by W. R. Benton
“He could not have gone far, because I know he was injured.” The man spoke again in Russian.
“We have covered all the forest from the road, and I have seen no blood nor any sign anyone has ever walked in this area.” she said, and stopped not two feet from Tom.
“Want a drink of vodka? I have a canteen full, if you want some.”
“Sure, toss it to me.” and then caught the canteen when he pitched it to her.
“Tell no one I have the alcohol, because I am not authorized to have hard drink in the field.”
“I will keep quiet. When do we return?”
Tom was afraid they could hear his heart beating, because it sounded so loud to him. He would have killed them both with his knife had he not been wounded. If he tried that now, it'd probably get him killed.
“In a few minutes. The Master Sergeant is so mad right now, I want to avoid him. The problem is he has no idea what made the ambush go badly. It could have been a smell, the American saw something, or maybe one of us moved a little.”
Leave or I'll have to start shooting in a few minutes, Tom thought. He had no idea what the two Russians were talking about.
“I do not like being out here like this.”
“Okay, we will head back then. Come, we will go, but we will take our time returning.”
As they walked away Tom felt a great relief. He was ready to kill both, only that would have brought more Russians running to this spot. Then, he was sure one of them would have spotted him. He was starting to hurt now, his injuries no longer dead due to adrenaline. He spotted a huge pine and crawled to it, pulled some lower branches apart and crawled to the trunk of the tree. He then used his sheath knife to remove some branches to give him room to live under the tree.
He used the knife to cut his pant leg to get to his injury and did a better job of bandaging the wound, but his shoulder was hard to reach. He was able to take his shirt off but it about killed him to put it back on after caring for the wound. While he carried morphine and pain pills, he pulled a large flask from his pack and took a long pull. The homemade whiskey, called white lightning, burned all the way to his stomach. After a few more sips the pain lessened. He suspected he'd go into a fever at some point during the day, but at least, other than some earlier drizzling, the weather was dry.
“I'll survive, as long as I don't run into any Russians.” He spoke in a whisper to himself.
He leaned back against the tree trunk and fell asleep, mostly due to the whiskey, and the loss of strength he'd experienced when shot. Just before he fell asleep, he gave thought to how tired he was and before he knew it, he was asleep.
He awoke later that same day, or it might have been days later, he had no idea. It was daylight and looked to be mid-morning. The weather was fair and his wounds were tender and sore. He opened his first aid kit and removed bandages to change the ones on his injuries. Both wounds had stopped bleeding, but were badly bruised, and as he removed the bandage, he checked for pus or discoloration that would indicated infection. He saw nothing but crimson blood. He then took a pain pill and knew he needed to be moving, but was unsure his body was capable of doing any walking at all.
I need to spend an additional night here, so I can rest up more. Getting two holes poked in me was rough, he thought. He pulled out a Russian ration and decided to eat lightly so his food supplies would last longer. He ate the sweets and part of a stew of some kind and placed the rest in his pack.
The cell must have avoided a fight because I spoiled the ambush. I didn't hear any shots, not after I went to ground either. I hope they all got away.
He had to pee and it took all the strength and guts he had to move out from under the tree and take care of his business. As he relieved his bladder, his whole body trembled and shook from the pain of just moving. Once back under the tree, he was about to scream from the hurt in his leg. No, he'd not move in the morning or for the next seven days.
A week later, his food gone, his injuries sore but not hurting deeply, he left much of his gear and started moving back to the base. He moved slowly, like an old man, and certain movements, like bending over, almost brought tears to his eyes. He was using dead reckoning, since he'd lost his compass, and knew he'd recognize the forest surrounding the base when he got there. He had to move slowly, because if he encountered any Russians now, he'd have to surrender. There was no way he could fight and he knew it. So, all his physical and mental efforts, besides those spent for moving, were used avoiding the enemy. He had a crudely made crutch he'd made out of a tree limb that had two branches removed from one end, and that was the part that fit under his left arm so he could move. Crude, but it'd work.
He noticed a mine on the trail because the rains had washed the dirt off many of them, and he was glad he had enough sense to walk off most paths. In some cases he had no choice but to use the trail, only that was usually when thorn bushes and briers grew to the edge. As soon as he could, he'd move off the trail again. At one point he almost stepped in a fulcrum trap, but he'd used his crude crutch to trip it and he felt his nerves reaching their limit, so he stopped for the day.
He guessed he was about half way home and was smiling as he crawled up under the lower limbs of a pine tree and cleared a sleeping area. He had no food and had seen nothing edible all day, so he'd sleep hungry this night. He was surprised he'd not jumped a deer, because when he started the trip and had food, he'd seen many deer in the early mornings. This day he'd not even seen the tracks of a deer or any animal and he found it strange.
He wondered why and he then thought, Maybe there's too much traffic on that trail. Some of it must be us, but how much is Russian? Maybe together we scare the game away. I'll have to use more caution.
His leg was hurting and itching when he pulled the bandage off, and he noticed maggots crawling in and out of his flesh. Oh, God, no! His mind screamed as his body quivered. I have to get these nasty things off of me and now.
He used water from his canteen to wash the maggots from his wound, and just the thought of them crawling on his injury scared the hell out of him. The leg has no pus or discolored flesh, so what do the maggots mean? I've heard something about maggots and injuries, but what did I hear? I need to try to recall what I heard. Nasty looking things crawling on me.
He watched the last maggot wash from his wound.
That's what caused the itching I had all day, he thought and then shivered.
It was near midnight, by Tom's watch, when he heard a slight noise and looking from his tree camp, he spotted a Russian squad moving in the opposite direction from his path. They were moving south quickly and then he heard engines start. They sounded big, like dozers, tractors, or deuce and half trucks maybe.
A few minutes later, a tree came crashing down as a huge Russian tank pushed it aside as it cleared the path for a good company of men. He counted four tanks total and well over 100 men moving behind the tanks; all were walking in the tanks tread marks in the dirt. As long as they walked in the tracks of the huge armored vehicles they were safe from any mines, and most booby traps would be destroyed by the weight of the big beasts.
It took a good twenty minutes for all the Russians to move past him and all were moving south. They must have a specific target in mind or else that many troops and those tanks would not be out. I can't think of anything in the state that is south of me worth hitting or that would require tanks, he thought as he grimaced from the pain in his leg.
He noticed the pain in his leg was less and he decided to walk more, so that maybe he could cover a few more miles before he slept. He was constantly battling inside when to move and when to stop. He felt an urgency to move, while at the same time he knew he had to move slowly because of his injuries. He had nothing for pain now; the whiskey had been used up well over a week ago and the pain pills soon followed. Back then he'd not been able to sleep without something to reduce his pain to an acceptable level. Both the strong drink and the pills had done what they were supposed to do, lower his
hurting.
He crawled out from under the tree, stood and stretched. He glanced overhead and saw clear skies with millions of stars sparkling. The moon was full, so he donned his pack, moved to the trail, and walked in the tracks of the big tanks, knowing the way was safe. He did keep his eyes open for mines, which the Russians could have planted in the middle of the tracks.
It was near dawn when he heard a voice say, “That's far enough. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I am Thomas Fetters, a member of the resistance, and I was in an ambush and was critically injured. I got separated from my unit and here I am, about two weeks later. I'm trying to make contact with the partisans. I hurt though.”
“Where are your injuries?”
“My shoulder and leg. I had to partially heal before I could return. I was unable to walk at all the first week I was hit.”
“Right, comrade. Put your hands on top of your head and lace your fingers together. Remain where you are and I'll come to you. Any moves at all on your part will likely get your ass shot.”
Chapter 11
Master Sergeant Kovarov was so mad, some of his troops thought he might start shooting people. Someone in the unit had blown the ambush and the Americans were long gone. While he'd seen one man go down, they'd not even killed that one and he'd flown the coop as well. He had experienced two dead and three wounded from one long burst of automatic fire from Tom, and for one man to do that kind of damage to his unit had the Sergeant steaming mad. One of the people in the ambush had moved or something, because the point man had seen enough that he was able to kill two Russians before he went down.
All this effort for nothing, he thought as he said, “Let us move, the ambush has been busted. We will connect with another squad here in a few miles. They are spending the night near a river. Move it, people, and let us leave.”
Most of his troops were tired and sleepy, but the Master Sergeant didn't care and his anger over missing John grew by the minute. After discussing it with the Lieutenant, they'd decided that one of the men killed or wounded had moved, which allowed the man on point to spoil the ambush. Nothing could be changed now, so they'd continue their mission of finding and killing partisans.
“Yes, sir. I've men and women in the field and they have been looking for partisans.” Colonel Ippolit said to a General in Moscow. “They will remain in the field for some time. I want the resistance crushed.”
“You mean you cannot find and kill a few handfuls of country cowboys?”
“They are mobile and appear and disappear when they wish, sir.”
“You make them sound like that American cowboy in their movies, uh, John Wayne. You aren't facing some kind of supermen are you?”
“No, sir, and we have killed many of them.”
“I do not see where your body count makes up for the cost, Colonel. If I take the cost and divide it by the number of dead bodies you have, well, I will just say it is costing a small fortune for each of their dead.”
“Sir, as often as they can, they take their dead with them.”
“Ippolit, you listen to me because I am only going to say this one time, so listen closely. If your body count does not go up and the cost for each body go down, you will be making snow cones in Siberia next year. I hear there are no warm places in any gulags in that part of Russia. Do your job and you will leave America as a General; keep playing around with them and you will return in shame.”
“I hear you, sir. I am doing the best I can.” It took all the strength and military bearing he had to not jump on the General's ass. The old man had no idea what he faced as a commander in the United States.
“Do better by the end of the month or your unit will be under new management. This is the only heads up call I will make to you. The next time we speak, I will either be ordering you home or promoting you, but only you have the power in your hands to make either come true.”
“I under —”
The phone line went dead.
“That bastard hung up on me,” Ippolit spoke aloud and then thought, I had better watch my mouth, because my office might be bugged. If so, there is a good chance my secretary is reporting a great deal to headquarters too. I can no longer trust anyone.
He started to pull out a bottle, but changed his mind and poured a cup of strong tea. I have to reduce the amount of alcohol I am drinking daily, too! he thought. He ran his fingers through his hair, sat at his desk, and felt like giving up, but giving up was not an option.
An hour after the General had spoken to him, Ippolit was on the phone again, but this time to his gulag Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Filya Vadik.
“No, you heard me right right Filya, I want 100 partisans or civilians executed at dawn in the morning, and how you kill them does not matter to me.”
“Sir, may I suggest —”
“I did not ask you for suggestions, Filya, I gave you a lawful order and I expect you to carry it out as given. I want 100 dead Americans by stand up or during the meeting you will be explaining why you are about to be shot for failing to follow orders. Shooting you is no idle threat, sir; it will happen if my orders are not followed exactly.”
“I thought you did not want to kill them and they were to eat the same foods as your troops ate.”
“I want them back on 900 calories a day, too. I tried to be nice to them, but I now have Moscow and General Bezukladnikov Anastasi Larionovich riding my ass for results at a cheaper cost. I can kill the 100 tomorrow and start the month with a decent body count.”
“I understand, sir. Your orders will be carried out.”
“Thank you, Filya, I knew I could count on you.”
Just outside of the building Colonel Ippolit was in, there came a loud explosion. Thinking the base was under attack, his secretary ran into his office.
“A truck just blew up right outside our door!” She yelled as she pulled her pistol and flipped the safety off.
“We have had an emergency on this side of the base, Filya, so I must go.”
“I heard the explosion here. Go, sir, and I will bring you a body count in the morning.”
“Goodbye.” the Colonel said and hung up the phone.
There sounded a secondary explosion and he figured it was the vehicles gas tank. He walked to the front door and opened it. Flames and dark black smoke from a blown up deuce and half truck filled the air while dead and wounded littered the ground. First responders were arriving and they quickly sealed the area. It was then he noticed the driver, still sitting in his seat and with both hands on the steering wheel. The entire cab was in flames and yet the driver didn't move at all.
Pieces of bodies and mangled metal was scattered all around. The smell was of burning rubber and human flesh, and neither was pleasant. Looking at badly burned bodies, Ippolit dry heaved a few times, after he vomited once. His efforts to continue puking were so strong his eyes watered and his body shivered. Finally he sat on the steps leading to his building with his hands in his head.
A security policeman neared and asked, “Were you injured, sir?”
Waving the man away, Ippolit said, “I am fine. The smell got to me.”
“I hardly notice any more, sir. I have been a security first responder for over ten years, so this is not new to me.”
“I wonder what happened to cause the explosion? We are not under attack are we?”
“No, sir, no security issues. A call to motor pool with the truck number, which matched the truck’s records, shows it was in the hands of the partisans during a recent ambush. At times they drop live grenades in the fuel tanks and once the fuel eats through the rubber band holding the spoon in place, the grenade explodes. I suspect that is what happened here.”
Seeing all the body parts, the Colonel asked, “What was the cargo on the truck, troops?”
“Yes, sir, and supplies. We are attempting now to determine how many were on the truck and their names. Plus, I would guess twenty dead were on the street or side walk when the truck blew. Wi
thin an hour we will have this place under control, completely cleaned up, and the fire department will hose the blood down.”
Colonel Ippolit stood, shook his head, and said, “Inform your commander, Private, that I want an update from him within two hours so Moscow does not catch me unaware when they call.”
“Yes, sir, I will pass it on when I return to the unit.”
“Good.” The Colonel then returned to his office.
The next day during stand-up, the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of base security showed up with an armful of graphics and thick booklets for everyone.
Seeing all the material, the Commander said, “We do not have the time to go over a mountain of slides and the reading of booklets. Tell me what happened, Colonel.”
After fifteen minutes of double talk, Colonel Ippolit interrupted him and said, “Boris, did a grenade in the gas tank cause the explosion and damage?”
“Well, sir, we —”
“Yes or no. I do not have time to discuss what could have or could not have caused the explosion.”
“Yes, sir, that is what we expect happened.”
“Starting today, I want mesh wire covering the gas tanks and weld them so a fuel nozzle will go in and the area between the cap and mesh can be clearly seen. That will put a stop to the grenades in the fuel tanks. I want you to determine the longest period of time that a rubber band, the thickest we have, takes to break down and weaken in gas or diesel. Then, if any of our trucks are left in battle and then recovered, they will be isolated from others when returned for the longest period the rubber bands took to break down, plus 3 days. I think the mesh covering will end the grenade in the gas tank situations.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Now, Major Filya Vadik, were the prisoners executed and photos taken?”
“At dawn we started the executions and an hour later the last batch were machine-gunned to death. We did the killings in various fields around the base so no one could tell they were killed still on the base proper.”
