘You understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’ Andrea finished a last mouthful and wiped a sticky orange-coloured blob from the side of her mouth. ‘It is you who does not understand. You will have much to explain to Kurt about what you want done. If I am not to come, then I shall not translate. I do not think your German is good enough for it, not for all that must be arranged just so.’
There was nothing he could say to that, and the girl took his silence as the answer she’d wanted and expected. Now she would be going into action with them.
‘I’m going to look at that car, come with me.’ He’d seen the look she gave their prisoner, that was why he’d added the rider.
The Russian had seen it as well and he started to shake again. A puddle grew beneath him. Although still frightened he had been adjusting to his circumstances, now that one glance reduced him to a state not unlike the one he’d been in minutes after the action in the kitchen.
In the man’s place Revell realised he might well have felt the same. He’d never known anybody with the girl’s capacity for conveying an emotion or intention with a single look. The Russian had reacted as he might have done to a knife being put at his throat. Revell had caught only a reflection, but it had made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
It occurred to him that he had witnessed a more controlled version of the same thing only recently, recalling the incident between Dooley and Clarence. Perhaps he could manage to keep the girl out of the worst of the fighting by pairing her with Clarence. They would make a frightening team.
As he followed her downstairs, the door to the room holding the women was partially open. Grunts, and what sounded like wet bodies slapping together came from it. The glimpse of the filthy bed revealed Kurt, naked from the waist down with his face buried between one woman’s jiggling breasts, both of them sitting astride a second tart who was receiving the thrusting force of the East German’s runty body, while her own fat chest was crushed by the ample stretch mark decorated rump of her fellow whore.
Andrea showed no interest, passed by without looking, but not without comment.
‘He is a fool, and so are the others who wait their turn. Every one they have will drain that much strength from them, strength they will need.’ A slight extending of the line of her mouth and a fractional deepening of the fine lines at the side of her eyes might have been an indication of humour, but the venom in her words negated it. ‘Later they will pay for those whores’ bodies with their lives when they cannot keep up. It will be the highest price they have ever paid.’
TWELVE
Nelson did not have to suffer the final indignity of being trussed and gagged. As Hyde pulled back the blood-stained sleeve for Rinehart to administer the injection, he felt the growing coolness of the flesh. He let the arm drop. ‘About ten minutes ago, I should imagine, when we were busy working out how much we could carry.’
Dooley heard but there was no reaction from him. ‘What’s up, aren’t you going to rush him away for a burial service?’ After the earlier fuss, Hyde was expecting something from the big man.
‘He’s dead, ain’t he? Stick him outside, we’re gonna need the room.’
‘You are not the most consistent person I have ever known.’
So what’s it to fucking you, you stuck-up Limey shit,’ Dooley was very fast rounding on Clarence, not letting the remark go. ‘I make my own fucking rules: first I look after number one, that’s me, then I look after any guy who I reckon is alright, so long as that don’t screw up number one, and three I push out of my mind and out of my way anyone who don’t feature in one or two because he’s either a Commie, or he’s not my buddy or he’s dead.’
‘You make life and death sound so simple.’
‘It is, except for clever arses the like of you. Life is fucking simple: I eat, I drink, I screw and I go to the John. For me happiness is a stiff cock, a full belly and efficient bowels-That covers it all; you want to make it harder than that for yourself then go ahead.’
‘That still leaves us with a corpse. Burke, Dooley, get him out.’ The order was greeted by their driver’s ritual protest. ‘Hey, Sarge. It’s bad enough you’re dragging me along on this suicide mission, without putting me on burial detail just before the off. I don’t fancy doing a spot of digging out there, it’s a bloody minefield, or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘A safe lane has been taped. Take your packs and weapons with you. Dump him where we won’t trip over him and then go on to the wire and keep a look out. We’ll join you there as soon as the Iron Cow has been booby-trapped.’
Burke took Nelson’s feet and between them the two men, hampered by their slung weapons and bulky loads, manoeuvred the corpse out on to the ramp, where they paused before getting off to follow the twin pale yellow strips that marked an eighteen-inch-wide lane disappearing into the trees.
‘You tell that kid to mind what he’s bloody doing.’ Burke got in a final grouse, as he looked back and saw Collins rigging the five-pound thermite charge that would destroy the skimmer if a Russian patrol should stumble upon it before their return. ‘He may have been on all the bloody courses and thinks he knows how to handle those things, but just you tell him to be fucking careful. I don’t fancy coming back and ending up a charred crisp in a puddle of molten aluminium.’
Laden with the body in addition to their load of weaponry, they had to constantly pause to check the positioning of then-feet on the snaking ribbon of un-mined ground.
‘This’ll do.’ Dooley carefully lowered the corpse. The bandage about its head had slipped off, and a broad smear of glistening red, flecked with spongy white, decorated the front of his camouflage suit. ‘Oh shit, I had this laundered only a couple of months back. Let’s have a look at what’s around before we shove him out of the way.’
Taking out his bayonet, he gently probed at the rank grass and nettles. ‘Here, be careful.’ Backing off a couple of paces Burke watched the operation anxiously. ‘That stuff was laid nearly two years ago. It could be a bit touchy by now.’
‘Why in fuck’s name don’t they set ’em all to self-destruct after a while.’ Very gingerly Dooley parted the undergrowth, to reveal as a length of bough the object he’d encountered with the probe. ‘There’s bloody choppers buzzing about all over scattering these things. Christ knows how many have been laid by hand and machine, must run into millions. Soon as the Ruskies find them they either bomb ’em or plough ’em up and clear a way through in next to no time.’
‘Not always.’ The Russian BMP tracked personnel carrier was almost close enough for Burke to reach out and touch. Two of its road-wheels had been blown oft, and there was a gaping hole in its raked frontal armour. It sat amid the curled remains of its tracks, heavily rusted where flames and heat had peeled away its paint. ‘They still come charging on sometimes.’
‘Pity a few more don’t do it, save us having to tackle so many that get through.’ Dooley got to his feet. ‘Yeah, this’ll do.’ With his foot he started the body rolling.
Burke helped move it off the track with similar assistance. I know one thing, I’m bloody glad it’s a skimmer I drive, and not a r
uddy tracked APC. With the number of bloody mines the Russians are starting to use, I want as little contact with the ground as possible.’
‘Less maintenance on one of them as well, ain’t there.’
A grin spread across Burke’s face, it matched Dooley’s. ‘Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that but now you come to mention it, you’re right.’
The shadows, where individual ones could be distinguished beneath the canopy of leaves, were lengthening, though the sun was still a couple of hours from meeting the horizon. The two men had to take care not to touch, or even brush any of the overhanging trees. Many of them bore signs that the explosive devices set among their dangling branches had already detonated. Some of the damaged trunks and shattered stumps were obviously old, dating back to the first fierce battle; but others were more recent, evidence that with age the devices were becoming unstable, capable of being triggered by nothing more than inclement weather. It would be a deadly place to shelter during a storm. Enough of the mines remained to ensure that the threat they posed would exist for a long time to come.
‘We can see as much from here as we will out there.’ Stopping just within the fringe of the trees, Dooley squatted down and looked out over the barbed wire to the rolling farmland.
‘No point in taking risks we don’t have to,’ Burke agreed. ‘We’ll be doing enough of that later.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘You don’t sound too bothered.’
‘Can’t say I am. I reckon when your number’s up, it’s up, ain’t nothing you can do about it.’ The packet of cigarettes Dooley had half withdrawn from his pocket tie crushed back in. ‘Don’t suppose I ought look for trouble though by sending up smoke signals.’
‘I should think it’d hardly matter, the size of the smoke cloud we’ll be creating later. What do you think about this plan of the major’s?’
‘It’s OK, ’cept we’re a bit thin on the ground for taking on a battalion of Ruskies, even if they ain’t expecting us and are more likely to be holding spanners than AKMs when we hit ’em.’
‘We’ll have to scare the shit out of them to make them keep their heads down for as long as possible, but it’ll only be a couple of minutes at most.’ Burke unslung his pack and sat on it.
‘Better jump up a bit sharp if you think you’re gonna fart again. You’ll lose more than your balls if what you’ve got in there goes off.’ Dooley ticked off the contents of Burke’s pack to himself. There was enough explosives in it to reduce both of them to lots of tiny pieces and clear a wide area of the woods of mines, and trees. He didn’t drop his own load. It was not that he was unaware of the weight of the case of single-shot flame tubes, though at more than eighty pounds it was a load that would have crushed most men, rather that in his opinion to have done so would have tarnished his hard-man image. That was his most prized possession, and one he guarded jealously, nurturing it with ostentatious exercising at every opportunity.
‘The others are taking their time.’ Burke changed the subject.
Dooley just grunted, and went on staring out at the over-grown fields and untended hedges. He wasn’t seeing them though, and he hadn’t really heard Burke. What filled his mind was the fight to come, he could picture it, and his part, as clearly as if he were watching it on a screen. Rows of yelling, charging Russians fell before him, tens, hundreds of them and still they kept coming and still he kept firing; he was spreading destruction all about him. He didn’t feel the wounds, felt no sense of danger. Another scene swam into his mind and swamped the first; the White House lawn, a special ceremony: there were cameras, reporters, private words from the President, a shining medal on a cushion…
‘On your feet, this is no time for bloody dreaming.’ Hyde’s words dissolved the fantasy, and once more Dooley saw the fields. He rose to his feet, deliberately doing it the hard way, not giving himself a push with his hands.
‘We’ll move out in small groups of twos and threes, strung out but not too far apart.’ There was no need for Hyde to raise his voice to be heard by the men tailing back along the path. No other sound disturbed the still woods. ‘Keep in sight of each other at all times. We’re only going as far as the first track or road that looks like it’s used regularly by heavy Russian traffic. The Commies are supposed to move only by night, but I’m counting on there being a few idiots who start out early. With any luck one of them will come our way and we’ll be able to collar transport before the rush builds up and it becomes impossible.’
‘What about refugees. How do we handle them if we’re spotted?’ Hyde recognised Libby’s voice from the back of the line. ‘I don’t think that’ll be a problem. It’s not long to curfew. If there are any about who are cutting it a bit fine, they’ll be in such a bloody hurry to get home they won’t even notice us.’
‘What kinda transport we looking for, Sarge?’ It was Rinehart who raised the issue.
‘Well, it’s got to hold all of us, plus the major and his new recruits, that consideration apart, anything, anything at all.’
Dust raised by the speeding Gaz scout car settled on the men crouched behind the hedge. Dooley spat out mouthfuls of grit and made repulsive noises as he blew his nose.
‘Do you have to do that?’ Clarence wiped his tongue with a handkerchief. ‘What are you beefing about? One good spit is better than what you’re doing. For fuck’s sake quit it; dragging that dry rag around your mouth is worse than scraping your fingernails down a blackboard.’
Cohen ignored the exchange as he turned to Hyde. ‘That’s the third vehicle in twenty minutes to pass us like there was a race on. How do we stop one of those without breaking it ?’
‘We don’t. We’ll stop the next one anyway we can, then go back into hiding and wait for the following vehicle crew to stop and help whoever we clobber.’ Hyde beckoned Clarence over. ‘Take out the driver. Don’t worry about the noise. It’ll be nothing to the crate going over.’
‘Where do you want it to land?’
‘I’ll be happy as long as it’s on the road and not on us.’
Without any further discussion Clarence departed to set up his ambush. A moment later he had melted into the countryside. There was a five-minute wait before the next Soviet army vehicle came along.
It was a Toyota pick-up, one of the mass of civilian vehicles the Russian forces had pressed into use when the war had begun to extend beyond the time they had planned, and they’d had to return their own called-up supply trucks to the dislocated civilian economies of East Germany and Poland. This one was a battered and sorry example: dents and scrapes that marred every panel exposed large areas of its original bright-red paintwork, showing startlingly vivid against the thin coat of olive-drab still adhering elsewhere.
Through his glasses Hyde watched the pick-up’s fast approach. He could just, through the layer of dust on its screen, make out the pale blob of the driver’s face. ‘Looks like it’s the boy racers who come out early, taking advantage of clear roads and no traffic police.’ Occasionally the Toyota would jink to the side, as its driver slung it around the worst of the many pot-holes.
There was a distinctive double click as Libby cocked his rifle. ‘I hope Clarence is going to hit him soon, or we’ll have the perisher landing in our laps.’
As it came nearer, filling his field of vision, Hyde found it more difficult to follow the progress of the bucking vehicle, but he had a perfect view of it at the precise moment the sniper’s single bullet shattered the windscreen.
Fired from close range the 7.62mm round drilled through the driver’s right temple and clean through his head, emerging behind his left ear in an eruption of flesh and bone fragments as the tumbling deformed bullet gave up the last of its energy.
For another fifty yards the pick-up held course, then collision with the steep side of a deep pot-hole jerked the steering to the right and it struck the shallow bank flanking the track. There was a geyser of dirt and dust as the vehicle impacted. It rose up as though launched from a ramp, displ
aying the crumpled front end, trailing steam from its crushed radiator. The short flight ended in a nose-dive back on to the road. Both front wheels jammed up under the bodywork, it slewed to a final halt rocking op what was left of its suspension, straddling the track and surrounded by a litter of unidentifiable components. A bloodied arm hung from a window and the air was thick with the stink of petrol fumes and clouded with a shroud of steam. One oval wheel spun lazily in the road, a hub and stub axle still attached to it.
The wreck had eventually come to a halt only a few yards from where the men lay.
‘That sodding mad-arse cut it a bit fine.’
‘One yard or fifty, Burke.’ Hyde heard the complaint. ‘What does it matter? He gets the job done, that’s the main thing.’ Burke couldn’t win, and he knew it. His past provided too much ammunition for the sergeant for it to be of any use arguing with him. Besides, what bloody private ever won a real argument with a sergeant?
‘Dooley, Rinehart, you take out the crew of whatever stops at this roadblock. Use your knives. Take your time and let them get well clear of their vehicle first.’ Rinehart weighed the sergeant’s instructions. ‘Now just what if the first truck along happens to be packed full of infantry. How you expect us to deal with that?’
‘I don’t and you won’t have to, we’ll be covering you.’
‘Well give me time to get back in the fucking ditch before you open up.’ Dooley took out his bayonet and lightly ran his thumb down the edge of the double-sided blade. ‘Which side of the road do you want?’
I’m comfy here, how about you taking the stroll?’ As though it were the most elegant of toppers, Rinehart tipped his helmet rakishly over one eye and twirled a non-regulation leather-handled, saw-backed Bowie knife.
Affecting a casual air Dooley left the hedge and strolled over to the far side, pausing on the way to shake the hand hanging limply from the Toyota. He glanced back to see if his act was being appreciated before ducking out of sight.
‘Bloody clown.’
