McNulty may have shrugged, but the look on his face said are you out of your fucking mind?
“Okay, let’s think this through,” Tommy began, staring down the barrel of the guard’s weapon. “I doubt they’re going to try anything while we’re still in Vienna. Once we’re out in the country, though…”
Mischenko added, “I’ll have to distract him. If we can get him to look away for just a second…”
“Yeah,” Tommy replied. “That sounds like the start of a plan.” He turned to Hammersmith and asked, “You any good with a pistol, Ollie?”
“Not really,” Hammersmith replied, “I’ve fired one but never hit anything with it. Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid.”
“How about you, J.P.?” Tommy asked.
The Frenchman sounded a little offended as he replied, “Of course.”
“Excellent. You’ve looked in the cab. Where are those guys’ weapons?”
“I couldn’t see them,” Lambert replied. “They must be between the seat and the doors. Even if they were on the floor, they’d be visible. They won’t lay flat with those big ammunition drums.”
“Even better,” Tommy replied. “Boys, I think our little plan just made itself.”
They weren’t far past the outskirts of Vienna when a distraction presented itself. The truck overtook three Austrian girls still in their teens bicycling along the road. The driver swung the three-quarter ton broadside in front of the cyclists, bringing the truck—and the girls—to a stop. The two Russians in the cab climbed out—with their submachine guns—and began circling their prey. The guard in back stayed perched on the tailgate, one eye on his prisoners, the other on the girls. He was calling something out to his comrades.
“They’re going to rape them,” Mischenko said. “They’re choosing who goes first.”
The girls seemed shy but not terrified, as they should well have been. Smiling and tittering, they tried to converse in German with soldiers who spoke only Russian.
“This is no good,” Tommy said. “We start shooting, those girls are going to get hit.”
Hammersmith added. “They don’t realize the danger they’re in, the silly little things. I can’t imagine they haven’t heard about the Reds raping every woman they can get their hands on.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ve heard,” Tommy replied. “But sometimes, girls can get all giggly when they’re scared. My sisters used to do it all the time. It’s some kind of defense, I guess.”
Then the Englishman began to sing—in German—at the top of his lungs. They all recognized the melody: it was Deutschland Über Alles.
But the strange lyrics were known only to Hammersmith and the girls:
They are going to rape you shortly
Run away while you still can
Don’t look alarmed, just turn and ride off
We will take care of the rest
While the two puzzled Russians on the ground turned to look at the truck, the girls wheeled their bicycles around and sped off in the direction from which they’d come.
For one tense moment, it all seemed for nothing. One of the Russians on the ground raised his weapon and aimed it at the fleeing girls.
But his partner grabbed the weapon, shoving its barrel skyward. Then they began to argue furiously.
“Wouldn’t it be hot shit if they shot each other?” McNulty offered.
The argument cooled quickly. Mischenko provided the translation: “The one who stopped the shooter said they should take care of business first. Then they can backtrack and have their fun with the girls.”
The bicycles vanished behind a crest in the road.
Tommy said, “The business, huh? That’s us. Let’s get ready, boys. I think the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
The truck began to move again. Tommy asked Hammersmith, “What the hell were you singing back there?”
He told them.
“Good job,” Tommy said. “But why didn’t you ever mention you spoke German?”
“It never came up.”
McNulty looked the Englishman up and down and asked, “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant, but you really are a Limey and not a fucking Kraut, right?”
“English to the bone, Sergeant. To the bloody bone.”
They were driving through thick woods now. The truck was slowing, as if searching for a good place to turn off.
“Now,” Tommy said.
Mischenko stood up, pointing with his bound hands to the sky behind the truck. He began to scream in Russian, “FIGHTER-BOMBERS! AMERICAN STRAFERS! COMING THIS WAY!”
Just as they hoped, the guard at the tailgate turned to look behind for a split second—and in that instant Tommy and Hammersmith pushed him out of the truck while managing to grab his submachine gun without a shot being fired.
In that same instant, McNulty and Lambert reached under the bench seat and retrieved the two pistols. Lifting the curtain to the cab, they placed the muzzles against the heads of the two startled Russians. The ropes binding their wrists proved no impediment to brandishing the weapons with both hands.
The one in the passenger’s seat pivoted hard toward the door, going for the weapon stored there. McNulty put a bullet through his head.
The driver needed no more convincing. He heeded Mischenko’s command to stop the truck. But as soon as he set the parking brake he tried to bolt. He only managed a few steps before Tommy and the submachine gun he was holding blocked his path. Granted, he was awkwardly holding the gun upside down with both hands wrapped around the trigger guard, the butt resting against his thigh.
But it would be every bit as deadly to someone on the wrong end. Especially at such short range.
The guard they’d pushed over the tailgate was lying motionless in the road. “Will you look at that,” McNulty said. “The son of a bitch broke his fucking neck.”
They dragged the two dead bodies into the woods.
Pointing to the driver, Lambert said, “Should I shoot this one, too?”
“No,” Tommy said, “let’s not—”
The report of the Frenchman’s pistol interrupted him. He’d shot the driver in the head.
Then Lambert asked, “He was going to do it to me, no?”
Searching the bodies, they found each carried a knife. They were quickly put to use freeing their wrists.
After the last dead Russian was dragged into the woods, McNulty asked, “You think the Russkies are going to put out a dragnet for us?”
Hammersmith shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They’re not that organized, and they won’t be expecting these chaps back for a while, anyway. We’ll be behind our lines long before anyone will be looking for us.”
“Speaking of our lines,” McNulty said, “how far away are they?”
“About seventy miles,” Tommy replied, “give or take.”
Mischenko asked, “Should we take their uniforms, sir? Maybe put them on?”
“No,” Hammersmith replied, horrified at the idea. “That’s the surest way to get yourself executed as a spy.”
But Mischenko still looked to Tommy for the final verdict on his idea.
“Lieutenant Hammersmith is right,” Tommy said. “Let’s not get caught with the uniforms. It’s bad enough we’re going to be driving one of their trucks.”
They piled back on board with McNulty at the wheel and Hammersmith, Lambert, and Mischenko in the back. Tommy started to get into the cab’s right seat but stopped dead in his tracks. It was still splattered with the brains of the Russian McNulty had shot.
“Give me some rags from back there, will you?” he asked Hammersmith. “I got a little cleanup to do first.”
Once Tommy was in the seat, McNulty asked, “Seventy miles, eh, Captain?” He tapped the truck’s fuel gauge. “If this thing’s right, we got less than half a tank. We’re gonna be running on fumes.”
He started to put the truck in gear but stopped. Reaching back into the cargo area, he pointed to a square of stiff paper on the bed beneath
the bench seat: a photograph.
“Hey, Mischenko, hand that up here, will you?”
As McNulty handed the photo to Tommy, he said, “Almost forgot this in all the excitement. It fell out when we took them guns. Looks kinda like some tomato you know, don’t it?”
Sonia Alexiev had been true to her word. It was Sylvie’s photo, taken from the Eclipse’s instrument panel.
Chapter Thirty-Two
They were on the road another hour when, from the crest of a hill, they saw a small town in the valley below. McNulty asked Tommy, “Whaddya think the odds are we get ourselves something to eat down there, Captain?”
“I hope they’re pretty good, Sarge. But slow down…let’s get a good look at who’s actually in that town.”
“You think there might be Krauts there?”
“Maybe.”
McNulty didn’t look happy with that answer. “You even sure we’re going in the right direction, Captain?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, Sarge. This is a pretty easy navigation problem. We want to go west, so all we’ve got to do is follow the sun.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that,” McNulty replied. “But do you think we’ll make it to our lines before that sun goes down?”
“Let’s hope so. But no promises.”
There were military vehicles in the town, but they were Russian, not German.
“Stop the vehicle,” Tommy said.
When the truck screeched to a halt, Tommy turned to Mischenko in the back and asked, “Adam, can you drive this thing?”
“Sure, sir.”
“Good. Switch places with Sarge. And take your cap off. Let’s look as little like a GI as possible.”
Hammersmith leaned into the cab and asked, “What’s your plan here, Tommy?”
“If any Russians want to stop us for a little chat, Adam will tell them he’s transporting downed Allied airmen back to their lines.”
“But his uniform. They’ll know…”
“If we play our cards right, they’ll never get close enough to notice.”
Mischenko climbed into the cab and settled behind the wheel. “This kind of makes me wish you’d changed your mind about taking those uniforms back there, sir.”
“No, Adam, I’m glad I didn’t,” Tommy replied. “Just stay calm and act like you own the road.”
The Russians didn’t have any sentries on the edge of town. The few soldiers milling around merely waved in greeting as they drove past, more at the Soviet-marked vehicle, perhaps, than the men on board. A little farther down the street, a dozen German soldiers lay dead at the foot of a pockmarked, blood-spattered stone wall.
“Looks like they’re not taking any prisoners,” Mischenko said, his voice taut with fear.
Tommy replied, “Just keep driving, Adam.”
The street curved ahead, preventing them from seeing what lay beyond. Rounding that curve, Mischenko had to slam on the brakes. A crowd of Russian soldiers—more of a mob, actually—blocked the street. They had that primal viciousness about them Tommy had sensed in so many Russians. More so than a mob of any other nationality, they—to the last man—had no qualms about violence. He had little doubt these men were eager participants in a rampage of rape and murder happening all across this town.
“What do I do, sir?” Mischenko asked, his terrified voice rising in pitch with each word.
“Blow the horn, Adam, and keep moving. Own the road, remember?”
Three of the mob refused to clear the street, as if oblivious to the truck’s presence. They were shouting—maybe it was singing—like drunken savages on a bender.
And they were all armed with automatic weapons.
This time, Mischenko’s question could find no words. A pleading look at Tommy was all he could manage.
“Bump them, Adam. Yell something at them, too.”
“But I might—”
“For cryin’ out loud, Adam. Just bump them. They’ll move, one way or the other.”
His foot trembling on the clutch, Mischenko inched the truck forward. He couldn’t have been more than a few inches from the men.
They didn’t yield.
He looked to Tommy once more. Not a question this time, just seeking affirmation.
Tommy provided that affirmation with a nod of his head.
The bumper nudged the three as one.
Two did as expected and lurched out of the way, hurling curses at the truck only Mischenko understood.
The third dropped from sight. Stopping the truck, Mischenko yelled to his comrades, “Get the fool out of my way before I flatten him like a bug.”
To his surprise, the two Russians complied instantly. The man who had gone to ground was dragged and crab-walked out of the way. He got in his share of curses, too, which seemed far more vile than those they’d heard a moment before. Mischenko yelled back something that sounded equally vile. Then he popped the clutch, and the truck sped off.
“What’d you say?” Tommy asked.
“I told him, Your mother sucks cow dicks, you peasant.”
“It sounds like you’re getting the hang of this owning the road thing, Adam.”
But there was little to keep smiling about as they rolled through the town. Wherever they looked, groups of Russian soldiers—five or six at a time—were pulling a distraught civilian female into a building or alley. The age of the woman didn’t seem to matter, either. Nothing in a skirt—young or old—was safe from the Red Army.
Hammersmith said, “They feel entitled to do this, you know, after what the Germans did in the Soviet Union.” He offered it as if it was some detached, scholarly observation.
Nobody replied. Maybe they did understand why it was happening. Maybe they were even sympathetic to what the Soviets had been through.
But no one could bring himself to allow that such retribution could ever be justified. Not after they’d seen the faces of those women.
Back on the open road again, they found themselves stuck behind a slow-moving Russian convoy that seemed miles long. They all knew what the slow progress meant: they’d run out of daylight—and maybe gasoline—long before reaching the American lines.
McNulty was back behind the wheel now. He was growing impatient with the slow pace, alternately speeding up and then having to slam on the brakes as the convoy bunched and slowed on hills. Perhaps his empty stomach was making him edgy. If that was the reason, he was in good company. To make matters worse, the canteens they’d taken from the dead Russians were almost dry.
One abrupt deceleration yielded an unexpected benefit: a packet of maps slid out from under the cab’s seat. They were all in Russian, of course, but Mischenko had no trouble translating them. It didn’t take long to get their bearings. They were about fifty kilometers—roughly thirty miles—from Perg. At their current rate, they wouldn’t arrive there until after sunset.
On the map, Tommy had noticed there was a turnoff a few miles ahead, a road that led north into Czechoslovakia. They were delighted to see the convoy take that road. That obstacle out of their way, they began to make good time toward Perg, with only the occasional Soviet vehicle passing in the opposite direction.
McNulty still wasn’t happy, though. “If I don’t get something in this belly of mine real soon, Captain, I’m gonna puke.”
“What are you going to puke if your stomach’s empty?” Tommy kidded him.
“Just you watch, Captain…and hope I don’t get none of it on you.”
Ahead on the road was a farm cart drawn by horses. As they pulled alongside, the old farmer at the reins was at first terrified; the truck had Russian markings, so its occupants must be Russian soldiers. He’d probably seen their handiwork already.
With much coaxing by Hammersmith in German, the farmer finally agreed to stop. When he saw that there was not one Russian uniform among them, he became positively friendly and helpful.
“You don’t want to go to Perg,” he told them. “The Americans and Russians are killing each other there. I’m told the city is a
battlefield. Many Austrians have fled the fighting.”
After what they’d experienced with the Reds at Schwechat and on the road, they were more than willing to believe him.
With Hammersmith as interpreter, Tommy asked the farmer, “Where do you suggest we go, then?”
The farmer described a fork in the road they’d come to in a few miles. It would take them to a bridge crossing the Danube which hadn’t been destroyed in the fighting. Then they could follow another road that bypassed Perg and would take them all the way to Linz.
Tommy could see it on the map. “But that’s going to add a lot of miles to the trip,” he said. “We won’t get there before dark, that’s for sure.”
“Isn’t it safer to travel in the dark?” the farmer asked.
“Not when you don’t know exactly where you’re going.”
The farmer noticed McNulty eyeing some bushel baskets full of big round loaves of bread in the cart. He offered them several, which they began to devour immediately. He gave them some water from a large jug, as well.
As he poured the water into their canteens, he cautioned them not to drink from the Danube. “Too much oil in it from all the refineries,” he explained.
Tommy apologized for not having anything to give the farmer in return. At least nothing that wouldn’t get him killed by the Russians—or any Germans who might still be around—if he was caught with it.
The farmer’s reply: “Just promise me that you Americans will push the Russians out of Austria.”
Across the Danube, the road on which they traveled seemed deserted. They passed for miles through nothing but farm country until they reached a forest as the sun was low in the western sky. Tommy said, “Maybe we just stop here for the night. Plenty of concealment in the trees. Maybe we can even get a little sleep.”
They set up a guard rotation—four hours on, four hours off—that would at least yield some sleep while protecting themselves from surprises in the dark. Even though the evening was cooling fast, they decided not to build a fire. With a new moon and a thick layer of high clouds, the black cloak of night soon wrapped itself around them.
Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3) Page 30
